Lady of Hay

34

With the dawn came rain; heavy, soaking rain from gray clouds drawing their soft bellies over the mountaintops, drenching the thirsty ground. Ben came in from the cows, dressed in a bright yellow sou’wester and cape, as the others were having their breakfast.

Nick was pale and drawn, watching moodily as Jo spooned cereal into the bowls of the two little ones. Feeling his eyes on her, she glanced up. “You look tired,” she said gently.

“I didn’t sleep too well.” He glanced at Ann, presiding over the coffeepot. The room was fragrant with toast and new coffee and the spitting apple logs Ben had thrown into the stove. It seemed very normal and safe.

“Are the kids going down the hill this morning?” Ben hung up his wet oilskins and began to wash his hands.

“I’m running them down in half an hour.” Ann poured her husband his mug of coffee and pushed it over the table toward him. “I take turns with our neighbor at the bottom of the track on Saturday mornings to have each other’s kids,” she explained as she filled up Nick’s cup. “That way every other weekend we can get into Brecon and do a bit of shopping or whatever on our own. Not this morning, though. I’ll just be glad to get them out from under.”

Ben laughed. “She doesn’t mean that. Ten minutes after she gets back she starts to worry about them.”

Ann smiled at him affectionately, then she looked at Jo and Nick. “What would you two like to do this morning?”

“Walk,” Jo put in quickly. “Walk in the rain.”

Ann raised an eyebrow. “That whim I think we can accommodate. And you, sir?” She turned to Nick.

“Why not? Some fresh air will do me good, and we don’t want to get under your feet either.”

“You’re not!” Ann said sharply.

There was an awkward silence. Abruptly she pulled Bill off his chair and began to bundle him into his anorak, ignoring his vigorous protests that his mouth was still full and he hadn’t finished. “Are you sure one of you wouldn’t rather come down with me?” She glanced from Jo to Nick and back. “You can’t both want to go out in the rain.” She saw Jo’s knuckles whiten for a moment on the corner of the table.

“I think there are things Nick and I should talk about,” Jo said after a moment. She bit her lip. “We’ll be all right. We won’t go far.”

Ann was watching Nick’s face again and she saw the tiny movement of the muscles at the corner of his jaw. She sighed. “Right. Well, help yourselves to mackintoshes or whatever on the door there, and when you get back we’ll have coffee and cakes, okay?”

“And for Christ’s sake, don’t get lost!” Ben put in. “This is a real mountain, not Hyde Park. Stay within sight of the wall. It will lead on down the hill for about three miles if you want a decent walk and then bring you back past all the best views.” He cocked an eye out of the window at the uniformly gray murk of the low cloud and gave his rumbling laugh. “See you when you get back.”

The mist was cold and wet on their faces when they stepped out into the silent white world. Jo put her hands firmly in the pockets of her mac. “I’d forgotten what it was to feel cold. It’s hard to believe the weather can change so much after last night.”

“It’s the cloud.” Nick pulled up the collar of his jacket. “It’s probably bright sunshine down in the valley.”

Ten paces behind them the farmhouse was already barely in sight, dissolving and drifting, its gray slates and white walls the perfect blend of mist and cloud.

Jo stopped. “Where is the wall?”

“Here. Beside us. Ben was right, it would be easy to get lost.” Nick touched her elbow, guiding her a little to the left.

Jo moved slightly away from him. Her heart had begun to beat in a quick, uneasy rhythm. She glanced back. The farmhouse had gone; they were completely alone.

She pushed her hands further into her pockets. “How did the trip to the States go? You haven’t told me yet.”

Nick was walking a couple of paces behind her, his eyes on her slim figure in the tightly belted raincoat and black rubber boots. Somewhere deep inside himself he felt a sudden awakening of anger.

She turned, pulling off the blue scarf Ann had lent her and shaking her hair free. “Do you think you’ll get the new account? What is it, Nick?” She had seen it at once in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head desperately. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I didn’t sleep, that’s all. Yes, I think there’s a good chance. I’m flying a team out to New York next week to discuss things with the marketing director out there; then, if all goes well, we’ll take over the launch of their product in the UK early next year.” He stopped and picked up a loose stone from the ground beneath the wall, hurling it into the whiteness. “If we get the account I’ll be taking on new staff because it looks as though Desco has had a change of heart.”

