Lady of Hay

23

The desk in Bet’s office was covered with slides. She looked up as Jo came in and grinned maliciously as she switched off the viewing box. “God! You look as if you’ve had a hard night. Coffee or medicinal brandy?”

“Coffee, please.” Jo flung herself down in the ocher armchair by the window, letting her bag fall to the floor.

There was a pot perking permanently in the corner of the office, slotted between the bookshelves and piles of magazines. Bet reached for a cup from the tray, filled it with black, unsweetened coffee, and handed it to Jo. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Nick and I had a fight last night.”

“So what’s new?”

Jo raised the cup to her mouth with a shaking hand. “He’s behaving so oddly, Bet. Not like himself at all.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. You heard about the screw-up Jim Greerson made of the new Desco campaign? He commissioned some unknown to do the artwork, then I gather Nick wasn’t interested enough even to look at it, so Jim went ahead and approved it to show to Mike Desmond. Mike had fifty fits it was so lousy and ran screaming off to Franklyn-Greerson’s nearest competitor and had hysterics in their lap.” Bet scrutinized Jo’s face with cool amber eyes. “But you knew all that.”

Jo smiled wearily. “I knew the gist of it. Can I have some brandy in this coffee?”

Bet walked to her desk, opened the right-hand bottom drawer, and took out a full bottle of Courvoisier. “He didn’t knock you around did he, Jo?” Her eyes were resting on the fading bruise on Jo’s wrist.

Jo shrugged. “Only verbally last night.”

“You mean he has before?” Bet was vastly intrigued.

Jo smiled. “Not really, I suppose. Sorry to disappoint you, Bet. But he did frighten me. It was as if he’d changed personality completely. It can’t have just been business worries. Hell, I was around when he and Jim first went into partnership. They weathered all sorts of crises then and Nick just took them as a challenge. He wouldn’t let one thing like this change his whole personality!” She gave a little shiver. “He’s acting like someone possessed.”

Bet sat down on the chair behind her desk. She crossed her elegantly trousered legs.

“Do you still love him?”

Jo sipped her coffee. “God knows!”

“Then I suggest you leave the relationship to God for the time being.” Bet scrutinized the soft red leather of her ankle-length boots. “What about thinking about work instead? I haven’t seen your byline on the newsstands for weeks. You only appear to feature as the subject of other people’s articles these days.”

“Bet, I said I was sorry about that-”

“Forget it.” Bet put her elbows on the desk. “I want this story for W I A , Jo. The whole story, as it happens. Matilda’s life story. Not the romantic crap Pete Leveson was spooning out. I want the real version. The blood-and-guts reality. I want exclusive rights from now on. And I’ll pay. I want to serialize more or less as it happens. Right to the bitter end.”

“I don’t know if I’m going on with it, Bet.” Jo reached for the brandy bottle and slowly unscrewed it. “It frightens me so much. I was thinking of going back to Bennet and asking him again to help me forget all about Matilda. I went to Wales, to the places Matilda knew. When I got there I went into a regression spontaneously, without anyone there to hypnotize me. It was as if I were being taken over by her. I couldn’t stop myself.” She bit her lip. “I panicked and came home. It was terrifying, Bet. I couldn’t handle it. I could suddenly see the whole thing getting out of hand, see her life unrolling hour after hour, day after day, taking over my own existence-”

Bet’s eyes were shining. “Exactly! Jo, you’ve got to let it happen. Come on, don’t tell me you don’t want to do it. It’s the scoop of the year. I want to know what it feels like for a twentieth-century woman to go through the time barrier into the dark ages-”

“It’s hardly the dark ages, Bet. The twelfth century was a time of renaissance.” Jo smiled wearily. “And it’s not me who goes back. I am not conscious of myself as having any identity other than that of Matilda at the time. I only make comparisons afterward.”

“Then make them afterward!” Bet picked up a pen and held it in front of her with both hands. “Come on, Jo, it’s not like you to duck out of a challenge. Throw yourself into it. You said you had been to Wales?”

Jo nodded.

“Then go back. Go back now. Concentrate on the story. Don’t fight it. Take this hypnotist man with you if you want to. W I A will pay. I’ll draw you up a contract giving us exclusive rights. You can have three consecutive months. Maximum publicity, TV advertising-cover line, of course. It’s possible a TV series might come out of it-who knows? I’ll talk to one or two people I know at the BBC and see what they think. Come on, Jo. We’re talking about a lot of money apart from anything else.” She paused, giving her a sideways glance. “It’ll get you away from Nick for a bit. That can’t be bad either.”

Jo took a deep breath. “True,” she said. She was torn. The journalist half of her wanted to do it; it was the other half, the deep-rooted private half, which resented Bet’s intrusion, and that half of her was still afraid. She looked thoughtfully past Bet out of the windows toward the river. “What about the rest of my series if I agree?”

