Lady of Hay

26

A visitor was announced as Matilda stood running her eyes down a list of accounts. She was alarmed and astonished to see the king’s brother, whom she thought to be at Gloucester with William. John was bare-headed, his color heightened from the gallop through the chilly morning.

“How is the gracious Lady Matilda this fine day?” the prince inquired with a mocking bow.

“I am honored that you should come to Hay, Your Highness. I am well.” Her voice was guarded and her hands, clasped before her, were unconsciously plaiting her girdle. She saw his eyes running down the line of her body, ever insolent, the pupils hooded by lazy eyelids.

“Good. I’ve come, my lady, from Hereford. No doubt you are aware that my brother, the king, commanded me to demand homage from the princes in Wales.” He stopped. “But of course, your daughter is married to one of them, is she not?” He smiled coolly. “Have you news of her, perhaps?”

Matilda paled and looked away. Since her worst nightmares had been realized and Gruffyd had joined his father in revolt against King Richard, there had been no news of Tilda.

“Nothing, Your Highness,” she replied firmly.

John frowned, as if suddenly aware of her distress. “She is safe, I am sure, Lady Matilda,” he said more gently. “I shall, if you wish, send messengers to inquire.” He smiled amiably as she turned to face him, her eyes alive with hope. “But for now, my lady, I had in mind to visit one of the castles in your husband’s holding, Dinas, somewhere to the west in the Black Mountains.” John took a cup of wine handed to him by a servant and drank it in a gulp. “I hear too that it has a magic spring, blessed with powers of healing.”

Matilda thought rapidly. “The building there is finished, I believe. I haven’t been there yet, my lord, and I have heard the spring has certain wonderful properties. Surely you do not need such magic, Your Highness?” She couldn’t resist the last question, but immediately regretted it, as his good humor vanished and his face became surly.

“I am interested in such places.” He was silent for a moment, the empty goblet dangling from his fingers, his eyes fixed on the wall somewhere behind her. “You have heard, I suppose,” he went on suddenly, “that my brother, the king, refuses to come and meet Lord Rhys at Oxford? I pacify the Welsh princes for him, they agree not to fight while the king is away on his crusade, and I get Rhys to come with me to pay homage to Richard. But Richard is too high and mighty to come halfway to meet him at Oxford as our father would have done.” He held out his goblet for more wine. “Lord Rhys, with all the exquisite touchiness of the Welsh, has decided now that he has been mortally insulted and he refuses to meet my brother or his envoys at all.” John drew his hand impatiently across his brow. “God’s teeth, you can’t say I haven’t tried.” He was silent again for a moment, then, his black mood passing as swiftly as it had come, he grinned at her again. “So you see, I have given myself a few hours to rid myself of my frustrations, madam.”

Matilda tried to force a smile. “I am sure I can find men to guide you into the mountains, my lord, and an escort.”

“I have an escort.” He gestured impatiently. “I need a guide and I should like you to accompany me, Lady Matilda. It is unthinkable that you have not yet visited the castle yourself. It is a duty I am sure Sir William would expect of his wife. He sends you greetings, by the way. He chose to visit Wigmore on his return to his estates. He will be back soon enough, no doubt.” He threw himself into a chair and rested his ankle casually across his knee, his mocking look once more upon her. “I hear you ride with the courage of a man, madam, so I am sure you wouldn’t refuse to come with me on such a small adventure.”

He threw his challenge so lightly she had risen to it without even realizing, the memory of his boyhood insults about her horsemanship suddenly surfacing in her mind. “Of course! It’s not more than a dozen miles…” Too late she sensed danger, and his next words filled her with foreboding.

“A small party, well mounted, could do it in an hour or so, no doubt. Just you and I, madam. The guide and my men. This will be no trip for a bevy of lady’s maids.”

She glanced at him warily, but he was intent on tracing the chased pattern of the goblet with his thumbnail and refused to meet her eye.

“Find fresh mounts for Prince John and his followers,” she commanded suddenly, her mind made up. The waiting servant bowed and turned toward the door. “Saddle my chestnut and tell Ifor the huntsman to be there to guide us to Castel Dinas. We leave at once, then we will be back by dark. Does that satisfy you, my lord?”

He jumped to his feet, grinning like a boy, as he swept up his gauntlets and adjusted the sword belt at his waist. “Indeed it does, my lady.”

