Lady of Hay

29

There was a persistent knocking somewhere in the distance. Judy dragged herself up out of the fog of sleep and groped for her bedside clock. It was three-fifteen.

With a groan she sat up and reached for her bathrobe. Staggering slightly, she switched on the bedside lamp and pushed open the door into the studio. It was quite dark in there, the smell of turpentine and oil paint pleasingly overlaid with beeswax. She sniffed appreciatively; smells were always so much stronger and better defined in the darkness.

After snapping on a single spotlight in the corner, she made her way to the door. Behind her the new canvas, nearly finished, stood alone in the center of the floor, and she glanced at it possessively as she passed. Totally absorbed, she had been working on it, in spite of the lack of light, until nearly two.

“Who is it?” she called. She slipped the chain into place. “Stop making such a noise and tell me what you want.”

“It’s me, Sam Franklyn.” The knocking stopped abruptly.

“Do you know what time it is?” Cautiously she opened the door and peered through the crack.

Sam was leaning against the wall. His shirt was unbuttoned and he carried his jacket over his shoulder, his finger hooked through the loop. Slightly bleary-eyed, obviously tired, he was, she realized for the first time with a sudden sense of shock, as handsome in his own way as his brother. With an obvious effort he stepped forward and pushed at the door, swearing violently as the chain caught it and held it fast, bruising his knuckles. “Open up, Judy, for God’s sake. I need to talk to someone.”

“Someone? Anyone?” She stared at him indignantly. “Are you drunk, Sam?” She reached for the light switch by the door and flooded the studio behind her with light as the fluorescent strips clicked on. After pushing the door almost shut, she slipped off the chain.

“No, I’m not drunk.” Sam walked in past her. “But I would like to be. Do you have anything here to create the desired effect?”

Judy raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “If it were up to the Franklyns I wouldn’t have much left for anyone to get drunk on! Anyway, I thought you were a coffee addict.”

He grinned at her, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Coffee up till two perhaps, but then Scotch.”

She shrugged. “One. Then you can go home. I’m sick of you and Nick using this place as a railway station bar! What’s the matter anyway?”

“The matter? Why should anything be the matter?”

Judy found the bottle of Scotch in the kitchen cabinet and brought it back into the studio. “People don’t usually arrive here at three in the morning wanting a drink without something being the matter,” she said curtly. “Is Nick still in Wales?”

Sam shook his head. “They came back at the weekend. Nick is flying to the States tomorrow.” He emptied the glass and put it on the table. “I lie. This morning. He is going this morning.”

“And does he still think he’s King John?” Judy poured herself a small measure and sipped it without enjoyment. She had begun to shiver.

Sam smiled. He sat down and put his elbows on the table. “He was King John.”

“Crap. You’ve been feeding him that stuff deliberately. What I want to know is why? You don’t like your brother, do you, Sam?”

“How perspicacious of you to see it.” Sam picked up his empty glass and thoughtfully held it level with his face, squinting through it sideways.

“And you are setting him up?”

“Possibly. Give me another wee dram and I shall reveal all.”

Judy hesitated. He was not obviously drunk, but he was making her feel uncomfortable. There was something strange-even frightening-about him as he sat motionless at the table, a sense of latent power that could be unleashed at any moment. Still shivering, she reached for an old sweater that was hanging over the back of a wooden chair near the table and knotted it around her neck like a scarf. “Okay. It’s a deal. One drink and you reveal all,” she said.

She watched while he drank, then she sat down, arms folded, and waited.

He put down the glass. “I am a puppeteer, Judith. A Punch and Judy man. A kingmaker. Nicholas is dancing on the end of my string.” He held out his hand, angled above the floor as though he held a puppet there before him, dancing at his feet.

“Even in the States?” she asked dryly.

“In the States, sweet girl, the king who lives in his head will sleep. He will wait until he returns to his native land and then he will strike.”

“Strike?” Judy echoed. She looked at him apprehensively. “What do you mean, strike?”

“Who can tell?” Sam said. “He is a king.” He laughed suddenly, then abruptly he looked back at her. “He seduced my wife, you know.”

“Your wife?” Judy echoed in amazement. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t know you were married.”

“Oh, yes.” He balanced the chair on its two back legs, lolling in it comfortably, his fingertips resting on the edge of the table. “Because he is king he thinks he can do what he likes with other people’s lives. He thinks he can take with impunity. He doesn’t know how wrong he is.”

Judy was watching him nervously. He was like Nick; he could be blind drunk and not show it at all. She eyed the bottle, which she had left on the table less than two feet from his hand. It was still half full.

Standing up, she edged away from him. “I don’t know about you, but I need some coffee, however late it is.”

“Not for me.” He moved slightly in his chair to watch her. “I have just come from Joanna’s apartment,” he went on after a moment. “I walked around for a long time before coming down here.”

“Oh?” She hid her surprise as she went back into the kitchen and switched on the light.

“She is a lying bitch.” He said it reflectively, but without malice. “A beautiful, lying bitch.”

“Do I gather you made a pass at her?” She jumped violently as she turned from the cabinet and found him standing immediately behind her. He had moved after her with extraordinary and silent speed.

He ignored the question. For a moment he stood staring at her, then he smiled again. “You too are a beautiful woman, Judith. One thing my brother has is an impeccable taste in women.” He reached out and touched her arm. “Look at me.”

