Lady of Hay (63 page)

Matilda stood where she was in the middle of the bailey, holding Margaret’s arm. The girl’s face was white and Matilda could see the blue veins in her temples beating wildly. Swallowing with an effort the bitter bile that had risen in her throat, she began slowly to walk back toward the keep, consciously keeping her back straight, forcing her steps one by one as she leaned on Margaret’s shoulder, feeling the curious glances being cast in her direction by the dispersing crowd.

Dai appeared as she reached the steps and, unceremoniously picking her up, carried her back to the chair by the hearth. William was pouring himself wine from the jug on the table.

“
Fyng arglwyddes
, may I have your permission to return to my hills?” She suddenly realized that Dai was kneeling before her, his face a pasty yellow. “I no longer wish to serve you. I’m sorry,
meistress bach. Dioer
,
you were good to me indeed, you were, but I cannot stay.”

“I understand, Dai.” She sighed. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. “God go with you, my friend.”

She watched him stride toward the doorway, expecting him to turn, but he didn’t. Neither did he so much as acknowledge William’s presence standing behind them. He went out onto the steps without a backward glance and ran down out of sight.

Margaret pressed a goblet of wine into her hand. “Drink this, Mother, you look so pale.” She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder toward her father, but he continued to ignore them, pouring himself another goblet and emptying it down in one gulp.

Matilda turned and looked at him at last. “Did Trehearne really merit such high-handed, barbaric treatment, William?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He set down the goblet with a bang on the trestle. “In my opinion, madam, he did.”

“He seemed to be waiting for you at Aberhonddu.”

“We had arranged to meet there, certainly.” He strode down off the dais. “He seemed to think we could discuss our differences and part friends. Ha! He misjudged me!”

Matilda raised an eyebrow. “So, I think, do a lot of people, William,” she murmured in disgust. “Have you thought of the repercussions that will follow? Trehearne was well liked by others as well as me, and he has powerful kinsmen.”

“So he couldn’t stop telling me. The man blabbed like a coward. He thought you could stop me. He thought Gwenwynwyn would avenge his death and that the Marches will be alight from Chester to Monmouth with revenge for his scrawny bones.” He turned and spat viciously into the rushes. “I doubt if he’s as important as he thinks.

“Page!” he yelled at the boy who was listening, open-mouthed, by the serving screens. “Help me off with my hauberk before I send you after Gwenwynwyn, you imp!” He threw back his head and laughed, then he hurled his goblet at the wall, where it struck and rolled away, dented, into a corner.

Lying taut and sleepless in bed that night next to her snoring husband, Matilda could not close her eyes.

The picture of Trehearne’s pitiful death kept rising before her, and with it the sight of her husband’s laughter. William seemed to care neither for the death of a neighbor and her friend nor for his broken word—for he had, it appeared, given Trehearne safe conduct to travel through his lands—nor for the revenge that would undoubtedly follow. His conceit and his overweening arrogance were complete.

And, though it didn’t seem important anymore, she could not help but notice that he had not once inquired for her health or excused his own flight from Brecknock in the summer. When they had finally gone to bed he had been incapably drunk.

***

There were tears on her cheeks when Jo came to. She remained quite still, leaning against the wall, her eyes fixed on the mighty summit of Pen y Fan, and for a moment she did not dare move, wondering, with a shudder of disgust, if she still had the marks of the plague sores on her body. Then suddenly, below her in the street, she heard some children laughing. The sound acted like a charm, easing away the awful realities of the stench and filth and misery of her trance. She stood upright, feeling the sun beating down on her head. There was a throbbing in her temples and the perspiration trickling down between her shoulder-blades was aggravating the raw whiplash across her back, but other than that there was no pain. She shuddered violently. William had indeed much to answer for.

***

Margiad Griffiths was in the kitchen when Jo arrived back at the house. She glanced at Jo in concern. “There, now, it’s ill you’re looking again, girl,” she said. “Come you in and sit down. And have a glass of my sherry, won’t you? I’m all alone here. You’re doing too much driving up and down, you are. Why don’t you try and stay down here for a bit?”

