Lady of Hay

14

Nick sat back and smiled at Judy fondly. “I never did ask you where you learned to cook. That was the most superb lunch. Thank you.” He eyed the empty casserole and then leaned forward to pour out the last of the wine.

“A woman should keep some secrets surely!” Judy grinned. She had changed from her paint-stained jeans and smock into a summer dress with vivid blue stripes, which suited her coloring remarkably well. As she leaned forward to take his plate Nick caught a faint breath of Miss Dior.

“Coffee would make it perfect,” he said hopefully.

“First crème brûlée, then cheese. Then coffee.” Judy disappeared into the kitchen.

Nick groaned. “Are you trying to kill me or something?”

“As long as you can beat me at squash a meal like this once in a while won’t kill you.” She stuck her head around the door. “Do you really have to go to your mother’s this weekend, Nick?”

He nodded. “I’m afraid I must. I haven’t seen her for ages, and as I’m going to be away so much over the next month I thought I’d get it over with. And while I’m down there, if the tides are right, I thought I’d bring Moon Dancer back from Shoreham and leave her at Lymington.” He levered himself to his feet. “There will be time for a siesta though, before I leave.” In the kitchen he put his arms around her slowly, savoring the feel of her body beneath the thin cotton voile of her dress. “Friday afternoon is the best time there is for making love.”

Judy raised her lips to his eagerly. “Any time is the right time,” she murmured, trying not to wonder why he had not suggested she go with him to Hampshire. “Why don’t we leave the rest of the meal until later?” She ran her tongue gently along the line of his jaw and nipped his ear.

His hands slipped around to the zipper at the back of her dress. Expertly he slid it down, pushing the fabric off her shoulders. Beneath it she was naked.

Unembarrassed, she wriggled away from him and stepped out of the dress. “I’ll turn off the coffee.”

He was undoing his shirt, his eyes on her breasts as she unplugged the pot and walked past him into the studio. In the bedroom she drew the curtain, blocking out the sun, then she turned in the shadowy twilight and held out her arms.

Nick laughed. “No. No shadows. I want to see you properly.” Kneeling on the bed, he reached across and switched on the bedside light.

On the notepad by the lamp was a page of whorls and faces and doodles and strange shapes and in the center of them all, framed with Gothic decoration, the name Carl Bennet and a curlicued three. Nick picked up the pad and stared at it.

“When did you write this?”

“What?” Judy slid onto the bed beside him and lay down, her arms above her head, her legs slim and tanned on the white candlewick cover.

“Carl Bennet. Why did you write his name here?”

She sat up. “To hell with him. You’re supposed to be thinking about me!”

“I am thinking about you, Judy.” Nick’s voice was suddenly hard. He pushed her back, leaning over her, his face taut with anger. “I am wondering why you have written his name down. Where did you hear it?”

For a moment Judy contemplated lying. Her brain was moving like lightning. If he found out the truth later he would blame her. Better tell him. Softly she cursed herself for writing the name at all-a stupid absentminded, automatic reaction to having a pencil in her hand…

“Jo rang yesterday,” she said softly. She smiled, reaching up to kiss him, winding her arms around his neck. “She thought you might be here, that’s all. It didn’t sound important.”

“What did she say about Bennet?” Unmoving, he stared down at her and for a fleeting moment she felt a pang of fear.

“She said she was going to see him. Nick, forget her-”

“Did she say when?”

“Today. I told you, forget her-”

“When, Judy?” Nick caught her wrists and disengaged himself violently from her embrace. He sat up. “She must not go there alone!”

She grabbed the bedspread and pulled it around herself as Nick stood up. “You’re too late. She’ll be there by now.”

Without a word Nick strode past her into the studio. He picked up his shirt and dragged it on, groping for his shoes. Behind him Judy stood in the doorway, still swathed in candlewick. “Nick, please. Don’t go.”

He turned. “I’m sorry, Judy. I have to be there. I have to stop her if I can!”

The long train of horses and carts that heralded the arrival of William de Braose and his retinue began to assemble in the outer bailey of Brecknock Castle on the first day of May. The serfs and townspeople, out from dawn about their ancient rites, tending the Beltane fires on the moors despite the threats from the priests, returned to find the castle full of men.

Matilda sat in her solar listening with Margaret to the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels below, longing to hide. She dreaded the meeting with William, try as she might to remember Gerald’s reassurances, and when her husband’s arrival was at last announced she took a deep breath to still her wildly beating heart and walked slowly down into the brisk spring sunshine to greet him. Dismounting, William looked up at his wife as she stood on the steps above him, his face impassive. He was splendidly dressed in scarlet and green, his mantle clasped by a great cabochon ruby, his fringed beard neatly trimmed. He strode up the steps two at a time and kissed her hand ostentatiously, taking in with one quick, satisfied glance the swell of her belly beneath the flowing lines of her gown.