Startled, she lifted her eyes to his and for a moment she found herself trapped, the clear, almost colorless irises holding her gaze, and she could feel her mind reaching out to meet his, eager for the fusion. For a brief second she remained absolutely still, then with an effort she tore her eyes away. “Oh, no you don’t, Dr. Franklyn! You can’t hypnotize me. I’m immune!” Her eyes narrowed with anger. “I wasn’t good enough for you before, remember? There was no way you wanted to include me in your little happy family of medieval freaks. So, who have you decided I could be, now that you’ve changed your mind? Eleanor of Aquitaine? A serving wench to hitch up my skirts for you and bare my backside whenever you fancy a quick poke, now that Jo has rejected you! You realize you could lose your license for all this? And for what you’re doing to Nick!” She backed away hastily as he took a step toward her. “Don’t you touch me, Sam. I warn you. You’d better go!”

Sam grabbed her wrist. “Oh, come on, Judy.” He pulled her toward him. “Don’t play the shy virgin with me-you know what it’s all about. I need you. Believe me, I need you.”

There was no room for her to pull away from him in the small kitchen, trapped as she was between the worktop and a cabinet, and before she knew what was happening he had seized her mouth, forcing his tongue between her teeth. For a moment she was too shocked to move, then, tearing herself away, leaning backward over the work surface, she gave him a stinging slap across the face. “I’ll give you two minutes to get out of here!” she spluttered furiously. “Then I’m calling the police.”

He laughed. “Just try it.” He staggered very slightly as he moved toward her again.

Sam reached for her, but she had ducked past him, and, dodging his grasp, she ran through the studio and into her bedroom, where she slammed the door and locked it. Breathing in tight, angry gasps, she waited, listening. Sam was coming after her. She heard him knock into something in the studio and flinched. “Please, God, not the painting.” Throwing herself on the bed, she grabbed the phone on the table on the far side of it, punched in 999, then she waited, holding her breath as the handle of her door rattled.

The police were there in four minutes.

When the doorbell rang she unlocked the door cautiously and came out, pulling the belt of her robe more tightly around her as she peered out into the studio. Two uniformed constables were already standing there, staring around, their caps held beneath their arms. Sam had opened the door to them.

“Are you the lady who phoned for assistance?” one of them asked as Judy appeared.

She nodded. “You bet I did. This bastard is as drunk as a lord and I want him out of here.” She pushed her sleeves up to the elbows, unconsciously businesslike. “He tried to force his attentions on me.”

“Right, sir.” One of the policemen turned to Sam. “It sounds as if you’d outstayed your welcome. What about going home and sleeping it off, eh?”

Sam glared at him. “If you think I’m drunk, officer, you are a poor judge of men.”

“I’m not saying you’re drunk, sir,” the constable said evenly. “Just that this lady would like you to go.”

Sam swayed gently.

Judy caught her breath.

“She is a painter of pornographic filth,” he went on thoughtfully. “She should be locked up for producing suggestive muck like this.” He gestured at the broad canvas with its impasto of pale colors.

“Doesn’t look pornographic to me, sir,” the other police officer said slowly. “In fact it looks very pretty.”

“ Pretty! ” Sam’s scorn distracted them from Judy’s indignation. “It is ugly! Ugly and twisted and tortured, like a woman’s mind.” Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed the canvas and wrenched it from the easel. Judy’s scream of anguish did not stop him from bringing it down with a violent crack across his knee. He hurled it into the corner of the studio and laughed, then he moved toward the wall. “More pictures. It hurts, doesn’t it, Judith! It hurts when I destroy them. Are they a part of you, then? Children? Bastard children? Like Matilda gave me?”

The two officers closed on him before he got near the wall.

“That’s enough, sir.”

For a moment Sam hesitated and something that might have been regret showed in his eyes as he stared down at the ruined painting. Then it was gone. “Enough?” he yelled. “Enough! The day I hear my daughter is another man’s bastard! Christ Almighty! ” He tore his arm out of the policeman’s grasp and took a furious swing at the man’s face, splitting his lip so the blood spattered across his chin. “Don’t you tell me that’s enough!” he shouted again as they dived on him. “I haven’t even begun!”

Pete typed the last line of his story, ripped the paper out of the machine, switched it off, and sat back with a contented sigh. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly four a.m.

He picked up his glass and sipped contentedly at a brandy and soda as he read through the piece. It was neat, snappy; not dream-factory stuff like the last one, but still very, very romantic. He grinned maliciously. This would show Bet Gunning what he thought of her claim to exclusive rights! And if it had the side effect of pushing Nick and Jo together once and for all, well and good. That would leave the sexy and informative Miss Curzon for him.

He leaned forward and switched off the desk lamp, then, stretching, he stood up and walked across to the open window. Staring out at the silent street, he took a deep breath of the warm fragrant air. At this time of night when the accursed traffic slept at last you could smell the flowers from Regent’s Park.

The room was very cold. Jo shivered violently, curling up for a moment as tightly as she could to try to find some warmth, and she felt around, her eyes still shut, trying to pull the bedclothes over her again. There were none there. Puzzled, she opened her eyes and stared around.

She was lying on the carpet in her bedroom. For a moment she lay still, her mind a blank, then slowly she sat up. Outside the closed curtains she could hear the clatter of dustbins in the mews and the roar of traffic in the distance from the Cromwell Road. Overhead a broad-bellied jumbo jet was flying low across London, heading for Heathrow. Stiff and aching, she stood up slowly, and, still disoriented, she stood still for a moment. Then, suddenly realizing that she was cold because she had no clothes on, she moved awkwardly to the door and unhooked her bathrobe, wrapping it around her. Her shoulders ached and there was a raw streak of pain across her back.

Wearily she drew back the heavy curtains, letting the daylight flood into the room. Her bed was still made, the covers unrumpled. Her clothes were on the floor and she picked them up. Her dress was torn down the front, ripped almost in half. She stared at it, feeling the first stirrings of panic. She had been in the castle-which castle? She could not remember now, and William had been there-a furiously angry William who had forced her to undress and had struck her with his belt.