“We’ll do one of your other articles on its own if you’ve finished it. Drop the rest of the series for the time being. We can go back to them later.” Bet stood up. She walked around the desk and took the brandy bottle out of Jo’s hand. “Come on, I’ll take you out to lunch. You have to admit it, Jo, it’s a bloody good story. You’re too experienced a journalist not to see that. You once told me you’d like to have been a war correspondent, remember? Now is your chance to prove it. Okay, so you’re taking some risks, but think of the experiences you’ll be having. There is a book in this, Jo. You can base it on our series.” She scooped the strap of her tote bag onto her shoulder. Then she paused. “Listen, why not see if Tim Heacham will meet you down in Wales?” She dropped the bag and turned the phone on her desk to face her. “I’ll call him now.”

“I haven’t agreed yet, Bet.” Jo stood up.

“Yes you have.” Bet grinned as she dialed. “You wouldn’t have come to see me this morning if you’d really wanted to stop. You would have gone straight to your hypnotist. Here”-she held out the phone-“the number is ringing.”

Bet met Pete Leveson for lunch at Langan’s the following Monday. They sat downstairs, both greeting other diners for a few moments before they turned to one another. Pete grinned. “Perrier with a slice of lemon at this time of day, right?”

Bet raised an eyebrow. “That will do for starters.” She sat back in her chair and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m prepared to bet you know why I asked you to meet me here.”

“Hands off Jo Clifford?” Pete leaned back and crossed one long leg over the other. He stared up at the ceiling. “Do you intend to make it worth my while?”

“You mean you want me to trade stories?” Bet glanced at him quizzically.

“Possibly. If you know anything exciting that I don’t.”

Bet laughed out loud. “Touché. Supposing I promise to keep my ear to the ground?” She took up the menu and began to look at it thoughtfully. “There is one favor you might do for me, though, Pete,” she said, not taking her eyes from the list of hors d’oeuvres. “Spend a little time with la petite Curzon. I think you’ll find her grateful.”

“You mean Jo will be grateful if Judy has less time for Nick.”

Bet concealed a smile. “No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. She raised a languid hand to greet a colleague who had appeared in the doorway.

Peter gave her a sharp look. Then he grinned. “I see-and while the cat’s away…She’s gone to Wales, you said?”

Bet nodded. “Tim has gone with her. He’s going to photograph the locations-ruins and mountains and things, and also try and catch Jo while she’s in a trance. You’d be amazed how quickly he agreed to go. He dropped everything-left his entire diary to that dishy George chappie and whatever his other assistant is called, packed his knapsack and went.”

Pete gave a silent whistle. “So that’s the way the wind blows. Does Nick know what is happening?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Nick Franklyn is Jo’s worst enemy in some ways. He distracts her from her work. He turns her neurotic when I want her incisive and militant. He blunts that acerbic edge that makes Jo Jo.”

“Besides which, you’ve fancied him yourself for years.”

Bet gave an enigmatic smile. “Have you tried the nest of quails’ eggs they do here?” she said innocently. “If not, I’d recommend it.”

There was a knock on Jo’s bedroom door. She stood back from her suitcase and stared for a moment out of the dormer window toward the trees that screened the River Wye from her view. “Come in, Tim. I’m just about ready.” Tim appeared, stooping beneath the low sloping ceiling. “You were right about Mrs. Griffiths,” he said in an undertone. “What a gem. I’m glad she had rooms for us.” He wore an open-necked checked shirt and jeans. There was a camera case slung from his shoulder. “Shall we walk up into Hay?”

Jo nodded. She slipped her notebook into her tote bag and followed Tim down the creaking staircase and out onto the sun-baked pavement.

They walked slowly up the road past the church, stopping to stare at the grass-covered tump where once the first castle of Hay had stood, then they made their way toward the bridge that spanned the river. Leaning on the blue-painted railings, they stared down into the water far below.

“You say it happened here the first time?” Tim asked.

Jo nodded. “I was sitting on the shingle down there.”

“And it happened completely spontaneously?”

“I think I knew something was wrong. Things went strange-a bit jerky, as if I were starting a migraine. Then, quite suddenly, I was somewhere else.”

“You want to try again?”

Jo swallowed. “Of course. That’s what we’ve come for. Actually”-she gave Tim a wry smile-“I’d rather have someone there. I think I’ll feel safer somehow. Waking up and finding those people bending over me…I felt as if they had seen me naked.”

Tim nodded soberly. “I do understand. Come on.” He was about to turn away from the rail when he stiffened and leaned farther over, looking down into the bright glitter of the water. “Look. By those streamers of weed.”

Jo felt a shiver touch her shoulders. She clutched the rail, peering down, half expecting to see some shadow from the long-ago past.

“There. See it?” Tim leaned over in excitement. “A huge fish.”

Jo relaxed. She smiled at him in relief. “This is a famous fishing river. You should have brought your rods, if you fish.”

“No way.” Tim followed her toward the far side of the bridge. “I’d hate to kill anything for fun, that’s a sport for the gods. Besides, I shoot as much as I want with my camera.”

She turned in at the swinging gate that led off the road and onto the footpath. “That sounds very philosophical.”

“Perhaps.” He was grinning as he followed her down the footpath through the trees and onto the shingle strip along the river. Slowly Jo led the way to the spot where she had sat before, picking her way over the smooth rocks that lined the bank of the river. She stopped at last on the edge of the shingle once again.

“It was here,” she said.

