Lady of Hay

17

Sam opened the front door of the apartment to Judy that evening with a scowl. “I’m packing to go to Edinburgh,” he said curtly. “I’m afraid I can’t spare you much time.”

“You can’t?” Judy threw herself down on a chair. “That’s good, because I don’t require much time. You know of course that by now Nick and Jo are back together.”

“I know they’ve gone down to the boat.” He was watching her closely as he sat down opposite her.

“She doesn’t want him. She is using him. You know that as well as I do, I expect.”

Judy was wearing a pink flying suit that clashed violently with the bitter orange of the upholstery in Nick’s apartment. She threw herself back in the chair, pushing her hands deep into her pockets. “I want Nick back and you want Jo.” She studied his face under her eyelashes, but his expression gave nothing away. “I think we should pool our resources, don’t you?” she went on after a moment.

Sam got up and went to the drinks tray. “Assuming you are even remotely right,” he said slowly, “exactly what resources, as you call them, do you have?” He poured out a stiff gin for each of them and began carefully to slice up a lemon.

Judy smiled. “Information. And a suggestion. You have a clinic or something in Edinburgh, don’t you?”

Sam handed her a glass. “You mean I should whisk Jo off and hospitalize her somewhere, preferably behind locked doors, no doubt, thus leaving the field free for you?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a clinic, Judy. Nor am I attached to one.” He took a sip from his glass reflectively and went to stand in his favorite position by the window. “Besides, Jo doesn’t need hospitalizing.”

“Yet.”

He turned. “What does that mean exactly?”

“She’s going crazy.”

Laughing, he turned away again. “No, not crazy. A little confused, perhaps. A little frightened. But that is all.” He picked the lemon out of his glass and sucked it. “There is no need for Jo to leave London to aid your plans.” He paused. “I can drive a wedge between her and Nick that will put them farther than four hundred miles apart, I can assure you. I can make Jo hate him. I can make her afraid of him.” He hadn’t raised his voice, but Judy stared at him. His tone had been full of venom.

“You don’t like your brother very much, do you?” she said cautiously.

He grinned. “What makes you think that? I would be doing it for you!”

There was a long pause as they looked warily at one another. “I don’t think so,” Judy said at last. “I don’t think you’re even doing it because you like Jo. I think you’re doing it to hurt Nick.”

Sam laughed out loud. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you’ll be there to pick up the pieces and kiss him better, won’t you!”

Nick was sitting in the cockpit of the Moon Dancer , the tiller tucked beneath his arm, the sun full on his face as he squinted up at the spread of cream canvas.

“Happy?” He glanced at Jo, who was lying on the cabin roof. She was wearing white jeans, rolled up above the knees, and a striped bikini top. She rested her chin on her hands and grinned at him, her hair blowing across her face. “Happy. Better. Sane. Thanks!”

“And hungry?”

She nodded. “Are we going to stop at Bosham?”

“I don’t see why not. Lunch at the Anchor Bleu and back out on the tide. Or we can spend the rest of the day there. Leave tomorrow. Whichever.”

He adjusted the sheet a little, watching the mainsail wing out before the wind as the huge orange spinnaker flapped for a moment, then ballooned full once more.

Jo licked her lips, tasting the salt from the spray. “Let’s wait and see.” Already she could see the little pointed roof on the tower of Bosham church at the head of the creek. The tide was nearly high, brimming to the edge of the saltings, where a cloud of terns danced over the sparkling ripples. She turned to watch a huge ocean racer draw smoothly past them under power. “I haven’t thanked you for last night,” she said suddenly.

“For what? As I remember, nothing happened.”

“Exactly.” She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. “You gave me space, Nick. It was what I needed. A super meal, enough Scotch to float the Titanic , and oblivion.”

He laughed. “You certainly look a little less tense.”

“I am. Once out of that apartment I seem to be able to think straight. I’ve behaved like an emotional idiot, allowing myself to be influenced by all this business. Can you imagine? Jo Clifford, cool, businesslike, imperturbable Jo Clifford, allowing herself to be so affected that my body reacted psychosomatically. I shall write the story next week and get it out of my system completely, then I intend to forget all about it.”

Nick glanced at her. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said quietly. “Welcome back, Jo Clifford.”