Her mouth went dry. She turned and fled into the bathroom, tugging on the light cord and throwing off the bathrobe as she turned to look at her back in the huge mirror. There was an angry bloody welt across it, reaching from her left shoulder blade across and around to her ribs on the other side. She swallowed hard, trying to control the urge to retch, her hands shaking so much she could barely turn on the tap and splash cold water over her face. It was now she needed Carl Bennet’s expert’s advice on hysterical and psychosomatic manifestations! Yesterday she had produced none, but now! She bit back a sob, burying her face in a towel. Now she had produced a beauty!

Painfully she dressed. Then she wandered, still feeling strangely disoriented, to the front of the apartment. The balcony doors were open, the remains of a meal spread on the coffee table. She must have gone into a trance quite suddenly after Nick had left. She picked up the three placemats-then she frowned again. Sam. Sam had been there too. When had he left? He had not gone with Nick-she had made him some coffee-or had she? Frowning, she carried the things through into the kitchen and stared around. All the paraphernalia for making coffee was spread around on the worktop, the jar of instant still open. She screwed the lid on automatically; she would never normally have left a coffee jar unsealed. Had it happened then, while she was busy? It didn’t make sense. Nor did the spoonful of coffee in the bottom of each cup, the kettle unplugged, full, standing on the worktop, the milk-sour-out of the refrigerator. She sighed and plugged in the kettle again, then thoughtfully she made her way to the phone.

She dialed Nick’s apartment.

There was no reply. She glanced at her watch. It was after nine. Nick could already be on his way to the airport and Sam must have gone out. As she slammed down the receiver, she winced at the pain in her shoulder.

After making herself a cup of coffee, she carried it back to the bedroom thoughtfully. At least there would be no baby crying today; he had gone, faded, like the strange discarnate dream he must have been, now that her children were all grown up.

She put the cup down on the mahogany chest of drawers in the corner, then she frowned. Her tape recorder was sitting there beside a pile of magazines and she distinctly remembered putting it in the drawer in the living room the day before, after they had come back from Devonshire Place. She clicked it open and looked down at the unfamiliar tape. Then, puzzled, she slotted it back into position and switched it on. For a moment there was silence, then the haunting, breathy sounds of a flute filled the room.

“ No! ” She clapped her hands to her ears. “No, it’s not possible! It was in the castle, not here! No one could have recorded it! Not from my dream!”

The sound filled the room; the sound the old man had made, sitting in the corner of the bedchamber as William humiliated her; the sound that had gone on without ceasing even when he had raised the leather thong and brought it down across her shoulders. Shaking her head, she desperately tried to block out the sounds, then she grabbed the tape recorder and switched it off, ejecting the cassette and turning it over and over with trembling hands. It wasn’t a commercial recording. On the blank label someone had written perpetuum mobile. Nothing else. There was no clue as to the player or the instrument. Dropping the tape as if it had burned her, she stared around the room, trying to calm herself. Was this some joke of Sam’s? Some stupid trick to make her regress even when she had no wish to? Some way of hypnotizing her without the preliminaries-even without her knowledge? She pushed her hair out of her eyes with both hands and took a deep breath. But surely he wouldn’t do such a thing! Why should he want to? And if he had, why hadn’t he stayed with her and woken her himself? Her eyes fell suddenly on the torn dress in the corner where she had thrown it across the chair, and she felt the breath catch in her throat. “Oh, no,” she whispered out loud. “No, Sam, no! You wanted to help me! Why should you want to hurt me, Sam? Why?”

For a moment she thought the sharp sound of knocking was from inside her head and she winced, putting her hands to her ears, then she realized suddenly that the noise came from the hall. There was someone knocking on her front door. For a moment she couldn’t bring herself to move. Then slowly she turned.

It was Sheila Chandler from upstairs. The woman smiled tightly. “How are you, dear? We haven’t heard the baby lately.”

Jo forced herself to smile back. “The baby has gone,” she said.

“I see. Look, I don’t want always to seem to be complaining”-Sheila looked down sideways as if overcome with embarrassment-“and we never would on a weekend, of course, that would be different, but, well, it is only Wednesday, and it really was so terribly loud-and it was one in the morning!”

Jo swallowed. “I know. I’m terribly sorry. I don’t quite know how it happened.”

Sheila nodded. “I expect your boyfriend had had a bit too much to drink. He doesn’t seem to have been himself lately, does he?” she said pointedly. Her eyes were busy, darting past Jo into the apartment. “Harry said he heard him leave. He must have missed his footing on the stairs, Harry said, because he swore so dreadfully! So it echoed up and down the stairwell. My dear, I know blasphemy doesn’t mean anything to you younger people these days, but really, to swear by Christ’s bones! What in the world is it, dear? Are you all right?”

Jo had grabbed at the door jamb for support as the blood drained from her head and a strange roaring filled her ears. She felt the other woman’s fingers on her elbow, then an arm was around her shoulders as slowly Sheila helped her back inside the apartment and pushed her gently down onto the sofa. She realized Sheila was bending over her, her face full of concern. Her mouth was moving; she was still talking. With an enormous effort Jo tried to understand what she was saying. “Shall I get you some water, dear?” The words seemed to come from a huge distance away. Weakly Jo shook her head.

William! William had been there in the flat with her! Like the baby, other people had heard him. He had shown himself as a real presence.

She sat up with a terrific effort of will. “I am sorry.” She took a deep steadying breath. “I-I saw a doctor yesterday about these dizzy spells. They’re so silly. I’ll-I’ll try to make sure there isn’t any noise in future. I am sorry you were disturbed, only William-” She bit off a hysterical laugh. “William doesn’t understand about apartments. He’s not used to them, you see. In fact, he’s not really used to neighbors at all.”