“Oh, Nick, I am pleased.” Unobtrusively Jo put several feet more between him and herself. “I knew it was just a temporary hiccup.”

Nick gave a strained laugh. “Firms larger than mine have gone under through losing one account.” He did not look at her. “Jo, I didn’t come up here to discuss the problems or otherwise of Franklyn-Greerson.”

“No.” Jo glanced across at him. Now that the moment had come she didn’t know what to say. She clenched her fists, aching to touch him and yet not daring to move. In anguish she turned away. “What do you think of the Clementses, Nick?” she asked softly.

“I like them.” He grimaced. “And I think we need them. Dear God, we need someone.”

Jo frowned. She could see the faint outline of a group of trees near them now and hear the distant bleating of a sheep. Below on the hillside the mist was graying but above their heads it seemed brighter and there was a hint of glare in the air. She tensed suddenly, realizing that Nick was standing beside her again.

“Listen, Jo-”

“No, please, Nick.” She backed away. “Please-don’t touch me-”

“Don’t touch you!” His anger overflowed suddenly. “Always the same! You sleep with my brother, but I must not touch you!”

He reached out toward her, but she edged away from him, her boots slipping on the wet, muddy grass.

“I haven’t slept with your brother! That’s a lie!”

“How do you know?” Nick’s voice was dangerously quiet.

She stared at him in horror. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he hypnotized you. He told me all about it, Jo. William de Braose-my brother! How strange that he should choose to be a man like that!”

“Perhaps he had no choice,” Jo cried.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps that identity gives him all the chances he wants to screw Matilda and by proxy her latter-day descendant!”

“He didn’t-” She backed away from him until she felt the rough stones of the wall against her back. “He…he wanted to, but he couldn’t manage it-”

“So he beat you instead? And I gather you thought you deserved it. Perhaps you even enjoyed it?”

“No, I damn well didn’t!” Jo exploded. “If I ever set eyes on your brother again I’ll kill him with my bare hands. He’s a sadistic, twisted psychopath!”

Nick laughed coldly. “But you have to admit he had a point. You were unfaithful to your husband.”

“You of all people should know about that,” she retorted defiantly.

He smiled, his eyes hard. “I remember only one occasion,” he said slowly, “when you lay with your prince.”

“I was raped by my prince,” Jo said forcibly. “He nearly killed me!”

“He loved you, Jo, but you made him angry. You kept on making him angry-”

“Not me ,” Jo cried wildly. “It wasn’t me , Nick! And what Matilda did was none of your business. Nor Sam’s. Nor even mine, perhaps! Oh, God, this whole thing is a nightmare!” She pushed at him desperately. “Let me pass, please. I want to go back to the house.”

Nick did not move. He caught her wrist and, forcing her arm backward, held it pressed for a moment on the top of the wall. Lichen streaked the white sleeve of the raincoat.

“You may or may not have slept with Sam, but you did sleep with Tim Heacham while you were in Raglan, I hear. You’ve been having quite a time, haven’t you, Jo?”

She shrank back. “I can sleep with whom I damn well please, Nick Franklyn, you don’t own me! Let me go-”

“Your husband was right. You do need to be punished-”

“I haven’t got a husband!” Jo shouted. “For God’s sake, you’re mad as well! Don’t you see, it’s not real, none of it is real!” She stopped struggling as his grip on her wrist tightened and pain shot through her shoulder. “Nick, please, you’re hurting me. Nick!”

For a moment he didn’t move. Closing his eyes, he felt the sweat standing on his forehead. Then his stomach heaved and, dropping Jo’s wrist, he staggered a couple of paces back, retching into the grass.

“Nick?” Jo was staring at him, frightened. His anger had gone as quickly as it had come and in its place was a blank, uncomprehending terror. “Nick, what’s happened? What has Sam done to you? Oh, God, what are we going to do?”

