Lady of Hay (51 page)

Tim filled it until it overflowed onto the floor and slopped over her shoes. “The most beautiful woman in the world,” he agreed unsteadily. “The most beautiful woman in the world!”

***

Nick was reading the papers at a small round table at the open French windows of the pub dining room when Jo came down for breakfast. She was wearing jeans again, with a loose white silk blouse.

He stood up as she appeared. “Coffee is on its way. How did you sleep?”

“Not too well. And you?” She surveyed him cautiously as she slipped into the chair opposite him.

Nick grinned. “It was very hot up in that attic.” He grinned suddenly with something like his old humor as behind them the door opened and Dai Vaughan appeared with a tray of coffee and cereal and toast. He slid it between them onto the table.

“Will you be wanting to stay tonight after all?” he asked Nick as he began to set their places. “Just so that I know. The room is empty if you want it.”

Nick shook his head slowly. “I have to go back to London,” he said.

Jo glanced at him sharply. “Do you have to go this morning?” she said in spite of herself.

He nodded. “I think it would be best, don’t you?”

“I suppose so.” The magnetism between them was still as strong as ever. She longed to reach across the table and touch him. But somehow she resisted.

“Perhaps—” Nick hesitated. “Perhaps I could stay until this afternoon, then we could go for a drive or something? I’d like to see a little of this Wales of yours before I leave.” He held his breath, waiting for her response.

Dai Vaughan straightened as he set the coffeepot in front of Jo. “Now there’s an idea,” he said cheerfully. “Why don’t I put up a picnic for the both of you. It’ll stay fine awhile yet, with luck!” He squinted out of the window. “Where would you like to go? I can lend you a map. Llangorse Lake? The waterfalls? Castles? Or why not go up to the mountains by here—Castel Dinas perhaps. There’s a fine view and lovely country, and it’s not too far.”

Jo frowned. She had been watching Nick’s face. “I don’t want to go anywhere that might remind me,” she said quietly. “Not today. I can’t cope with that. Castles make me nervous.”

Dai laughed. “Oh, it’s not a castle like Bronllys or Hay. It’s an earthwork, see. Celtic, I think it is.” He picked up the tray. “Will you be leaving this afternoon too, Miss Clifford?”

Jo nodded.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming back to London?” He tried to keep the triumph out of his voice.

She watched Dai Vaughan until he was out of the room. “No. I’m going back to Hay.”

“You’re continuing with your research, then?”

She rested her chin on her hands. “I’ve got to, Nick. I told you, I can’t let it go. Not yet.”

He scowled. “But you will let it go today?”

She nodded. “I’d like that. Let’s go and see this Castel Dinas. I doubt if the de Braoses were into archaeology.” She smiled at him suddenly, the wariness lifting from her face. “Truce for today, Nick?”

“Truce.” He leaned forward and put his hand on hers.

***

A haze had formed over the mountaintops as they parked the Porsche in a narrow lane and climbed out. Nick was holding the ordnance survey map in his hand. “I don’t think there’s much point in taking the food with us,” he said. “It may be nice now, but the weather’s closing in fast. Do you still want to go up there?”

She nodded, staring up at the gaunt shoulders of the Black Mountains rising above them, clear and sharply defined in the brilliant sunlight, save where wisps of cloud and mist touched them and drifted down into the folded cwms.

Nick shuddered. “God, what a lonely place! That must be”—he glanced down at the map—“Waun Fach. Heaven knows how it’s pronounced!”

“It’s beautiful.” Jo was staring around her. “Quite beautiful. Smell that air. Hundreds of miles of grass and wild thyme and bilberries—and just look at the hedges down here. Honeysuckle, dog roses, chamomile, foxgloves—and a thousand flowers I don’t even know the name of…
Nick!
”

After dropping his map on the car hood, he had put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her to him, feeling the warmth of her flesh beneath the thin silk of her shirt as he folded his arms around her and pressed her against him, his mouth nuzzling into her hair. Jo closed her eyes. For a moment she stood still, feeling the tide of longing rising in her as she clung to him, overwhelmed with happiness suddenly, her doubts dissolving as she raised her mouth to his for a long passionate kiss, her hands automatically reaching for the buttons of his shirt, slipping inside to caress his chest.