Sheila stood up and with a little automatic gesture twitched her skirt straight. “I see. He lives in the country, does he? Well, we’ll say no more about it.” She glanced around the room. “Do call upstairs, dear, if you are feeling poorly, won’t you? I’m always in. Would you like me to make you a nice cup of tea now?”

Jo shook her head. “That’s kind but I’ve some coffee, and I was just going to get dressed.” She pulled herself upright. “Once again, I am sorry about the noise.”

Obviously reluctant to leave, Sheila backed slowly toward the hall, but at last she was once more out on the landing and resolutely Jo closed the door behind her.

Slowly she walked back toward the bedroom and picked up her cold cup of coffee. Sipping it with a grimace, she sat down on the end of the bed; she hadn’t even the energy suddenly to go and warm it up.

On the floor something touched her bare foot.

Looking down, she saw, half hidden by the folds of the bedspread, a broad leather belt.

“Look, Jo, I can only take a short break.” Tim tucked the receiver closer to his ear as he looked over his shoulder at the two models on the dais. He sighed. “I tell you what. I’ll meet you at Temple subway at twelve. We’ll go for a quick walk along the Embankment. That really is all the time I can spare today. Are you sure you’re okay, Jo?” he added. She sounded strangely tense and breathless.

“I’m fine, Tim. See you at twelve.”

As he picked up his camera, he turned back to George with a grimace. “I’m going to have to go out in a couple of hours, so let’s get this show on the road. Now,” he said.

Jo was sitting on a bench in the Embankment Gardens near the statue of John Stuart Mill, staring reflectively at the pigeons pecking around her feet. She glanced up with a smile when she saw him. “Have you ever tried to photograph that incredible color in their necks? I’d love an evening dress like that.”

“Try shot silk,” Tim said dryly. He was looking down at her intently. “You look very tired. What’s the matter, Jo?”

“Can we walk up through the Temple?” She stood up and he saw her flinch slightly as she hitched the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. “It’ll help to keep moving.”

“Anything you like.” With a half-regretful glance at the roses in the beds behind them, he fell into step beside her in silence, from time to time glancing at her. He was puzzled and a little apprehensive.

“I had to talk to someone, Tim,” she said at last as they climbed the steps up into Essex Street slowly. “I’m going to give it all up. The book, the articles, the whole idea. I’m not going to follow it through anymore.” She hesitated. “I thought I might fly over to the States.”

“With Nick, you mean?” His voice was carefully neutral as they walked slowly down Devereux Court and turned into the Temple.

“He left this morning-” She stopped, then she began again, fumbling for words. “I can’t cope, Tim. Last night something happened.” She eased her bag on her shoulder uncomfortably as they stood staring at the fountain. The high jet of water glittered in the sunlight, spattering slightly out of the circular base. Where they stood the grass had been walked away, save here and there where a few blades stuck up through the dusty soil, but in the shade of the trees the air smelled cool and fresh from the water. There was a yellow iris in the corner of the pool. She stared at it in silence for a moment.

“Sam came over.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed.

“Some strange things happened, Tim, and they frightened me.” She began walking again and he followed her. “I had a regression, but I don’t think it was spontaneous. And I don’t think I was alone.”

“You think Sam hypnotized you?”

“He’s done it before. I asked him to. But this time I hadn’t, and I wanted him to leave, but I don’t think he did. I think he hypnotized me without my even knowing it. This morning I found-” She bit her lip. “I found a tape of music that I remember from the trance. Flute music, and I don’t think they even had flutes at that period-or at least not that kind of flute. It’s the only anachronistic thing that’s happened. And there was something else-” Again she stopped. This time she couldn’t go on. Glancing at her, Tim saw her face was pale, the skin drawn tight with fatigue and worry. He drove his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his fists clenched.

“What else, Jo?” he said softly.

She shook her head. “Tim, I think Sam may have somehow been directing the whole thing. I don’t think any of it was genuine after all. I think he’s behind it all-even you and Nick. Somehow he’s manipulated us all into believing that it was all real. Do you know, this morning when my nosy neighbor came down to complain about the music in the night, she said she’d heard someone leave the apartment and I thought it was William! I thought somehow he had manifested himself into a physical presence, like a ghost! Then I realized it must have been Sam they heard. It was Sam all the time. Sam still somehow pretending to be William…”

Slowly they had walked on toward the Temple Church, and on impulse Tim pushed open the door and gestured to Jo to go in ahead of him out of the hot brilliant sunlight into the cool of the interior.

“I have a feeling the whole thing is some sort of horrible hoax,” she went on, scarcely noticing where they were going. “I think Sam might even somehow have initiated the whole thing all those years ago when I was a student. None of it is real, Tim.” Her whispered words echoed around the silent church. “And I can’t bear it. I wanted it to have happened.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady the shakiness in her voice. “I know I’m not being objective! I know I’m being stupid and sentimental and I should have my head x-rayed again, but I can’t bring myself to believe it’s a hoax! I don’t want to believe it’s a hoax!”

“It’s not a hoax, Jo,” Tim said softly. “In some ways I wish to God it were. But you are right in one thing. Sam is involved. He came to see me last week and I knew it then. He is part of it, Jo.”

She stared at him. “How?” she breathed.

“There were three of us, Jo, three men who all loved you as Matilda. And who all love you now.”

In the silence that followed they looked up, startled, as a tourist, walking slowly around the church behind them, raised his camera and took a flash picture over Jo’s shoulder. He grinned at them apologetically and moved on.

Jo stared down unseeing at the stone effigy of a knight lying before them on the ground. “Three men?” she echoed in a whisper. “Who?”

Tim shrugged. “The only one I know about is Richard,” he said sadly. “Only Sam and Nick can tell you who they were, if you don’t know yet.”

There was a long silence.

