Lady of Hay

22

The shadow on the bridge had moved. Jo stared at it, puzzled, then she looked around her. The riverside was deserted; the backs of the houses that overlooked it had changed subtly-gray stone relieved here and there by boxes of geraniums and trailing lobelia now deeply textured by brilliant sunlight. The heat haze had dissipated, leaving the air quite clear.

She moved cautiously, and winced. Her foot had gone to sleep. Bending to rub it gently, she found her feet were bare-her shoes lying several feet away on the pebbles at the edge of the river. She glanced at her watch, then, horrified, stared at it again. She had been sitting there for an hour.

Slowly she stood up and hobbled painfully over the stones to reach her shoes. She remembered nothing from the moment she had kicked them off to cool her feet in the swift-running, brown water. Had she dozed off as she sat on the wall, or had she once more gone back into the past? Her mind was a complete blank. Dazed, she made her way back up the narrow lane toward her car. Somewhere at the back of her consciousness something was nagging; a memory trying to get out, but a memory of what? Had an episode of Matilda’s life taken place in her dreams as she sat on the wall, just as it had at Hay-but if so, why could she not remember it? She felt a shiver of unease stir deep down inside her as she unlocked the MG and climbed in stiffly. Why should Matilda want to hide from her now? Biting her lip, she sat for a while, deep in thought, but nothing came, nothing but a vague feeling of unease.

Nick was waiting for her in her apartment.

He stood up as she came in. “Where have you been?”

“Away.”

“And you don’t intend to tell me where, I suppose,” he said wearily.

“No.”

“You missed your appointment, Jo.” His eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to see Bennet yesterday and you didn’t turn up.”

“I’ll call him and apologize.” She felt a quick flash of anger. “You didn’t have to wait to tell me that.”

“We lost the Desco contract this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry-that’s tough. But this is not the place to think out your future.”

Nick sat down on the Victorian chair by the fireplace and stretched out his legs in front of him. “I’ll go,” he said wearily, “when I’m ready. But I want some answers from you first.” He paused momentarily. “Have you been seeing Richard de Clare again?”

Jo froze, staring at him. “You’re out of your mind! You’re talking as if he’s a real man, which he isn’t. And even if he were, it would be none of your business! You and I are through, Nick. Finished. How many more times do I have to say it?” She flung herself toward the front door and dragged it as far open as it would go. “Please, will you go now?”

Nick did not move. “Have you seen him again?”

“You really are going mad!” She stared at him in frightened despair. “As you just pointed out, I missed my appointment with Carl, so of course I haven’t seen him. How could I?” There was no way she was going to tell Nick what had happened in Hay. “Look. If you won’t go, then I shall-”

She broke off with a little frightened cry as he moved toward her with astounding swiftness and, putting his hand against the front door, pushed it closed. He gave a tired smile. “Don’t worry, Jo, I’m not going to touch you.”

Staring up at him, she was overwhelmed suddenly by pity as she recognized the deep unhappiness in his eyes behind the closed, hard mask.

“Nick,” she said, trying to keep the ache of longing out of her voice. “What has happened to you? Where are you? You never used to be like this.”

“Maybe you weren’t two-timing me before.” He turned away from her and stood in the middle of the room, his back to her, his arms folded across his chest. “And maybe I hadn’t just lost my biggest client before. Losing that account could mean we fold. Desco more or less carried the firm.”

“I told you, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But you’ll find other clients. Look, I’m tired out. Can we talk tomorrow perhaps? I could meet you for lunch or something.”

“I’ll take you out to dinner this evening. Please come, Jo.”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay. Give me a few minutes to change.”

When she emerged at last Nick was sitting waiting for her, a book in his hands. Recognizing it, she glanced at her bag, still lying where she had dropped it in the doorway. Sure enough it was open and a pile of guidebooks and maps had spilled across the floor.

“You’ve been to Hay-on-Wye?” Nick asked, slowly flipping the book shut and letting it fall onto the coffee table.

