Lady of Hay (73 page)

He frowned as he looked down at her. “Sam?” he said slowly. “There was something I had to tell Sam—”

Jo swallowed hard. “He is with your mother,” she said. “He called earlier. He wanted you to call him back.” His grip on her wrists had slackened slightly. “Go on, Nick, please call him. It’s important.” She tried to keep her voice steady, her eyes on his face.

She saw the slight flicker of uncertainty for a moment behind his eyes, then it had gone and he was smiling again. “You are very anxious I should phone him all of a sudden. I wonder why.” His grip on her wrists tightened again and he bent over her until his face was only inches from hers. “Do you think he is going to distract me from what I came to do?”

Her mouth had gone dry. “What did you come to do?” she whispered.

From outside the open French doors the sound of a car hooting in the darkened square blasted into the room. Nick raised his head slightly, but his eyes did not leave her face. “I came to see you,” he said evenly. “The woman I love.”

Jo was breathing heavily, trying to control the panic that was threatening to overtake her.

“If you love me, Nick, you won’t hurt me,” she said pleadingly. She tried once again unsuccessfully to push him away. “Please, let me go. You’re hurting my wrists—”

He smiled. “So little a pain, surely, compared with the pain you caused me.”

“I didn’t mean to cause you pain,” she cried desperately. “You must believe me, I didn’t. I love you—” Her voice cracked into a sob.

Nick did not move. His eyes narrowed cynically. “Love,” he whispered. “What love?”

After transferring both her wrists to one hand, he touched her cheek gently. A teardrop stood for a moment on the pad of his forefinger. Slowly he leaned forward and brought his lips down on hers.

“Who did you really love?” he murmured. “Was it de Clare, all the time?”

Jo stared up into the eyes so close to hers.

“It was you,” she whispered. “In the end it has always been you—” She relaxed at last beneath the iron grip on her wrists and felt at once a corresponding lessening of pressure from his hand as his mouth sought hers once more. Closing her eyes, she could feel the accustomed longing beginning to stir somewhere deep inside her. Almost without realizing it she was returning the kiss, feeling her body tremble as he reached inside her blouse. For a long moment she lay still, then frantically she tried to tear her wrists free of his imprisoning hand. Instantly his grip tightened. Leaning back slightly, he smiled. “Relax, Jo,” he said softly. “Don’t fight me.” As he looked down at her she saw a new enigmatic blankness in his eyes, then he reached forward again and touched her face. “Now,” he said, “the end of the story, I think.”

“No!” She shrank away from his touch, but she could not move as his free hand, gently insistent now, moved slowly over her forehead and down her temples. Desperately she tried to turn away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to look at him as once more he stroked her forehead, soothing her, relaxing her in spite of her sick terror.

He smiled. “That’s better. Stop fighting me, Jo. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. “This is what we both want, and you know it. To find out what happened.” His fingers had not stopped caressing her temples and she lay still at last, looking up at him, conscious only of what intensely blue eyes he had. Nick smiled and, leaning forward, brought his lips down to hers once more. He was forcing her back, by sheer willpower, into the past. She was trapped and even through her fear she could feel the world around her slipping out of gear.

It was several minutes before Nick stopped the movement of his hand. He looked at her closely. Her eyes were closed and he could feel the tension leaving her body as she relaxed deeper into the cushions. Gently he released her wrists at last and, leaning over her, kissed her again.

“Now, my lady,” he said. “I want you to tell me what happened next. You were on the ship, leaving Ireland…leaving me behind. You thought you had escaped me, didn’t you?” He laughed, then stood up and walked over to the open door and looked out onto the balcony. “Come, tell me what happened next. Tell me how you fared on your voyage to freedom.”

***

An hour or two before dawn Matilda, huddled in a fur blanket with her little grandson John in her arms, fell into an uneasy sleep, rocked by the gentle motion of the boat. When she awoke the sky was already graying, the clouds high in front of them touched with pearly pink above the misty distance that was the coast of Scotland. The little boy in her arms stirred and nestled closer into the warmth of her cloak and she held him close, ignoring the stiffness in her shoulders and the rime of damp that covered everything in a net of droplets. The steersman sat hunched at the steering oar, an old sack around his shoulders, his eyes fixed calmly on the horizon. She could see his brown face, weathered into a network of wrinkles, and the piercing blue sailor’s eyes. He seemed oblivious of Hugh’s guard holding a drawn sword at his back.

