Lady of Hay

24

Matilda was standing resting her hand on the stones of the new high wall of Radnor Castle. It seemed strange that she could look out at the Welsh tents all around the castle, a sight she dreamed of with dread for so long, and yet know them to be friends. The red prancing lion flag of Prince Rhys flew gaily in the cold wind near them, as she looked down at her small daughter, who stood shivering at her side, her fur-lined mantle whipped open by the wind.

“Well.” She smiled. “To think my little girl is to be a princess.”

Tilly uncharacteristically groped for her mother’s hand, giving rather than seeking comfort. “I like Lord Rhys. He sent me a necklace of crystals.” The child gazed out toward the tents and pavilions encamped around them in the valley, her eyes shining. “And I’m to have a white pony with scarlet harness and John Spang, the prince’s fool, has promised me two puppies from his own bitch. I like him.”

Matilda was staring at the heavy cloud that hung over the encircling mountains, her heart heavy as Tilly prattled on. Then she stooped and kissed the top of her little girl’s head. “You’ll be happy in your new home, Tilda. Lord Rhys will be a kind father.” Her voice broke at the word, and she fiercely blinked back her tears, turning her face away.

“Can I go and play with ’Sbel and Margaret now?” The child was itching to run off, uncomfortable as she sensed her mother’s tightly controlled misery, not understanding.

Matilda forced herself to smile. “Of course, darling. Run along. I’ll come and kiss you good night later.”

She did not let herself watch the small head as it darted from her side and ran down the stairs inside the thick wall. Instead she turned back to watching the bleak hills beneath the threatening sky.

It was not until very late that she took a candle and climbed slowly, her heavy blue kirtle gathered in her hand, to the little girls’ bedroom high beneath the stone roof of the main keep. Tilly was already asleep, worn out with excitement, in the big bed that she shared with her sisters. Matilda tiptoed toward the bed and saw Eleanor, the children’s nurse, sitting in the shadows beside the dying fire. The girl was sobbing quietly into her apron.

Matilda stopped, her heart beating fast. “What is it, girl? Why are you crying?” Her voice was sharper than she intended.

Eleanor jumped and raised a reddened face from her lap. “Oh, my lady!” She screwed up her kerchief and rubbed her eyes with it. “My lady. I don’t want to leave you all and go to them heathens.” She hugged herself as the tears began to fall again.

Matilda felt her heart sink, the tears rising unbidden behind her own lids. She swallowed hard. “Don’t talk such nonsense, Eleanor. Rhys is a good Christian prince. And he is a kind man. I should never let a child of mine go to him otherwise.” She dropped her voice suddenly. “I hope you didn’t let Tilda see you cry like that.”

“Of course not, my lady.” Eleanor sniffed indignantly. “I would never let her, she’s so happy about going.” She dissolved into tears again.

Matilda crossed to the bed, looking at the three sleeping heads: Tilda serene and pale; Margaret with her shock of copper hair tossed on the pillow, so like her mother in miniature; and little frail Isobel, no more than a baby, so happy to be promoted to her sisters’ bed, not realizing she had come so that Margaret should not suddenly be alone. Margaret had her arm protectively around the little girl’s shoulders. But Tilly slept apart, her back to the others. Matilda wondered if she even realized that tomorrow she was to leave them. She sank slowly to her knees beside the bed, swallowing hard, and, crossing herself quietly, she began to pray, suppressing the sudden treacherous thought that far away in Deheubarth Tilly would be able to betray neither her mother nor her true father.

The wedding ceremonies were over and the feast had already lasted an age. Matilda looked anxiously at her little daughter sitting in the place of honor next to her husband. Gruffydd was a good-looking young man, rather florid, with tightly curling golden hair. He drank often and deeply and ate hungrily from the platter he shared with his new wife. Tilly had touched almost nothing. She looked around her with unnaturally brilliant eyes, a deep flush on her usually pallid cheeks. The crystals at her throat gleamed and reflected from the candelabra on the table and the pure gold band in her hair glowed on the silk veil. She looked, among the solid men and robust women at the high table, like a delicate little fairy. Matilda eyed the Princess Gwenllian, Gruffydd’s mother, a raw-boned woman with eyes rather too close together over the high-bridged nose, with unease. But she saw the woman lean over and pat Tilda kindly on the shoulder, her eyes smiling, and she felt a little reassured.