She nodded mutely.

“Why on earth didn’t you say so? What happened?”

She shrugged. “Nothing much. I went to Abergavenny first, where”-she hesitated-“where Matilda spent so much time, to stay with an old school friend, and then they sent me on to Hay. I wanted to make notes for the article.”

“And did you recognize anything?”

“Not even vaguely familiar. It had all changed so much.” She was watching him while she was talking. The tension in his face had eased.

He walked across to the French windows. After drawing back the curtains, he threw them open and walked out onto the balcony. “I’m going to have to go to the States in a week or two,” he said over his shoulder, “to see if I can win that other account we’ve been angling for. If I could get that, it would more than make up for losing Desco. And I haven’t totally given up on Mike Desmond yet-if I can only concentrate.” He frowned. “Oh, God, Jo. What is the matter with me? I know I’m behaving crazily.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

Jo followed him outside. “You’re tired, I expect,” she said at last.

He shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s as if-” He tightened his lips angrily. “No, no excuses. It’s me. Some foul-tempered, vicious part of me. A part of me I don’t understand.” Absently he picked a bloom from the passion flower that trailed from an ornamental urn across the stone railings around the balcony. He scrutinized it carefully. “There is something rather horrible about these,” he said after a moment, thoughtfully. “They’re like wax. So perfect; so symmetrical, they don’t look real. And all that symbolism. Nails, whips, blood, and wounds.” He flicked it with his finger. Then he looked up suddenly with another lightning change of subject. “You remember your meeting with Prince John?”

Jo nodded, trying to ignore the sudden tightening of her stomach muscles at the mention of John’s name. She watched as Nick leaned over the balcony and let the flower drop. It spun crazily as it fell, hit the railings below, and disappeared into the dark basement area.

“You didn’t like him much, as I recall.”

“Not me, Nick. Matilda,” Jo corrected him gently. “No, she didn’t. He was an utterly obnoxious child.”

Nick picked off another flower-head. “Look, they’re beginning to close for the evening.” He held it in his palm for a moment before dropping it after the first. “Have you come across him again yet?”

“Who?”

“John.”

Jo shook her head. “Don’t let’s talk about Matilda anymore, please. She doesn’t bring out the best in either of us.” Jo glanced at her watch. “Why don’t we walk up the road slowly? I’m ravenous.”

She was very tired. She glanced at Nick across the table in the dim candlelight, watching the shadows playing on his face as he ate. He reached for his glass and raised it so that the candle reflected ruby glints off the Valpolicella. “Shall we drink to new beginnings?” he said, looking at her at last.

She smiled. “To your new account. May it be so huge you can afford two more Porsches!”

He laughed. “To that also. But I really meant to us. I didn’t mean to hurt you the other night, Jo.”

She looked away abruptly. “You damn well did, though.”

“Will you give me another chance?” His eyes sought and held hers. They were almost transparent in their clarity in the candlelight. Unwillingly she put down her fork and almost without realizing she had done it, she moved her hand slowly across the table. He grasped it, his eyes still fixed on hers. “Can you forgive me, Jo?”

The touch of his fingers sent little tingles of excitement up and down her spine. With an effort she tore her gaze away. Between them the candle guttered violently above its strangely shaped sculpture of dripped wax. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “Nick, I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Jo. I make no excuses. I don’t know what happened.” He moved his thumb slowly across her palm toward her wrist. “But I will make it up to you, if you will let me.”

She was shaken by the wave of longing that flooded through her as his hand moved on lightly up the inside of her forearm, touching the rough scab that had formed over the gash there.

Slowly she shook her head. “It won’t work, Nick. We don’t belong together,” she whispered. Her hand still lay beneath his on the table. “It was never meant to be.” Tearing her eyes away from his face, she looked back at the candle, concentrating on the white heat at the center of the flame.

“It was meant to be, Jo.” His words floated almost silently into her consciousness. “You are fighting your destiny, don’t you see?”