“Sam hates Nick,” Jo said softly. “I never realized it until Mrs. Franklyn told me, then suddenly it was so obvious, in everything he does and everything he says.”

“How well do you know Sam?” Tim put his arm around her shoulder.

Gently Jo moved away from him. “I’ve known him about fifteen years. I like him. He’s fun and he’s kind and he’s very attractive. If Nick hadn’t come along I suppose I might have-” She stopped abruptly. “Oh, Tim-” Her voice shook.

Tim took a deep breath. “Don’t let him hypnotize you again, Jo. Don’t ever trust him.”

“No,” she whispered. “No. But it doesn’t matter now, because it’s all over. Whether it’s real or not, it is over. And I wanted you to know because…because you are…were…involved.”

Tim bowed slightly. “Thanks.” He gave a rueful grin suddenly. “How strange! Do you see where we are, Jo?” He indicated the effigies at their feet.

She stared down.

One of the four stone effigies that lay with their feet toward the east was the carved figure of William Marshall, first Earl of Pembroke. On his left arm he carried a shield, in his right hand a sword. His face, moustached and bland, stared from his mail hood up past them toward the dome of the church, the eyes wide. One foot was broken, the other rested on a small snarling animal. A thin ray of sunlight straying through the clear glass of one of the south windows touched his face.

“We knew him, you and I,” Tim said softly.

For a moment neither of them moved, then Jo turned and, with a little sob, she almost ran from the church.

Tim followed her slowly, closing the door behind him with a clatter that echoed in the silence of the building.

She was standing outside, staring up at the sky. “I am going, Tim,” she said wildly. “I am going to the States. None of this will matter there.”

Tim nodded slowly. “So. When will you leave?”

She shrugged. “I’m seeing Bet late this afternoon. There’s a contract I’ve got to tear up.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Once that is over I’ll sort things out and leave as soon as I can.” She shivered. “It’s cold. Let’s do what you first suggested and walk down along the river.”

The tide was high, the moored ships riding up alongside the river wall, the thick Thames water deeply opaque as it slopped cheerfully against the gray stone. They leaned on the wall and stared over at the river boats chugging up the center of the tide. Tim’s fingers itched suddenly for his camera as he stared south toward the opposite bank. The choppy water, sparkling in the breezy sunlight, threw a rippled haze of refracted light onto the black paintwork of the old Thames barge moored against the green piles.

He took a deep breath. If Jo could throw off the past, surely to God he could too!

Slowly they began to walk west toward Westminster. He glanced at his watch. “I have got to get back by two, Jo,” he said gently. “I’ve got another session starting then.”

She smiled. The wind had pushed the hair back from her face, bringing some color back to her cheeks. “You do think I’m right to go, Tim.” She was almost pleading suddenly.

“One can’t run away from destiny, Jo.” He didn’t look at her. “But then your destiny is tied up with Nick.”

“Is it?” she said in a small voice. “All I know is, I want to be with him.” She walked on, her eyes narrowed in the dazzle of light off the water, watching the gulls wheeling and diving in the wake of a police launch as it churned westward. “The trouble is, I have a feeling that in that previous life of ours he hated me.”

“You do know who he was, then?”

Tim had almost to run to keep up with her as she began to walk faster and faster. Then she stopped dead, staring unseeing toward the Festival Hall across the glittering water.

“But it’s not real, Tim,” she said at last. “That part of it is not real.”

Tim clenched his fists in his pockets as she began walking once more, but he said nothing. It wasn’t until they reached Westminster that she stopped again.

She turned to him at last. “You’ll have to take the subway back if you’re going to make it by two. I’m sorry. I’ve made you late.”

He nodded.

“Tim”-she caught his hands-“Tim, that night in Raglan. I’m glad it happened.”

He smiled at her. “So am I, Jo.” The smile broadened. “I owe destiny one now.”

“Perhaps in our next life…?”

He laughed out loud. “It’s a date.”

He stood watching as she dodged across the road and jumped on a bus as it moved up the road, then he turned toward the steps that led to the station near Westminster Pier. His smile had died as swiftly as it had come.

“No! No! No!” Bet slammed her fist on her desk, making the pens jump up in the air. “No, you can’t tear up that contract! I won’t let you! If you try to wriggle out of this I’ll see your name is mud with every magazine in the country!”

Jo sat tight-lipped in front of her. “Look, for God’s sake, be reasonable!”

“I am being reasonable! I have offered you as much time as you need. I’ve promised you a monumental fee. I’ve offered any research facilities you care to name. I arranged for one of London’s top photographers to go with you to Wales. I will do any goddamn thing you like, Jo, but I want that series! What’s wrong, anyway? Is it Nick? He’s put you up to this, hasn’t he, the bastard! Or is it that you are afraid of him?” Her eyes were probing suddenly. “You didn’t tell me what happened in Wales.”

Jo looked away. “Not much,” she said guardedly. “Look, Bet, please. You won’t get me to change my mind-”

“Then you’ve got to give me a good reason for your decision. Did Nick threaten you?”

Shaking her head, Jo sighed. “On the contrary. He told me he loved me.”

“But! There has to be a but!”

Jo smiled. “You’re right, of course. There are so many buts. Even so, I want to go to New York to be with him.”

Bet groaned. “Jo, do you know what the temperature in New York was yesterday? It was ninety-four degrees with a humidity of ninety percent. Are you serious about going? You’ve only to touch another human being and you both die of nuclear fusion.”

Jo laughed. “Isn’t it fission? If I remember, they’ve got pretty efficient air-conditioning over there-”

“Passion flourishes on the streets,” Bet said darkly. With her customary impatience she stood up and went to her favorite stance by the window. “If it’s not Nick, then something else has happened to frighten you off,” she said over her shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me what?”