“How are you, my lady? I meant to be with you long before this but the king kept me with him.”

She raised her eyes from the floor to look at him, expecting to see anger and resentment there, but his eyes, behind the sternness of his face, were indifferent.

She forced herself to smile. “I am glad to see you, my lord. Very glad.” Her gaze met his for an instant. He straightened his back, pulling his cloak higher up on his shoulder, and when he followed her back into the hall it was with a confident swagger. The moment of nervousness he had felt under the scrutiny of his wife’s cool green eyes with their strange amber flecks had passed. He stuck his fingers jauntily into his girdle. He owed her no explanations; nor any man, save the king.

She herself poured the mulled wine that was awaiting him and stood beside him in silence while he drank. When he handed her back the goblet with gruff words of thanks he stood awkwardly for a moment looking at her as though about to say something else. But whatever it was, he changed his mind abruptly. He turned away, shouting commands to his men, and left her alone by the fire.

It took only a day for the castle to be transformed by the comforts carried in William’s baggage train. Hangings appeared on the walls of the great bedchamber and cushions and fine sheets and covers replaced the rougher wear lent by the Benedictines from the priory. Two men were sent at once with the archdeacon’s best chair, up the winding track to his house at Llanddeu.

Matilda continued without interruption her running of the castle, calling before her determinedly one by one the officers of her husband’s household and making it clear that, while they should all continue their duties, she intended to oversee their activities herself in future as the mistress of the household, and that the servants she had taken on were to be assimilated into it. To her intense disappointment Jeanne was not among the train, and she did not like to ask William why the old nurse had chosen to remain at Bramber. She couldn’t prevent herself from crying about it in the secrecy of the great bed, however. She had so much wanted Jeanne to be there when the baby was born. Jeanne could comfort her and help her, and would know what to do if anything went wrong.

Of William she saw little. He was constantly busy, riding to outlying castles or closeted with his scribes, writing endless long-winded letters that, according to Hugh, kept the clerks so busy that William had to pay them extra money to finish them. At night William slept in an upper chamber above hers. She was heavy and lethargic now, with the baby so close, and had dreaded that he might try to force his attentions on her even though but two months remained until the baby was due, but he remained distantly polite. Of Abergavenny they never spoke at all, and all her tormented questions, so long suppressed, remained unanswered.

It wasn’t long before she noticed the small blond serving wench so often at her husband’s side, giggling as he pressed sweetmeats and baubles on her. “He’ll not grow cold at night, that’s for sure, madam, with that puss to keep him warm,” Elen commented tartly, seeing her lady’s eyes following the girl around the hall, and Matilda forced herself to smile.

Gerald continued to visit the castle but less frequently. He combined his visits with journeys through the diocese and seemed suddenly even more preoccupied than before with church affairs. Matilda missed his attention and the talks they used to have, but she was less inclined to make any effort now, and thankfully set aside her reading save where she had to go over the household accounts. Now William’s steward Bernard was there to do it for her, and she had only to supervise him and soothe his occasional quarrels with Hugh.

The soft warmth of June succeeded the windy days of May at last. She began to spend long hours in the small garden she was making between the kitchen buildings and the chapel, tending the seedlings she had planted and pulling the ever-strangling weeds. Her three women were constantly with her, helping her to her feet after she had knelt too long on the grass and scolding her when she dirtied her fingers in the earth, never leaving her alone, crowding her till sometimes she wanted to scream. She dreamed often of her lonely hillside vigils as a girl, far from crowded castles, and fought to keep herself shouting out loud with frustration.

“Oh, God! When will this waiting be over!” She rounded on Margaret at last. “I shall go mad. How do women put up with it!”

Margaret looked shocked. “It’s our place, my lady. We must be patient like the Holy Virgin.”

“The Holy Virgin was a saint, I’m not,” Matilda retorted. She pulled viciously at a string of bindweed. “If it wasn’t for this garden I would throw myself off the top of the keep. I never dreamed childbearing could be so awful.”

Margaret lowered her eyes, embarrassed. “My lady, it’s not for much longer,” she whispered soothingly.

“It’s long enough. Every minute is too long. And we need rain for these godforsaken herbs. Why doesn’t it rain?” She stared up, furious, at the clear blue sky, determined to be out of temper. Nearby Nell and Elen were sitting on the wall chatting quietly together, their veils pulled forward around their faces to keep off the sun.