Tim was watching her. “You don’t have to try to do it now, Jo. We can wait.”

“No. I want to.”

She put her bag down and sat nervously on one of the boulders. She swallowed, staring at the water, not blinking, allowing her eyes to be dazzled, deliberately trying to make her mind a blank.

Beside her Tim squatted silently, his eyes on her face. He was completely relaxed, his long limbs folded with the motionless ease of someone accustomed to the role of watcher. Jo, in contrast, was rigid with tension. He saw her swallow again. She was frowning. “It isn’t going to happen,” she said at last.

“You’re trying too hard,” Tim said easily. “Try to relax.”

“I can’t.” She tore her eyes away from the water to look at him. “I suppose, deep down, I don’t want it to happen. I’m afraid. Last time, sitting here, I was completely relaxed. It was the last thing I expected. Besides, I think I was so exhausted that my mind went a complete blank and that is when it happened.”

“Were you afraid with Dr. Bennet?” Tim smiled easily.

She nodded. “I was afraid but I couldn’t fight his hypnosis. He knew how to approach it obliquely to put me at my ease.”

“You were telling me you read a book on self-hypnosis. What did that tell you to do?”

She grinned wryly. “It was incredibly complicated. To do with separating the two halves of the brain. You have to keep one half distracted while the other half is stimulated. I didn’t read the instructions too carefully at the time, I must confess. It sounded awfully like hard work.”

Tim laughed. “You should have brought it with you. I could have read out the instructions as we went along. I find it hard enough to cope with my brain even when I think it’s working in unison.” He stretched his arms above his head lazily. “Tell me the point Matilda’s story has reached now.”

“Well, here it was rather exciting.” Jo smiled. “She met Richard again. They flew their falcons on the moors somewhere up there behind us, beyond Gyro, and they managed to go off on their own. They made love on the grass, by a mountain stream. Tim? What is it?”

Tim had scrambled to his feet. He walked to the edge of the river, kicking at the ripples with the toe of his shoe. “Nothing.” He stooped, and picking up a small stone, skimmed it across the water. “Come on. Let’s walk up and see your castle. We can always try again another time for a trance.”

“All right. If you want to.” Jo frowned, puzzled by his reaction.

Turning, he smiled at her, extending his hand to pull her to her feet. “I’d like to take some shots with the sun low like this, then why don’t we find a nice pub and grab an early meal?”

“That would be nice.” She picked up her bag and followed him over the stones. “Tim. Do you think I’m mad to pursue this?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? If you are driven to do it, then you must.”

“Driven? By Bet, you mean?”

Laughing, he shook his head. “Driven by something inside you. Matilda herself perhaps, seeking to tell her story.”

Jo shivered. “Do you think she is forcing herself on me? I don’t feel possessed, not even obsessed. I think I’m just curious.”

“Then you can choose.”

“Would you go on if you were me?”

There was a moment’s silence. Tim was looking up at the high bridge, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure. I believe in karma, you see.”

“Destiny?”

“Something like that. To know what has gone before won’t alter what is to come. Perhaps it is better not to know.”

“But I do know.” The words came out as a whisper. “I know what happened from books.”

Tim shook his head. “You don’t know the truth, Jo. You know a few disparate facts. Suppositions. It was too long ago, the characters too poorly documented, to know the truth. The only way you will find that out is to live Matilda’s life again with her.”

“Right up to the bitter end?” Jo thought for a moment. “I don’t think I have the courage. I think I am afraid of death.”

“Even when you are living proof of the fact that death isn’t the end?”

She smiled. “That is begging the question. You are assuming that Matilda was a previous incarnation.”

“I know she was,” Tim said softly.

She stared at him. “You know? Or you would like to think so?”

“I know.”

“Why are you so sure?”

For a moment she thought he was going to tell her, then he shook his head. “One day I’ll explain, Jo. Not yet. Come on, the light’s changing. Let’s get to work.”

They did a complete circle of the castle, photographing it from every angle, in some places close beneath the wall, in others viewing it beyond rooftops and trees, always at a distance.

“Aren’t you going to try to go in?” Tim said, putting one camera away and taking a second one out of his bag.

Jo shook her head. “I don’t think so. At least, not yet. It is so changed, Tim. Even if some of those walls are Matilda’s own, even if she did lay some of the stones with her bare hands, it’s not the same. I found that out at Bramber and Abergavenny. And so much of this is of a later date. No, I don’t want to go inside.”

Tim nodded. “Shall we go and look for a nice pub then?”

Jo had walked a few paces from him, staring up at the high stone wall. They were in Castle Lane, a narrow street where the buildings on the northeast side were overshadowed by the high walls of the ruin that faced them. She was staring up, her eyes focused on an empty arched window high in the crumbling walls.

Quietly Tim raised his camera. She did not notice, her attention riveted to the graying stone.

“Jo?” Tim said quietly after a moment. At first she did not appear to have heard him, then she turned. She smiled uncertainly. “I thought for a minute…”

He was putting his camera away. “Don’t worry about it. It will come if it’s going to. Bill Walton says self-hypnosis is often more effective than the other sort, but you can’t force it, Jo. You will learn or it will come by itself-”

“It’s not self-hypnosis, Tim. I told you, I never tried to do it deliberately except just now by the river.” She stopped abruptly. “When did you talk to Bill Walton about it?”