She didn’t answer. Unblinking, she went on staring at the flame. The silence stretched between them.

“What are you seeing, Jo?” Nick’s voice came to her at last from a great distance. “Perhaps it’s John. Why don’t you spare a few dreams from Richard de Clare and think about Prince John…”

The outer bailey of Winchester Castle, below the squat tower of the new cathedral, was busy with horses and grooms. Beside Matilda, William pulled up his horse and threw his leg stiffly over the pommel. It would be good to have a few days’ rest before going on to Bramber, where the old baron, his father, had at long last died.

“Whose men are those?” he inquired curtly, seeing some of the crowd without livery as his page ran to help him.

“Prince John’s, my lord,” the boy whispered hoarsely. “The king’s son has come to hunt the New Forest.”

William snorted. “That young hound. It’s time he went to hunt himself some bigger game in France.” He gave his arm to his wife and led her toward the hall. “But if it’s to mean some good hunting in the king’s forest, then I’ll forgive him his presence here.” And, chuckling, he went to greet his host.

Prince John had grown considerably since his betrothal three years before. He was still stocky and short for his age, but his face had fined down, losing the puppy fat that had marred his features, and his hair was the red-gold of his father’s. He seemed pleased to see the newcomers at the evening meal in the great hall that night.

“Sir William, it’s good to have you here,” he exclaimed, leaning across his neighbor and gazing intently into the older man’s face. “I trust you are fully recovered from your wounds? That was a sorry business, when the men of Gwent attacked Dingestow and killed Poer.” He smiled grimly. “God rot them! You were lucky to escape.

“You will join us, I hope, for the hunt tomorrow? Then we’ll have the chance to see your prowess.” He selected a piece of meat from the plate and chewed it thoughtfully, the rings on his fingers winking in the candlelight. Beyond her husband, who seemed flattered by the boy’s attention, Matilda could see little of the prince, and she sat back, not wanting to attract his attention. Her memories of him were not particularly pleasant. She had often thought of young Isabella as she heard of the king’s youngest son traveling around England, enjoying himself in one great castle after another, sometimes in the company of Ranulf Glanville, who was acting as his tutor, sometimes with only his attendants and his favored groom, William Franceis. Her husband, who had met him often, liked the boy and spoke well of his promise, but she could not help thinking of the heart-rending scenes before the betrothal ceremony had taken place. She knew the child was safe at home in Cardiff, still with her mother, but the poignancy of the memory had been aggravated by the rumor that had reached her at Hay that the Earl of Clare was negotiating to marry Isabella’s elder sister, Amicia. Desperately she tried to dismiss the thought of Richard from her mind, and, pushing aside her dish, she concentrated on the activity in the center of the smoky hall below the dais, where a singer with a harp was being ushered forward to entertain the guests. Her vow to think no more of Richard had been often and badly broken, but somehow through the years she had avoided seeing him alone.

The glittering crowd of nobles and their attendants gathered outside the castle at sunup the next morning. The air was full of excitement shared by the nervously curveting horses and the barking hounds. Matilda reined in her black mare tightly; the horse was already frothing at the mouth, her hooves beating rhythmically on the slippery cobblestones.

Prince John, dressed splendidly in brocade trimmed with ermine, was mounted on a tall raw-boned chestnut stallion two hands too high for him, but he reined it in savagely as it plunged beside the other horses. Already William was there beside the prince, and she saw John turn and grin at her husband and shout some good-humored jest when he was not preoccupied with staying on his horse. It seemed the boy had taken a fancy to William, and she saw scowls among the prince’s friends as de Braose took the coveted position at John’s side.

Then they were off, horses, hounds, riders, and foot followers pounding out of the gates and across the bare ground to the west of the town that separated the castle from the outskirts of the forest. The pace increased to a gallop. Matilda bent low over the mare’s neck, excited at the prospect of the chase, intent on keeping up with the leaders as they plunged into the cool leanness of the trees. Almost at once the hounds found a scent and their excited yelping turned to a full-throated roar. The huntsmen picked up the notes on their horns and the horsemen thundered after them down the grassy ride.