Close beside the boat a fish jumped, its body arching into a silver flash. Automatically the man’s eyes flicked in that direction. She saw his fingers flex for a moment on the smooth oak under his hand.

“Where will we land?” She kept her voice quiet so as not to disturb little John.

The man looked at her for a moment, considering, then he jerked his head forward in the direction of the dipping bow. “Yon’s the Rinns o’ Galloway. I’ll tak’ you to the Blessed Patrick’s port, if the wind holds and we make the tide.” He squinted up at the masthead, where the blue pennant stood out strongly before the mast. “But I’m thinking the wind will drop come the sunrise.” He had a gentle, lilting voice, unhurried and relaxed.

Matilda glanced behind at the white ripples of their wake. The sea humped and rolled gently behind them, darkening toward the horizon, where the night was slowly shrinking back.

“Yon king will have no better wind than us, lady.” The old man read her thoughts with ease. “And I heard he’s a day behind you. You’ll be away over the hills long before he sets sail from the lough.”

“And I trust my constable will keep him guessing at Carrickfergus for a while.” Hugh’s voice came suddenly out of the shadows. “It might be weeks before the king realizes we’re not there. We could be in France by then. With luck.”

“Scottish William has become the English king’s man; you know that?” The fisherman spoke quietly. “You’ll not look for support from him. The Lion is old and tired. He’ll not defy England again.”

“You know a lot, old man.” Hugh chuckled. “I’ve no doubt we’ll find lords enough in Scotland to support us, even so. They’re no friends to John. Just long enough to find us a passage over to France. That’s all the time we need.”

As the old man predicted, the wind dropped as the light grew stronger. They watched the sun rise in a sea of flaming mist behind the Galloway hills as their sail flapped and hung empty. Somewhere a rope began to flap aimlessly against the mast, and one of the babies began to whine fretfully. The creaming of the sea stopped and instead the water was silent, every now and then eddying with a gurgle along the barnacled planking.

For a long time they lay becalmed, hardly seeming to move. The old skipper refused curtly when Walter suggested that they bring out the long oars. “Time enough when the tide changes, my lord,” he insisted quietly. “She’ll bring us in in God’s good time.”

Behind them the horizon hazed with pearl, remained empty of pursuing boats.

It was after noon when they at last drew in alongside the quay at Portpatrick and two waiting men, barefoot in their checked rags, caught the mooring ropes and made fast to the makeshift bollards, their eyes wide as they saw the naked swords and the women and children. The party stepped ashore, stiff and cramped, and stood together on the warm wooden quay looking around. A huddle of little huts stood back from the bay and a well-trodden road led away inland from the sea over the dry grass.

“We’ll need horses.” Hugh turned to the skipper who leaned thoughtfully on the side of his ship watching. He seemed in no hurry to slip his moorings and sail away even though the guard had left the ship and were standing on the quay. The fishermen were sitting idly on the deck, seemingly uninterested in what was going on.

The old man shrugged. “I doubt you’ll be finding any here.” He grinned across at the boy who was coiling down the rope on the quay and spoke to him volubly in the swift tongue of Ireland. The boy shook his head and shrugged. Then he pointed over his shoulder inland. “He says you’d best go to the castle,” he translated, his eyes twinkling. “But only if you’ve gold enough to pay. The laird there is no friend to landless men.”

Hugh and Walter exchanged a quick glance.

“Tell him to guide us,” Hugh commanded. “We have the money.”

“Oh, Hugh, we don’t have to walk? Not with the babies, and in this sun?” Margaret put her hand on her brother-in-law’s arm.

He hesitated. Then he turned to the boy. “Is it far, this castle?”

The sailor translated and the boy gave a slow grin. “It’s as far as it is and no further” was the enigmatic answer. Hugh gave an exasperated exclamation.

“Perhaps the women had better wait here, in one of the cottages or somewhere. Will, you stay with them. Keep two of my men. The rest of us will go and find some horses from somewhere.”