“A few days ago.” He led the way around the foot of the wall. “I…” He glanced back at her sheepishly. “I had a go myself.”

Jo stared at him. “You mean you were regressed?”

He nodded.

“And?”

“It didn’t work.” He lifted his camera bag on his shoulder. “Come on, I want food.”

How could he tell her about what had happened in that shadowed upstairs room in Richmond? The whirling blackness, the despair, the fear and anger that had possessed him, the sense of overpowering frustration and, at last, the realization of failure that had pursued him through life after life, as he spun, without identity, down through the centuries.

He shook his head wearily, following Jo back down the steep pavement that led from the High Town down toward the river. He had gone back. Twice. And on neither occasion had he been coherent or cooperative. The second time he had cried. He knew he would not try again.

The church was very cool after the heat of the morning. After letting themselves in, Jo and Tim stared around.

“There she is,” Jo whispered. Near the west wall lay the remains of a huge, worn stone effigy, barely recognizable as human. They approached it slowly and Jo stooped and rested her hand on the stone. “Moll Walbee,” she said quietly. “I wonder if it is her.”

Tim was looking at the leaflet he had picked up by the church door. “It says not here,” he said. “It says it is the figure of an unknown monk.”

They both stood in silence looking at the almost featureless figure before them, its worn head resting on a pillow of stone. Tim chuckled. “If it was her you can see why she was reputed to have been a giant. That bit alone must be over four feet long and it’s only half of her-or him.” He raised his camera and took a shot of Jo as she crouched down over the figure, her hands resting on the smooth stone, her eyes lowered, her long dark hair hanging loose over her shoulders.

She closed her eyes, trying to will some kind of warmth into the cold hardness beneath her hands. The church was completely silent. Tim did not move, watching the woman who, in her cool green linen dress, was as unmoving as the recumbent figure beside her, her tanned skin taking on the tones from the shadows of the nave. He found he was shivering and he fingered the top buttons of his shirt, drawing them together almost defensively.

Jo’s eyes were still closed. He stared at the dark lashes lying on her cheeks and fought the sudden urge to touch her shoulder.

“Oh, Christ! Why won’t it happen!” Jo cried suddenly. She slammed her fists down on the effigy. “I’ve got to know, Tim. I’ve got to. If it won’t happen here, where will it?” She stared around the church. “I’ll have to go back to Carl Bennet. I thought I could manage without him-I wanted to do it alone-”

“Perhaps that’s it, Jo,” Tim said quietly. “Perhaps you need to be alone. Perhaps its because I’m here.”

“Perhaps it is.” She swung to face him. “Perhaps it’s because I want to cash in on it. I wanted to follow Bet’s advice and do the articles for her. When she mentioned a book and even TV the idea excited me. I wanted to use all this, Tim. And it has spoiled it. It has made it contrived. Like you and your camera. You have no place here, Tim!”

“I have, Jo.” He turned away from her and sat down in one of the pews, staring up toward the dark triple-arched chancel, with his back to her. “I do have a place here.”

“I don’t believe you.” She glared at him. “I should never have asked you to come!” She scrambled to her feet and ran toward the door, pulling it open and disappearing out into the sunshine.

Behind her, Tim sat unmoving, listening to the echoing silence as the sound of the falling latch died beneath the church’s vaulted roof.

Jo walked swiftly across the grass, swinging her bag, seeing it scattering the seedheads of the dandelions as she headed toward the overgrown untended half of the churchyard that sloped down steeply around the north side of the church. Somewhere nearby she could hear the gurgling of a brook. It was very hot indeed. The morning haze had cleared away and the full heat of the sun beat down on the top of her head.

She could feel the sudden perspiration on her back and between her breasts as she stopped and looked around. The churchyard was deserted. There was no sign of Tim. With a sigh she pushed her way through knee-high wild grasses, threaded with meadowsweet and campion and buttercups, and sat down on one of the ancient lichen-covered tombs, beneath a yew tree, dropping her bag on the grass. She opened the top buttons of her shirtwaist and turned back the collar, lifting the hair off her neck as she stared up through the thick green of the tree toward the metallic blue of the sky. It was here, or somewhere very close to this spot, that Jeanne was buried. She could hear the drowsy cooing of a woodpigeon in a tree nearby.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back, letting the dappled sunlight play across her face.

The hall of the castle was crowded, wisped with smoke from the fires as the diners sat at the long tables. It was the autumn of 1187.

Matilda was seated at the high table, next to her husband, and on her right was Gerald, Archdeacon of Brecknock. Beyond William was Baldwin, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Gerald leaned toward her with a cheerful grin. “His Grace looks tired. He did not expect his preaching of the Third Crusade in Hay to be greeted by a riot!”

Matilda smiled. “The men of Hay so eager to follow the cross, their wives so eager to stop them! It was ever so, I fear.” She broke off, biting her lip. William had been conspicuous among the men of the Border March in not volunteering to go to rescue the Holy City from Saladin.

