Lady of Hay

21

Jo did not want to stop. She wanted to drive on. She wanted to get as far away as possible from the Welsh Marches, where the name of every town and village seemed to beckon her back into the past. She was afraid that if she stopped it would happen again. The past was still there, floating on the edge of her consciousness, and with it the shadow of Matilda’s fear.

Driving blindly southward, bypassing Abergavenny, she realized suddenly she must have taken a different road from the one she intended. She pulled up at last, grabbing her road map, trying to force herself to concentrate on the network of roads on the page in front of her, tracing a route back toward London with her forefinger as the sun blazed down on the car.

She stopped for a late lunch in the end at Monmouth, drawing the car onto the side of the road, too tired to drive farther without a break. The garden outside the pub was cool and shady, and she found herself relaxing as she ate a fresh crusty roll and a plate of Stilton salad, and sipped a glass of cider. Her panic was retreating. She had come, after all, to find Matilda. What had happened by the Wye and outside Hay Castle was no more than she had hoped might happen at Bramber or as she ran her hands across the ancient walls at Clare. Somehow she had triggered off some sort of trance and the place had done the rest.

So why had she been afraid? She leaned back in her chair, staring with half-closed eyes up at the underside of the striped umbrella that shaded her table. What she ought to do was face this strange talent she had found within herself and bend it to her will, summon it once more and with it discover whether Matilda had heeded Jeanne’s warning.

Slowly she stood up and stretched catlike in the sun. Had Matilda ever come to Monmouth? she wondered. And if so, did she have the courage deliberately to try and find out?

Undecided, she walked slowly out of the garden and into the quiet road. She glanced with distaste at her car parked at the curbside; the thought of another four hours in the sweltering heat did not appeal to her, so she turned her back on it and walked on. The sun was now shrouded in haze, but it was still very hot as she followed a footpath between some old stone-built houses and made her way down to the Usk, where she sat down on a crumbling wall and watched a small lizard skitter over some dry moss and disappear into a crack in the stone.

After kicking off her shoes, she dabbled her feet in the icy water. A few minutes’ rest was what she needed. Then she would decide whether to move on or wait to try to summon back the past.

The water was sucking at the moss-covered stones on the old bridge, combing tresses of brown weed into the streaming current. Now and then a stray glimmer of sunshine would escape the haze and turn the oily smooth surface into a sparkling pool that would shimmer and move and slide back into the brown oneness of the river.

Suddenly she found she was clutching her hands together, trying to force herself to look away as she felt a strange shimmer of unreality flicker before her eyes. She blinked and the scene steadied, then once again it seemed to move. She pulled her feet out of the river and made as if to scramble up the bank. “No,” she whispered. “No. I didn’t mean it. Not yet. I’m not ready. I don’t want it to happen again yet…”

The nausea had returned. Wearily Matilda rested her head against the pillow and waited for it to pass. Gently Elen placed a cloth against her forehead after wringing it out in the pitcher of ice-cold water. The girl’s fingers were blue but she uncomplainingly dipped the cloth in again, soothing her mistress’s fevered trembling with gentle hands.

“You’ll not be able to leave Monmouth today, my lady. You must tell Sir William.” She ran for the basin as Matilda began to retch again.

“No!” After pushing the bowl away, Matilda struggled to her feet. “I will go with Sir William. I have a feeling, a strange feeling here.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “There is danger somewhere, Elen. I’m sure I’m needed at Hay. We should not have allowed the children to travel on with the household without us.”

“But, my lady, you’re ill.” Elen’s eyes were soft with sympathy.

“I am not ill,” Matilda snapped at her. “I told you. I am with child again.”

“But you never have morning sickness, madam. Never in all the years I’ve known you-” She stopped abruptly at the sight of Matilda’s face.

“Well, I have now, so be quiet about it.” Matilda forced herself to climb out of the bed and reached for her gown. “Something’s wrong, Elen. I can’t explain it, but I have the feeling something awful is going to happen, and my feelings are always right. I must be with the children. I must-”

It had happened again the night before as she lay half waking in the firelight. A shadow hovering near her, something she could not grasp or see. “There’s death here, Elen,” she whispered. “Death near us.” She doubled up again and Elen, her eyes enormous with fear, ran to hold her. For a moment the two women clung together. Then, slowly, Matilda straightened up, pushing tendrils of hair back from her damp forehead.

