Lady of Hay

13

May I have the Maclean file, please?” Nick’s assistant’s voice was becoming bored. “For Jim, if it isn’t too much trouble!” Behind her the office door swung to and fro in the draft from the open window.

Nick focused on her suddenly. “Sorry, Jane. What did you say?”

“The Maclean file, Nick. I’ll try to get Jo again, shall I?” Jane sighed exaggeratedly. She was a tall, willowy girl whose high cheekbones and upper class accent were at variance with the three parallel streaks of iridescent orange, pink, and green in her short-cropped hair. “Though why we go on trying when she is obviously out, I don’t know.”

“Don’t bother!” Nick slammed his pen down on the desk. He bent to rummage for the file and threw it across to her. “Jim has remembered that I’m supposed to be going to Paris next Wednesday?”

“He’s remembered.” Jane put on her calming voice. It infuriated Nick.

“Good. Then from this moment I can leave the office in your hands, can I?”

“Why, where are you going until Wednesday?” Jane held the file clasped to her chest like a shield.

“Tomorrow the printers, then lunch with a friend, then I said I’d look in at Carters on my way to Hampshire.” He smiled. “Then the blessed weekend. Then Monday and Tuesday I’m in Scotland.” He closed his briefcase with a snap and picked it up. “And now I’m playing hooky for the rest of the afternoon. So if anyone should want me you can tell them to try again in ten days.”

Each time Nick had phoned her Jo had put the phone down. The last time she slammed the receiver down she switched off her typewriter and walked slowly into the bathroom. After turning on the light, she gathered her long hair up from her neck and held it on top of her head. Then she studied her throat. There still wasn’t a mark on it.

“So. That proves he did not touch me!” she said out loud. “If anyone really had tried to strangle me the bruises would have been there for days. It was a dream. I was delirious. I was mad! It wasn’t Nick, so why am I afraid of him?”

All she had to do was see him. Even his anger was better than this limbo without him, and once he was there in the flesh, and she reminded herself what he really looked like, surely this strange terror would go. The memory of those eerie, piercing eyes kept floating out of her subconscious, haunting her as she walked around the apartment. And they were not even Nick’s eyes. She found she was shivering again as she stared at the half-typed sheet of paper in her typewriter. On impulse she leaned over and picked up the phone to dial Nick’s office.

The phone rang four times before Jane picked it up.

“Hi, it’s Jo. Can I speak to Nick?” Jo sipped her juice, feeling suddenly as if a great weight had been lifted off the top of her head.

“Sorry. You’ve just missed him.” Jane sounded a little too cheerful.

“When will he be back?” Jo put down her glass and began to pluck gently at the curled cord of the phone.

“Hold on. I’ll check.” There was a moment’s silence. “He’ll be back on the twelfth.”

“The twelfth,” Jo repeated. She sat bolt upright. “Where has he gone?”

“Scotland on Monday and Tuesday, then back and straight over to France on Wednesday morning for a week.”

“And today and tomorrow?” Jo could feel her voice turning prickly.

“Out. Sorry, I don’t know where exactly.”

Jo put down the phone thoughtfully. Then she picked it up again and dialed Judy Curzon.

“Listen, Judy, I need to see Nick. Will you give him a message please? Tell him I’m seeing Carl Bennet again tomorrow afternoon. That’s Friday-at three. Tell him I’m going to find out what really happened on Sunday, come hell or high water, and if he wants to know he’d better be there. Have you got that?”

There was a long silence on the other end. “I’m not a message service,” Judy replied eventually. Her tone was frosty. “I don’t give a damn who you’re going to see tomorrow afternoon, and obviously Nick doesn’t either or you wouldn’t have to call him here, would you!”

Jo sat looking at the phone for several minutes after Judy hung up, then she smiled. “Hoist with your own petard, Miss Clifford. You walked right into that one!”

“ Pidwch cael ofon .” The voice spoke to Matilda again as she stood once more outside the moon-silvered walls of Abergavenny. Then it tried in words she understood. “Do not be afraid, my lady. I am your friend.” His French was halting but dimly she recognized before her the dark Welsh boy who had brought her food the night before. But he was no longer afraid; it was her turn for terror.

She did not speak. She felt the hot wetness on her face and she felt him brush the tears away with a gentle hand.

“You did not know then?” he stammered. “You did not know what was planned at the feast?”

Wordlessly she shook her head.

