Lady of Hay (8 page)

They stood for a moment in silence. She wanted to cling to him. Firmly she put her hands behind her. “I am carrying his child,” she said at last with an effort. “So he is going to let me stay. Not here, but at Brecknock. He is not going to send me back to Bramber after all.” She gave a faint smile.

Richard stiffened. The pain in his face was hidden in a moment, but she had seen it. She clenched her fists in the folds of her long skirts. “Are you not going to congratulate me on fulfilling my wifely duty?”

He bowed slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I couldn’t…” she whispered. “I couldn’t…”

Outside the wind was rising, funneling down the valley, turning the melted slush back to crisp whiteness. It rattled the shutters and screens and stirred the hay that covered the floors, releasing the smell of stale woodruff, tossing the firesmoke back down into the rooms.

“You said your men were waiting,” she said at last. The words caught in her throat.

“So. God be with you.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then he left her. She heard him walk across the room and slowly down the long winding stairs, his sword catching on the stone wall as he went until the sound died away and she was alone.

She sat for a long time on the stone seat in the embrasure, then, stiff with cold, she returned to her room and crept back beneath the covers of the bed.

***

Some time later Megan reappeared. She was bubbling with excitement. Prince Seisyll had arrived with his eldest son, Geoffrey, and his retinue, his harper, and his chief councillors.

“Handsome he is,” Megan reported breathlessly, her eyes sparkling. “A real prince to look at, and tall…”

Matilda dried her eyes, pushed back the covers, and slipped out of bed.

She was standing in the middle of the floor in her shift with Megan braiding her long hair to go beneath her veil when she heard William’s unmistakable step on the stairs. She glanced around wildly, looking for somewhere to hide, not wanting him to see her preparations.

“Quick, madam.” Megan threw a warm dressing gown around her shoulders. “Wait in the garderobe and I’ll tell him you’re busy.” She giggled nervously as Matilda fled for the little archway in the corner of the room.

Standing motionless among the hanging clothes just inside the doorway behind the leather curtain, shivering in the draft from the open closet hole, Matilda held her breath and listened. There was a moment’s silence, and then she heard William’s irritated exclamation as he saw that the bed was empty.

“Your lady will be back in a moment.” Megan’s voice was as firm as ever, Matilda heard, and she imagined Megan gesturing modestly toward the doorway where she was hidden. To her surprise William made no comment. There was a pause as he fumbled with the lid of a coffer, then she heard his loud step as he left the bedchamber and the squeak and clatter of his chain mail as he ran down the spiral stairs again. She emerged to find Megan pulling her gown from beneath a cover on the bed.

“Lucky I thought to hide it, madam, isn’t it?”

“What was my husband wearing, Megan?” Matilda was puzzled. “Surely he wasn’t armed for a feast?” She held up her arms as the other woman slipped the fine green cloth over her head and began to lace it up the back.

“He was wearing a hauberk, madam, then he took his tunic and mantle from over there”—she indicated the rail on the far side of the room—“and put them on over it. I suppose he can’t bring himself to trust his guest quite, even when by custom our people always leave their arms by the door when they accept a man’s hospitality.” She smiled a little ruefully. “And Prince Seisyll is the Lord Rhys’s brother-in-law, and
he’s
the ruler of all south Wales and at peace with your King Henry, so there would be no danger and, besides, I’ve always heard that Seisyll is a good man, and chivalrous, with honor better than many at King Henry’s court.” The color rose a little in her cheeks as she spoke.

Matilda smiled and touched her arm gently. “Of course he is, Megan. I expect William is just being careful, that’s all, out of habit.”

She bit her lips hard to bring out the red in them, and lifted a small coffer onto the table to find her jewelry and her rouge. “Are you going to attend at the back of the hall?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, as soon as you’ve gone down. I want to see all the finery and hear the music.” Megan deftly twisted Matilda’s hair up and around her head and helped Nell adjust the veil and the barbette that framed her face.

They were pulling the folds of her surcoat of scarlet and golden thread into place and tying the heavy girdle when they heard the trumpet summons to the banquet from the great hall below. Megan looked up in excitement as the notes rose to the high rafters and echoed around the castle. Matilda met her gaze for a moment, holding her breath, then impatiently she gestured at the woman to go down the stairs and peep at the scene. She wanted to time her entrance exactly.

