Lady of Hay

19

Janet knocked on Jo’s door as she was undressing late that night. Pushing it open, she hovered for a moment, staring at Jo, who, wearing only her bra and briefs, was sitting on the edge of her bed.

“God, I’m sorry! I didn’t think-shall I come back?” Flustered, Janet backed away. “I brought us some cocoa. I thought you might like to chat a bit. Old Welsh custom!”

Jo laughed. “Come in.” She reached for her thin silk bathrobe hastily and drew it around her.

Janet sat down on the stool in front of the kidney-shaped dressing table, maneuvering her heavy body with difficulty. “Jo, I wanted to apologize for David. He can be a bit belligerent at times. He shouldn’t have given you the third degree like that. He tends to think all Welsh history is his special province and he almost resents anyone else who is interested in it, besides which, as you can’t have failed to gather, he is a rabid nationalist-”

“Quite apart from thinking that I am completely mad anyway.” Jo smiled wearily. “He could be right at that. I’m glad he didn’t order me out of your house. I really did want to know about Matilda, though-his Moll Walbee.” She reached for the mug and sipped it slowly. “It was so odd to hear him talk about her with such knowledge. He knew so much more about her than I do, and yet at the same time he didn’t know her at all.”

Janet gave a rueful laugh. “That could apply to David on a lot of subjects.” She was silent a moment, watching as Jo sipped again from her mug. The pale-blue silk of Jo’s sleeve had slipped back to her elbow, showing clearly the livid bruising around her wrist and the long curved gash on her arm. “Jo,” she said tentatively. “I couldn’t help noticing-the bruises and that awful cut-” She colored slightly. “Tell me if it’s none of my business, but, well…you sounded in such a state when you called this morning.” She groaned slightly, her hand to her back. “There is more to this sudden trip than just research, isn’t there?”

Jo set down the mug and pulled her sash more tightly around her waist.

“A bit of man trouble,” she admitted reluctantly at last.

“And he did that to you?”

Jo sighed. “He was drunk-far more I think than I realized. I’ve never seen Nick like that before.”

“Nick?”

Jo laughed wryly. “The man in my life. Correction, the man who was in my life. We’d been having lots of fights and we split up a couple of times, then we got back together and I thought everything was going to be all right. Then suddenly-” She paused in midsentence. “It was to do with my regressions. He doesn’t approve of my doing it and he became a bit uptight about a lover I-Matilda-had had in the past…”

“Richard de Clare?” Janet nodded. “I remember him from the article. He sounded really rather a dish. Every woman’s fantasy man!” She broke off with an exclamation. “You mean this Nick knocked you about because you talked about a lover in a previous life while you were being hypnotized?”

Jo lay back on the bed, her arm across her face. “I think that was what it was about. The awful thing was, I think I wanted to tell him about Richard. I wanted him to know.”

“And this is the man you mentioned earlier, the one you said had been behaving so strangely you wondered if he had lived before too?”

Jo nodded. She rolled over so that she could see Janet’s face. “Isn’t it strange? You and I used to talk in school about how it would be. You were the one who was never going to marry or have kids. Now look at you. Elephantine! And I was going to be a woman alone, without men.”

“I always thought that was a stupid idea,” Janet put in humorously. “One has to have men. Lovers.”

Jo stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. “We were so idealistic, so naive! Do you know, I found out through Matilda what it was like to be forced to marry a man you hated. Forced, by a father who doted on you yet who, by custom, because you were a mere woman, had to hand you and your inheritance on to another man. I became a man’s property, Janet. He could do what he wanted with me. Threaten me, lock me up, treat me like a slave, and order me into his bed and expect me to obey him. It’s been like that for women for centuries and only now are we fighting for liberation. It’s unbelievable.” She sat up. “The only way I-I mean Matilda-could keep him out of her bed was to tell him when she was pregnant that a witch had foretold doom for the baby if he touched her.”

Janet chuckled. “I’d like to see Dave’s face if I tried that one. Mind you, I like him to touch me. Imagine, in my condition!” She patted her stomach affectionately, then she glanced up. “Did you-did Matilda have the baby?”

Jo nodded. “Do you want to hear the gory details of medieval obstetrics? Perhaps it’s not tactful at the moment. The entire range of facilities were available to me-no expense spared. A pile of straw to soak up the blood, a midwife who stank of ale and had all her front teeth missing-I imagine kicked out by a previous client-and I was given a rosary to hold. I broke it, which was considered an ill omen, and I had a magic stone tied on a thong around my neck. I was naked, of course, and the labor went on for a day and a night and most of the next day.”

Janet shuddered. “Spare me. I’m going to have an epidural. Did it hurt terribly?”

Jo nodded. “I was too tired by the end to know what was going on properly. Then afterward, in real life, I began to produce milk for that poor scrap of a baby who was only a dream!”

“You’re not serious.” Janet looked shocked.

“Oh, it only lasted a day or two, thank God, but it was rather disgusting at the time.”

Janet was staring at her. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

“No.”

“And your Nick. Did he know about all this?”

“Oh, yes. He was, you might say, present at the birth. He was watching while I was describing it all under hypnosis.”

“Then I’m not surprised he’s a bit rattled.” Janet shivered again. “The poor man must really feel weird. I’ll tell you one thing. If all that had happened to me, I’d never let myself be hypnotized again as long as I lived. Never!” She shuddered theatrically.

“You wouldn’t want to know what happened?”

“But you do know what happened, Jo. David showed you, in that book. She died. Horribly.”

Jo drew her knees up to her chin and hugged them. “She died in about 1211. The events I am describing happened around 1176. That’s thirty-five years later.”

“And you’re going to relive thirty-five years of her life?” Janet’s expression dissolved suddenly into her irrepressible smile. “I take it this is a fairly long project, Jo?” The smile faded abruptly. “I think you’re mad. Nothing on earth would make me go through with that deliberately. Didn’t Dave say she had six children? Are you going to go through another five pregnancies and deliveries like that first one? I’m prepared to bet real money they still hadn’t even invented morphine by the turn of the thirteenth century.”

