Lady of Hay (71 page)

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
.”

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.