Nell had secured herself a place at the feast by cajoling the chataleine, and she glanced at Matilda for permission to go as Megan returned, her soft shoes making no sound on the stone.

“They are seated, madam. They have washed their hands and wine has been called for. They’re bringing in the boars’ heads now. You must hurry.” She was breathless with excitement.

Without a word Matilda crossed to the top of the stairs and, taking a deep breath, began to tiptoe down. She was scared now the moment had come, but she refused to let herself think about what would happen if William sent her away in front of everyone. She was too excited to turn back.

At the foot of the stairs she waited, her back pressed against the stone wall, just out of sight of the noisy hall. It was lit with torches and hundreds of candles, although it was full day outside, and a haze of smoky heat was already drifting in the rafters and up the stairs past her toward the cooler upper floors of the tower. The noise was deafening. Cautiously she edged a step or two farther and peered around the corner.

The archway where she stood was slightly behind her husband and his guests at the high table, and in the deep shadow she was satisfied that she would not be seen.

The prince, she could see, was seated at William’s right hand. He was clean shaven and his dark hair was cut in a neat fringe across his eyes. He was finely arrayed in a sweeping yellow cloak and tunic and she could see a ring sparkling on his hand as he raised it for a moment. He had thrown back his head with laughter at some remark from a man on his right.

Then, as she was plucking up the courage to slip from her hiding place and go to his side, William rose to his feet, and she saw him produce a roll of parchment. He knocked on the table for silence with the jeweled handle of his dagger and then, with it still clutched in his hand, looked around at the expectant hall.

Matilda stayed hidden, scanning the crowded tables, trying to recognize faces she knew. There was Ranulph Poer, one of the king’s advisers for the March, with his foxy face and drooping eye, who had visited them on numerous occasions in the summer at Bramber. And there too at the high table was plump, white-haired Philip de Braose, her husband’s uncle, and between them a youth of about fifteen, not much younger than she. That must be the prince’s son, she thought, and as he turned for a moment to lean back in his chair and look at his father she saw his sparkling eyes and flushed face. He is as excited as I am, she realized suddenly, and she envied the boy who was sitting there by right while she had to resort to subterfuge. To her surprise there were no other faces that she recognized. And there were no women at the high table at all, just as William had said. She had expected him to have invited many of the men whom she knew to be neighbors on the Welsh March, but as Walter Bloet had complained, none of them was present.

William was scrutinizing the parchment in his hand as if he had never seen it before. She could see the ugly blue vein in his neck beginning to throb above his high collar. His mail corselet was entirely hidden by his robe.

“My lords, gentlemen,” William began, his voice unnaturally high. “I have asked you here that you may hear a command from the high and mighty King Henry regarding the Welshmen in Gwent.” He paused and, raising his goblet, took a gulp of wine. Matilda could see his hand shaking. The attention of everyone in the hall was fixed on him now, and there was silence, except for some subdued chatter among the servants at the back and the growling of two dogs in anticipation of the shower of scraps that they knew was about to begin. Matilda thought she could see Megan leaning against one of the serving men at the far end of the hall, and briefly she wondered why the woman wasn’t seated at one of the lower tables if her husband was a steward. Nell, she had seen at once, had found herself a place immediately below the dais.

Prince Seisyll had leaned back in his carved chair and was looking up at William beside him, a good-natured smile on his weathered face.

“This is an ordinance concerning the bearing of arms in this territory,” William went on. “The king has decreed that in future this shall no longer be permitted to the Welsh peoples, under…” He broke off as Prince Seisyll sat abruptly upright, slamming his fist on the table.

“What!” he roared. “What does Henry of England dare to decree for Gwent?”

William paused for a moment, looking down at the other man, his face expressionless, and then slowly and deliberately he laid the parchment down on the table, raised the hand that still held his dagger, and brought the glinting blade down directly into the prince’s throat.