Jo grinned tolerantly. “Perhaps you’re right. And it is a pretty thankless task, with no baby at the end of it…” She blinked rapidly, aware of a sudden lump in her throat.

Janet heaved herself to her feet and came and put her arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jo. I didn’t mean to upset you-”

“You haven’t.” Jo pulled away from her and stood up. “Besides, if I’m honest I have a particular reason for wanting to go back. Not just to see Will, though I want to hold him so much sometimes it hurts.” She gave an embarrassed smile. “I have to go back to see Richard again. I need him, Janet. He’s gotten under my skin. To me he is completely real.”

“Supposing Matilda never saw him again?” Janet said thoughtfully after a moment.

“Then I’ll have to learn to live without him. But until I know for sure, I have a feeling I shall go back. Come on.” She reached for the bedcover and pulled it down. “I need my beauty sleep, even if you don’t. Tomorrow I am going to Hay and Brecon and places to see if I can lay Matilda’s ghost. If I can, then there will be no more regressions. No more Richard. Just an article in Women in Action that will be of passing interest to some and total boredom to others and then it will all be forgotten.”

She climbed into bed and lay back tensely after Janet had gone, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, half afraid that all the talk of babies might once more conjure up the sound of crying in the echoing chambers of that distant castle, but she heard nothing but the gentle sighing of the wind.

Outside the window the clouds streamed across the moon and shadowed silver played over the ruins. If Seisyll’s ghost walked, she did not see him. Within minutes she was asleep.

The breezes of Sussex were gentle after the frosty mornings of the west and the trees were still heavy with leaves as yet untouched by frost. As Matilda’s long procession slowly traveled the last miles to Bramber, she could see from far away the tall keep of the castle, standing sentinel on its height above the River Adur. They rode slowly down the long causeway into the small village that clung among the saltings around the foot of the castle hill. The parish church and the castle looked out across the marshes and the deep angle of the river toward the sea. The tide was in and the deep moat full of water as they clattered across the drawbridge, with gulls swooping and wheeling around them and diving into the slate-colored ripples below.

Her beloved nurse Jeanne greeted them outside the towering gatehouse with tears of joy, but she had news of death.

“What is it, Jeanne, dear? Is it the old lord?” Matilda gazed around as she slipped from her horse, dreading suddenly any visitation of sickness that might come near her son. He was so little and vulnerable. She ached sometimes with love for the little boy and with the terrible fear of what might become of him.

“It’s Sir William’s mother, the Lady Bertha.” Jeanne’s wrinkled old face was suddenly solemn. “She slipped on the stairs and broke her thigh two months since. She lived on for weeks in terrible pain, poor soul, and then she died at last a week ago, God rest her. The bones were too old to knot properly.” The old woman crossed herself and then looked up shrewdly under her heavy eyelids. “I wonder you didn’t meet the messengers we sent after Sir William. You’ll be mistress of your own now, ma p’tite. I’m glad for you.”

Secretly Matilda felt no sorrow for the domineering old woman, but she felt a moment’s regret for William, who had cared for his mother in an embarrassed way.

William had left Gloucester with the king, taking with him most of his fighting men, save her escort, after a brief, futile inquiry into the murder of the three missing knights. It would be some time before he returned to Bramber.

Matilda suppressed the smile of relief that kept wanting to come. It might not be seemly, but a great weight had been lifted from her mind. She had dreaded her meeting with Bertha. The old woman’s bitter tongue would not have spared her a lashing for her impropriety and disobedience in leaving Bramber the year before, nor would she have allowed Matilda to continue ordering her husband’s household. She glanced around at Bernard, who was sitting slackly on his roan gelding behind her, apparently lost in thought. He would have lost all his respect for her if he’d heard Bertha. Now there was no danger. Bramber was hers. Breathing a silent prayer of gratitude, she raised her arm in a signal and the tired procession of horses and wagons moved slowly under the gatehouse into the steeply cobbled bailey within.

After dismounting once more, Matilda followed Jeanne into the cool dimness of the great hall and looked around with a quiet sigh of satisfaction at the beautiful arched windows, trimmed with delicately carved flintstone borders, and the intricate carving that adorned pillars and doorways. Bramber was beautiful compared with Brecknock. Beautiful, civilized, and safe.

She forced herself to go at once to look at the recumbent body of her father-in-law. It was because he still lived that Bertha had remained mistress of Bramber. Had he died as God, she was sure, had intended, Bertha would have gone to her dower lands and left Matilda in charge of the castle. It was because he still lived too that William was in such a strange position, a baron in all but title. She looked down at old William’s face. He had changed not at all since she had left Bramber. The skin was perhaps more shrunken, the eye sockets more hollow as his dimmed eyes still gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. The only sign of life was the clawed hand that grasped incessantly at the sheet drawn up over the old man’s chest. Dutifully she dropped a light kiss on the papery skin of his brown cheek. He gave no sign of recognition, and after a moment she left his bedside.

In the privacy of her own solar she hugged Jeanne again. After taking Will from his nurse, she unwrapped him herself and presented him for the old woman’s inspection. Jeanne examined the baby’s sleeping face. Then to Matilda’s relief she nodded and smiled. “A fine boy,” she commented. “He does you credit, ma p’tite , but then I’d expect you to have bonny children.” She glanced sideways at Matilda. “I can see you’re going to have another too. That is good. This time I shall be near to watch over you.”

Matilda smiled. She had suspected that she was pregnant again, though outwardly her slim waist hadn’t thickened an inch, so she wondered how Jeanne could tell so easily. But she was happy. This time she would stay at Bramber. Nothing would induce her to travel after William as she had done before. There was to be no possibility of the evil eye being directed at her unborn child. She took Jeanne’s hands and kissed the old woman again on the cheek. The black mist-covered mountains of Wales and their unhappy memories seemed very far away.