The realization that she was again pregnant had come as a bitter disappointment to Matilda. It was two years since she had given birth to her third son, Reginald, and she had dared to hope that God was sparing her the burden of further children.

Not realizing that this pregnancy would make her tired and ill within a few weeks, she had reluctantly agreed, while they were at Gloucester, to allow the children and their nurses and attendants to go with the main baggage train to Hereford and then on to the newly built castle of Hay, on its hill above the old site near St. Mary’s, while she accompanied William on a tour of his castles in Gwent; and she had braced herself to visit Abergavenny once again, should he require it, although he had as yet made no mention of going there.

It was seven years since that terrible night, but she was certain that he too remembered it sometimes, with horror, in his dreams. And ever since they had waved the children away, she had been afraid. She pictured them. There was Will, tall and thin, riding very upright behind a groom, his delicate features solemn beneath the unruly mouse-color hair; Giles, so different from his brother, confident, with shiny copper-color hair, immaculately combed and brighter by far than her own. Then came Matilda, a delicate silvery waif of a child, strangely reserved, giving no love and expecting none in return; and last little Reginald, a sturdy two-year-old, fair like his sister, but as different from her as from the other two boys. They had all turned and waved back at her and shouted as the long procession of horsemen and wagons lumbered into motion. With them rode Nell. Poor Nell. Married and widowed within a few months, she had returned broken-hearted to Matilda, and, grateful to have been put in charge of the nurseries now that old Jeanne was at last dead, she ruled them with a gentle, eager love that had won the affection of nurses and boys alike. With the little girl she had no more success than Matilda.

Matilda had watched them ride off into the forest together until they were out of sight, then had turned sadly away.

Now, painfully, she began to dress, easing her aching limbs into the shift Elen held ready for her, then her gown and tunic. Last of all she held out her arms for her thick fur-lined cloak. The damp autumn winds had been cutting through to the bone as they hurled leaves, rain-sodden and brown, across their horses’ paths on the long rides between castles. She shivered at the thought of it. But on the whole she was glad that William had decided they should winter in Hay this year. Hay was hers. In spite of everything Bramber still belonged to the ghosts of Bertha and old Sir William. And at Hay she would never meet the king.

She had pondered often on old Jeanne’s prophecy, picturing again the harsh face of King Henry. He held every man’s destiny in his hand, but why hers especially? She shivered-she had made the sign against evil again and again in recent months, sometimes feeling the huge eyes of little Matilda fixed on her face.

“I still think you should tell Sir William you’re not well, my lady.” Elen’s chin was beginning to stick out in the way Matilda knew so well. “At least order a litter to carry you.”

“No.” Matilda rounded on her. “Be quiet, Elen. I will not have the litter. And I will not have Sir William told yet. I feel better as soon as I’m riding. Send for some hot broth for now, before I go down.”

Elen signaled to the plump serving maid who had been squatting on her heels before the blazing fire and the girl disappeared. Elen snorted. “There’s a lazy wench. She wouldn’t lift a finger if she didn’t have to. I’ll be bound she sends someone else up with it.” She began to busy herself packing away the last of the clothes and strapping the small coffer that stood at the end of the bed. Sure enough, when the broth arrived, it was not carried by the same girl. Elen went to meet the woman who held it. “I’ll give it to my lady. You can go.”

The woman handed it over without a word. She seemed about to turn, then she hesitated, her eyes going to the tall figure standing huddled in the heavy mantle by the end of the bed.

“ Arglwyddes ! My lady!” The woman’s voice was low and lilting.

“I said you can go.” Elen turned, her eyes flashing. “My lady does not want to be disturbed. Leave her in peace.”

The other woman half raised her hand as though waving Elen aside. To the girl’s indignation she took a step nearer. “Be silent, bach . I must talk with Lady Matilda. I must.” She sounded troubled.

Matilda swung around suddenly, letting her cloak fall behind her. “Who’s that?” She peered at the woman, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest at the sound of a voice that stirred a chord in her memory. “What do you want?” As the woman looked up at her at last she recognized her with a violent sense of shock. “Megan,” she whispered. “Is it you?”

“So you remember me, my lady?” Megan stood for a moment, her hands clasped in front of her, looking steadily at Matilda’s face.

Matilda looked down at the carpet of rushes, gently rustling in the draft. “I tried to forget, Megan. I tried to forget everything that happened at Abergavenny. Even you.”