Matilda put her hand up to Margaret’s shoulder and pulled herself heavily from the ground, shaking out her skirts. From the forge on the far side of the bailey came the sound of hammering and the hiss of a horseshoe going into cold water. She looked around, vaguely soothed by the familiar sights, but only the promise she had made to herself that once she was free from the burden of the child she would ride up to see Gerald in his own house bolstered her in the long dreary days. She put her hand to her back wearily. The lying-in woman had been at the castle now for two weeks. The wet nurse had been chosen and sat this very moment on the steps of the chapel, suckling her child in the drowsy sun, oblivious of the horses that stamped around her, waiting their turn at the forge.

Throwing down her trowel, Matilda lowered herself onto the little wall beside Elen. She had had it built bounding the garden on the side that faced the bailey, and although it was designed to keep marauding dogs and animals out and keep the hooves of excited horses from the tender young plants, it made a useful seat. She turned to watch the activity in the bailey beyond. On the far side of the cobbled area beyond the kitchens a knot of Welshmen stood talking together urgently, their excitable lilt plainly audible above the noise of the horses. Then, as she listened idly to the unintelligible music of their speech, they suddenly fell silent, listening to one of their number who, with waving arms and much gesticulation, had moved into the center of the group. They all looked at each other and then to her surprise over their shoulders toward her, and she saw that they were crossing themselves and making the sign against the evil eye.

“What’s the matter with those men?” she asked uneasily.

Elen, following her gaze, smiled a little ruefully. “They’ll be talking about the green water, my lady. I heard in the hall this morning. It’s magic, so they say, and a message from God.”

“Green water?” Matilda turned to her with a little frown. “I’ve heard nothing of this. Tell me about it.”

“It’s nothing, my lady. Stupid gossip, that’s all,” Margaret interrupted hastily. “Don’t be foolish, Elen, talking like that. It’s serfs’ talk.” Her plump face flushed with anxiety.

“It’s not indeed,” Elen defended herself hotly. She put her hand up to the irrepressible curly hair that strayed from her veil no matter how hard she tried to restrain it. “Everyone was talking about it this morning. It happened before, a hundred years ago, so they say, and then it was a warning from God that he was displeased about a terrible murder there had been.” The blue eyes in her freckled face were round with importance. “It’s a warning so it is.”

Matilda shivered as though the cold shadow of the mountains had reached out and fallen over her. “If it’s a warning,” she said quietly, “it must be meant for me. Where is this water, Elen?”

“It’s Afon Llynfi, madam, and the Lake of Llangorse that it flows from, up in the Black Mountains yonder.” She crossed herself hastily. “They say it is as green as emeralds and runs like the devil’s blood the whole way down to the Wye.”

Nell pushed a furious elbow into her companion’s side. “Be quiet,” she hissed. She had seen Matilda’s face, chalk-white, and the expression of horror in her eyes. “It’s stupid to talk like that, Elen. It’s all nonsense. It’s nothing more than pondweed. I heard Hugh the bailiff say so himself. He’s been down to Glasbury to take a look at it.”

Matilda did not seem to have heard. “It is a warning,” she whispered. “It’s a warning about my child. God is going to punish my husband for his cruelties through my son.” She stood up, shivering.

“Nonsense, my lady. God would never think of such a thing.” Margaret was crisply practical. “Elen had no business to repeat such stupid gossip to you. No business at all.” She glared at Elen behind Matilda’s back. “It’s all a fantasy of these people. They’re touched in the head.” She looked disdainfully at the group of Welshmen still huddled near the kitchens. “Now, my lady, you come in and lie down before the evening meal. You’ve been too long out in the air.”

Scolding and coaxing, Margaret and Nell led their mistress back into the cool dimness of the castle, with Elen following unrepentant behind. Matilda lay down as they insisted and closed her eyes wearily, but she was feverish and unsettled and she couldn’t rest. She didn’t go down to the crowded hall for the evening meal and at last as the shadows lengthened across the countryside to the west she sent for Gerald.

In spite of Margaret’s soothing words she became more and more agitated waiting for him. Her hands had started shaking and she began to finger the beads of a rosary. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, spare my child, please, please, spare my child. Don’t let him be blamed for William’s wickedness.” The half-formed prayers caught in her throat as she walked agitatedly up and down the room. When at last, out of sheer exhaustion, she was persuaded to sit down again by the empty hearth in her chamber with Margaret and Nell and two of her waiting women, she felt herself near to panic.

Then they heard the steady slap of sandals ascending the newel stair, and she pushed herself eagerly to her feet. “Archdeacon,” she exclaimed, but she slumped back into her chair disappointed. By the light of the rushlight at the top of the stair she saw the bent figure of Father Hugo.