“It is not safe for you here, whatever.” The boy spoke earnestly. “My people will seek revenge for the massacre. You must go back into your castle.”

Taking her elbow, he tried to turn her back but she found her feet scrabbling agonizingly on the sharp stones of the river path as she fought against him on the slippery ground.

“No, no. I can’t go back there. I’ll never go back there, never.” She broke from him and ran a few steps farther on, toward the moon. Before it lay the mountains.

“Where will you go then?” The boy caught up with her in three strides and stood in front of her again.

“I don’t know. I don’t care.” She looked around desperately.

“I will take you to Tretower.” The boy spoke, suddenly making up his mind. “You will be safe there.” He took her firmly by the hand and strode out along the river. In a daze, oblivious of her torn and bleeding feet, she followed him.

She never knew how long she stumbled on behind him. At one point her strength gave way and she sank onto the ground, unable to go farther along the steep rough bank of the river. The water ran mockingly pure and silver near her as though no blood had ever stained it. Bending, she scooped some of it, icy and clean, into her mouth, and then she lay back on the wet grass, her eyes closed.

The boy came back for her and coaxed and pleaded, but she was unable to rise. Her back pained spasmodically. She realized suddenly that she was going to lose her baby and she was glad.

The boy tugged at her hand, begging her to go with him, continually glancing over his shoulder, obviously worried that they were being followed. Then suddenly he seemed to give up the struggle and disappeared as quickly and silently as he had come.

He has left me to die, she thought, but she was past feeling any fear. She tried to recite the Paternoster, but the words would not come in the right order and she gave up. How would God ever find his way again to this country? she wondered bleakly, and she closed her eyes to shut out the silver trail of the moon in the water.

But the boy returned with a shaggy mountain pony and somehow he helped her onto it. They forded a narrow river, the pony picking its way sure-footed through water shadowed now by stark overhanging branches entangled with clinging ivy. They passed the dark shape of Crickhowell Castle in the night, but she did not see it, and the boy, apart from detouring slightly to avoid it, did not acknowledge its presence. Somewhere once a fox screamed and Matilda clutched the pony’s mane as it shied. They left the river and traveled through black unfriendly forest and over hills where the country was silent except for the occasional lonely hoot of an owl and the wind in the branches of the trees. Closing her eyes, she rode in a daze of pain and fatigue, not caring where she went or what he intended doing with her. Beneath her the pony, confident even in the dark, followed the boy at a steady pace, slowly climbing through the misty rain.

Then she opened her weary eyes in the cold dawn and saw the keep of Tretower at last in the distance. She knew dimly that they must have been seen and been followed by the forest people, but for some reason she had been spared. The boy who held her bridle had been her talisman. He turned as they neared the tower and she studied his face in the colorless light.

He smiled up at her, a sad, fond smile. Then he pointed. “Go,” he said. “There will be your friends. Go with God and be safe, meistress .” He released her bridle and he was gone, gliding back into the woods on silent feet.

The pony stumbled on some rocks as she guided it as fast as she dared along the winding track toward the castle in the broad valley. She fixed her eye on the tower and refused to look to left or right as her mount carried her at a shambling trot along the path. To her surprise the drawbridge was down and she rode across unchallenged. Had everyone gone mad? Did they not know that the warring Welsh must be everywhere?

There was a veil of blood before her eyes as she sat astride her mount in the courtyard of the castle. She didn’t dare try to slip from the saddle. The beast hung its head, its flanks heaving, and nuzzled a blown wisp of hay. There appeared to be no one there.

Then, slowly, as though from a great distance, people came. She heard voices and saw lights and she recognized the clanking sound of a bridge being raised behind her. Hands pulled at her dress. People took the reins, gripped her arms, tried to ease her off the horse. The air was full of the sound of someone sobbing and dimly she realized it was her own voice she could hear.

“Do not distress yourself, my dear.” Bennet sat down beside Jo and gently put his hand on hers. His foot touched the small microphone on the floor and it fell over with a rattle. He did not notice. He was staring down at her hand, which was ice-cold and covered in chilblains.

“Is she all right?” Sarah came over and knelt beside them.

After a moment’s hesitation he nodded. “Go on, my lady. What happened next?”

Jo withdrew her hand gently from his, rubbing it painfully as she stared past him into the room, her eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, far away.

“I stayed there at Tretower with the Picards,” she said slowly. “They put me to bed and cared for me and my pains stopped. I was not to lose the baby after all. William sent after me. I was too ill to be moved then, so Nell came with my baggage from Abergavenny. But William did not come.”