Jo sat down gratefully on a kitchen chair. “I would like to,” she said. “I’m doing two jobs at once, that’s the trouble.” She sipped the sherry and closed her eyes.

“Do you want to go and have a sleep, girl? I’ll get you some supper later.” Margiad eyed her closely. She could see the exhaustion on Jo’s face, the gray pallor beneath her tanned skin, the lines of pain that had not been there two weeks before when she had first seen her.

Jo shook her head slowly. “Do you believe in destiny, Mrs. Griffiths?”

“Destiny, is it?” Margiad thought for a moment. She pulled out the chair opposite Jo and eased herself into it.

“Fate, you mean? No. I don’t. Life is what you make of it yourself. We’ve no one to blame but ourselves in the end. It’s depressed you are, isn’t it?”

Jo nodded. “I suppose I am.” She reached for the bottle unthinkingly and refilled her empty glass. Margiad, who had not yet sipped her own sherry, said nothing.

“I think I’m being haunted,” Jo said softly.

Margiad raised a brisk eyebrow. “Who by?”

“A woman who died nearly eight hundred years ago.”

“You mean you’ve seen her?”

Jo frowned. “She’s not a ghost. Not an external thing at all. She’s inside me. Somewhere in my mind—memories…” She put down her glass and put her hands over her eyes. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m mad.”

Margiad shook her head slowly. “I told my Doreen that you had a fey look about you when first I saw you. You’ve Welsh blood in you, haven’t you, for all your English way of talking?”

Jo groped in her pocket for a tissue. Not finding one, she stood up and tore a paper towel from the roll over the sink. “I think I must have,” she said slowly.

“It is like that with a lot of Celtic people,” Margiad said comfortably. “They have the sight. It is not easy for those who cannot control it, but you must learn to live with it. Don’t fight what’s in you, girl. Accept it as a gift from God.”

“But I’m not foreseeing the future,” Jo said in anguish. “Though, God knows, perhaps that would be even worse. I’m seeing the past! In great detail.”

“Then, there’s a reason for it. A truth to be learned, an injustice to be righted—who knows?” Stiffly Margiad stood up. She disappeared into her sitting room and Jo could hear her rummaging around in a drawer. A moment later she returned. In her hands was an old leather-covered Bible. She thrust it at Jo. “Pray if you can, girl. If you can’t, just put it under your pillows. It’ll ward off the bad dreams. Now, I’ve a nice stew cooking. It’ll be ready in an hour, so you go up and have a hot bath and put all this out of your head!”

***

Nick lay back on his hotel bed and tore off his tie. His shirt was damp from the heat of the sidewalk outside and he was sweating and uncomfortable but, for the moment, he was too exhausted even to go and stand under the cold shower. He put his arm across his eyes. The presentation had gone well; he should be elated. He listened wearily to the wail of a police siren fifteen floors below on Lexington Avenue.

He was almost asleep when the phone rang beside him. He rolled over onto his elbows and picked up the receiver.

“Nick?” It was Jim Greerson. “How did it go?”

Nick lay back. “Okay. I think things are looking hopeful. How about your end?”

“I had dinner with Mike Desmond as arranged last night. I groveled a bit more, old boy, and then I told him what an ass he was, chucking the best up-and-coming firm in London just because we’d given a break to a new fellow. I told him we’d supervise a new campaign for him personally.” He hesitated. “When I say we, I actually said you.”

“And?” Nick crossed his ankle over his raised knee. He was gazing
up at the ceiling.

“He’s not too pleased with the service he’s got so far from you know who. I gather he expected them to jump once they’d got a sniff of the account, instead of which, according to him, they send some teenybopper copywriter over. I saw him at a good psychological moment. Besides which, he said he couldn’t pass up the opportunity of being serviced by royalty.” Jim sniggered.

“Royalty?” Nick leaned over and reached for the jug of orange juice on the bedside table. “What royalty? Don’t tell me Prince Edward has decided to become an adman?”

“No, old son. You.”

“Me?”

“Your secret life. You mean you don’t know it’s blown? It’s all over the papers here, for God’s sake. The
Mail
had it on Thursday and the
Standard
on Friday.”