“A thousand apologies, my lady,” he muttered, seeing her disappointment only too clearly. “The archdeacon is not at Llanddeu. He has ridden urgently to St. David’s where his uncle, the bishop, has died. When I heard the messenger’s news I came myself to tell you. I thought perhaps I might be able to help…”

His voice trailed off as he stood anxiously before her, his face gentle and concerned as he took in the signs of distress in his mistress’s eyes.

Matilda looked up and smiled faintly. “Good Father Hugo. You’re always very kind to me.” She hesitated. “Perhaps I’m stupid, it’s just that I heard about the River Llynfi, and I was afraid.” She lowered her eyes. “It is many months since my husband’s trouble at Abergavenny, but still it haunts my dreams. I was frightened it was God’s warning that my child will suffer.” She looked up again, pitifully seeking reassurance.

Hugo stood staring for a moment, puzzled. He knew from her anguished confessions what she feared for the baby, and he had vaguely heard something about the river. The latter he had dismissed as Welsh talk. He drew his brows together trying to think what would be best to say to this distraught woman. He had had no experience before of females and their ways and groped for the words that would relieve the pained look in her eyes.

“Be at peace, my daughter. God would not punish an innocent babe. The archdeacon has told you as much.”

“But is it not written that the father’s sins shall be visited on the child?” she flashed back at him.

He was taken aback and did not answer for a minute. Then he bent and patted her hand awkwardly. “I will pray. I will pray for guidance and for your safe delivery, as I pray every day. God will spare your child in his mercy, I am certain of it.” He bowed, and hesitated, waiting for her to say something else. When she made no response, he sighed and, backing away, turned and plodded back down the stairs.

She slept hardly at all that night, tossing on the hot mattress, her eyes fixed on the rectangle of starry sky visible through the unshuttered window. Then at last as the first light began to push back the darkness she got to her feet and went to sit in the embrasure of the window, gazing out over the misty valley, watching as the cool dawn crept across the forests reaching towards the foothills of the mountains. Behind her, as the room grew light, Margaret slept without stirring on her truckle bed.

She was sitting in the solar, alone save for Elen, stitching the hem of a small sheet for the empty cradle by the wall, when the chaplain once more padded up the stairs and stood bowing before her, out of breath from the climb. He was agitated and pale himself, but seeing her face with the great dark rings beneath her eyes as she looked up at him, he felt a new and unexpected wave of compassion.

“What is it, Father?” She smiled gently, the sewing falling into her lap.

He twisted his wrinkled old hands together uncomfortably. “I told you, my lady, that I would pray for guidance last night. I knelt for many hours in the chapel and prayed to Christ and St. Nicholas, our patron.” He winced, remembering the draft on the cold stone, which in spite of the straw-filled hassock had left his old knees rheumaticky and swollen. “Then I slept, and I had a dream. I believe it was in answer to my prayer, my lady.” He crossed himself and Matilda and Elen, glancing at one another nervously, followed suit.

“The dream told you the reason for the river being green?” Matilda’s voice was awed.

“I believe so, madam. An old man came to me in my dream and said that Christ was greatly displeased.” He paused and gulped nervously.

Matilda rose to her feet, ignoring the sewing, which fell to the rushes, her eyes wide, one hand straying involuntarily to her stomach. She felt suddenly sick. “Why?” she whispered. “Why is our Lord displeased?”

“It is something that Sir William has done, my lady.” The old man spoke in a hushed voice, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. “But it is something he has done here. He has kept some property for himself that was granted to our chapel. It was to be used both for its upkeep and for works of charity, and Sir William has not allowed the money to come to us.”

Matilda stared at him for a moment in silence. “You’re telling me that Sir William is misappropriating church property?” she said at last.

The old man shrugged apologetically.

She felt like laughing hysterically. “And this is an offense great enough to cause the mountain waters to change their color?” She turned away from him so that he couldn’t see her face. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It took a moment for her to get herself under control again. Then she turned back to him. “Have you told Sir William of this dream?” she inquired gently.

He shook his head vehemently.

“Then I shouldn’t at the moment. I shall try to find out whether he is indeed withholding tithes due to the chapel, and whether he is doing it knowingly. I am sure there has been some mistake. He would never take something that was the church’s.”

She waited until he had gone before bursting into tearful laughter, then she shrugged, wiping her eyes, and looked at Elen in despair. “I wish the archdeacon were here, Elen. He would know what to do.” She sighed. “He would know the truth about Father Hugo’s dream, and about the river waters.” She took up the sewing, which Elen had recovered from the rushes, and sat down wearily.