The wedding celebrations continued for several days, and then at last came the morning when the Welsh party began to pack their tents and shelters. Matilda and William in Rhys’s great pavilion gravely kissed their solemn little daughter and her tall groom and watched as with Prince Rhys and his glittering throng of followers they mounted and prepared for the ride to Rhys’s palace of Llandovery in Cantref Bychan.

“So that seals the peace as long as King Henry lives, at least,” William commented tersely as they rode away.

Matilda turned to him, her heart growing suddenly cold at his tone. “And if the king should die, what then?”

William shrugged. “Who knows? We’ll pray he lives long and heartily. If he should die and Rhys and his sons do not acknowledge his heir, then I will have played my hand badly.” He frowned. “Tilda will be all right, whatever happens. They will keep her away from the fighting if there is any. But, by God, if they try to use her against me…” He left his threat unspoken.

Matilda found herself gazing at him in blank despair. Had he then washed his hands of the child the day she went to another man’s table? Was she nothing to him any longer other than a pawn that he might have carelessly let slip in a chess game of far more important pieces? She gazed into William’s eyes and shuddered. If his eldest daughter could look to no mercy from him, who could? She silently prayed that none of the rest of her children should find themselves dependent on his mercy one day; nor she herself.

Miserably she looked over her shoulder, back toward the west, where the sun was sinking in a blaze of gold behind Lord Rhys’s mountains. Somewhere there, Tilda was alone.

“Jo, don’t cry, love.” The voice was gentle. She felt an arm around her shoulders. Tim was bringing her back, but she didn’t want to come. Frantically she resisted him, fighting to regain the world from which he was dragging her. She could still see the countryside wrapped in forest below the castle wall on which she stood, while superimposed on it, like a shadow, were the ruined masses of another castle. The sky flickered with lightning and she felt the scene shift gear before her eyes. The wall beneath her hand had gone; she found she was clawing at the grass.

“I want to know how Tilly is,” she cried miserably. “I must know. I must find out what happened to her-”

“Jo, you will find out.” Tim pulled her against him gently. “But later. Not now. Get up, love. It’s beginning to rain. We’ll go back to the car and find somewhere to stay, all right?” Carefully he pulled her to her feet.

Still dazed, she clung to him as her knees threatened to give way. She had begun to shake violently.

Tim almost carried her back to her car, pushing her into the passenger seat as the rain began to fall in earnest, then he let himself in on the driver’s side. “I’ll find a hotel for us, shall I?” he said gently. “A hot bath and a good dinner is what you need.”

He glanced at her as he leaned forward to turn on the ignition. She was lying back in her seat, her eyes closed, her face pale with exhaustion. “No more, Jo,” he said softly. “It’s taking too much out of you.”

She smiled faintly. “I’ll be okay. After a good night’s sleep. I’m just so very, very tired.”

He drove for about twenty minutes through narrow lanes in the teeming rain before drawing up outside a long white-painted, stone-built inn. He peered through the windshield wipers at it and grinned. “It looks nice. I can almost smell that dinner.”

Jo smiled. “Lead on then,” she said. But it was with an effort that she climbed out of the car after him.

The landlord was a tall, florid man of about fifty, who greeted them like long-lost friends. “The best dinner in Gwent, I can give you,” he said to Tim with confidential modesty as Jo sank onto the settle in the dark hallway. “And I’ve a cellar here would make some of your London hotels green with envy, man. There’s only one problem. I’ve just got the one room free, see? A double it is. But just the one.”

Tim glanced at Jo. Then he nodded. “We’ll take it.”

She did not protest.

A hot bath and a change of clothes in the low-ceilinged whitewashed bedroom and Jo was beginning to feel herself again. She grinned at Tim. “I’ll toss you for that sofa thing later.”

He grimaced. “You won’t have to. I’ll do the gentlemanly thing and volunteer.”

They both looked at the small two-seater settle by the window with its worn toile de jouet cover. Jo laughed. “And you over six feet tall. Perhaps we can put a bolster down the bed in the best tradition.”

“No need. I shall take a temporary oath of abstinence. Anything that would be more comfortable than this bed of Procrustes.” He slapped the arm of the sofa.

“I’ll trust you then.” She laughed. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

The meal was all they had been promised and more. Looking around the small dining room, Tim let out a contented groan. “I shall recommend this place to Egon Ronay.”

Jo leaned forward to top up his wineglass. “Don’t. It will be swamped with horrible townees and spoiled. This must stay a secret. Just ours.” She yawned. “But, nice as it is, Tim, I think I’m going to have to go to bed. I’m completely exhausted.”