Straightening, Nick wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. He was shaking violently as he turned back toward her. “I’ve hurt you.” He gasped. “God, Jo, I’ve hurt you-” He caught her arm again, but gently this time, and looked down at it. There was blood on the back of her hand, welling between the streaks of green from the mossy stones.

“It’s only a graze.” She snatched it away from him.

Nick stood motionless. He felt dizzy. “He’s manipulating me! He’s made me believe I’m someone I’m not. Jo, he’s turned me into a killer!” He leaned forward on the wall and put his head in his hands.

Jo was trembling so violently she could hardly stand. “Let’s go back inside-”

“Ann can’t help me.” He didn’t move. “She tried last night.”

Jo had turned away toward the house. She stopped in her tracks. “When?”

“Neither of us could sleep. We had some tea, and I told her what I was afraid of. She tried to regress me, but she couldn’t.” Taking a deep breath, he grasped the top of the stone wall so tightly his nails splintered.

“I love you, Jo,” he whispered suddenly, his voice husky with despair. “Whatever happens, I want you to know that.”

The kitchen smelled of baking. “Well, you two weren’t long,” Ann said cheerfully. “I thought you’d wait till the sun came out at least.” She glanced up and the smile faded from her lips. “What happened?”

Nick hung up his jacket on the back of the door and threw himself on the sofa. “You’ve got to help me, Ann. For pity’s sake, help me!”

Ann glanced at Jo, who had walked to the sink and was running warm water over her hand, her back to them both. She took a deep breath. “I’ll try again,” she said. “Jo, will you leave us alone? Take a couple of mugs of coffee out for you and Ben. He’s in the cowshed.”

She waited until Jo had let herself out of the kitchen door, then she turned. “What happened?”

“Nothing. But it nearly did. I could feel him, Ann, inside me. Cold, calculating, angry, bitter. I knew that I-he-could do anything. Anything! I fought it this time but another time I might not be able to.”

“Sit down. Here.” She pointed to the kitchen table. “I’m going to light the oil lamp. You said Sam uses lights to induce hypnosis. There-now, look at the flame. Don’t blink. Occupy your mind totally with that speck of fire. That’s fine.” Her voice had lost its tension as she gained confidence. “Good, now relax. Relax, Nick, and listen. Just listen to my voice. Don’t shut your eyes-you can’t shut your eyes. Good.” She saw the strain on his face begin to fall away as he stared at the light. “Good, that’s fine. Now, I want to go back in time, Nick, back to when you were a child…”

Ben looked up from the leg of the cow over which he had been bending. He ran his hand gently down it, then stood up and smacked the cow affectionately on the hindquarters.

“Is that my coffee? Bless you, my dear.”

Jo sat down on a hay bale, her own mug cupped between her hands. “Ann is trying to hypnotize Nick.”

“She told me she tried last night to no avail.” Ben sat down comfortably next to her. “What have you done to your hand?” His sharp eyes had missed nothing.

“I caught it against the wall, that’s all.” She looked away from him. “Oh, Ben. What’s happened to him?”

Ben patted her shoulder. “He confided in Annie last night, my dear, that he is very worried. If Ann cannot help him we both feel he should consult your hypnotherapist without delay. He is, after all, a professional, and he knows the background to your case.” He smiled. “I think it would be best if Nick went back to London, Jo.”

She nodded slowly. “I suppose so.” She was about to drink the last of her coffee when she lowered the mug again. “He thinks he’s going to try to kill me, Ben. But why? Why should Sam do this to us? Why? He can’t really believe he was Matilda’s husband. And if he does, why should he want Nick to hurt me? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Things that make sense to the insane mind are seldom obvious to others,” Ben said soberly. “And it sounds to me as if Nicholas’s brother must be insane.”

He put down the mug at his feet. He was about to stand up when from the house they both heard the sound of a frightened scream.

Ben was on his feet first. With Jo close behind him he raced toward the kitchen door and flung it open.

Ann was lying on the floor; there was no sign of Nick.