The wind freshened as they rode out of Hay toward the west. Ifor, a small curly-headed figure on his raw-boned cob, trotted ahead, a bow slung across his shoulders, while behind followed the four knights who had accompanied John from Hereford. Matilda felt a momentary pang of anxiety when she saw the escort was so small but her pride would not let her press more men on the prince. If he thought four men sufficient for the king’s brother, then so be it.

They rode swiftly, following the narrow but well-marked track that wound around the foot of the hill toward the little trading borough of Talgarth, the horses’ hooves kicking up great clods of the soft red earth. John rode in silence, his mouth set, but she thought she saw a gleam of triumph in his eyes as he turned once to look at her. She whipped her horse to keep up with him. “Ifor is a good man, Your Highness. He will take us by the most direct route. Are you familiar with Brycheiniog?”

“I am not.” He glanced up at the thickly wooded shoulder of hillside to their left. “But I thought I would improve my acquaintance with the de Braose possessions.” Was that innuendo in his voice and in the sidelong glance he sent her? She felt another tremor of warning.

The road was rough and muddy from the recent rain, and the ride took longer than she expected. Parts of the track had been washed away, and Ifor had to lead them away from the smoother ways into the thick woods, where they bent low over their horses’ necks, avoiding the sweeping branches of the trees. Although they had left Hay before noon, the light was already beginning to fail as they trotted into Talgarth. Again she felt the warning prickle under her skin. How were they to return by nightfall if the road was so slow?

She noticed John draw his dark cloak over his hauberk, concealing the intricate details of his brooch and belt. Curious eyes followed them down the main street of the town, and she was glad they had Ifor with them, calling out friendly greetings in Welsh as they passed toward the bridge over the angry red waters of the swift-flowing Enig Brook. The prince’s exasperated report of the failure of the negotiations with Lord Rhys had filled her, once she had overcome the accustomed pang of worry about Tilda, with a sense of foreboding. She knew, as perhaps John did not, just how quickly the vengeance of the Welsh could make itself felt in the valleys of the wild country round them.

The horses climbed slowly out of Talgarth away from the square peel tower that guarded the bridge. Before them lay the mountains. Matilda cursed herself for allowing them to come at all. It was growing late and the slowness of the ride meant that, with the heavy clouds hanging so low over the peaks, it was growing dark, and this was no place to be benighted. Shivering, she pulled her cloak more closely around her shoulders and kicked her mount close up behind John’s. The escort closed tightly about them and they rode in silence save for the occasional clink of harness or the click of hoof on stone. Matilda could see John’s hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked about him. At last he too seemed to be growing nervous. Before them the mynydd-dir rose in a high barrier, misty and black. Behind, the broad Wye Valley was lost to sight behind the band of woods.

They rode hard, not sparing the horses on the rugged path which followed the wandering of the tumbling Rhian Goll, running angry and muddy red with flood waters from the mountains. A cold drizzle was beginning to fall. To their left the great triangular hill of Mynydd Troed rose in a massive shoulder in front of the clouds.

Castel Dinas stood sentinel over the pass. It was an awesome, lonely place. Matilda could feel her horse beginning to tremble, perhaps sensing her own fear. Its ears pressed flat on its head, its eyes staring, it followed its companions as their guides wheeled off the track and turned up a steep turf ramp that led to the walls of the castle itself.

“Open up there,” John shouted into the gale. “Lady de Braose demands entry.” But there was no answer; the gatehouse was deserted.

The horses had come to a rearing halt outside the north entrance. On either side a deep dry ditch encircled the high escarpments of the castle. Before them the gatehouses flanked a strong nail-studded gate. The builders had obeyed William’s orders well so far.

John forced his frightened horse near enough to the gate to allow him to beat on it with the hilt of his sword. “Ho there! Entry!” he shouted, but the wind whipped the words from his lips. Behind them the clouds were flying up the pass, gray, thick, hiding trees, mountains, perhaps men…From the corner of her eye Matilda thought she saw something move below, on the side of the hill. The palms of her hands were sweating with fear and the horse, sensing it, plunged suddenly sideways fighting the bit, poised to bolt back the way it had come.

Then at last a small gleam of light showed in one of the high slit windows of a gatehouse.

“Open up, you lazy clods.” John put every ounce of strength he had left into his shout. “Lady de Braose wants entry to her castle.”

At last they heard the bars being slid back and the great slabs of oak swung open to reveal half a dozen men, drawn swords in their hands, streaming torches held above their heads for light. Piles of dressed stone and mortar, weird white shapes in the gloom, lay all around in the shelter of the bailey’s walls. At the far side the lower part of the new keep showed pale and square, obviously unfinished, in the darkness.