He nodded. “I think you should. You still look shattered. Go on up, Jo. As it’s stopped raining I shall go for a bit of a walk.”

Jo stumbled up the narrow twisting staircase to their room. Snapping on the light, she stared around it. There was little furniture. The large old-fashioned bed, with a candlewick bedspread, an Edwardian dressing table and chair, and the settee by the window. On the polished floor there was a rush mat. With a sigh she slipped off her clothes and put on her thin silk bathrobe. She brushed her hair slowly, then, after pulling one of the books from her tote bag, she flung herself down by the window.

The casement was open, looking out over a small back garden. Beyond the drystone wall the hillside stretched downward into the shadows of the valley. In the silence she thought she could hear the sound of a stream out of sight in the darkness. Slowly she opened the book, frowning as a moth dived in through the window and blundered toward the lamp at her elbow. The volume was a biography of King John. She looked at the picture of him on the cover. It showed an elegant stone effigy, wearing a crown. She turned slowly to the illustrations in the book, staring at statues, sketches, illuminations, even coins. One thing they all seemed to agree about. John had been a good-looking man. A straight nose, a firm mouth-frequently bearded-and deep-set arrogant eyes. She half closed her eyes with a shiver. This was the man who had ordered Matilda’s death.

She glanced up at the window again, staring at the raindrops as they fell, huge and wet, onto the sill. Then with an effort she tore her gaze away. She forced her eyes open as slowly the book slid from her hands to the floor. She did not try to pick it up. She stared around the room. The walls appeared to be moving slightly in the shadows; the floor rippled. She pushed herself up on the sofa, clutching at its back, and put her hands over her eyes, rubbing them violently, trying to swing her feet to the mat, but somehow they would not obey her. They felt heavy, as if they no longer belonged to her. Her head was hammering and once again she was conscious of a strange flickering behind her eyes. Exhausted, she fell back, her head on the shiny material of the sofa arm, and, defeated, she closed her eyes.

The borders shimmered beneath the burnished August sky as Matilda and William and their attendants rode toward Marlborough for the royal wedding. It was a long time since Matilda had thought about the girl who was soon to become John’s wife. It pained her to think of the child she remembered-small, frail, and very frightened-being linked forever with the volatile prince, a prince who was now heir to the throne after his father’s death and the succession of his brother, Richard.

The Downs reflected the beating sunlight as the horses wearily made their way toward the encampment around the abbey outside the walls of Marlborough. The pennants and the flags hung limp and unmoving from the tents and flagstaffs. Everywhere horses and men stood dejected and exhausted in the heat. In the center of the encampment the royal pavilion stood open and empty. Prince John had taken a few companions and gone into the forests, seeking the cool of the shade.

In the Countess of Gloucester’s quarters, late at night, after William had gone off to roister with the prince and his cronies, Matilda found Isabella, seated quiet and pale before a polished mirror, looking in something like wonder as a lady combed out her pale silver hair, fingering her silky tresses as though she had never seen them before. Beside her on the stool sat another girl, almost as fair, almost as delicate; a little taller, with watchful dark eyes. She was patting her sister’s arm reassuringly when Matilda was shown in, and Matilda saw her eyes at once seek her own in the mirror, hostile and suspicious. This then was Amicia, Isabella’s sister, the girl who, she now knew for sure, was to marry Richard de Clare.

Refusing to meet the glance in the mirror, Matilda went to put her arm around Isabella’s thin shoulders and dropped a kiss on the fair head.

Isabella looked up and smiled weakly. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Matilda took the comb from the maid and gently continued combing, drawing the fair hair back from the girl’s hot face.

“And you’ll attend me tomorrow, in the abbey?”

“Of course.” Matilda tried to smile at Amicia. “Do you attend your sister too?” she asked quietly.

At once the eyelids were lowered. Amicia nodded meekly. “I do my duty, madam, as my mother demands of me.”

“Where is Lady Gloucester?” Matilda couldn’t help wondering why the woman wasn’t with her daughter at a time like this.

Amicia shrugged. “We see little of our lady mother, madam. Since our father died, she prefers the company of men and, of course, of the prince.” Her voice was heavy suddenly with innuendo. In the mirror Matilda saw the younger sister blanch. The girl’s hands, clasped in her lap, were white at the knuckles, and she felt a rush of sympathetic anger. It was insufferable that this small delicate girl should be linked with someone as insensitive and boorish as Prince John.