Christmas came and was over. Thick snows fell and melted into the swift-running Rhian Goll. Ice locked its water, thawed, and it flowed again.

Slowly, almost unnoticeably, her belly began to swell. The child inside her was doubly cursed by its father’s name and by the scene she had witnessed that terrible night, and she still wanted to lose it. But it grew and seemed to flourish. She wanted Jeanne, her old nurse, Jeanne who would have understood the need to be rid of the baby and who would have found for her the juniper berries, pennyroyal, and tansy that, with the right magic words, would produce a miscarriage. Matilda shuddered and crossed herself every time she thought about it, for she knew what she contemplated was mortal sin, but what else could she do when the child within her was blighted?

But blighted or not, the baby grew and her own health improved. Nell tended her as best she could, and with her a new maid, Elen, one of Dame Picard’s women, an orphaned Welsh girl with a plump cheery face and an infectious smile who made Matilda laugh and stilled for a while with her stories and songs the deep restlessness within her. There was no word from William.

As the winter weather began to ease its iron grip Matilda longed more and more to leave Tretower. She wanted to travel on to Brecknock where at least she would be her own mistress in her husband’s castle. But it was nearly Easter before the weather broke at last and the first chilly primroses began to force their way from the iron ground into the fitful sunshine. Matilda had long given up the idea of taking a horse and riding alone to Brecknock, trusting on speed and surprise to get her there safely. Such tomboy escapades were beyond her now, but she was still resolved to go. Anxiously she watched the trees bending low before the March gales, willing the winds to dry the earth and make the roads passable. For that she had to wait until the first day of April. It was a beautiful bright breezy day, the trees tossing their buds, the river peaceful, the sky a pure azure.

She dressed herself quietly before the women with whom she shared the chamber were awake and slipped silently down into the great hall, where she knew John Picard would be taking some ale and bread before going out with his dogs.

He gazed at her appalled when she faced him with her cool demand for a litter and an escort to Brecknock, his eyes staring from beneath his heavy eyebrows, his mouth slightly open.

Then he turned to his wife, who had appeared at the door of the stillroom, an apron tied over her gown.

“She wants to leave us. She wants to go to Brecknock.”

“And will go, by your leave, John Picard.” Matilda smiled coolly down at him.

She turned to her hostess. “My mind is made up. I can’t impose on your kindness any longer.”

“But the danger!” Anne Picard stepped down into the hall and came to take her hands. “My dear, think of the dangers. And in your condition.”

Matilda flinched away and drew her mantle around her shoulders as though trying to conceal her thickened body. “There can be no danger if you will lend me a litter and an escort,” she repeated stubbornly.

She stood looking down at the couple, a tall, lonely girl, her face and hands grown thin, her eyes weary but resolute, and both knew that they would have to do as she asked.

John Picard insisted that he should ride with her to Brecknock, and Anne pressed on her the services of two of her own women, Margaret and Welsh Elen.

“There will be hardly any household over there, beyond the garrison,” she pointed out. “It’s no place for a woman. Oh, please change your mind. Stay, at least till the babe is born.” She gazed earnestly at Matilda’s face, unable to hide her anxiety, but the girl was adamant. She refused even Anne’s pleas that she postpone her start for a day or two to give them time to get ready. “No preparations are needed,” she announced firmly, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. “Nell and Margaret and Elen can pack my boxes in the time it takes to harness the horses.” She was not prepared even to remove her cloak again while she waited. The restlessness of the past weeks had suddenly become unbearable.

She did feel a pang of sorrow as she hugged Anne before climbing into the waiting litter, but as she settled herself beneath the fur blankets excitement began to take over again. The women who were to go with her mounted their ponies, and John Picard, blowing a kiss toward his wife as she stood beneath the gateway, led the small cavalcade across the bridge.

Only a matter of minutes after they set out Matilda had begun to regret her impetuosity. She had not foreseen the horrors of traveling over the mountain tracks in a litter. She swayed and bumped inside the uncomfortable vehicle, unable to rest or balance, not knowing which way the next lurch would go.

John Picard rode close at her side, his hauberk over his linen shirt beneath a warm mantle, his helmet in place, his eyes ever searching the budding thickets and bramble scrub along the road. The day was bright and it seemed quiet, but he was certain that from the moment they clattered across the lowered drawbridge they were being watched.

