Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time

Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time Barbara Erskine A story spanning centuries. A long awaited revenge.In London, journalist Jo Clifford plans to debunk the belief in past-lives in a hard-hitting magazine piece. But her scepticism is shaken when a hypnotist forces her to relive the experiences of Matilda, Lady of Hay, a noblewoman during the reign of King John.She learns of Matilda's unhappy marriage, her love for the handsome Richard de Clare, and the brutal death threats handed out by King John, before it becomes clear that Jo’s past and present are inevitably entwined. She realises that eight hundred years on, Matilda’s story of secret passion and unspeakable treachery is about to repeat itself…Barbara Erskine’s iconic debut novel still delights generations of readers thirty years after its first publication. Lady of Hay Time’s Legacy Sands of Time by Barbara Erskine Copyright (#ulink_a6e0d4e5-4748-5f33-b2b6-40ed6ed7ed1a) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016 This ebook collection first published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2013 Copyright © Barbara Erskine 1986, 2010, 2016 Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016. Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com) Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780007515318 Version: 2017-09-07 Contents Cover (#u7acf4e16-bea3-5eeb-998a-8b844895d7e5) Title Page (#ub4a0fd8b-4dfa-5c21-8626-95a42815e283) Copyright (#udd8b40a7-37ab-5b98-aa6b-cd5ddddcc509) Lady of Hay (#u10fe9b3d-f329-5df6-a3c4-b1c6934120d3) Time’s Legacy (#litres_trial_promo) Sands of Time (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Barbara Erskine (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#ulink_2a5fd3db-4306-5294-ae9e-f25b460a06a0) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016 Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2016 Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016. Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com) Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. Source ISBN: 9780007250868 Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780007368822 Version: 2017-09-07 Praise for Lady of Hay: (#ulink_0f624cc1-94dd-5e92-829f-c47bc555920a) ‘The author’s storytelling talent is undeniable. Barbara Erskine can make us feel the cold, smell the filth and experience some of the fear of the power of evil men.’ The Times ‘Convincing and extremely colourful.’ The Mail Contents Title Page (#u67243472-49a2-52db-9eb7-43489bf886ac) Copyright (#u1a93f3a1-a890-57f0-8f12-5fd31693a2ae) Praise (#ud40950fc-00bc-56cd-8947-c3e0e7db0777) Prologue: Edinburgh 1970 (#uceb8e267-1460-53c9-94c7-04b23e56de5c) Chapter 1: London: 1985 (#u75ede334-55b3-5f26-b756-36d57cb6595a) Chapter 2 (#u6d4ff647-9abd-5880-8170-71c422b57ec4) Chapter 3 (#u7105aae9-f7c4-5f56-804b-0ffb288fc713) Chapter 4 (#u8baac508-cbf9-55cd-a761-42df80fb4eba) Chapter 5 (#u66ad8c39-0359-59cf-8421-9b1e5ca60ecb) Chapter 6 (#u9fdb5017-f636-5664-806d-84074f835e77) Chapter 7 (#u0841dff2-6b55-5c5b-8bba-aacc14b7b4be) Chapter 8 (#ue21ab92e-85fa-53a6-9879-a0918ed23ea8) Chapter 9 (#u97aa1cea-88d5-55bd-935f-9d5b788c2af4) Chapter 10 (#u470908f0-1e77-51ff-931d-3f7eac595668) Chapter 11 (#u1914d5e5-ecf7-5add-bcfc-bac75fc12ea9) Chapter 12 (#u7e1de886-edeb-52b8-aeda-38c6c57450e4) Chapter 13 (#uf2e63039-19f8-5dd3-ab87-4cf83a789cf5) Chapter 14 (#ub997d8c1-cb1c-531d-972e-fb9fa6084d37) Chapter 15 (#ua4089f54-c692-5f93-a864-c915109d054c) Chapter 16 (#u793ce462-a0a3-5f27-8c34-ead94c5b09fc) Chapter 17 (#ub49955c2-3477-5a5b-87da-7d33e3c56ec9) Chapter 18 (#uae82afa4-911c-5348-9b17-6b4e93cc3f74) Chapter 19 (#u84e12415-4073-50f4-a5a3-6752df58526e) Chapter 20 (#ua0987ff2-0328-50d6-8281-2860fe3303d7) Chapter 21 (#u4a2d465d-a845-5402-9f94-7009c50ba5c0) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue one: 10 October 1216 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue two: Paris – January 1986 (#litres_trial_promo) Historical note (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Family Tree (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue (#ulink_2e0f4a65-eabb-54b6-b4a7-77c1f2e98719) Edinburgh 1970 (#ulink_2e0f4a65-eabb-54b6-b4a7-77c1f2e98719) It was snowing. Idly Sam Franklyn stared out of the dirty window up at the sky and wondered if the leaden cloud would provide enough depth to ski by the weekend. ‘Tape on now, Dr Franklyn, if you please.’ Professor Cohen’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts. Sam turned, glancing at the young woman lying so calmly on the couch, and switched on the recorder. She was an attractive girl, slender and dark, with vivacious grey-green eyes, closed now beneath long curved lashes. He grinned to himself. When the session was over he intended to offer her a lift back into town. The psychology labs were cold. As he picked up his notebook and began heading up a new page he leaned across and touched the grotesquely large cream radiator and grimaced. It was barely warm. Cohen’s office was small and cluttered, furnished with a huge desk buried beneath books and papers, some half-dozen chairs crowded together to accommodate tutorial students, when there were any, and the couch, covered by a bright tartan rug, where most of his volunteers chose to lie whilst they were under hypnosis, ‘as if they are afraid they will fall down’, he had commented once to Sam as yet another woman had lain nervously down as if on a sacrificial altar. The walls of the room were painted a light cold blue which did nothing to improve the temperature. Anyone who could relax comfortably in Michael Cohen’s office, Sam used to think wryly, was halfway to being mesmerised already. Next to him the radiator let out a subterranean gurgle, but it grew no hotter. Professor Cohen seated himself next to the couch and took the girl’s hand in his. He had not bothered to do that for his last two victims Sam noticed, and once more he grinned. He picked up his pen and began to write: Hypnotic Regression: Clinical Therapy Trials Subject 224: Joanna Clifford 2nd year Arts (English) Age: 19 Attitude: He chewed the end of the pen and glanced at her again. Then he put ‘enthusiastic but open-minded’ in the column: Historical aptitude: Again he paused. She had shrugged when they asked her the routine questions to determine roughly her predisposition to accurate invention. ‘Average, I suppose,’ she had replied with a smile. ‘O-level history. Boring old Disraeli and people like that. Not much else. It’s the present I’m interested in, not the past.’ He eyed her sweater and figure-hugging jeans and wrote as he had written on so many other record sheets: Probably average. Professor Cohen had finished his preliminary tests. He turned to Sam. ‘The girl’s a good subject. There’s a deep trance established already. I shall begin regressing her now.’ Sam turned back to the window. At the beginning of the series of tests he had waited expectantly at this stage, wondering what would be revealed. Some subjects produced nothing, no memories, no inventions; some emerged as colourful characters who enthralled and amazed him. But for days now they had been working with routine ill-defined personalities who replied in dull monosyllables to all the questions put to them and who did little to further their research. The only different thing about this girl – as far as he knew – were her looks: those put her in a class by herself. The snow was thickening, whirling sideways, blotting out the buildings on the far side of the street, muffling the sound of car tyres moving north towards the city. He did not bother to listen to the girl’s words. Her soft English voice sounded tired and blurred under hypnosis and he would have to listen again and again to the tape anyway as Cohen transcribed it and tried to fathom where her comments, if there were any, came from. ‘And now, Joanna,’ the Professor’s voice rose slightly as he shifted on the high stool to make himself more comfortable. ‘We’ll go back again, if you please, back before the darkness, back before the dreams, back to when you were on this earth before.’ He is getting bored too, Sam thought dryly, catching sight of his boss glancing at his watch. The girl suddenly flung out her arm, catching a pile of books on the table beside the couch and sending them crashing to the floor. Sam jumped, but she seemed not to have noticed. She was pushing herself up onto her elbow, her eyes open, staring in front of her. Cohen was all attention. Quietly he slid from the stool and as she stood up he moved it out of her way. Sam recovered from his surprise and wrote hastily: Subject somnambulant; moved from couch. Eyes open; pupils dilated. Face pale and drawn. ‘Joanna,’ Cohen spoke softly. ‘Would you not like to sit down again, lassie, and tell us your name and where you are.’ She swung round, but not to face him. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the middle of the room. She opened her mouth as if trying to speak and they saw her run her tongue across her lips. Then she drew herself up with a shudder, clutching at the neck of her sweater. ‘William?’ she whispered at last. Her voice was husky, barely audible. She took a step forward, her eyes still fixed on the same point. Sam felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as he found himself looking at it too, half expecting someone or something to appear. His notebook forgotten, he waited, holding his breath, for her to speak again, but she stayed silent, swaying slightly, her face drained of colour as she began to stare around the room. Disconcerted, he saw that huge tears had begun to run slowly down her cheeks. ‘Tell us where you are and why you are crying.’ The quiet insistent voice of Professor Cohen seemed to Sam a terrible intrusion on her grief but to his surprise she turned and looked straight at him. Her face had become haggard and old. ‘William,’ she said again, and then gave a long desperate cry which tore through Sam, turning his guts to water. ‘William!’ Slowly she raised her hands and stared at them. Sam dragged his eyes from her face and looked too. As he did so he heard a gasp and realised with a shock that the sound had come from his own throat. Her hands had begun to bleed. Electrified, he pushed himself away from the window and reached out towards her but a sharp word from Cohen stopped him. ‘Don’t touch her. Don’t do anything. It’s incredible. Incredible,’ the older man breathed. ‘It’s auto-suggestion, the stigmata of religious fanatics. I’ve never seen it before. Incredible!’ Sam stood only feet from her as she swayed once again, cradling her hands against her chest as if to ease their pain. Then, shivering uncontrollably, she fell to her knees. ‘William, don’t leave me. Oh God, save my child,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘Let someone come. Please … bring us … bring him … food. Please … I’m so cold … so cold …’ Her voice trailed away to a sob and slowly she subsided onto the floor. ‘Oh God … have mercy on … me.’ Her fingers grasped convulsively at the rush matting which carpeted the room, and Sam stared in horror as the blood seeped from her hands onto the sisal, soaking into the fibres, congealing as she lay there emitting dry, convulsive sobs. ‘Joanna? Joanna!’ Cohen knelt awkwardly beside her and, defying his own instructions, he laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Joanna, lass, I want you to listen to me.’ His face was compassionate as he touched her, lifting a strand of her heavy dark hair, gently stroking her cheek. ‘I want you to stop crying, do you hear me? Stop crying now and sit up, there’s a good girl.’ His voice was calm, professionally confident as the two men watched her, but there was growing anxiety in his eyes. Slowly her sobs grew quieter and she lay still, the harsh rasping in her throat dying away. Cohen bent closer, his hand still on her shoulder. ‘Joanna.’ Gently he shook her. ‘Joanna, are you hearing me? I want you to wake up. When I count three. Are you ready? One … two … three …’ Under his hand her head rolled sideways on the matting. Her eyes were open and unblinking, the pupils dilated. ‘Joanna, do you hear me? One, two, three.’ As he counted Cohen took her by the shoulders and half lifted her from the floor. ‘Joanna, for the love of God, hear me …’ The panic in the man’s voice galvanised Sam into action. He dropped on his knees beside them, his fingers feeling rapidly for a pulse in the girl’s throat. ‘Christ! There’s nothing there!’ ‘Joanna!’ Cohen was shaking her now, his own face ashen. ‘Joanna! You must wake up, girl!’ He calmed himself with a visible effort. ‘Listen to me. You are going to start to breathe now, slowly and calmly. Do you hear me? You are breathing now, slowly, and you are with William and you have both eaten. You are happy. You are warm. You are alive, Joanna! You are alive!’ Sam felt his throat constrict with panic. The girl’s wrist, limp between his fingers, had begun to grow cold. Her face had taken on a deathly pallor, her lips were turning grey. ‘I’ll ring for an ambulance.’ Cohen’s voice had lost all its command. He sounded like an old man as he scrambled to his feet. ‘No time.’ Sam pushed the Professor aside. ‘Kneel here, by her head, and give her mouth-to-mouth. Now man! When I say so!’ Crouching over the girl he laid his ear to her chest. Then, the heel of one hand over the other, he began to massage her heart, counting methodically as he did so. For a moment Cohen did not move. Then he bent towards her mouth. Just as his lips touched hers Joanna drew an agonising, gasping breath. Sam sat back, his fingers once more to her pulse, his eyes fixed on her face as her eyelids flickered. ‘Go on talking to her,’ he said urgently under his breath, not taking his eyes from her face. Her colour was beginning to return. His hands were once more on her ribs, gently feeling the slight flutter of returning life. One breath, then another; laboured painful gulps of air. Gently Sam chafed her ice-cold hands, feeling the sticki-ness of her blood where it had dried on her fingers and over her palms. He stared down at the wounds. The cuts and grazes were real: lesions all around the fingernails and on the pads of the fingers, blisters and cuts on her palms, and a raw graze across one knuckle. Cohen, making a supreme effort to sound calm, began to talk her slowly out of her trance. ‘That’s great, Joanna, good girl. You’re relaxed now and warm and happy. As soon as you feel strong enough I want you to open your eyes and look at me … That’s lovely … Good girl.’ Sam watched as she slowly opened her eyes. She seemed not to see the room, nor the anxious men kneeling beside her on the floor. Her gaze was focused on the middle distance, her expression wiped smooth and blank. Cohen smiled with relief. ‘That’s it. Now, do you feel well enough to sit up?’ Gently he took her shoulders and raised her. ‘I am going to help you stand up so you can sit on the couch again.’ He glanced at Sam, who nodded. Carefully, the two men helped her to her feet and guided her across the room; as she lay down obediently Cohen covered her with the rug. Her face was still drawn and pale as she laid her head on the pillow. She curled up defensively, but her breathing had become normal. Cohen hooked his stool towards him with his toe, and perching himself on it, he leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. ‘Now, Joanna, I want you to listen carefully. I am going to wake you up in a moment and when I do you will remember nothing of what has happened to you here today, do you understand? Nothing, until we come and ask you if you would like to be regressed another time. Then you will allow us to hypnotise you once more. Once you are in a trance again, you will begin to relive all the events leading up to this terrible time when you died. Do you understand me, Joanna?’ ‘You can’t do that.’ Sam stared at him in horror. ‘Christ, man! You are planting a time bomb in that girl’s mind!’ Cohen glared back. ‘We have to know who she is and what happened to her. We have to try and document it. We don’t even have a datefix …’ ‘Does that matter?’ Sam tried to keep his voice calm. ‘For God’s sake! She nearly died!’ Cohen smiled gently. ‘She did die. For a moment. What a subject! I can build a whole new programme round her. Those hands! I wonder what the poor woman can have been doing to injure her hands like that. No, Dr Franklyn, I can’t leave it at that. I have to know what was happening to her, don’t you see? Hers could be the case which proves everything!’ He stared down at her again, putting his hands lightly on her face, ignoring Sam’s protests. ‘Now Joanna, my dear, you will wake up when I have counted to three and you will feel refreshed and happy and you will not think about what happened here today at all.’ He glanced up at Sam. ‘Is her pulse normal now, Dr Franklyn?’ he asked coldly. Sam stared at him. Then he took her hand, his fingers on her wrist. ‘Absolutely normal, Professor,’ he said formally. ‘And her colour is returning.’ ‘We’ll send her home now, then,’ Cohen said. ‘I don’t want to risk any further trauma. You go with her and make sure she is all right. Her flatmate is a technician at the labs here, that’s how we got her name for the tests. I’ll ask her to keep an eye on things, too, to make sure there are no after-effects, though I’m sure there won’t be any.’ Sam walked over to the window, staring out at the snow as he tried to control his anger. ‘There could well be after-effects. Death is a fairly debilitating experience physically,’ he said with quiet sarcasm. It was lost on Cohen, who shook his head. ‘The lass won’t remember a thing about it. We’ll give her a couple of days to rest, then I’ll have her back here.’ His eyes gleamed with excitement behind the pebble lenses. ‘Under more controlled conditions we’ll take her back to the same personality in the period prior to her death.’ He pursed his lips, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it. ‘All right. Here we go. Joanna, do you hear me? One … two … three.’ Joanna lay still, looking from one to the other, dazed. Then she smiled shakily. ‘Sorry. Didn’t hypnosis work on me? In my heart of hearts I thought it probably wouldn’t.’ She sat up and pushed back the rug, swinging her feet to the floor. Abruptly she stopped and put her hands to her head. Sam swallowed. ‘You did fine. Every result is an interesting result to us, remember.’ He forced himself to smile, shuffling the papers on the table so that her notes were lost out of sight beneath the pile. The tape recorder caught his eye, the spools still turning, and he switched it off, unplugging it and coiling up the flex, not taking his eyes off her. She stood up with an effort, her face still very pale, looking suddenly rather lost. ‘Don’t I get a cup of tea or anything, like a blood donor?’ she laughed. She sounded strained; her voice was hoarse. Cohen smiled. ‘You do indeed. I think Dr Franklyn has it in mind to take you out to tea in style, my dear. It’s all part of the service here. To encourage you to return.’ He stood up and went over to the door, lifting her anorak down from the hook. ‘We ask our volunteers to come to a second session, if they can, to establish the consistency of the results,’ he said firmly. ‘I see.’ She looked doubtful as she slipped into the warm jacket and pulled the scarf around her neck. Groping in the pocket for her gloves she gave a sudden cry of pain. ‘My hands! What’s happened to them? There’s blood on my scarf – there’s blood everywhere!’ Her voice rose in terror. Cohen did not blink. ‘It must be the cold. You’ve been a naughty girl and not worn your gloves, that’s nasty chapping.’ ‘But –’ She looked confused. ‘My hands weren’t cold. I wore gloves. I don’t even get chilblains. I don’t understand …’ Sam reached for his raincoat. He suddenly felt very sick. ‘It’s the heavy snow coming so soon on top of a warm spell,’ he said as reassuringly as he could. ‘I’ll prescribe something for you if you like. But I suggest scones and cream and hot tea might be the best medicines to start with, don’t you think?’ He took her arm. ‘Come on. My car is round the back.’ As he closed the door of the room behind them he knew that he would personally see to it that she did not return. 1 (#ulink_4f03f16a-0ee6-5edf-bccb-6f0022a419fa) London: 1985 (#ulink_4f03f16a-0ee6-5edf-bccb-6f0022a419fa) ‘Basically I like the idea.’ Bet Gunning leaned across the table, her eyes, as they focused on Jo’s face, intense behind the large square lenses of her glasses. ‘Six articles exploring various fads which have swept the world showing man’s fear and rejection of modern life and values. Shit! That sounds pompous!’ The eyes narrowed and gleamed suddenly. ‘I’m right in thinking that the usual Jo Clifford approach will be used? A ruthless appraisal, then a knife in the back?’ Jo was watching her intently, admiring Bet’s professionalism. The relaxed lunch at Wheeler’s, the casual gossip – she had seemed only to glance at the typed notes Jo had pushed across the table but now, as she reeled off the titles of the articles, she proved she had memorised and digested them. Bet had no need to refer back to the paper she had slipped into the enormous leather sack she toted everywhere on her shoulder. ‘“Whole Food: Health or Nostalgia” – a bit old hat, lovie, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s been bunked and debunked so often. Unless you’ve got a new approach?’ Jo grinned. ‘Trust me, Bet. OK the series in principle and I’ll show you some outlines.’ Bet looked at her sharply. Jo was wearing her innocent look, her grey-green eyes staring vaguely into the middle distance, her dark hair framing her face so that she looked disarmingly soft and feminine. Meeting her for the first time she had thought Jo might be an actress, or a model perhaps; Bet smiled inwardly. Were there any clues? The uncompromisingly large man’s Rolex watch perhaps? Their eyes met and both women smiled appreciatively. They had been friends for five years, ever since Bet had taken over as editor of Women in Action. Jo had been on the staff then, learning the trade of journalism. She learned fast. When she left to go freelance it was because she could name her figure for the articles she was producing. ‘“Anything Ethnic”, “Medieval Medicine”, “Cosmic Consciousness” – my God, what’s that? – “Meditation and Religion” – you’ll have to keep that light –’ Bet was going through the list in her head. ‘“Regression: Is history still alive?” That’s the reincarnation one, yes? I read an article about it somewhere quite recently. It was by an American woman, if I remember, and totally credulous. I must try and look it up. You will, of course, be approaching it from quite the opposite standpoint.’ Jo smiled. ‘They tried it on me once, at university. That’s what gave me the idea. The world authority on the subject, Michael Cohen, tried to put me under – and failed. He gave me the creeps! The whole thing is rubbish.’ Bet gave a mock sigh. ‘So another set of anodynes for the people bites the dust, already!’ Her raised shoulders emphasised the sudden Jewish accent. Jo gave an unexpected gurgle. ‘Am I that cruel?’ ‘You know damn well you are. That’s what we’re paying you for! OK, Jo, show me the outlines. I’m thinking in terms of a New Year or spring slot so you’ve plenty of time. Now, what about illustrations? Are you fixed up or do you want them done in house?’ ‘I want Tim Heacham.’ ‘You’ll be lucky! He’s booked solid these days. And he’d cost.’ ‘He’ll do it for me.’ Bet raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he know that?’ ‘He will soon.’ ‘And what will Nick say?’ Jo’s face tightened for a moment. ‘Nick Franklyn can go take a running jump, Bet.’ ‘I see. That bad?’ ‘That bad.’ ‘He’s moved out?’ ‘He’s moved out. With cream please.’ Jo smiled up at the waiter who had approached with the coffee pot. Bet waited until he had withdrawn. ‘Permanently?’ ‘That’s right. I threw his camera across the room when I found out he’d been sleeping with Judy Curzon.’ Bet laughed. ‘You cow.’ She sounded admiring. ‘It was insured. But my nerves aren’t. I’m not possessive, Bet, but he’s not going to mess me about like that. If it’s off it’s off. I don’t run a boarding-house. What do you think about the title of the series?’ ‘Nostalgia Dissected?’ Bet looked up, her head a little to one side. ‘Not bad. I’m not totally convinced, but it certainly puts the finger on your approach.’ She beckoned to the waiter for the bill. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me any more about Nick?’ Jo put down her coffee cup and pushed it away. She stared down at her hand, extending it over the tablecloth, flexing her fingers as if amazed they still worked. ‘It is three years, four months and eight days since I met Sam again and he introduced me to his brother. Doesn’t that surprise you?’ ‘It surprises me that you counted, lovie,’ Bet said, slightly acidly, tossing her American Express card down on the waiter’s tray. ‘I worked it out last night in the bath. It’s too long, Bet. Too long to live in someone’s pocket, however well one gets on. And, as you know, we don’t all that often!’ ‘Bullshit. You’re made for each other.’ Jo picked up her coffee spoon and idly drew a cross in the surface of the sugar in the earthenware bowl in the centre of the table, watching the crystals impact and crumble with a concentrated frown. ‘Perhaps that’s it. We’re so awfully alike in a lot of ways. And we are competitive. That’s bad in a relationship.’ She stood up, the drab olive of her dress emphasising her tanned arms with their thin gold bangles as she unslung the canvas satchel from the back of the chair and swung it onto her shoulder. ‘Tim said he’d be at his studio this afternoon so I’m going up to see him now. Are you going straight back across the river?’ ‘’Fraid so. I’ve a meeting at three.’ Bet was tucking the credit card back in her wallet. ‘I won’t give you any good advice, Jo, because I know you won’t listen, but don’t hop straight into bed with Tim out of revenge, will you. He’s a nice guy. Too nice to be used.’ Jo smiled. ‘I didn’t hear that, Miss Gunning. Besides I’m a nice guy too, sometimes. Remember?’ She walked slowly, threading her way through the crowded streets, the June sun shining relentlessly on the exposed pavements. Here and there a restaurant had spilled umbrella-shaded tables out onto the pavements, where people dawdled over their coffee. In England, she thought affectionately, the sun makes people smile; that was good. In a hot climate it drives them to commit murder. She ran up the dark uncarpeted staircase to Tim’s studio in an old warehouse off Long Acre and let herself in without knocking. The studio was deserted, the lines of spots cold and dark as she walked in. She glanced round, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirtsleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise-longue which was one of his favourite photographic props. There was a can of Long Life in his hand. Above him the sun, freed from the usual heavy blinds, streamed through huge open skylights. ‘Jo! How’s life?’ He managed to lever himself upright, a painfully thin man, six foot four in his bare feet, with wispy fair hair. His unbuttoned shirt swung open, revealing a heavy silver chain on which hung an engraved amulet. ‘Beer or coffee, sweetheart? I’m right out of champers.’ Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the darkrooms. ‘Coffee, thanks. I’ll make it. Are you sober, Tim?’ He raised his eyebrows, hurt. ‘When am I not?’ ‘Frequently. I’ve a job for you. Six to be precise and I want to talk about them. Then we’ll go and see Bet Gunning in a week or two if you agree.’ ‘Ah, another great expos? for Women in A!’ He put the can down with exaggerated care and placed his fist on his right breast as though about to take an oath. ‘The Leith Police Dismisseth Us! There. Right first time. Not a milligram over the limit. Fit to drive a beautiful lady reporter-person anywhere, any time. Reporting for duty, ma’am!’ He grinned. ‘Better give me coffee too, though, just in case. I’ve just been spurned by a little corker of a dolly. Old enough to be her father, she said I was.’ He pulled a mournful face. Jo reappeared with two mugs of black Nescaf?. ‘How old are you, Tim?’ ‘Guess.’ She put her head on one side. ‘Pushing fifty I’d say.’ He groaned, clutching at his head. ‘The bitch. She sees my soul and not my body. Actually I’m forty-two next Wednesday. You and Nick must come to my party. Ouch. What have I said?’ He slumped once more onto the couch and held out his hand for the coffee. ‘Not me and Nick.’ She sat down beside him. ‘Separately if you like. Together. Not.’ ‘Sorry. When did it happen?’ ‘A couple of days ago, going on a couple of years. Forget it, Tim. It’s not important. I want to talk business.’ ‘Always the hard worker, our Jo.’ He glanced at her, completely attentive suddenly. ‘OK. Fire. What do you want? A series for W I A you say. Is it going to be colour or are we going for black and white?’ She pulled a sheaf of notes from her bag and peeled a copy off for him. ‘Take a look at the subjects, just to give you an idea.’ He read down the page slowly, nodding critically, as she sipped her coffee. ‘Presumably it’s the approach that’s going to be new, sweetie? When’s the deadline?’ ‘I’ve got months. There’s quite a lot of research involved. Will you do them for me?’ He glanced up at her, his clear light green eyes intense. ‘Of course. Some nice posed ones, some studio stuff – whole-foods and weaving – the vox pops in chiaroscuro. Great. I like this one specially. Reincarnation. I can photograph a suburban mum under hypnosis who thinks she’s Cleopatra as she has an orgasm with Antony, only Antony will be missing.’ He threw the notes to the floor and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘I saw someone being hypnotised a few months back, you know. It was weird. He was talking baby talk and crying all over his suit. Then they took him back to this so-called previous life and he spouted German, fluent as a native.’ Jo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Faked, of course.’ ‘Uh-uh. I don’t think so. The chap swore he’d never learned German at all, and there’s no doubt he was speaking fluently. Really fluently. I just wish there had been someone there who knew anything about Germany in the 1880s, which is when he said it was, who could have cross-questioned him. It was someone in the audience who spoke German to him. The hypnotist couldn’t manage more than a few words of schoolboy stuff himself.’ Jo smiled gleefully. ‘Do you think it’ll make a good article?’ ‘More like a book, love. Don’t be too ready to belittle it, will you. I personally think there’s a lot in it. Do you want me to introduce you to Bill Walton? That’s the hypnotist chap.’ Jo nodded. ‘Please, Tim. I’m genned up on the subject from books and articles, but I certainly must sit in on a session or two. It’s incredible that people really believe that it’s regression into the past. It’s not, you know.’ She was frowning at the wall in front of her where Tim had pinned a spread of huge black and white shots of a beautiful blonde nude in silhouette. ‘Is that who I think it is?’ He grinned. ‘Who else? Like them?’ ‘Does her husband?’ ‘I’m sure he will. It’s the back lighting. Shows her hair and hides the tits. They really are a bit much in real life. I’d say she was the proverbial milch cow in a previous existence.’ Jo looked back at him and laughed. ‘OK, Tim. You tell your Mr Walton he’s got to convince me. Right?’ She got up to examine the photos. ‘It’s something called cryptomnesia. Memories that are completely buried and hidden. You’ll probably find your man had a German au pair when he was three months old. He’s genuinely forgotten he ever heard her talk, but he learned all the same and his subconscious can be persuaded to spit it all out. These are awfully good. You’ve made her look really beautiful.’ ‘That’s what they pay me for, Jo.’ He was watching her closely. ‘I was talking to Judy Curzon last week. She has an exhibition at the Beaufort Gallery, did you know?’ ‘I know.’ She turned. ‘So you know about it.’ ‘About you and Nick? I thought he was fooling about. I’m surprised you took it seriously.’ She picked up her cup again and began to walk up and down. ‘It’s happened too often, Tim. And it’s getting to hurt too much.’ She looked at him with a small grimace. ‘I’m not going to let myself get that involved. I just can’t afford to. When a man starts causing me to lose sleep I begin to resent him and that’s not a good way to nurture a relationship. So better to cut him off quickly.’ She drew a finger across her throat expressively. Tim hauled himself to his feet. ‘Ruthless lady. I’m glad I’m not one of your lovers.’ He took her cup from her and carried it through to the kitchen. ‘And you really can be grown up about it and not mind if I ask him and Judy to the party?’ ‘Not if I can bring someone too.’ He turned from the sink where he had dumped the cups and spoons. ‘Someone?’ ‘I’ll think of someone.’ ‘Oh, that kind of someone. A spit-in-Nick’s-eye someone.’ He laughed. ‘’Course you can.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and stared at her for a moment. ‘It could always be me, you know, Jo.’ She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘It couldn’t, Tim. I like you too much.’ He groaned. ‘The most damning thing a woman can say to a man, a real castrating remark. “I like you too much,”’ he mimicked her, his voice sliding up into an uncomfortable falsetto. He burst out laughing. ‘At least you didn’t say I was too old, though. Now scram. I’ve got work to do. Consider yourself on for the photos, but let me know when as soon as you can.’ Nick Franklyn sat back on the low, cord sofa and stared at the girl’s legs. They were long, crossed at the ankle; he could see where the stacked heel on her left shoe was scuffed. His eyes travelled up the desk and across the typewriter, to where her face, hidden by two curtains of blonde hair, stared down at the work she was copying, her red painted nails clicking irritatingly on the keys as she worked. It was already three fifteen. The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up, placing it automatically between her shoulder and chin so she need not stop typing. ‘Right Miss Gunning.’ She barely raised her eyes as she tipped the receiver back onto its cradle. ‘You can go in now,’ she said to Nick. ‘Thanks.’ He levered himself from the seat and strode across to the door. Bet was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven storeys below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the centre of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier towards the Tower. ‘What can I do for you, Nick?’ She turned, drawing on the cigarette, and looked him up and down. He was dressed in jeans with a denim jacket, immaculately cut, which showed off his tall spare figure and tanned face. He grinned. ‘You’re looking great, Bet. So much hard work suits you.’ ‘Meaning why the hell couldn’t I see you three days ago when you rang?’ ‘Meaning editor ladies are obviously busy if they can’t see the guy who handles one of their largest advertising accounts.’ He sat down unasked opposite her desk and drew up one foot to rest across his knee. She smiled. ‘Don’t give me that, Nick. You’re not here about the Wonda account.’ ‘I’m not?’ ‘Jim Greerson’s been handling that one.’ She turned and pushed the window open further. Below on the river the boat hooted twice as it disappeared under Blackfriars Bridge. ‘Unless you’ve sacked your best partner.’ ‘OK. So I’ve come to ask you a favour. As a friend.’ She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water and said, without turning round, ‘About?’ ‘Jo.’ She waited in silence, conscious of his gaze on her back. Then slowly she turned. He was watching her closely and he saw the guarded look in her eyes. ‘Does Jo need any favours from me?’ she asked. ‘She’s going to bring some ideas to you, Bet. I want you to kill one of them.’ He saw the flash of anger in her face, swiftly hidden, as she sat down at her desk. Leaning forward, she glared at him. ‘I think you’d better explain, Nick.’ ‘She’s planning a series of articles which she’s going to offer Women in Action. One of them is about hypnosis. I don’t want her to write it.’ ‘And who the hell are you to say what she writes or doesn’t write?’ Bet’s voice was dangerously quiet. She kept her eyes fixed on Nick’s face. A muscle flickered slightly in his cheek. ‘I care about her, Bet.’ Bet stood up. ‘Not from what I’ve been hearing. Your interests have veered to the artistic suddenly, the grapevine tells me, and that no longer qualifies you to interfere in Jo’s life. If you ever had that right.’ She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked. ‘Sorry, Nick. No deal. Why the hell should you want to stop the article anyway?’ Nick rose to his feet. ‘I have good reasons, Bet. I don’t know who the hell has been talking to you about me, but just because I’m seeing someone else doesn’t mean I no longer care about Jo.’ He was pacing up and down the carpet. ‘She’s a bloody good journalist, Bet. She’ll research the article thoroughly …’ He paused, running his fingers through his thatch of fair hair. ‘And why shouldn’t she?’ Bet sat on the corner of her desk, watching him intently. He reached the end of his trajectory across her carpet and, turning to face her, he leaned against the wall, arms folded, his face worried. ‘If I tell you, I’m betraying a confidence.’ ‘If you don’t tell me there’s no way I’d ever consider stopping the article.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re a hard bitch, Bet. OK. But keep this under your hat or you’ll make it far worse for Jo. I happen to know that she is what is called a deep trance subject – that means if she gets hypnotised herself she’s likely to get into trouble. She volunteered in the psychology lab at university when she was a student. My brother Sam was doing a PhD there and witnessed it. They were researching regression techniques as part of a medical programme. She completely flipped. Jo doesn’t know anything about it – they did that business of “you won’t remember when you wake up” on her, but Sam told me the professor in charge of the project had never seen such a dramatic reaction. Only very few people are quite that susceptible. She nearly died, Bet.’ Bet picked up a pencil and began to chew the end of it, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘Are you serious?’ ‘Never more so.’ ‘But that’s fantastic, Nick! Think of the article she’ll produce!’ ‘Christ, Bet!’ Nick flung himself away from the wall and slammed his fist on the desk in front of her. ‘Can’t you see, she mustn’t do it?’ ‘No I don’t see. Jo’s no fool, Nick. She won’t take any risks. If she knows –’ ‘But she doesn’t know.’ His voice had risen angrily. ‘I’ve asked her about it and she remembers nothing. Nothing. I’ve told her I think it’s dangerous to meddle with hypnosis – which it is – but she laughs at me. Being her, if she thinks I’m against it she’s keener to do it than ever. She thinks everything I say is hokum. Please, Bet. Just this once, take my word for it. When she brings the idea to you, squash it.’ ‘I’ll think about it.’ Bet reached for another cigarette. ‘Now if you’ll forgive me I should be at a meeting downstairs.’ She smiled at him sweetly. ‘Did you know we were running a review of Judy Curzon’s exhibition this week, by the way? She’ll be pleased with it, I think. Pete Leveson wrote it so the publicity should be good.’ He glared at her. ‘It’s a damn good exhibition.’ He reached out for the doorknob. ‘Bet –’ ‘I said I’d think about it, Nick.’ She sat gazing at the desk in front of her for several minutes after he had left. Then she reached down to the bag which lay on the carpet at her feet, and brought out Jo’s sheaf of notes. The paragraph on hypnotic regression was right on top. Glancing through it she smiled. Then she put the notes into the top drawer of her desk and locked it. 2 (#ulink_0f10c27d-e6a8-518e-bfb1-d058b042772b) As Jo let herself into her flat she automatically stopped and listened. Then, throwing down her bag, she turned and closed the door behind her, slipping the deadlock into place; she had not really thought Nick might be there. She went into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle. It was only for those few minutes when she first came in that she missed him: the clutter of cast-off jackets, papers, half-smoked cigarettes and the endlessly playing radio that surrounded him. She shook her head, reaching into the fridge for the coffee beans. ‘No way, Nicholas,’ she said out loud. ‘You just get out from under my skin!’ On the table in the living room was a heap of books and papers. She pushed them aside to make room for her coffee cup and went to throw open the tall French windows that led onto the balcony which overlooked Cornwall Gardens. The scent of honeysuckle flooded the room from the plant, which trailed over the stone balustrade. When the phone rang she actually jumped. It was Tim Heacham. ‘Jo? I’ve fixed up for us to go and see my mate Bill Walton.’ ‘Tim, you’re an angel. When and where?’ She groped for the pad and pencil. ‘Six fifteen Thursday, at Church Road, Richmond. I’m coming with you and I’ll bring my Brownie.’ She laughed. ‘Thanks, I’ll see you at your party first.’ ‘You and someone. OK, Jo. Must go.’ Tim always hurried on the phone. No time for preliminaries or goodbyes. A broad strip of sunlight lay across the fawn carpet in front of the window, bringing with it the sounds of the London afternoon – the hum of traffic, the shouts of children playing in the gardens, the grinding monotony of a cement mixer somewhere. Reaching for her cup Jo subsided onto the carpet, stretching out her long legs in front of her as she flipped through the address book she had taken from the table, and brought the phone down to rest on her knee as she dialled Pete Leveson’s number. ‘Pete? It’s Jo.’ ‘Well, well.’ The laconic voice on the other end of the wire feigned astonishment. ‘And how is the beautiful Joanna?’ ‘Partnerless for a party. Do you want to come?’ ‘Whose?’ ‘Tim Heacham.’ There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘I would be honoured of course. Do I gather that Nick is once more out of favour?’ ‘That’s right.’ Pete laughed. ‘OK, Jo. But let me take you out to dinner first. How is work going?’ ‘Interesting. Have you heard of a chap called Bill Walton, Pete?’ Her glance had fallen to the notepad in front of her. ‘I don’t think so. Should I?’ ‘He hypnotises people and regresses them into their past lives.’ She kept her voice carefully neutral. To her surprise he didn’t laugh. ‘Therapeutically or for fun?’ ‘Therapeutically?’ she echoed incredulously. ‘Don’t tell me it’s considered good for you!’ She glanced across at the heap of books and articles which formed the basis of her researches. Half of them were still unread. ‘As a matter of fact it is. Fascinating topic.’ Pete’s voice faded a moment as if he had looked away from the phone, then it came back strongly. ‘This is work I take it? I was just looking for a phone number. You remember David Simmons? His sister works for a hypnotherapist who uses regression techniques to cure people’s phobias. I’ll tell you about it if you’re interested.’ It was one thirty in the morning when the phone rang, the bell echoing through the empty studio. Judy Curzon sat up in bed with a start, her red hair tousled. ‘Dear God, who is it at this hour?’ Nick groaned and rolled over, reaching for her. ‘Ignore it. It’s a wrong number.’ But she was already pulling herself out of bed. Standing up with a yawn she snatched the sheet off him and, wrapping it round her, she fumbled her way to the lamp. ‘It never is a wrong number at this hour of the morning. I expect someone is dead.’ She pushed through the bedroom door and into the studio. Nick lay back, running his fingers through his hair, listening. He could hear the distant murmur of her voice. Then there was silence. She appeared in the doorway. ‘It’s your bloody brother from Edinburgh. He says you left a message for him to ring, however late.’ Nick groaned again. ‘I spent most of yesterday trying to reach him. Sorry, Judy.’ ‘Sam? Where the hell have you been all day?’ ‘Out.’ Sam’s voice echoed down the receiver. ‘I wasn’t sure where to reach you. When I couldn’t get a reply at your flat I thought I’d better try the abode of the latest belle. She did not sound pleased to speak to me.’ ‘Can you blame her?’ Nick glanced at the bedroom door, which stood ajar, and wished he had closed it. ‘Sam, can I speak to you tomorrow from the office?’ ‘No chance. Sorry, Nick. If it’s that important, talk now. I’m flying to Basel at eight tomorrow – no, this morning. If I live.’ He coughed loudly. Nick swore under his breath. ‘Hold on a minute, Sam.’ He put down the phone and padded across the floor. ‘Judy love, shall I close the door, then I won’t disturb you.’ She was in bed, lying back on the pillow, the sheet drawn up to her waist, her breasts bare. She smiled, trying to hide her irritation. ‘I’ll fall asleep if you do.’ Nick grinned. ‘I can always wake you.’ He shut the door and went back to the phone. Picking up the receiver again he spoke quietly. ‘Sam? Can you hear me? It’s about Jo. I need your advice.’ There was a chuckle from the other end. ‘In bed with one and in love with the other. I’d say you need my advice badly.’ ‘Shut up and listen. It’s about this hypnosis business. She’s set on writing an article on hypnotic regression. Of all things to pick out of the air. I’m pretty sure she means to try it again. What do I do?’ There was a moment’s silence. He heard Sam sigh. ‘That’s a tricky one, Nick. As I told you she is dangerously susceptible. Someone who reacts as violently as she does under hypnosis can be potentially in a lot of trouble in the hands of an inexperienced practitioner. In fact, in any hands. You really have to dissuade her.’ ‘She won’t listen to me. Can I tell her what happened to her last time?’ ‘No. No, Nick, it’s too risky. I could do it perhaps, but not you. Hell! I can’t postpone this trip. Can you get her to wait until I get back? It’s only a week, then I’ll fly direct to London and have a chat with her about it. Stall her till then, OK?’ ‘Are you saying she’ll go off her head or something if she’s regressed again?’ ‘I’m just saying don’t let her do it.’ ‘I’ll try and stop her.’ Nick grimaced to himself. ‘But you know Jo. Once she gets the bit between her teeth …’ ‘Nick, it’s important.’ Sam’s voice was very serious. ‘I may be wrong, but I suspect that there is a whole volcano simmering away in her unconscious. I discussed it with Michael Cohen dozens of times – he always wanted to get her back, you know, but I persuaded him in the end that it was too dangerous. The fact remains that her heart and breathing stopped – stopped, Nick. No, it is not just a case of going off her head as you put it. If that happened again and someone didn’t know how to handle it – well, I don’t have to spell it out, do I? It must not happen again. And just warning her is no good. If you were to tell her about it, cold, after post-hypnotic suggestion that she forget the episode, she either won’t believe you – that’s the most likely – or, and this is the risk, she may suffer some kind of trauma or relapse or find she can’t cope with the memory. You must make her wait, Nick, till I get there.’ ‘OK, Sam. Thanks for the advice. I’ll do my best. The trouble is, she’s not talking to me.’ Sam laughed. ‘I’m not surprised when you’re in another woman’s bed.’ Putting down the phone Nick went into the kitchen and lit the gas under the kettle. A motorbike roared up the street below, a lonely sound in the silence, and he shivered, keeping his eyes on the friendly blue flame. ‘So. Why do you have to discuss Jo Clifford with your brother for half an hour in the middle of the night?’ He turned guiltily to see Judy, wearing a tightly belted bathrobe, standing in the doorway. ‘Judy –’ ‘Yes. Judy! Judy’s bed. Judy’s flat. Judy’s fucking phone!’ ‘Honey.’ Nick went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s nothing to do with you – with us. It’s just … well.’ He groped for words. ‘Sam’s a doctor.’ ‘Sam’s a psychiatrist.’ She drew in her breath sharply. ‘You mean there is something wrong with Jo?’ Nick grinned as casually as he could. ‘Not like that. Not so’s you’d notice, anyway. Look, Judy. Sam is going to come and have a chat to her, that’s all. Hell, he’s known her for about fifteen years – Sam introduced her to me in the first place. She likes Sam and she trusts him. I had to talk to him tonight because he’s going to Switzerland tomorrow. There is no more to it than that. He’s going to help her with an article she’s working on.’ She looked doubtful. ‘What has this got to do with you, then?’ ‘Nothing. Except he’s my brother and I’d like to think she is still a friend.’ Something in his expression made her bite back the sarcastic retort which hovered in the air. ‘Is that coffee you’re making?’ she asked lamely. She gave a small, lost smile. Nick resisted the impulse to take her in his arms. ‘Sure, then we must get some sleep. I’ve an early start at the office.’ At his desk the next morning Nick pressed the button on the phone. ‘Jane? Get Jo Clifford for me at her flat.’ He gnawed his thumbnail, staring down at the heap of papers on his desk. The intercom buzzed. ‘Sorry, Nick. There’s no reply.’ ‘Damn. Thanks, Jane. Can you keep trying every now and again?’ He glanced at his watch. It was after nine and Sam was already on his way to Basel. Her flat remained empty all day. At eight he drove to Judy’s studio in Finborough Road. He knew it would cause trouble if he rang again from there but that could not be helped. He rang four times in the course of the evening and checked once with the exchange to see if her phone was out of order. Then, angry with her and himself, he gave up. Judy was sulking. She had grudgingly opened a can of soup which they shared in silence, then returned to her huge abstract canvas. The light was too poor to paint, but she studied it for a long time, her thin shoulders hunched defensively, refusing to look at him. He went to her and, putting his arms around her, cupped her small breasts in his hands. He kissed the back of her neck. ‘You know why I’m trying to reach her, Judy.’ She nodded without speaking. Then she turned and put her arms round his neck. ‘I can’t help it, Nick. I love you so much. I’m sorry.’ He kissed her gently. ‘You’re a silly child, Judy. Now, come to bed and I’ll tell you about a party we’re going to next week.’ He could not bring himself to say he loved her. Next morning she still had not told him whether she was prepared to go to the party. He was watching her as she stood before a large canvas, once more lost in thought, a slim, small red-haired figure dressed in a man’s shirt and torn paintstained jeans. Her feet were bare. She turned away from it at last wiping her fingers on a rag. ‘I really don’t want to go. For one thing Jo will be there.’ He frowned. ‘It’s important, Judy. There will be other people there too for God’s sake. People with influence. You need the exposure, love.’ He grinned suddenly and moving towards her took hold of her shirt, a hand on each lapel, drawing her towards him until she was pressed against his chest. ‘You need a lot of exposure, Judy.’ She stopped him as his fingers began working at her buttons, and pulled away, shaking her hair out of her eyes. ‘No, Nick. Not now. I want to work.’ She padded across to the mantelpiece and picked up a newspaper cutting. ‘Did you see this?’ He took it from her, frowning. Then he laughed. ‘But Judy that’s great. Pete Leveson’s column is publicity with a capital P. You’ve arrived, kid!’ He dropped a kiss on the tangle of red hair. She was staring down at the clipping in her hand, frowning. ‘Did you ask him to write about me?’ Nick was watching her with something like tenderness. His blue eyes narrowed quizzically, and he grinned. ‘No one tells Pete Leveson what to write. Many have tried. He’s been offered bribes before, but it doesn’t work. No. If you’re there, you’re there on your own merit.’ She still looked unhappy. ‘He was very close to Jo once, wasn’t he?’ ‘They went around together.’ Nick agreed cautiously. ‘They both worked for W I A.’ ‘So she might have said something –’ ‘She might but I hardly think it’s likely under the circumstances.’ He turned and went to stare out of the large uncurtained window, onto a vista of fire escapes and back windows beyond long depressing gardens strung with washing. ‘Look, Judy, do you mind if we drop the subject? If you are going to work some more on that painting I’ll clear out. I’ve got things to do back home.’ She bit her lip, cursing herself silently for mentioning Jo’s name. ‘See you tonight maybe?’ she said. ‘I’ll cook if you like.’ That at least was something Jo couldn’t do, or so she had gathered from Nick’s oblique remarks. He laughed. ‘That’s an offer you know I can’t resist. OK. I’ll be back around eight.’ He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘I’ll bring us some wine.’ He ran down the four flights of dingy stairs to the front door and pulled it open over the detritus of old leaflets and letters that habitually littered the bare floor behind it. He detested Judy’s studio, the shabby rundown house with its dark stair-well that always smelled of cooking and stale urine, the noisy dirty street where scraps of old paper drifted over the pavement and wrapped themselves around the area railings. Every time he left his Porsche there he expected to find someone had stolen the wheels or carved their name across the gleaming bonnet. As he eased himself into the driving seat he was frowning. It irritated him that she was so attached to the studio. It made no sense now she was becoming successful. As he drew away from the kerb he glanced back up at the terrace of houses. Her dusty windows gleamed curtainless in the sun, the bottom half of the sash thrown up, the box of geraniums which he had wired to the sill for her a defiant splash of colour in the uniformly drab fa?ade. When he turned back to squint through the tinted windscreen he had already put her out of his mind. He was a relaxed driver, his elbow resting casually on the lowered glass of the window, his hand gentle on the wheel as he leaned forward to slot in a cassette while the car crawled along the Brompton Road then north up Gloucester Road. He frowned again as he drew up at the lights. Her phone still wasn’t answering that morning. ‘Get the hell out, Nick,’ Jo had said. ‘I’m my own woman. I don’t belong to you. I just don’t want to see you any more …’ He drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, undecided, and glanced at his watch. The empty parking meter outside her flat decided him. Swinging her latch keys he made for the pillared porch which supported her balcony, glancing up to see the window open wide beneath its curtain of honeysuckle as he let himself in. ‘Jo?’ As the flat door swung open he stuck his head round it and looked in. ‘Jo, are you there?’ She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the typewriter on the low coffee table in front of her, dressed in jeans and a floppy turquoise sweater, her long dark hair caught back with a silk scarf. She did not appear to hear him. He studied her face for a moment, the slim arched brows, the dark lashes which hid her eyes as she looked down at the page before her, the high planes of the cheek-bones and the delicately shaped mouth set off by the severe lines of the scarf – the face of a beautiful woman who would grow more beautiful as she grew older – and he found he was comparing it with Judy’s girlish prettiness. He pushed the door shut behind him with a click. ‘I’ll have that key back before you go,’ she said without looking up. He slipped it into his breast pocket with a grin. ‘You’ll have to take it off me. Did you know your phone was out of order?’ ‘It’s switched off. I’m working.’ ‘That’s bloody stupid. Supposing someone wanted you urgently.’ He took a deep breath, trying to curb his sudden anger. ‘Is there any coffee going while we talk, Jo?’ Without waiting for an answer he walked through to the kitchen. It was a mess, stacked with unwashed dishes and opened cans. He found the orange coffee pot full of cold grounds and with a grimace began to rinse it out in the sink. ‘What’s been going on here?’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘Nothing, as you can plainly see,’ she answered quietly. Soundlessly she had come to stand in the doorway behind him, watching. ‘I’ve been working, as I said, so I haven’t been skivvying and the place is a shambles.’ He rummaged in the fridge and brought out half a bottle of milk. Solids floated in the clear blue whey as he held it to the light and he shuddered as he tipped it out. ‘You obviously need looking after, lady.’ ‘Don’t I just.’ She found two clean mugs in the back of the cupboard. ‘We’ll have to have it black. So. What have you come for?’ ‘To talk. To see how you are.’ ‘I am fine. Busy. Unencumbered. Just the way I like it.’ ‘And starving?’ She smiled. ‘Are you offering to take me to lunch?’ ‘Nope.’ The coffee made to his satisfaction, he poured it out and, gathering up the two mugs, he led the way back to the living room. He put down the mugs and picked up the top book on the pile by her typewriter and glanced at the title. The Facts Behind Reincarnation. He frowned. ‘Jo, I want to talk to you about your article.’ ‘Good. Discussing topics is always helpful.’ Deliberately misunderstanding him she flopped down on the sofa cushions and reached out her hand for the mug. ‘You know my views about this hypnotism business.’ ‘And you know mine.’ She grinned at him, her grey-green eyes narrowing. ‘So let’s break new ground. Let’s discuss my wholefood article. I’ve an interview fixed up with Rose Elliot and another with the head chef at the Ritz, to find out –’ ‘Jo, will you promise me not to let yourself be hypnotised?’ She leaned forward and put down the mug. ‘I’ll promise you nothing Nick. Nothing at all.’ ‘I’ve a good reason for asking.’ ‘Yes. You think you can meddle in my life. Well you can’t. I thought I had made that clear. I am not your concern.’ ‘Christ, Jo! Don’t you know how dangerous hypnosis can be? You hear awful stories of people permanently damaged by playing with something they don’t understand.’ ‘I’m not playing, Nick,’ she replied icily. ‘Any more than you play at advertising.’ He sat down opposite her, his blue eyes hard. ‘Advertising does not interfere with your consciousness –’ ‘That’s a matter of opinion!’ ‘And neither,’ he went on, ignoring her interruption, ‘does it seek to work in your mind without your conscious knowledge.’ ‘Oh no?’ She laughed. ‘Oh, Nick, don’t be so naive. What else is advertising but mind bending? You’ve read enough psychological crap to qualify you three times over as a better shrink than your brother! But that’s not the point. The point is I’m working. Working, not playing, on a series of articles. If I were a war correspondent I’d go to war. If I find my field of research is hypnotism I get hypnotised. If necessary.’ Furiously she got up and walked up and down the room a couple of times. ‘But if it worries you so much perhaps you’d be consoled if I tell you that I can’t be hypnotised. Some people can’t. They tried it on me once at university.’ Nick sat up abruptly, his eyes on her face. ‘Sam told me about that time,’ he said with caution. ‘So why the hell do you keep on then?’ She turned on him. ‘Ring up your brother and ask him all about it. Samuel Franklyn, M.D., D.P.M. He will spell it out for you.’ ‘Jo –’ ‘Go to hell, Nick! Or take me to a pub. But don’t mention the subject again, OK?’ Nick groaned. ‘You are a stubborn, stupid, blind fool, Jo.’ She stared angrily at him for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, she grinned. ‘I know. It’s hell isn’t it? Shall I get my jacket?’ As they were walking along the river’s edge after a pub lunch at Strand on the Green Nick broached the subject again, however. They had stopped to look at the water as it sucked and gurgled around the bows of a moored yacht and divided to race around Oliver’s Eyot. He watched her covertly as she stared at the water, mesmerised by the glint of sunlight on the wet mud slicks, her eyes narrowed in the glare. ‘Jo. Will you talk to Sam? There’s something I think you should know.’ She looked round and stared at him. ‘Nick, I thought I warned you –’ ‘No. I’m warning you. You’ve got to listen, Jo. I’m not interfering, I’m not trying to wreck your career. Sam told me I should never discuss this with you. But it’s important and I think you should talk to him. It’s about that time in Edinburgh when you were hypnotised –’ ‘When I wasn’t hypnotised!’ She turned and began walking briskly back towards Kew Bridge. ‘Thanks for the lunch, Nick. It was nice, for old times’ sake. Now I suggest you get back to Judy. I’ll get a bus home –’ ‘Don’t be an idiot, Jo.’ Almost running, he caught her up and took her arm as she made her way between the Saturday afternoon strollers. On the river behind them a coach yelled instructions to a rowing eight through a megaphone. Neither of them heard him, too engrossed in their furious antagonism. As they reached the car he forced her to get in and drove in tight-lipped silence till they drew up outside her flat. Then he turned to her and put his hand on her wrist. ‘Jo, Sam will be in London next week. Just hold on till then. Promise me. Once he’s seen you –’ ‘Seen me?’ she echoed. ‘For God’s sake, Nick. What’s the matter with you? I need to see your brother about as much as I need you at the moment and that is not a lot!’ ‘Jo, it’s important,’ he said desperately. ‘There is something you don’t know. Something you don’t remember –’ She turned on him. ‘What do you mean I don’t remember? I remember every bit of that session in Edinburgh. Better than Sam does obviously. Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t want me to investigate the subject of regression. It’s one of his pet theories, isn’t it, and he doesn’t want me to debunk it in the press. That wouldn’t suit him at all!’ She groped furiously for her seat-belt release. ‘Just leave me alone, Nick! If your brother wants to see me, let him come and see me. I’ll deal with him myself. You and I have nothing else to say to each other. Nothing!’ She flung the car door open and climbed out. ‘Goodbye, Nick.’ He watched, exasperated, as she ran up the steps, then he drove off without looking back. Closing the street door behind her she leaned against it for a moment, blinking hard. Then resolutely she began to climb the stairs to her own front door. It was only when she reached the top that she realised that he still had her spare set of keys. Pete Leveson, resplendent in a pink silk shirt and velvet jacket, picked Jo up on the following Wednesday soon after six. ‘Still not talking to Nick?’ he asked as he opened the car door for her. The black Audi Quatro was double-parked outside her flat. ‘I’ve not seen him since Saturday.’ She settled in and pulled the seat-belt across her green silk dress. ‘But I think we will tonight. Do you mind?’ ‘As long as you don’t actually expect me to hit him.’ He eased the car out into the traffic. ‘We don’t have that sort of relationship, Pete. It’s very civilised.’ Jo frowned. ‘Anyway I do my own hitting when necessary, thank you.’ ‘Of course. I’d forgotten how liberated you are. I miss you still you know, Jo.’ She glanced at him sharply. Pete was a handsome man in his mid-forties and, though it was ten years since they had had their brief affair, they had managed to stay the best of friends. He did not look at her now, concentrating on the traffic as he drove. She changed the subject abruptly. ‘You promised to tell me all about the hypnotherapist, remember? Did you find out his name for me?’ ‘’Course I did. Got your notebook in that sexy little purse of yours? He’s a chap called Bennet. I’ve got his phone number and address. He’s got consulting rooms in Devonshire Place.’ She grinned. ‘So he costs – and he’s successful, yes?’ ‘Presumably it’s tax-deductible for you! I’m assuming this party’s at Tim’s studios so I thought we might eat at that new place in Long Acre. It’s still early, but if we’re doing battle we may as well go in fortified.’ He grinned again. ‘We’re not doing battle, Pete, so there’ll be no fisticuffs, I told you. A dignified silence is all I require.’ She rested her arm along the back of his seat, studying his profile. ‘If that bastard thinks I care at all he’s got another thing coming.’ ‘But you do.’ He glanced at her. ‘Poor old Jo.’ ‘Stuff.’ She smiled. ‘Now, where is it you’re taking me for dinner?’ The huge photographic studio was already full of people when they arrived. They paused for a moment on the threshold to survey the crowd, the women colourfully glittering, the men in shirt-sleeves, the noise already crescendoing wildly to drown the plaintive whine of a lone violin somewhere in the street below. Someone pressed glasses of champagne into their hands and they found themselves sucked inexorably into the huge hot room. Jo saw Nick almost at once, standing in front of Tim’s photos, studying them with almost ostentatious care. She recognised the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head. So, he was angry. She wondered briefly who with, this time. ‘You look wistful, Jo.’ Tim Heacham’s voice came from immediately behind her. ‘And it does not suit you.’ She turned to face him. ‘Wistful? Never. Happy birthday, Tim. I’m afraid I haven’t brought you a present.’ ‘Who has?’ He laughed. ‘But I’ve got one for you. Judy’s not here.’ ‘Should I care?’ She noticed suddenly that Pete was at the other end of the room. ‘I don’t think you should.’ He took the glass from her hand, sipped from it, and gave it back. ‘You and Nick are bad news for each other at the moment, Jo. You told me so yourself.’ ‘And I haven’t changed my mind.’ ‘Nor about tomorrow I hope?’ ‘Tomorrow?’ ‘Our visit to Bill Walton. He’s going to lay something special on for us.’ He shivered ostentatiously. ‘We’re going to see Cleopatra and her Antony! I find it all just the smallest bit weird.’ She laughed. ‘I hope you won’t be disappointed this time, Tim. It’ll only be as good as the imagination of the people there, you know.’ He held up his hand in mock horror. ‘No. No, you’re not to spoil it for me. I believe.’ ‘Jo?’ The quiet voice behind her made her jump, slopping her wine onto the floor. ‘Jo, I want to talk to you.’ She spun round and found that Nick was standing behind them. Quickly she slipped her arm through Tim’s. ‘Nick. I didn’t expect to see you. Did you bring Judy? Or Sam? Perhaps Sam is here ready to psych me out. Is he?’ Rudely she turned her back on him. ‘Tim, will you dance with me?’ She dragged her surprised host away, leaving Nick standing by himself looking after her. ‘Jo, love, you’re shaking.’ Tim put his arm round her and pulled her against him. ‘Come on. It’s not like you to show your claws like that. You know Judy isn’t here. Nor is Sam. So what’s it all about, eh?’ She closed her eyes briefly and rested her forehead against his chest. ‘I know, I know, I know. I’m a fool. It’s Sam. I’ve got this weird feeling that I don’t want to see him. Nick’s been at me about this hypnotism business – we’ve already rowed about it. It’s all to do with Sam, who disapproves of my work and has been trying to pressurise me through Nick into dropping the whole thing.’ She pushed away from him and smiled with an effort. ‘Do you think I’m neurotic?’ Tim grinned. ‘Only in the nicest sort of way. Come on. Let’s get another drink – most of yours went on the floor, and the rest is down my neck.’ He took her hand firmly. Then he made a rueful face. ‘You’re in love with Nick you know, Jo. The real thing.’ She laughed. ‘No. No, Tim, you dear old-fashioned thing. I’m not in love with anyone. I’m fancy free and fully available. But you are right about one thing, I need another drink.’ There was no way she would ever admit to herself or to anyone else that she loved Nick. If she did then it was an observation which had to be stamped out. Behind her Tim glanced towards the door. He frowned. Judy Curzon stood there, dressed in a floor-length white dress embroidered with tiny flame and amber coloured beads, her red hair brushed close to her head like a shining cap. Her huge eyes were fixed on Nick’s face. Tim shook his head slowly, then firmly he guided Jo into the most crowded part of the room. 3 (#ulink_beb5cdc5-1c59-5978-8d51-d8948a3561a9) While Tim locked the car the following evening, Jo stared up at the front of the house. It was a tall, shabby building in the centre of a long terrace of once elegant Edwardian town houses, the windows dark and somehow forbidding on this, the deeply shadowed side of the street. She turned her back on it with a shiver and glanced down instead at the brightly lit windows in the basement of the house behind her. Through one she could see a woman bustling round in the kitchen; putting cups out on a tray. The ordinariness of the action was reassuring. Behind them the traffic sped down the hill, slowing at the bottom for the traffic lights before dropping into Richmond. ‘Jo, about last night –’ Tim was pocketing his car keys. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Jo hunched her shoulders. ‘It was a great party for some. Now please forget it.’ ‘But the way Judy behaved was appalling. How could she have even thought of it!’ ‘She’s a jealous lady, Tim, fighting for a man. Women are like that. Primeval!’ ‘And aren’t you going to fight?’ ‘For Nick? No.’ Two young women were climbing the hill towards them, their arms linked. They were giggling, looking at the house numbers, and instinctively Jo knew they were heading for the same address. She relaxed slightly. For them it had the same slightly naughty, slightly frightening feeling as Jo had felt attending a seance when she was a student. She shivered. Was it going to be a party game as she suspected or had Nick been right? Would the evening turn into something risky? Firmly she put Nick out of her mind. Whatever had been left between her and Nick was over. She was aware suddenly that Tim was behind her. He was smiling. ‘I hope the one in the d?collet? red dress takes part,’ he murmured. ‘I’d like to see her in an orgasmic seizure!’ ‘Lech.’ She grinned at him affectionately. ‘I don’t know where you get this idea that everyone has an orgasm the moment they are regressed. Has it crossed your mind that in a previous life she may have been a man with a stubby beard and BO?’ ‘Spoil-sport. She might have been a boy, though. Look at that neat little derri?re!’ They watched the two girls climb the flight of stone steps which spanned the basement area and ring the doorbell. A light came on behind the stained glass of the fanlight. The door opened and the two girls disappeared. Jo took Tim’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t make comments like that, Mr Heacham. It could get you a reputation, you know,’ she said, laughing. They waited side by side for a gap in the traffic before crossing the road then sprinted between a taxi and a Bedford van. ‘Perhaps we’d better get you regressed. Find out what you were in a previous life.’ ‘No fear.’ Tim stopped abruptly at the foot of the steps and took her hand. ‘Jo, love. Can you bear in mind that this chap is a friend of a friend? Go easy on the put-downs.’ ‘I’m not going to put anyone down, Tim.’ She hitched her thumb through the strap of the bag on her shoulder. ‘I’m going strictly as an observer. I shan’t say a word. Promise.’ The front door was opened by a woman in a long Laura Ashley dress, her fair hair caught back in an untidy pony-tail. She had a clipboard in her hand. ‘Mr Heacham and Miss Clifford?’ she confirmed. ‘The others are all here. Follow me, please.’ The dark hallway was carpeted wall to wall with a thick brown runner which muffled their footsteps as they followed her past several closed doors and up a flight of stairs to the first floor. There, in a large room, facing onto the long narrow gardens which backed the houses, they found Bill Walton and some dozen other people, already seated on a semicircle of upright chairs. Walton held out his hand to them. ‘How are you? As you requested, Tim, I’ve told everyone that a lady and gentleman of the press will be here. No one objects.’ He was a small, wizened man of about fifty, his sandy hair standing out in wisps around his head. Jo looked apprehensively into his prominent green eyes as she shook hands. Somewhere outside children were playing in the evening sunlight. She could hear their excited shouting and the dull thud as a foot connected with a ball. In the room there was a muted expectant silence. She could see the two girls seated side by side at the end of the row. Both now looked distinctly frightened. Next to them a man in a roll-necked sweater whispered to his companion and laughed quietly. The room was a study – a large, comfortable untidy room, the wall at one end lined with books, the opposite one hung with a group of Japanese prints mounted on broad strips of fawn linen. Jo took her place on one of the remaining chairs whilst Tim slipped unobtrusively behind her, perching on the arm of a chair by the fire, removing the lens cap from his camera and putting it quietly down on the seat beside him. Walton moved to the windows and half drew the curtains, shutting out the soft golden glow of the evening. Then he switched on a desk lamp. He grinned at the small audience before him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, first let me welcome you all. I hope you are going to find this evening instructive and entertaining. Let me say at the outset that there is nothing whatsoever to be afraid of. No one can be hypnotised who does not wish it.’ He glanced at Jo as, quietly, she slipped a notebook out of her bag. She rested it, still shut, on her knee. ‘My usual procedure is to make a few simple tests initially to find out how many of you are good hypnotic subjects, then from amongst those who seem to be suitable I shall ask for volunteers to be put into deep hypnosis and regressed if possible. I should emphasise that it does not always happen, and there have been occasions when I have found no one at all suitable amongst my audience.’ He laughed happily. ‘That is why I prefer to have a dozen or so people present. It gives us a better choice.’ Jo shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair and crossed her legs. Beside her the others were all staring at him, half hypnotised already, she suspected, by the quiet smoothness of his voice. ‘Now,’ he continued, hitching himself up onto the desk so that he was sitting facing them, his legs swinging loosely, crossed at the ankle. ‘Perhaps you would all look at my finger.’ He raised it slowly until it was level with his eyes. ‘Now, as I raise my hand you will find that your own right hand rises into the air of its own accord.’ Jo felt her fingers close convulsively around her pencil. Her hands remained firmly in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the hand of the man next to her as it twitched slightly and moved, then it too fell back onto his knee. She noticed his Adam’s apple jump sharply as he swallowed. She looked back at Walton, who was watching them all with apparent lack of interest. ‘Fine. Now I want you all to sit back and relax against the back of your chairs. Perhaps you would fix your eyes on the light behind me here on the desk. The light is bright and hard on the eyes. Perhaps if you were to close your eyes for a few moments and rest them.’ His voice had taken on a monotonous gentle tone which soothed the ears. ‘Fine, now it may be that when you try to open them you will find that you can’t. Your lids are sealed. The light is too bright to look at. The darkness is preferable.’ Jo could feel the nails of her hands biting into her palms. She leaned forward and stared down the line of seated people. Two were blinking at the light almost defiantly. The others all sat quietly, their eyes closed. Walton was smiling. Quietly he stood up and padded forward over the thick carpet. ‘Now I am going to touch your hands, one by one, and when I pick them up you will find that you cannot put them down.’ His voice had taken on a peremptory tone of command. He approached the man next to Jo, ignoring her completely. The man’s eyes were open and he watched almost frightened as Walton caught his wrist and lifted the limp hand. He let go and to Jo’s surprise the arm stayed where it was, uncomfortably suspended in midair. Walton made no comment. He passed on to the next person in the line. Behind her Jo heard the faint click of the camera shutter. A moment later it was all over. Gently, almost casually, Walton spoke over his shoulder as he returned to his desk. ‘Fine, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. You may lower your hands and open your eyes. And may I suggest that we all have some coffee at this stage while we consider what is going to happen next.’ Jo licked her lips nervously. Her mouth had gone dry as she sat watching the man next to her. His hand had returned slowly to his lap, completely naturally, without any effort of will on his part, as far as she could see. She glanced over her shoulder at Tim. He winked and gave a thumbs-up sign. Then he subsided into his chair. As if at a signal the door had opened behind them and the young woman reappeared wheeling a trolley on which sat two large earthenware coffee pots. Unobtrusively she moved up the line of chairs, never speaking, nor raising her eyes to meet those of anyone in the room. Jo watched her and found herself wondering suddenly whether it was to stop herself from laughing at their solemn faces. When they had all had their coffee Walton sat down once more. He was looking preoccupied as he stirred the cup before him on the desk. Only when the woman had left the room did he speak. ‘Now, I’m glad to say that several of you tonight have demonstrated that you are susceptible to hypnosis. What I intend to do is to ask if any one of those people would like to volunteer to come and sit over here.’ He indicated a deep leather armchair near the desk. ‘Bring your coffee with you of course and we’ll discuss what is going to happen.’ It was several minutes before anyone could be prevailed upon to move but at last one stout, middle-aged woman rose to her feet. She looked flustered and clutched her cup tightly as she approached the chair and perched on the edge of it. Walton rose from his desk. ‘It’s Mrs Potter, isn’t it? Sarah Potter. Now, my dear, please make yourself comfortable.’ His voice had dropped once more and Jo again found herself sitting upright, consciously resisting the beguilement of the man’s tone as she watched the woman lean back and close her eyes. Walton gently took the cup from her and without any preliminary comments began to talk her back into her childhood. After only a slight hesitancy she began to answer him, describing scenes from her early schooldays and they could all plainly hear the change in the quality of her voice as it rose and thinned girlishly. Tim stood up and, creeping forward, dropped on one knee before the woman with his camera raised. Walton ignored him. ‘Now, my dear, we are going back to the time before you were born. Tell me what you see.’ There was a long silence. ‘Back, further back into the time before you were little Sarah Fairly. Before, long before. You were on this earth before, Sarah. Tell me who you were.’ ‘Betsy.’ The word came out slowly, puzzled, half hesitating, and Jo heard a sharp intake of breath from the people around her. She gripped the notepad on her knee and watched the woman’s face intently. ‘Betsy who?’ Walton did not take his eyes from her face. ‘Dunno. Just Betsy …’ ‘You were lucky this evening.’ Walton looked from Jo to Tim and back with a grin. ‘Here, let me offer you a drink.’ The others had gone, leaving Tim packing his cameras and Jo still sitting on her wooden chair, lost in thought. ‘Three subjects who all produced more or less convincing past lives. That’s not bad.’ Jo looked up sharply. ‘More or less convincing? Are you saying you don’t believe in this yourself?’ She saw Tim frown but Walton merely shrugged. He had poured three glasses of Scotch and he handed her one. ‘I am saying, as would any colleague, Miss Clifford, that the hypnosis is genuine. The response of the subject is genuine, in that it is not prompted by me, but where the personalities come from I have no idea. It is the people who come to these sessions who like to think they are reincarnated souls.’ His eyes twinkled roguishly. Tim set his camera case on a chair and picked up his own glass. ‘It really is most intriguing. That Betsy woman. A respectable middle-aged housewife of unqualified boringness and she produces all those glorious words out of the gutter! I can’t help wondering if that was merely her repressed self trying to get out.’ He chortled. Walton nodded. ‘I find myself wondering that frequently. But there are occasions – and these are the ones of course which you as reporters should witness – when the character comes out with stuff which they could in no way have prepared, consciously or unconsciously. I have had people speaking languages they have never learned and revealing historical detail which is unimpeachable.’ He shook his head. ‘Very, very interesting.’ Jo had stood up at last. She went to stand by the bookcase, still frowning slightly. Walton watched her. ‘Did you know, Miss Clifford, that you are potentially a good hypnotic subject yourself?’ She swung round. ‘Me? Oh no. After all, none of your tests worked on me.’ ‘No. Because you fought them. Did it not cross your mind that the fact that you had to resist so strenuously might mean something? I was watching you carefully and I suspect you were probably one of the most susceptible people here tonight.’ Jo stared at him. She felt suddenly cold in spite of the warmth of the room. ‘I don’t think so. Someone tried to hypnotise me once, at university. It didn’t work.’ She looked into her glass, suddenly silent, aware that Walton was still watching her closely. He shook his head. ‘You surprise me. Perhaps the person wasn’t an experienced hypnotist. Although, of course, if you resisted as you did today, no one could –’ ‘Oh, but I didn’t resist them. I wanted it to happen.’ She remembered suddenly the excitement and awe she had felt on her way to Professor Cohen’s rooms, the abandon with which she had thrown herself into answering all his questions before the session started, the calm relaxation as she lay back on his couch watching Sam standing in the corner fighting with his notepad whilst outside the snow had started to fall … She frowned. How strange that the details of that afternoon had slipped her mind until this moment. She could picture Sam now – he had been wearing a brown roll-neck sweater under a deplorably baggy sports jacket. When they had been introduced she had liked him at once. His calm relaxed manner had counteracted Cohen’s stiff academic formality, putting her at ease. She had trusted Sam. So why now did she have this sudden image of his tense face, his eyes wide with horror, peering at her out of the darkness, and with it the memory of pain …? She shrugged off a little shiver, sipping from her glass as she glanced back at Walton. ‘It was about fifteen years ago now – I’ve probably forgotten most of what happened.’ He nodded slowly without taking his eyes from her face. Then he turned away. ‘Well, it might be interesting to try again,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Would you like to?’ ‘No!’ she answered more sharply than she intended. ‘At least, not yet. Perhaps when my research is a bit further advanced …’ Warning bells were ringing in her mind; Sam’s face was there again before her eyes, and with it she heard Nick’s voice: ‘There is something you don’t know, something you don’t remember …’ Shakily she put down her glass, aware of Tim’s puzzled eyes upon her. Furiously she tried to get a grip on herself as she realised suddenly that Bill Walton was addressing her whilst he straightened some papers on his desk. ‘And were you pleased overall with what you saw this evening, Miss Clifford?’ She swallowed hard. ‘It was fascinating. Very interesting.’ ‘But I suspect that you are going to debunk the reincarnation theory in your articles? My wife is a great fan of yours and she tells me your style of journalism can be quite sharp.’ Jo grimaced. ‘She’s right. If she told you that it’s very brave of you to be so open with me.’ ‘Why not? I’ve nothing to hide. As I told you, the hypnotism is real. The responses are real. I do not seek to explain them. Perhaps you will be able to do that.’ He grinned. Jo found herself smiling back. ‘I doubt it,’ she said as she picked up her bag, ‘but I dare say I’ll give it a try.’ 4 (#ulink_5a039dca-f9a2-5f4e-b93b-cb49fe720539) ‘Why did you do it, Judy?’ Nick pushed open the door of the studio and slammed it against the wall. She was standing in front of the easel, once more dressed in her shirt and jeans, a brush in her hand. She did not turn round. ‘You know why. How come it’s taken you nineteen hours to come round and ask?’ ‘Because, Judy, I have been at work today, and because I wasn’t sure if I was going to come round here ever again. I didn’t realise you were such a bitch.’ ‘Born and bred.’ She gave him a cold smile. ‘So now you know. I suppose you hate me.’ Her face crumpled suddenly and she flung down the brush. ‘Oh Nick, I’m so miserable.’ ‘And so you should be. Telling Jo in front of all those people what Sam and I had talked about in confidence. Telling her at all was spiteful, but to do it like that, at a party – that was really vicious.’ ‘She didn’t turn a hair, Nick. She’s so confident, so conceited. And she didn’t believe it anyway. No one did. They all thought it was just me being bitchy.’ She put her arms around his neck and nuzzled him. ‘Don’t be angry. Please.’ He disengaged himself. ‘I am angry. Very angry indeed.’ ‘And I suppose you followed her last night?’ Her voice was trembling slightly. ‘No. She told me to go to hell as you well know.’ He turned away from her, taking off his jacket and throwing it down on a chair. ‘Is there anything to drink?’ ‘You know damn well there is.’ She retrieved her paintbrush angrily and went back to her painting. ‘And get me one.’ He glared at her. ‘The perfect hostess as ever.’ ‘Better than Jo anyway!’ she flashed back. She jabbed at the painting with a palette knife, laying on a thick impasto of vermilion. ‘Leave Jo alone, Judy,’ Nick said quietly. ‘I’m not going to tell you again. You are beginning to bore me.’ There was a long silence. Defiantly she laid on some more paint. Nick sighed. He turned and went into the kitchen. There was wine in the refrigerator. He took it out and found two glasses. He had not told Judy the truth. Last night, at midnight, he had gone to Cornwall Gardens and, finding Jo’s flat in darkness, had cautiously let himself in. He had listened, then, realising that there was still a light on in the kitchen, he had quietly pushed open the door. The room had been empty, the draining board piled high with clean, rinsed dishes, the sink spotless, the lids on all the jars, and the bread in the bin, when he had looked, new and crusty. ‘What are you doing here?’ Jo had appeared behind him silently, wearing a white bathrobe. He had slammed down the lid of the bread bin. ‘Jo, I had to talk to you –’ ‘No, Nick, there is nothing to talk about.’ She had not smiled. Staring at her he had realised suddenly that he wanted to take her in his arms. ‘Oh Jo, love. I’m sorry –’ ‘So am I, Nick. Very. Is it true what Judy said? Am I likely to go off my head?’ ‘That’s not what she said, Jo.’ ‘Is that what Sam said?’ ‘No, and you know it isn’t. All he said was that you should be very careful.’ He had kept his voice deliberately light. ‘How come Judy knows so much about it? Did you discuss it with her?’ ‘Of course I didn’t. She listened to a private phone call. She had no business to. And she didn’t hear very much, I promise. She made a lot of it up.’ ‘But you had no business to make that call, Nick.’ Suddenly she had been blazing angry with him. ‘Christ! I wish you would keep out of my affairs. I don’t want you to meddle. I don’t want your brother to meddle! I don’t want anything to do with either of the Franklyns ever again. Now, get out!’ ‘No, Jo. Not till I know you’re all right.’ ‘I’m all right. Now, get out.’ Her voice had been shaking. ‘Get out, get out, get out!’ ‘Jo, for God’s sake be quiet.’ Nick had backed away from her as her voice rose. ‘I’m going. But please promise me something –’ ‘Get out!’ He had gone. Nick took a couple of gulps from his glass and topped it up again before going back into the studio. Pete Leveson was standing next to Judy, staring at the canvas. Nick groaned as Pete raised a hand. ‘I thought I’d find you here. Has anyone told you yet that you are five kinds of shit?’ Nick handed him one of the glasses. ‘You can’t call me anything I haven’t called myself already,’ he said dryly. Judy whirled round. ‘All right, you guys. Stop being so bloody patronising. I’m the one who said it all, I’m the one who told her, not Nick. If you’ve come here to reproach anyone, it should be me, not him.’ She put her hands on her hips defiantly. Pete gave a small grin. ‘Right. It was you.’ ‘Was Jo very upset later?’ she was unable to resist asking after a moment. ‘A little. Of course she was. She didn’t believe anything you said, but you chose a pretty public place to make some very provocative statements.’ ‘No one heard them –’ ‘Judy.’ Pete gave her a withering look. ‘You were heard by virtually every person in that party, including Nigel Dempster. I’ve been on the phone to him, but unfortunately he feels it was too juicy a titbit to miss his column. After all, he’s got a job to do much like mine when you think about it. “Well-known columnist accused of being a nutter by blonde painter at Heacham party …” How could he resist a story like that? And he was there in person! It’ll be in Friday’s Mail.’ ‘Hell!’ Nick hit his forehead with the flat of his hand. ‘They’ll crucify Jo. She’s trodden on too many toes in her time.’ ‘She’ll be OK,’ Judy broke in. ‘She’s tough.’ ‘She’s not half as tough as she makes out,’ Nick replied slowly. ‘Underneath she’s very vulnerable.’ Judy looked away. ‘And I’m not, I suppose?’ ‘We are not talking about you, Judy. It is not your sanity that is going to be questioned in the press.’ ‘She can always sue them.’ ‘If she sues anyone, it would be you. For defamation or slander. And it would serve you right.’ Judy blanched. Without a word she took the glass out of Nick’s hand and walked with it to the far end of the studio where she stood looking out of the window to the bare earth and washing lines of the garden below. Pete frowned. ‘Just how much truth is there in any of this story?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘None at all. Judy misunderstood completely.’ Nick compressed his lips angrily. ‘Squash the story if you can, Pete. It’s all rubbish anyway, but if it wasn’t –’ he paused fractionally, ‘– if it wasn’t, think how much damage it could do.’ Pete nodded. ‘I had a reason for asking. You are sure that hypnosis can’t hurt her in any way?’ ‘Of course not.’ Nick gave an uncomfortable little laugh. Then he looked at him sharply. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘No reason. No reason at all …’ Pete drove straight to Cornwall Gardens from Judy’s studio. It was nearly seven and almost certainly Jo would be at home. He scowled, thinking of the news he must break: probably the lead story in next morning’s Mail Diary. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment as he paused at the lights in Brompton Road. If Nick preferred that red-haired cow to Jo it was he who needed his head examining. And soon. He backed the car into a parking space in three fluid movements and climbed out, stretched his long legs for a moment, then sprinted across the road. There was no answer. He tried again, louder, but still the flat was silent. Cursing quietly to himself he felt in his pocket for a pen and, tearing a page from the back of his diary, he scribbled a note and put it through her door. ‘Come on, Jo. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’ Tim put a double Scotch on the table in front of her and sat himself down in the chair facing her. Jo summoned up a tired smile. ‘I’m exhausted, Tim, that’s all. This’ll put me right.’ She picked up her glass. ‘Thanks for arranging everything this evening.’ ‘But Walton worried you, didn’t he, and not just because you thought he was a fake?’ She shook her head slowly. ‘He wasn’t a fake. At least, I don’t think so. A telepath perhaps – I don’t know –’ She was silent for a minute. ‘Yes, he did worry me, Tim. The stupid thing is I don’t know why. But it’s something deep inside me. Something I can’t put my finger on, floating at the edge of my mind. Every minute I think I’m going to remember what it is, but I can’t quite catch it.’ She took a sip from her glass and grinned suddenly, her face animated. ‘Makes me sound pretty neurotic, doesn’t it? No Tim, I’m OK. I think I’ve been letting Nick get to me more than I realise, with his fearsome warnings. He’s a bit paranoid about hypnosis. He told me once that he has this fear of losing consciousness – even on the edge of ordinary sleep. I think he thinks hypnosis is the same – like an anaesthetic.’ ‘And it is true he’s been on to his trick-cyclist brother about you?’ Tim asked gently after a pause. She drew a ring on the table with her finger in some spilled beer. ‘I could kill Judy.’ She looked up at him again and gave a rueful grimace. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if what she said was true. Nick told me he’d been in touch with Sam.’ ‘You knew Sam well of course.’ She nodded. ‘He became a friend after –’ She hesitated. ‘After they tried to hypnotise me, he and his boss, in Edinburgh, that first time. But we were never lovers or anything. The coup de foudre came with his kid brother.’ Tim raised an eyebrow. ‘And the foudre has not yet run to earth, has it?’ ‘Oh yes. After last night it has. Finished. Caput. Finis. Bye bye Nicholas.’ She bit her lip hard. Reaching over, Tim touched her hand lightly. ‘Poor Jo. Have another drink.’ He stood up and picked up her glass without waiting for her reply. She watched him work his way to the bar, his tall, lanky frame moving easily between the crowded drinkers. She frowned. Tim reminded her of someone she had known when she was a child, but she could not quite remember who. Someone she had liked. She gave a rueful grin. Was that why she could never love him? She held out her hand for her glass as he returned. ‘I’ve just thought of who it is you remind me of.’ She gave a quick gurgle of laughter. ‘It’s not someone from one of my previous lives. It’s my Uncle James’s Afghan hound. His name was Zarathustra!’ Tim poured himself another whisky as soon as he got in. He had dropped Jo off at her flat, declining her offer of a coffee. Throwing himself down in one of his low-sprung easy chairs, he reached for the phone. ‘Hi, Nick. Can you talk?’ He shifted the receiver to his other hand and picked up his drink. ‘Listen, have you seen Pete Leveson?’ ‘He was here earlier.’ Nick sounded cautious. ‘Did he manage to call off the press?’ ‘Apparently not. Have you warned Jo?’ Tim took a long drink from his glass. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. Shit, if he can’t do it no one can. And I don’t think Jo has a clue what is in store for her. She doesn’t seem to realise anyone else heard at all. As far as she was concerned there were only two people in that room at that moment – Judy and herself. I hope that dolly of yours is really proud of herself. Listen, Nick, what is this about Jo and hypnotism? Is it serious?’ ‘Yes. It’s serious. So if you’ve any influence with her, keep her away from it.’ ‘We went to see a hypnotist tonight.’ ‘Christ!’ ‘No, no. Not for Jo. Or at least only for her to watch other people being regressed. It was fascinating, but the fact is that Jo did behave a bit oddly. She didn’t seem to be the least bit susceptible herself when he did his tests on everyone at the beginning, but afterwards Walton said she was really, but she had been fighting it, and it upset her.’ ‘It would.’ Nick’s voice was grim. ‘Look, Tim, is she going to see him again? Or anyone else, do you know?’ ‘I don’t think so. She did say that maybe she’d got enough material to be going on with.’ ‘Thank God. Just pray she doesn’t feel she needs to pursue any of this further. Sorry, Tim. Judy’s just coming in. I’ve got to go.’ His voice had dropped suddenly to a whisper. Tim grinned as he hung up. The henpecked Lothario role did not suit Nick Franklyn one bit. 5 (#ulink_76d69bd9-3f34-51d2-b2e2-f519a6a04751) Jo wanted to ring Sam. For hours she had lain tossing and turning, thinking about Bill Walton and Sarah Potter, who had once been a street girl called Betsy; and about Tim and Judy Curzon; but her mind refused to focus. Instead again and again she saw images of Cohen’s little Edinburgh study, with the huge antiquated radiator against which Sam had leaned, then the snow, whirling past the window, blotting out the sky, then her hands. Somehow her hands had been hurt; she remembered her fingers, blistered and bleeding, and Michael Cohen, his face pale and embarrassed, talking about chilblains and suddenly with startling clarity she remembered the bloodstains on the floor. How had the blood, her blood, come to be smeared all over the floor of his study? She sat up abruptly, her body pouring with sweat, staring at the half-drawn curtains of her bedroom. The sheets were tangled and her pillow had fallen to the floor. Outside she could just see the faint light of dawn beginning to lighten the sky. Somewhere a bird had begun to sing, its whistle echoing mournfully between the tall houses. With her head aching she got up and staggered to the kitchen, turning on the light and staring round; automatically she reached for the kettle. She found Sam’s number in her old address book. Carrying a cup of black coffee through to the sitting room, she sat on the floor and picked up the phone. It was four thiry-two a.m. as she began to dial Edinbugh. There was no reply. She let the phone ring for five minutes before she gave up. Only then did she remember that Sam had gone abroad. She drank the coffee slowly, then she rang Nick’s flat. There was no answer from his phone either and she slammed down the receiver. ‘Goddamn you, Nick Franklyn!’ she swore under her breath. She stood up and went to throw back the curtains, staring out over the sleeping square. On the coffee table behind her lay a scrap of paper. On it was written in Pete Leveson’s neat italic script: Dr Carl Bennet, hypnotherapist. (Secretary Sarah Simmons: sister of David who you rather fancied if I remember when he came to WIA as a features writer in ’76.) Have made an appointment for you Friday, three pm to sit in on a session. Don’t miss it; I had to grovel to fix it for you. Jo turned and picked up the piece of paper yet again. She did not want to go. It was two forty-five as she walked slowly up Devonshire Place peering at the numbers and stopping at last outside one with a cream front door. Four brass plates were displayed on the elegantly washed panelling. The door was opened by a white-coated receptionist. ‘Dr Bennet?’ she said in response to Jo’s enquiry. ‘Just one minute and I’ll ring upstairs.’ The place smelled of antiseptic and stephanotis. Jo waited in the hall, staring at herself in a huge gilt-framed mirror. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep and she could see the strain in her face as she watched the woman on the telephone in the reflection behind her. ‘You can go up, Miss Clifford,’ the woman said after a moment. ‘The first floor. His secretary will meet you.’ Jo walked up slowly, aware of a figure waiting for her on the half-landing at the head of the flight of stairs. Sarah Simmons was a tall fair-haired woman in a sweater and shirt and Jo found herself sighing with relief. She had been afraid of another white coat. ‘Jo Clifford?’ Sarah extended her hand with a pleasant smile. ‘Pete Leveson spoke to us about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Jo grinned. ‘Did he warn you I’m the world’s most violent sceptic?’ She laughed. ‘He did, but Carl is very tolerant. Come and meet him.’ Carl Bennet was sitting at a desk, in a room which looked out over the street. It was a pleasant book-lined study, furnished with several deep armchairs and a sofa, all with discreet but expensive upholstery; the fitted carpet was scattered with Afghan rugs – sufficiently worn to emphasise their antiquity. It was a comfortable room; a man’s room, Jo thought with sudden amusement, the sort of room which should smell of cigars. It didn’t. There was only the faintest suspicion of cologne. Carl Bennet rose to greet her with a half-hesitant smile. ‘Miss Clifford. Please, come and sit down. Sarah will bring us some coffee – unless you would prefer tea?’ He spoke with a barely perceptible mid-European accent. He nodded at Sarah who disappeared through a door in the far wall, then he looked back at Jo. ‘I find my kitchen is the most important part of my office here,’ he said gently. ‘Now tell me, exactly how can I help you?’ Jo took out her notebook and, balancing it on her knee, sat down on one of the chairs. It was half turned with its back to the window. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry. ‘As I believe Pete Leveson told you, I am writing an article on hypnotic regression. I should like to ask you about it and if possible see how you work.’ She was watching his face intently. ‘Yesterday I attended a session with Bill Walton in Richmond. I wonder whether you know him?’ Bennet frowned. ‘I’ve heard of him of course –’ ‘And you don’t approve?’ ‘On the contrary. He has published some interesting papers. But we practise in very different ways.’ ‘Can you tell me how your approach differs?’ Jo kept her eyes fixed on his face as Sarah came in with a tray. ‘Of course. Mr Walton is an amateur, Miss Clifford. He does not, I believe, ever claim medical benefits from his work. I am a psychologist and I use this form of hypnosis in the treatment of specific conditions. I use it primarily in a medical context, and as such it is not something to be debunked by cheap journalism. If that is what you have in mind, then I would ask you to leave now.’ Jo flushed angrily. ‘I feel sure, Dr Bennet, that you will convince me so thoroughly that I will have no cause to debunk – as you put it – anything,’ she said a little sharply. She took a cup from Sarah. ‘Good.’ He smiled disarmingly. He took off his spectacles and polished them with the cloth from the spectacle case which lay on his desk. ‘Are you really going to allow me to sit in on a session with a patient?’ Jo asked cautiously. Bennet nodded. ‘She has agreed, with one proviso. That you do not mention her name.’ ‘I’ll give you a written undertaking if you wish,’ Jo said grimly. ‘Would you explain a little of what is going to happen before she gets here?’ ‘Of course.’ He stood up and, walking over to the chesterfield, sat down again. ‘It has been found that unexplained and hitherto incurable phobias frequently have their explanation in events which have occurred to a subject either in very early infancy or childhood, or in a previous existence. It is my job to regress the patient to that time, take them once more through the trauma involved, which is often, I may say, a deeply disturbing experience, to discover what it is that has led to the terror which has persisted into later life or even into another incarnation.’ Jo strove to keep the disbelief out of her voice as she said, ‘Of course, this presupposes your absolute belief in reincarnation?’ ‘Of course.’ She could feel his eyes steady on her face. She glanced away. ‘I am afraid you will have to convince me, Dr Bennet. I must admit to being very dubious. If you were to affirm to me your belief in reincarnation as part of a religious philosophy I should not presume to query it. It is this quasi-medical context –’ she indicated the consulting room couch. ‘Are you saying therefore that everyone has lived before?’ He gave a tolerant smile. ‘In my experience, no. Some have lived on this earth many times, others are new souls.’ She stared at him, swallowing with difficulty the bubble of laughter which threatened to overwhelm her as he stood up again, a solid greying man in his sixties, and walked over to her chair. ‘I can see you are derisive, Miss Clifford,’ he said severely, his eyes on hers, magnified a little by the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘One grows used to it as an initial, perhaps defensive response. All I ask is that you keep an open mind while you are here. Are you objective enough to be able to do that?’ Jo looked away. ‘I am sorry, I really am. I pride myself on my objectivity and I will try. In fact –’ she set her cup down at her feet ‘– you have aroused my curiosity intensely. Can you tell before you start whether people have lived before?’ He smiled. ‘In some cases, yes. Sometimes it is harder.’ Jo took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell by looking at me?’ He stared at her, holding her gaze for a while, until she dropped her eyes and looked away. ‘I think you have been on this earth before, yes.’ She felt her skin creep. ‘How can you tell?’ He shrugged. ‘I might be wrong. It is an instinct I have developed after years of studying the subject.’ He frowned. ‘I have a suspicion that the patient you are about to meet may not have done so in fact,’ he said with a grimace. ‘I can’t promise anything from her that will necessarily help you with your article. I have had one preliminary interview with the lady – we shall just call her Adele. She is a good hypnotic subject. She has a very strong and illogical fear of water which can be explained by nothing that she can remember. I shall try to regress her and it may be that we need go no further than her own childhood to discover the cause.’ He walked thoughtfully back to his desk, glancing at his watch. ‘She is late, I fear. Sarah!’ He called towards the side room from where they could hear the sound of a typewriter. It stopped and Sarah appeared in the doorway. ‘Ring Mrs Noble and make sure she has remembered her appointment.’ He scowled at the blotter on his desk, tracing the ornate gold tooling of the leather with a neatly manicured finger. ‘This lady is both vague and a hysteric,’ he said almost to himself. ‘It would not entirely surprise me if she did not turn up.’ He picked up the file on his desk and turned back the cover. Jo felt a sharp stab of disappointment. ‘Are people usually apprehensive about your treatment?’ she asked after a moment’s pause. He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘It would be strange if they were not.’ Sarah appeared in the doorway. ‘Sorry, Carl, she’s not coming. She says her daughter is ill and she has to go to see her. I told her she’d have to pay for the appointment anyway –’ Bennet gave a sharp gesture of dismissal. He stood up abruptly. ‘I am sorry, Miss Clifford. I was looking forward to proving my case to you. I am afraid this visit has wasted your time.’ ‘Not necessarily surely.’ Sarah had picked up the folder on the desk. ‘Have you ever considered undergoing hypnotic regression yourself, Joanna? After all, Carl now has an afternoon free – at your disposal.’ Jo swallowed. ‘I suppose I should try it myself,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Do you think I could be regressed, Dr Bennet?’ He spread his fingers in the air and shrugged. ‘We could try. People of strong personality tend to make good subjects, but of course they must allow themselves to be hypnotised. No one can be against their will, you know. If you are prepared to set aside your reservations completely I would be prepared to try.’ ‘I have no phobias to speak of.’ She managed a little smile. ‘Hobby horses yes. Of such are my columns made, but phobias, I don’t think so.’ ‘Then we could regard it merely as an interesting experiment.’ He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy. Jo found she was breathing rather fast. The palms of her hands were sweating. ‘I’m afraid I would be a difficult subject even if I co-operate as hard as I can. I did take part in a survey at university under Professor Cohen. He didn’t manage to get anywhere with me.’ Bennet sat down on the edge of the desk and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Michael Cohen was one of the great authorities on the subject. I wish I had met him before he died,’ he said a little wistfully. ‘I’m surprised to find you so hostile to the theories behind hypnotic regression if you were involved in any of his clinical trials. When you say nothing happened, do you mean he was not able to regress you at all?’ Jo shook her head. ‘He couldn’t hypnotise me. I didn’t know why. I didn’t fight it. I wanted it to happen.’ Bells were ringing in her mind once more, full of warning. Almost in panic she turned away from him, not wanting him to see the struggle going on inside her, and crossed the carpet to look out of the window into the busy street below, shivering in spite of the humid warmth of the afternoon. The sun was reflecting on a window opposite, dazzling as she stared at it. She turned back to Bennet. ‘I have a small tape recorder in my bag. Would you object if I used it while you try?’ He shook his head and gestured towards a table by the far wall. ‘As you see, I use one too, for various reasons. I also always insist that Miss Simmons is present to act as a chaperone.’ He did not smile. ‘I should explain, however, that often one needs a preliminary session to establish a rapport between hypnotist and patient. It is a far more delicate relationship than that implied by music hall acts on the pier or sensational fiction. So you should not expect too much on this occasion.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Or too little either, Miss Clifford. You may indeed be a hard subject – I’m sure with your co-operation, though, I can achieve something. And I have a feeling you would be an interesting case.’ He smiled boyishly. ‘Quite a challenge in fact. But I don’t wish to talk you into this if you still have any reservations. I think you should take a little time to consider –’ ‘No!’ Jo surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply. ‘No, let’s do it. I’d like to.’ ‘You are quite sure?’ ‘Quite.’ She reached for her bag and pulled the recorder out of it. ‘What shall I do?’ He walked towards the window and half pulled one of the curtains across, shading the room. Above the roof of the opposite building a huge purple cloud had appeared, threatening the sun. He glanced at it as he went back to Jo. ‘Just relax. You are very tense, my dear. Why don’t we have a cup of tea or some more coffee perhaps whilst we talk about what is to happen.’ Jo shook her head. ‘I’ll be OK. I suppose it’s natural to want to resist giving your mind to someone else.’ She bit her lip. ‘Can I just ask you to promise one thing? If anything happens, you’ll do nothing to stop me remembering it later. That’s important.’ ‘Of course. It will all in any case be on tape.’ He watched as she set the tape recorder on the floor next to his couch. ‘Shall I lie down?’ she asked, eyeing it nervously. ‘If you wish. Wherever you feel most comfortable and relaxed.’ He glanced at Sarah, who had quietly seated herself at the table in the corner before the tape deck. Then he turned back to Jo. ‘Now, Joanna – may I call you Joanna?’ ‘Jo,’ Jo whispered. ‘Very well, Jo. I want you to relax completely and close your eyes.’ Jo felt the panic overtaking her. Her eyes flew open and she sat upright. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do it.’ ‘Just as you like. Try leaning back against those cushions. Why don’t we try a light trance first, just to make you feel more relaxed, shall we? There’s nothing to worry about. Just something to make you feel good. You may have seen Bill Walton do it. It’s a very usual way of testing people’s reactions.’ Behind him Sarah smiled grimly, recognising the tone of his voice as she saw Jo make herself comfortable against the cushions, her ankles crossed on the soft hide of the sofa. Jo closed her eyes once more and visibly tried to make herself relax. ‘That’s fine.’ Bennet moved towards her on silent feet. ‘Now, the sun is filling the room once more, so I’m going to ask Sarah to pull down the blinds, but meanwhile I want you to keep your eyes tight closed.’ He glanced at the window. The sun had gone. The narrow strip of sky visible from the room was a livid bruise of cloud. There was a low rumble of thunder as he began speaking again. ‘That’s right. You can feel the light burning your eyes. Keep them tightly closed. That’s fine.’ He touched her face lightly. ‘Now, you want to open them but you can’t. The light is too bright.’ Jo did not move. She could hear him clearly and she knew she could open her eyes if she wanted to, but she could sense the glare behind her lids. There seemed no point in moving until Sarah had shut out the sun, the dazzling white shape which had appeared over the rim of the house on the other side of Devonshire Place, shining directly into the room. Bennet took her hand gently. ‘Jo, can you hear me? Good. Now, I’m going to tickle your hand slightly, just enough to make you smile. Can you feel me do it?’ Sarah gasped. He had taken a small pin from his lapel and driven it deeply into her palm. Jo smiled, her eyes still closed, still wondering why he didn’t shut out the sun. Bennet glanced at Sarah. Then he turned back to Jo. ‘Now my dear, I want you to go back to when you were a little girl …’ Some ten minutes later Sarah’s whisper broke into his concentration. ‘Carl, she’s the best subject I’ve ever seen.’ He frowned at her, his whole attention fixed on the figure lying back against the cushions in front of him. ‘I had a feeling she might be,’ he replied in an undertone. ‘I can’t understand why Cohen couldn’t reach her, unless –’ He broke off and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Unless what?’ ‘Unless he gave her a post-hypnotic suggestion that she should not remember for some reason.’ He turned back to Jo. ‘Now, Jo, my dear, I want you to go back, back to the time before you were born, to the dark time, when you were floating free …’ Jo stirred uneasily, moving her head from side to side. Then she lay still again, completely relaxed as she listened to him. ‘Now, Jo. Before the darkness. When you lived before. Do you remember? You are another person, in another time. Do you remember? Can you tell me? What do you see?’ Jo opened her eyes and stared hard in front of her at the arm of the sofa. ‘It’s getting dark,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Dark and cold.’ ‘Are you indoors or out, can you see?’ Bennet frowned at the window, which showed that it was indeed getting dark and that a torrential summer rain had begun to fall, streaming down the windows, gurgling from a broken gutter. There was another deep roll of thunder. Jo spoke hesitantly. ‘It’s the trees. They’re so thick here. I don’t like the forest.’ ‘Do you know which forest it is?’ Bennet was watching her intently. ‘No.’ ‘Can you tell me your name?’ She frowned, puzzled. ‘I don’t know. Some call me – they call me Matilda – no, Moll … I don’t know.’ ‘Can you tell me something about yourself, Matilda? Where do you live?’ Slowly Jo pushed herself up from the cushions till she was sitting bolt upright, staring into space. ‘I live,’ she said firmly, ‘I live far away from here. In the mountains.’ Then she shook her head, perplexed. ‘The mountains fill my eyes. Black and misty, not like at home.’ She began to rub her eyes with her knuckles, like a child. She looked bewildered. ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. I want to sleep.’ She lay back and closed her eyes. ‘Tell me something else then, Matilda,’ Bennet prompted gently. ‘What are you doing?’ There was no answer. ‘Are you walking in the forest, or riding perhaps?’ Jo hunched her shoulders rebelliously and said nothing. Bennet sighed, ‘Come now, my dear. Tell me what are you wearing? Are you dressed in your prettiest clothes?’ He was coaxing now. He glanced at his watch and then looked at Sarah. ‘Pity. I thought we were going to get something interesting. We might try again another time –’ He broke off as Jo let out an exclamation. ‘They told me to forget. How can I forget? It is happening now …’ Bennet had not taken his eyes off her face. He leaned forward, every nerve ending suddenly tense. Slowly Jo was standing up. She took a couple of paces from the sofa and stood looking at the wall, her eyes wide open. ‘When is it going to stop snowing?’ she asked distinctly. She wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to enfold herself more warmly in her thin linen dress and he saw her shiver violently. ‘It is snowing hard,’ Bennet agreed cautiously. She frowned. ‘I had hoped it would hold off until we reached the castle. I don’t like the snow. It makes the forest so dark.’ ‘Can you tell me what the date is, my dear?’ ‘It is nearly Yule.’ She smiled. ‘Time for feasting.’ ‘And which year, do you know?’ Bennet reached for a notepad and pen. He watched Jo’s face carefully. Her eyes were normal and focusing, but not on him. Her hand, when he reached gently and touched it, was ice-cold. ‘It is the twentieth year of the reign of our Lord King Henry,’ she said clearly. ‘What a foolish question.’ She took another step. ‘Oh Holy Mother of God, we’re nearly there.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘I am going to William.’ ‘Who is William?’ Totally absorbed, Bennet stopped writing and looked up, waiting for an answer. But Jo did not answer. Her whole attention was fixed on something she could see distinctly lying on the road in front of her in the snow. It was the bloody body of a man. 6 (#ulink_ef2981f1-8401-5f74-af77-e8d29263aa67) The melting snow was red with blood. Richard, the young Earl of Clare and Hertford, pulled his horse to a rearing halt, struggling to control the animal as it plunged sideways in fear, its ears flat against its head. It had smelled the carcass and the wolves at the same moment and it snorted with terror as Richard tried to force it around the deserted kill at the edge of the track. A buzzard flew up at the riders’ approach leaving all that remained of the mangled corpse in the slush-threaded mud. A few rags of clothing were the only sign that it had once been human. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ The slim red-haired girl swathed in a fox-fur mantle who had been cantering fast behind him, was concentrating so hard on catching him up that his sudden halt nearly unseated her. Behind her, at a more sedate pace, rode a second young woman and Richard’s twelve knights, wearing on their surcoats the gold and scarlet chevrons of Clare. The riders formed a semicircle in the cold sleet and gazed down at the torn limbs. One or two of the men crossed themselves fervently and the red-haired girl found herself swallowing hard. She pulled her veil across her face hastily. ‘Poor man,’ she whispered. ‘Who could have done such a thing?’ ‘Wolves.’ Richard steadied his horse with difficulty. ‘Don’t look, Matilda. There’s nothing we can do for the miserable bastard. No doubt the men of the village will come and bury what the buzzards and kites leave.’ He turned his horse and kicked it on, forcing it past the body, and the other riders slowly followed him, averting their eyes. Two or three had their hands nervously on the hilts of their swords. All round them the bleak Welsh forest seemed deserted. Oak and ash and silver-limbed beech, bare of leaves, their trunks wet and shining from the sleet, crowded to the edge of the track. Save for the ringing of the horses’ hooves on the outcrops of rock and the squeak and chink of harness it was eerily silent. Richard gazed round apprehensively. He had been shaken more than he liked to admit by the sight of the slaughtered man. It was an ill omen so near the end of their journey. He noticed Matilda edging her horse surreptitiously closer to his and he grinned in sympathy with a silent curse for the need for an armed escort which prevented him from taking her before him on his saddle and holding her in the safety of his arms. But escort there had to be. He scanned the lengthening shadows once more and tightened his grip on his sword. Wales was a savage place; its dark glowering mountains, black forests and wild people filled him with misgiving. That Matilda should want to come here of her own free will, to join William de Braose when she did not have to, filled him with perplexed anger. ‘We should never have left Raglan,’ he said tersely. ‘Walter Bloet was right. These forests are no place for a woman without a proper escort.’ ‘I have a proper escort!’ He saw the angle of her chin rise a fraction. ‘You.’ Far away, echoing from the lonely hills, came the cry of a wolf. The horses tensed, ears flat, and Matilda felt the small hairs on the back of her neck stir with fear. ‘How much further until we get there?’ she whispered. Richard shrugged. ‘A few miles. Pray God we reach there before dark.’ He turned in his saddle, standing up in the stirrups to see his men better. ‘Make all speed,’ he shouted, then spurred his horse on towards the north. Matilda pounded after him, clinging low over her horse’s neck, determined not to drop behind, and their thundering hooves threw up clods of mud where the ice-rimmed puddles were melting slowly in the rain. The track was growing increasingly treacherous and slippery. She quickly drew level with him again, her white veil blowing for a moment across her face from beneath her fur hood. ‘Richard,’ she called, ‘wait. Slow down. This will be our last chance to talk …’ He slowed fractionally, wiping the sleet from his eyes. ‘We have had time enough to talk,’ he said abruptly. ‘You have chosen to tell me very little. I have no idea, even, why you are here, which will make it hard for me to face your no doubt irate husband with a satisfactory explanation as to why I have brought you to him.’ He saw her flush. ‘Just tell him the truth,’ she retaliated defensively. ‘Very well.’ He lashed his reins across the horse’s neck. ‘I shall tell him how I was quietly riding, minding my own business, from home in Tonbridge to Gloucester when I met his baggage of a wife, completely unescorted except for one trembling female, hell-bent on riding the breadth of England to his side in mid-winter. I shall tell him that I saw it as my chivalrous duty to escort you myself. And I shall tell him that any man who leaves a young, beautiful, newly wed bride alone in Sussex with her mother-in-law, while he travels to his furthest lands, is a mutton-headed goat.’ He managed a wry grin, ducking the wet slap of a low-hanging branch in his path. If Matilda had been his wife he would not have left her. He clenched the reins fiercely; no one would accuse Richard de Clare of lusting after another man’s wife. He admired her daring and her humour and her spirit, so unusual in a woman, no more than that. He glanced across at her and saw that she was smiling. ‘Why did you choose to come to Wales?’ he asked suddenly. She looked down at her hands. ‘Because I have nowhere else to go, but to my husband,’ she said simply. ‘With him I am a baron’s lady, mistress of a dozen castles, a woman of some importance.’ Her mouth twitched imperceptibly. ‘At Bramber with his mother I am merely another female with the sole distinction of being hated by her twice as much as anyone else. Besides,’ she added disarmingly, ‘it’s boring there.’ He stared at her in disbelief. William de Braose was a vicious ill-bred man at least twice her age, with a reputation which few men would envy. Even the thought of the brute’s hands touching her made the blood pound in Richard’s temples. ‘And you would prefer your husband’s company to being bored?’ he echoed incredulously. She raised her chin a fraction, a mannerism he was beginning to know well. ‘I did not ask your opinion of him, just as I did not ask you to escort me to him.’ ‘No, I offered.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So – I shall tell him also,’ he went on, ‘that an invitation to this Christmas banquet we hear he is to give for Prince Seisyll tomorrow is the only reward I shall ask for all my trouble. I shall wave aside the gold and jewels he is bound to press on me for my services in escorting you. I shall nobly ignore his passionate outpourings of gratitude and praise.’ Matilda made a small grimace, all too well aware of her husband’s reputation for tight-fistedness. She frowned, glancing at Richard sideways. ‘Supposing he’s furious with me for coming?’ ‘So you have considered that possibility at last!’ Richard squinted into the wind. ‘He’ll probably beat you and send you back to Bramber. It’s what you deserve.’ A racing shadow in the trees distracted him for a moment. He scanned the surrounding forest, his face set. They were passing through a clump of junipers, thick and impenetrable; the ideal hiding place for an ambush. Secretly he suspected that his men, however well-armed, would be no match for the leaping, yelling Welsh should they choose to attack. He had heard that they could sweep down, cut a throat, rip open a horse’s belly and be away again before a man even had the chance to draw his sword. He shuddered every time he thought of the dangers on the route which Matilda had so confidently decided that she and Nell could ride on their own. ‘Is that what you’d do to your wife?’ She peered at him, wiping the rain from her eyes as they trotted on again, side by side. ‘What?’ ‘Beat her and send her home.’ ‘Of course. Especially if she turned up with a good-looking fellow like me.’ He forced a smile, his eyes still narrowed as he gazed through the icy sleet. Matilda glanced at him, then changed the subject, turning in her saddle. ‘Poor Nell. She’s still keeping up.’ The girl was white-faced and rode slumped in the saddle, her eyes fixed determinedly on her shiny knuckles as they clutched the cold wet reins. She was obviously near to tears, oblivious to the half-hearted banter of the knights around her or the tired baggage animals who jostled her horse constantly with their cumbersome packs. Matilda grimaced ruefully. ‘She started this adventure so well with me, but she’s regretting every step now. Ever since we crossed out of Sussex, even with you there to protect us, she’s been scared and weepy. Seeing that poor man will be the last straw. She’ll spend the night having the vapours.’ ‘Don’t tease her.’ Richard leaned forward to slap his horse’s steaming neck. ‘She had a lot of courage to come with you. You didn’t feel so brave yourself when you saw that corpse. And don’t forget no one else would come with you at all.’ She frowned, and dug her mare indignantly with her heels, making it leap forward so that she had to cling to the saddle. ‘Most of the others were Lady Bertha’s women anyway, not mine,’ she said defensively. ‘I didn’t want them to come. I shall ask William for my own attendants as soon as we get to Abergavenny.’ Richard suppressed a smile. ‘That’s a good idea. Go and ride with Nell now. I’m going to scout ahead and check all is quiet.’ He did not give her the chance to argue, spurring his horse to a gallop. The very stillness of the forest worried him. Where were the woodsmen, the charcoal burners, the swineherds, the usual people of the woods? And if not theirs then whose were the eyes he could feel watching him from the undergrowth? Sulkily Matilda reined in and waited for Nell to draw level. The girl’s china-blue eyes were red-rimmed from the cold. ‘Are we nearly there, my lady?’ She made an effort at smiling. ‘My hands are aching so from the cold, I’m drenched through to my shift, and I’m so exhausted. I never imagined it would be so many days’ ride from Bramber.’ Her voice had taken on an unaccustomed whining note which immediately irritated her mistress. ‘We’re almost there, Nell.’ Matilda made no effort to hide her impatience. She was straining her eyes ahead up the track after Richard as the trees thinned and they found themselves crossing a windswept ridge covered in sodden bracken, flattened by the rain. There was a movement in some holly bushes on the hillside to the right of them and she peered at them trying to see through the glossy greenery. Her heart began to pound. Something was hidden there, waiting. Two deer burst out of the thicket and raced away out of sight up the hill. Richard cantered back to her side. He was smiling, but there was a drawn sword in his hand. ‘I thought we were in for trouble for a moment,’ he called. ‘Did you see? Shall I send a couple of men after them? Then we can make our own contribution to the feast.’ They plunged into the thickness of the forest again, their horses’ feet padding in the soft wet leaf-mould beneath the bare trunks of ash and beech. From time to time the cold waters of the Usk appeared in the distance on their left, pitted grey with raindrops. Sometimes the track ran straight, keeping to the line of the old Roman road, then it would wander away over the curving contours which followed, amongst the trees, the gently sloping hills. Slowly dusk was coming on them through the trees, up from the river valley, and with it came menace. The escort closed more tightly round them and, at a command from Richard, the men drew their swords. Matilda saw his face was concentrated and grim and she felt a sudden shiver of fear. They rode on in silence through the darkening forest until at last in the distance through the trees they glimpsed the tall white keep of Abergavenny Castle, swimming in the mist which had gathered over the river. Richard’s face grew more taut as he saw it. The castle meant sanctuary from the threatening forest. But it also meant facing de Braose and relinquishing to his care the beautiful child-woman who was his wife. They rode as fast as they could through the half light across the deserted fields which clustered around a small township, past the church, and up the track which led to the drawbridge and the high curtain walls of the castle. It seemed that they were expected, for the drawbridge was down and the guard stood to attention, allowing them to clatter through into the castle ward unchallenged. There, shadowed by the towering walls, darkness had already come and torches flared in high sconces, lighting the faces of the men of the garrison with a warm unreal glow. As soon as they were across it the drawbridge began to move, the cumbersome clank of the rolling chains signalling the disappearance of the cold forest as the gates closed and the castle was sealed for the night. William de Braose was waiting for them on the steps of the great hall. He was a short man of stocky build with a ruddy complexion set off by his tawny mantle, his dark gold hair and beard catching fiery lights from the torches in the wall sconces behind him. He watched the men and horses milling round for a moment then he slowly descended the steps and approached his wife, his hand outstretched to help her dismount. His face was thunderous. Swinging off his own horse Richard saw with a quick glance that for the first time Matilda looked afraid. ‘In the name of Christ and all His saints what are you doing here?’ William roared. He reached up and pulled her violently from the saddle. When standing she was several inches taller than he, a fact of which he was obviously painfully conscious. ‘I couldn’t believe it when my scouts said that you were coming through the forest. I thought I forbade you to leave Bramber till the spring.’ ‘You did, my husband.’ Matilda tried to sound contrite as she pulled the furs more closely round her in the chill wind. ‘But the weather seemed so good this winter and the roads were passable, so I thought there wouldn’t be any danger. I hoped you’d be glad to see me …’ Her voice tailed away to silence and she could feel her heart beginning to thump uncomfortably beneath her ribs. How could she have forgotten what he was like? The hostility with which he always treated her, the cruelty in which he took such pleasure, the rank smell of debauchery which hung over him? In spite of herself she shrank from him and abruptly he released her arm. He swung round on the circle of men which had formed around them, listening with open interest to the exchange. His face flushed a degree deeper in colour. ‘What are you staring at?’ he bellowed. ‘See to your horses and get out of my sight!’ Matilda turned, blindly searching for Richard amongst the men. He was standing immediately behind her. Gently he took her arm. ‘Let me help you in, Lady Matilda,’ he said quietly. ‘You must be tired.’ William swung round, his head thrust forward, his fists clenched. ‘Leave her, Lord Clare,’ he shouted. ‘My God, you’d better have a good reason for bringing my wife here.’ He swung on his heel and strode towards the flight of steps which led up to the main door of the keep, his spurs clanking on the hollow wood. Halfway up he stopped and turned, looking down on them. ‘You are not welcome here, either of you.’ His face was puce in the flickering torchlight. ‘Why did you come?’ Matilda followed him, her cloak flying open in the wind to reveal her slim tall figure in a deep-blue surcoat. ‘I came because I wanted to be with my husband,’ she said, her voice clear above the hissing of the torch beside her. ‘My Lord de Clare was only going as far as Gloucester, but he insisted that it was his duty not to let me travel on my own. We owe him much thanks, my lord.’ Her husband snorted. He turned back up the steps, walking into the great hall of the keep and throwing his cloak down on the rushes where a page ran to pick it up. ‘His duty was it?’ He stared at Richard as he followed him in, his eyes stony with suspicion. ‘Then you will perform the double duty of escorting her back to Gloucester at first light.’ Matilda gasped. ‘You’re not going to let me stay?’ ‘Indeed I am not, madam.’ ‘But … why? May we not at least stay for the feast tomorrow?’ She had followed him towards the central hearth in the crowded hall. ‘Why shouldn’t we attend? It is not my right as your wife to be there?’ ‘No, it is not your right,’ he roared. ‘And how in the name of Christ’s bones did you learn of it anyway?’ He turned on her and, catching her arms, gripped her with a sudden ferocity. ‘Who told you about it?’ ‘Walter Bloet at Raglan. Stop it, my lord, you’re hurting me!’ She struggled to free herself from his hold. ‘We stopped there to rest the horses and they told us all about it. He was very angry that you had not invited him.’ She glanced round, suddenly conscious of the busy figures all around them. Only those close to their lord and his lady seemed to realise that there was something amiss between them and had paused to eavesdrop with unashamed curiosity. The rest were too absorbed in their tasks. Smoke from the fire filtered upwards to the blackened shadows of the high vaulted ceiling. ‘Damn him for an interfering fool! If you had waited only another two days, all might have been well.’ He stood for a moment gazing at her. Then he smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Go on up.’ He turned away. ‘Go to my bedchamber and rest. You are leaving tomorrow at dawn. That is my last word on the subject.’ Matilda looked around desperately. The evening meal was obviously not long over and the servants had only just started clearing away the trestles to make room for the sleepers around the fire. Two clerks had come forward, hovering with a roll of parchment, trying to catch William’s eye, and the shoemaker, a pair of soft leather boots in his hand, was trying to attract his lord’s attention behind them. Her husband’s knights, men-at-arms, guests, servants crowded round them. On the dais at the end of the hall a boy sprawled, his back against a pillar, softly playing on a viol. Richard touched her softly on the arm. ‘Go up, my lady. You need to rest.’ She nodded, sadly. ‘What about you? Your welcome is as cold as mine.’ ‘No matter.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll take you back to Gloucester as he commands, first thing tomorrow. It is for the best.’ He escorted her towards the flight of steps at the end of the hall which William had indicated, cut into the angle of the new stone wall, and at the bottom of the stair he kissed her hand. A single rush taper burned weakly in the vaulted chamber above. A tapestry hung on one side of the shadowy room, and a fireplace was opposite. Matilda was trying to hold back her tears. ‘Go and find the women’s quarters, Nell,’ she said sharply as the girl dragged in after her, still sniffing. ‘I suppose I’ll …’ She hesitated for only a second. ‘I’ll be sleeping with Sir William in here tonight. I won’t need you.’ She shivered suddenly and bit her lip. ‘I misjudged our welcome it seems. I’m sorry.’ She watched as Nell disappeared up the stair which led to the upper storeys of the tower, then with a sigh she turned to the fire. She stood for a long time before the glowing embers, warming her hands. All round her her husband’s clothes spilled from the coffers against the walls and on a perch set in the stonework a sleepy falcon, hooded against the dim light, shifted its weight from one foot to the other and cocked its head enquiringly in her direction as it heard the sound of her step. Wearily she began to unfasten her mantle. In the hall below a Welsh boy slipped unnoticed to the kitchens and collected a cup of red Bordeaux wine from one of the casks which were mounted there. Onto a pewter platter he piled some of the pasties and cakes which were being prepared for the next day’s feasting and, dark as a shadow, he slipped up the stairs to his lord’s chamber. He was sorry for the beautiful girl in the blue dress. He too had been sworn at by de Braose and he too did not like it. She was standing by the fire, the glowing embers reflecting the red glint in her massed dark hair. Her veil lay discarded on the bed with her wet mantle, and she was fingering an ivory comb. The boy watched breathlessly from the shadows for a moment, but he must have moved, for she turned and saw him. He was surprised to see that there were no tears in her eyes. He had thought to find her crying. ‘What is it, boy?’ Her voice was very tired. He stood still, abashed suddenly at what he had dared to do, forgetting the cup and plate in his hands. ‘Have you brought me some food?’ She smiled at him kindly. Still he did not move and, seeing his ragged clothes and dark face, she wondered suddenly if he had yet learned the tongue of his Norman masters. ‘Beth yw eich enw?’ she asked carefully, groping for the words Meredith the steward at Raglan had taught her, laughing at her quick interest. It meant, what is your name? The boy came forward and shyly went down on one knee, set the wine and cakes on one of the chests beside the bed, then turned and fled back to the hall. Matilda gazed after him for a moment, perplexed, and then, throwing back her hair, she sat down on the bed and began to eat. She was ravenously hungry and she had to think. She sat for a long time over her cup of wine, as the rush burned lower. Then in the last flickering light she stood up and began to take off her clothes. The sound of talk and laughter had begun to lessen in the hall below and now an occasional snore was beginning to echo up the stairs. To her relief there was no sign of William. She slipped naked under the heavy bed coverings and, her plans quite made up for the morning, was soon asleep. 7 (#ulink_45cf5600-362d-5a7c-88eb-8b22e2062fda) On the sofa Jo stirred uneasily. Beneath her lids her eyes moved rapidly from side to side and her breathing quickened. ‘I was tired after the days of endless riding,’ she said slowly. ‘And I slept heavily. It is first light now. The room is grey and shadowy and the fire has sunk to a heap of white ash. I am sleepy … trying to remember where I am …’ There was a long pause. ‘I am not alone any more … There is someone here with me in the room …’ ‘So you are awake at last!’ William leaned over the bed and dragged the covers down to her waist. His breath stank of stale wine. ‘My beautiful wife, so eager for her husband’s company. I’m flattered, my dear, that you should have missed me so much.’ He laughed and Matilda felt herself shudder. She lay still for a moment, afraid to move, as his calloused hands gripped her breasts, then she reached down desperately for the bedcovers, trying to drag them over her once more, remembering the charm she had recited to herself in the dark; the charm which would protect her from him for months to come. She forced herself to lie still and looked up at him, her clear eyes steady on his. He immediately looked away, as always uncomfortable beneath her gaze. ‘You must not touch me, my lord.’ His mouth widened into a sneer. ‘Oh no? And why not, pray?’ He grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully until she wanted to scream, but she managed to keep her voice calm as she spoke. ‘Because I am with child. And my nurse Jeanne says if you lie with me again whilst he is in my belly he will be stillborn.’ She held her breath, watching his face. Cruelty turned to anger, then disbelief, then to superstitious fear. Abruptly he released her and he crossed himself as he straightened, moving away from the bed. ‘That witch! If she has put the evil eye on my child …’ ‘She casts no evil eye, my lord.’ Matilda sat up, drawing the fur bedcover over her breasts and clutching it tightly. ‘She wants to protect him. That is why she sent me to you, whilst I was still able to travel. Your son must be born in Wales, in your lands in the Border March. You cannot send me back to Bramber.’ She watched him, hugging herself in triumph as he stood with his back to her, staring down at the dead ash in the hearth. Then he swung round. ‘How does she know all this?’ Matilda shrugged. ‘She has the gift of seeing.’ ‘And she sees that I will have a son?’ ‘A strong, brave son, my lord.’ She saw the look of triumph on his face as he stared at her. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But you may not stay here. I shall order a litter to take you on to Brecknock. You will be safe there.’ She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes with a sigh. ‘You are kind, my lord. I will try and obey you. I just pray to the Blessed Virgin that the extra journey will not harm the child. I am so tired.’ She put her hand on her stomach dramatically. ‘Please. May I not rest a day or two more? For your son’s sake?’ She glanced up through her eyelashes to see what reaction her words provoked. William seemed nonplussed. He strode back and forth across the room a couple of times kicking viciously at the hay which was strewn on the floor, obviously struggling with himself. Seeing his preoccupation she felt a wave of something which was almost affection for this stocky broad-shouldered man, still almost a stranger to her. He looked so uncertain. ‘Are you pleased, William?’ she asked after a moment. ‘About the baby?’ ‘Of course I’m pleased.’ His voice was gruff. ‘But I don’t want you here. Not today.’ ‘But why not? I shan’t be in your way, I promise.’ She raised herself on her elbow, her hair cascading about her bare shoulders, dark auburn in the pale sunlight. ‘You won’t even know I’m here, and in a day or two when I’m rested I shall go to Brecknock if you think that’s really best.’ William straightened his shoulders, frowning reluctantly. ‘If I allow you to stay,’ he blustered, ‘and I’m only saying if, you would have to promise on no account to leave this room. Not for any reason. It would not be safe. You would have to give me your oath.’ ‘I promise, my lord.’ She crossed her fingers beneath the covers. ‘You do understand me. You are not to move from here all day, no matter what happens.’ He glared down at her. ‘In fact you would have to stay in bed. The feast is not for you. It’s no ordinary Christmas junketing but a gathering of local Welsh princes and dignitaries for political discussions. I have to read them an ordnance from King Henry. That’s why the Bloets weren’t asked. It’s no place for them, and it’s no place for women. Do you understand?’ He turned away from her and strode over to the perch where his falcon sat. Picking up the gauntlet which lay on the coffer nearby, he pulled it over his knuckles. Gently he freed the bird’s jesses and eased it onto his fist, whispering affectionately as he slipped the hood from its head. The creature looked at him with baleful eyes. ‘If you are going to be here I’ll take this beauty back to the mews,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Remember, you are not to leave that bed. If you try, I shall have you locked up.’ He turned on his heel sharply and left the room. Matilda waited until his footsteps had died away. Then she slipped triumphantly from the bed and pulled a fur-lined dressing-robe around her shoulders. Running to the high window, she peered out, feeling the cold wind lift her hair, listening to the sounds of life which were beginning to stir in the bailey below. It was grey morning. The watery sun above the hills to the east was so shrouded in mist and cloud that it give off as little heat as the waning moon. Shivering a little, she glanced round the room. It did not look so comfortable in the cold light but she hugged herself excitedly. Her plan had worked. She was free of Bertha, was mistress of her own large household, or would be very soon, and had ensured that she was free of her husband’s loathsome attentions until her baby was born. She gave a wistful smile. She had never felt better nor stronger than in the last two months, and she knew there was no risk. She was strong and healthy and had had no premonitions for the baby, nor for herself. She frowned suddenly as she gazed from the window, for premonitions she had certainly had, strange formless terrors which had plagued her for the last three nights in her dreams. She shrugged away the thought. Whatever they meant, she was not going to let them spoil today’s excitement. She wondered where Richard was this morning, then abruptly she put him out of her mind. To think about Richard de Clare was dangerous. She must forget him and remember that she was another man’s wife. She dragged her thoughts back to the day’s feasting. She had no intention of keeping her promise to William and staying in bed. She meant to be there at his side. There were about five hours to wait until it began, she judged, squinting up at the sun. Many of the guests were probably already at the castle or camped round its walls, others would be riding down from the Welsh hills and from Prince Seisyll’s court, wherever it was, with their attendants and their bards and their entertainers. She felt a tremor of excitement. At the sound of a step on the stairs she turned from the draughty window and ran back to the bed, shivering. A small woman entered, her hair grey beneath a large white veil. She was bearing a tray and she smiled at Matilda a little shyly. ‘Good morning, my lady. I’ve brought you some milk and some bread.’ ‘Milk!’ Matilda was disgusted. ‘I never drink milk. I’d much rather have wine.’ ‘Milk is better for you, madam.’ The older woman’s voice with the gentle lilt of the hills was surprisingly firm. ‘You try it and see, why don’t you?’ Matilda pulled herself up on the pillows and allowed the woman to feed her broken pieces of the fine wastel bread. She found she was very hungry. ‘Did I see you in the hall last night?’ she asked between mouthfuls. The woman smiled, showing rotten teeth. ‘No, madam, I was in the kitchens most of yesterday, helping to prepare for the feasting.’ Matilda sat up, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘Do you know how many people are coming? Was there much food being brought in? Are the guests already arriving?’ Laughing, the woman spread her strong work-worn hands. Her nails were badly broken. ‘Oh enough for two armies, madam, at least. They seem to have been at work for days, ever since Sir William even hinted at a feast. But yesterday and the day before, I have been helping too with a lot of the women, to see that all is ready in time.’ Matilda lay back, stretching luxuriously beneath the rugs. ‘I wish I were coming,’ she commented cautiously. ‘Sir William feels that I should rest because of my condition, and not attend.’ She glanced at the other woman, and saw with satisfaction that she looked astonished. ‘Surely you’ll feel better by then, madam, if you rest now.’ The woman smiled kindly and twitched one of the coverlets straight. ‘It would never do to miss such a fine occasion as this one, indeed.’ Matilda smiled. ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking. I feel much better already.’ She noticed that the plate was empty and smiled. It was no use pretending that she felt too ill to eat. She tried to compose her face. ‘Where’s Nell, the lady I brought with me?’ she demanded, suddenly remembering. ‘She should have come to look after me. I want her to arrange some maids. I brought no other attendants.’ The woman concealed a smile. ‘Your lady, madam, is talking to Sybella, the constable’s wife. I felt you needed food first, attendants later. I’m thinking you’d have waited all day indeed if it had been up to those two.’ Without comment she took the plate and cup and put them aside, bending to pick up the mantle which Matilda had left trailing from the end of the bed. ‘Tell me your name.’ Matilda was watching closely out of half-shut eyes. ‘Megan, madam. My husband is one of Sir William’s stewards.’ ‘Well, Megan, I want to see that my clothes chests are brought up here and then later, if I do feel better, will you help me to dress for the feast?’ ‘Of course I will, gladly indeed.’ Megan’s face lit up with pleasure. ‘And listen,’ Matilda raised herself on an elbow and put her finger to her lips. ‘We won’t let Sir William know that I might be coming. I don’t want him to forbid me, thinking I am more tired than I am.’ She lay back on her pillows again after Megan had gone, well pleased with the little Welshwoman’s conspiratorial smile of understanding. Below in the courtyard the morning sounds were reaching a crescendo of excitement and down the winding stairs to the hall she could hear a hubbub of shouting and laughter and the crashing of the boards onto the trestles as the tables were set up. It was hard to lie idle with so much going on about her but she was content to rest for the moment. The time to get up would come later. She watched as a boy staggered in with a basket of logs and proceeded to light a new fire, and then a man humped in her boxes of clothes. There was still no sign of Nell, but Megan was close on his heels. Throwing back the lids under Matilda’s instructions she began to pull out the gowns and surcoats, crying out with delight as she fingered the scarlets and greens of silks, fine linens and soft-dyed wools, laying them on the bed one by one. Matilda looked at each garment critically, considering which she should wear. Ever since she had heard about the feast she had thought about the gold-embroidered surcoat brought to her from London by William for her name day. It had come from the east and smelled of sandalwood and allspice. ‘Oh my lady, you must wear this.’ Megan held up her green velvet gown trimmed with silver. ‘This is perfect for you. It is beautiful, so it is.’ Matilda took it from her and rubbed her face in the soft stuff. ‘William thinks that green is unlucky,’ she said wistfully. She loved that dress and she knew it suited her colouring. It would go well below the gold. Nell appeared at last, fully recovered from the journey and in high spirits, as Megan was hanging up the last of the gowns in the garderobe. She had brought a message. ‘From one of Lord Clare’s knights,’ she whispered, full of importance. ‘He wants to see you in the solar, now, whilst Sir William is out in the mews with his hawks.’ She helped Megan dress Matilda hastily in a blue wool gown and wrapped her in a thick mantle against the draughts. Then, her finger to her lips, she led the way out of the bedchamber. Richard was waiting in the deep window embrasure, half-hidden behind a screen. He was dressed for travelling. ‘Richard?’ Matilda stared at him as Nell withdrew. ‘I am leaving. Your husband demands it.’ He put out his hand towards her, then let it fall. He shrugged. ‘My men are waiting. I return to Gloucester.’ ‘No,’ she whispered in anguish. ‘I thought he would change his mind and let you stay … I thought you would be here …’ He reached out and touched her hand. ‘This is your household, lady,’ he said sadly. ‘This is where you wished to be, at your husband’s side. There is no place for me here. Better I go now.’ ‘But I thought it would be different – I thought it would be all right.’ She looked away from him, her bravery and excitement forgotten. ‘I had forgotten what he is like.’ She put her hands to her face trying not to cry. ‘And I have to stay with him for the rest of my life!’ Richard felt the sweat start on the palms of his hands. ‘You are his wife,’ he said harshly. ‘In God’s eyes you belong to him.’ 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, funnelling down the valley, turning the melted slush back to crisp whiteness. It rattled the shutters and screens and stirred the hay which covered the floors, releasing the smell of stale woodruff, tossing the fire-smoke 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 stair, 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 round wildly, looking for somewhere to hide, not wanting him to see her preparations. ‘Quick, madam.’ Megan threw a warm dressing-gown round 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 amongst the hanging clothes just inside the doorway behind the leather curtain, shivering in the draught 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 towards 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, chivalrous, with honour better than many at King Henry’s court.’ The colour 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 jewellery 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 which 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 round 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 chatelaine 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 towards the cooler upper floors of the tower. The noise was deafening. Cautiously she edged a step or two further and peered round 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 jewelled 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 recognise 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 realised 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 recognised. 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 neighbours on the Welsh March, but as Walter Bloet had complained, none of them was present. William was scrutinising 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 which 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 ordnance 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 table-cloth. 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 round 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. 8 (#ulink_1c503c4c-085e-5d9f-acee-f8fe37c0580d) 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 realised 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 which 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 which tore painfully at her ribs and caught in her throat, threatening to choke her and, once, the sob of agony which escaped her as she stumbled on her hem and fell heavily, flinging out her hands to save herself with a jar which 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. 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. Some time 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 which 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 round. ‘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 honour!’ The gentle face had twisted with hatred. ‘I must stop them.’ 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 which 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 centre of the floor and looked round. 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 draught. 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 towards the lowered drawbridge. They all appeared to be waiting for something – or someone. Nowhere was there a sign of the dark twisted face which 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 enquiring faces turned towards 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 head-dress whilst 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 travelled 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 which 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 towards 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 she 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 times before she realised 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 which 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 spectacles 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. 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 recognised 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-pane 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 towards 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. She sipped the coffee slowly, then she looked up, forcing a smile. ‘So, tell me what you thought. How did I do as a subject?’ Bennet had taken his own cup back to his chair and Sarah, sitting at the side-table, her own hands still shaking, turned to look at him. She had recognised his barely suppressed excitement. He chewed his upper lip for a moment. ‘I think I can say in all honesty that you are the best subject I have ever worked with,’ he said at last. ‘As I told you, people’s sensitivities vary enormously and it often takes several sessions before a deep enough trance is reached for any meaningful contact to be made with another personality.’ He took a gulp of coffee. ‘But this Matilda. She was so clear, so vivid.’ He stood up again. ‘And so powerful. Do you realise I lost control of you? That has never happened to me before in all my years of experience. I tried to break the trance and I couldn’t!’ Jo stared at him. ‘I thought I had read that that couldn’t happen.’ He shrugged. ‘It was only temporary. There was nothing to be afraid of. But it was fascinating! Do you feel ready to discuss what you remember now? He reached down to where a pile of notebooks lay beside his chair and selected one. Jo frowned. Then slowly she shook her head, concentrating all her attention on the steaming black liquid in her cup, still fighting the unfamiliar emotions which overwhelmed her. ‘In a minute. I’m sorry, Dr Bennet, but I feel rather odd.’ He was watching her carefully. With a glance at Sarah he went over to collect the coffee pot from the desk in front of her and poured some more into Jo’s cup. ‘I doubt if you have ever witnessed a massacre before, my dear,’ he said dryly. ‘It would be surprising if you were not upset.’ ‘Upset! But I feel as though I had really lived through it, for God’s sake!’ ‘You have. For you, every part of that experience was real.’ ‘And not only for you,’ Sarah added softly behind him. ‘It was an hallucination, some sort of dream.’ Slowly Jo put down her cup. ‘You must have put it all into my head. You are not trying to tell me that I am a reincarnation of that woman –’ ‘I am not trying to tell you anything,’ said Bennet with a sigh. ‘We are only just beginning to grope our way towards an explanation for this kind of phenomenon. All we can do is record what happens with meticulous accuracy and consider the various hypotheses. I happen to believe in reincarnation, but, as you say, it may well be some kind of dream sequence, and it may come from nowhere but your own unconscious. The interest lies in trying to verify whether or not the events you appeared to live through really happened, and in recording every detail which you can remember.’ He took his glasses off again with a weary smile. ‘There is one thing I can assure you of, though. I did not put the idea into your head, telepathically or verbally. The tapes will bear me out on the latter and also my great ignorance of Welsh history. We did not study Wales, I regret to say, in Vienna before the war.’ He smiled. ‘We won’t discuss anything further now, though, if you’d rather not. You are tired and we both need to evaluate what has occurred. But whatever the explanation, the fact remains that you are an amazingly responsive subject. You reached the deepest levels of trance and next time –’ ‘Next time?’ Jo interrupted him. ‘Oh no, not again. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t take it. I have enough material here to write my article and that is all I want.’ For a moment he stared at her in dismay. Then he shrugged and resumed his seat. ‘Of course, I cannot compel you to return, but I do most ardently hope you will. Not only for your researches, but to help me with mine. This Matilda, she seems a remarkable girl. I should like to know more about her.’ Jo hesitated. Then she stood up. ‘No, I’m sorry. It is interesting, I agree, but I don’t like it. I was so much in your power, in your control. You could be levitating me next, or making me go stiff as a board, whatever you call it, for all I know.’ She shuddered. ‘Cataleptic.’ He smiled again. ‘You were in a far deeper state of trance than is needed to induce catalepsis, my dear.’ She had begun collecting her notebook from the table but at his words she swung to face him. ‘You mean you could have done that to me?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘You didn’t, though.’ ‘No, although it is still used by some practitioners as a method of gauging the depth of trance reached. I prefer to use a pin.’ His eyes twinkled behind his glasses. ‘A pin?’ ‘Oh yes. You’ll hear it on the tape. I stuck a pin into the palm of your hand. Had you not been in a sufficiently deep trance you would have shrieked at me, and bled of course.’ Jo stared at both her hands in disbelief. ‘And I did neither?’ ‘You did neither.’ She shivered. ‘It’s horrible. You could end up having complete domination over people without them ever knowing it!’ Carl looked offended. ‘My dear, we have a professional code, I assure you, like all doctors, and, as I said, always a chaperone.’ ‘In case you get your evil way with a woman patient?’ The strain on Jo’s face lessened as she smiled at last. ‘Even hypnotherapists are human!’ he responded. ‘And as such are liable to be hurt by what I write about them in the magazine?’ Serious again, Jo swung her shoulder bag onto her arm. She picked up her tape recorder and stood up, shocked to find her knees were still trembling. Bennet made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. ‘I will admit I have read some of your work. I believe it to be well researched and objective. I can ask for no more from you in my case.’ ‘Even though I’m not converted to your theories of reincarnation?’ ‘All I ask is an open mind.’ He went to the door ahead of her. ‘Are you sure you feel well enough to go? You wouldn’t like to rest a while longer?’ She shook her head, suddenly anxious to be outside in the fresh air. ‘Then I will say goodbye. But even if you feel you must leave us now, I beg you to consider returning for another session. It might help to clarify matters for both of us.’ She shook her head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’ ‘Well then, can I ask you to note down every detail of what you remember?’ he begged. ‘While it is still fresh in your mind. I think you will find your memory clear and complete. Far, far more than you described to me. All kinds of details which you did not mention at the time but which you will remember later. You’ll do it anyway for your article, I’m sure.’ He was standing in front of the door, barring the way. ‘And you’ll check the history books to see if you can find out whether Matilda existed?’ She gave a tight smile. ‘I will. I’m going to check everything meticulously. That I promise you.’ ‘And you will tell me if you find anything? Anything at all?’ He took her hand and gripped it firmly. ‘Even if she is the heroine of a novel you read last year.’ He grinned. ‘You don’t believe that?’ He shook his head. ‘No, but I think you may. Perhaps you would come back, just to discuss what you have discovered,’ he went on hopefully as he opened the door for her at last. ‘Will you do that?’ ‘I’ll certainly send you a copy of the article before it goes to press.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll look forward to that. But remember, you know where I am if you need me.’ He watched as she walked along the carpeted hallway towards the stairs, then he closed the door and leaned against it. Sarah was collecting the cups. ‘Do you think she will come back?’ she said over her shoulder. She twitched the rug on the sofa straight and selected a new blank tape for the machine. Bennet had not moved from the door. ‘That girl is the best subject I’ve ever come across,’ he said slowly. Sarah moved, the tray in her hand, towards the kitchen. ‘And yet you were dreading this appointment.’ He nodded. ‘Pete Leveson had told me how anti she was. She had made up her mind before she ever met me that I was a charlatan.’ He chuckled. ‘But it is the strong-willed, if they make up their minds to surrender to hypnosis, who are by far the best subjects. This one was amazing. The way she took it over. I couldn’t reach her, Sarah! I could not reach her! She was out of my control.’ ‘It was frightening,’ Sarah said vehemently. ‘I wouldn’t have liked to be in her shoes. I bet she has nightmares about it. Did you notice? She wasn’t half so confident and sure of herself afterwards.’ He had begun to pace the carpet restlessly. ‘I have to get her back here. It is imperative that we try it again.’ Sarah glanced at him. ‘Weren’t you afraid, Carl? Just for a moment?