They anchored in Bosham creek and paddled ashore in the inflatable dinghy. After walking across the long lush grass of the quay meadow, they strolled past the church, breathing in the air heady with honeysuckle and roses, intoxicatingly sweet after the sharp salt of the sea wind, laughing as they dusted aside drifts of white petals from the hedge. They ate a ploughman’s lunch sitting outside the pub in the sun, then walked on slowly through the village hand in hand, watching the tide lap up over the road and slowly draw back, leaving a shining trail of mud and weed. They hardly spoke at all as they walked along the point then back across the causeway to lie for a while side by side on the grass, dozing in the sun.

It was dark before they once more found their dinghy and paddled out beneath the stars to find Moon Dancer swinging at her buoy. Jo lay back against the rounded rubber sides of the little boat and stared up at the sky. “Do you know the names of all the constellations?” she asked lazily in the silence.

Nick looked up. “I used to. I’m always meaning to brush up on my astral navigation in case Dancer and I decide to head for deep water.”

“Seriously?” She raised her head and looked at him.

“Why not? I can think of worse things to do for a year. Let Jim take over the business.”

She bit her lip silently, watching as he came alongside the boat and reached up to knot the painter to a stanchion. They climbed on board and Nick opened the hatchway to the cabin. Jo did not follow him below. She stood for a moment quite still in the cockpit, staring across the darkly gleaming water. Then she shivered.

Nick had turned on the lights. “A nightcap before bed?” he called.

She did not answer. She was watching the line of orange lights strung like beads along the main A27 at the end of the creek in the distance. With the wind off the sea she couldn’t hear the traffic. All she could hear was the occasional dull slap of water against the planking and a splash as a fish jumped in the darkness. Once more she looked up at the glitter of stars above them, with the broad swathe of the Milky Way like an untidy scarf of samite dragged across the midnight velvet of the sky.

A cold breath of air touched her cheek and she heard the immediate chatter of the halyards against the mast and the chuckle of rippling water beneath the bow. As the wind came around, Moon Dancer turned a little across the tide. Somewhere in the dark a nightbird screamed.

Jo climbed down into the cabin. Nick had put the kettle onto the little stove and was sitting on the bunk in the cramped cabin studying a chart of the Solent.

“Would you like to dig out a couple of mugs?” He didn’t look up.

She didn’t move for a moment then slowly she began to unbutton her shirt. She reached for the light switch and flipped it off.

Nick looked up startled. “Hey!” He stopped.

She took off her shirt and then her bra. He could see her breasts by the tiny light from the gas flame beneath the kettle. Holding his breath, he watched as she slipped off her jeans. Then she came and knelt in front of him.

“I’m frightened, Nick,” she whispered. “It’s not all over. It all happened, all those years ago, and the echo of it is still out there.” She nodded toward the sky beyond the open hatch. “My destiny is somehow linked with a woman who lived and died eight hundred years before I was born. I can’t turn my back on her.”

Nick was slowly unbuttoning his own shirt. Gently he reached out and touched her breasts.

“I think you must, Jo. And I think you can.”

He drew her between his knees, the angles of his face harsh in the blue light of the gas. “I’ll make you forget. If it’s the last thing I do, I shall make you forget.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind being hypnotized with Mr. Franklyn present?” Carl Bennet looked at Jo closely. Outwardly she was more relaxed than he had yet seen her. She was tanned and smiling, and yet he could sense a tension deep inside her that worried him.

She nodded as she sat down. “I want Nick here, and you do understand I don’t want to be regressed anymore, Dr. Bennet. I want you to blot the whole thing out. Make me forget.”

He nodded slowly. “It is the best thing, I think, my dear, although I must admit I am sorry in many ways. I had wanted an American colleague of mine to see you. I was talking to him in the States and he was hoping to fly over and see you himself-”

“No!” Jo clenched her fists. “I’m sorry too, in a lot of ways. I wanted to know what happened, but I can’t take any more. I really can’t.” She looked at him earnestly. “It’s affecting my health and my work and, for all I know, my sanity as well, so please, put a stop to it now.”

Bennet nodded. “Very well. I agree. So let us begin. I should like you to close your eyes, Joanna, and relax.” He was watching her hands, fisted in her lap. “Completely relax, beginning with your toes…”

“It takes longer each time,” Sarah commented when Jo was at last in a deep trance.

Carl nodded. “She is becoming more and more afraid of what might happen and fighting it. I doubt if we could have progressed much further with her in this state of mind anyway.”

Jo was lying back in her chair passively, her eyes closed, her hands hanging loosely over the armrests. Nick had seated himself unobtrusively in a corner of the room, his eyes fixed on Jo’s face.