“They are saying, my lady,” Elen began cautiously, “that is, the townsfolk in Aberhonddu and Hay are saying, that the river runs green for another reason. They say it is because of the king’s great sin in taking Walter of Clifford’s daughter Rosamund to be his mistress and casting off Queen Eleanor again.”

She glanced at Matilda shrewdly, her blue eyes merry in her freckled face. “I think it is more likely to be for the sins of a king than of one of his subjects, however great, that the waters of Afon Llynfi should change color, don’t you?”

“I suppose so.” Matilda walked over to the narrow window and looked out across the valley. Sheets of fine rain were sweeping in from the mountains and the smell of sweet earth rose to her from her little garden in the bailey below. She leaned out and sniffed appreciatively. “I pray your story is true, or Father Hugo’s-I don’t care which. As long as the warning is not for me. And who knows, perhaps Margaret was right. Perhaps it is just pondweed.”

“Smelly it is, madam, anyway, Hugh says,” Elen put in briskly. “He thinks it’s because there’s been no rain, simple as that it is. And now this morning the rain has come so we’ll soon know if the green all goes away. And your plants will be pleased by it, so they will!”

“Rosamund Clifford,” Sarah whispered. “Do you think she was an ancestor of hers?”

Bennet looked away from Jo’s face, suddenly thoughtful. “Ancestral memory? Transferred genetically? I’ve read some interesting papers on the subject.” He shrugged. “I don’t believe it myself, but we’ll have to see what part this Rosamund plays in the story. I should wake her now.” He glanced at his watch. “She’s getting tired. She has lived through six months in that world of hers.”

“Oh, wait, Carl. Can’t we find out about the baby-I know she would want you to ask about it-” Sarah broke off suddenly as the door behind her opened.

Nick stared into the room. For a moment none of them spoke, then, after catching sight of Jo sitting on the sofa, Nick stepped inside the room and closed the door.

“Jo! Thank God I’m in time!”

Carl Bennet stood up, taking his glasses off in agitation. “You can’t come in here. Please, leave at once! Who are you?” He stepped toward Nick.

Nick was looking at Jo. “Jo asked me to come,” he said. He glanced at Bennet for the first time. “My name is Franklyn. I’m a friend of hers.”

“I thought I told you, Dr. Franklyn, that Jo has asked you not to involve yourself in this matter!” Bennet stood looking up at Nick, his face stern.

“Dr. Franklyn is my brother,” Nick replied shortly. “Jo, for God’s sake, explain.”

“Jo does not know you’re here.” Anxiously Carl Bennet put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “She is in a deep trance. Now, please, I must ask you to leave-”

“Jo? Dear God, what have you done to her? You bastard!” Nick knelt at Jo’s side and took her hand gently in his.

“Shall I call the caretaker?” Sarah said in an undertone. She had her hand on a bell by the door. Bennet shook his head. He sighed. “Please, Mr. Franklyn. You must leave. I am sure you realize it would be dangerous for you to interfere at this stage.”

“Dangerous?” Nick was staring at Jo’s face. Her eyes were looking at him quite normally, but she did not see him. The scene she was watching was in another time, another place. “She swore this wasn’t dangerous. And she asked me to come with her,” Nick went on, controlling his temper with an effort. “I only got her message an hour ago. Please let me stay. She would want me to.”

Her eyes had changed focus now. They no longer looked at him. They seemed to stray through him, unfocusing, the pupils dilating rapidly as though she were staring directly at the window. Slowly Nick released her hand. He backed away a few paces and sat down on the edge of a chair. “I am staying,” he repeated. “I am not letting her out of my sight!”

Jo suddenly threw herself back against the sofa with a moan of agony. Her fingers convulsed and she clawed four parallel grooves in the soft hide of the upholstery.

“Holy Mother of God!” She screamed. “Where is Jeanne? Why doesn’t she come?”

There was a moment’s total silence in the room as the three looked at her, electrified. Nick had gone white.

“Make it stop.” Jo moaned. “Please, someone make it stop.” She arched her back again, catching up one of the velvet cushions and hugging it to her in despair.

“For God’s sake, Carl, what’s happened?” Sarah was rooted to the spot. “Bring her out of it. Wake her quickly!”

Bennet sat down beside her. “My dear, can you hear me? I want you to listen to me-” He broke off with a cry of pain as Jo grabbed his hand and clung to it. Her face was wet with perspiration and tears.

“For pity’s sake, wake her,” Nick cried. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s having a baby.” Sarah’s voice cut in as Jo let out another moan. “Women do it all the time.”

“Pregnant women, perhaps,” Nick snapped. His skin was crawling. “Wake her up, man, quickly. Do you want to kill her?” He clenched his fists as Jo screamed again.