“Who is the constable here?” demanded Matilda. “Why was there no lookout posted? Prince John and I have ridden far and fast. We do not expect to be kept waiting outside like serfs.” Her fear had turned to fury. Gripping her whip, she wheeled the horse. “Shut the gates now, you oafs, before half the countryside wanders in at your invitation. Where is the captain of the guard?”

Four of the men ran to push the gates shut and slid the bars across into the sockets. One of the soldiers came forward and dropped on one knee. “The constable is sick, like many in the garrison, my lady. Forgive him. He did not know anyone was coming.” The man hesitated and looked quickly over his shoulder at his companions. “It is hard to keep a full lookout up here.”

Matilda was not to be appeased. “Hard! Hard to keep a lookout! Then post some more men, sir. I don’t care if you have to carry them up, but do it. You could be attacked and overrun and have the enemy sitting before your fire before you knew he was at the gate.”

“May I ask the nature of the illness that strikes down so many of this garrison?” John’s lazy voice broke in suddenly.

“I don’t…I don’t know, sir. ’Tis very common…”

“They’re all dead drunk, Your Highness.” One of the other soldiers stepped forward suddenly, his face lit by the torchlight showing a scar from eyebrow to chin. “That’s the illness of Castel Dinas. If you’d been an hour or so later I’d have been down with it myself, and probably my fine companions as well. There’s not a man will stay sober the night through here and keep his sanity.”

John looked at Matilda and raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Perhaps we should join them in their merrymaking, my lady. God’s teeth! It doesn’t look as though there’ll be much service here tonight. You, fellow.” He nudged the kneeling man with his foot. “Show Lady de Braose and myself the splendors of your new tower. We need food and wine and warmth.”

The man scrambled up, and bowing, ran ahead of them toward the keep. It was Spartan indeed. A hearth had been built into one wall in the new fashion but it lay empty. Instead a pile of logs burned low in the middle of the floor, the smoke straying through the room and escaping at last through the doorway from which they had entered. Around it were the snoring sleeping figures of a dozen or so men. Goblets and jars of wine had fallen to the floor, and the room stank of stale wine and vomit.

Matilda pulled her cloak to her nose in disgust. “Get them out,” she ordered, her mouth set.

“But, my lady-” The man looked at her aghast.

“Get them out.” She had raised her voice only a little. “Is the hall of my lord and husband going to be used as a pigsty? Get them out and swill the floor. Now .” She shouted the last word, stamping her foot. The soldier, with one look at her blazing eyes and set chin, bowed and ran to the sleeping forms, setting about them with the flat of his sword.

John looked around and then strode to the staircase in the wall. “Perhaps there is a solar that would be more habitable,” he commented sourly, and ran up, his spurs ringing on the stone. There was a moment’s silence and then she heard him call. “It’s clean and dry here. We’ll make this our headquarters. Fire and lights!” The last words were bellowed in a voice meant to be obeyed.

Her exhaustion and fear and the anger and shame that followed it when she found the condition of the castle had preoccupied her so much that she had for a moment not fully realized her predicament. But now it became obvious there was no chatelaine here, no maids; whatever womenfolk there were attached to the garrison, washerwomen or followers, must, she supposed, return to some local village or encampment at night. There was no sign of them. She paused at the foot of the stairway, the stones still dusty from cutting, and glanced up at the racing shadows thrown on the stark walls by the torch as the man ran up ahead of her. Up there John was waiting. His maneuver, if maneuver it was, of getting her alone to Dinas had worked better than he could have hoped. Her heart thumping with fear, she began to climb the stairs.

With the help of several of the least drunken of the garrison, the solar was made more habitable. There were only planks on boxes provided by the carpenter to sit on, but hay was brought to warm the floor and piles of furs and fleeces, and the wine was good. Cold mutton and rye bread proved the only food, but there was plenty of it, eaten from tin plates on the plank bench.

“I can understand why these men have to get drunk,” John commented, elbows on knees, as he sat chewing a mutton bone. “Sweet Lord, but this is a wild place. What made you think it was complete?” He gave her a mocking smile as he raised his goblet to his lips, and she felt herself blushing.

“We were informed it was finished and garrisoned, sir. The accounts called for no more money for stone.” She sipped her wine, grateful for the warmth it spread through her veins.

“The stone’s all here, I can see that. It’s stacked in the bailey. But the castle’s less than half built.” John threw a bit of gristle into the fire. “No chapel, no stores, no inner wall, no other building save the keep. Only the foundations. I saw them in the dark.”