“Do you think this will work?” he asked softly.

Bennet shrugged. “It will if it is what she really wants.”

He pulled up a chair next to Jo’s and took her hand gently. “Joanna, can you hear me?”

Jo moved her head slightly. It might have been a nod.

“And you are relaxed and comfortable, still thinking about your weekend at sea?”

She smiled. This time the nod was more definite.

“Good. Now I want you to listen to me, Jo. It is twenty-five days since I first saw you here and you were first regressed. Since then the regressions have caused you much unhappiness and pain. I want you to forget them now, because you yourself want to forget them. When you wake up you will remember only that you had a few strange unimportant dreams and in time even that memory will fade. Do you understand me, Joanna?”

He paused, watching her closely. Jo was motionless but he could see the tension had returned to her hands. Abruptly she opened her eyes and looked at him. “I can’t forget them,” she said softly but distinctly.

Bennet swallowed. “You must forget, Joanna. Matilda is dead. Let her rest.”

Jo smiled sadly. “She cannot rest. I cannot rest…The story has to be told…” Her gaze slipped past him. “Don’t you see, I have to go back, to find out why it all happened. I have to remember. I have to live again that first meeting with John…”

“Stop her!” Nick had jumped to his feet. “Stop her! She’s regressing on her own. Can’t you see?” He grabbed Jo by the shoulders. “Jo! Wake up! For God’s sake, wake up. Don’t do it!”

“Leave her alone!” Bennet’s peremptory order cut through his shout. Jo had gone rigid in her chair, looking straight through him.

“Jo.” It was Bennet who took hold of her now, forcing her to turn her head toward him. “Jo, I want you to listen to me…”

“Listen to me! Listen!” William de Braose was standing in front of her, furious. “You will say nothing to the king of what happened on our journey, nothing, do you understand me?”

For a moment Matilda felt the familiar surge of defiance. She met his gaze squarely, mocking his fear, then she looked away. If she fought with him now he would refuse to take her to the king’s presence, and that, above all, she wanted. Meekly she lowered her eyes. “I shall say nothing, my lord,” she whispered.

Gloucester was crowded. The encampment of the king’s followers was laid out between the royal castle and the king’s palace north of the city where King Henry habitually held his Christmas courts, a colorful array of tents with the leopards of the king’s standard rippling from the flagstaff on the great central keep.

As they had arrived they had glimpsed the gleaming Severn River with the fleet of royal galleys moored in lines to the quays, but it was evening before they reached it and the castle, and the de Braose tents were raised next to those of their Marcher neighbors, who had come to attend the betrothal of the king’s youngest son, John, to the Earl of Gloucester’s daughter, Isabella; and it was even later before William, arrayed in his finest clothes, took Matilda at last to wait upon the king.

They found him in one of the upper rooms of the palace, seated at a large table on which were unrolled several maps. Beside him stood William Fitzherbert, Earl of Gloucester, who had arrived from his castle at Cardiff only two days previously, escorting his wife and small daughter, and several other nobles. Wine goblets had been used to hold maps flat as together they pored over the rough-drawn lines in the light of a cluster of great wax candles. There was no sign of Richard de Clare, she saw at a glance as she curtsied low before the king, her heart thumping nervously. She had so desperately hoped he would be there.

“Glad to see you made it, Sir William.” Henry acknowledged his bow. “My son is to be your neighbor in the Marches if our plans work out and we get a dispensation for this marriage.” He peered at Matilda, half hidden behind her husband. “Your wife, Sir William? She can wait on young Isabella tomorrow. See if she can stop the wench blubbering.” He snorted, holding his hand out to Matilda, who came forward eagerly.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing low. She glanced up at the heavy lined face and wiry red hair dusted with white, and found the king surveying her closely with brilliant blue eyes. She sensed at once the appreciation in his gaze and uncertainly drew closer to her husband.

“Your father, Sir Reginald, was a good man, my dear.” The king held on to her hand. “The best steward I’ve had to attend me. And you’ve the look of him about you.” He grinned at William. “Lucky man. She’s a lovely girl.”

Matilda blushed and stepped back as the king released his grasp, glancing nervously up at him from lowered eyes, but already his attention was on the maps before him once more. William was drawn immediately into the discussion around the table, so she moved quietly to the hearth, where the king’s two great sable dogs lay basking in the heat, and she stood gazing down into the flames, wondering whether she should withdraw.

A moment later a door near her was flung open and a boy came striding into the room. He stopped short and looked her up and down arrogantly.