Nick sat up. “What secret life? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Hang on, hang on. I’ll find the page and read it to you. Bear with me, old boy. It’s midnight here, and I’ve had a hard day.”

Nick lay still, his eyes closed, as Jim read the piece to him over the transatlantic line. He felt completely detached, as if the person being talked about were someone else. He was not surprised, not even indignant. Merely very, very weary.

When Jim finished there was a brief silence. “Is it all true, old boy?” Jim said tentatively after a moment.

“It’s true that I let my brother hypnotize me, yes,” Nick said curtly. “As to what happened, you’ll have to ask him. I remember nothing about it. It all seems very far-fetched.” He heard himself laugh. “I suppose Judy Curzon is responsible for this. I’ll wring her neck when I get back.”

“Better send her to the Tower, old boy, it’s more in character.” Jim laughed uproariously. “You haven’t heard from Jo about it, then?” he asked curiously after a moment.

“No,” Nick said shortly. “Not a word.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Jim went on. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting at eight tomorrow, so I’d best go or I’ll never wake up. I’ll call you tomorrow, same time, okay?”

Nick replaced the receiver. Sitting up, he swung his legs to the floor. The air-conditioning had made the room very cold. He walked into the bathroom, stripped off his shirt, and turned the shower full on, then he went back to the phone.

“I want to call London,” he said brusquely, and he gave his own number.

***

Margiad Griffiths woke Jo with a cup of tea. She sat down on the edge of Jo’s bed. “How did you sleep, then?”

Jo stretched. “Very well. Your charm must have worked.” She felt beneath the pillow for the old Bible and touched it lightly.

Margiad nodded. “I knew it would. There was a phone call for you earlier,” she went on. She reached into the pocket of her skirt for a piece of paper. “Mr. Clements. He said would you go and have lunch with him and his wife tomorrow about twelve. He said don’t call back unless you can’t go.”

Jo smiled. “That’s nice of him. Mr. Clements is the reason I’m here. He’s written lots of books on smallholdings and animals and the history of Northumberland. He’s bought a place near Brecon.”

Margiad stood up. “Famous, is he?” She smiled. “And you’re writing about him, are you? Good. That’ll take your mind off your other troubles.” She hesitated in the doorway. “What will you do today, then?”

Jo sat up, pushing her heavy hair off her face. She glanced at the window where a thin layer of hazy cloud masked the blue of the sky. “I’ll stay here another night or two if I may,” she said. “I’ve some notes to write up about Ben Clements, and then—” She hesitated. “Then I think I’ll explore Hay a little more.”

***

Heavy swirling black clouds were building up in the western sky although as yet there was no breath of wind. Matilda reined in her horse and glanced up, then she signaled the horsemen around her to hurry as they cantered back down the track toward Hay, following the curving arm of the Wye through the flat dry meadows, throwing up clouds of powdery dust that stung the eyes and choked the throat. A zigzag of lightning lit up the purple sky and sent her horse shying across the path of her companion, Lady de Say, who swore like a man and grabbed at the pommel of her saddle to prevent herself from being thrown. It was unbearably hot.

“I’ll wager a silver penny we can get back before the first raindrop falls,” Matilda called over her shoulder. She was exhilarated suddenly by the threat of the storm.

It had been a bitter and unhappy year, and she had been preoccupied during much of the ride with dark thoughts of the events that had followed Trehearne’s murder. His death had served, inevitably, as an excuse for more fighting in the hills and the intervention of his kinsman, the increasingly powerful Prince Gwenwynwyn, who had laid siege to Painscastle in his turn with a huge force of men. In a last attempt at mediation their son-in-law, Gruffydd, had, at Matilda’s suggestion, been brought back to Hay from his imprisonment at Corfe. But his surly attempts as a peacemaker failed and on 13 August, the feast of Holy Hippolytas, hostilities had culminated in a major pitched battle in the hills behind Trehearne’s home at Clyro, as the barons fought desperately to retain their ascendancy in the borders. They won, but with a terrible toll of Welsh lives.