Lady of Hay

35

Jo was sitting on the wall looking at the mist in the distance as the sun began to sink behind it, sending shafts of crimson and flesh tones through the peach and saffron, when Nick found her. He pulled himself onto the wall beside her.

“I thought I might drive home tonight,” he said.

Jo looked down at her hands. As Ann had predicted, they had returned to normal in the sun that afternoon. She nodded. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” she said slowly.

“Jo. You must stop the regressions,” Nick said after a moment. “You do realize, it’s getting near the end. Matilda is going to die.”

She shook her head desperately. “Not yet. Not yet, Nick. There is still time to sort things out. Maybe the books are wrong. No one seems to know for sure what happened. Perhaps William Marshall kept them safe-”

“No!” Nick caught hold of her shoulders. “Look at me, Jo. Nothing can save her. Nothing. She is going to die!” He turned away. “Part of me wants you to go on, Jo. Part of me wants to see you defeated and on your knees.” He stopped. In the silence that stretched out between them Jo did not dare to raise her eyes to his face. She felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stir.

“It’s not you, Nick,” she said at last. “And it’s not John.” She raised her eyes at last. “It’s what Sam wants.”

Nick nodded bleakly.

“And it was Sam who warned me not to go on with the regressions at the beginning. He didn’t want to hurt me then-”

“He hadn’t got this idea in his head then, that he was William,” Nick said grimly. “Somehow he wants to assuage his guilt by playing you and me off against one another. I can’t believe he really wants you to be hurt, and yet-”

“I won’t be hurt, Nick. Not by the regressions.” Jo gave a rueful smile. “Carl Bennet often takes people up to and through the death experience. After all, if we believe in reincarnation, then death isn’t the end-”

“It is the end of your current life, Jo.” Nick shook her gently. “Are you ready to die? Do you want to stop being Jo Clifford and go into limbo or wherever it is you think you go for another eight hundred years?”

Jo drew back, her eyes on his face. “Of course not. But it won’t happen.”

“It might.” Nick’s hands tightened. “Please, Jo. Promise me you won’t risk it.”

For a moment they looked at each other in silence. Almost without realizing he had done it, Nick reached up to touch her face. “I don’t dare trust myself with you, Jo. If I were really John-” He paused, then he shook his head. “I don’t-I can’t believe I was-but if it were true, then God help me, as far as I can see, it was not a life to be proud of. Perhaps he was the kind of man who would persecute someone beyond the grave.” He shuddered, then he gave a taut laugh. “What a strange new body he’s chosen to inhabit! A fraught and at the moment not very prosperous advertising executive! No, I can’t believe it. And even if I can, it’s the person I am at the moment who interests me, Jo. I don’t give a damn for King John. Or Sam. He’s been having a ball, setting me up and manipulating me, and it’s over.” He paused. “But until I’m sure there is nothing lurking inside me bent on doing you harm I don’t want to risk being alone with you. So I’m leaving.”

Jo moved toward him, a lump in her throat. “Nick-”

Nick closed his eyes. Then slowly he put out his arms and drew her toward him gently. He rumpled her hair. “You can’t trust me, Jo. Whatever I do, whatever I say. Don’t trust me, and don’t trust yourself.”

“Ann can help us, Nick-”

“She can’t, Jo, and it’s not fair to ask her anymore.”

“Carl Bennet, then.”

“Possibly.” He kissed her forehead. “But I think it must be Sam. I have a feeling he is the only one who can exorcise this nightmare, and I intend to see he does so.” He released her abruptly and pushed his hands into his pockets. “There is also the matter of Tim.” He tightened his jaw. “I want to find out just exactly where he fits in to this charade.”

Jo bit her lip. “Sam never hypnotized Tim,” she said, so quietly he could barely hear her.

“No.” Nick turned away from her. “That doesn’t fit, does it? Three men. Richard, John, and William. They each loved Matilda in their own way. And now here we are. Tim and Sam and me.” He gave a cold laugh. “Are you the prize, Jo? Is that what this is all about? If you are, then two people are going to lose out in this little exercise in karmic handouts. There have to be losers.” He was watching as a black thread of cloud drifted over the huge muffled crimson disc of the sun as it slid toward the mountain.

“I hope you win.” Jo’s voice was a tiny whisper.

Nick looked back at her, his eyes strangely impersonal. “I intend to,” he said. “This time I intend to.”

Somewhere on the hillside Jo could hear the plaintive bleating of a sheep. The sound echoed slightly in the emptiness of the night and she shivered.