Matilda shrugged. “Sir William will be furious when he finds out. And as for them all being drunk, they should all be flogged. They shall all be flogged.”

John raised an eyebrow. He was drinking hard, the heavy wine bringing a flush of color to his cheekbones. “You’d enjoy that, would you, madam? We’ll see what we can arrange for you. I intend to hold an inquiry myself as soon as it’s light and they’ve slept it off sufficiently to stand. Don’t worry. They’ll be punished.” He stood up abruptly and hurled the bone across the floor. “Now. For our sleeping arrangements.”

Matilda clenched her fists. “I shall not sleep tonight, my lord. I couldn’t.” She could hardly order the king’s son to go and sleep below in the hall amid the stench and filth. She could only rely on his sense of chivalry. “Our escort will attend you. I shall sit here by the fire.” She stood up and, turning her back to him determinedly, held out her hands to the flames.

“Oh, come, Matilda, that’s hardly friendly.” He was behind her and she felt his hands on her shoulders. “The warmest thing would be for us to lie together, surely.” His fingers moved forward and down until they closed over her breasts.

She caught her breath. “That would not be right, Your Highness.” She gasped desperately. He was turning her to face him, his lips reaching for hers, cutting off her protest as he pulled her against him.

His body was young, lean and strong, and in spite of her instant repugnance as he pressed her against him, Matilda felt her own flesh respond, yearning suddenly for the confident, clean touch of a young man after so long with only William to maul her. In spite of herself she hesitated, yielding slightly, her body torn with longing.

John laughed triumphantly. “So, we make progress at last, my lady. Come.” He caught her hand, pulling her toward the pile of rugs and furs that had been heaped on the floor in the corner. “We shall find this journey was, after all, not wasted-”

“No!” Matilda tore herself away from him. “I think, sire, you cannot know what you’re suggesting.” She spoke as repressively as she could, hoping he could not feel her violent trembling as he caught her arms and pulled her against him again. He was immensely strong. His hands gripped her cruelly tight and his face was only inches now from hers. “I am the wife of Sir William de Braose, not a common whore,” she hissed, her momentary weakness gone. She flung his hands from her arms and stood rigid, her eyes flaming. “And I think, sir, you forget your new wife. Perhaps you should reserve your attentions for her and getting that son you were so anxious for.”

There was a long silence. Then John gave a little laugh. She did not dare to look at his face as, suddenly terrified by the audacity of what she had said, she backed away from him. He was breathing fast, his eyes narrowed, his fist clenched on the hilt of his dagger as he watched her, and she felt her bones dissolve in an icy trickle of terror as, slowly, he began to unbuckle his belt. He laid his dagger aside, on the improvised table, then he turned to her again. “You may be no whore yet, my lady,” he snarled, “though some would beg to question your innocence when they speak of your friendship with Lord de Clare. Oh, yes!” He laughed again. “You color and look away. So modest and so shy, madam. Yet your tongue betrays you for a shrew and, by God’s bones, I’ll make a whore of you as well! Sir William would not begrudge me a night with his lady, I’ll warrant. He follows my star closely. You should do the same. When I’m king I shall remember my friends.” He moved purposefully toward her. “And I shall also remember my enemies, madam.”

She tried to dodge away around the blocks of stone toward the archway that led to the spiral stairs and to escape, but John was there, barring her way.

“Which are you, Matilda?” he whispered, breathing heavily. “My friend or my enemy?”

“Neither, Your Highness. I am the wife of one of your brother Richard’s most loyal subjects-” She broke off, biting her lip, seeing the blind fury in his face as she mentioned the king’s name, cursing herself for her tactlessness. “And we shall be yours too, sire, should you succeed him,” she rushed on, backing away again. “Your friends-your loyal friends-” She gave a little cry as he lunged forward and caught her arm and pushed her, stumbling, toward the pile of blankets.

He threw her down and stood for a moment over her, staring down in cold triumph. “Then prove your loyalty, madam,” he breathed.

“No!” She tried to crawl away, dragging herself across the piled furs, hampered by her heavy skirts. “Your Highness, please! Think of Isabella. You break your vows of knighthood, sire-”

Her anguished cry turned to a scream as, with an oath, he threw himself on her, pushing her violently over onto her back, one hand damped over her mouth as she tried to scream again, the other groping for her throat.

“Silence, woman!” he hissed. “Do you want the entire garrison here as spectators to our lust?”