Ben flung himself on his knees beside her as she struggled to sit up, her face white. “Ann, for God’s sake, are you all right? What happened?”

“I-I annoyed him,” she said shakily. She clung to the table leg for support. “It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have attempted to regress him. I don’t know enough about it-”

“What did he do, Ann?” Jo had gone cold all over. She stared at Ann for a moment, incapable of moving, then, galvanized into action, she found a cloth. After wringing it out under the tap, she knelt beside Ann, holding it gently to the bruise that was rising on her temple.

“He didn’t attack me or anything. He just pushed me, that’s all, and I slipped. I must have caught my head on the table or something. It was my own silly fault.” Ann took the cloth from Jo’s hand and pressed it more firmly against her head. “I shouldn’t have interfered. It was crass stupidity. I should have known his brother would be too clever for us, but I still thought I could somehow cancel out the hypnotic suggestion. I had Nick under-he was responding well and I took him back to his childhood. I asked him one or two questions about when he was little. He seemed to realize Sam’s hostility when he was a child and he steered clear of him-worshipping from afar. Then I took him back further. I wanted to find out if the idea of his being King John came from deep within his own unconscious or from his brother’s suggestion.” She shook her head. “He regressed easily. Once he was under he went into what seemed like total recall of a succession of lives. I wasn’t prompting him. He was one man who lived around the turn of the century and who died at the age of twenty-four from typhoid.” Ann, still sitting on the floor, hugged her knees. “Then he said he had lived in the reign of Queen Anne as a sailor, and he said…he said he’s waited for Matilda, but the time was wrong.” She glanced up as Jo caught her breath. “He said he waited again and again and then he produced another incarnation some one hundred and fifty years before that and he talked what sounded like French. That time he died of plague in Paris. Then there was a long gap.” Ann paused. For a moment she didn’t seem able to speak. “Then there was John, the youngest son of King Henry II of England.”

Jo had gone white as a sheet. “You mean it is true?” she whispered. “He really was John? It wasn’t Sam at all?” She closed her eyes, still kneeling at Ann’s side. “He’s followed me. Followed me from the past. But why? John hated Matilda. He-” Her voice broke. “He sentenced her to death.” She looked up in despair. “Is that why he’s here? To pursue me even beyond the grave? I knew, Ann. I recognized him. Weeks ago, I saw it in his eyes, but I didn’t understand. I didn’t realize what was happening-”

“No, Jo. That’s rubbish. For God’s sake, you are not the same people! You keep on emphasizing that yourself.” Ann pulled herself to her feet. “And Nick loves you. He loves you, Jo.” She went to the sink and wrung out the cloth beneath the cold tap once more. “It could still be that Sam initiated the idea. I just can’t be sure. I don’t know. I don’t have enough experience to be able to tell. All I can say is, he seemed to know so much about John.”

“What made him push you over, Annie?” Ben asked gently. His face was grim.

Ann gave a shaky smile. “I questioned his royal prerogative. I’m a republican, don’t forget. I don’t know how to handle kings. He didn’t mean to knock me-he just didn’t know I was there. I asked him about the de Braoses and why he had chosen to persecute them. He got angry-furiously angry-and began pacing up and down. Then he-well, I guess you’d say he flung out of the room, and it was just bad luck I was in the way. It was the year 1209. He told me that William had burned the town of Leominster in Herefordshire. One moment he was apoplectic-then suddenly he laughed…”

Ben patted Jo on the shoulder, then he walked slowly to the door. “Did he go out this way?”

Ann nodded.

“You two stay here, I’ll see if I can find him.”

The kitchen was very silent. Neither Ann nor Jo said a word. In the stove a log fell, hitting the iron door with a rattle, and they both turned to look at it. Then Jo spoke in a whisper. “Ann, I must know what happened next. I have to know what the king did.”

“You do know.” Ann turned on her. “Jesus, Jo! Can’t you leave it alone? You know what he did!” She sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. “Hell, I’m sorry. That’s not fair. I guess I’m a bit rattled, that’s all. I’ll help you if I can. I said I would. But I’m no good at this, Jo. I’m in over my head.”