Slowly she sat up. She pushed back the sheet and climbed out of bed, her eyes on the pale curtains that hid the moonlight. Drawing them back, she caught her breath at the beauty of the silvered mist lapping up the flanks of the mountain below the farm, and for a long time she stood staring out, her elbows on the stone sill. Her body ached for Nick. She wanted the comfort of his arms around her and the feel of his mouth on hers. Whatever the danger, she needed him. But he had gone.

She put her head in her arms and wept.

It was Richard who had come between them. If she had not met Richard, could she have loved the prince who had favored her with his passion? Richard. Always Richard. The name ran in her head. Had Matilda, in those last months, seen Richard again?

She raised her head and glanced at the door. Ann too had made her promise never to try to regress again alone, but surely, just once more, just to find out if there was news of Richard. After all, Matilda had not died in Ireland. There could be no danger yet. Just ten minutes, that was all she needed, to search her memory for a sight of him once more-to take her mind off John.

She tiptoed to the door and turned the key, then she sat down in front of the window. Putting her hands on the sill, she fixed her eyes on the huge silvered moon and deliberately she began to empty her mind.

It was late in the evening when they reached the castle of Trim. Somewhere a blackbird had begun to sing softly, warbling in the green twilight. At last the rain had stopped and a watery sun sent slanting shadows across the track. The great gates of the castle swung slowly open and their horses trotted over the drawbridge and into the shadowy bailey to safety.

Margaret greeted her mother with open arms, hugging her and trying to loosen her thick cloak at the same moment, laughing and brushing away the tears. Then Walter too came forward to greet her; tall and handsome as ever, a humorous glint in his eyes. “So my two reprobate parents-in-law come to see us at last.” He bent to kiss her and took her hands. “Welcome to Trim, Lady Matilda. We’ll keep you safe, never fear.” He guided her to the fire, leaving his wife to greet her father and brothers, and he stood for a moment studying her face. Matilda avoided his eye, embarrassed, conscious suddenly of the silvered hair snatched untidily from her veil by the wind and of the lines that worry, hard weather, and fear had etched around her eyes, and of the swollen, ugly hands he held so gently in his own. He raised one of them to his lips and kissed it. “Have you the strength to see Margaret’s pride and joy before you rest, Mother?” He spoke so quietly she almost missed his words against the background of noise in the hall beyond them. “I know she had no chance to tell you and you’ll have had no way of hearing the news. Our prayers were answered at last. We have a little daughter.”

“Oh, Walter!” Matilda’s tired face lighted with happiness. She pulled away from him and turned back to Margaret. “Why didn’t you tell me instantly, you wicked girl? Take me to see her quickly, my darling, before I really do collapse with exhaustion.”

But with the best will in the world she found as she followed her daughter up the steep stairs toward the nursery quarters high in the keep that she was trembling violently. She pressed her hand against her heart, feeling its irregular fluttering, and took a deep breath at every turn in the stairs, forcing herself to follow steadily as Margaret, her skirts held high, ran ahead of her. “We’ve called her Egidia,” the girl called over her shoulder. “Oh, Mother, she’s the most beautiful child you’ve ever seen. She’s a pearl.”

Matilda followed her into the nursery and sank heavily onto the stool that the plump, motherly nurse left as they approached the crib. Her heart was pounding uncontrollably and she felt suddenly overwhelmed with nausea and faintness, but somehow she managed to force herself to lean forward and admire the small sleeping face, two tiny webs of dark lashes lying so peacefully on the pink cheeks.

“She’s beautiful, darling.” Matilda smiled shakily.

Margaret had been watching her closely. “You’re not well, Mother. What’s wrong? You shouldn’t have let me rush you up those stairs.” She dropped to her knees in the strewn herbs at her mother’s side, suddenly contrite. “I was so excited at seeing you and knowing that you were safe at long last.”

Matilda smiled and patted her hand. “I’m all right. It has just taken so long to get to you, that’s all. The marshall was so kind to us, then the new justiciar appeared and threatened to betray us. The dear old marshall defied him, of course, but he had so few men. He thought we’d be safer here.”

“And so you are, Mother.” Margaret hugged her again. “You will all be perfectly safe here, you’ll see.”