Seisyll half rose, grasping feebly at William’s fingers, gurgled horribly, and then collapsed across the table, blood spewing from his mouth over the white linen tablecloth. There was a moment’s total silence and then the hall was in an uproar. From beneath their cloaks William’s followers produced swords and daggers, and as Matilda stood motionless in the doorway, transfixed with horror, they proceeded to cut down the unarmed Welsh. She saw Philip de Braose lift his knife and stab the young prince in the back as the boy rose to try to reach his father, then Philip and Ranulph together left the table and ran for the door, hacking with their swords as they went. William was standing motionless as he watched the slaughter all around him, the blood of his victim spattered all over his sleeve. His face was stony.

Above the screams and yells a weird and somehow more terrible sound echoed suddenly through the vaulted wooden roof of the hall. A man-at-arms had plunged his sword through the heart of the old harper, who, seated with his instrument, had been waiting to serenade his prince’s host. The old man fell forward, clutching wildly at the strings so that they sang in a frightening last chord and then, as he sprawled to the floor, Matilda saw the soldier slice through the strings of the harp, the blade of his sword still drenched with its owner’s blood.

7

Slowly she became aware of the pain in her hands and, looking blindly away for the first time from the terror of the scene in front of her, she stared at them. For a moment she could not focus her eyes at all in the darkness, but then as the flickering torchlight played over the wall where she stood hidden she realized she was clinging to the rough-hewn architrave of the arch as though her life depended on it, and where her nails had clawed at the uneven surface her fingers were bleeding. There were smears of blood on the pale stone—her own blood.

It was the last thing she saw. In the grip of a numbing horror that mercifully blotted out the sound of the boy’s desperate screams, she began to grope her way along the wall. Her gown and shift were drenched with sweat and she could feel the sour taste of vomit in her mouth as she dragged herself back up the spiral stairs, tripping on her long skirts in her haste to escape to the upper room before she collapsed.

The only sound she could hear was her own breath, coming in tight dry gasps that tore painfully at her ribs and caught in her throat, threatening to choke her and, once, the sob of agony that escaped her as she stumbled on her hem and fell heavily, flinging out her hands to save herself with a jar that seared through her wrists and into her injured fingers.

The bedchamber was deserted. The rushlights had died in a smoky smell of tallow and the only illumination came from the fire. After climbing dazed onto the bed she lay rigid, listening to the pine logs hissing and spluttering as they showered sparks onto the floor, where they glowed for a moment before going out. The distant sound of a shout echoed up the stairs and she turned over convulsively, pulling the covers over her head, trying to blot out the noise. Then all went black at last and she felt herself spinning down into silence.

Sometime later she stirred uneasily in her sleep, still hugging the pillow to her face. She half awakened and lay still, listening. A voice was calling her name in the distance, trying to rouse her and bring her back, calling a name again and again. She listened, half roused. But she resisted. She did not want to wake. She could not face the terror that consciousness would bring.

“Let her sleep. She will wake by herself in the end!”

The words echoed in her head for a moment, so clear they must have been spoken from beside the bed; then, as she turned her face away, they receded once more and she fell back into the dark.

When she next woke the room was absolutely silent. There were no voices, no sounds from below in the great hall. She lay for a while, her face still buried in the fur of the bedcover, too stiff and dazed to move, feeling its rancid hair scratchy against her mouth and nose, then at last she managed to raise herself a little and try to turn over. At once her head began to spin and she was overwhelmed with nausea. With a sob she fell back onto the bed.

A hand touched her shoulder and something cool and damp and comforting was pressed gently to the back of her neck.

“I’ll help you, my lady, shall I?” Megan’s voice was little more than a whisper.

At the sound of it Matilda forced herself to lift her head. Then reluctantly she pulled herself up onto one elbow and looked around.

“Megan? Megan, is it you? Tell me it’s not true. It’s not. It’s not…” Her voice broke. “It must not be true.”

The room was dark as she groped for the woman’s hands and held them fast. Slowly as her sight adjusted to the gloom she could just see Megan’s face in the dying glow of the fire. Her eyes were shut and tears streaked her cheeks as, wordlessly, Megan shook her head.

They remained unmoving for a long time, huddled together on the bed, their hands tightly clasped as they listened to the logs shifting on the hearth. Then at last Matilda pulled herself up against the pillows.

“How long have I been asleep?” she said. Her voice sounded strange and high to her ears. “Where is my…where is William?” She could not bring herself to call him her husband.