She was struggling desperately against him, afraid now only of the pitiless fingers tightening around her throat as she fought for breath, clawing frantically at his hands, hearing nothing but the roaring in her ears as her struggles grew weaker. Then everything grew dark and she lay still.

She felt herself moved, her kirtle stripped from her, her gown unlaced and pulled from her body, and she was lying naked on the furs before the fire, struggling for breath through a swollen half-closed throat. Through the darkness she saw his face above her, his eyes intense, blue as the unfathomable sky, his hair and beard gold in the flickering light of the flames. Then all went black once more.

His lips took hers, his tongue moistening her dry mouth, his hands crushing her breasts before moving on to caress her body and push demandingly between her thighs. She did not struggle, scarcely conscious anymore of what he did to her, seeing the arched vaults of the roof, smoky and dark above his shoulders, spin and recede into the darkness, flicker in the firelight, and grow dark once more. He took her again and again, seemingly unconcerned whether she lived or died, venting his fury and his lust on her acquiescent body, then he pulled her roughly over onto her face and threw himself on her again. Her single agonized scream, dragged in pain and humiliation from her bruised throat as he drove deep inside her, was lost in the rancid sheep’s wool of the fleece that filled her mouth and nose.

It was a long time before she realized that he had at last moved away from her. Her bruised body, spreadeagled over the untidy heap of blankets, refused for a moment to respond as she tried to ease her position, wanting to curl up against the cold that hit her now the sweating body of the man left her uncovered. With a groan she rolled onto her side and managed to drag the fleece over her, then she lay still, her eyes still closed, her body a mass of aching bruises.

John had pulled on his tunic and mantle. Buckling on his belt with its jeweled dagger, he turned to her at last and stood looking down at her for several moments. Then he smiled. “If you will excuse me, Lady Matilda,” he said softly, “I will go and see that the horses are comfortable and fed.” She heard him cross the room and run down the steps. He did not come back.

She did not move for a long time, then, driven by cold as the fire died, she dragged herself to her feet and, still dizzy and confused, groped wearily for her clothes before taking wood from the basket and dropping it on the cooling embers.

For ages she stood rigid by the fire as it blazed up again, then at last, weary beyond endurance, she sank to her knees and, wrapping herself in her cloak, rested her head on her arms on one of the upturned boxes.

She slept fitfully, half listening for John’s returning footsteps, but they did not come. Toward dawn she fell more deeply asleep for a while and then awoke abruptly when somewhere just outside the window of the keep a cock crowed. She was painfully stiff and very cold. The fire had died to white ashes and through the badly improvised shutters in the windows the cold morning light stretched across the floor. A pool of dull light showed in the hearth beneath the broad chimney.

Climbing numbly to her feet, Matilda crossed to the window and pulled down the shutter. A mist swam outside, lapping the mountains, condensing like rain on the sill of the embrasure. She shivered.

The great hall had been cleaned. A fire had been lit in the fireplace and a makeshift table was already standing on the dais. At it sat John, finishing his breakfast. He half rose when she appeared, giving her a mocking bow, then he continued eating. His eyes were cold and uncompromising.

Matilda stood for a moment watching him, fighting her revulsion and terror as she pulled the hood of her cloak more closely around her bruised throat.

“Come, join me for breakfast, my lady,” he called, not looking up. “You must be hungry after so disturbed a night.” He beckoned a servant from the shadows and indicated his empty goblet.

Summoning every shred of dignity to her aid, Matilda walked toward him across the floor. By the dais she dropped him a haughty curtsy. The castle seemed full of people this morning as, reluctantly, she took her place beside the prince. A shame-faced servant brought her bread and mulled wine, while another scattered fresh rushes on the floor. From somewhere in the bailey came the sound of hammering. John looked up again.

“Where is the castellan?” he snapped to the man with the rushes. “Now that Lady de Braose is here, bring him at once-let us hear the reasons for the state of this place.”

The servant bowed and ran out, returning almost at once with a tall man dressed in his hauberk and fully armed. He fell on his knees before Matilda. John, seemingly uninterested, continued eating.

Matilda swallowed painfully. “Well,” she said with an effort, “what have you to say?”

The man’s face was gray. “I am Bernard, my lady. Forgive us.” He clasped his hands pleadingly. “This castle is a terrible place. No man can stay here and keep sane. I’ve begged for a transfer, but no one comes to relieve us.” He glanced at the prince. “My lord, have pity.”