Matilda smiled sadly and glanced back into the cradle, where the baby was screwing its tiny face into a thoughtful, wizened caricature of itself in its sleep. “Perhaps, my dear, perhaps” was all she said, but in her heart she knew their optimism was but a vain hope. Once again she found John’s face before her, haunting her; the handsome, spare features, the straight nose, the cold blue eyes, the cruel mouth that once had sought and held her own. She felt something tighten in her chest again, but this time she knew it was fear.

When the letter came, Matilda had no premonition that it was from Richard. She had watched Walter unroll it and scrutinize the lines of close black writing, her eyes calm, her face serene as she listened to Margaret singing to herself as she worked on a piece of tapestry by the light of the high window.

Slowly Walter climbed to his feet. He passed the letter to Matilda with a grin. “News to please you, Mother-in-law, I think,” he said softly. Then, beckoning Margaret after him, he strode out of the hall.

Matilda took the letter and scanned it slowly. The words were formal, dictated to a scribe, but nothing could conceal the happiness of the message they contained. Mattie had gone from Wigmore back to Suffolk and at Clare, on one of the mild December mornings untouched by wind and flecked with mackerel cloud, she had presented Will with a second son, a companion for little John.

And now that Will seemed settled for the time being at Trim, Richard proposed that he bring Mattie back to Ireland.

Matilda rolled up the letter and walked over to the fire, her heart beating wildly. Richard would be hard on the heels of the messenger; perhaps he was already in Ireland. She bit her lip to suppress a smile in a sudden moment of wry self-mockery. So much excitement, so great a longing, suddenly, in a woman of an age to know better!

Will, when he heard the news, was beside himself with joy, and ready to ride at once for the coast.

Margaret seized his arm, her eyes, so like those of her mother, blazing with fury when she heard his plan.

“Don’t you dare go to meet them, Will! You must let her father bring her all the way here. You must!” She glanced over her shoulder toward Matilda. “For Mother’s sake! Think how she would feel if Richard turned back at the port!” So Will curbed his anxiety and waited, watching the drying road and the burgeoning spring sunshine that should have brought his wife from the sea, and didn’t.

And then at last they arrived. Richard de Clare was riding beside his daughter, the two babies following with their nurses and the escort.

Matilda stood back to watch Will greet his wife, and there was a lump in her throat as she saw her son examine the small bundle that the nurse held out to him. He saw her watching and laughed, unembarrassed, his arm still round his wife’s waist, his face alight with happiness.

Then, at last, Richard was beside her. “I’m glad the children have found so much happiness in each other,” he murmured by way of greeting, touching her fingers lightly with his own. His hair now had turned completely white and his face was marked by pain and exhaustion. He met her gaze squarely with a wry smile. “Don’t look like that, my dear. I’m getting old. It shows, that’s all.”

“Richard, have you been ill?” She had forgotten her son and the crowds of people around them, conscious only, with a terrible sense of fear, of the deathly pallor of his skin.

He shrugged. “A fever, nothing more. I had my Mattie to take care of me. No harm has been done, save the delay in coming to you. Come now, you must take us to our hosts. Walter will be wondering what has happened to us.”

There was no way that Richard could hide his failing strength from Matilda during the weeks he stayed at Trim, and, as if he were conscious how unhappy it made her to see him so stooped and weak as he watched the hunting parties ride out daily without him, he insisted at last on leaving before Easter. Nothing she could say could dissuade him, nor did he make any attempt to see her alone before he left.

“Good-bye, my dear” was all he said as she bade him farewell in the bailey at Trim. “God go with you, and protect you always.” He raised her fingers to his lips for one lingering kiss and then he mounted his horse and rode slowly away with his followers over the drawbridge and out of sight. He never once turned back.

“Jo!” Ann was banging on the bedroom door. “Jo, for God’s sake, can you hear me?” She rattled the handle again. “Jo, let me in.”

“Here, let me.” Ben pushed past her. He thundered on the door panel with his knuckles. “You are sure she’s in there? She might have gone out for a walk.”

“She’s in there. Look, the key’s in the lock on the inside.”

Behind them the sun blazed down through the small skylight in the back roof, lighting up the stripped wooden boards of the floor and the charcoal and cream wools of the rug hung on the wall.

“Ben-what if she’s done it? What if she regressed on her own and died-”

“Don’t be stupid!” Ben’s voice was sharp. “Jo is a sensible woman. She’s not going to do a damn fool thing like that.” He knelt and put his eye to the lock. “Fetch me a pencil and a newspaper or something. Let’s see if we can push the key out and bring it through under the door.”