Megan opened her eyes wearily and sat motionless for a moment, staring in front of her. Then she shook her head, unable to speak.

“Is he still here, in the castle?”

“
Duw
,
I don’t know,” Megan answered finally, her voice lifeless. “They took out the dead and cleaned the blood away. Then Lord de Braose sent a detachment of his men after the people who stayed behind at Castle Arnold. Prince Seisyll’s wife, his babies…” She began to cry openly.

“His babies?” Matilda whispered. “William has ordered the death of Seisyll’s babies?” She stared at Megan in disbelief. “But surely there are guards? There will be men there to protect them?”

“How? When all the prince’s men came with him, thinking there is peace between King Henry and the men of Gwent, trusting the King of England’s honor!” The gentle face had twisted with hatred.

“I must stop them.” After pushing the covers aside, Matilda climbed shakily from the bed. Her feet were bare but she did not notice. Megan did not move as she made her way to the top of the stairs and listened for a moment to the silence that was broken only by the howl of the wind outside the walls. Steeling herself, Matilda began to tiptoe down, her feet aching from the cold stone.

The great hall was empty. The rushes on the floor had been swept away, leaving the flagstones glistening with water. The tables had been stacked and the chairs and benches removed. It was absolutely empty. Moving silently on her bare feet, Matilda crossed to the center of the floor and looked around. The echoing vault of the roof was quiet now and the fire had died. Two or three torches still burned low in their sconces, but there was no one to tend them and they flared and smoked by turns in the draft. The only smell that remained was the slight aroma of roasting beef.

“Sweet Jesus,” she breathed. She crossed herself fearfully as her eyes searched the empty shadowy corners, but nothing stirred. There were no ghosts yet of the dead.

Forcing herself to move, she left the hall and went in search of her husband. The solar, the guardroom, the kitchens, and the stores were all empty. And the chapel, where the wax candles had burned almost to the stub. The whole keep was deserted. Reluctantly she turned at last to the entrance and, walking out, stood looking down into the dark bailey courtyard below.

It was full of silent people. Every man, woman, and child from the castle and the township appeared to be there, standing around the huge pile of dead. Behind them some of William’s guards stood muttering quietly, looking uneasily around them into the shadows or toward the lowered drawbridge. They all appeared to be waiting for something—or someone. Nowhere was there a sign of the dark twisted face that belonged to her husband.

Matilda stepped out over the threshold and walked slowly down the flight of wooden steps. She was half-conscious of the inquiring faces turned toward her on every side, but her eyes were fixed on the bodies of the dead. The Welsh moved aside to let her pass and watched as she walked, head and shoulders taller than most of them, a stately slim figure in her gold and scarlet gown, to stand before her husband’s victims. An icy wind had arisen. It whipped at her long hair, tearing it out of the loose braids that held it. Megan must have removed her headdress while she lay insensible and she had not noticed.

She stood there a long time, head bowed, her eyes fixed on the ground, only half seeing the flickering shadows thrown by the torches of the men-at-arms. Then at last she raised her eyes to look directly at the men her husband had killed. The body of Prince Seisyll lay slightly apart from the others and someone had crossed his hands across his breast. On his forefinger a dark red stone glittered coldly in the torchlight.

Slowly her gaze traveled back to the gory heap, searching for the body of his son, the boy whose excited happy mood had so matched her own. She saw him almost at once, lying sprawled beneath another man, his head thrown back, his mouth open in horror at what he had seen. A trickle of blood had dried on the downless chin. His fingers were still clutching the linen napkin that the page had handed him as William began his speech. A few feet from his head lay the harp with its severed strings. Its frame had been snapped in two.

Her feet no longer felt the cold as she walked across the cobbles to the gatehouse and out over the drawbridge. In fact, she felt nothing at all. No one tried to stop her. The guards moved aside to let her pass and regrouped beneath the gateway behind her.