“I don’t think so, Bet. Let’s just say that I’m worried about my sometimes tenuous grip on sanity.”

Bet laughed. “Oh, that!”

“Yes, that. I’m not doing it, Bet. And you know you can’t make me. That contract only bound me to exclusivity.”

Bet threw herself back into her chair. She took a deep breath. “Okay, I tell you what. Let’s both go away and think about it, and in the meantime you can do me a favor to put me in a good mood.”

Jo relaxed a little, but even so she eyed Bet suspiciously. It was not like her to surrender so easily. “What favor?”

“I’m planning to run an article about a fellow called Ben Clements and his wife. He is one of these self-sufficiency buffs. The types you were about to try to discredit in your original series. Back to nature, nostalgia-everything modern and chemical and easy is bad. Everything old and muddy and difficult is good. How would you like to go and interview them for me? I want a nice three pages with pictures. But not Tim Heacham this time, please. I can’t afford it.”

“I’ve heard of Clements,” Jo said thoughtfully. “He lives up in the Lake District somewhere, doesn’t he?”

Bet looked vague. “I heard he’s moved. I’ll call up the file if you’re interested.”

Jo smiled. “Okay. If I can do it straight away I will, just to put you in that good mood. Then I’ll go to New York.”

Bet leaned forward and pressed the buzzer on her desk. “Sue? Get the Ben Clements file, would you?” She glanced over her glasses at Jo. “You won’t back out of this?”

“I won’t back out of it.” Jo stood up. “You’ve got to try to understand about the other thing, Bet. It’s not just a series of articles. It’s me , and I can’t be objective about what’s happening anymore.”

The door opened and Bet’s secretary appeared with a manila folder. She grinned at Jo as she put it on Bet’s desk.

Bet flipped open the file. In it were one or two cuttings, some notes, and a photograph. She passed the photo to Jo. “There he is, a nice old boy by the look of him.”

Jo studied the face before her. Ben Clements looked as if he were in his early sixties, his hair and beard white, his face tanned and wrinkled, netted with a thousand laughter lines.

“I gather he has a young wife, and hers is the angle we want, of course. Here”-Bet thrust the file at her-“stick that in your bag and work on it when you get home. I am scheduling it for the December issue, so I’ll want it by the sixteenth at the latest. Obviously I don’t want you to make it too summery-but you needn’t waffle on about Father Christmas on the farm. I’ve enough references to seasonal spirit in the rest of the issue. I’m trusting you, Jo. Normally I’d get one of our own feature writers on this.”

Jo took the file. “Don’t worry, Bet. You’ve made me feel so guilty already that I won’t let you down. I promise. I wouldn’t mind a trip up north actually.”

“He’s moved, I told you. But you’ll find all the details in there.” She looked at her watch. “God, I’ve got a meeting downstairs in three minutes. Good luck with the article.”

Jo didn’t open the file until she was home. She threw herself down on the sofa and, kicking off her sandals, put her feet on the coffee table before taking out Ben Clements’s photo and studying it closely. As Bet had said, he looked a nice old boy.

She tipped the contents of the file out onto her lap and looked through it. His address and phone number were on a card by themselves, the last item to come to hand. Jo picked up the card and looked at it, then she put it down. For a moment she stared into space, then slowly she began to laugh. “You are seven kinds of no-good clever scheming cow, Bet Gunning,” she said out loud to the empty room. “But it won’t change my mind!”

The card read:

Pen y Garth

Mynydd

Near Brecon

The headline in the morning paper in huge black letters was Bad King John Good for Jo. Judy stared at it in stunned silence as she stood on the curb, not seeing the traffic as it streamed within inches of her along the Fulham Road. Pete had done it! He had printed what she had told him, word for word!

Advertising executive Nick Franklyn can comfort himself after his latest big disappointment in the world of business. In the wake of live-in girlfriend Jo Clifford’s revelations about her previous life as a medieval femme fatale, Nick, not to be outdone, had himself hypnotized by his psychiatrist brother. Imagine his surprise when he found out that in his previous life he had been, not Jo’s lover, nor her husband, but her king!

Judy folded the paper abruptly and shoved it in the litter bin on the lamppost beside her. She felt slightly sick. Turning, she began to walk slowly up the road, pushing her hands deep into the pockets of her peacock-blue jeans. Pete had promised he would not tell anyone who had given him the story, but would he keep his word? She bit her lip nervously. Nick was in the States, but someone was bound to tell him about the article. Jo would see it too. And Sam. She shivered.

Sam had spent the rest of the night he had been arrested in jail. He had appeared before the magistrates on Wednesday morning contrite and very sober, accompanied by his impeccable character and his professional qualifications, to say nothing of Nick’s solicitor, Alistair Laver. The outcome had been a heavy fine, and he was bound over to keep the peace. When he rang Judy later to apologize she hung up on him.

She bought a pint of milk and some bread and cheese, and on second thoughts another copy of the paper, then she made her way back to the studio.

Pete answered on the second ring. “Hi! Have you seen the article?”

Judy grimaced. “It’s a bit sensationalized, isn’t it?”

Pete laughed. “I thought you wanted it shouted from the rooftops. That was the biggest print I could persuade the editor to use without being considered vulgar! Has the victim screamed yet?”

“Pete! You’re looking for trouble!”

“No. No. I was just doing a lady a favor.”

Judy sighed. “I almost wish I hadn’t told you now. It seems a cheap thing to do. Nick’s in the States. Jo is the only one who is likely to see it.”

Pete chuckled. “And the redoubtable Ms. Gunning. I can’t wait for her to spot it. I tell you what, sweetie. Why don’t you and I have lunch? We’ll split a bottle of bubbly and plan your next revelation. At this rate I shall have to pay you a retainer. What do you say? Joe Allen’s at one?”