“I saw you this afternoon with Sir William’s party,” he announced, coming to stand near her. His sandy hair was disarrayed and damp from riding in the rain. “Your mare was lame. You should have dismounted and led her.”

“I beg your pardon.” Matilda blushed hotly. “She was not lame.”

“She was.” He made a face at her. “I saw her. She was stumbling badly.”

“She was tired.” Matilda was furiously indignant. “There was nothing whatsoever wrong with her. I should never have ridden her if there was.” She looked at the boy with dislike, noting his torn tunic and the scuffed shoes. “Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with you. You’ve no business to tell me what I should or should not do.” Her voice had risen slightly and she was conscious suddenly of a silence at the table behind her.

She turned, embarrassed, and met the king’s cool gaze as he surveyed her, one eyebrow raised, over the maps.

“I hope my son is not being a nuisance, Lady de Braose,” he commented quietly. And then, louder: “Come here, John.”

Matilda gasped and, blushing, looked back at the prince, but already he had turned his back on her and gone to stand beside his father. From the safety of his position at the king’s side he stuck out his tongue defiantly.

His father may not have seen, but one or two of the others at the table certainly had, including William. She saw him glare sharply at the boy, raising his hand as if he wanted to clout him, then, obviously remembering where he was, he too bent once again to the map before him. The king, suppressing with difficulty the amusement in his face, bowed slightly toward Matilda and once more lowered his own eyes. Her cheeks flaming, she turned back to the fire, wishing she could run from the room.

“He’s an odious, precocious little prig,” she burst out later to Elen when she was at last back in her tent. She turned so that the woman could begin to unlace her gown. “Heaven help that poor child Isabella if they are to be wed. The boy needs a thrashing.”

“Hush!” Elen, frightened, glanced around. “You can’t tell who might be listening out there, my lady. It would do no good to speak ill of the prince. No good at all.”

“Prince!” Matilda snorted, beginning to tug at the braid in her hair. “He behaves more like a stableboy, except that he knows nothing about horses. Nothing!”

“He rides very well though, so I’ve heard.” Elen gathered up the rich folds of material as her mistress stepped out of the dress. “He’s as daring as any of his brothers, although they’re so much older.”

“Daring may be.” Matilda was not to be placated. The hidden smiles of the men at the table still rankled, as did the look of amusement in the cold eyes of Henry himself. “He has no business to accuse me of riding a lame horse and making me look a fool in front of William and the king.” There was a suspicious prickling behind her eyes, and she rubbed them fretfully with the back of her hand. “It’s humiliating.”

“Hush, my lady, he’s only a boy.” Elen opened a coffer and rummaged through the contents, looking for a comb. “Forget it. Think about tomorrow instead, and the lovely ceremonies and the banquet after. It’ll all be so beautiful, indeed it will. I’ve never seen so many people and so much grandeur in all my life.”

Matilda threw her a fond smile in spite of her vexation and sat down abruptly on one of the folding chairs so that Elen could reach to comb her hair. The pink cheeks of the Welsh girl glowed with excitement in the cold air of the dimly lit tent, and she remembered suddenly that for her too tomorrow was to be a great day. It was the first time she had attended court, and it was foolish to let the boy’s deliberate taunts spoil what was to be such an exciting day-even if that boy was also the king’s youngest son, the afterthought child of Henry and his formidable queen, Eleanor. And if the boy was to be the hero of that day, well, as William pointed out, it was probably the most exciting day he would ever have, except for the wedding itself, as the center of attention. What chance had he of shining in his own right with three splendid and magnificent brothers so much older than himself?

Dismissing Elen at last, she stepped wearily out of her shift, gasping at the cold, and leaving it lying where it fell, she climbed naked into the low bed and curled up beneath the heap of furs, listening to the shouts and noise of the vast encampment. It was nearly the hour of curfew when the fires would be damped, and it would grow colder still. She longed to call Elen into her bed for warmth, but she did not dare. Her husband’s lust had been roused by the king’s obvious admiration for her, and his crude fumblings and explicit leers at the banqueting board had made it clear that she was to expect him in her bed again that night.

Sure enough, the fires were barely doused when William came stamping into the tent, already beginning to unfasten his mantle.

“The moon’s riding in a ring tonight,” he exclaimed loudly, unclasping his cloak. “It’ll blow before morning.” He waved his esquire away and sat down to pull off his boots himself. “Well, my lady, you certainly impressed his grace the king.” He chortled. “Not many stand up to that spoiled brat of his, I gather, and come away to tell the tale without having their hair pulled.”