She walked slowly down toward the shining sweep of the river, her hair quite loose now, lifting around her head in a cloud. The wind carried showers of icy raindrops off the iron whiteness of the desolate hills but she neither saw nor felt their sting on her face. Somehow she seemed to find a path as she moved unseeing through the darkness and avoided trees and bushes and the outcrops of rock in her way. The cold moon was glinting fitfully through the rushing clouds to reflect in the Usk beneath as she stood for a while on the bank gazing into the luminous water; then she walked on. Soon the castle was out of sight and she was quite alone in the whispering trees. There the snow had melted and clogged into soft slush beneath the network of roots and the path became muddy beneath her toes, dragging at the sodden train of her gown.

It was several minutes before she realized that there was someone speaking to her, the voice quietly insistent, urging her back, calming the unsteady thudding of the pulse in her head.

***

“I’m reaching her now,” Carl Bennet murmured to the frantic woman at his side. He sat forward on the edge of his chair, staring intently at Jo as she lay restlessly on the sofa by the window. Outside the rain had begun again, sliding down the panes, forming little black pools in the soil of the dusty window box.

“Jo? Matilda? Can you hear me?”

His voice was professionally calm and reassuring again, only the beads of sweat on his forehead betraying the strain of the past hour.

On the sofa Jo stirred and half turned to face him. “Who is that?” she asked. “There is sleet in the moonlight. I cannot see properly.” Her eyes opened and she stared blindly at Bennet. “Is it you? The Welsh boy who brought me my food? I did not know what was planned. You must believe me, I did not know…” With tears running down her cheeks again she struggled to sit up, clutching at Bennet’s jacket.

Avoiding her desperate fingers, he leaned forward and put his hands gently on her shoulders, pushing her back against the cushions.

“Listen, my dear, I am going to wake you up now, I want you to come back to us. I am going to count to three. When I do so you will wake up as Joanna Clifford. You will remember all that has occurred but you will be relaxed and happy. Do you understand me?” For a moment he thought she had not heard him, but after a pause her hands dropped and she ceased struggling. He watched her face, waiting for the slight nod that came after a long perplexed silence.

“Good girl,” he said softly. “Now…one—two—three.”

He waited only a moment more, to be certain, then he leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses.

Jo lay still, staring from Bennet to his secretary and back. For a moment none of them spoke. Then, as Jo raised her hand and ran her fingers through her hair, Bennet stood up. “I think we could all do with some coffee,” he said, his voice shaking. “Would you, Sarah, please?”

He walked across to the table and switched off the tape recorder with a sharp
click.
He took a deep breath. “Well, how do you feel, Jo?” he asked. His tone was light and conversational. His glasses polished to his satisfaction at last, he put them back on his nose. Then he turned to look at her.

“I don’t know.” Jo pushed herself up against the cushions. “Oh, God, I’m so cold. My feet are freezing.” She leaned forward and rubbed them. “And my fingers are hurting—Oh, Christ, I don’t believe it! Tell me it didn’t happen!” She buried her face in her hands.

Bennet glanced at the open door through which came the sound of rattling cups from the kitchen.

“Do you remember everything?” he asked cautiously. After removing the reel from the recorder, he held it lightly between finger and thumb.

“Oh, yes, I remember. How could I forget!” Jo raised her face and stared at him. He recognized the same blind anguish he had seen as she acted out the role under hypnosis. “All that blood,” she whispered. “To see those men die. To smell it! Did you know blood smelled? And fear? The stink of fear!” She stood up unsteadily and crossed to stare out of the window. “That boy, Doctor. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He watched his father die and then—” Her voice cracked to a husky whisper and she fell silent, pressing her forehead against the window as a tear trickled down her cheek.

Quietly Sarah reappeared and put the tray on the desk. Bennet raised his fingers to his lips. He was watching Jo intently. Outside there was a flurry of angry hooting in the narrow street but none of them noticed it.

Jo turned back toward the room. Her face was white and strained. “Did you record everything I said?”

He nodded. Her own small tape recorder still sat on the floor beside the couch, the microphone lying where it had fallen on the rug.

“Come, have coffee now,” he said quietly. “We can listen later.”

“I still don’t believe it,” she said as she sat down and took the cup from him. It rattled slightly on the saucer as she tightened her grip. “You’ve set me up somehow. No, not intentionally, but somehow. There is no way all that was real, and yet I couldn’t have dreamed that—that obscenity—that boy’s death.” She found herself blinking hard, and she steadied herself with an effort. There was a long silence.