Giles, her second son, was born in April the following year, as the heavy scented air of Sussex drifted like balm through the open windows of Bramber Castle, bringing with it the slight tang of salt from the hazy channel, floating in from the saltings below, and, from the fields and Downs, the heady perfume of apple blossom and bluebells. As the child was laid, sleeping peacefully, in its crib, Jeanne slipped silently to the glowing hearthstone and there laid wine and water and fresh towels for the fairies. With their blessing the child would grow strong and lucky. Matilda felt a sudden shiver of fear. There had been no such magic for baby Will. Dimly she remembered as a bad dream from the past the vision she had had at her eldest son’s birth and she crossed herself, afraid for him. Then, even as she tried to recall the meaning of the vision, it blurred and slipped from her and she saw that Jeanne was watching her with strangely narrowed eyes. Matilda fought to look away but somehow she could not move. The memory grew dim and she saw only the reflection of the sunlight glinting on the ewer of water by the fire, and then again she slept.

In her bed at Abergavenny Jo stirred in her sleep as the dream faded. The moonlight touched her face with cold fingers and she flung her arm across her closed eyes and shivered before lying still again.

“I want you to listen to me carefully.” Sam sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of Nick, his eyes on his brother’s face. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Imperceptibly Nick nodded.

“Good. And you know I would do nothing to harm you-and I think it would harm you, Nick, to take you back into the past too soon. First I must prepare you. I must warn you who you were in that life, long ago…” Sam paused, a flicker of grim humor straying across his face. “You were not Richard de Clare, Nick, and you have good reason to be jealous of him. He was your friend and your adviser. And he was your rival. You and he both loved Matilda de Braose. But Richard won her. It was to him that she turned. She despised you. She feared you and hated you. She was your enemy, Nick. Do you remember?” He paused, watching Nick’s face closely as his brother shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his face somber. His gaze had strayed from Sam toward the lamp once more, his eyes fixed on it, the pupils pin-size in the brilliant blue of the floodlit irises. Hanging down toward the carpet at his side, one of his hands twitched involuntarily as he clenched and unclenched his fist.

Sam smiled, wondering for a brief second if what he was saying had a grain of possibility behind it. Where had the violence in his brother come from? One day he would find out for sure, but not today. Today he was setting the scene.

“I think perhaps you do remember, Nick,” he went on quietly. “You were a prince when you first saw her. She was beautiful and tall and charming. A lady. And you were a snotty boy. Do you remember? You were born too late. She was the first woman you ever desired and she was already another man’s wife and the mother of his child, and you were too young still even to screw the serving wenches you caught in the dark corners of the palace. You made do then with pinching their breasts and thrusting your hand up their skirts, but later it was different. Later you could have any woman you wanted. And you took them. Peasant or lady. Willing or not. Your reputation has echoed down through the centuries. You took them all. All save Lady de Braose. Her scorn unmanned you. When she looked at you, you knew she still saw you as a sniveling child. And your love began to sour. You determined to bring her to her knees, do you remember, Nick? You told her husband to control her better, but he was weak.” His jaw tightened momentarily. “She needed William’s help and he failed her. When he should have whipped her and bridled her shrewish tongue, he let her speak. He let her walk into your trap, when he could have saved her.” He stopped, unable to go on for a moment, sweat standing out on his forehead as he watched Nick’s face. “You hated her by then, and you determined she would pay for her scorn with her life.”

He sat forward on the edge of the table, hooking his forefinger into the knot of his tie and pulling it loose while behind him the sky was losing its color, the sunset fading as the glare of streetlights took over outside the open window.

“And now, Nick,” he went on after a pause, “you and she have been born in another century and in another world, and this time you are not a child. This time she sees you as a man, a man she finds attractive, a man to whom she has submitted. But you cannot trust her. Your hate remains. You have not forgotten, Nick. And you have not forgiven. You swore vengeance against Matilda de Braose eight hundred years ago and you are pursuing it still.”

He stood up abruptly and turned away from his brother. “And this time, my friend,” he murmured, “when she calls on her husband for help, it will be there. I shall not let her down again. I have waited for the chance to make amends, and now at last I have it. Now at last we are all once more on the stage together.” He turned. “You will love the role I’ve given you, Nick. You always were a conceited little bastard-so self-assured. So clever. So sure every woman will fall for you. And they all do, don’t they? But Jo is beginning to see through you. She has tasted your violence now. She no longer trusts you, and if you hit her again, Nick, she will come to me. She will always come to me, I shall see to that. And I shall comfort her. She’ll return to you for more because there is something of the masochist in Jo. Violence excites her. She may even tempt you to kill her, Nick. But I shall be there.” He smiled evenly. “And this time I shall be the one in charge. This time I shall have men to help me. And you will crawl away, my liege . You will lick your wounds and beg for forgiveness as William did to his king, and I shall have you sent away, not to hide in France to die a whimpering shameful death like William had to, no, I shall have you committed, brother mine, to an asylum. The sort of place they put people who live in a world of make-believe and pretend that they are kings. And Jo will come to me. Jo will be mine. She will repent that she slighted me and beg for forgiveness and I will console her as a husband should.”

He walked toward the tray and poured himself half a tumbler of whisky. He drank it down at a gulp and then poured another.

“Have you been listening to me, Nick?” He turned slowly.

For a moment Nick gave no sign of having heard, then slowly he nodded.

“And have you understood what I have told you?”

Nick licked his lips. “I understand,” he said at last.

Sam smiled. “Good,” he said softly. “So, tell me what your name was, Nicholas, in this past life of yours.”

“John.” Nick looked at Sam with alarming directness.

“And you know what you must do?”

Nick shifted in his chair. He was still staring at Sam but there was a clouded, puzzled look on his face.