“Jo? Jo? Can you hear me?” Bennet battled to catch her hands and hold them still. “The birth is over, Jo. There is no more pain. You are going to sleep, Jo. Sleep and rest. And when you are rested, you will wake gently. Can you hear me, Joanna? Now, close your eyes and rest…”

“It’s taking too long!” Elen looked at Margaret, frightened. Gently she sponged Matilda’s face with a cloth wrung out in rosewater. “For sweet Jesus’ sake, isn’t there anything we can do to help?”

They both looked pleadingly at the midwife, who was once more feeling Matilda’s stomach beneath the bloodstained linen. The girl was practically unconscious now, propped against a dozen pillows, the deep straw litter of the childbed covered with sheets to make it soft and smooth. Between each pain black exhaustion took hold of her, drawing her down into blessed oblivion before another spasm of rending agony began inexorably to build, tearing her back to screaming wakefulness. Only the warmth of the blood in which she lay soothed her.

“There now. He’s nearly here, the boyo.” The birthing woman was rumbling beneath the sheet. “Another push or two, my lovely, and it’ll all be over. There’s brave, it is.” She smiled imperturbably as Matilda arched her back in another agonized contortion and a further spurt of blood soaked into the bedding. The rosary they had put in her fingers broke and the beads rolled across the floor. Horrified, Margaret crossed herself and it was left to Elen to twist a towel into a rope and give it to Matilda to grip as, with a final desperate convulsion, the girl’s body rid itself of its burden.

For a moment there was total silence. Then at last there was a feeble wail from the bloodstained scrap of life that lay between her legs. Matilda did not hear it. She was spinning away into exhausted sleep, her body still hunched against another pain.

“Is he all right?” Margaret peered fearfully at the baby as the woman produced her knife and severed the cord. None of them had even doubted Matilda’s prediction that it would be a boy. The baby, wildly waving its little arms in the air, let out another scream. It was unblemished.

“There, my lady, see. He’s beautiful.” Gently Elen laid the child in Matilda’s arms. “Look at him. He’s smiling.”

Fighting her exhaustion, Matilda pushed away the birthing woman, who had been trying roughly to massage her stomach. She dragged herself up onto her elbow, trying to gather her courage. The moment she had dreaded was here. Somehow she clawed her way back to wakefulness and with outward calm she received the baby and gazed down into the small puckered face. For a moment she could not breathe, then suddenly she felt a strange surge of love and protective joy for her firstborn. She forgot her fears. He was beautiful. She buried her face in the little shawl that had been wrapped around him and hugged him, holding him away from her again only to look long and lovingly at the deep blue-black eyes and tiny fringed lids, the button nose and pursed mouth, and the thatch of dark, bloodstained hair. But as she looked the child’s face grew hazy and blackened. She watched paralyzed as the tiny features became contorted with agony and she heard the child begin to scream again and again. They were not the screams of a child, but those of a grown man, ringing in her ears. In her arms she held a warm woven shawl no longer. She was clutching rags, and through the rags she could feel the bones of a living skeleton. After thrusting the body away from her with revulsion, she feverishly threw herself from the bed and collapsed weakly on her knees, retching, at the feet of the terrified women who had been tending her.

“Sweet Mary, Mother of God, save him and save me,” she breathed, clutching at the coverlet convulsively. Slowly the world around her began to swim. She saw the great bed rocking before her then a deep roaring filled her ears, cutting out all the other sounds, and slowly, helplessly, she slipped to the floor.

“Jo!” Nick reached her first. “Jo! It’s all right. Jo, please, Jo…” He gathered her limp form into his arms, cradling her head against his chest.

“Leave her, please.” Bennet knelt beside them. “Let me see her. Jo!” He snapped his fingers in her face. “Listen to me, Joanna. You are going to wake up now. Do you hear me. Now!”

There was a moment of total silence. Outside the sound of a police siren wailing in the Marylebone Road brought the twentieth century back into the room.

Jo stirred. She opened her eyes and lay looking up at Nick. The strain and anguish were slowly clearing from her face as she eased herself upright.

“Jo? Are you all right?” Nick’s voice was gentle. He still had his arm around her shoulders.

She frowned, staring around the room, looking first at Bennet and then at Sarah who was standing, whitefaced, by the desk. Then her gaze came back to Nick. She smiled weakly.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said shakily.