Gerald noticed her silence at once and guessed the reason for it. “The king has need of Sir William at home, my lady,” he said gently. “Your husband will give money to the cause, which is as welcome as his sword.”

“Even Lord Rhys and Einion of Elfael pledged their swords!” Matilda retorted. “And William dares to call them savages-” She broke off, glancing at William to see if he had heard, and hastily changed the subject. “Tell me about yourself, Archdeacon. Are you content? You seem to be high in the archbishop’s favor.”

His piercing eyes had lost none of their alertness and never ceased probing the men around him, but now they confronted her quietly as he wiped his lips on his napkin and reached for his wine. “I am never content, Lady Matilda. You should know that by now. I serve the king and I serve the archbishop, but I will confess to you a certain restlessness, a lack of fulfillment.” He put down his goblet so abruptly it slopped on the linen cloth. “God needs me as bishop of St. David’s!” he said vehemently. “Wales needs me there. And yet, still I wait!” He took a deep breath, steadying himself with an effort. “But I have continued with my work. And always I write. That has brought me much solace.” He glanced past her at the archbishop. “Tomorrow we go on to my house at Llanddeu. The archbishop has graciously consented to spend the night there before going on to Brecknock and I have decided to present him with my work on the topography of Ireland. Did you know I was there with Prince John three years ago?” He shook his head wearily. “A fiasco that expedition turned out and no mistake, but it showed me Ireland again. And my book has been well received.”

“You sound as though you dislike the king’s youngest son,” Matilda said cautiously, lowering her voice again.

Gerald shrugged. “One does not like or dislike. He offered me two bishoprics there. But I want St. David’s, so I declined them.” He smiled ruefully. “He is young yet, but he is spoiled. I think he is intelligent and shrewd, but he showed himself no campaigner in Ireland. Perhaps Normandy will teach him something.”

He turned and waved a page forward, holding out his cup to be refilled with wine. “But now, with two of his elder brothers dead, John becomes a man of importance. He is nearer the throne now than he might ever have hoped. His father is old, Geoffrey’s son is a child.” He shook his head mournfully. “And Prince Richard is not yet married, in spite of all. John may yet come to be a force to be reckoned with.”

Matilda shivered. “I don’t trust him.”

Gerald smiled at her shrewdly. “Nor I, my dear. We shall just have to hope that maturity will bring better counsel.” He folded his napkin and placed it on the table. “Now let us speak of pleasanter things. Tell me how your family are. What is the news here?”

Matilda frowned, troubled again. “There I need your advice. You spoke with the Prince Rhys ap Gruffydd yesterday. Is he a good man, do you think?”

Gerald frowned. “A strange question. As you said, he vowed to take up the cross.” He smiled at her. “And his son-in-law, Einion, too. I remember you feared him once, for your children’s sake.” He put his hand on hers as it lay on the table. “But it’s not just that, I can see. What troubles you, my lady?”

“He and William have been discussing an alliance.” She looked down at the white cloth, her mouth set in a hard line. “He wants my little Matilda as wife for his son Gruffydd. William has told me that whatever he thinks of the Welsh he will agree. It is the king’s wish.”

Gerald shrugged. “Gruffydd,” he mused, “is named his father’s heir. He’s not as handsome as his brother Cwnwrig, but he’s tall and strong and he’s able to cope with the quarrels with his brothers. They fight endlessly, you know, the sons of Rhys. They turn the poor man white-haired with worry. He’d probably make the child a good husband.”

“I’m afraid for her, Gerald. I have kept my children safe from Einion and from the rest of Seisyll’s kinsmen and now I’m to be asked to give her to Rhys with my own hands.” She turned to him, suddenly passionate. “Swear to me, Archdeacon. Will she be safe?”

Gerald raised his hand placatingly. “How can I swear? I know Rhys to be a man of excellent wit. He’s honest, discreet, I believe him to be sincere in his quest for peace. More than that I can’t say, although he is my cousin. He wants this marriage obviously to seal this uneasy peace we have on the borders, to make sure the galanas never reappears between your houses. I suspect the power of de Braose is the nearest challenge to his, so he is anxious to secure a peace with you. What better way than by marriage? But all you can have is his promise. It is more than many mothers get.”

He glanced down the hall to where ten-year-old Matilda ate at one of the lower tables with her nurse. Her two eldest brothers, William and Giles, were pages now in neighboring households, as was the custom, while Reginald, her third brother, hovered at a high table proudly serving the archbishop. Matilda’s two youngest children, Isobel and Margaret, were in the nursery lodgings in the west tower. They were a happy, healthy brood of children, some of whom Gerald himself had baptized. He glanced fondly at their mother. She was a young woman, still no more than twenty-six or seven, he guessed, as erect and slim as ever in spite of all the children. He watched her for a moment as she too gazed down the hall at Matilda. It was a miracle that she had not as yet had to bear the grief of the death of a child. He sent up a brief prayer that she would never be broken by such a loss.

Matilda’s gaze went down through the smoky torch-lit hall to fix on her daughter’s face and, as if feeling her mother’s scrutiny, little Tilly raised her eyes. They were clear, almost colorless gray. For a long moment mother and daughter looked at one another. Then Tilly turned away.

