Lady of Hay (41 page)

When the prior had gone she paced up and down, nervously chewing her thumbnail. Then suddenly she made up her mind. “Dress,” she ordered Elen and the two women. “See that the horses are at the door at once,” she flung at the guard. “We ride to Hay now. The Welsh could have attacked it already. They could be on the way there now. Don’t wait for food, we must go.”

She fled into her little room and began to pull on her clothes, bundling up her hair with pins inside the hood of her mantle, pricking her fingers in her haste on the brooch at its shoulder.

***

The deep Honddu Valley still lay in darkness, and the morning light touched only the tops of the western slopes of the Black Mountains as they set off up the long climb through the thickly wooded valley toward the bleak, silent moors, past the tiny chapel on the border and so into Brycheiniog and up toward the high pass between the mountains. Their horses were still tired from the previous day’s ride but Matilda relentlessly pushed them on, her eyes fixed on the gap in the mountains ahead. Once there they paused for a moment to scan the countryside around them, bathed now in the warm russet of a watery dawn sun. Nothing moved in the bracken and grass. Even birds and sheep seemed to have deserted the high road. They pushed their gasping horses to a heavy gallop in the thick mud and began the long slow descent from the hills.

As the exhausted party trekked the last mile into Hay the sun disappeared and rain began once more to fall, a steady blanketing downpour that shut off the mountains and the valley and blinded the riders, soaking into their clothes and streaming from the horses’ manes. The town of Hay seemed deserted, only the flattened puffs of smoke escaping from the streaming cottage roofs showing where the women were sheltering inside their dwellings. The castle was quiet. The guards on the main gate in the curtain wall stood to attention as their lady walked her steaming horse into the outer bailey and drew to a halt. All was well. There had been no attack. She breathed a silent prayer that it had been the same at Dingestow.

22

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

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

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

***

Nick was waiting for her in her apartment.

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

“Away.”

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

“No.”

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

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

“We lost the Desco contract this afternoon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded mutely.

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

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

“And did you recognize anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

“John.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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