“You don’t have to do anything, Ann. Just be here with me.”

“Now? But they’ll come back any moment-”

“I don’t care. I have to know what he’s thinking. Don’t you see?”

“No. I don’t see. Jo, you’re upset. It probably won’t work anyway-”

“It will. All I need is a trigger, you said so yourself. So I’ll find a trigger.” Jo looked around wildly. “That lamp-that’s fine-a lamp and a bowl of water. I’ll look into the reflections.”

She stood up and went to the sideboard, staring along the shelves. Her arm caught a glass, sweeping it to the floor with a crash. She didn’t even notice. She reached up and took down one of Ann’s black earthenware mixing bowls and turned back to the sink. “I have to do it, Ann. Don’t you see? I have to look into the past so that I can go on living in the present!”

She filled the bowl with clear water and put it on the table, then she sat down opposite Ann, who reached out and gently touched her hand. In silence they both looked down into the depths of the water.

Matilda had been staring out of the high window toward the shadowed distances of Radnor Forest. She turned and stared at her steward in frozen disbelief as he stood, shuffling his feet uncomfortably, in the center of the high, echoing stone chamber.

“But William left to try to recapture Radnor Castle from the king!”

“He failed, my lady.” Stephen looked at her, his shoulders slumped with despair. “The king holds every de Braose Castle save Hay now. There was nowhere for Sir William to go after his assault was beaten back by the king’s constable at Radnor-I suspect he did not care to come back here defeated, my lady-” Stephen glanced up at her under his eyelashes. “So he marched to Leominster and sacked the place. He burned it to the ground. The king will never forgive this, Lady Matilda,” he went on gravely. “I fear your husband has now gone too far ever to turn back.”

“We will be outlawed.” She gasped. “What possessed him? To burn the town!” Putting her hands to her eyes, she tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.

On 21 September the king proclaimed William de Braose a traitor and appointed Gerald of Athies to travel to the borders and declare all the baron’s homagers free of any allegiance to their lord. William’s followers left him almost to a man, to pay homage direct to the king.

At last only the faithful Stephen remained, riding with Matilda into the hills to hide what remained of their money and jewels in a deserted mountaintop shrine where the old gods, if they still dwelt there, would guard the hoard. Even William was not told of the location.

Once they were safely back at Hay Matilda took Stephen’s hand. “You must stay here when we go,” she said sadly. “Our quarrel is not yours, dear Stephen. Think of us and pray for us. You must hand over Hay Castle to the king and give him your unreserved homage.”

“What will you do?” Stephen looked at her sadly.

She shrugged. “Try to get to my son Giles in France perhaps.” She looked around miserably. “We can’t stay here. Thank you, Stephen, for all you’ve done. Thanks to you the gold at least is safe, and if we ever return it will be there.”

“You will return, my lady.” He raised her hand gently to his lips. “You will return.”

William and Matilda rode out of Hay Castle at dawn the following day, their only companions Will and Reginald.

It was the beginning of a nightmare. King John’s pursuit of them was relentless. His troops harried them unmercifully, always close behind. Several times they tried to leave the border, heading south, but each time they were forced to retreat into the icy woods, where, after weeks of rain, the last leaves were beginning to fall, leaving the tracks exposed and dangerous. Reginald was the only one who remained healthy and tried to humor the party. William had developed a pain in his side that worsened daily. Will, try as he might to hide it, was once more succumbing to his sore throat, and Matilda, though she fought it with all the willpower she possessed, could feel her tall, slim body beginning to stoop and thicken at the joints with the hateful, inflaming rheumatism brought on by the cold weather. Riding was painful for them all, and despair very close.

Here and there they found a few days’ respite, lodged secretly by monks or relatives who still had sympathy for the homeless family, but always fear of discovery moved them on.