John snorted. “Pity. When you can’t take a little discomfort!”

“It’s not the discomfort, sir, no indeed.” The man leaned forward earnestly.

“What, then?” John looked scornful. “Have the Welsh prince’s men been frightening you, then?” He put on a singsong voice full of sarcasm and scorn.

“No, sir. We’re not afraid of the Welsh.” Bernard was indignant. “No, my lady, it’s something else.” He dropped his eyes suddenly and shifted his weight uncomfortably from one knee to the other.

“What?” John demanded unsympathetically.

“It’s the old ones of the castle, Your Highness.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “They walk the ramparts beside our men. They tramp the ditch, they ride on the hill. They are everywhere in the dark.” He crossed himself fervently and they saw him finger the amulet that hung at his throat.

Matilda glanced at John, shivering in spite of herself.

“What nonsense is this you talk?” he asked. “What old ones of the castle? There’s no one in these hills but shepherds and warring Welsh tribes.”

Beside him, Matilda’s fingers were pressing white on the goblet in her hand. A little hot wine slopped on her wrist.

“They’re shadows, Your Highness. Castel Dinas was theirs a thousand years ago. Maybe more. Before Our Lord was born this land belonged to them. We find their belongings in the foundations. The ditches and ramparts were dug by them. Their gods still rule, my lord. Christ is not welcome here. The walls of the chapel fall each time we begin to build…” He was speaking quickly now, his hands pressed together, beads of sweat standing out on his brow.

John stood up and leaned toward him across the table. “God’s teeth! Are you telling me that this garrison is reduced to total terror by a pack of ghosts?” His voice was icy.

The man lowered his eyes. “They’re real, my lord. I’ve seen them. Spirits, maybe, from the old days, but they’re real. My lady, please release us. The only way is to abandon the castle to them.” He turned to Matilda at last, his hands pressed together in supplication.

“How dare you suggest such a thing?” John’s voice cut through the man’s pleading like a whiplash. “The punishment for desertion is known to you, no doubt. I think you had better consider well before you suggest abandoning a strategic point such as this.”

“That is enough.” Matilda rose painfully to her feet and tried to clear her throat. “You may go for now,” she said wearily. “There will be no punishments until messages have been sent to Sir William. You will see to it meanwhile that the building goes on and that there is no more drunkenness.”

The man scrambled to his feet and, bowing low, fled from the hall.

John turned to her. “What, no floggings, Lady Matilda? Do you feel that they’re justified being lazy good-for-nothing hounds because they can tell a good ghost story?”

She colored. “Perhaps they’re right, my lord,” she said defiantly. “There is something evil about this place.”

“Apart from me, you mean?” His voice was heavy as her clear green eyes sought his and held his stare for a moment. He looked away first.

“It’s lonely here certainly,” he said at last, rising to his feet, goblet in hand still, and walking over toward the hearth, “and it’s eerie in all this mist.”

She watched him as he stood looking down into the glowing ash. His handsome face was pale and drawn, and there was an almost feline tautness about his muscles as he flexed his fingers slowly around the stem of the earthenware cup. She shuddered violently.

“The mountains are often eerie to the sensitive, Your Highness,” she said softly. “I believe the men here are right. The old gods still walk these hills. This place is theirs and they will protect their own.”

He swung around and gave her a searching look. “And are you their own too, my lady?” he said mockingly. “I think not. These gods or ghosts or men did not leap to your defense, as I recall, last night.”

Ignoring the impotent fury that showed for an instant in her eyes, he took another thoughtful sip from the goblet. “No, this is rubbish. I’m prepared to swear that a few floggings and perhaps a hanging or two would ensure that no more gods or ghosts were ever seen here. You cross yourself, my lady? Can it be you are afraid of ghosts?” His eyes glittered once more. “Surely not, with me here to protect you even if your gods will not!” He took a step toward her.

Matilda felt the blood drain from her face. “You are no protection, my lord prince,” she said. “God help the people of this country if ever you should become its king!”

She turned her back on him sharply, trying to steady her shaking hands.

Behind her there was a moment’s silence, then she felt his fingers lightly touch her shoulders. “You presume too far, my lady,” he said softly in her ear.

“As you did, Your Highness,” she whispered. “God forgive you.”

His hands fell away, but for a moment he did not move. “We were meant for each other, Matilda,” he said quietly. “You cannot fight what God intended.”

“ God! ” She faced him abruptly. “You think God intended you to take me as you did last night?”

