Lady of Hay (38 page)

Gritting her teeth in disgust and pain, she allowed him to maul her night after night, praying he would never suspect the truth. That Jeanne had guessed she was certain, but the old woman kept an enigmatic silence on the subject of her lady’s prematurely swelling belly. Of Richard she stubbornly allowed herself to think not at all. News had come that he was on his way to Ireland, and after that nothing.

Jeanne watched over her now with increasingly jealous care as the time passed, fending off even the faithful Elen, who had drawn apart, resentful and hurt, spitefully hinting that the old woman was a witch. Matilda was sure of it, and one day, bored with being kept indoors by the weather, she sought Jeanne out in the walled herb garden.

“Teach me some of your art, Jeanne,” she whispered as she caught the old woman, muffled in a fur cloak, scraping snow into a bowl with a muttered incantation.

Jeanne jumped guiltily, then she turned, a crafty smile on her lips. She had lost the last of her front teeth and it gave her an expression of cunning. Matilda caught her breath at the sight, but she steadied herself and smiled, excited.

“I should like to know. Please tell me some spells.”

Jeanne’s eyes shifted sideways. “I know no spells, Lady Matilda. ’Tis healing I practice, that’s all, with herbs and prayers. Those I’ll teach you gladly.”

Matilda nodded. “And I would gladly learn them, but the other things, Jeanne—” She looked the old woman in the eye. “What was it you whispered over my bed the night Lord Clare came to Hay?” Clutching her fists in her skirts, she was suddenly afraid as she waited for the answer.

Jeanne did not move for a moment, then slowly the hooded eyes fell to gaze at Matilda’s stomach. “My power was not strong enough to save you,” she murmured. “Now it is too late. Events are already in train. I can do nothing.”

Matilda shivered. “There is nothing to do, Jeanne. My husband will never guess,” she whispered. “We were discreet. We were never alone together again.”

Jeanne shrugged. “The truth has a way of finding daylight,
ma p’tite.
One day Sir William will know. One day Lord Clare must pay the price.”

“No!” Matilda clutched her arm. “No, I don’t believe you. How could William find out? No one knows. No one. You would not tell him—”

Jeanne shook her head. “Not me,
ma p’tite
, nor the prince of the Welsh who saw you in Lord Clare’s arms—” She ignored the look of terror that crossed Matilda’s face as she hobbled stiffly away from her, pulling her furs more closely around her. “It is the child herself who will betray your secret. I have seen it in my dreams. And all for
nothing
!” She turned suddenly, spitting with vehemence. “Lord Clare is not for you, Matilda! You belong to another!” She spread her knotted hands expressively, then she shook her head.

Matilda shuddered. “I know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sighing of the wind. Snowflakes were beginning to drift down out of the sky, catching in the women’s furs.

Jeanne pursed her lips over her toothless gums. “You don’t know,
ma p’tite
,” she said softly. “And I pray that I have seen falsely and you never will. It is not your husband I have seen.”

“Not my husband?” Matilda echoed. “Who then?” She ran after Jeanne, clutching at her arm. “What have you seen? Tell me!”

Jeanne stopped. “I saw a king,” she whispered, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder. “
He
is your destiny. And I shall not be there to save you.”

Matilda stared at her. “What do you mean?” Her mouth had gone dry with fear. “You must tell me!” She almost shook the old woman in her impatience. “Tell me!” But Jeanne shook her head, holding her finger to her lips. “Perhaps, one day,
ma p’tite
” was all she would say, and no matter how hard Matilda tried to persuade her she would not speak of the matter again. But she did take her mistress to her stillroom, and there she showed her the dried herbs and flowers, salves, and creams she kept locked in a chest. There were also stones, and branches of aromatic trees from faraway lands, and scraps of parchment covered with strange symbols. Those Jeanne whisked out of sight beneath a napkin, and when Matilda went again to look in the chest, they had gone. She had to be content with the arts Jeanne showed her, the simple spell of words to induce sleep in a fretful child, the way to consult the stars about the humors of the body, and how to prepare feverfew and gromel for when the labor pains came on her in the summer. But always she refused to speak more of what she had seen in her dreams.