Megan nodded. “I knew you would.”

“What is it?” Elen suddenly stepped forward. “What is it, my lady? Who is this…this person?” She looked Megan up and down haughtily.

“This person, cariad , has come to have words with your mistress.” Megan turned on her sharply. “Now you, girl, go about your business. Put the broth down before you spill it. Oy a Duw! ” She shook her hands in agitation as Elen slopped the broth on the rushes. “Now go, I said. And you too, boy.” She turned to the page who had come in behind her and leaned against the wall, watching the proceedings with interest while he chewed a straw.

Matilda raised an eyebrow. “Elen is my friend, Megan. Only I tell her to go.”

“Well, then, tell her, my lady, now and quickly. If she’s so high and mighty, why’s she waiting on you then? She should be in the hall.”

Matilda hid a smile. The two Welshwomen were alike in height and build, although Elen’s hair was fiery and Megan’s white beneath her veil. They were eyeing each other like two bantam cocks.

“Do as she says, please, Elen.” She spoke firmly. “I’ll take my broth while Megan is with me.” She held out her hand for the bowl.

Elen cast a furious glance at her rival, then, pushing the now half-empty bowl of soup into her mistress’s hands, she turned and flounced out.

Once she had gone, Megan seemed to lose her confidence once more. She stood, her eyes on the floor, twisting her fingers nervously together as Matilda sank thankfully into her chair and picked up the carved bone spoon. The room was silent for a while as she drank. Then at last, stifling the nausea that had returned as soon as the soup was finished, she looked up and forced a smile.

“I’m glad to see you again, Megan.”

“Well, that’s as may be.” The older woman stood erect before the fire. Then suddenly she seemed to make up her mind to speak. She went to crouch beside Matilda’s chair, her voice lowered.

“I’ve come to tell you not to go to Abergavenny again, my lady. That’s all I can be saying about it. Don’t go there.”

Matilda shivered. “I don’t want to, Megan, believe me. But if my husband says we must…”

To her amazement Megan rose and turned away to spit viciously into the hot embers.

“If your husband says he must, Lady Matilda, well and good. Let him go. But not you.”

“Why, Megan?” Matilda glanced sideways at her, suddenly suspicious, as the other woman’s pleasant, round face became stony and defiant.

“Maybe I know a good reason, maybe I don’t,” she announced. “Just remember, I’m telling you. Now I must away back to my people before they find I’m gone.” She rose to leave but Matilda was too quick for her. Forgetting her sickness, she jumped up and grabbed Megan’s wrist.

“I forbid you to go yet. Tell me what you know.”

Megan glanced half fearfully over her shoulder. “Indeed I won’t, for I shall say nothing, my lady. I’ve already said too much. I should not have come to you indeed.” She wrenched her arm free of Matilda’s grasp and fled through the door, her leather shoes pattering down the broad stairs.

Matilda moved to follow her, then she stopped and went back to her chair with a shrug. If the woman refused to say anything, there was no more to be done. She stood for a moment, thinking. Megan had braved a great deal perhaps to come and warn her, for the sake of their day of friendship so many years before. She put her hand to her aching back, then bent to pick up her fallen cloak from the rushes and warily wrapped it around her. William had to be warned, of course. She picked up the silver handbell by her chair and rang it for Elen. He must be told without delay. She breathed a fervent prayer that Megan, if she still wanted to guard her silence, had already left the castle. She didn’t like to think of Megan, however stubborn, being subjected to the full brunt of William’s anger in one of the dungeons below the keep if she refused to tell him the source of her information.

William’s men, however, when they fanned out in their exhaustive search of the castle, found no trace of Megan, nor had anyone been able to think how she had come to be there. She was not known by anyone at Monmouth, nor had anyone seen her come or go, save the trembling girl who had willingly given up to her the chore of carrying up the hot soup.

“I’ve already sent messengers to Abergavenny,” William announced, stamping into Matilda’s chamber an hour later. “You and I will ride on as far as Dingestow to see how Ranulf Poer fares with the rebuilding of the fabric of the castle there. It may be that I shall wait there with him till the building season is over. You can ride on to Hay.” He rubbed his hands ruefully. “Winter is coming early this year. There won’t be many more weeks before the snows arrive if it goes on like this. What ails you, Moll?” He suddenly rounded on her irritably. “Has this wretched woman upset you?” He seemed to have noticed for the first time her pinched pale face and stooping back.