He gave a half smile. “He was perhaps the source more of the inspiration than the method, madam. The result is the same. You are mine.”

For a moment she stared at him in silence, her eyes huge as they held his, searching for some trace of gentleness behind the stark words. There was none.

He held out his hand suddenly and, taking hers, raised it to his lips. “You have to accept the inevitable, my lady,” he said softly. “The stars themselves have spelled out our destinies-”

“No!” She pulled her hand away from him violently. “No, I don’t believe you.”

He smiled faintly. “As you wish, but it will be the harder lesson for you to learn. Come, let us inspect the holy well that graces this unholy place. Then perhaps we can return to the Hay. Your hospitality on this occasion does not overwhelm me, madam!”

Brushing past her, he pulled his cloak from the stool where he had flung it and ran down the steps into the misty cold sunshine. For a moment she did not move, overcome with fear and disgust, then reluctantly she forced herself to follow him outside.

The cold windswept valley was swathed in feeble sunshine as the heavy clouds streamed past, while all around them the mountains rose like evil presences, brooding, guarding Dinas and its secrets. She found she was shivering violently once more.

Dinas Well lay outside the north gate, a small bubbling spring surrounded by sharp rushes where a low wall of loose stone had been raised to protect it. There were signs that offerings had been left to the guardians of the well, whoever they might be, and garlands of wilted michaelmas daisies decorated the stone.

For a moment John stood staring down at it, then slowly he pulled off his heavy mantle and began to unlace the russet cotte beneath it, baring his breast to the teeth of the gale. Matilda caught her breath in horror. On his breast was an angry suppurating wound in the shape of a crescent moon.

He knelt, hesitating for a moment at the edge of the bubbling spring, then, clenching his teeth, he bent toward it and began to splash the icy mountain water over the wound. It was as she watched that somewhere the memory stirred at the back of her mind of Jeanne’s voice talking about the holy well of Dinas. It was this water alone that could heal the incurable wounds procured by witchcraft; and this man was a descendant of Melusine-the daughter of the devil. Crossing herself, Matilda turned quickly away, her fear and revulsion doubled. It was a long time before she dared turn back as for the last time he bent and scooped some water into the palm of his hand and splashed it over his throat. And when she did turn she saw him toss a gold coin into the opaque green waters of the pool.

At last he rose to his feet, the water still glistening on his neck. “Let’s see what magic this can perform,” he said as he shrugged his mantle back on. “Perhaps it will redeem my good opinion of this Godforsaken place! Shall we call the horses and get out of here? I feel we’ve done all we can. I’ve seen the splendors of your defenses.” He smiled amiably enough, but she flinched at the double-edged cut to his meaning. “Come,” he went on. “We’ve seen the well. I wish to return to Hay. The day is several hours old, and I don’t relish the thought of another night here.”

There had been no storm in London. Above the high dome of the Reading Room at the British Museum the sky was relentlessly blue and harsh. Sam Franklyn stretched and sat back in his seat, staring thoughtfully upward. Making up his mind abruptly, he began to shut the books in front of him. He closed his slim notebook and twisted around to tuck it into the pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, then he stood up. He was smiling as he handed in the armful of textbooks at the circular central counter.

He made his way out of the museum through the crowds of visitors, pushed out of the swing doors, and ran down the broad flight of steps. The heat hit him like a hammer as he headed for the shade of the plane trees in Great Russell Street and began to walk briskly southwest, threading his way purposefully toward Long Acre.

Tim was peering through the viewfinder of his camera at the brilliantly lit dais in his studio. Nearby George was altering the positioning of the spots trained on a young man holding the leash of a tall, elegantly bored Dalmatian.

Sam stood in the doorway, surveying the scene over the shoulder of Tim’s other assistant, Caroline, who had run down the long flight of stairs in answer to his ring. His gaze rested on Tim and he frowned.

The young man on the dais stretched ostentatiously. “I’ll have to take the dog out for a crap soon, Tim, old son. Hurry it up a bit, for Christ’s sake.”

Tim ignored him. He waved George a few feet to the left and bent once more over the camera.

Sam slid into a chair at the back of the studio and sat watching the scene. It was half an hour before Tim had completed the session to his satisfaction and the young man and his dog dispatched out into the street. Caroline whispered at last in Tim’s ear and he turned, seeing Sam for the first time as he sat in the shadows.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Franklyn, I didn’t realize there was anyone here.”

They surveyed one another warily as George and Caroline plunged the dais into darkness and slowly began to tidy away the props. Tim moved toward Sam slowly. He was suddenly feeling very tired. “What can I do for you?”