With a smile she drew back a little and looked up at him at last.

Then she froze. The face of the man who stood staring down at her did not belong to Nick. Her stomach turned over in icy shock as recognition hit her and she remembered the blue eyes, the arrogant brow, the imperious touch, and her own body’s helpless response as this man had drawn her, long ago, against his hard body.

“No!” Jo’s eyes were dilated with fear as she pulled away from him. “Oh, no! No! Please God, no!”

She tore herself out of his arms and began to run up the lane away from him.

“Jo!” Nick called angrily. “Come back here! What’s the matter?”

But she took no notice. After hurling herself at the gate, she scrambled over it, staring up the steep grass slope in front of her. Far above their heads she could hear the lonely scream of a circling buzzard.

Nick vaulted over behind her. “Jo, wait!”

But she had begun to run, shaking her hair out of her eyes, her heart thumping in her chest as she forced herself as fast as she could up the steep ridged grass with its scattering of sheep droppings.

Nick stood for a moment watching her. His good humor vanished, he made himself take a deep breath, trying to steady the sudden wave of anger that had gripped him. In front of him Jo had stopped again. She turned, gasping for breath, staring down at him from the slope, and he could see the fear in her eyes.

Behind her the mist was drifting down across the mountain. A patch of sunlight dimmed and disappeared. It was becoming oppressively hot again. There was no breath of wind.

Slowly he began to follow her upward.

***

Jo reached the earthworks first and stood panting, staring around her at the piles of fallen abandoned stones and the ditch and ramparts of the Celtic fortress, high on its hill amid the encircling mountains. The mist was growing thicker. Blind with panic, she whirled as a quiet rumble of thunder echoed round the Wye Valley in the distance.

Nick had stopped several feet from her, breathing heavily from the climb. He was watching her with a strange half smile.

“Don’t run anymore, Jo,” he said quietly. “There’s no point.”

She could feel the blood pounding in her temples as she took a few staggering steps backward, her hands held out in front of her.

Nick…help…me…

She wanted to call out to him. To Nick. Not the other man, to Nick. But the words would not come, trapped ringing in her head by the mist and the silence and by Nick’s strange implacable smile as he began to follow her again.

Turning, she started to run once more, stumbling down the steep bank of a ditch. Around her the hills closed in; the mist lapped against the grass and once more there was a rumble of thunder in the east.

Dear God, she had been here before. This place she recognized; it came into her story and was indelibly etched upon her memory.

It must not happen here. Not in front of Nick—not now, not bring her helplessly to her knees alone here, with a man who hated her—

“Jo! Stop, for God’s sake—” His voice was irritated now. “
Jo—Jo, come back…
” It was echoing slightly in the eerie silence of the hills. “Jo…”

26

A visitor was announced as Matilda stood running her eyes down a list of accounts. She was alarmed and astonished to see the king’s brother, whom she thought to be at Gloucester with William. John was bare-headed, his color heightened from the gallop through the chilly morning.

“How is the gracious Lady Matilda this fine day?” the prince inquired with a mocking bow.

“I am honored that you should come to Hay, Your Highness. I am well.” Her voice was guarded and her hands, clasped before her, were unconsciously plaiting her girdle. She saw his eyes running down the line of her body, ever insolent, the pupils hooded by lazy eyelids.

“Good. I’ve come, my lady, from Hereford. No doubt you are aware that my brother, the king, commanded me to demand homage from the princes in Wales.” He stopped. “But of course, your daughter is married to one of them, is she not?” He smiled coolly. “Have you news of her, perhaps?”