Secretly he was very relieved to be seeing Matilda away from Tretower at last. He was genuinely concerned for her safety, but he had daily been expecting trouble from the Welshmen in the hills since the paths and tracks had reopened. They must know that the wife of de Braose was there and her life surely would be a fitting revenge for the death of their prince and his sons.

The castle of Brecknock was not prepared for its lady. The small garrison in the outer bailey lived in wooden lean-tos and small stone outbuildings within the outer wall. The private chambers inside the keep-the great hall and the solar above it-were bare.

Standing in the drafty, damp upper chamber, Matilda felt herself ready to weep. Never before had she arrived somewhere before it had been ready for occupation. Turning, she swept back down the newel stair into the main hall and confronted the constable of the castle.

“The place seems hardly prepared,” she said to him with a forced smile. “However, have your men light a fire so at least we can be warm. What is your name, sir?”

“Sir Robert Mortimer, my lady.” He gave a slight bow, turning to relay her orders to the men hovering in the doorway.

“Where is the chatelaine? Why isn’t she here to greet me?”

Sir Robert seemed embarrassed. “My wife died eighteen months back, my lady. The village women have done their best…”

“I’m sorry.” Matilda bit back the rude words that had been on the tip of her tongue. “Where, then, is the bailiff? I want him here by sundown.”

With energy born of despair she set about directing the inhabitants of the castle to work. Torches blazed in the sconces, the fire burned up at last, and wooden shutters were found and fastened over the narrow windows. John Picard lounged on a bench in the great hall, holding out his hands to the fire. The lack of comfort made no difference to him but he watched with admiration the figure of his hostess, still swathed in her mantle against the cold, as she moved from place to place directing operations. He saw her pause and look toward the door as a group of new figures appeared from the dusk outside.

“Clerics,” he muttered to himself. He had no time for the church but he was pleased to see them for her sake.

Matilda gazed at the senior among the black-robed figures and smiled uncertainly. He was a grave, thin man in his late twenties, dressed with restrained sumptuousness, his mantle trimmed with miniver that showed up the plain black habit of the monk at his side. His eyes, ranging around the hall, took in every detail of the place and of the lady standing in front of him. Then he bowed courteously and held out his hand in the gesture of benediction.

“I am Gerald, madam, Archdeacon of Brecknock.” He spoke softly and yet with great presence.

Matilda bowed her head to accept his blessing.

“I was with Prior John when I heard of your plight, my lady,” he went on. “Some of the lay brothers are bringing furnishings across for you and I have sent to my house at Llanddeu for other comforts that may help you. I am sorry you should find Brecknock so unready for you.”

“It’s my own fault.” She found herself responding to his warm smile. “I brought no retinue, Archdeacon. No escort except for the one John Picard there could spare me, out of his kindness. I was foolish to come, I suppose.”

He scrutinized her face for a moment and then grinned boyishly. “I can understand you wanting to come here. One’s home is always the best place to be, and I believe women in your condition frequently conceive such fancies. After all, where else should your child be born but here?”

She felt herself blushing at his outspokenness and, drawing her mantle more closely around her, she retreated to the fire where she stood and watched as two sandaled lay brothers from the priory carried in a folding stool and set it down near her. They were followed by others with trestles and tabletops for the dais, benches, and candlesticks. Finally a linen cloth was produced and carefully laid on the table. Matilda waited in silence as the hall was transformed. Slowly, through Gerald’s eyes, she was beginning to see the funny side of her undignified arrival. He had been watching her closely and he didn’t drop his eyes when she caught his stare, but grinned pleasantly once more. “Better?” he inquired humorously.

She laughed. “Much better, Archdeacon. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Don’t bother. My own reading chair is on its way down to you from Llanddeu. You will find it easier sitting on a chair with a back, I should imagine. If there’s anything you need, or any help wanted, send for me. I’m usually there when I’m not traveling around the diocese.” He stepped forward and took her hand earnestly. “I’ll take my leave now, I can see you’re tired. But remember, I’m there if you need me.”

John Picard raised an eyebrow as Gerald left. “An intense young man, that. But I’m glad he’s here. He’ll keep an eye on you till your husband comes.” He leaned back, tucking his thumbs comfortably into his belt.

It was from Sir Robert Mortimer that she at last understood the full extent of the danger in which she stood and which the Picards had managed to keep from her throughout the winter. John Picard had left at dawn the next morning, bidding her a cheerful good-bye and leaving her with a smacking kiss on the cheek, then Sir Robert had found his way to Matilda’s side.