“I hope, Lady Matilda,” Amicia went on, not taking her eyes from Matilda’s face in the mirror, “that you will do me the honor of attending me at my wedding. I know Sir Richard would be pleased. You are, I believe, such an old friend.”

Matilda could feel a flush of anger mounting in her cheeks, and she instantly wanted to give hurt for hurt. “I shall be pleased to, my dear. It will after all be rather an anticlimax for you-after your sister has wed a prince.” She was sorry instantly that she had said it. Isabella gave a little gasp, looking up at her sister pleadingly, while Amicia, white with fury, rose to her feet and swung for the first time to look Matilda in the face.

“Prince John is a brute, madam, and a cruel man with women, as everyone knows.” She looked coldly at her trembling sister. “I wish Isabella joy of him. I shall have a kind and gentle husband. But then”-she almost spat the words-“you would know all about the qualities of Sir Richard, madam.” After gathering her rich green skirts about her, she swept out through the curtained doorway, leaving the other two to gaze at each other in horror. Isabella’s eyes were filled with tears. “I don’t know what’s happened to Amicia. She used to love me.”

“She’s jealous of you, child.” Matilda took the elder sister’s place on the stool and put her arm around Isabella. “Can’t you see? Her younger sister is marrying a royal prince. It is more than she can bear.”

“And she’s jealous of you because you’re so beautiful and the world says Sir Richard loved you once.”

Once.

Matilda’s arm fell away from the girl’s shoulders. Yes, he had loved her once. She had thought he loved her still. It had been that knowledge which had bolstered her during the long lonely nights when she had had to submit to William’s rough attentions, and which had somehow comforted her against all his abuses when he was drunk. She shivered suddenly. She had not realized that anyone else had ever guessed their love. But these two people knew. Isabella, who would be the wife of the prince, and Amicia, who was to marry Richard. And if they knew her secret, how was it possible that the rest of the world did not know it too?

Above the camp the stars were enormous in the bronze-black arch of the sky. She stopped for a moment on her way back to the de Braose tents to gaze up at it, feeling the immensity of it above her, quietly soothing her. A slight breath of hot air, almost a breeze, stirred the skirt of her gown for a moment, then the night was still again.

“Do you find it hard to sleep, Lady Matilda?” She started at the deep voice at her elbow, and then, recognizing with a guilty shock the figure of Prince John in the shadows, she curtsied low.

“I was returning to our tents, sir, after visiting your bride.”

John frowned. She could see his face quite clearly in the luminous starlight, strong and clean-cut, with the arched brows and heavy high-bridged nose of the Plantagenets. His shoulders had broadened with manhood and the hot Normandy sun had tanned his face to a uniform darkness. He smiled at her, showing white, even teeth. “How is my little bride? Still shaking at the thought of the ogre she must marry?”

Matilda clenched her fists at his mocking tone. “She is very young, Your Highness, and very shy. You must give her time.”

“She has had time. Ten years to get used to the idea.”

“She has also had ten years to brood over the cruelty you showed her at Gloucester.”

John threw back his head and laughed. “I had no idea I had made any impression on her at all at Gloucester. So much the better. I see you are sorry for her, Lady Matilda. I think you should spare me some sympathy. Imagine being married to that little milksop. Can you see her in bed? Can you see her the mother of strapping sons?” John laughed bitterly. “I’ll wager the good Sir William had no such fears about you on the eve of his wedding!” He glanced at her sideways, “But then,” he went on, following his own train of thought, “I must have sons. It is imperative that I secure my own line…” He stopped abruptly. “Are you coming to my brother’s coronation, madam?”

She smiled, relieved by the sudden change of mood. “You must know, surely, that women are not invited, Your Highness. It appears the king does not share your appreciation of the female sex.”

John snorted. “True. The king wants it to be a sacred occasion. I would have women if it were my coronation. Women everywhere! If ever I am crowned, Matilda, you shall attend me. I swear it.” He threw his arm around her shoulders roughly and reached across to kiss her cheek. Then before she had a chance to struggle he released her abruptly and with another lightning change of mood turned away from her. “You know that my brother is to marry at last? It was agreed before my father died. He and Alice, the daughter of the King of France, are to marry.” He gave a cynical laugh. “My father no longer needs the lovely Alice to comfort him, so he felt he could at last spare the lady to her rightful betrothed and honor the agreement with King Louis.”