Matilda paled and looked away. Since her worst nightmares had been realized and Gruffyd had joined his father in revolt against King Richard, there had been no news of Tilda.

“Nothing, Your Highness,” she replied firmly.

John frowned, as if suddenly aware of her distress. “She is safe, I am sure, Lady Matilda,” he said more gently. “I shall, if you wish, send messengers to inquire.” He smiled amiably as she turned to face him, her eyes alive with hope. “But for now, my lady, I had in mind to visit one of the castles in your husband’s holding, Dinas, somewhere to the west in the Black Mountains.” John took a cup of wine handed to him by a servant and drank it in a gulp. “I hear too that it has a magic spring, blessed with powers of healing.”

Matilda thought rapidly. “The building there is finished, I believe. I haven’t been there yet, my lord, and I have heard the spring has certain wonderful properties. Surely you do not need such magic, Your Highness?” She couldn’t resist the last question, but immediately regretted it, as his good humor vanished and his face became surly.

“I am interested in such places.” He was silent for a moment, the empty goblet dangling from his fingers, his eyes fixed on the wall somewhere behind her. “You have heard, I suppose,” he went on suddenly, “that my brother, the king, refuses to come and meet Lord Rhys at Oxford? I pacify the Welsh princes for him, they agree not to fight while the king is away on his crusade, and I get Rhys to come with me to pay homage to Richard. But Richard is too high and mighty to come halfway to meet him at Oxford as our father would have done.” He held out his goblet for more wine. “Lord Rhys, with all the exquisite touchiness of the Welsh, has decided now that he has been mortally insulted and he refuses to meet my brother or his envoys at all.” John drew his hand impatiently across his brow. “God’s teeth, you can’t say I haven’t tried.” He was silent again for a moment, then, his black mood passing as swiftly as it had come, he grinned at her again. “So you see, I have given myself a few hours to rid myself of my frustrations, madam.”

Matilda tried to force a smile. “I am sure I can find men to guide you into the mountains, my lord, and an escort.”

“I have an escort.” He gestured impatiently. “I need a guide and I should like
you
to accompany me, Lady Matilda. It is unthinkable that you have not yet visited the castle yourself. It is a duty I am sure Sir William would expect of his wife. He sends you greetings, by the way. He chose to visit Wigmore on his return to his estates. He will be back soon enough, no doubt.” He threw himself into a chair and rested his ankle casually across his knee, his mocking look once more upon her. “I hear you ride with the courage of a man, madam, so I am sure you wouldn’t refuse to come with me on such a small adventure.”

He threw his challenge so lightly she had risen to it without even realizing, the memory of his boyhood insults about her horsemanship suddenly surfacing in her mind. “Of course! It’s not more than a dozen miles…” Too late she sensed danger, and his next words filled her with foreboding.

“A small party, well mounted, could do it in an hour or so, no doubt. Just you and I, madam. The guide and my men. This will be no trip for a bevy of lady’s maids.”

She glanced at him warily, but he was intent on tracing the chased pattern of the goblet with his thumbnail and refused to meet her eye.

“Find fresh mounts for Prince John and his followers,” she commanded suddenly, her mind made up. The waiting servant bowed and turned toward the door. “Saddle my chestnut and tell Ifor the huntsman to be there to guide us to Castel Dinas. We leave at once, then we will be back by dark. Does that satisfy you, my lord?”

He jumped to his feet, grinning like a boy, as he swept up his gauntlets and adjusted the sword belt at his waist. “Indeed it does, my lady.”

The wind freshened as they rode out of Hay toward the west. Ifor, a small curly-headed figure on his raw-boned cob, trotted ahead, a bow slung across his shoulders, while behind followed the four knights who had accompanied John from Hereford. Matilda felt a momentary pang of anxiety when she saw the escort was so small but her pride would not let her press more men on the prince. If he thought four men sufficient for the king’s brother, then so be it.