He saw his wife’s eyes flash angrily in the light of the dim rushlight and stopped hastily. “I’m glad you’re to attend Isabella tomorrow, my dear.” He tried to appease her gruffly. “That’s a great honor. You’ll be right in the forefront of everything.”

He pulled off the other boot with a grunt and threw it to the floor. “By Christ, Matilda, the king was in a fine mood today. He plans a great hunt the day after tomorrow and I for one shall be there with him. There’s good sport to be had in the forests around here at the moment. We shall have a fine day.” He threw off the rest of his clothes and, blowing out the rushlight, turned toward the bed.

She gritted her teeth as he fell on her, and she felt his hands closing on her breasts, his knee forcing her thighs apart in the dark. “The king liked you, Matilda,” he murmured, his face nuzzling into her neck. “He said I was a lucky man and he knows a thing or two about women, does King Henry. I’ll have to watch you, won’t I?” And he laughed exultantly as he thrust his way inside her.

The morning dawned frosty and bright, and the wisps of mist that had drifted upriver from the estuary were soon spirited away by the sun.

Matilda stood in the chilly tent and allowed Elen and Nell to dress her. First the pleated shift, then the undertunic of blue-green, and last, over it, her gown of scarlet cloth, embroidered at the hem with gold stitching and crystals. Around her slim hips the girls placed the beautifully worked girdle that was saved for state occasions. She bade Elen pin up her long braids under her veil and then she surveyed herself critically in the polished metal hand mirror Nell held for her. She saw herself pale, her auburn hair neat beneath the snowy veil, the gilt fillet that held it in place sparkling from a ray of sun which escaped the tent flap and strayed through the shadows to where she stood.

There was no hint on her face of the raw ache between her legs, nor the vicious marks on her breasts. She had been too proud to cry, but she had prayed for hours in the dark after William had at last fallen asleep that tonight he would be too drunk to leave the banqueting hall and that his grace the king would never look in her direction again.

The rooms occupied by the Countess of Gloucester were on the far side of the palace. Without William, who had left early to attend the king and the Earl of Gloucester for the signing of the formal betrothal documents, Matilda was lost. She stood in the center of the courtyard around which lay a huddle of buildings, surrounded by noise and bustle, feeling bewildered. Behind her, Elen stood wide-eyed, barely able in her excitement and nervousness to refrain from stretching out to catch her mistress’s sleeve.

Eventually they had to find a boy to guide them to the countess’s rooms. They followed him through a cluster of stone and wooden buildings, some new built, some already derelict, into the palace itself, and through dark passages and up stairs until at last they came to a heavy door hung with tapestry.

“She be in there, my lady.” The boy jerked his thumb at the door. He sidled up to Elen and held out his hand. “I’ve brought ’e like ’e asked, mistress.”

Elen looked at him, puzzled.

“He wants you to give him a coin, Elen,” Matilda commented abruptly, scarcely noticing as Elen, blushing, groped in the purse at her girdle for a quarter penny. She took a deep breath and, holding aside the hangings, opened the door.

The large solar behind it was full of women. Hawise Fitzherbert, Countess of Gloucester, large and florid, was surrounded by her tiring women, her voice, shrill with impatience and ill-humor, clearly floating above the subdued chatter around her. She turned as Matilda came in and, catching sight of her, raised her narrowly plucked eyebrows till they almost vanished into her hairline.

“Not another one. Has every woman in the country been sent to attend us?” She pursed her mouth sourly.

“The king, Lady Gloucester, asked me to attend your daughter today.” Matilda, her cheeks burning, bobbed a small curtsy, conscious of the eyes that were all focused on her.

The woman snorted. “You and who else? Well, madam, and who might you be?”

“Matilda de Braose, Countess.” Matilda took a deep breath, determined not to be put out.

“Never heard of you.” The woman seemed determined to be ill-natured. She turned to take a brooch from an attendant and then paused as another lady stepped from the throng.

“Lady de Braose is the wife of Sir William, Countess, Lord of Brecknock in the middle March. It is a great honor that she should wait upon the little lady during her betrothal to Prince John.” She spoke in a stage whisper, designed to be heard by everyone in the room, and Matilda saw the countess pause and frown, looking at her again, and she blessed her unknown champion.

She drew herself up. “Where is the Lady Isabella? May I offer her my greetings?”