“I’ve ordered a double guard, my lady, on the walls and on the gate, and I’ve told them to keep the townsfolk out for now,” he reported.

“Why?” She stopped clearing a pile of linen from the table and turned to look at him, puzzled. Nell went on folding the material, but her eyes too were fixed on the constable’s face.

“We cannot take any risks with you here at Brecknock, my lady. Things have been peaceful this winter. We’ve had no trouble, but now you’re here I’d expect them to have a go at you.” He clenched his fist over the hilt of his sword.

“Have a go? Who?” Matilda narrowed her eyes.

“The Welshies of course, my lady. An eye for an eye; a death for a death, all that. You’ve heard of the galanas ?”

She looked puzzled and he shook his head. “The blood feud. They will seek revenge, my lady. It’s the law of these hills. Then, no doubt, if they get it, your descendants and relatives will seek theirs in their turn and so on it will go. It’s the way the Marches takes their justice.”

Matilda shivered. “So Seisyll’s wife died?”

He shrugged. “As to that, I haven’t heard for sure. But we’ve got to assume you’ll be a target, with Sir William away at Windsor or wherever. Did the Picards not warn you?”

Matilda licked her lips nervously. “Yes, they did mention it. Lady Picard told me of the feud, but I paid no attention-I was ill…I must have put them in great danger while I was there.” She walked over toward the hearth, her light-green skirts sweeping the rushes. “They sheltered me all winter, Sir Robert, and never let me know that.”

Sir Robert rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Aye, they’re good folk right enough.”

“Let the townspeople come and go as usual. I don’t want them to resent me from the start. Give me a bodyguard of some sort, that’ll be enough. These are my husband’s people after all, not Seisyll’s. I’m sure they’re not involved in any feud.”

Sir Robert frowned. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “There’s something I think you should understand, my lady.” He looked at the floor, embarrassed. “The thing is, your husband is not exactly well liked by the people. These lordships came to him from the family of his lady mother. They do not like de Braose.” His voice trailed away into silence.

“All the more reason that I should make them like me, Sir Robert,” she flashed back at him. Then she smiled. “Please. Help me make friends with them. I should hate to feel that I have enemies here. Perhaps we can win them over if we try.”

He looked at her determined, eager face and grinned. “Well, my lady, if those are your orders, I’d be glad, for one. They’re not a bad crowd in Aberhonddu. We’ll guard you well and hope they’re not over-concerned with the doings in Gwent. Will you be sending messages to Sir William?”

She nodded. “I must. He should be told I’m here, and I want some of my servants from Bramber. Will you arrange for someone to go to find him? Meanwhile I’ll choose some women to serve me and we’ll make a start at trying to make this place comfortable.” She grinned, and turned back to help Nell with her task.

The next few days passed in a bustle of activity. As word got out that Lady de Braose was there, people from the small township below the castle walls began to make their way to her presence. She was called upon to act as arbiter and judge among them. They seemed to be accepting her. She had scarcely any time at all to herself, and almost forgot the worries and torments of the long winter. She found the people ready with their tithes of provisions and supplies, all eager and curious to see Sir William’s bride, all apparently prepared to be friendly.

She spent long mornings closeted with Hugh the bailiff, who had eventually turned up between two men-at-arms, so drunk he was unable to stand. She had curbed her initial desire to have him flogged and waited to see him when he was sober. And she was pleased she had done so. He was in his own way grateful for her restraint and proved himself a competent enough steward after his initial defensiveness had worn off. He took her on a tour of the barns, storerooms, pantries, and the cellar, proud that Brecknock should still be comparatively well stocked after the long winter.

She sat for many hours, however, pondering over his accounts, desperately trying to make sense of the squiggles on the pages before her, applying her limited knowledge of reading, knowing his taunting eyes were upon her, waiting for her to make a mistake.

At last, exasperated beyond measure, she summoned Father Hugo, the priest who had been sent by Gerald to take mass at the chapel each morning.

“Father, I need your help.” She looked up at him from Gerald’s elaborate chair by the fire. “I need to know how to read properly. Can you teach me?”

Together they pored over the account book for some time. Then Hugo straightened up and put his hand to his eyes. “I can hardly read this man’s hand myself,” he muttered at last. “Especially these last few pages. I’ll bring the mass book from the chapel for you. That at least I know is legible.”

Two days later Gerald was ushered into her presence. “I hear you want to learn to read,” he said without preamble. “Hugo is not the man to teach you, my lady. His eyes are too old to see the letters himself. I shall do it.”