“Jo, love-” Nick pulled her close, his face in her hair. “None of it happened. Nobody died-”

She stared at him. “Don’t lie to me.” Her voice was very weary. “I want to know the truth.” Her gaze traveled past Nick suddenly. “Archdeacon?” The room in Devonshire Place faded slightly as she peered toward the end of the bed. She was once again lying beneath the covers but now they were cleansed. Darkness had come outside and the room was lighted with a dozen torches. Gerald held a crucifix in his hand and he was praying quietly, his eyes occasionally flitting up to her passive face.

“The child is dead.” She heard her voice as a hollow whisper in the silence of the castle. Somewhere in the distance the police car still wailed. Her lips and tongue were dry as dust.

Gerald kissed the crucifix calmly and tucked it back into his girdle. Then he came to the side of her bed and put his cool hand on her brow. “Not at all,” he said cheerfully. “The child is squalling manfully. I’ve seen it. A fine healthy boy, my lady, to set all your fears at rest.” His grave eyes surveyed her carefully, taking in the disarrayed tangled hair all over the pillow, the pallid, damp skin, the quick, shallow breathing. “You have a touch of fever. Enough to cause some wandering of the mind in your overwrought condition, but there is nothing to fear, for the child or for yourself. I have ordered sleep-wort and poppy for you to take. A good night’s rest will set you right.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but sternly he put his fingers to his lips and pronounced a blessing over her. Then he stood by and watched as Margaret, looking pale and shaken, brought her the sleeping draught, after which she lay back, exhausted. Too tired to think, she let her mind go blessedly blank and drifted slowly into the welcome forgetfulness of sleep.

“Who was she talking to?” Nick found himself glancing over his shoulder as Jo settled once more into his arms, her eyes closed. His skin prickled uncomfortably.

Bennet shook his head. “She was still seeing her archdeacon,” he said slowly. “He must have spoken to her, reassured her. Look at the flush on her cheeks almost as if she were asleep-” Gently he picked up Jo’s wrist and felt her pulse.

Sarah covered her with a blanket and for a moment they all stood looking at her. Bennet took off his glasses. His hands were shaking. “The brandy, Sarah, if you please.”

“I hope you’re satisfied!” Nick rounded on him. “Didn’t you realize after last time how vulnerable she is? Didn’t it dawn on you it might be dangerous to play with this…this asinine previous time with Jo? She nearly died under hypnosis before in Edinburgh. Didn’t my brother tell you? She stopped breathing then! Christ! ” He struck his fist onto his open palm. “You’re supposed to be a reputable practitioner! If Jo hasn’t got the sense to stay away from you, then surely to God you can say no to her yourself!”

“Nick?” Jo’s voice from the sofa was still very weak. “Nick. Don’t shout. Please.”

He swung around to look at her. Jo was struggling to sit up. “Please, don’t be angry. It’s not Carl’s fault. Everything went fine before. It was just that…that having a baby…” Tears began to trickle down her face.

Sarah tiptoed forward. She crouched beside Jo. “Here, have some of this. It will steady you.” She closed Jo’s fingers around the glass and helped guide it to her lips.

“My baby really is all right, isn’t he?” Jo asked after a moment as she pushed the glass away.

Nick and Bennet looked at each other.

“Jo.” Bennet waved Sarah away and sat down on the sofa next to her. He took her hands in his.

“What’s happened?” She glanced wildly from him to the others and back. “What’s wrong? It was some sort of hallucination, wasn’t it? That way he changed in my arms. That wasn’t real. Why don’t you tell me? My baby is all right?”

Bennet swallowed. He was still firmly holding her wrists. “Jo, my dear. There is no baby. That was all in the past. Another world. Another age. Another you. There is no baby here.” His face was full of compassion.

“But I gave birth to him! I held him…” Jo was crying openly now. She stared around, bewildered. “He was here…in my arms.”

Bennet held out his hand to Sarah for the glass. “Drink a little more of this, Jo. It will help to clear your mind. The experience was so real for you it is hard to imagine it did not happen, but you must try to put things in perspective.”

Behind him Nick and Sarah exchanged glances. Without a word she poured two more measures of brandy. Taking one for herself, she handed the other to Nick. He sat down heavily on the edge of the desk, his hand shaking as he raised it to his lips.

Bennet beckoned Sarah over. He stood up. “Sit here with her for a minute,” he said softly.

As Sarah took his place and put a comforting hand on Jo’s arm, he spoke to Nick in an undertone.

“Is there someone at home to look after her?”

Nick nodded grimly. “I’ll be there.”

“Then I suggest the best thing is for you to take her back and put her to bed. All she needs is a good night’s sleep. I’ll prescribe something.” He reached into his desk for his prescription pad. “You mentioned that she nearly died under hypnosis before. Do you know the circumstances? You must believe me, she did not tell me, and neither did your brother.”