She forced a smile. “No, William, it’s not that. I’m afraid I’m breeding again. I’m feeling sick with it, that’s all.”

He looked relieved. Not wanting to believe that Megan’s warning might have any substance himself, he had resented the thought that Matilda might be frightened by it. “The ride’ll soon perk you up! I was afraid for a moment you were ill,” he said gruffly, and he rested his hand awkwardly for a moment on her shoulder. From time to time there were moments almost of tenderness between them now. “It’ll be good to have another baby to keep you occupied, eh?” He gave a gruff laugh. “Now, the horses are waiting. This business with the Welshwoman has delayed us long enough. Let’s ride.” He swung on his heel and, slowly, clutching her cloak around her, she followed him down the stairs.

The extensive alterations on the remains of the old castle of Dingestow were nearly completed. As they rode along the newly cleared track toward it at the head of their troop of horsemen, Matilda saw the low curtain walls swarming with men. Obviously Poer was trying to finish the outer defenses before the weather put a stop to the season’s building. A thin film of ice turned the moat a milky blue beneath the frosted sky as they clattered across the bridge, which was still supported by a framework of scaffolding.

Ranulf Poer was seated by a blazing fire in the echoing keep, the plans for the castle spread before him on the table. He pulled himself painfully to his feet at their approach, his foxlike features sharper and more prominent than ever, his hair snow-white. He greeted them distantly, his mind obviously still half on the plans before him.

“We haven’t long to finish the walls,” he commented, showing William the outline on one of the pieces of parchment. “The Welsh are restless. I don’t like it. We’ve had reports that trouble is coming. I’ll be glad to have your men here while we finish. I can spare very few of mine for guard duty.” He glanced almost distastefully at Matilda. “Is your wife staying here?”

“Thank you, no,” she replied, stiffly, conscious of all her old dislike for the man flooding back. “I plan to travel on to Tretower, if you can spare me an escort.” She tried to keep the edge of sarcasm out of her voice. It was wasted on Poer, though.

“Spare her the minimum, de Braose. We need those men here.” He stabbed the table once more with his finger, before turning on his heel. “I can smell trouble, and I want to be prepared.”

“It seems he’s worried too.” William threw down his riding gloves after Poer had stamped out, and held his hands to the fire, glancing around at the bare stone walls and the piles of unshaped stones still lying in heaps in the far corner below the dais. “You’d be best out of here, Moll. It’ll not be comfortable anyway. Make your way as quickly as you can out of Gwent and into Brycheiniog.” He thought for a moment, scratching his head. “I think you must give up your idea of going to Tretower. It takes you too close to Abergavenny, just in case that woman spoke the truth. Ride the direct route through the mountains from Llantilio to Llanthony. The good fathers will give you shelter for the night. From there to the Hay should be only a day’s ride, even in this weather.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Poer always was as nervous as a cat in these mountains. He doesn’t believe Rhys can keep the peace in Gwent as he does in the rest of south Wales. Personally I think he still does. Just.”

Matilda shivered. She had a strong suspicion that Poer was correct in his doubts, but she kept her fear to herself. William seemed confident, and her concern was to reach her children as fast as she could. If he became too worried, he might begrudge her even the small escort he had promised and insist she remain with him. They spent the night, fully dressed, huddled on straw pallets around the fire, and Matilda left Dingestow the next morning at first light. The wind had changed as night drove in from the western hills and with it came a wet windy warmth that loosed the ice in the hard earth and turned the winding tracks to running mud. With Matilda went Elen and her two women, Gwenny and Nan, and an escort of twelve men-at-arms. She rode fast, forgetful of her sickness, half exhilarated by the strong wind, half frightened by the brooding deserted country as their horses’ hooves splashed through the shallow puddles on the hill tracks and through the deeper mud of the still, shadowy woods. In her girdle she carried a knife and, as they cantered on, she loosed it nervously in its sheath.

They paused early at the square-built tower of Llantilio, secure in its commanding position on the top of the hill, and, in spite of her eagerness to go on, Matilda reluctantly agreed that they spend the night there. She hardly slept. The sickness had passed, but her mind was in a turmoil of fear and impatience, and at first light they rode on.