He wasted no time waiting for arguments. Matilda stood with Mattie and Margaret and watched as the men strode up the track after the barefooted boy. She stood till they were out of sight before turning to Will. “Spread our cloaks under the tree, Will. We’ll wait there in the shade. See if you can buy bread and ale at one of the cottages.” She felt almost lighthearted suddenly. Happier than she had felt since King John set foot in Ireland. At last it looked as though they had given themselves enough start over him to get away.

The sun blazed white now in the high arch of blue and the stones in the dusty road were hot to the touch. Behind them the shoulder of the hill was already afire with budding heather and from the winding, climbing dog roses and the creeping wild thyme came the hum of the scent-loving bees. The children slept and with them the nurse, her head lolling back against the knobbly boll of one of the trees, snores coming from the slack mouth, the bodice of her gown falling carelessly loose, showing a heavy brown breast with its broad, reddened nipple. Aboard the fishing boat the sailors slept beneath the shade of a sail that they had slung across the deck to save the whitened planking from the relentless heat. They had shown no sign of wanting to leave on the turning tide.

It was much later and they were all hungry and thirsty before they heard the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harness in the distance and saw men approaching at last. Will scrambled to his feet, screwing up his eyes in the glare of the evening sun, as he gave his mother his hand. “There seems to be rather a lot of people and no spare horses that I can see,” he commented at last, puzzled.

They stood beneath the clump of trees watching as the horsemen approached. There was no sign of Walter and his brother or Reginald. At the head of the troop rode a redheaded man with a scarlet chevron emblazoned on his surcoat. He reined in near them and looked down from his horse, one eyebrow raised in the thin, tanned face. “Are you good folk on a pilgrimage?” he inquired lazily. His eyes traveled from one to another, surveying them all in turn, missing nothing. Then his gaze came back to Matilda. Imperceptibly it sharpened.

“Surely it’s the Lady de Braose?” He spoke so softly she wondered if he were talking to himself. Then he bowed in the saddle, a flash of merriment showing in his green eyes. “May I present myself, my lady. Sir Duncan of Carrick.” He continued to eye her steadily and she felt herself beginning to tremble. His next words horribly confirmed her worst fears. “I only recently returned to Scotland myself. I couldn’t help hearing then about your slight altercation with my beloved cousin, King John.”

Out of the corner of her eye Matilda saw Will’s hand go to his sword hilt. She bit her lip. “I think you’re mistaken, Sir Duncan.” She tried to smile, steadying her voice with an effort.

“Oh, no, my lady, I think not.” He interrupted her before she could deny it. “And I think it would please His Grace mightily if I were to tell him where you are.” He stopped smiling abruptly and gestured over his shoulder.

The troops of men broke rank and the party beneath the trees was surrounded. Will, with an ugly oath, unsheathed his sword and the two knights from Carrickfergus followed suit, putting themselves between the women and Carrick’s men. But hardly had Will raised his arm when three armed knights rode him down, and he fell beneath their hooves, his blade flailing uselessly. Mattie screamed and ran toward him, but one of the mounted men, laughing, bent and scooped her slender body into the saddle before him as easily as if she had been a child, and held her there, her arms pinioned helplessly at her sides by his grip.

Sir Duncan sat watching as Will, his face bruised and bleeding, staggered to his feet. “Bind his hands,” he ordered curtly. Dismounting, two of his men forced Will’s arms behind him, tying them brutally tight with a leather thong. With an apologetic glance at Matilda her other two knights promptly threw down their swords, and she watched helplessly as they too were bound. “I think you will agree, my lady”—Sir Duncan bowed to her again—“that it would be foolish to resist arrest.” He beckoned forward the young man who had been riding behind him. “My esquire will take you pillion with him. Bring the others!” he ordered his other men. “We’ll return to Turnberry tonight.” He wheeled his horse and spurred it toward the edge of the quay, where the sailors, disturbed from their rest, were leaning against the side of their boat watching the proceedings with impassive interest. Sir Duncan felt for his purse and flung a coin negligently across onto the bleached planking. The old man regarded it unmoving.