“Sir!” Matilda was shocked. “I can’t believe that there was any truth in the rumors that your father loved Alice. Why, that’s almost incestuous, his own son’s betrothed. I’m sure you don’t really believe it either.”

John merely shrugged. “My father was a passionate man. A great man in many ways.” He was thoughtful for a moment, gazing up at the burning heavens. “He was a good king, my father.”

Matilda stirred uncomfortably. She wanted to return to her tent. The prince’s moody company made her nervous; the camp seemed totally deserted. She wondered too what he was doing out here by her tents quite unattended, and almost as though he had read her thoughts he smiled at her again, throwing off his reverie. “The banqueting hall was too hot for me. A stag-night roister is all very well, but if the groom melts clean away before he gets to his bride it defeats its purpose, so I came out. Half the good fellows in there were asleep, your husband among them. The others are too hot to care, and if they do, they suspect me of going to find a final friendly bed for the night.” He laughed again, a dry mirthless laugh. “My last night with a real woman, before I have to commit adultery to gain satisfaction from my bed.”

Another slight breeze stirred the pennants hanging above the tents and gently moved the skirts of Matilda’s kirtle over the ground, which was beginning to gather dew. She felt herself grow suddenly cold. Taking a step away from him, she quietly closed her fingers on the folds of her kirtle, holding it dear, ready to run. She took a deep breath. “It is late, Your Highness, and I attend your bride early in the morning. If you will excuse me…”

“I have not yet thanked you for your wedding gift,” he went on, as if she had not spoken. “Three hundred cows and a fine Hereford bull, they tell me.” He smiled, his eyes blue slits, catlike, in the dark face, one eyebrow slightly raised. “I’ll wager that was your choice, Lady Matilda. I sense a touch of irony there. No, my lady, I’ll not excuse you, not yet.” His hand reached out, touching the shoulder of her gown. “Why do you fear me?” he said softly. “I’ve not harmed you.” His hands were on her shoulders, gently pulling her toward him. They were strong hands, the hands of a man.

She raised her eyes to look into his face. There was no sign there of the boy she had so disliked, nor the importunate adolescent who had accosted her at Winchester. These thin, arrogant features were those of an adult, and, she suddenly realized, alarmingly attractive.

“Your Highness.” She tried to draw back, but he was holding her too hard, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arm. His face was close to hers.

“I have not dismissed you, my lady,” he breathed. “Nor do I intend to, yet.”

Mesmerized by the intense blue of his eyes, she felt her lips meet his at last with a shock of recognition. For a moment her body seemed to cleave to his, then abruptly his strange spell was broken as a voice rang out cool and loud from the dark near them. “Good evening, Your Highness, my lady.”

John released her with an oath and whirled around, his hand flying to the hilt of his dagger.

A figure had stepped out of the shadow of one of the pavilions and, coming nearer, bowed low. As he stood up again, tall and slim beside the figure of the prince, Matilda saw with a sudden gasp that it was Richard de Clare.

Richard bowed to her formally and distantly, and then turned again to the prince, grinning. “We missed you in the hall, sir, and some were growing worried.”

“Indeed, Lord de Clare.” John’s voice was low-pitched and very cold. “It was good of you to volunteer to find me. As we are so soon to be brothers-in-law perhaps you felt a family feeling of protection?”

Richard colored a little at the note of sarcasm, but he bowed amiably enough. “Shall I walk with you, sir? Lady Matilda looks tired. I’m sure she’s anxious to get some rest.”

Recovering herself as best she could, Matilda swept a deep curtsy to the prince, then she turned toward her own quarters, picking up her skirts as soon as she was out of sight, and careless of her dignity, ran toward the safety of her tent.

It was already growing dark, and the wedding celebrations were all but over the next day when at last Richard sought out Matilda from the thronging guests and guided her toward the shelter of a tall hedge threaded with honeysuckle and dog roses. His face was grim. “You’re playing with fire when you flirt with John, surely you know that,” he began furiously.

Matilda blushed. “I did not flirt with him! He followed me. I had no wish even to talk with him, believe me. I dislike that young man.”

Richard glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t talk so loud,” he said anxiously. “Well, he certainly likes you, and it wouldn’t do to make an enemy of him by showing you don’t return his feelings.” He glanced at her obliquely.

“Are you suggesting that I-”

“I am suggesting nothing, Matilda. Just take care. Please.” He put his hand gently on her arm.

Matilda pressed her own fingers miserably over his, swallowing the lump that came to her throat. “I will take care, Richard. I know he’s dangerous.”