Sam frowned. He put down his glass. “Enough now,” he said slowly. “You are tired. I am going to wake you soon. You must ask me to hypnotize you again, little brother. You find that hypnosis is soothing. It makes you feel good. You are going to forget all that I have told you today with your conscious mind, but underneath, slowly, you will remember, so that when you are next with Jo you will know how to act. Do you understand me?” His tone was peremptory.

Nick nodded.

“And one other thing.” Sam picked up his shirt and began carefully to straighten the sleeves. “A favor for a friend. Before Jo comes back you must go and see Miss Curzon. Make your peace with her, Nick. You like Judy, remember? She’s good in bed. She makes you feel calm and happy. Not like Jo, who makes you angry. Go and see Judy, Nick. Soon.” He smiled. “Now I want you to relax. You are feeling happy now and at ease. You are feeling rested. That’s good. Now, slowly I want you to count from one to ten. When you reach ten you will awake.” Slowly Nick began to count.

“Abergavenny, Crickhowell, Tretower,” Jo murmured as she swung the MG onto the A40 next morning. She glanced up at the line of hills and then at the gleam of the broad Usk on her left, and she shivered, remembering the icy feel of the water, the snow beneath her bare feet, and the silence of the hills. Thankfully she concentrated as a tractor swung out onto the narrow road ahead of her. She leaned forward and turned on the car radio. She could not look at the hills now, not as well as hold the car on the road. She turned the station up loud and, hooting at the tractor, tore past him north toward Hay, refusing to let herself think about the vast empty area of moor and mountain far away on her right.

The approach from Talgarth was along the foot of the small foothills that hid the huge shoulders of Pen y Beacon and Twmpa-the Black Mountains that David had showed her on his map-but she could smell them through the open roof of the car, the sweet indefinable smell of the mountains of Wales, which she remembered from her dream.

The town of Hay, nestling in a curve of the Wye, was a maze of little narrow streets, crowded and busy, which clustered around the gaunt imposing half ruin that was the castle. As she drew into a parking space in the market square immediately below the castle, Jo sat staring up at it in awe. In front of her, to the left, was a cluster of ancient ruins, while at the right-hand end of the edifice was a portion that looked far more recent and appeared to be in the midst of rebuilding and restoration. That part looked as if it might have been recently inhabited. She climbed out of the car feeling strangely disoriented; this time yesterday she had been standing in the London apartment, phoning Janet Pugh. Now she was standing within a stone’s throw of the building Matilda had built. She took a deep breath and made herself turn away toward the crowded streets behind her. First she must find a guidebook.

Bookshops throng the narrow streets of Hay-on-Wye. Shelves overflow onto the pavements. Fivepenny paperbacks rub shoulders with priceless esoterica and antiquarian treasures. Fascinated, Jo wandered around, resisting the urge to stop and browse, drawn constantly back to the brooding gray ruin. She bought her guide, a history of the town, and a little street map, then, with a pasty, an apple, and a can of lager she walked slowly down the hill toward the Wye, away from the castle. It was too soon to look at the castle. First she wanted to get her bearings.

Beyond the high modern bridge that spanned the river she found a footpath leading down through the trees to a shingle bank at the edge of the broad expanse of peat-stained water, carpeted so thickly in places with the tiny white flowers of water crowfoot that the water was almost hidden. She stood for a moment staring down at the river as it rippled swiftly eastward toward Herefordshire, pouring over the smoothed, sculpted boulders and rocks through flat water meadows and away from the mountains; then she found a deserted piece of sun-baked shingle and sat down. Opening the lager, she propped her back against a bent birch tree as she watched the water. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of jeweled colors and recognized her first sight of a kingfisher. Enchanted, she stared after it, but it had vanished as quickly as it had come.

She rummaged in her bag for her books and sat eating as she looked through them, every now and then glancing up at the town beyond the river to glimpse the castle at its center or the church nestling beyond the bridge in the trees. Each time she found her gaze drawn back to the water, watching it as ripples formed patterns and swirls in the reflections of the clouds. A feather danced past, curled white in the sun, and far out in the middle of the current a fish jumped, silver-bellied, and plunged back in a circle of ripples.

The afternoon was very hot and still. Jo nodded, and her book fell into her lap. Forcing her eyes open, she made herself stare at the water again, trying to concentrate on staying awake, but the reflections danced in her eyes, dazzling, forcing her to close them again, and slowly, imperceptibly, the sound of the water dulled and grew muffled. It was only after a long while that she realized she could hear the sound of horses’ hooves.

England lay beneath a pall of dust. The summer sun burning down beneath a coppery sky smelled acrid and the hot breeze that occasionally fanned the travelers’ faces was dust-laden and gritty.

Wearily Matilda pulled up her horse at last. The groom who had been walking at its head raised his hand and the whole tired procession halted. Behind them the forests and rolling hills of Herefordshire shimmered in a haze. The Border March, a vast, wild area of forest and mountain and desolate moorland, lay before them to the west. At their feet they could see at last the River Wye, which had shrunk in places to a narrow ribbon of water flowing between broad strips of whitened stones. There were deep pools, shadowed from the beating overhead sunlight by the crowding alders and hazels, which in places overhung the water, and by great black rocks brought down by the spring floods. They alone were cool and green, the last refuge of salmon and grayling.

William was once again in attendance on the king, this time in Normandy. Matilda had received a message from him shortly before she left Bramber. The household had stayed there too long, overtaxing the facilities, running its supplies down to nothing, but still she had been reluctant to obey William’s instructions to set off once more for Wales. He planned to join her there, the message said, by Martinmas, so that he could enjoy some of the late season’s hunting in the Hay forest.