It was the first day of the season and they killed plentifully before turning their tired horses at last for home. The main party of riders split up into small groups as they walked back through the leafy glades dappled with the evening sunlight. Matilda was exhausted, and she had allowed her mare to drop behind the others a little and pick her own way quietly over the soft paths between the trees, when there was a thunder of hooves behind her. As she turned to draw out of the way of the hurrying rider, she found Prince John at her side. He reined in and grinned at her.

“A good start to the season, my lady. I trust you enjoyed your day?” His surcoat was stained with blood and the blade of his knife sheathed carelessly in his girdle showed an encrustation of gore.

She returned his smile cautiously. “It was a good day’s hunting, Your Highness. I’m glad you were at Winchester. William always says there is some of the finest hunting in the land here.”

“Ah, yes, the good Sir William.” The boy eyed her thoughtfully. “He’s a fine man and good with his bow, and he’s a lucky man too, to have so beautiful a wife.” He glanced at her sideways.

The ride narrowed and as the horses jostled for position his thigh for a moment brushed against hers. She felt a surge of repugnance. Was the silly boy trying to flirt with her? She forced herself to smile. “You are very flattering, Your Highness, thank you.”

After a few paces, to her relief, the path broadened and she was able to guide the mare away from him a little.

“Sir William keeps you too much in those border lands of his,” John went on thoughtfully. “You should come to my father’s court with him.”

“Oh, I stay on the estates because I want to. I hate court.” Matilda was thinking wistfully of the times she had chosen not to go rather than risk meeting Richard; not wanting to see the king. She paused abruptly, seeing the prince scowling furiously, and cursed herself for her tactlessness. “But of course,” she hurried on, trying to cover her mistake hastily, “I am much honored when I have a special invitation…”

“Honored but not pleased, it seems,” he interrupted, his tone sarcastic. He stood up in his stirrups, reaching for a leafy branch and pulling it down as he rode under it. His horse shied, and John laughed. He seemed to make up his mind to try a different tack. “You’re a lady who knows her own mind, I think.” He reined his horse close to hers once more, “And too young and beautiful to be content with so coarse a husband. I wonder if perhaps a lusty prince would be more to your liking?” He leaned across and put his hand on her thigh.

Matilda was overcome with anger. Not stopping to think, she raised her whip and thwacked him smartly across the wrist with the handle. “I don’t think you realize what you’re suggesting, my lord,” she flashed at him. “Do you wish to dishonor the wife of one of your father’s most loyal subjects?”

Her fury dissolved suddenly at the sight of his red, discomfited face, and she tried to suppress a gurgle of laughter. He was, after all, but a boy. “I am sorry, my lord prince. It is just that you were only a child when last I saw you, and now-” Her words died on her lips at the sight of his face.

It was white with fury as he groped blindly for his reins, spluttering as he tried to speak. “God’s teeth,” he managed at last. “Not so much of a child, madam, that I don’t know how to deflower a woman or father a brat, I assure you.”

He pulled his horse to a savage halt, which sent it rearing and plunging sideways against the bushes at the edge of the path, and, giving her one murderous glance as he turned, he sent his horse galloping back down the ride.

Matilda let her mare stand for a moment as she realized, with a shock, that she was shaking from head to foot. She knew she had been a fool. She could have put him off tactfully without making an enemy of him. “An enemy for life.” She murmured the words to herself, watching the mare’s ears twitch at the sound of her voice, and she shook her head, trying to throw off an irrational feeling of fear. How stupid, to let a little incident ruin a beautiful and exciting day. Taking a deep breath, she gathered up her reins and turned once more to follow the sounds of the other riders, slowly making their way back toward Winchester.

She told William what had happened when they were alone together in their guest chamber that night. To her surprise he threw back his head and laughed.