Matilda was sitting one evening, listening idly to the singing of a wandering minstrel who had floundered in out of the snowdrifts, his gittern swathed in rags slung across his back, when she saw William poring over some parchments on the table, his forehead wrinkled with the effort of reading the close writing in the flickering light of the streaming candles. Outside the wind roared up the broad Wye Valley, slamming against the walls and rattling the loose wooden shutters. Once she thought she heard the howl of a wolf and she shivered.

He looked up at her suddenly, grinning. “A good haul today, my dear, eh?” He rubbed his leg, stiff from the saddle, and stood up slowly, coming to stand close to her chair. “There’s some of the best hunting I know around here and I like the Hay. I’ll be pleased when we have a more solid keep here, though. What do you say? Shall we pull it down and build in stone? That would make you feel safer, wouldn’t it?” He looked up at her, cocking an eyebrow, then he reached for one of the parchments on the table. “I’ve been working out the moneys with Madoc and Bernard. The tithes are good, but the area should be better defended.” He stabbed at the parchment with a grimy finger. “We’re strategically placed here. I should make better use of the position. The Welsh may be quiet at the moment, but one never knows when they’re going to plan a surprise attack. We could never hold them off here for long, and we have been as good as warned by your friend Einion.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

An extra blast of wind whistled through the shutters and one of the candles blew out, scattering wax over the table. William swore quietly as a page ran to the fire for a brand to relight it and he lowered his voice suddenly. “There is plenty of labor and it would be a good jumping-off place should one ever have plans to move into Elfael.” He looked at her and raised his eyebrow again. “Well, woman, what do you say to the idea?”

She smiled. “It seems good. I won’t deny I’d feel safer with a sound stone keep if we must stay at Hay.”

He nodded. “We’ll return to Brecknock for a while, then you can come back to supervise the building when I rejoin the king in the spring. Give you something to do, eh, while you’re waiting to spawn that brat?” He laughed loudly and turned to pour himself more wine.

And so it was at Hay that Richard’s daughter Matilda was born, on a cool, crystal-clear midsummer night, bright with stars that seemed to have been borrowed from the frosts of winter. Jeanne delivered the child, a flaxen-haired scrap, then laid the offerings on the hearth. The baby was tiny—more like a seven-month child than either of Matilda’s lusty full-term boys, and William accepted her as such without a word of doubt, crossing himself as he caught sight of Jeanne muttering protective spells above the cradle, hastily turning away to his horses and his falcons. Alone again but for Jeanne, Matilda held out her arms for the child and took her, staring down at the delicate, perfect features. She had expected to feel an especial love for this child of her love. She felt nothing at all.

***

“Are you all right?”

The woman from the produce stall had reached tentatively into the car to shake Jo by the shoulder.

Jo clutched the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The car engine was idling quietly as the sun beat down through the windshield onto her face. She rested her forehead on the rim of the wheel for a moment, feeling suddenly sick and cold.

“Are you all right?” the woman repeated. “You’ve been sitting there for ages. I couldn’t make you hear me—”

“I’m sorry.” Jo looked up with an effort. “I think I must have fallen asleep—”

The woman looked skeptical. “You were staring up at the castle as if you were in a trance.”

Taking a deep breath, Jo forced herself to laugh. “Maybe I was at that. I’m sorry, and I’m parked in your way too. If you could help to see me out—”

“You’re sure you’re all right?” The woman did not look convinced as she straightened and stepped back from the car.

“Quite sure,” Jo said firmly. “Quite, quite sure.”

***

This Thursday was the third time she had been up to London in under a month, Dorothy Franklyn realized suddenly. She felt very tired.

