Leofric has an opportunity to speak

Matilda peered through the little window of the door.

Leofric sat at the table, his tanned skin dark as bronze in the greenish light. His forehead lay heavily in his hand. He was alone, but she knew he would be.

She knocked softly, and his head came up.

“That you, runt?” he asked.

“It’s Matilda,” she said.

He hesitated a moment longer than she could bear. “Come in, then,” he said – but she no longer wanted to.

Still, she opened the door and stepped inside. She also closed it behind her.

She could see by the dark mark on his forehead that he had been sitting so for a long while. He stood out of respect for her, and it stung her, for if he had loved her better he would have remained seated.

“I came to tell you he’s not coming,” she said, “in case you had planned to meet. It appears he meant to come, for I found him dressed in bed. But he scarcely woke when I undressed him.”

“He’s been coming too often. I also.”

“Can you not sleep?” she asked with cold politeness. “Do you find your room uncomfortable?”

“Our room is delightful, so Leila tells me. You know I have never needed much sleep. Less and less as I get older. Or perhaps the nights grow longer towards the end of a man’s life, as they do towards the end of the year.” He shrugged as if mortality mattered little to him.

“You’re not so old,” she said, troubled by his tone.

“So I often tell you. Why should I believe you if you don’t believe me?”

“Because you are a man. It’s different for men.”

“Why?”

“Because men are always men, until they die.”

“And what do the women become? Lizards?”

“Old women.”

He shrugged impatiently. “Are you become an old woman?”

“I suppose I am.”

“No!” he shouted. “No!”

The table stood between them, and she was grateful for it. Angry, he was frightening, and he seemed to grow taller yet.

“Matilda, you dishonor yourself!”

“Do not shout,” she hissed. “Gwynn’s room is directly above this.”

He planted his hands on the table and leaned closer to her. Now his eyes were on a level with her own. She was not certain that his face was not less frightening from the distance of his height.

“Never have I wanted to strangle you more,” he growled. “You have infuriated me a thousand times in the past, but always because you were heedless and headstrong and arrogant and bold. Now you are dull and bitter and small. And weak! And afraid! Eadgith wears her age with more dignity than you. You–whoever you are – are only a wasp in Matilda’s body – and you don’t even spare her body, but cover it up with this ridiculous grandmother’s dress, and let her shoulders droop, and let her head hang.”

She tried to lift her head, tried to draw herself up to her full height, but the truth in his words had robbed her of the strength to do it.

He stood and said, “I thank you for allowing me the opportunity to say that to you. It has been a relief. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go to bed, and I may even sleep. Good night.”

He waited a moment for a response, but she could only stand drooping and let her head hang. He left.

She waited until she was certain he would not return. Then she sat at the table and laid her forehead in her hand for a long while.