The countess held herself upright, holding in her stomach as her gown was laced up, and then held out her arms for her girdle. “You can try,” she said grudgingly. “She’s sniveling in the garderobe.”

With a swift glance at Elen, Matilda strode across the room. The women stepped back to let her pass and she could feel their eyes uncomfortably on her back, but her attention was fixed on the little side room from where she could hear the sound of heartbroken sobs.

In the corner, huddling on the floor beneath a rail of hanging clothes, a little girl was weeping as though her heart would break, clutching a rag doll. A large plump-faced nurse bent over her, coaxing, and behind, two maids hovered, clutching a selection of gowns and little mantles with which they were obviously hoping to dress her.

“What’s the matter?” Matilda demanded, looking down at the child. She was horrified to see the little girl dirty and unkempt. Her hair was tangled with grass and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes.

“She tried to run away, madam, that’s what’s the matter.” The nurse gave up coaxing and stood, her hands on her hips, looking down at the child in exasperation. “Here we are, with everyone nearly ready to go to the abbey, and the child refuses to dress. She says she wants none of the king’s son. Imagine! How dare she, the little minx. You wait till her father gets wind of this. He’ll take the strap to her buttocks until they’re raw.”

The little girl gave another sob and clutched her doll more tightly.

“Well, he won’t get to hear of it,” said Matilda quietly, trying resolutely to keep her temper with the insensitive woman. Her heart went out to the little girl. She had a sudden vivid picture of her own betrothal to William. She too had been a child, not much older than this one. She who had dreamed of a tall, radiant, chivalrous knight had been informed by her father with excitement of the great honor that had been done his family, that she had been chosen by the stocky, ill-tempered baron whose reputation even then was marred by cruelty and viciousness. Her first reaction too had been to run away. But then she sat down on her favorite spot on the hill and thought about her duty and, at heart a realist, about what chance she had of ever having a better offer of marriage. She had come home, apologized to her frightened mother, wheedled her angry father, and resigned herself to making the most of it, comforting herself with the thought that she was to be a great lady. But could she persuade this child to see the sense in that? This little girl whose real world was still peopled by dolls and puppies and her snow-white pony.

“Please, nurse, will you leave us for a while?” She turned and forced herself to give the agitated woman her most brilliant smile. “I’d like a little talk with Isabella.”

The woman drew herself up to argue, but already Elen, who had followed close at her mistress’s heels, was pushing her out, and the two protesting maids with her. Then she stood, her back to the doorway, panting.

“Silly women,” she muttered. “Clucking like so many chickens, they are indeed. Poor cariad bach. ”

Matilda knelt down in the rushes and held out her arms to the little girl. “Come here, Isabella, my love. Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you so unhappy?”

Whether it was the sympathy in her voice, or the sight of a stranger, she couldn’t tell, but Isabella, with another strangled sob, scrambled to her feet and rushed to her, throwing herself into Matilda’s outstretched arms.

“There, there, child. There, there.” Matilda rocked her gently for a while, touched by the feel of the tiny, frail body, so thin beneath the skimpy clothes. Then as the child’s sobbing grew less, she pushed back the fair hair from her hot face and smiled gently at her. “Come on, sweeting, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t want to be betrothed.” Isabella sniffed loudly. “I hate John. He’s a bad, wicked boy. I don’t want to be married to him, ever.”

“Why, Isabella? Why not? Why do you think he’s wicked?”

“He pulls the wings off sparrows.” The ready tears spilled over again as the little girl buried her head in Matilda’s shoulder. “He likes hurting things. He told me. And when I belong to him, he said he could hurt me. And he said he could make me cry.”

“Christ blast that boy!” Matilda swore under her breath. She exchanged glances with Elen over the child’s head. “Listen, Isabella. John only said that to tease. He would never hurt you. He couldn’t. After mass in the abbey there will be a lovely party, and then you are to stay with your mother and father until you’re grown up. John probably won’t come near you again. And when you marry him, years and years from now, you’ll be a princess. You’ll be the most beautiful princess there ever was.” She smiled down at the drawn, pale little face. “Come on, remember you’re a great lady. Ladies must never be afraid.” She dropped a kiss on the tangled hair. “Now, will you let your nurse comb you and wash you and get you ready?”

“But I saw him.” The little girl was shaking still. “He pulled the wings till the bird screamed.”

Matilda shivered. “I’ll ask my husband to tell the king. John should be whipped for such cruelty.”