“You, Archdeacon? But how will you spare the time?” She was a little nervous of the energetic, handsome young man and she glanced rather apprehensively at the volumes under his arm.

“I shall teach you to write as well,” he went on. “It is unthinkable that a lady of your standing should be unable to read and write with fluency. Writing is one of the greatest arts.”

She blushed. He made her feel suddenly inadequate. Secretly she had been proud of the way she was handling the situation at Brecknock. It was the first chance she had had of applying her skills in running a household without her mother-in-law breathing down her neck, and although the household was abbreviated and inadequate, she was pleased with the way she was managing with the people she was carefully recruiting to her service.

Each day while he was at Llanddeu Gerald rode down to the castle and spent an hour or two in her company. Sometimes they read from his own writings and from his poetry, which he proudly brought to show her, and sometimes from the books from his library. They also struggled together with the bailiff’s account books, and Gerald, his eyes sparkling with amusement, pointed out that the handwriting had markedly worsened from the day that Matilda had arrived at Brecknock and shown her determination to supervise his activities.

Almost at once she discovered to her consternation that Gerald proudly claimed kinship through his grandmother with Lord Rhys himself and that he knew all about the happenings at Abergavenny.

Since John Picard had left to ride home across the mountains to Tretower she had tried to put the memory of that terrible day out of her mind completely. It was easier than she expected because of her busyness at Brecknock, but sometimes, still, at nights, in spite of her exhaustion, the noise and stench of that bloody scene would return to her in horrifying nightmares from which she would awaken screaming. Also there was the baby. Each time it kicked she would shudder in revulsion as though it joined her by a cord to the treachery she wanted to forget. And now here was Gerald, sitting opposite her, a cup of wine in his hand, his thin, intense face serious as he gazed at her, forcing her to confront that terrible memory once more.

“Your husband was the instrument of cruel excesses, but I haven’t any doubt that others, more powerful even than he is, were the real instigators of the crime.” He leaned forward and looked at her intently. “You must not judge him, my lady. You do, don’t you?”

She nodded slightly. “I was there, Archdeacon. I saw it all. I tell myself that such acts occur. I know this part of the country is more liable to them than most; I know William is a cruel, hard man. I’ve been told enough about him, but still, I couldn’t believe he would commit such treachery. And I saw him, with his own hand…” She broke off, trying to stifle the sob which rose in her throat. “It was so terrible. Even that child, Geoffrey, Seisyll’s son, and later the baby.” She bit her lip and sat silent, twisting the cloth of her skirt between her fingers. Then she looked up suddenly, swallowing hard, and faced him squarely, her eyes fixed unwavering on his.

“My child is cursed, Father, by what happened that day,” she burst out. “I would rather it is never born at all.” She waited defiantly, half expecting him to be shocked, but to her surprise he nodded understandingly.

“It’s a natural feeling,” he said slowly, his low voice soothing and considered. “But it is wrong. You must have faith. The child is as innocent as it is possible for a human creature to be. He will be washed and sanctified by baptism and by our prayers. You must not fear for him.” He drank back the dregs of his wine suddenly and rose to his feet. “And now I have some news for you, my lady. Three nights ago your husband was at Hereford. From there I understand he plans to go to Hay and then he is coming on here to Brecknock, so you will be seeing him soon. You must prepare yourself for that.”

Matilda pulled herself to her feet. Her hands were shaking, and nervously she tried to hide them in the folds of her skirt, but the all-seeing eyes of the archdeacon had spotted them instantly. He put his hand gently on her arm. “You have been a good and loyal wife to William de Braose. Don’t be afraid of him. He is still the Christian man you married.” He grinned suddenly, his unexpected boyish grin that she found so heartwarming. “Perhaps now I shall be able to have my chair back when he comes. I miss it, I must confess, perched on that high stool when I’m reading at Llanddeu. I must be getting old.” He sighed and put his hand to his back with a mock grimace of pain.

In spite of herself, she laughed. She had grown very fond of Gerald in the few weeks she had known him. “Poor Archdeacon. I must give you a salve to rub on your back. When William comes, your chair will be my first thought, I promise you. It’ll travel up that track to Llanddeu faster than lightning!”

But even the sound of his gay chuckle as he pulled on his mantle and swung out into the soft rain to find his horse did nothing to ease the sick fear that flooded through her at the thought of William’s imminent arrival.