One by one the horses and men picked their way almost dryshod across the silvery shallows. Before them lay the small township of Hay. It clustered around the church of St. Mary and the neighboring wooden castle on its mound securely surrounded by a thick high hawthorn hedge, trailing with honeysuckle and brambles. Outside the hedge the small fields, red-gold with brittle wheat, showed up in the heavy green of the encroaching forest. Somewhere nearby were the black brooding mountains, but they had withdrawn beneath a haze that hid all but the lowest wooded slopes of the foothills.

They rode slowly through the gap in the hedge and turned up the beaten earth track toward the castle. It was little more than a wooden tower, built upon a motte thrown up on the bank overlooking the river. Below it lay the still, deep waters of the church pool, the surface streaked with fronds of green weed. To the west of the castle flowed the Login Brook, shallow and stagnant in the heat of the sun.

Matilda halted the procession again just outside the castle wall and looked wearily around. The steward of the manor was waiting for her beside the church and, next to him, sunburned in homespun, the vicar and the castellan. She tried to smile at them. She was bored with the fawning servants who lived in these outlying castles and manors; she had wanted to go on to Brecknock, which at least she knew and where the faithful Robert and Hugh still served, but Hay it had to be, only eleven miles to the northeast. William had insisted on it.

She was conscious of eyes peering at her from dark doorways and around corners. An old man, his limbs wasted and immobile, lay propped up against the wall of an outhouse nearby, and he smiled toothlessly and nodded as he saw her gaze rest on him. Several children ran giggling behind her horse. One of them had a clubfoot, which dragged horribly as he tried to keep up with his friends.

“Lady Matilda, you are welcome to the Hay.” The steward hastened forward as she slipped from the saddle and bowed low, his long hair falling across the bare crown of his head to reveal an ancient scar. He introduced himself as Madoc, the castellan as Tom the Wolf, and the thin cadaverous vicar as Philip. They bowed in unison. Then Madoc straightened up. He looked Matilda in the eye, no trace of servility in his manner. “The castle is prepared for you, my lady, if your servants will bring in the furnishings, and the kitchens are ready for your cook. We’ve had the fires burning since dawn. You have a visitor, my lady.” His eyes narrowed in the sunlight. “The Earl of Clare rode in yesterday. He is in the castle waiting for you.”

“The Earl of Clare?” Matilda’s heart stood still for a moment. It was months since she had allowed herself to think of him. And now, suddenly, unannounced and unexpected, he was here! She did not bother to remount her exhausted horse. With the rein over her arm, she picked her way over the dry turf, rank with thistles, and made her way excitedly toward the gate in the castle wall.

Richard had just returned from a hawking expedition. He was standing, stripped to the waist, at the foot of the stairs that led up the side of the steep motte to the castle tower, while one of his men poured buckets of cold water over his head. He was quite unembarrassed when he saw her. “My lady!” He took another bucket of water full in the face and, spluttering, turned to chase the man away. The long line of pack animals, wagons, and attendants was crowding into the bailey around them, milling in the dust as they halted and began to dismount and unload, before making their way toward the stables and lodgings around the inside of the high wall. Matilda stood unnoticing in the middle of them all, smiling, watching as Richard toweled himself dry and wriggled into his tunic. Her heart was beating very fast.

He fastened his belt and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Where’s Sir William, my lady? I see he isn’t with you.” He ran ahead of her two at a time up the stairs to the keep. It was hot and stuffy inside and full of acrid smoke from the small fire in the hearth. Matilda followed him more slowly and stopped abruptly, her eyes smarting as she tried to accustom them to the dark after the bright sun outside. When she could see at last she saw Richard gather up his sword and gird it on.

“William is in attendance on the king. What are you doing here at Hay, Richard?” Suddenly she felt shy and ill at ease.

“Waiting for you, of course.” He raised his eyebrow slightly, stepping close to her to kiss her hand. “I’m returning from Gloucester, so I sent most of my people ahead and stayed to do a little hawking in your beautiful valley. I heard you were on your way. It’s been so long.” He was still holding her hand.

She tried to pull it away without success. “Lord de Clare…” She glanced behind her at the doorway.

“I’ve tried again and again to visit you,” he went on in a whisper, “but events have always stood in the way. I’ve been in France with the king or up north or in the Marches, but never when you’ve been here, or in far away Suffolk.” He still held her hands, looking into her eyes solemnly. “Dear sweet God, but I’ve missed you so.”

“No, Richard, please.” She interrupted him, pulling her hands away at last. “Please don’t talk like that.” She hesitated, letting her light traveling cloak slip from her shoulders to the rushes, looking uncertainly into his face. He had not changed at all from the carefree youth who had escorted her across England. He was a tall young man, fractionally taller than she, broad-shouldered and painfully slim, with merry hazel eyes. She bit her lip and half turned.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He swung his sword comfortably onto his hip. “Why do you look so sad? I thought you might be glad to see me!”

“Oh, I am, Richard.” She swallowed, and smiled at him with an effort. “You’ll never know how glad. It’s just that…I’m tired, that’s all. We’ve ridden such a long way today.”

“My lady…”

She turned to find Jeanne pulling at her sleeve. The old woman’s face was disapproving. “The little ones are asleep already, my lady. You should be the same.” The old woman stooped slowly to pick up the fallen cloak, which lay forgotten on the ground. “Your room is prepared. I’m sure Lord de Clare will excuse you after your long journey.”

“That I won’t, old dame.” Richard reached for Matilda’s hand again. “Come, my lady, call for food and wine and music! We’ll celebrate your arrival. I’m not letting you slip away to sleep with children tonight. You need cheering up, not sleep.”

His high spirits were infectious, and Matilda could not help laughing with him, her eyes on his smiling face. It would be good to celebrate her arrival. Her weariness and depression began to slip away. She turned to Jeanne.

“Go to the children. They need you now, I don’t. I can rest later.”

“My lady, you’re most unwise. You must rest.” Stubbornly Jeanne remained at her elbow.

“I said you can go, Jeanne,” Matilda rounded on her. “Lord de Clare and I have much to talk about.”