“I leave tomorrow to attend the coronation.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Then I go to Cardiff. I am to marry Amicia of Gloucester within the month.”

She felt rather than saw his eyes on her and blinked back her sudden tears. “I know, Richard. I wish you every happiness.” She took a deep breath and turned away for a moment, trying to regain control over the misery that had welled up until it was almost too great to bear. When she faced him again she was smiling. She broke off the delicate pink shell of a dog rose and pushed it gently into the clasp of his mantle. “Let us still be friends, Richard dear.” She was almost as tall as he, and gazing at him for a long, last moment, she leaned forward suddenly and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, then she turned and fled.

She sent her maids away early that night and, blowing out the candles, lay dry-eyed in the dark, listening to the distant shouts and music that floated across the encampment. William, she knew, was with the prince. Richard too, she supposed; the three men with whom her life seemed inextricably bound, drinking together at the banqueting board, toasting each other into the night.

She lay for a long time listening to the giggles of the two girls who attended her as they prepared for bed beyond the thin canvas partition in the tent, then gradually as they grew quieter her eyelids became heavier and eventually she dozed.

It was Gwenny, the elder of the two, who wakened her, roughly shaking her shoulder in the dark. The camp was silent, and the coals in the brazier beyond the tent flaps were long dead. “My lady, you’re to come quickly.” The girl was shaking with fear.

Matilda sat up. “What is it? What has happened?” She reached for her bedgown and wrapped it around her naked shoulders as the girl lit the candle by her bed.

“You’re wanted, my lady. In the Countess of Gloucester’s tent. Quickly.” Gwenny was panting slightly, still shocked from her own awakening by the countess’s terrified maid, and the candlelight showed her round face plump and perspiring as she searched by the bed for the discarded leather slippers. “Oh, my lady, there is such trouble there, I hear.”

“What trouble, girl, tell me?” Matilda pushed her feet into the slippers and stood up, reaching for the candle. “What’s happening?”

But Gwenny only shook her head dumbly, too terrified by the threats that the maid had passed on to anyone who might speak of the night’s happenings. Seeing her mistress was ready, she led the way out into the still night.

In the Countess of Gloucester’s tent, rich with silks and lit with myriad candles, an anxious group of whispering women were clustered around the countess. As Matilda ran in, clutching her robe around her, they stopped and stood back, revealing Hawise of Gloucester, dressed still, but disheveled and tearstained, standing over a kneeling girl. She had a firm hold of the girl’s hair and was shaking the unresisting head back and forth with pitiless violence.

“Dear God!” Matilda stopped in amazement. “What’s happening? What are you doing?” Her eyes blazing, she flew toward Hawise, knocking the woman’s hands away, and found herself looking down at the figure on the rugs at her feet. It was Isabella.

Matilda took a step back. She felt herself go cold as, now that the pressure on her hair had been released, the girl crouched lower, cowering away, her hands pressed desperately to her face. Behind her Amicia was standing, her own expression blank with horror, her eyes fixed on her sister with a desperate fascination.

Forgetting the other women, Matilda dropped on her knees and threw her arms around the girl, cradling the fair head on her breast.

“You must go back to him, Isabella. Now.” Her mother’s voice, cracked with emotion, cut through the silence.

Matilda tightened her grip on Isabella’s shoulders. The girl was completely silent; not tearful, not sobbing; her stillness somehow more appalling than crying and shouting would have been. At her mother’s voice, there was no reaction at all. Only a numb despairing rigidity.

“Will you ask these ladies to leave?” Matilda gestured impatiently, looking up at Hawise through the curtain of hair that had fallen loose from her plait. “Amicia, fetch your sister a warm mantle.” The girl’s skin was like cold alabaster in the heat of the night.

She saw Amicia turn into the depths of the tent, and slowly, one by one, the other women began to move away, although Hawise had not yet spoken. Then at last she seemed to find her voice again. “No one must know of this shame,” she whispered harshly. “No one must ever hear what has happened tonight. If any of you ever speak of it, I’ll have your tongues cut out, do you hear?” Her voice rang up the scale and cracked hysterically. “There’s nothing wrong with my daughter. Nothing wrong between her and the prince; just wedding-night nerves. She’s going back to her husband directly. Lady Matilda will take her back to the royal tent.”

Whispering uncomfortably, the women slipped one by one into the darkness, leaving Matilda and the countess looking at each other. Quietly Amicia brought a sable rug and placed it gently over her sister’s shoulders with shaking hands. Then she too crept away.