Nick ordered sandwiches and coffee for them both in his office. “I’m sorry, Ma, but as you see I’m up to my eyes here today…I’ll get you a slap-up lunch next time you come up to town, I promise.” He smiled at her fondly. “Now, what can I do for you? Your call sounded urgent.” He had been looking at her with some concern since Jane had shown her up to his office. Her face was drawn and she seemed suddenly old and frail as she drew off her gloves.

She sat down on the low sofa that stood against one wall of the room beneath a colorful display of some of Franklyn-Greerson’s artwork. “I want to talk to you about Sam,” she said without preamble.

Nick closed the office door carefully and leaned against it. “What about Sam?” he asked.

“How do you think he is?”

“Fine. Sam has never been ill in his life, as you well know.”

“I don’t mean physically, Nick.” She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag.

“Then what do you mean exactly?” Eyebrow raised, Nick sat down beside her and reached for one of her hands. “What is this all about?”

She sighed. “I had a long talk with Sam the other day about Jo and he said some very strange things. I can’t get them out of my mind.”

Nick’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Jo has been doing some very strange things.”

His mother’s fingers closed around his and she squeezed his hand. She looked up at him. “Nick, you do know that Sam is very fond of Jo, don’t you?”

“Of course he is. He’s known her for years.” Nick leaned forward and helped himself to a smoked salmon sandwich.

She frowned. “I think it’s a little more than that,” she said cautiously.

“You don’t mean you think he’s in love with her?” She saw the quick flash of anger in Nick’s face, almost instantly masked.

“No,” she said hastily. “But I think he’s become too involved in this business of her past life. He said such weird things to me about it—I just think you and Jo should discourage him from discussing it with her any more. In fact, I think it would be much better if you could persuade him to go back to Scotland and forget about the whole thing. Get him right away from her.”

Nick looked at his mother suspiciously. “You really are worried, aren’t you?” he said after a thoughtful pause. “And it’s not like you to interfere. What are you trying to say to me?”

“I’m not
trying
to say anything,” she retorted sharply. “I have said it. Now, tell me, have you and Jo made it up yet?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Oh, Nick!” Her voice was wistful. “Then perhaps it doesn’t matter after all.” She picked up a sandwich and nibbled the edge of it. “I love you and Sam so much, and I’ve come to love Jo too. I don’t want any of you to get hurt, that’s all.”

Nick stood up abruptly. Turning his back on her, he strode toward the window and stared out. “No one is going to get hurt,” he said.

“I wish I could believe that,” she replied softly. She was watching her younger son with an expression of enormous sadness. If only she could tell him what it was she really feared, but with Nick’s temper she didn’t dare. She put down the sandwich and reached for her coffee. “Promise me something,” she said carefully. “If Sam should suggest that you ever be hypnotized like Jo, I want you to refuse.”

He turned. “Why?”

“I have a good reason for asking, Nick. You must never let Sam hypnotize you.”

“Too late. He already has.” He grinned wryly. “A little gesture of brotherly goodwill—and it didn’t hurt a bit.”

Dorothy stood up in agitation. Trying to cover it, she stopped and picked up Nick’s cup, carrying it to him as he stood there. “When did he do it?” she whispered.

“To be exact? The day before yesterday.” He took the coffee from her. “What is this really about, Ma? What are you afraid of?”

She shook her head and smiled. “Nothing. Just a superstitious fear of the unknown, I suppose. But I never thought you would do it. You used to be afraid even of falling asleep when you were a little boy—”

“It wasn’t like falling asleep. I remember every word he said—” He hesitated. “At least, I think I do—”

Her eyes shot up to meet his. “Oh, Nick—”

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to worry about. Sam knows what he’s doing.”

She turned away. “That is what I’m afraid of,” she said, so quietly he did not hear her.

Absentmindedly she picked up her sandwich again and stood staring at the wall on which hung a steel-framed silhouette of two children playing ball. It was several minutes before she could bring herself to speak again. “And did he find out who you were in Matilda’s past,” she asked at last, “or did he say you were not there at all?” She turned back slowly to look at his face. “Well, Nick? What did he let you remember?”