As Christmas approached they were once more on the border only a few miles north of Hay, almost back where they started. They had been galloping hard for two days, trying to avoid soldiers, who had come nearer to them than on any previous occasion. “It was treachery,” Matilda could not help repeating over and over to herself as she bent low over her horse’s mane, following close behind Will. Her fingers were swollen and reddened until she could no longer hold the reins. Will, not saying anything but noticing, had knotted them for her so that she could slip them over her wrist, but there was no need. The mare automatically followed the others now. “We have been betrayed,” she repeated again, “by somebody we thought was our friend. They could not have found us otherwise.” Only the strange hotness on her cheeks told her that she was crying. Then the wind and rain on her face froze the misery and her thoughts became numb again.

They followed the valley roads through the woods, trying to avoid the hills, where there was no shelter. She didn’t know if Reginald knew where he was leading them anymore, and she no longer cared very much. All she wanted was to lie down somewhere and go to sleep and never wake again. Never to mount her horse and force her aching limbs to ride another mile. Never to feel another blast of wind.

The day was so stormy it was hard to tell if it was high noon or dusk, and when the armed figures stepped out on the waterlogged track in front of them, catching at Reginald’s bridle and dragging his horse to a standstill, she felt only disbelief, thinking them part of the murk. Then at last, when she realized that they were real, all she felt was dull relief that at last the chase was over.

The wind whipped their words away before she could hear what the men said to Reginald and Will, who, coughing pitifully, had ridden up beside his brother. She only saw that her sons held their hands away from their swords in surrender and looked at one another apprehensively.

Their captors ignored William, armed though he was, and he sat unmoving as his horse stopped of its own accord, his head sunk between his shoulders, one hand still pressed to his side.

Then the trek began again, but walking this time, with a man at her horse’s head. They were prisoners. She dropped the pretense of holding the reins and tried to warm her poor swollen hands by breathing on them and tucking them under her mantle.

After what seemed an eternity of frozen tracks they reached a clearing in a valley wood with, at its center, a long, low wooden building thatched with reeds. She felt herself helped somehow from the saddle and two men half carried, half dragged her toward a doorway. It was the last thing she knew.

The door latch rattled and Ann looked up. Her attention had been so completely on the bowl of shadowy reflections before her that she had forgotten the others. Ben walked slowly into the kitchen. Behind him came Nick, his face ashen. She saw at once that he was himself again. She held her finger to her lips and silently the two men sat down at the table. Both were staring at the bowl of water as Jo, unaware of their return, went on speaking slowly.

It took a long time for her to recover her senses before the fire. She was conscious of gentle hands removing her clothes, even her shift; of soft linen towels rubbing her icy skin and then of a long warm robe fastened at the waist by a girdle of spun flax. She was given flummery, a hot, spicy oatmeal gruel, from the cauldron on the fire, and meat from the spit, and mead, and then was led to sleep on a pile of sheepskins in the women’s quarters. Only when she was well enough to rejoin the men by the blazing fire in the main room of the building did she discover that they were not prisoners at all but the honored guests of one of the mountain chieftains in his tribal hall. And with him they remained for all the long weeks of one of the worst winters the Welsh hills had ever known.

Snow drifted deep across the cwms and broad valleys; fast-flowing rivers froze from bank to bank and the mountains slept beneath an icy pall. Slowly, cared for by their Welsh hosts, the invalids grew stronger. Reassured that their pursuers could not reach them through the frozen hills, they regained something of their optimism, and with it made a new plan. As soon as the thaw came they would make their way west to the coast and from there they would cross to Ireland, where they could go to Margaret and Walter, and where they had many relatives and friends in a position to help them.

Matilda never asked their host why he had given them shelter; it seemed an abuse of his hospitality to query it. She supposed it was enough that they had been truly wanderers in the storm, thrown upon a sacred trust, or perhaps it was their common enmity with King John that had made them one at last with their Welsh neighbors.

As the thaw freed the high moorland trackways and the valleys of snow and ice, William and Matilda and their sons, accompanied by two Welsh guides, set off again into the teeth of the wind on their journey to the sea. They rode fast, muffled in sheepskins, nervous, in spite of the kindness and hospitality they had received, of penetrating so deep into the land of the Welsh, so often their enemies. But the journey, though bitter cold and wearisome, was without incident. They arrived at last at the broad Dovey estuary that separated north from south Wales, opposite the castle that guarded the river mouth, and looked down from the hillside onto the two ships tied up at the low wooden quay at the marsh edge. Will glanced at his mother and smiled. “Nearly there now. By tomorrow, God willing, we’ll be safe.”