They rode swiftly, following the narrow but well-marked track that wound around the foot of the hill toward the little trading borough of Talgarth, the horses’ hooves kicking up great clods of the soft red earth. John rode in silence, his mouth set, but she thought she saw a gleam of triumph in his eyes as he turned once to look at her. She whipped her horse to keep up with him. “Ifor is a good man, Your Highness. He will take us by the most direct route. Are you familiar with Brycheiniog?”

“I am not.” He glanced up at the thickly wooded shoulder of hillside to their left. “But I thought I would improve my acquaintance with the de Braose possessions.” Was that innuendo in his voice and in the sidelong glance he sent her? She felt another tremor of warning.

The road was rough and muddy from the recent rain, and the ride took longer than she expected. Parts of the track had been washed away, and Ifor had to lead them away from the smoother ways into the thick woods, where they bent low over their horses’ necks, avoiding the sweeping branches of the trees. Although they had left Hay before noon, the light was already beginning to fail as they trotted into Talgarth. Again she felt the warning prickle under her skin. How were they to return by nightfall if the road was so slow?

She noticed John draw his dark cloak over his hauberk, concealing the intricate details of his brooch and belt. Curious eyes followed them down the main street of the town, and she was glad they had Ifor with them, calling out friendly greetings in Welsh as they passed toward the bridge over the angry red waters of the swift-flowing Enig Brook. The prince’s exasperated report of the failure of the negotiations with Lord Rhys had filled her, once she had overcome the accustomed pang of worry about Tilda, with a sense of foreboding. She knew, as perhaps John did not, just how quickly the vengeance of the Welsh could make itself felt in the valleys of the wild country round them.

The horses climbed slowly out of Talgarth away from the square peel tower that guarded the bridge. Before them lay the mountains. Matilda cursed herself for allowing them to come at all. It was growing late and the slowness of the ride meant that, with the heavy clouds hanging so low over the peaks, it was growing dark, and this was no place to be benighted. Shivering, she pulled her cloak more closely around her shoulders and kicked her mount close up behind John’s. The escort closed tightly about them and they rode in silence save for the occasional clink of harness or the click of hoof on stone. Matilda could see John’s hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked about him. At last he too seemed to be growing nervous. Before them the
mynydd-dir
rose in a high barrier, misty and black. Behind, the broad Wye Valley was lost to sight behind the band of woods.

They rode hard, not sparing the horses on the rugged path which followed the wandering of the tumbling Rhian Goll, running angry and muddy red with flood waters from the mountains. A cold drizzle was beginning to fall. To their left the great triangular hill of Mynydd Troed rose in a massive shoulder in front of the clouds.

Castel Dinas stood sentinel over the pass. It was an awesome, lonely place. Matilda could feel her horse beginning to tremble, perhaps sensing her own fear. Its ears pressed flat on its head, its eyes staring, it followed its companions as their guides wheeled off the track and turned up a steep turf ramp that led to the walls of the castle itself.

“Open up there,” John shouted into the gale. “Lady de Braose demands entry.” But there was no answer; the gatehouse was deserted.

The horses had come to a rearing halt outside the north entrance. On either side a deep dry ditch encircled the high escarpments of the castle. Before them the gatehouses flanked a strong nail-studded gate. The builders had obeyed William’s orders well so far.

John forced his frightened horse near enough to the gate to allow him to beat on it with the hilt of his sword. “Ho there! Entry!” he shouted, but the wind whipped the words from his lips. Behind them the clouds were flying up the pass, gray, thick, hiding trees, mountains, perhaps men…From the corner of her eye Matilda thought she saw something move below, on the side of the hill. The palms of her hands were sweating with fear and the horse, sensing it, plunged suddenly sideways fighting the bit, poised to bolt back the way it had come.

Then at last a small gleam of light showed in one of the high slit windows of a gatehouse.

“Open up, you lazy clods.” John put every ounce of strength he had left into his shout. “Lady de Braose wants entry to her castle.”