They followed the old road north to where it plunged between the mountains and followed the River Honddu up the vale of Ewias toward Llanthony Abbey, the horses slipping and stumbling in the heavy rain. At midday the rain stopped at last and Matilda pushed the horses as fast as she dared beneath the threatening sky.

They passed the little church of Cwmyoy, the track leading up to it marked by one of the stone crosses that signposted the pilgrims’ way through the mountains. Out of habit Matilda reined in her horse as so often she did when William was there. Then she remembered and, contenting herself with a quick prayer as they walked past, she spurred her horse onward again. The heavy clouds threatened more rain, which would make the road across the mountains impassable. Constantly before her was the image of her children alone with their attendants at Hay, with only a small garrison to guard them and the gates trustingly open so that the townsfolk could come and go.

Once Elen begged her to stop, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of their sweating horses and for Gwenny, who was sobbing with the pain of a stitch in her side, but she ignored her pleas. Silent drifting clouds obscured the still, silent mountains either side of the River Honddu. Even the buzzards had deserted the valley. The moaning of the wind in the trees was the only sound save the creaking of the leather and the occasional sucking squelch of a horse’s hoof coming out of the mud. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the men escorting her had drawn their swords. The sight gave her very little comfort.

It was early dusk when the exhausted horses filed into the windblown orchards that lay in the deep valley south of Llanthony Priory. There were signs of much activity and building. Llanthony, so long nearly deserted during the early wars, lying as it did so close to the border, had received substantial grants for its rebuilding from old Hugh de Lacy, the Lord of Ewias, and already a magnificent central tower and the presbytery had risen nearly to their full height in nests of wooden scaffolding.

Matilda breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped from her horse. Here at least, amid the orchards, gardens, and vineyards, they were safe and might pass the night in the canons’ guesthouse without fear of attack.

“So, Elen, we are halfway home. I’m sorry I made you all ride so fast. I had no feeling of being watched, yet I was afraid, out there, on the road.”

Elen snorted. “You afraid, my lady! And how is your sickness now, may I ask? Quite better, I’ll be bound, while we’re all as exhausted as kittens.” She gestured toward the two wilting women who had dismounted behind them.

Matilda smiled. “Poor Elen. Perhaps my illness was all in my head. Perhaps I’m not even with child.” She pressed her hand hopefully to her stomach.

“Indeed I think you are, madam.” Elen smiled grimly. “But it’ll be a miracle if you don’t lose it, riding like that.” She flounced indignantly ahead of her mistress into the newly built guesthouse.

With fire, and light, and succulent meat from the prior’s kitchens washed down with raw wine from the vineyards along the Honddu, Matilda felt better.

“Only a few hours’ ride till we reach the children.” She smiled at Gwenny, who was helping her off with her gown. It was the first time she had undressed for three days.

Gwenny nodded shyly. “They’re safe enough, madam. Mistress Nell would never let anything happen to them.”

“Could Mistress Nell do anything against an army?” Matilda replied more sharply than she meant. She repented as she saw Gwenny’s chin tremble. “Oh, I’m sorry, Gwenny. I know I could probably do no more than she could, but we are bringing twelve more men with us.” She sat down heavily on the bed and took her brush from Gwenny’s hand. “You go and sleep. Tell Nan and Elen to as well.” She looked around the tiny cell-like room, so unlike the great chambers she was used to. “But you’ll hear me if I call, from next door. Go on, girl, get some sleep.”

She sighed as the door closed and she was left alone. Perhaps tonight she too would be able to sleep, lulled by the safety and serenity of the great priory, soothed and protected by the chanting of the monks in the choir of their beautiful new church.

She had only just dozed off, or so it seemed, when she was awakened by a furious knocking on the guesthouse door. It took a moment to remember where she was, then she was out of bed, groping in the dark for her fur-lined bedgown, trying to find the latch of the door to her room in the impenetrable blackness. She cursed herself for blowing out the light before she went to sleep. She ached with exhaustion.

The main door had been opened by one of her young men-at-arms, his eyes still bleary with sleep, his fingers fumbling to buckle on his sword belt as he dragged the heavy oak back and let in the cold night air.