“You promise?” Isabella rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I promise.” Gently Matilda pushed her from her lap. “Now come on, there’s not much time.”

The nurse reappeared so swiftly it was obvious she had been listening outside the doorway. Half resentful of Matilda, half relieved that her charge had calmed down, she pushed her way to the child’s side.

“Would you credit that boy,” she muttered as she stripped the little girl and began rubbing the frail body with a cloth wrung out in a jug where the water had long since grown cold. “They sat there yesterday, side by side, when his grace the king brought them together, neat as two pins they were, both scrubbed and combed, and we saw John whispering to her. Then he took her by the hand and led her away. Lady Gloucester was that pleased, she was. Then the child comes racing in, screaming the place down. The earl was furious, and the king. Then young John came in all innocent. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what’s making her cry.’” She pulled a clean shift over the little girl’s head. Then the embroidered gown. Then she began to drag a brush through the delicate fair hair.

Outside in the solar the other women had been too preoccupied with the Countess of Gloucester’s grumblings to pay much attention to what was going on in the garderobe, so when Matilda emerged, holding Isabella, now neat and clean and dry-eyed, by the hand, there was a moment’s astonished silence.

“Well,” her mother said at last. “About time too.” Ignoring Matilda with calculated disdain, she went to take her daughter’s hand. But Isabella snatched it away, clinging to Matilda and dodging behind her out of her mother’s reach. Exasperated, the countess gave up without any further effort.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, you go with the child if she cares for you so much,” she snapped. “Stay with her and see she behaves. I want no more trouble.”

Her heart beating with excitement, Matilda took Isabella’s hand again and led the way out of the room. Outside she could hear the trumpet calls as the procession lined up to await the king.

St. Peter’s Abbey was packed. They walked slowly up the nave between the lofty columns that vanished into smoky darkness high overhead, where the painted colors were still blackened and tarnished by the disastrous fire that had swept the church fifty years earlier. Matilda caught her breath with excitement and unconsciously clutched Isabella’s hand even tighter. The abbey blazed with candles, and every light was reflected a dozen times in the finery of those who had crowded in to hear high mass. The air was giddy with incense.

The king was waiting for them in the choir with Prince John, splendidly dressed, beside him. With them was the tall figure of the king’s justiciar, Ranulf Glanville, who supervised John’s education, and the Earl of Gloucester, Isabella’s father, with the bishops and clergy ranked on either side. The boy, John, stood quietly, his eyes resting on the tomb of Robert, Duke of Normandy. He looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Never once did he raise his eyes to look at the trembling little girl who stood at his side as the blessing was pronounced. Nor did he look up as the choir burst into a joyful hymn of praise.

Once, though, he looked at Matilda. And she was surprised to see a direct challenge in his blue eyes. Amazed, she stared at him for a moment, not believing she had seen aright. The look had been so quickly veiled. I imagined it, she thought, bringing her attention sternly back to her charge and to the sacred mass, but somewhere a shadow had moved in the back of her mind, and she felt a flicker of warning.

The celebrations with endless hunting and feasting lasted several days, and then at last it was time once more to move on. Richard de Clare had not come after all, to Matilda’s intense disappointment.

She had seen the king only twice since the banquet that followed the betrothal formalities and the mass in St. Peter’s. On each occasion he was setting out in the cold dawn on a day’s hunting, surrounded by his barons and knights, William among them.

Once Prince John was at his side and again she felt the boy’s gaze on her. This time he was thoughtful, even calculating in his stare, and with a shiver she pulled her cloak around her and turned away to her tent. But not before she had seen that strange challenge again flickering in the depths of those cold blue eyes.

The next morning she was standing watching a ship being unloaded at the wharf, clutching her squirrel fur mantle around her against the icy wind from the Welsh mountains, when she heard her name called. She spun around. “Richard!” She let out a little cry of pleasure, hastily cut off as she glanced around her to see if anyone had heard. A few yards away Elen was bargaining with a packman in whose bundle she had spotted some bauble she wanted. “I had given up all hope of seeing you here!”

Richard glanced down at her. “How could I not come, knowing you would be here?” He was breathing deeply, trying to contain the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at her, seeing her so much more beautiful, or so he thought, than when they had parted almost a year before. She had matured-turned from a coltish child into a lovely woman, her hair glossy beneath the fur hood, her cheeks whipped to color by the icy wind. He clenched his fist on the hilt of his sword.

“I hear you were delivered of a fine son, my lady,” he said slowly at last. “My congratulations.”