“Why did she lock it?” Ann moaned as she watched Ben juggling the pencil gently in the lock.

There was a small metallic bump as the key fell, and with a satisfied grunt Ben pulled gently on the paper and brought it under the door. Ann grabbed the key and with a shaking hand inserted it in the lock.

Jo was lying on her bed, her arms across her eyes.

“Is she breathing?” Ann ran to her and dropped on her knees beside the bed. “Jo? Oh, God, Jo, are you all right?”

“I can see her breathing from here.” Ben stayed firmly in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the low neckline of Jo’s nightgown.

“Jo?” Gently Ann shook her shoulder. “Jo, wake up.”

With a little sigh, Jo stirred. She opened her eyes and stared at Ann blankly.

“Jo, it’s after ten. The children have been pestering us to wake you.”

Jo smiled faintly. “Egidia,” she said. “And Mattie’s boys. So sweet. So like Will when he was little…” She closed her eyes again.

Ann glanced over her shoulder at Ben, who looked heavenward and disappeared back into the hall. A moment later she heard the sound of his feet running down the stairs. She turned back to Jo. “Not Mattie’s boys, Jo. Polly and Bill,” she said gently.

Jo frowned. “I slept so heavily,” she said slowly. “And such a long sleep. Richard left. He had given up…He was old, Ann. Old.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I must have cried myself to sleep.”

Nick leaned forward and turned on the car radio. Beside him was the map and the route Ben had given him to follow via Hereford and Ross. He had spent the night, in the end, at a pub somewhere in the mountains, leaving before breakfast to try to find his way back to the route after driving aimlessly for hours the evening before. He felt drowsy and very depressed.

He blinked, trying to concentrate on the blue car in front of him, pacing himself as the early-morning sun beat down into his face. He did not want to return to London. Every ounce of his being cried out to stay in Wales with Jo. Clenching his teeth, he put his foot on the accelerator and swooped past the blue car. In its place now was a green van. It slowed, blocking his way, and he braked, swearing.

It was somewhere just south of Hereford, as the A49 swept up toward the crest of a long hill, that he slammed on the brakes again. He was staring at the signpost on the opposite side of the road. The sound of the radio faded, as did the swish of cars overtaking him, the speed of their passing making the Porsche shudder as it sat at the curbside.

Aconbury 1 mile

He frowned. The name meant something to him. But what? Slowly, without quite knowing why, he pulled the car into the side road and drove slowly down it, staring ahead through the windshield at the woods and thick hedgerows on either side of what turned out to be a narrow, winding lane. He drove on, past some farm buildings, then the car drifted to a halt outside a small deserted church. His chest felt tight and his heart was beating with an uneasy, irregular rhythm as he climbed out.

Still without knowing why, he walked through the gate and past some old yews toward it. Two carved angels hung on the oak pillars of the porch, staring across the uneven flags. Walking in between them, he tried the huge rusty iron ring handle of the church door. It did not move. Then he read the typed message pinned to the heavy oak:

Notice to Visitors

This church has been declared redundant and is now used as a diocesan store…Visitors are always welcome to view the building and the key can be made available by prior appointment…

Nick sat down abruptly on the narrow stone seat that formed part of the wall of the porch. He found himself breathing very deeply. There was a sting of tears behind his eyes and a lump in his throat. But why? Why should this small, lost church fill him with such overwhelming unhappiness?

Suddenly unable to bear the enormous misery that flooded through him, he stood up once more and, ducking outside, almost ran back to the car, climbing in and resting his head against the rim of the steering wheel. It was ten minutes before he reversed the car into the gateway and made his way back to the main road.

Jo reached London about seven that evening. They had tried to persuade her to stay, but when she insisted she had to go back, Ann’s relief was almost palpable. They parted with kisses and promises that they would see one another again very soon-but there was no more mention of Matilda. Jo knew that if her past came to her again, it must be alone. She could ask no more of Ann and Ben.

After making her way slowly up to her apartment, she let herself in. There was only a second’s hesitation as she looked around, wondering with a sudden feeling of nervousness if Nick were there, but the apartment was empty. She toured it once quickly, opening all the windows, then she let herself relax. It was good to be home.

She showered and changed and poured herself a glass of apple juice. Then she unpacked her notes and piled them on the coffee table. The Clements article was practically finished.

The sudden ringing of the phone made her jump. She climbed to her feet and went to answer it slowly, suddenly apprehensive.

“Jo? How are you?” It was Sam.