Sam stood up and extended a hand with a relaxed smile. “I wanted to talk to you about Joanna. You were with her in Wales, I gather.”

Tim headed for the kitchen. He found two cans of beer in the refrigerator and handed one to Sam. “Jo is an old friend and a colleague of mine, Dr. Franklyn. I don’t talk about my friends behind their backs.”

A look of veiled amusement crossed Sam’s face for a split second. Almost instantly the expression was bland once more. “All I wanted to know was whether she seemed well and happy. As you may know, I have been helping her with her problems.”

“She told me,” Tim said shortly.

“So. How was she?” Sam’s eyes were suddenly probing as they sought and held the other man’s.

Tim ripped the ring off his can of beer and flicked it into the corner. He looked away. “She was all right.”

“Did she have any regressions while you were there?”

“That was what we went for.”

“Of course. How many did she have?”

Tim walked to the side of the studio and pulled at the lever that slid the blinds back from the huge skylights, flooding the whole area with sunlight. “Two or three.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Did they distress her?”

“The whole thing distresses her, Dr. Franklyn. The fact that she could not at first regress under self-hypnosis frightened her, then when it did happen, the experience itself frightened her. Waking up and having to leave that other world behind to come back to this one frightens her too.”

“So. She was frightened. But she displayed no physical symptoms afterward. Bruises? Cuts, aches and pains that were inexplicable?”

Tim thought for a moment. “No.”

“Do you have the photographs you took of her?”

Tim frowned. “I don’t know that I should show them to you without her permission.”

“I’m her doctor, man. I’m in charge of her case.”

“Her case?” Tim glanced at him sharply. “I wasn’t aware that Jo was a case.”

“Tim?” George appeared behind them. “Shall I start on the film?” He glanced curiously at Sam, who ignored him.

Tim nodded impatiently. “Let Caroline help you.” He waited as the two of them collected the cameras and left the studio, then he turned back to Sam. “Is she still in Wales?” he asked.

Sam nodded. “My brother has gone to her.”

A wave of near physical pain swept over Tim and he turned away sharply, trying to hide his face, conscious that Sam was watching him closely. He had a feeling that this man could read his mind.

“I’ll get the photos,” he said. He moved hastily across the studio and, unlocking a cabinet, produced a portfolio. He laid it on a large table and snapped on the harsh overhead light that hung low over the table, then pushed the folio toward Sam.

Slowly Sam opened it. His face was impassive as he turned over each successive photo. The pictures of scenery, the castles, the mountains, he barely glanced at. His attention was fixed solely on Jo.

Tim walked away miserably. He threw the empty beer can into a bin and went back into the kitchen for another. His guest, he noticed, had barely touched his own. The kitchen seemed suddenly very stark and bare; the white fittings had a surrealist glow in the slanting light from the sun filled studio. It was like a morgue.

He stood in the doorway drinking his beer fast, watching Sam’s face, which was floodlit by the working lights. Like a Rembrandt painting, he thought suddenly, the one of the doctors leaning over the table staring at the corpse. He shuddered violently at the analogy. “She said it made her feel naked,” he said, joining Sam by the table. “Me, photographing her like that.”

Sam did not look up. “Her expression is certainly very revealing,” he said guardedly. “Photographs can tell you so much about the subject.” He paused. “And about the photographer.” He glanced at Tim and Tim stepped abruptly backward, shocked at the open dislike, even hatred, he saw in the other man’s eyes.

For a moment they held one another’s gaze, then Sam looked away. He laughed. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.” He closed the portfolio and pushed it aside. “Are these all you have?”

“That’s all.” Tim’s voice was very dry. He did not allow his eyes to wander toward the portrait on the easel beneath its cover.

Sam folded his arms, straightening. “I knew there was someone else,” he said softly. “I didn’t know who it was until now. Have you been regressed?”

Tim did not reply for a moment. His instinct told him to be very careful. Sam was dangerous. He wished, as so often these days, that his head was clearer. “Yes,” he said at last. “I’ve been regressed.”

Sam nodded slowly. “So,” he said, almost to himself. “Now there are three.”

“Three?” Tim echoed.

Sam smiled. “The three men who loved the Lady Matilda.”

Tim stared at him. “And you are one of the three,” he said thoughtfully after a moment.

“Me?” Sam said. “Let us say I’m an observer. Just an observer.” He picked up his beer can and raised it to his lips. “For now, anyway.”