She smiled at him. She could think of nothing to say. Her heart was beating too quickly. She could hardly breathe. He had not touched her-not even kissed her glove-but she could feel his touch, feel the longing that stretched like a thong between them.

“There, my lady!” Elen returned triumphant with her purchase. “Shall we go on to the king’s hall?” She glared at the tall, fair-haired knight with the chevrons on his surcoat who was staring with such naked longing at her mistress, and she shivered. There was danger in that look.

“My lady.” She pulled at Matilda’s sleeve. “We should go on.”

“I’ll see you again?” Matilda could not take her eyes off Richard’s face.

He nodded helplessly, half reaching out toward her with his hand. It fell back without touching her and, with a curt bow, he turned away.

All day Matilda waited to see him again, but he did not come. Nor was he to be seen at the high table in the king’s great hall.

Disappointed and worn out with longing, she retired early, her head throbbing from the smoke and noise of the dinner, which had gone on for hours. She had unstoppered a vial of poppy syrup and was mixing a little with some wine when she looked up and caught sight of a movement against the tent wall. Her heart leapt.

“Richard?” she breathed. But only silence answered her, and after a moment she turned away. It was her overwrought imagination. He would never dare come to her tent. She picked up the cup and sipped the tincture, feeling it run soothing through her veins, and as she slipped quietly out of her gown she had already begun to feel drowsy. She was too tired to call Elen or one of the maids. All she wanted was to sink into the bed and sleep the pain in her head away. Then suddenly she saw a shadow, clearly, on the tent wall between the blowing hangings, silhouetted against a campfire outside. It paused and then moved silently toward the entrance flap. She caught her breath. That was not Richard. The shadow was too squat. Something about the stealth of the movement frightened her, and she sat up abruptly, pulling up the covers beneath her chin, holding her breath. There was a tiny click , like two stones being rubbed together, and then silence.

The shadow moved quickly to the entrance and paused again, then it shrank strangely and thickened as the prowler, whoever it was, stopped momentarily as though dropping something. Then it vanished.

Matilda sat for a moment, her heart in her mouth, wondering whether to call the guard. Then she slipped out of bed and, pulling the coverlet around her shoulders, tiptoed to the entrance of the tent and looked out. There was no one there. A fine starlit sky lit the dark encampment where here and there a damped fire glowed red beneath its turves. She caught her breath in the cold air, looking left and right and then glancing down at the ground, which was already white with icy dew.

A bundle lay at her feet. Puzzled, she bent and picked it up, still thinking of Richard. It was heavy and already the frosty night had worked its way into the rough cloth, leaving it stiff and frozen. She carried it into the tent and, lighting a candle from the rushlight that burned before the portable prie-dieu, examined it more closely. The material was tied with a leather thong.

Curious, she pulled at the knot, working at the tight leather until it came free. She unwrapped the sacking, then pulled out another bundle of cloth. It was multicolored, in the flickering light half gray, half scarlet. She unwrapped it.

Lying in the folds before her, heavy and stiff, were three severed hands. The scarlet of the cloth was the blood that had soaked through it, dyeing it into a gaudy, cheerful mockery of color. She gazed at them in horror for fully a minute, her eyes unconsciously taking in the details of the grimy nails, the whitened fingers, the beaten copper ring on one of the knuckles, unable to comprehend the full horror of what she saw, and then she turned, retching, and ran for the entrance to the tent.

“Someone come! Help me! Help me!”

Her screams echoed in the frosty air and within seconds the camp watch was mustering and a knight had ducked into the tent beside her, his face white beneath his chain-mail hood as he unsheathed his heavy sword. Horrified, he stared down at the tent floor, then helplessly he touched Matilda’s arm.

“Hush, my lady, hush. There is no danger now. Look, my lady-your maids are here, and Sir William has been called.” He pulled an embroidered length of tapestry from a table and threw it over the bloodstained bundle, hiding it from sight. But she could not stop screaming. It was as if something inside her head had snapped. She was outside herself, watching herself standing there, barefoot, wrapped in a fur cloak in the streaming light of the torch that one of the watchmen carried. But she could not stop screaming.

“Hush, Jo. Hush, there is no danger. It’s all over. You’re quite safe.” Hands were shaking her and she could feel something cold on her face. Agitated voices surrounded her.

“Can’t you do something, for God’s sake-”

“Here, catch her hands. Hold her still.”

She felt people clutching at her, struggling with her, holding her.

There was a prick in her arm-then she knew no more.