Jeanne hesitated, her hands braced stubbornly at the front of her full black skirts, then reluctantly, muttering to herself, she left them, vanishing behind the screens at the end of the hall.

“She watches you closely, that one,” he whispered as she left.

Matilda turned to follow his gaze. Then she laughed. “She was my nurse before she was my children’s. Sometimes I think she forgets I’m grown up now. Now, my lord, tell me all the news, and cheer me up. I command it.” She clapped her hands to summon her page. “Bring lights, and food and seats, Simon. Let’s see what kind of food those Hay fires can provide.”

Richard, one foot on a stool near the fire, gazed at her for a moment, head to one side. “We’ll have music and poetry and good wine and conversation in that order. Will that cheer you?” He raised an eyebrow and grinned. “If it doesn’t, I’m sure I can think of one or two other things that might appeal.” He looked down at the rushes for a moment. When he looked up she could see that the color in his cheeks had risen a little. He caught her eye and for a moment, as they stood together in the center of the bustle of preparation, they gazed at each other without speaking. She felt a stab of excitement running up her body, and swallowed nervously. He feels the same, she thought, and she felt herself beginning to tremble. She looked away first.

“William joins me here soon for the autumn hunting.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Autumn is a long way away, my lady.” He took her hand and raised it almost to his lips. Then he let it fall. “Come, where is that music? We must have music while we eat.”

Matilda lay awake a long time that night, listening to the owls hooting in the yew trees below the Login Brook. She could feel the touch of Richard’s hand on hers and sense the message in his eyes as, sitting next to her, he had shared her dish as they ate and listened to the boy who piped one dance tune after another for them. The firelight had played on his face as he leaned back in his chair and she had seen him watching her, his eyes never leaving her face. She lay still and fought back the longing that overwhelmed her, trying to think instead of her two baby sons, asleep with their nurses.

The river was lapping gently over its stones, murmuring peacefully beyond the bailey wall. The castle was silent. She gazed up at the ceiling over her head and the rail from which her bed curtains hung, and stared, near to tears, into the darkness.

Somewhere in the blackness of the room beyond the curtains a board creaked. She moved her head slightly, trying to see between the heavy folds of material. Perhaps one of her women had stirred in her sleep? Not a breath of wind moved in the trees outside. She stiffened. A slight scraping noise caught her ear, followed by profound silence. It was as though someone else too were listening in the dark.

She swallowed nervously, trying to forget the sudden awful memory of the shadow outside the walls of her tent at Gloucester. The entire garrison was within earshot if she screamed, and there could be no enemies within the castle. She shut her eyes, her fingers clutching the thin sheet up around her face.

Then distinctly she heard the slight rattle of a curtain ring. Someone was touching the curtains of her bed. Her mind flew to Richard. Surely he would not be so stupidly reckless? She lay tense, waiting, not daring to open her eyes.

The curtains were eased back a little more and she felt a slight pressure on the bed as someone leaned over her. Little prickles of panic were beginning to chase up and down her back and she fought desperately to remain still. Something wet fell on her hair, then on her face and her shoulder. A light mist like spring rain. Then she heard whispered words. She strained her ears trying to hear, wondering what prevented her still from crying out. It was a woman’s voice, intoning softly. It sounded like a prayer. Or a spell. She felt herself grow cold. It was Jeanne; Jeanne was casting a spell on her. She tried to sit up, to shout at the old woman, to scream for Elen or the guards, but a black silken web seemed to be holding her down. She opened her mouth, but no sound would come. The voice was silent and she heard the curtains being closed gently once more. The old woman had gone. Whatever her spell had been, it was complete. It was too late to fight it. Matilda tried to raise her hand to make the signs against evil and the sign of the cross but her hands were too heavy to raise. Surely, she told herself sleepily, Jeanne could mean her no harm. Slowly her eyelids dropped. Her sleeplessness had gone. Relaxed and at peace, she turned over and was instantly asleep.

She rose at dawn and Elen dressed her in her gown of pale green; she twisted her heavy hair up beneath a simple veil, held in place by a woven fillet. It was too hot for a wimple or barbette, or even a mantle, and she did not send for Jeanne. There had been no sign of the old woman. Richard was already in the bailey surrounded by men and horses and dogs. “I hope you’re coming hawking?” he called cheerfully when he saw her. “The birds are ready.” The sky was limpid and clear. It was going to be another hot day.

She forgot the fears of the night as she gathered up her skirts and ran down the steps to her horse. They were no more to her now than some uneasy nightmare about which, though she remembered having been frightened, she could recall no details.

They rode out of Hay away from the sweeping escarpment of Pen y Beacon, which rose sharp as a knife against the sky, back across the shallow Wye, this time turning north toward the meadows that bounded Clyro Hill; the grooms and austringers with the precious hawks, Richard’s chief falconer-some dozen horsemen altogether-clattered after them along the stony track, and another dozen or so men on foot. In the distance a curlew called.

All at once from a bed of reeds nearby they put up a heron. With an exclamation Richard pulled the hood from the bird on his wrist and tossed her into the air. They reined their horses in and watched as the humped figure of the heron flew low and lumbering for the river, but it was too late. The hawk struck it down within seconds. Excited, Matilda turned and called for her own bird, a small but swift and deadly brown merlin. She grinned at Richard. “I’ll match you kill for kill.” She pulled on the heavy gauntlet and reached down for the bird, feeling the power of its talons as it settled itself, bells jingling, onto the leather on her fist. She gripped the jesses and kicked her pony on.

Gradually the path began to climb, and after a while it plunged into the dry woods that cloaked the southern side of Elfael. Then the trees cleared and the moors rose bare before them. They waited as the beaters with their dogs scattered into the tall bracken. Richard’s horse shifted restlessly beneath him as he turned to Matilda with a smile, soothing the glossy peregrine on his wrist. “We should have some good sport up here. It’s early yet, and not too hot.” He tensed suddenly as the beaters flushed a snipe from a marshy cwm. After slipping the hood from the bird’s head again, Richard flew her and they waited, eyes narrowed against the glare, as she climbed high into the blue, towering above the quarry, ready for the deadly swoop.