“Okay. Thanks, Pete, I’d like that.” She hesitated suddenly. “But supposing someone sees us? They might guess it was me that told you!”

“Deny it.” Pete was smiling to himself as he stirred milk into his cereal. “Deny everything, Judy. I always do. I’ll see you at one o’clock!”

Bet rang Jo at four minutes past eight. “Have you seen what that unprincipled bastard Pete Leveson has done now?”

Jo sat down, pulling the phone onto her knee. “That’s a good one, coming from you, Bet! What has he done?”

“He’s printed the sequel to your story.”

Jo froze. “The sequel?”

“About Nick. Dear God! No wonder I thought there was something odd about him last time I saw him. And to think I nearly-” She shut up abruptly.

“You nearly what, Bet?” Jo said sharply.

“Nothing, Sweetie.” Bet swiftly turned on the charm. “Jo, love, you must have known all this for ages. You might have told me! It explains his crazy behavior, for God’s sake. And it makes the story so much more exciting. And to have had a declaration of love from him too! You must go through with it, Jo. You must! You do see that, don’t you?”

“Bet-” The muscles in her stomach were clenching nervously as Jo sat forward on the edge of her seat. “What exactly does Pete say?”

“Listen. I’ll read it to you.” Bet read the article aloud in a fast monotone. She paused expectantly when she had finished. “Well?”

For a moment Jo said nothing. Her hands were sweating. She could feel the receiver slipping as she held it to her ear. The room was spinning slowly around her.

“Jo? Jo, are you there?” Bet’s insistent voice cut slowly through the pulsing in her head.

Jo managed to speak at last. “Where did he get the story from?”

“He doesn’t say. Quote “Close friend of Nick’s” unquote. He’s timed it well with Nick abroad. It is true, I suppose?”

“I don’t know,” Jo said. “He never told me he’d been regressed. I asked him but he avoided telling me. It’s…it’s grotesque.” Her voice sank to a whisper.

Her suspicions, her worst secret fears-they were true, then, and now the whole world knew. She suddenly felt sick.

“Are you going to call him?”

“No.”

“But you must! You’ve got to ask him if it’s true.”

“Over the phone? When he’s three and a half thousand miles away? If it’s true and if he had wanted me to know, he’d have told me.” Jo took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Leave it, Bet. I can’t cope with all this. Not now. Please, leave it alone-”

“But, Jo-”

“Bet, you told me Nick wanted to kill me. It wasn’t Nick. It was John. It was John who ordered Matilda’s death.”

There was a long silence. At the other end of the phone Bet’s eyes had begun to gleam. “Jo,” she began cautiously.

“No,” Jo said. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She changed the subject abruptly. “I called your Mr. Clements in Brecon.”

“Oh, good.” Bet contained her excitement about Nick with an effort. “When are you going to interview him?”

“On Tuesday. I’ll drive down on Monday afternoon and stay with Mrs. Griffiths again. That’ll give me a week to write and polish the article for you.”

“I knew you’d do it, Jo. And then, if while you’re there anything should happen-”

“It won’t.” Jo’s voice was repressive. “Believe me, Bet, it won’t. Especially now.” Her last words were barely audible.

Bet bit her lip, trying to keep her voice casual. “When was Nick planning to come back?”

“He didn’t know. It depended on how things were going in New York.”

“And you’ll still be going out there when you’ve finished the article?”

There was a long silence. “I don’t know, Bet,” Jo said at last. “I’ll have to think about it now.”

The lane was steep and very rutted when Jo finally arrived at Pen y Garth. Nervously she put the MG into first and crawled up it, waiting to hear the hard-crusted earth ripping out the bottom of the car. At the top of the hill the pitch debouched suddenly onto a mountainside ablaze with gorse and ended in front of a low, whitewashed farmhouse. After drawing up with relief, Jo climbed out and reached for her bag. The familiar smell of mountain grass and wild thyme and bracken filled her lungs, mixed with the acid sweetness of the pale-pink roses that clung and tumbled around the sentry-box porch at the front of the house. Above the white walls there was an uneven roof of thick Welsh slates, green with lichen and speckled with yellow stonecrop.

Jo stared around. The farm faced east toward the Wye Valley. She could see for miles.

“You like our view?” A figure had appeared in the doorway.

Jo smiled. “It’s quite breathtaking.”

Ben Clements laughed. “In every sense, if you’d walked up from the road. Come in.”

She followed him into the single large room that made up the ground floor of the farmhouse. Half kitchen, half living room, the stone floor was scattered with brightly colored rag rugs and littered with toys, the walls crammed with books and pictures.

Jo looked around, startled by the color and the untidiness of it all. “I didn’t realize you had small children!” she hazarded as she avoided a wooden train set.

He threw back his head and laughed. “One of the penalties of growing old is insanity in our family! I got married at the age of fifty-seven and, unequal to the horrors of family planning, found myself pregnant, as you might say. Have a drink. I never ask anyone up here before twelve and then I don’t have all this silly social nonsense of poncing about with coffee and what not. You can have Scotch or beer.”

Jo grinned. She could feel she was going to like this man. “Scotch. Please.”

He nodded approval. “I hope you didn’t want to see Ann and the kids particularly. She’s taken them to Hereford for the day to see some cousin or other who’s paying a flying visit.”

Jo felt her heart sink. “It would have been nice. I’m writing for a woman’s magazine. So the woman’s angle is important.”

“Ah.” He grimaced. “I’ve screwed things up, haven’t I? Conceited male thought it was me you would want to see. My usual interrogators are nearly always men, my dear. Forgive me.” He handed her half a tumbler of Scotch, undiluted.

Jo laughed. “I wanted to see you both. Perhaps I could come back when Mrs. Clements is at home and interview her then, and interview you now?”