“The young puppy!” he said. “The runt of the litter and he fancies his chances with my wife. You should be very flattered, my dear. Prince John has an eye for a pretty woman.”

“But he’s only a child,” she burst out. “If it wasn’t so funny, it would be disgusting.”

“I’d bedded women and plenty by his age.” William unfastened his mantle and threw it down. “Take no notice, Moll. Think of it as a compliment. He’s spoiled and, as the king’s son, few women refuse him. It’s about the only benefit he does get from his position, poor lad. He’s not yet learned enough discretion to know whose wife he can wheedle and whose he can’t. He’ll know next time.” He laughed again.

For the remainder of their stay at Winchester John ostentatiously ignored Matilda and as obviously courted the attention of her husband. The sturdy baron was constantly required by his side, instructing, joking, even lecturing the boy, clapping him on his shoulders and laughing uproariously at his comments. Matilda watched silently as John listened and smiled, never totally unbending, but always allowing William to feel he had his confidence and his friendship, and she found herself wondering if the boy was quite as naive as William thought.

On the next hunting expedition she took care to remain in the center of a crowd of women followers, not once allowing her weary horse to drop back alone. She need not have worried. John went out of his way to avoid her, remaining constantly with his lords and William and the leading huntsmen.

When they left for Bramber Castle John bade William an almost affectionate good-bye. To Matilda he extended a cold, hostile hand, and when she curtsied and murmured the appropriate words of farewell he turned away without a word.

“Has madam finished?”

Jo stared up with a start. The waiter was standing beside her, his hand on her plate. The food on it was practically untouched.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was very good. I’m just not hungry.”

She looked across at Nick. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, twisting his empty glass thoughtfully between his fingers.

“You hypnotized me!” She gasped.

He shook his head. “I did nothing. I merely sat here and listened. Two coffees, please, and the bill.” He looked up at the waiter. Then he turned his attention back to Jo. He smiled faintly. “You were what I believe is called scrying, seeing pictures in the candle flame. No doubt you could see them in a crystal ball as well. You must be psychic!”

Jo had gone white. “That’s nonsense-”

“Is it? It’s more common to see the future than the past, I suppose, but either way, three hundred years ago you would have been burned at the stake for less.”

“And today I could make my living telling fortunes. Oh, God!” She put her head in her hands. “I’m frightened, Nick.”

“Why?” He picked up the bottle and poured the last of the wine into her glass. “You obviously have a gift. And if you are going to persist with researching into the past, the ability to do it yourself will at least save you Bennet’s no doubt exorbitant fees.” He pursed his lips. “Do you remember what you said?”

She took a sip from her glass, glancing around at the other diners. No one was staring. No one seemed to have noticed anything amiss. “It must have been you asking about Prince John earlier,” she said slowly. “I saw him again. Only he was older this time. A teenager.”

“But you found him as obnoxious as before.” Nick was still twisting his glass between his fingers.

Jo nodded thoughtfully. “He seemed to think me attractive, but his methods of showing it were pretty crass. Thank you.” She looked up and smiled as the waiter put a cup down in front of her.

“Perhaps your reactions were tactless and high-handed.” A nervous tic had begun at the corner of Nick’s eye.

She stared at it. “We are talking about me again,” she said softly. “It was not me. It was Matilda.”

“Whichever one of you it was, you should have had the sensitivity to handle the situation more discreetly.” Nick took the bill and began methodically to check it.

“Why are you so angry?” Jo said suddenly. “It’s as if you’re taking it personally. I didn’t mention Richard, did I? Or is it just because I talked about the past? Or because I wasted this beautiful meal? Or did I shout and yell and make an exhibition of myself?”

He shook his head, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “None of them. Come on. Let’s go.” He pushed his chair back and stood up.

It was a glorious night, warm and balmy. They walked slowly back up Victoria Road. Most of the houses were in darkness. Here and there a window was still lighted, shadows moving behind the curtains.