His eyes gleamed with excitement as the bird plummeted down. “A kill,” he murmured exultantly under his breath. He urged his horse forward into the breast-high bracken, the winged lure dangling from his fingers.

Matilda followed him, her eyes fixed on his broad shoulders, and she breathed deeply and exultantly in the sharp air, almost laughing out loud as she kicked her pony on and felt the wind lifting her veil, teasing, trying to dislodge her hair.

It was a good morning’s sport. When they drew rein at midday the party was tired and hot. Richard slid from his saddle, then threw the rein to a groom and went to lie facedown on the grass beside a tiny upland brook. He grinned up at her, shaking the water from his eyes. “Come and bathe your face. It’s gloriously cool.”

Their attendants drew back into the shadow of a group of trees with the birds and Matilda, who had been watching as her horse was led away, dropped on her knees beside him and let her fingers play for a moment in the water. The mountain stream was very cold and within minutes her hands were aching with it. He laughed at her. “How improper! My Lady de Braose, paddling in the water like a child!”

She laughed a little guiltily. “I wish I could throw all my clothes off and jump in like a boy.”

“Please do, madam. I should not object.” He grinned shamelessly. She could not be angry with him. “God, Matilda,” he went on, suddenly serious. “Would that you were not de Braose’s wife.” His voice took on a new note that frightened her. She glanced up apprehensively and found him gazing at her, the message in his eyes plain. “Let’s walk in the woods a little way away from this rabble that always follows us. I must talk to you freely. Alone.”

“No!” Her voice was firm, although her heart was beating fast. She wanted so much to throw caution aside and do as he asked. “No, not again, we mustn’t. We mustn’t as long as my husband lives.” She rose, brushing the loose grass from her kirtle. “Please, don’t ever speak of it again. Many things I would dare in this world, but I must not dishonor William again.” She turned toward the trees, biting her lips miserably, wishing he had not spoken, but he had scrambled after her. He seized her hand.

“It is too late to speak of dishonor, Matilda. You are mine in your heart, and in your eyes when you look at me, and in your dreams. I know it.” Careless of who might still be able to see them, he pulled her to him, seeking her mouth with his own, caressing her shoulders gently as he pressed her against him.

She gave a little shudder of longing. “We must not,” she murmured, her lips against his. “Such love will be cursed.”

“Rubbish.” His grip was more insistent now. He bent and, flinging his arm behind her knees, he scooped her off her feet. She gave a little cry of protest, but he ignored it, carrying her down the bank of the brook and wading across the gurgling water to the shelter of some gorse bushes on the far side. There he laid her on the ground. He reached for his belt and unbuckled it, laying his sword aside, then he bent over her once more, covering her face with kisses, his hands feeling for her breasts in the low neckline of her gown. She gasped with pleasure, her arms encircling his neck, drawing him down toward her as she felt him fumbling with her long skirts. All sense of caution was gone. She did not care who saw them as he took her swiftly, bringing her again and again to the giddy climax of excitement. Once, as her back arched against him, her hips moving with his, she opened her eyes, dazzled by the brilliant blue sky above them. For a moment she stiffened as something moved-a shadow against the sun-then the thrusting excitement within her claimed her whole attention once more and she fell helplessly into the tide of her passion.

When at last Richard raised his head he was smiling. “So, my lady, you are mine.” He dropped his head to nuzzle her throat.

She stroked his hair gently, still trembling. “If I am discovered, William will kill me,” she whispered.

“William is in France. He’ll not find out,” he said, sitting up slowly. “No one has noticed our departure. If they have, we’ll say we were scouting for cover later in the day. Come.” He stood up and held out his hand to help her rise. “Let us go and eat, my lady. Love gives a man an appetite!”

They walked slowly toward the clearing. By the trees Matilda halted and beckoned the food baskets forward with an imperious wave of her hand, aware that many eyes had been watching them and had probably missed nothing of their disappearance. Aware too that Richard was looking at her with eyes that made her shiver with desire. Only the slightly heightened color in her cheeks betrayed her inner turmoil as she stood haughtily by as the cloth was laid on the ground.

She glanced at Richard again. Outwardly at least he was calm now. He sat on a rocky outcrop of the bank, his tunic unlaced at the throat, his hand held out carelessly for the wine his page brought him. Catching her eye, suddenly he grinned again and raised the cup in half salute. “To the afternoon’s sport, my lady.”

She turned away abruptly and watched as the austringers settled their frames beneath the shade. The hawks huddled disconsolately on their perches, sleepy in the heat. Around them the grooms sprawled, shading their eyes from the light that pierced the high branches of the Scots pines, chewing on their pasties. The air was heavy with the scent of pine needles and dry grass.

The riders were upon them before anyone knew it. A party of a dozen or so, wearing the light arms of the Welsh, bows strung around their shoulders, their drawn blades glinting in the sun. Their leader drew to a halt before Matilda and Richard, the hooves of his sturdy pony dancing only inches from the edge of the white cloth on the grass. He saluted and sheathed his sword with a grave smile. Behind them their startled attendants stood helpless, guarded by drawn swords.

“ Henpych gwell, arglwyddes. Yd oedd gennwch y hela da? Balch iawn yw dy hebogeu .” The man was swarthy. He had wavy hair and was dressed in glowing purple. “Greetings, lady; has your hunting been good?” he went on in flawless French. “I trust the sport of my mountains does me credit. I see your kill has been substantial.” He nodded in the direction of the birds that lay trussed for carrying beside one of the grooms.