Matilda felt her heart tighten beneath her ribs. Always that indifference, that unspoken rejection.

Her thoughts spiraled back to Jeanne, all those years before. It is the child herself who will betray your secret . But how could she, when she didn’t know?

Matilda bit her lip. In the last ten long years she had seen to it that she and Richard had never again been alone together. She had ignored the longing in his eyes and fiercely resisted the anguished burning of her own body. There was no way that Tilly could ever have guessed how much her mother loved the courteous, handsome visitor who from time to time came to see them at one or other of their castles.

“You sigh, my lady.” Gerald brought her attention gently back to himself. “There is no need. I feel sure Gruffydd will be kind to her.”

Matilda forced herself to smile. She nodded. “You are right, of course, Archdeacon.” She felt his eyes probing hers and immediately her wary fear returned that he could read her thoughts; that he might even suspect that Tilly wasn’t William’s child. Desperately she tried to distract him, suddenly very afraid.

“Tell me, Archdeacon, do you intend to write a book about your trip around Wales with His Grace, the Archbishop?” she asked quietly. “It would make a fascinating account, I feel sure. You could include that shameful scene in the churchyard at St. Mary’s this afternoon.” She smiled and saw at once that the bait was taken. His eyes lit up and he was leaning toward her, his face intense with excitement.

Surreptitiously she glanced back toward her eldest daughter’s table. Sure enough, the huge gray eyes were once more focused on her mother’s face. This time Matilda saw not indifference in the child’s face, but fear and-was it longing?

The candlelight was flickering in her eyes. Angrily she raised her hand to her face, shielding it as she turned back to Gerald, but he wasn’t there. A figure was kneeling before her in the sunlight, camera raised. She blinked.

“Tim?”

“Welcome back.” He took another picture and then reluctantly lowered the camera.

“How long have I been sitting here?”

“About an hour.”

“I was at dinner…”

“With Giraldus Cambrensis. I am very impressed with your friends.”

Jo stared at him. “How do you know?”

“I asked you where you were. You seemed to hear me quite clearly. You talked very logically, describing what happened here in the churchyard-the riot and the way the archbishop had to race back to the castle, and the incident where a man tried to get through the gate to give his oath to take up the cross and only made it at the cost of losing his trousers-” He chuckled. “You know of course that Gerald took your advice. He wrote an account of his trip through Wales-the Itinerary , it’s called. It is still in print today.” He grinned.

“And you photographed me?”

“That is what I’m here for, Jo.”

She bit her lip. “It makes me feel so vulnerable.”

“Only your expression.”

“Did I talk about my daughter?”

“You did.” Tim stood up abruptly, dusting the grass from his knees. “The child who made a cuckold of de Braose.”

Jo started visibly. “I said that?”

“You must have, love, mustn’t you?” His voice was very dry. “Imagine little Tilly going to marry a Welsh prince.”

“If she did.” Jo rose stiffly from her uncomfortable seat on the old tombstone. “My grandfather reckoned the Cliffords were descended from a Welsh prince, Tim. Perhaps that is how it happened. Perhaps after all, Matilda was an ancestor of mine. Matilda and Richard de Clare!” She paused for a moment, savoring the thought.

Tim smiled almost wistfully. “And you are pleased that you can still go back into the past?”

She nodded. “I have to find out what happened. Whether Tilly married Rhys’s son. In a way I hope she did. I’m beginning to feel rather pro-Welsh-I like the idea that I could be descended from a prince. Perhaps I could call David Pugh and ask him to look it up in his books. I promised I would call them while we were down here. But dear God! To sacrifice such a child to dynastic ambition. It was cruel.”

“You said she was a strange little girl?”

Jo nodded. “She was distant. Cold. Self-possessed. Not like the boys who romped around like puppies. Yet not like Richard either.” She glanced up at him with a rueful little smile.

“Did William ever find out she wasn’t his?”

Jo shrugged. “I can’t see into the future, Tim. It doesn’t say so in the books that I know of, but I can’t believe that he didn’t guess. She was so different from the others. So fair.”

“And Richard was fair?”

Jo nodded. “Fairish.”

“And you are still fond of him?”

“Matilda, you mean? She still loved him.” Her voice betrayed sudden pain. “That was why Tilly was so special.” She picked a stem of soft creamy meadowsweet from the long grass near her, twisting it between her fingers.

Tim was watching her with half-closed eyes. “Where does Nick fit into all this, Jo?” he asked suddenly.

She stared at him. “Nick? He has nothing to do with it.”

“Are you sure?” He began to lead the way slowly through the grass toward the wrought-iron gates that led out of the churchyard into the road. “I think he is involved-I think he is also living again. As I am, Jo.”

She stopped dead. “Is that why you went to see Bill Walton? To see if you had lived at the same time as me?”

Tim nodded slowly.

“But you said it didn’t work.”