She stared gravely at the ships. “I wonder how long it will be before John knows where we’ve gone. He could follow us to Ireland.” She shivered, pulling the fur closer around her throat.

“He won’t, Mother.” Reginald took her hand. “The Irish lords are too powerful. He’d never challenge them. And between us, we’re married into most of their families.” He nudged his brother and chuckled.

The horses picked their way down into the village and their guide negotiated a passage for them with the dark, burly master of one of the vessels before carefully stowing their baggage in his ship. A strong onshore wind was crashing waves against the wooden quay and clouds of icy spray splattered onto the marshy track that led to the few fishermen’s houses on the beach. They would not sail today.

Sadly Matilda bade farewell to her white mare. Their horses had been promised to their host as payment. Bowing, the guides made their formal farewell and then left, leading the string of animals behind them at an easy canter back up the track.

It was four days before the wind veered and dropped enough for the captain to risk putting his small vessel to sea. Matilda watched the hills behind them constantly during the short hours of daylight, expecting at any moment to see a line of horses and light-catching helms and lances that would show that the king had achieved the impossible and caught up with them. But they never came.

At last the boat nosed her way out into the bay. A brisk, cold wind sent her plunging sharply to her small sails. Matilda stood on deck gazing back at the receding land, half hidden under a pall of black cloud. Her hair was torn from the hood of her cloak and whipped mercilessly around her face and across her eyes but she ignored it. It was as though she still expected, even now, to see John galloping down onto the shore of the estuary and boarding the other vessel that remained tied to the quay. She shivered and Will put his arms around her. “The crossing doesn’t take long, Mother. Do you feel sick?”

She glanced up and saw his grin, his eyes teasing. “You know I don’t, you silly boy. I knew I would like the sea. I only wish we were crossing under happier circumstances.” She sighed.

“Well, John can whistle for us now, so enjoy yourself.” Will laughed. “You and I have the sea legs of the family, that’s plain to see.” He nodded over his shoulder. His father and Reginald had retired to a sheltered corner of the deck where they were seated on some stoutly roped barrels. Both looked very uneasy, and shortly first William and then his son slipped aft into the fetid deck cabin, where, wrapped in their cloaks, they lay down.

Before long the wind started to blow up again. It veered around to the east, whistling in the rigging, and the broad-beamed boat began to bucket up and down the troughs and waves with alarming violence.

Will’s eyes were shining. “Be pleased the wind’s getting up, Mother. We’ll be there the sooner.” Matilda laughed at his exhilaration.

Night fell early and with it the storm worsened. The passengers were sent into the stuffy cabin, where they lay awake, hurled from one side to the other amid a debris of falling cargo and luggage. The air stank of fish and vomit and outside the wind screamed in the rigging, until, with a rending crack, the tightly reefed mainsail ripped across the middle. Matilda, trying to brace herself, sitting with her back to the forward cabin wall, her arms round her knees, could hear the crewmen shouting and screaming as they fought with the thundering, shredding canvas.

At last the sail was subdued and only the crash of the wind and waves and the whistle of the rigging remained.

For three days and nights they tossed and rolled under bare spars until the gale blew itself out. Then on the fourth morning the master unbarred the cabin door and looked in, grinning. “Would you believe, the Blessed Virgin had guided us safely to the Irish coast?”

Matilda staggered out weakly and looked eagerly ahead at the long, misty, dark coastline. The waves were still huge, but the wind had dropped a little. The sailors were rigging a makeshift sail and, as she watched, it caught the wind and filled. At once the boat stopped rolling aimlessly and picked up speed, heading in toward the shore. Another blanket of rain swept past them, soaking the planking in a moment, but Matilda and Will stayed on deck, watching as the boat nosed into the harbor. Above them, on a rocky cliff, a castle rose, guarding the harbor and the sea.