He eyed Matilda slowly, taking in the tall, slim figure with the bronze hair beneath the veil. “My Lady de Braose, if I’m not mistaken? I am Einion ap Einion Clud, Prince of Elfael.” He bowed gravely in the saddle. “I was told you were in residence in Hay. May I ask when your husband is to join you there?” His eyes, green as the sunlight in the moss below the waters of the brook, were suddenly amused.

Matilda colored violently. This man had seen them. She knew it without a doubt. He had seen them make love. A quick glance at Richard showed her that he still sat, unarmed, wine cup in hand, on his rock. The set of his lips and the dangerous gleam in his eyes were the only signs that he was angered by the interruption.

“It was good of you to ride to greet us, Prince Einion,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an iron effort of will. “My husband is at present in service with the king. May I ask what you want of him? Perhaps a message could be sent.” Her face was haughty as she gazed at the man. The amusement in his face had gone. It was replaced by something hard and frightening. She refused to allow the suspicion of terror that gnawed suddenly at the back of her mind to show as stubbornly she held his gaze.

“It is a matter of a small debt, my lady. The kin of Seisyll of Gwent are unavenged. Do not think that the matter, of however little consequence, is forgotten.” His voice was level and light in spite of the irony in his words. “Think about it when you roam about my hills, and bid your men keep watch over their shoulders. I doubt if any of them could willingly lose a hand even in the defense of your gracious person.” He bowed again, mocking. She swallowed, clenching her fists to stop her hands from shaking. The moor was uncannily silent for a moment, then suddenly, close by, came the harsh grating call of a corncrake. Einion’s horse threw up its head and whinnied. Instantly his mood seemed to change. He smiled a warm smile and raised his hand. “Good hunting, my lady,” he murmured, inclining his head. “I trust your sport is as rewarding this afternoon! Farewell. Duw a ro da it! ” He threw back his head and laughed, then with a wave of his arm he called his men to him and they turned as one and galloped up the hill in a cloud of dust and vanished over the skyline, leaving the moorlands empty.

Richard sprang for his sword, which had been resting only feet from his hand against a rock. “My God, I thought we were done for.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’d heard that he had succeeded his father. He’s a firebrand, that young man. Out for trouble. I doubt if Rhys will keep him in check for long. He honors the blood feud, it seems.”

“The galanas , they call it,” Matilda repeated softly. She gazed down into the swiftly running water for a moment. “He saw us, Richard. He saw us making love.”

Richard glanced at her, his face grim. “Come, I’ll take you back. Mount up. We return to Hay at once.” He flung instructions over his shoulder at the frightened huddle of followers who waited beneath the trees. “It appears that you are not included in his particular feud,” he said quietly, eyeing her gravely as a groom ran up with their horses.

“I was there when Seisyll died, but I knew nothing of William’s plans,” she said wearily. “A Welsh boy guided me over the hill to Tretower. He said they had no quarrel with me then, but…” She shivered. “Richard, you heard what he said about the hands. It must have been his men who brought that dreadful burden to Gloucester.”

He shrugged. “As likely one as another. They are all related, these Welsh princes. They all remember the blood feud when it suits them.”

He helped her into the saddle and then swung himself onto his own horse. “But it’s a warning. Peace there may be officially, but never again should you venture into these hills without a full escort. Remember that.”

They rode swiftly and uneasily back across the moor through the bracken and the woods into the village of Clyro and down across the low hill toward the ford, the lazy good humor of the morning completely gone.

The heat haze had again obscured the mountains and a heavy thundery cloud mass was building up beyond the closer hills.

Matilda rode into the outer ward of Hay castle with relief. She slid from her horse, ignoring Richard, who had sprung forward to help her, and ran toward the children’s lodging. A terrible thought had come to her as they rode home. The children. William’s children for Seisyll’s. Would that be a fair exchange?

The elder little boy was playing in the dust with two companions at Jeanne’s feet.

“Is Will all right?” It was many months since she had felt that terrible throat-constricting fear for her eldest son.

“Of course, my lady, why not?” The old woman looked up with a peaceful smile.

Matilda gave a sigh of relief. She might be spared from the galanas as Gwladys, Seisyll’s wife, had been spared. But two of Seisyll’s children had died, and she knew the Welsh would be scrupulous in their revenge.

She heard Richard’s quick step behind her. “What is it? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “They’re fine.” She smiled at him. “A foolish mother’s sudden fears, that is all.” She fell to her knees and hugged Will close to her, feeling the softness of his hair against her mouth.

The little boy wriggled free almost at once and staggered a few steps away from her before sitting down and running the dust once more delightedly through his fingers. Matilda looked up smiling. Her smile faded as she noticed Jeanne’s calculating eye on Richard. The old woman’s face had contracted into a passive mask and Matilda recognized suspicion and hatred in her eyes. Abruptly she remembered the strange events of the night before. She had been inclined to dismiss them that morning as a dream. But it had not been a dream at all. It had been Jeanne. She sighed. If the magic the old woman had woven was a spell to prevent her mistress feeling the pangs of love for this tall, handsome man, it hadn’t worked, she thought sadly. For once, Jeanne, my old friend, your magic is not strong enough to save me.

She picked herself up wearily from the dust, and, shaking out her pale green skirts, she turned and walked toward her own lodgings, leaving Richard standing in the sun.

Behind her she could hear a voice calling suddenly. She stopped and hesitated, wanting to turn, but she was afraid that if she looked at Richard he would follow her inside. The voice was insistent. Someone was running after her. She felt a hand touch her shoulder and heard the soft lilt of a Welsh voice calling her…

“Are you all right? Come on there, wake up, my lovely. Come on.” The voice swam up again out of the shadows then receded. “You’d best go and find a doctor, Alan.” Someone was bending over her. Jo opened her eyes slowly. She was lying on the shingle near the river. With an exclamation of fright she sat up, her head swimming. The afternoon had gone. The sun was setting in a sea of golden cloud and two complete strangers were kneeling beside her at the river’s edge.