Her body went rigid. She felt her fingers lock around the receiver, her knuckles white as she turned to look out at the drooping flowers on the balcony. “I’m well, thank you.” She kept her voice carefully neutral.

“When did you get back from Wales?” Sam’s voice rang so clearly in the room it sounded as if he were there with her.

“Only an hour ago.” She felt the rags of tension beginning to pull at her temples. Her head was beginning to throb. Put the phone down. She must put the phone down. But she didn’t. She stayed where she was, her eyes on the stone balustrade with its curtain of wilting green.

“May I speak to Nick?” Sam was speaking again.

Jo felt her stomach tighten. “He’s not here, Sam. I don’t know where he is.”

“Did he go back to Lynwood House?” She could hear the amusement in his tone.

“I told you, I don’t know where he is.”

There was a pause. “I see. Do I gather you have quarreled again?” he said at last.

“No, Sam.” Jo could hear her voice rising slightly. Desperately she tried to keep it level. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we haven’t quarreled. We are the best of friends. We had a lovely time in Wales, and whatever it was you tried to do to Nick didn’t work. And just in case you think you can come here again and repeat the charade, forget it. We know what you’re up to. It won’t work, Sam, do you hear? It won’t work.”

There was an amused chuckle down the phone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jo, but I hope to see you again soon. Very soon.”

“No, Sam, forget it.”

“Whatever you say, love. But before you hang up on me forever, have you got my mother’s phone number? I’m down in Hampshire with her at the moment.”

“I shan’t be phoning you, Sam.”

“Perhaps not.” He laughed again. “But Nick will. You make sure you’ve got it somewhere handy, there’s a good girl. Someone may need to get in touch with me urgently. You never know.” He laughed again. “Your life might depend on it.”

The line went dead.

Jo stared at the receiver for a moment in disbelief, then she slammed it down. It was several minutes before she reached for a pen and scribbled Dorothy Franklyn’s phone number down obediently on the notepad by the lamp.

Tim looked at Nick without surprise. “I thought you’d turn up one of these days,” he said.

“Well, we have one or two things to sort out, do we not?” Nick followed him into the studio.

Tim swung around. “We have nothing to sort out,” he snapped. “You don’t own her, for God’s sake.”

“I intend to marry her.”

Tim stood quite still. His mouth had fallen slightly open as the pain of loss hit him anew. With an effort he pulled himself together. “Then congratulations are in order. I hope you’ll both be very happy.” He turned away. “Does your brother know?” He was staring up at the high ceiling of the studio, concentrating with elaborate care on the pattern of spotlights and tracks suspended beneath the shaded skylights.

“Not yet.” Nick stood still just inside the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. “And neither does Jo yet. Keep away from her from now on, Tim. I’m only going to tell you once.”

“There is no need.” Tim did not look at him. “Jo has never felt anything for me. She and I were part of a dream, that’s all, and my share of the dream is over, if it ever existed at all. Come over here.” He moved slowly, as if every bone in his body were aching with fatigue.

Nick hadn’t noticed the easel in the corner. He watched as Tim pulled the sheet off and turned the easel slightly toward the light. “My wedding present to you both, if you like,” Tim said quietly. “I’ll get it framed. I’ve no use for it now.”

Nick stared at the photograph. He could feel a pulse beginning to flicker somewhere in his throat. It was Matilda de Braose. Not Jo. There was no trace of Jo left in those huge eyes with their suspicion of love and laughter, the straight, slightly long nose, the determined chin, its strength emphasized by the fine white linen of the headdress. His eye ran slowly down the photo, resting for a moment on her hands, then on down the heavy folds of the scarlet surcoat and pale-green gown to the point of one shoe that showed at her hem. He would have recognized her anywhere, the woman whose image had haunted him, tormented him, for eight hundred years, the woman with whom a prince had fallen hopelessly in love, the woman for whom his passion and longing had grown twisted and sour.

Abruptly he turned away, feeling the bile rising in his mouth. “So that was how she looked to de Clare,” he breathed. “She never looked at me like that. She kept only sneers for me!”

Without another word he strode back across the studio.

“Where are you going?” Tim’s voice was suddenly harsh.

Nick stopped. He half turned. “Where do you think I’m going?” he said. His eyes were hard.

He groped for the door, then flung himself down the stairs and out into the street, leaving Tim standing by the photo.

“Don’t hurt her, Nick,” Tim said softly as he heard the street door close. “For pity’s sake, don’t hurt her.”