Hawise stood looking down at her daughter and suddenly her tears began to fall again. “The disgrace. The humiliation! She has betrayed us before the whole world by running away from him.” She groped for a lace kerchief and pressed it to her streaming eyes. “How can the silly chit have done such a thing? What was he thinking of to let her?”

“What happened?” Matilda spoke gently in the girl’s ear. “Can you tell your mother or me?”

But Isabella shook her head. As she pressed closer to her Matilda could feel the warmth slowly coming back to the girl’s taut body.

“Your mother is right. You must go back to your husband. It is not so bad, what happens, you know. You will grow accustomed to it.” She smiled sadly. “You may even grow to like it, my dear. But whatever happens it is your duty to go to him. Come.” She took the girl’s hand and raised her gently to her feet. Isabella stood submissively before her, her eyes on the ground, her sumptuous bedgown bordered with golden embroidery falling in full pleats around her. It was, Matilda noted with a strange feeling of relief, untorn and unsullied.

Gently she led the unresisting girl out toward the royal pavilion, skirting the damped fires and the rows of sleeping tents. The guards at the entrance came to a salute as they passed through, their eyes curiously taking in the details of the two women in their nightclothes, and Matilda, her arm firmly around Isabella’s shoulders, escorted her quickly from their gaze. John’s servants, bowing, held back the heavy tapestry hangings that covered the entrance to the sleeping area.

“Go to him,” Matilda whispered. She glanced around nervously, not wanting the prince to see her, but as she spoke a small plump woman appeared from the inner room and curtsied. “There you are, Your Highness,” she addressed Isabella, who stared at her blankly. “The prince your husband told me to come to keep you company and fetch you a hot posset.” She held out her hand and guided Isabella through the curtains. “His Highness has gone for a ride. He said he doubted if he’d be back by morning, so you may sleep undisturbed tonight.” The woman was careful to keep any expression out of her voice, but she glanced over Isabella’s head at Matilda and made a wry face that Matilda guessed was intended to mean that the prince had in fact said a great deal more than that and at some length. She sighed, and gave the girl a gentle push. “Good night, Isabella. Sleep well, love.”

She watched for a moment as the woman hustled about fetching a jug of steaming, fragrant liquid and a goblet and then as Isabella climbed, still moving as in a dream, into the high bed, Matilda turned and pushed her way out of the room, suddenly stifled by its oppressive heat.

She made her way quickly and nervously back to the de Braose tents, half afraid she would be once more waylaid by the prince, conscious suddenly of the black shadows behind the circled tents, of the grove of trees, the leaves unstirring in the windless air, and of the motionless encampment guards half dozing as they leaned on their swords.

But it was Richard who waylaid her. He stepped from the shadows, his finger to his lips, and beckoned her after him into the shelter of the trees. “I could not leave like that,” he whispered. “Not without just one more moment alone with you. Dear God! Why did we not meet each other in time!” The wind teased the streaming torch on the edge of the encampment near them and she saw the shadows playing on his face.

“It was not to be, love.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “Maybe, one day-”

He seized her hands, enfolding them in his own, holding them pressed against his chest. “One day!” he echoed bitterly. “When you belong to de Braose and when the prince has already marked you for his own!”

“That’s not true!” She pulled away from him violently. “John is nothing to me and I am nothing to him. Nothing!”

He was looking down at her, his eyes gleaming strangely in the torch light.

“Nothing?” he echoed.

“Nothing. I swear by all I hold sacred!”

He shook his head. “Don’t swear. You don’t know what may happen. The prince has power, Matilde.” He touched her hair gently. “Dear God! I want to throw you on my horse and gallop away with you. Take you for my own!”

For a moment she felt a blind excitement as the power of the passion in his voice flooded through her. If he had asked her then she would have gone, but his hands fell slowly to his sides and he shrugged. “I am to be brother-in-law to the prince, it seems.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “As befits a great earl,” she whispered. Forcing herself to smile, she looked away. “I must go in, Richard.”

“Of course.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I’ll see you again. Soon.”

She nodded dumbly, then she turned away, pulling her cloak around her as she dodged past the flare and into the darkness.

When Tim came upstairs it was already dark. He had walked some four miles down the valley and back, shrugging off the heavy warm spots of rain, and he was tired. He pushed open the door quietly and glanced into the bedroom. Jo was asleep on the sofa, by the window. Her book had fallen to the floor. With a fond grin he picked it up and put it on the table without looking at the title, then he turned and, pulling a blanket from the bed, he tucked it gently around her. Then he paused, frowning, as he looked down at her face. An expression of anguish had crossed her features momentarily and as he took her hand, gently slipping it beneath the blanket, he found her fists were clenched.