“She doesn’t know.” Nick glanced at Jo. He lowered his voice still further. “I think you should speak to Sam. He was there.”

“Dr. Franklyn did try to contact me.” Bennet frowned. “But Joanna said I was not to confer with him. I must confess I did intend to speak to him. I suspected something must have occurred before, in spite of her protestations, but nothing like this!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Nothing.”

Nick scowled. “It is obviously time you and Sam got together, whatever Jo says. I’ll tell him to get in touch with you again. Meanwhile, can you be sure she is all right?”

Bennet glanced at Jo. “I’ll give you my home number. If anything happens over the weekend to worry you, call me. On Monday I have to fly to Chicago for ten days. It can’t be avoided-but I can give you the name of a colleague-”

“Don’t bother.” Nick stood up. “She won’t need to see anyone else. I’ll take care of her.”

It was another hour before Jo was well enough to stand. Helped by Sarah, Nick half carried her out to the waiting taxi. Thankfully he climbed in beside her and sat back, putting his arm around her shoulders.

“Feeling okay now?”

She drew away slightly. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I made a fool of myself in there.”

“It was hardly your fault.” He stared out of the window. “I’ve asked the driver to stop off at a late-opening drugstore.”

“Why?”

“Bennet’s prescribed something to help you sleep tonight.” He felt in his pocket for the prescription.

Jo snatched it out of his hand. “You know what I think of sleeping pills, Nick. Tell the driver to go straight to Cornwall Gardens.” She tore the paper into tiny pieces.

“You can drop me off and then go on back to Judy.”

“Jo.” Nick was reproachful.

“Well, that is where you were, presumably? She’s the only person who knew what I was doing this afternoon. I don’t know why I told her really.” She closed her eyes wearily, letting the scraps of the prescription flutter unnoticed onto the floor of the cab.

“You told her because you wanted me with you,” Nick said gently.

Jo did not reply.

Once they were back at her apartment, Nick guided Jo to the sofa and she collapsed onto it with a sigh. He frowned. “Shall I call Sam, Jo? He ought to come to look at you.”

“No!” With an effort she sat upright again. “I’ll be fine, Nick. I’m going to have a bath, then I’ll go to bed. There is no need for you to stay. Really.” She glanced at him. At Bennet’s and in the taxi she had been glad he was there, been reassured by his touch, but something had happened as he put his arm around her to help her up the stairs. She had been consumed with panic. It had obliterated every other feeling in her for a moment, even making her forget the baby. She had felt herself go rigid, her breath caught in a spasm of fear. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the feeling had disappeared, leaving her shaking like a leaf. She swallowed hard. “Please, Nick. I’d like to be alone.”

Nick frowned. “At least let me wait until you’re in bed,” he said at last. “I shan’t come near you, if that’s what is worrying you. But I ought to stay. Supposing you fainted in the bath or something?”

Jo hesitated. She had been on the point of protesting that she had never fainted in her life.

“Okay,” she said at last unwillingly. “Thank you.”

“Let me stay next door on the sofa.” He tried once more when she was at last in bed.

“No, Nick. Thanks, but no.” She took his hand.

“You won’t play the tape of what happened?”

“No. I’m going to sleep. Don’t worry about me, Nick.”

Nick looked at her for a moment, then he shrugged. “Right. I’ll be at my apartment. Promise you’ll call if you need me?”

“I promise. Now, please go.”

She sat unmoving until she finally heard the door bang behind him. Then at last she lay back on the pillows and allowed the tears to fall. How could she tell him how much she wanted him to stay? Or how much she was suddenly afraid of him?

She fell asleep at last with the bedside lamp on, unable to bring herself to face total darkness. Outside her window the night was hot and stuffy. Slowly the pubs in Gloucester Road emptied and the sound of talk and laughter echoed up from the mews as people strolled home, enjoying the heady magic of a London night. Restlessly she turned on her pillow, trying to find a cool spot for her head, half hearing the noise as she drifted further into sleep. Outside the street quietened. A stray breeze, carrying the scent of heliotrope from among the pleached limes of the sunken garden beside Kensington Palace, stirred the curtains, and somewhere a cat yowled and knocked over an empty milk bottle, which rolled down a flight of steps into the gutter.

Jo did not move. She was lying on her side, her hair loose across her face, her arms around the pillow.

It was just beginning to grow light when she woke suddenly. For a moment she did not know what had awakened her, as she stared around the shadowy room. The lamp was still on by her bed, but outside, between the curtains, she could see the pale light of dawn above the rooftops. Then she heard it again. The hungry cry of her baby. Sitting up, yawning, she flung back her hair and reached slowly toward the cradle on the far side of the bed.