Nick did not touch her. He strode ahead in silence. Only when they reached the step beneath the pillared porch did he speak.

“Are you going to let me come in?”

She stared up at his face in the light of the streetlamp. “No, Nick.”

“Please, I won’t hurt you, I promise.” He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her against him.

She wanted him badly. She could feel her heart beginning to beat faster as his mouth moved gently against hers, and she felt her resistance weakening as he moved his hands slowly from her shoulders toward her breasts, massaging them sensuously through the thin material of her shirt, pressing her spine against the door. He felt in his pocket for his key, silencing her feeble protest with another kiss as he slotted it into the lock behind her and pushed it open. The hall inside was pitch-black. He did not bother to try to find the light switch. His arm pinioning hers, he kissed her more fiercely as the heavy door swung shut behind them, leaving them in darkness.

“Nick.” Jo gasped. “Please, don’t-”

“Why?” She could hear the strange exultance in his voice as he tore her shirt open and dropped his head to nuzzle her breasts.

“Please, I asked you not to come in-”

“But you want me, Jo,” he breathed. “You want me.” Catching her wrist, he pulled her with him up the stairs, unlocking the door to her apartment and pulling her inside. Only then did he release her. Jo groped for the light switch, trying to refasten her shirt and tuck it back inside her skirt. “Nick, please, I’m tired-” She backed away from him uncertainly. “Will you go if I make some coffee-”

“No coffee. It sobers you up too fast.” He strode into the room, pulling the curtains shut and turning on the table lamp in the corner. “What we need is some more wine and some music.” Leaving her standing by the door, he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle. “I see you’ve replenished your cellar.” He smiled at her. “Put some music on, Jo. And relax.” She was standing by the door, her hand on the latch. “Turn off the main lights and put on something quiet and sexy,” he went on, his voice suddenly gentle. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you. Come on. Relax.” He turned away from her to find the corkscrew and set about drawing the cork and pouring out the wine.

Still hesitating, Jo moved to the shelf and shuffled through a pile of cassettes. Her hands were shaking as she picked one up. “Piaf?” she asked, conscious that he had put down the bottle and walked across toward the door. She spun around, afraid that he was moving to lock it, but he merely went to the switch and turned off the main lights, leaving only the soft glow from the one small lamp in the corner.

Trying to steady her nerves, she turned back to the tape, putting it on very low.

“Your wine.” He was immediately behind her.

She faced him and took the glass from him. “You won’t hurt me again, Nick. You promise,” she whispered as he reached up to touch her face.

Nick smiled. “Why should I hurt you?” He took the glass back from her and set it down on the shelf behind her, then gently he drew her to him. With a frown he began to unbutton her shirt once more. He pulled it off then reached up to unfasten her bra. “That’s better,” he murmured as he dropped it on the floor. “Now, why have you still got your shoes on?”

He stood back and folded his arms once more, watching as Jo kicked off her high-heeled sandals, embarrassed at his sudden cold detachment.

She gave a nervous laugh as she turned away from him to pick up her glass. “Aren’t you going to take off your shirt too?”

“Of course.” He watched her drink. “You enjoyed it when I raped you the other night,” he said suddenly.

“I did not,” she flared.

“I think you did. I could feel it. A woman can’t hide it when she’s excited.”

Jo stopped and picked up her shirt hastily, clutching it against her. “I hope you haven’t got the idea that I like being knocked around, because I don’t. Please, Nick, stop teasing me…”

Nick took a step nearer her. He dragged the shirt out of her hand and threw it down behind him, then he caught her by the elbows, pulling her hard against him. “Beautiful, independent, oh so liberated Miss Clifford! I doubt if any man has dared to tell you what to do before, has he? One look from those flashing eyes and men cower back into their corners. What was Pete Leveson like in bed, Jo? He looks like a teddy bear to me. I doubt if he ever beat you. Perhaps that’s why you had such a short affair.”