At last they heard the bars being slid back and the great slabs of oak swung open to reveal half a dozen men, drawn swords in their hands, streaming torches held above their heads for light. Piles of dressed stone and mortar, weird white shapes in the gloom, lay all around in the shelter of the bailey’s walls. At the far side the lower part of the new keep showed pale and square, obviously unfinished, in the darkness.

“Who is the constable here?” demanded Matilda. “Why was there no lookout posted? Prince John and I have ridden far and fast. We do not expect to be kept waiting outside like serfs.” Her fear had turned to fury. Gripping her whip, she wheeled the horse. “Shut the gates now, you oafs, before half the countryside wanders in at your invitation. Where is the captain of the guard?”

Four of the men ran to push the gates shut and slid the bars across into the sockets. One of the soldiers came forward and dropped on one knee. “The constable is sick, like many in the garrison, my lady. Forgive him. He did not know anyone was coming.” The man hesitated and looked quickly over his shoulder at his companions. “It is hard to keep a full lookout up here.”

Matilda was not to be appeased. “Hard! Hard to keep a lookout! Then post some more men, sir. I don’t care if you have to carry them up, but do it. You could be attacked and overrun and have the enemy sitting before your fire before you knew he was at the gate.”

“May I ask the nature of the illness that strikes down so many of this garrison?” John’s lazy voice broke in suddenly.

“I don’t…I don’t know, sir. ’Tis very common…”

“They’re all dead drunk, Your Highness.” One of the other soldiers stepped forward suddenly, his face lit by the torchlight showing a scar from eyebrow to chin. “That’s the illness of Castel Dinas. If you’d been an hour or so later I’d have been down with it myself, and probably my fine companions as well. There’s not a man will stay sober the night through here and keep his sanity.”

John looked at Matilda and raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Perhaps we should join them in their merrymaking, my lady. God’s teeth! It doesn’t look as though there’ll be much service here tonight. You, fellow.” He nudged the kneeling man with his foot. “Show Lady de Braose and myself the splendors of your new tower. We need food and wine and warmth.”

The man scrambled up, and bowing, ran ahead of them toward the keep. It was Spartan indeed. A hearth had been built into one wall in the new fashion but it lay empty. Instead a pile of logs burned low in the middle of the floor, the smoke straying through the room and escaping at last through the doorway from which they had entered. Around it were the snoring sleeping figures of a dozen or so men. Goblets and jars of wine had fallen to the floor, and the room stank of stale wine and vomit.

Matilda pulled her cloak to her nose in disgust. “Get them out,” she ordered, her mouth set.

“But, my lady—” The man looked at her aghast.

“Get them out.” She had raised her voice only a little. “Is the hall of my lord and husband going to be used as a pigsty? Get them out and swill the floor.
Now
.” She shouted the last word, stamping her foot. The soldier, with one look at her blazing eyes and set chin, bowed and ran to the sleeping forms, setting about them with the flat of his sword.

John looked around and then strode to the staircase in the wall. “Perhaps there is a solar that would be more habitable,” he commented sourly, and ran up, his spurs ringing on the stone. There was a moment’s silence and then she heard him call. “It’s clean and dry here. We’ll make this our headquarters. Fire and lights!” The last words were bellowed in a voice meant to be obeyed.

Her exhaustion and fear and the anger and shame that followed it when she found the condition of the castle had preoccupied her so much that she had for a moment not fully realized her predicament. But now it became obvious there was no chatelaine here, no maids; whatever womenfolk there were attached to the garrison, washerwomen or followers, must, she supposed, return to some local village or encampment at night. There was no sign of them. She paused at the foot of the stairway, the stones still dusty from cutting, and glanced up at the racing shadows thrown on the stark walls by the torch as the man ran up ahead of her. Up there John was waiting. His maneuver, if maneuver it was, of getting her alone to Dinas had worked better than he could have hoped. Her heart thumping with fear, she began to climb the stairs.