It would mean staying longer in Hay. Was that what she wanted really? Pushing away the thought, Jo concentrated on the gentle face of the man in front of her. He was still smiling. “Fair enough. So, do you want to see the farm at all?”

Jo reached into her bag for her notebook and camera. She nodded. “I’m going to take some snaps if I may, then we’ll send down a proper photographer if mine aren’t good enough!”

“Of course they’ll be good enough.” He led the way to the door. “You mustn’t be defeatest, my dear. That won’t do at all.” He turned. “Ann told me you were a formidable lady, whose articles are nearly always very scathing. That true?”

“Often. Does it worry you?”

“Not a bit!” He ducked under the low doorway and preceded her around the farmhouse to the back, where a stone wall surrounded a large vegetable garden. “I’ve had everything thrown at me by the farming guys who think I’m crazy. Luckily more and more people are seeing it my way now, and I think people of the organic persuasion are slowly winning through.”

Quickly and methodically he showed Jo around the smallholding, supervising her notes and taking most of her photographs for her. Then he led the way back inside and refilled her glass.

“Ann’s left a cold lunch for us. Shall we eat outside?” He glanced at her. “I amuse you, don’t I?”

Jo smiled. “No. I was just thinking you might as well have given me duplicated notes at the door. You are too used to giving these interviews.”

“Okay, I stand reprimanded. Now, you interview me.” He carried the plates out to a table outside the back door where the blazing sun was partially deflected from them by a trellis hung with honeysuckle. “Ask me all the questions I haven’t answered yet.”

Jo sat down. “Does your wife get lonely up here?”

“Shouldn’t you ask her that?” His face lit with humor.

“I shall. I just wondered what you thought she felt about it.”

“Well.” He took a huge mouthful of food. “Ann is a remarkable woman. She has enormous inner resources. Of course, I am presupposing her genuine love of the country, but there is more to it than that. She loves the mountains and the rivers and the loneliness. She loves the soil, the joy of making things grow, just as I do. She likes the people, the villages, the towns-we’re not antisocial just because we live up here alone, but neither do we miss people when we don’t see them for a while. Like me, she came to Wales as a foreigner. I’m a north countryman; she, God help her, is American! But we have both been completely absorbed by this country with its people and its traditions, its history. These hills may look lonely to you, but they are full of life and dreams and memories. Fascinating. What is it? What have I said?” His shrewd blue eyes had noticed Jo’s sudden tenseness.

She forced a smile. “Nothing. Go on.”

“You’re a skeptic? A townie?”

“No.” Jo met his gaze. “I’ve lived up here too.”

“Ah. I wondered why they’d sent you particularly. So you understand what I meant. Whereabouts did you live?”

Jo hesitated. Now she had said the words she could hardly retract them, and besides, she had an overwhelming urge to confide in him. After glancing across at his face briefly, she looked away across the falling mountainside toward the misty distance and took a deep breath.

“You’ll probably think I am mad. It was a long time ago. In a previous existence.” She paused, waiting for his laughter.

He said nothing, however, watching her intently, and after a minute she went on.

She told him everything. When she fell silent at last he did not speak for several minutes, gazing silently out across the panoramic view.

“That is a truly amazing story,” he said at last. “Truly amazing. I had heard of Moll Walbee, of course. Who hasn’t around here? But to have entered so completely into her life, that is extraordinary.”

“You believe me, then?”

“I believe it has happened to you, yes. As for the explanation-” He shrugged. “I think I must seek for a more mundane explanation than reincarnation.” He smiled enigmatically. “To do with the relativity of time perhaps. I would suggest that you have an area of your brain particularly sensitive to what one might call the echo of time. You have tuned in, as you might say, to Matilda’s wavelength and can, when in a state of receptiveness, ‘listen in.’” He put his head on one side. “How does that theory sound to you?”

Jo grinned. She leaned forward and pulled her plate toward her again, helping herself to a slice of Ann Clements’s crumbling stone-ground bread. “To be honest, my brain has given up asking how and why. The last few times it happened I wanted to fight it. I don’t want it to happen again. And I think I know how to stop it now. One must not let one’s brain be distracted into blankness. It is only receptive when it’s idling, like a car engine out of gear.”

“Fascinating,” Ben said again. “You know, you must talk to Ann about this. She was a psychology major at UCLA and past life recall was a particular interest of hers. She wrote an article about it for one of your sister magazines some time ago. Your editor might even have seen it.”

Jo stared at him. Then she gave a wry smile. “I think she may indeed,” she said. “It would have been almost too great a coincidence, my coming here otherwise, I suppose.” She sighed. “But I am glad I’m here now. Talking about it has helped. Perhaps Bet has done me a favor after all.”

He glanced at her under his heavy eyebrows. “I’m not surprised that it has worried you, though. It would scare the pants off me!” He reached for some bread and applied a rich lump of cheese to the crust, then, munching thoughtfully, he sat back in his chair. “But from what you have said it’s not your journeys into the past that have upset you and put you off repeating the exercise. It is the involvement of other people in the present. If you don’t mind my saying so, it sounds to me as if you’ve allowed yourself to be too much used by people who seem to have points they all want to prove at your expense, from your journalist colleagues to your boyfriend.”

“But they are all involved-”

“Perhaps.” He reached forward and touched her hand. “It’s a nice theory, but don’t be too ready to believe what others say, my dear. Look in your own heart for the answer. That is the only place you’ll find the truth. Now, let me get you some cheese. This is our own cream cheese from Aphrodite and her daughters, or there is a curd cheese from Polyphema, the one-eyed goat.” He twinkled at her mischievously. “You must keep your brain fully alert while you are here, Joanna. I am not sure I could cope with a visitation from a baron’s lady as well as afternoon milking!”