“Jo?” he whispered. “Jo? Can you hear me?”

She did not respond. She was breathing in tight, almost imperceptible gasps.

“Where are you, Jo?” he murmured, but she did not answer. He touched her face lightly, then reached over to turn out the lamp.

He undressed quickly in the dark and slid into bed, and lay listening, but Jo was completely silent. Not so much as a sigh came from her as she lay locked in that different world on the far side of the room.

He must have dozed off after a while, for a slim moon had appeared at the window when he woke suddenly. He gazed at the luminous dial on his wrist. It was ten past three. Then he realized what had disturbed him. Jo was moving restlessly on the sofa. She moaned softly and he saw her sit up. The blanket slid to the floor and she swung her bare feet off the seat and stood, staring around the room.

“Don’t tell me it’s your turn for the bed,” he said quietly into the shadows.

She did not reply. She moved toward him slowly, staring down at him in the watery moonlight.

“I thought you’d gone,” she whispered at last.

“Only for a walk.” He propped himself up on one elbow.

“Weren’t you going after the prince?”

Tim froze. “Jo?” he said softly. “Jo, can you hear me?”

She was half smiling, her eyes on his face. “There’s no one here,” she whispered. “Oh, Richard, please. Make love to me just once more. Surely it’s no sin when we love each other so much. Tomorrow you can go. You’ll be brother-in-law to the prince. You’ll be Amicia’s forever. Give me just a few hours more.” She was fumbling with the sash of her bathrobe.

Tim ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Jo,” he said hoarsely. “Jo, I think you’d better wake up-”

She opened the gown and let it fall to the floor. Beneath it she was naked. He stared at her body, silvered in the thin moonlight, and felt himself tense all over as she threw herself toward the bed and wriggled into his arms beneath the sheet.

“Richard! Oh, Richard!” Her mouth sought his as his arms closed around her. “Dear God, please hold me!”

With a groan Tim lay back, gathering her against him, feeling the silky weight of her hair slide over her shoulders onto his face and neck, blotting out the moonlight.

He kissed her again and again, threading his fingers through her hair, holding her face still as her slim, warm body lay on his. He kissed her mouth and her eyes, her neck and her breasts, then, catching her shoulders, he turned her onto her back, lying on top of her, his tongue probing between her lips, feeling her legs fall willingly apart to receive him.

It was daylight when he fell asleep at last, his arms still around her, one thigh lying possessively across hers.

He slept heavily, barely stirring when Jo slipped from the bed and, grabbing her bathrobe, fled into the bathroom.

She was fully dressed when he woke to the sound of a knock at the bedroom door. He watched sleepily as she took a tray from their host and slid it onto the bedside table, then she sat down on the bed beside him. She smiled wanly. “So you’re awake.”

Tim grinned. “Barely. Is that early-morning tea I see?” He sat up slowly then he looked at her remorsefully. “Jo, it was my fault. I took advantage of you last night. I should have said no. I should have tried to wake you somehow-”

“I was awake.” Her face was drawn and tense. “But I thought you were Richard. I wasn’t in a trance, Tim. I knew I was in this room. I knew we were in a pub. I knew this was the twentieth century.” Her hands were shaking suddenly and she clutched them together. “But I was still Matilda. And you-you were Richard.”

Tim gave a tight smile. “Matilda was one hell of an uninhibited lady. I’m not surprised Richard could never get her out of his system.” He smiled gently.

Jo colored violently. After reaching for the teapot, she managed to pour out two cups, using both hands on the china handle. He took his cup from her hastily and sat leaning against the pillows, staring down into the tea. “That was the last time they made love,” he went on quietly.

She looked up. “How do you know?”

“I just know. They weren’t meant for each other.” He gave a rueful grin. “Shame, isn’t it?”

She was staring at him. “ You were Richard de Clare,” she whispered at last. “It did work with Bill Walton!”

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he nodded reluctantly. “It’s not as simple as that, though, Jo-Jo? What is it?”

She was crying suddenly; soundless, exhausted weeping, the tears falling remorselessly down her cheeks.

“I thought it was Nick,” she said brokenly. “Oh, Tim, I’m sorry, but I so wanted it to be Nick.”