It was the prior himself who hurried in, followed by two of his black-robed canons. His pale face was drawn and anxious. “Forgive me waking you so early, my lady.” He motioned the man to shut the door as one of the canons put a lantern on the table and filled the dark room with leaping shadows. The man-at-arms went to the fire and, kicking off the turves on the embers, squatted down to feed it dried apple twigs from the basket near it. Soon it was blazing up. The prior sat down heavily on the stool by the table, his white hands twisting nervously together. “I had just come from celebrating prime when a messenger arrived.” He gulped nervously. “He had galloped over the hills from Abergavenny, my lady. The castle has fallen. As far as is known no one has escaped.”

Matilda felt Elen’s steadying arm around her as she gazed appalled at the old man’s face. She was conscious of Gwenny and Nan hovering behind her.

“Your husband, madam.” The prior’s voice was gentle. “Was he at the castle?”

She shook her head numbly. “He’s at Dingestow, Father Prior. We were warned not to go to Abergavenny, and messengers were sent to the garrison there.” She shook her head, anguished. “They should have been prepared.”

“No messenger can have reached them.” The prior made a wry face. “The boy who came to warn us said the Welsh hid in the underbrush that has overgrown the moat. They surprised them yesterday at dawn.” He crossed himself. “The castle is burned. Apparently a Welshman spoke to the constable the night before and actually taunted him that they were going to take the castle, and for a while the garrison took the threat seriously and waited up. Then they gave up and went to bed. I can’t believe it, but they did! How can they have been so foolish?” He wrung his hands. “They left the usual minimum guard on the battlements of course, but…The Welsh put up their scaling ladders and went straight in over the walls. The constable and his wife are captured with many others. A lot of men died. No one escaped. I can’t think how it happened. When the Welsh themselves warned them.” He sat there, shaking his head in distress, his narrow, lined face a picture of grief.

“Has someone sent messengers to Sir William? He must be warned in case they go on to find him at Dingestow.” Anguished, Matilda was standing in front of the old man, not noticing how her bedgown had fallen open to reveal her full breasts, half swathed in her long copper hair. The prior, swallowing, averted his eyes. “I will send my fastest horses, my lady.” He fingered the heavy silver cross that hung from a chain around his neck. “I feel sure he will have heard at once though. Dingestow is no more than a few miles from Abergavenny, but I will send, if you wish it.”

“Please do, Father, he must be warned.” Matilda shivered. “Is it known who led this raid?”

“The sons of Seisyll of Gwent, Lady Matilda. Two died at your husband’s orders, but others lived and they’re grown men now. They have waited a long time to avenge their father’s death. We in Ewias and Gwent have heard often of their vows for revenge in spite of Lord Rhys’s orders that peace is all-important. They only waited for their manhood and then-for de Braose.” He shrugged and again Matilda felt a shiver run across her shoulders.

When the prior had gone she paced up and down, nervously chewing her thumbnail. Then suddenly she made up her mind. “Dress,” she ordered Elen and the two women. “See that the horses are at the door at once,” she flung at the guard. “We ride to Hay now. The Welsh could have attacked it already. They could be on the way there now. Don’t wait for food, we must go.”

She fled into her little room and began to pull on her clothes, bundling up her hair with pins inside the hood of her mantle, pricking her fingers in her haste on the brooch at its shoulder.

The deep Honddu Valley still lay in darkness, and the morning light touched only the tops of the western slopes of the Black Mountains as they set off up the long climb through the thickly wooded valley toward the bleak, silent moors, past the tiny chapel on the border and so into Brycheiniog and up toward the high pass between the mountains. Their horses were still tired from the previous day’s ride but Matilda relentlessly pushed them on, her eyes fixed on the gap in the mountains ahead. Once there they paused for a moment to scan the countryside around them, bathed now in the warm russet of a watery dawn sun. Nothing moved in the bracken and grass. Even birds and sheep seemed to have deserted the high road. They pushed their gasping horses to a heavy gallop in the thick mud and began the long slow descent from the hills.

As the exhausted party trekked the last mile into Hay the sun disappeared and rain began once more to fall, a steady blanketing downpour that shut off the mountains and the valley and blinded the riders, soaking into their clothes and streaming from the horses’ manes. The town of Hay seemed deserted, only the flattened puffs of smoke escaping from the streaming cottage roofs showing where the women were sheltering inside their dwellings. The castle was quiet. The guards on the main gate in the curtain wall stood to attention as their lady walked her steaming horse into the outer bailey and drew to a halt. All was well. There had been no attack. She breathed a silent prayer that it had been the same at Dingestow.