“Nick-”

“Or Sam. Sam has always wanted you, hasn’t he? My mother came and told me as much today. Has he ever dared to touch you? I doubt it! My brother is scared of clever women!”

“Please, Nick!” She tried to pull away from him. “You’re hurting me. You promised you wouldn’t-”

“I’ll do what the hell I like with you, Jo.” He smiled at her. “Violence excites you. You like powerful men. You like a man who can bring you to your knees.”

She struggled frantically. “You’re drunk, Nick-”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I’ve not drunk nearly enough.” He let go of her so suddenly she nearly fell. “Let’s have some more wine.”

“You’ve had enough.” She dodged away from him, then stooped and grabbed her crumpled shirt. “If you don’t get out of here in ten seconds, Nick, I’m calling the police!”

He had picked up the wine bottle, and, holding it up to the lamplight for a moment, he poured some into his glass. He moved toward her, sipping it. “This is a good year,” he murmured. “I’m glad you care about good wine. Many women don’t-”

Jo was backing away from him toward the phone. As she reached it he lunged toward her and caught the phone cord, jerking it out of the socket. His wine spilled over her arm as, with a cry of fright, she dodged past him.

“You know, I quite enjoy your show of resistance, Jo,” he said lazily. “I can see why men always prefer-what is it they call them-women of spirit!”

“Just stop all the chauvinist crap and get out of here!” Jo was shaking violently. She put the sofa between herself and Nick as she pulled on her shirt.

“We were talking about the men who told you what to do, weren’t we?” he went on conversationally. “What about those men of Matilda’s? William de Braose, now. He never asked permission before he screwed his wife, I’ll bet. Did it thrill you? Being forced to obey him? You had to obey your husband, didn’t you?” He was moving toward her again slowly, his handsome face set.

Jo backed toward the French doors. “Please, Nick, go away.”

“You haven’t told me yet. Did William turn you on?”

She shook her head. “Never. He was repellent.”

“Yet you bore him six children.”

“Not me, Nick. It wasn’t me, for Christ’s sake! Look, why don’t we go out? It’s a glorious night. Why don’t we go for a drive? A long drive. Do you remember once we drove down to Brighton. We could have a swim at dawn and then have breakfast down there-”

“Tell me about Richard de Clare,” Nick went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Tell me about the handsome Richard. He turned you on, now, didn’t he?”

“Yes!”

Suddenly her fear and anger overflowed and she was yelling at him. “Yes, he bloody well did. He turned me on, as you put it. He was fun. He was humorous and good to be with. He wasn’t intense and competitive. He wasn’t a bloody chauvinist even though he was a medieval knight and an earl! He was a gentleman, Nick. Something you wouldn’t know how to be, if they exist these days, which I don’t think they do. And yes, he was good in bed. And in the bracken and anywhere else he happened to be! Very, very good. A hell of a lot better than you will ever be!” She stopped, panting.

In the silence between them the brown, spiced voice of Edith Piaf had begun to sing “Milord.”

Suddenly Nick began to laugh. “So we have the truth at last.” He went to the stereo and turned up the volume.

“ Allez, dancez, milord! My only consolation, milord , is that you are dead, milord ! Dead for eight hundred years! Poor Jo. Being screwed by a ghost! A fucking, imaginary ghost!”

He turned up the volume full, then gave her a mock bow. The sound blazed around the flat, reverberating off the walls, distorted almost out of recognition by the vibration of the bass notes. Jo clapped her hands to her ears.

After snatching his jacket off the chair, Nick slung it over his shoulder and walked to the front door, then he turned. “And you, Jo,” he shouted. “Are you a ghost as well? Think about it, my lady! Think about it!” He opened the door then strolled out onto the landing.

Jo hurled herself at the door and banged it shut, shooting the bolt and putting on the chain. She was shaking from head to foot. Then she staggered to the stereo and switched it off. Only then, in the sudden echoing silence, did she hear the furious hammering on the ceiling from the apartment upstairs.