“That wasn’t quite true, Jo. I didn’t go into a full-blown regression like you, but something did happen. It’s not the first time, you see. I’ve had a feeling for a long time that I’ve lived before. Not just once, but many times. I’ve read a lot about it-particularly about Buddhism-and I’ve been taught to meditate and to try to contact my past incarnations through meditation. The Tim Heacham no one knows!” His smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I thought it might help me to come to terms with the present if I could find myself in the past. I went to see Bill to see if he could make things a bit clearer.”

“And did he?” Jo whispered.

He shook his head. “I went back twice after I went with you, hoping he could sort me out. But my alter egos or whatever you like to call them were too angry, too unforgiving, to emerge peacefully.” He snapped off a frond from a sweeping branch of yew as they walked slowly past it. “My previous incarnations were full of anguish, Jo. Full of failure and betrayal.”

“But who were you?” Jo was staring at him. “Why don’t I recognize you?”

Tim grinned bitterly. “Perhaps because we were not destined to play a part together. Then or now.”

“And you think Nick is?”

Tim eyed her silently. Then he nodded.

Jo swallowed nervously. “Nick’s been behaving very strangely. I wonder if he suspects.”

“He would have to be very unimaginative not to.”

“Who was he, Tim?”

Tim shrugged. “You have the cast list, not me. The only thing we both know is that you don’t seem to resemble Matilda physically all that much. You’re not her double or anything-at least, not as far as you know, are you?”

Jo smiled. “Well, I’m not eight feet tall, as David said she was!”

“But your hair, your eyes. If you were in a film, would you and she be played by the same actress?”

“I don’t know. I’m darker, I think. Matilda’s hair was much brighter-almost auburn. I don’t know about her eyes. I don’t remember ever staring at myself in a mirror for long-the mirrors weren’t very good, anyway. They were metal, not glass. You’d have to ask someone.”

“Richard de Clare?” He smiled gravely.

She laughed. “Well, not William, that’s for sure. Oh, Tim, I’m not the right person for this to happen to! I’ve no sense of destiny. I think karma and kismet and things like that are a load of bullshit. Easy ways out. ‘If it’s destiny, then there’s nothing I can do about it.’ That’s a copout. Not for me.”

“And, of course, you have never had the feeling that you’ve been here before.”

“Never! I don’t believe in sentiment and woolly romanticism, Tim. I’m Jo Clifford, remember?”

“How could I forget?” He rumpled her hair affectionately. “So you mean to fight destiny if it dares to rear its woolly romantic head in your direction?”

Jo nodded emphatically. Then she frowned. “You think it will?”

He nodded, not smiling. “I think it already has, Jo. I think the cast is assembling. We know that something pretty grim happened to Matilda. She was betrayed by her husband and by her friends and she was murdered, probably at the king’s orders. Maybe-just maybe-her soul has been crying out for justice.”

“Tim!” Jo stared at him, appalled. She shuddered. “You’re not serious!”

For a moment he said nothing, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them as they turned out of the churchyard and followed the wall toward the town center, then he grinned. “It’s a hell of a dramatic theme for your book!”

“It’s horrible. It’s grotesque. You think you’re here for me to get my revenge on you? You and who else, for God’s sake? Who do you think Nick was?”

“I told you, I don’t know. Forget it, Jo! Calm down. I was only joking.”

“You weren’t. You were damn serious. So tell me. Who else is involved?”

He shrugged. “I really can’t even guess. Perhaps Judy? Perhaps Bet? People you know. Pete Leveson?”

“And Nick.”

He nodded. “And Nick.”

“And you think Matilda is out for revenge, through me?”

Tim stopped. He caught her arms and spun her around so the sun was shining directly into her face. For several seconds he stared at her intently, then released her. “No. No, I don’t think she is. I think you are as helpless in this as the rest of us.” He touched her cheek gently with his finger.

“I was sorry to hear about the Desco account.” Bet met Nick’s gaze challengingly in the dim light of the saloon bar. Behind him along the edge of the canopy over the beer pumps a line of pewter tankards gleamed softly. They swung gently in unison as a tall head brushed against one and the burnished surfaces winked and rippled.

Nick inclined his head slightly. “I hope to be replacing it almost at once.”

Bet smiled. “I’ve no doubt you will. But you must keep a tighter rein on that partner of yours.”

Nick frowned. There were taut lines of strain around his eyes. He looked pale and tired. “It was bad luck, Bet. No more.”

“There’s no room for bad luck in this game, Nick. You know that as well as I do. Tell me.” She changed the subject almost too abruptly. “How is Jo?”

She was watching him closely but his expression gave nothing away. He raised his glass slowly. “As far as I know she is well.”

“Some time ago you asked me to suppress an article she wanted to write.”

Nick swallowed his drink and put the glass down, fitting it meticulously into the wet ring it had left on the table. He smiled coldly. “A request you saw fit to ignore.”

“I am Jo’s editor, Nick. Not her wet nurse. If she wants to write something and I think it is good, I’ll publish it. It is good. Damn good. And you know it.”

“Good for the circulation of W I A maybe.” Nick’s eyes narrowed suddenly, and, meeting his gaze, Bet felt herself shiver. “You’re a selfish bitch, Bet Gunning,” Nick went on. There was no venom in his voice, but nevertheless she shifted uneasily in her seat.