“Fitzgerald’s Black Castle.” The master was behind them for a moment, his eyes gleaming triumphantly. “This is a good fortune after the storm, indeed it is. Wicklow. That’s where we are.” And he was gone again, his eyes screwed up against the icy rain, guiding his vessel to her moorings, as the torn sails were lowered into heaps of sodden canvas on the deck.

The shore of Ireland seemed unsteady. Matilda staggered and nearly fell as she led the others up the wooden quay. Reginald grinned uncertainly for the first time in days. Even William looked pleased. He gazed about him, still pale and dazed, then at last he seemed to remember who he was. He straightened his shoulders. “Will, Reginald, we must find horses. Find out about this fellow Fitzgerald. Will he shelter us until we’re ready to go on?” He turned to see the last of their coffers being swung ashore and stacked on the quay. Everywhere seaweed and debris had been piled high by the wind and tide. There was a strong smell of rotting fish.

The master approached them gesticulating toward the hill. “There you are, men from the castle. They’ll be coming to greet you, no doubt,” he called.

They turned and watched. Five horsemen were trotting down the steep trackway.

Will stiffened suddenly. “Do you see their livery, Father? Is it possible?”

William knuckled the rain from his eyes. “William Marshall’s men, by God. He’s always been a good friend to us.”

“So were a lot of people, Father.” Reginald put a warning hand on his arm. “Better be wary until we know how he stands.”

The knight in charge of the horsemen saluted as he approached. He had not been told to expect passengers and seemed surprised to see the bedraggled party on the quay. However, it seemed the Earl Marshall was himself in residence at the Black Castle and, helping Matilda onto his own horse, the knight prepared to escort them back there.

The marshall received them in the high-ceilinged hall of the keep that echoed still to the crashing waves far below.

“My friends!” The old man held out both hands with a broad smile. “Welcome. Welcome indeed.” His smile changed to a look of concern as Matilda sank onto a form by the hearth. “Poor lady, you look exhausted. You all must be. The storm was the worst I’ve ever known. It must have sent a good many unlucky ships to the bottom.” He shook his head sadly. “Come, let me call servants to show you to our guest chambers. They’ll bring you food and wine there. When you’ve slept we’ll talk.”

The phone was ringing. For a moment no one moved, then slowly Ben hauled himself to his feet and went to answer it. Behind him Jo stared around her in a daze. She took a deep breath.

Ann stood up. She picked up the bowl of water and emptied it decisively into the sink. “Lunchtime,” she said loudly. “Nicholas, will you please pour us each a glass of sherry.”

Ben hung up. “They want us to collect the kids about four,” he said.

“Fine.” Ann was stooping over the oven, looking at the pie that she had put there earlier. “Fifteen minutes, then we can eat. Jo, will you shell me some peas?”

Jo hadn’t moved. She was staring down at her hands. The knuckles of her fingers were reddened and swollen.

Ann glanced at them sharply. “That’s what a morning on a damp Welsh mountain can do for you, Jo,” she said quickly. “Fearful place for aging bones! An afternoon in the sun will soon put you right.”

Jo gave her a shaky smile. “That’s what I thought,” she said. For the first time she allowed herself to look at Nick. “Do you remember what happened?”

He nodded.

“What are we going to do?”

Nick stared at the bottle in his hands. “We can’t change history, Jo.” His voice was hoarse.

“You can’t change the past, but it doesn’t have to happen again, for chrissake!” Ann said through clenched teeth. She took the bottle from Nick and poured it into the glasses, slopping a little onto the scrubbed tabletop. “Shall we go eat outside? If so, someone will have to dry off the table and chairs.”

The sun had finally broken through the mist, sucking it up in white spirals from the fields and mountainside behind the house. Below in the valley the whiteness still rippled and bellied like a tide, but around them now the heat was coming back. Thoughtfully Ben pulled off his sweater. Then he picked up his glass. “Well. It’s been an eventful morning,” he said dryly. “I vote we drink a toast. To the successful completion of Jo’s article on la famille Clements .”