“No. I’m a damn good editor.”

“Maybe. I’m glad I’m not one of your writers.”

“You could be.” She held his gaze steadily. “Your version of what’s happening to Jo.”

For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. His eyes seemed to be looking straight through her, then abruptly he beckoned the bartender. He ordered new drinks for them both.

“Where is Jo?” he said at last.

She drew her new glass toward her. “Out of London.”

“Did she tell you what happened?”

“Between you? Yes.”

“And you believed her, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Are you going to tell me where she is?”

“No.”

“I’ll try to find her, you know.”

“She’s working, Nick. Give her a break. She’s a first-rate journalist and her work is important to her. So is finding out about this Lady Matilda. You can’t stop her. She is going to the top and either you’ve got to learn to live with it, or you’ve got to find yourself another woman.”

Nick was watching her thoughtfully. “And you are available?”

She smiled. “I could be.”

“What about Tim Heacham? I thought you and he were living together.”

She shook her head. “I’ve cooked him Saturday supper and Sunday lunch from time to time. It amused us both, but he’s got other arrangements at the moment.” She smiled knowingly. Then she leaned forward and put her hand on his knee. “Shall I cook you dinner this evening?”

“Not this evening, Bet.” He smiled faintly. “I’m flattered and of course I’m tempted, but just at the moment I have other plans. And they involve Jo.”

Bet moved away from him slightly. “So. Do you love her?”

He didn’t reply immediately.

“She’s with Tim. But of course you’d guessed that,” she said softly. She watched for his reaction through narrowed eyes.

He gave a half smile. “She’s not interested in Tim. If he’s with her it’s for work. Are they in Hay?”

“You’re not thinking of going down there?” Bet was watching his eyes. The harshness had returned and it made her uneasy.

“I may.” He pushed away his glass. The drink was barely touched. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He stood up. Gently he put his hand on Bet’s wrist as she toyed with the stem of her glass. “I nearly killed Jo the other night. Did she tell you that, Ms. Gunning? We weren’t playing your sophisticated games. She wasn’t enjoying what I did to her, but she had mocked me. She slept around, then taunted me with what she had done. She’s playing a dangerous game. So if you see her before I do, you had better warn her of the fact.” He turned toward the door, then he stopped and looked back at her. “Did she tell you she had been playing the field?”

Bet shook her head. “She hasn’t, Nick, I’m sure-”

“You’re sure?” He took a step back toward her. “You’ve sent her off with Tim Heacham, knowing he’d give his right arm to sleep with her.”

Bet kept a tight rein on her anger. “Jo doesn’t sleep around and you know it.”

“She told me about it, Bet.” He gave her a look of withering contempt. “She bragged about it.”

Bet stared at him. “Who is it?” she whispered.

His knuckles went white as he clenched his fists. “Richard,” he said softly. “His name is Richard.”

She stared after him as he turned away out of the gilded swinging doors. Already the seat next to hers had been taken and someone was hovering waiting for hers. “Richard?” she repeated in a whisper. “Christ Almighty, Nick! Richard is a ghost!”

She took a cab back to the office, paying the driver with shaking hands, then she caught the elevator up to her office, not even hearing the cheerful banter of one of her colleagues as he got in beside her.

In her office she slammed the door and reached for the phone. The number Jo had given her was scribbled in the back of her address binder.

She bit her lip as the phone rang, hitching herself up onto the desk. “Mrs. Griffiths?” she said at last as the number was answered. “Please, I must speak to Miss Clifford. Is she there?”

“I’m sorry. She and the gentleman have left.” The Welsh voice rang out loud and clear in the quiet office. “Going on to Raglan, they were.”

“Raglan?” After putting down the receiver, Bet stared at it blankly. “Dear God, I hope it’s a long way away.”

She stood up and walked across to the window, gnawing her thumbnail as she stared down at the broad glitter of the Thames. In spite of the heat of the afternoon she was feeling very cold.

Tim was gazing up at the massive gray ruins of Raglan Castle. “I’m glad your friend Pugh told us to come here,” he said in awe. “It’s magnificent.” Then he glanced at her sideways. “But you don’t have to tell me. It’s not your castle.”

Jo laughed softly. “It was too long ago, Tim. Of course everything has changed. Let’s stay out here on the grass-just for now.”

He looked longingly over his shoulder at the castle. “Why don’t I go away? I could leave you to it, while I explore.”

She nodded. “Good idea.”

He looked down at her fondly as she knelt on the mossy grass, then, camera in hand, he turned away and strode up the steep bank toward the enormous walls.

Jo closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking slightly as she tried deliberately to empty her mind. The castle grounds were silent. The air was heavy, the sky soft with deep black cloud. It was very hot. She forced her eyes open slowly, staring down at the grass, feeling the heat and her exhaustion overtake her, suddenly fighting sleep.

Tim was coming back. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him walking toward her, tall, loose-limbed. She frowned. It was too soon; it should have taken him hours to go around the castle and she wasn’t ready. Behind him she saw a flicker of lightning dance for a moment behind the majestic walls of the castle, lighting up the windows as though candles still burned there against the black of the sky. Then she heard the music of a harp.