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘I didn’t think it could happen. But it did. And that is why it is so important. She’ll come, though. She’ll think about it and she’ll come back.’ He smiled at Sarah vaguely, taking off his spectacles once more and squinting through them at some imaginary speck on the lens. ‘If she’s half the journalist I think she is, she’ll come back.’ 9 (#ulink_c3819bd1-b252-5249-b3e7-743982742780) As the cab drew away from the kerb Jo settled back on the broad slippery seat and closed her eyes against the glare of the sunlight reflected in the spray thrown up from the road by the traffic. Then she opened them again and looked at her watch. It was barely five. She had lived through twenty-four hours of fear and horror and it was barely five o’clock. In front of her the folding seats blurred; above them the tariff card in the window floated disembodied for a moment. Her hands were shaking. With a squeal of brakes the taxi stopped at the traffic lights and her bag shot off the seat onto the floor. As she bent to retrieve it she found herself wincing with pain. Her fingertips felt bruised and torn and yet, when she examined them, they were unharmed. She frowned, remembering the way she had clung to the stone arch to stop herself from fainting as she watched the slaughter of William’s guests, and she swallowed hard. She put her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket as the taxi cut expertly through the traffic towards Kensington, the driver thankfully taciturn, the glass slide of his window tightly closed, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She felt strangely disorientated, half her mind still clinging to the dream, alienated from the roar of the rush hour around her. It was as if this were the unreal world and that other cold past the place where she still belonged. Her flat was cool and shadowy, scented by some pinks in a bowl by the bookcase. She threw open the tall balcony windows and stood for a moment looking out at the trees in the square. Another shower was on its way, the heavy cloud throwing racing shadows over the rooftops on the far side of the gardens. She turned towards the kitchen. Collecting a glass of apple juice from the carton in the fridge, she carried it along to the bathroom, set it carefully down on the edge of the bath and turned on the shower. Stepping out of her clothes, she stood beneath the tepid water, letting it cascade down onto her upturned face, running it through her aching fingers. She stood there a long time, not allowing herself to think, just feeling the clean stream of the water wash over her. Soon she would slip on her cool cotton bathrobe, sit down at her desk and write up her notes, just as she always did after an interview, whilst it was still absolutely fresh in her mind. Except that this time she had very few notes, and instead the small tape recorder which was waiting for her now on the chair just inside the front door. Slowly she towelled her hair dry, then, sipping from her glass, she wandered back into the living room. She ran her fingers across the buttons of the machine, but she did not switch it on. Instead she sat down and stared blankly at the carpet. In the top drawer of her desk was the first rough typescript of her article. She could remember clearly the introduction she had drafted: Would you like to discover that in a previous life you had been a queen or an emperor; that, just as you had always suspected, you are not quite of this mundane world; that in your past there are secrets, glamour and adventure, just waiting to be remembered? Of course you would. Hypnotists say that they can reveal this past to you by their regression techniques. But just how genuine are their claims? Joanna Clifford investigates … Jo got up restlessly. Joanna Clifford investigates, and ends up getting her fingers burned, she thought ruefully. On medieval stone. She examined her nails again. They still felt raw and torn, but nowhere could she see any sign of damage; even the varnish was unchipped. She had a vivid recollection suddenly of the small blue-painted office in Edinburgh. Her hands had been injured then too. She frowned, remembering with a shiver the streaks of blood on the rush matting. ‘Oh Christ!’ She fought back a sudden wave of nausea. Had Cohen hypnotised her after all? Had she seen that bloody massacre before, in his office? Was that what Sam had wanted to tell her? She rubbed her hands on the front of her bathrobe and looked at them hard. Then, taking a deep breath, she went over and picked up the tape recorder, setting it on the low coffee table. Kneeling on the carpet she pressed the ‘rewind’ button and listened to the whine of the spinning tape. She did not wait for the whole reel. Halfway through she stopped it. Somewhere in the flat there must be some cigarettes. Nick might have left some lying about – perhaps if she went to look. But she did not move. Outside she could hear the highpitched giggle of a child playing in the garden square, and in the distance the constant hum of the traffic in Gloucester Road. They were twentieth-century sounds. Whatever had happened this afternoon had no more relevance than a dream, or a TV movie watched on a wet Saturday afternoon with the curtains drawn against the rain. So why was she afraid to hear the tape? She pressed the ‘play’ button and closed her eyes as Carl Bennet’s voice filled the room, made thin and tinny by the small machine. ‘– and now, tell me about your dress. What colour is it?’ Then came her own voice, mumbling, a little hesitant. ‘My best surcoat, for the feast. It is scarlet – samite – trimmed with gold thread and, below, its gown of green and silver, and I shall wear my pelisson lined with squirrel fur if Nell can find it. My boxes are not all unpacked.’ Her voice had dropped until it was so quiet it could hardly be heard. ‘And now you are going down to the great hall. Are you not afraid your husband will be angry?’ Bennet asked. There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the hiss of the tape. ‘A little,’ she replied at last. ‘But he will do nothing. He will not want people to think his wife does not obey him and he will not dare touch me because of the child.’ ‘Are you going downstairs now? Describe it to me.’ Bennet sounded as if he was talking to a child of five, his voice patient and clearly enunciated. ‘The stairs are dark and cold. There ought to be a light. The wind must have blown it out. But I can hear them laughing now below in the hall.’ She was speaking in a strangely disjointed fashion. I sound drunk, Jo realised suddenly and smiled grimly as she listened. The voice went on, describing the scene, pausing now and then for what seemed interminable silences before resuming unprompted. Closing her eyes, Jo found she could see it all so clearly. A nerve began to leap in her throat. She did not have to hear what came next, to listen again to the screams and the agonising crash of metal. She drew up her knees and hugged them as her voice began to speak more quickly. ‘William is reading the letter now and the prince is listening to him. But he is angry. He is interrupting. They are going to quarrel. William is looking down at him and putting down the parchment. He is raising his dagger. He is going to … Oh no, no NO!’ Her voice rose into a shriek. Jo found she was shaking. She wanted to press her hands against her ears to cut out the sound of the anguished screaming on the tape, but she forced herself to go on listening as a second voice broke in. It was Sarah and she sounded frightened. ‘For God’s sake, Carl, bring her out of it! What are you waiting for?’ ‘Listen to me, Jo. Listen!’ Bennet tried to cut in, his patient quiet voice taut. ‘Lady Matilda, can you hear me?’ He was shouting now. ‘Listen to me. I am going to count to three. And you are going to wake up. Listen to me …’ But her own voice, or the voice of that other woman speaking through her, ran on and on, sweeping his aside, not hearing his attempts to interrupt. Jo was breathing heavily, a pulse drumming in her forehead. She could hear all three of them now. Sarah sobbing, ‘Carl, stop her, stop her,’ Bennet repeating her name over and over again – both names – and above them her own hysterical voice running on out of control, describing the bloodshed and terror she was watching. Then abruptly there was silence, save for the sound of panting, she was not sure whose. Jo heard a sharp rattle as something was knocked over, and Bennet’s voice very close now to the microphone. ‘Let me touch her face. Quickly! Perhaps with my fingers, like so. Matilda? Can you hear me? I want you to hear me. I am going to count to three and then you will wake up. One, two, three.’ There was a long silence, then Sarah cried, ‘You’ve lost her, Carl. For God’s sake, you’ve lost her.’ Bennet was talking softly, reassuringly again, but Jo could hear the undertones of fear in his voice. ‘Matilda, can you hear me? I want you to answer me. Matilda? You must listen. You are Jo Clifford and soon you will wake up back in my consulting room in London. Can you hear me, my dear? I want you to forget about Matilda.’ There was a long silence, then Sarah whispered, very near the microphone. ‘What do we do?’ Bennet sounded exhausted. ‘There is nothing we can do. Let her sleep. She will wake by herself in the end.’ Jo started with shock. She distinctly remembered hearing him say that. His voice had reached her, lying half awake in the shadowy bedchamber at Abergavenny, but she – or Matilda – had pulled back, rejecting his call, and she had fallen once more into unconsciousness. She shivered at the memory. The sharp clink of glass on glass came over the machine and she found herself once more giving a rueful smile. So he had to have a drink at that point, as, locked in silence where he could not follow her, she had woken in the past and begun her search of the deserted windswept castle. For several minutes more the tape ran quiet, then Sarah’s voice rang out excitedly, ‘Carl, I think she’s waking up. Her eyelids are flickering.’ ‘Jo? Jo?’ Bennet was back by the microphone in a second. Jo heard her own voice moaning softly, then at last came a husky, ‘There’s someone there. Who is it?’ ‘We’re reaching her now.’ Bennet’s murmur was full of relief. ‘Jo? Can you hear me? Matilda? My lady?’ There was a hiss on the tape and Jo strained forward to hear what followed. But there was nothing more. With a sharp click it switched itself off, the reel finished. She leaned back against the legs of the chair. She was trembling all over and her hands were slippery with sweat. She rubbed them on her bathrobe. Strange that she had expected to hear it all again – the sound effects, the screams, the grunts, the clash of swords. But of course to the onlooker, as to the microphone, it was all reported, like hearing someone else’s commentary on what they could see down a telescope. Only to her was it completely real. The others had been merely eavesdroppers on her dream. Slowly she put her head in her hands and was aware suddenly that there were tears on her cheeks. At his office in Berkeley Street Nick was sitting with his feet on his desk, staring into space, when Jim Greerson walked in. ‘Come on, Nick, old son. I’m packing it in for the day. Time for a jar?’ He sat down on the edge of Nick’s desk, a stout, red-faced balding young man, his face alive with sympathy. ‘Is it the fair sex again? You look a bit frayed!’ Nick laughed ruefully. ‘I’ve been trying to reach Jo on the phone. About this.’ He picked up a folded newspaper and threw it down on the desk in front of Jim. ‘It must have hurt her so much.’ Jim glanced down. ‘I saw it. Pretty bitchy, that new bird of yours. Poor Jo. I always liked her.’ Nick glanced at him sharply. Then he stood up. ‘I think I’ll look in on her on the way back. Just to make sure she’s OK. I’ll have that drink tomorrow.’ ‘I thought she told you to get out of her life, Nick.’ Nick grinned, picking up his jacket. ‘She did. Repeatedly.’ He swung out of the office and ran down the stairs to the street. The skies had cleared after the storm, but the gutters still ran with rain as he sprinted towards the car park. Jo’s door was on the latch. He pushed it open with a frown. It was unlike her to be careless. ‘Jo? Where are you?’ he called. He walked through to the living room and glanced in. She was sitting on the floor, her face white and strained, her hair still damp from the shower. He saw at once that she had been crying. She looked at him blankly. ‘What is it? Are you all right?’ He flung down the jacket he had been carrying slung over his shoulder and was beside her in two strides. Crouching, he put his arms around her. ‘You look terrible, love. Nothing is worth getting that worked up about. Ignore the damned article. It doesn’t matter. No one cares a rap what it said.’ He took her hand in his. ‘You’re like ice! For God’s sake, Jo. What have you been doing?’ She looked up at him at last, pushing him away from her. ‘Pour me a large drink, Nick, will you?’ He gave her a long, searching look. Then he stood up. He found the Scotch and two glasses in the kitchen. ‘It’s not like you to fold, Jo,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘You’re a fighter, remember?’ He brought the drinks through and handed her one. ‘It’s Tim’s fault. He was supposed to warn you last night what might happen.’ She took a deep gulp from her glass and put it on the table. ‘What are you talking about?’ Her voice was slightly hoarse. ‘The paragraph in the Mail. What did you think I was talking about?’ She shook her head wearily. ‘I haven’t seen any papers today. I was here all morning, and then this afternoon I went … out.’ She fumbled with the glass again, lifting it with a shaking hand, concentrating with an effort. ‘They printed it, did they? The great slanging match between your past and present loves. That must have done a bit for your ego.’ With a faint smile she put out her hand. ‘Show me what it said.’ ‘I didn’t bring it.’ He sat down on the edge of the coffee table. ‘If you are not upset about that, Jo, then what’s happened?’ ‘I went to see a hypnotherapist.’ ‘You what?’ Nick stood up abruptly. ‘The man you saw with Tim Heacham, you mean? You saw him again?’ She shook her head slowly. ‘No. Someone else. This afternoon.’ He walked across to the French windows and stared out over the square. ‘What happened?’ She did not answer for a moment and he swung back to face her. ‘I warned you, Jo. I told you not to get involved. Why in God’s name did you do it? Why couldn’t you listen? God knows, you promised.’ ‘I promised you nothing, Nick.’ Wearily she pulled herself to her feet. ‘You must have known I’d go. How could I write that article unless I’d been to a session myself?’ She threw herself onto the sofa and put her bare feet up onto the coffee table in front of her. ‘You did go to a session and you watched someone else being regressed. Tim told me.’ ‘Well, it wasn’t enough. Have you got a cigarette, Nick?’ ‘Oh great! Now you’re smoking again as well!’ Nick’s voice was icily controlled. ‘You’re a fool, Jo. I told you it was madness to mess about with this. Damn it, isn’t that the very thing you want to prove in your article?’ ‘A cigarette, Nick. Please.’ He picked up his coat and rummaged through the pockets. ‘Here.’ He threw a packet of Consulate into her lap. ‘I’ve always credited you with a lot of sense, Jo, and I warned you. Hypnotism is not something to undergo lightly. It’s dangerous. There is no knowing what might happen.’ ‘We’ve been through this before, Nick,’ she retorted furiously. ‘I’ve got a job to do and I do it. Without interference from you or anyone else.’ She was fumbling with the cellophane on the pack. ‘And I’m just here to pick up the pieces, I suppose?’ Nick said, his voice rising. ‘And don’t tell me you’re not in pieces. I’ve never seen you upset like this. And scared. What have you done to your hand?’ He was watching her efforts with the cigarettes. ‘Nothing.’ Clenching her teeth she ripped the packet open and shook one out. ‘Nothing?’ he repeated. He gave her another close look. Then he relented. ‘Go on, you’d better tell me what happened.’ He found a matchbox and struck one for her, steadying her hand between his own. ‘You let him hypnotise you, I presume?’ She nodded, drawing on the cigarette, watching in silence as the cellophane she had thrown down onto the table slowly unfolded itself. The sound of it set her teeth on edge. ‘You know, it isn’t a fraud,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t explain it, but whatever it was, it came from me, not from him.’ She balanced the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and picked up her glass. ‘It was so real. So frightening. Like a nightmare, but I wasn’t asleep.’ Nick frowned. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘Jo, I’m going to phone Judy – I’ll tell her I can’t make it this evening.’ He paused waiting for her to argue, but she said nothing. She lay back limply, sipping her drink as he dialled, watching him, her eyes vague, as, one-handed, he slipped his tie over his head, and unbuttoned his shirt. The whisky was beginning to warm her. For the first time in what seemed like hours she had stopped shaking. Nick was brief to the point of curtness on the phone then he put the receiver down and came back to sit beside her. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s hear it all from the beginning.’ Leaning forward he stubbed out her abandoned cigarette. She did not protest. ‘I take it you’ve got it all on tape?’ He nodded towards the machine. ‘All but the last few minutes.’ ‘Do you want me to hear it?’ She nodded. ‘The other side first. You’ll have to wind it back.’ She watched as he removed the cassette and turned it over, then she stood up. ‘I’ll go and get some clothes on while you listen.’ Nick glanced at her. ‘Don’t you want to hear it again?’ ‘I did. Just before you came home,’ she said quietly. ‘We’ll talk when you’ve heard it.’ She carried her glass through to the bedroom and closed the door. Then she walked across to the mirror and stood staring into it. Her eyes were strained, but clear. There was nothing in her face to show what had happened. She looked exactly the same as usual. She realised suddenly that she was listening intently, afraid that the sound of voices would reach her from the front of the flat, but the door was thick and Nick must have turned down the volume. The room was completely silent. She went to open the blind which she had drawn earlier that day against the sun, and looked down into the cobbled mews which lay behind the house. On a flat roof nearby someone had put out rows of window-boxes. Petunias, brilliant jewelled colours, their faces wet with raindrops, blazed against the grey London stone. Overhead, a jet flew soundlessly in towards Heathrow, the wind currents carrying the roar of its engine away. It all looked so familiar and comforting, so why did she find the silence unnerving? Was it that at the back of her mind she kept remembering the white windswept silence of the Welsh hills? She closed her eyes and at once she felt it, pressing in around her, the vast desolate spaces beneath their blanket of snow and again she felt the ache of the cold in her feet. Shivering, she lay down on the bed and pulled the quilt over her. Then she waited. It was a long time before Nick appeared. She lay watching him quietly as he walked across the carpet and sat on the bed beside her. He looked grim. ‘How much of that do you remember?’ he asked at last. ‘All of it.’ ‘And you weren’t fooling?’ She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Did I sound as if I were fooling? Did he?’ ‘All right, I’m sorry. I had to be sure. Do you want to talk about it now?’ ‘I don’t know.’ She hugged her bathrobe around her. ‘Nick, this is crazy. I’m a journalist. I’m on a job. A routine, ordinary sort of job. I’m going about my research in the way I always do, methodically, and I am not allowing myself to become involved in any personal way. Part of me can see the whole thing objectively. But another part.’ She hesitated. ‘I was sure that it was all some kind of a trick. But it was so real, so very real. I was a child again, Nick. Arrogant, uncertain, overwhelmed and so proud of the fact that I was pregnant, because it made me a woman in my own right and the equal of William’s mother! And I was going to be the mother of that bore’s son!’ She put her face in her hands. ‘That is what women have felt for thousands of years, Nick. Proud to be the vehicle for men’s kids. And I felt it! Me!’ She gave an unhappy laugh. Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘Some women are still proud of that particular role, Jo. They’re not all rabid feminists, thank God!’ His voice was unusually gentle. ‘You remember all her feelings then? Even things you don’t mention out loud?’ Jo frowned. ‘I don’t know. I think so … I’m not sure. I remember that, though. Hugging myself in triumph because I carried his child – and because I had thought of a way to keep him from molesting me. He must have been a bastard in bed.’ Her voice shook. ‘The poor bloody cow!’ She picked up a pot of face cream from the table and turned it over and over in her hands without seeing it. ‘She probably had a girl in the end, not the precious son she kept on about, or died in childbirth or something. Oh God, Nick … It was me. I could feel it all, hear it, see it, smell it. Even taste the food that boy brought me. The wine was thin and sour – like nothing I’ve ever drunk, and the bread was coarse and gritty, with some strong flavour. It didn’t seem odd at the time, but I can’t place it at all, and I could swear I’ve still got bits of it stuck between my teeth.’ Nick smiled, but she went on. ‘It was all so vivid. Almost too real. Like being on some kind of a “trip”.’ ‘That follows,’ Nick said slowly. ‘You obviously have had some kind of vivid hallucination. But that is all it was, Jo. You must believe that. The question is, where did it come from? Where have all the stories come from that people have experienced under this kind of hypnosis? I suppose that is the basis of your article.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you think this massacre really did happen?’ She shrugged. ‘I gave a very clear date, didn’t I? Twenty years of King Henry. There are eight of them to choose from!’ She smiled. ‘And Abergavenny of course. I’ve never been there, but I know it’s somewhere in Wales.’ ‘South Wales,’ he put in. ‘I went there once, as a child, but I don’t remember there being a castle.’ ‘Oh Nick! It’s all quite mad! And it was nothing like the experience Mrs Potter had when I watched her being hypnotised by Bill Walton. She was – so vague – so blurred compared with me.’ She pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘What did it feel like, being hypnotised?’ he asked curiously. She sighed. ‘That’s the stupid thing. I’m not sure. I don’t think I knew it was happening. I didn’t seem to go to sleep or anything. Except real sleep when I slept in the castle. Only that wasn’t real sleep because the time scale was different. I lived through two days, Nick, in less than two hours.’ She lay back against the pillows again, looking at him. ‘This is what happened before, isn’t it? When Sam was there. They did hypnotise me and they lost control of me that time too!’ Nick nodded. ‘Sam said you were told not to remember what happened, it would upset you too much. And he said I mustn’t talk about it to you, Jo, that’s why I couldn’t explain –’ ‘I lived through those same scenes then,’ she went on, not hearing him. ‘I saw the massacre then too.’ Nick looked away. ‘I don’t know, Jo. You must speak to Sam –’ ‘It must have been the massacre, because I hurt my hands tearing at the stone archway. But I really bled in Edinburgh. My fingers were bruised and bleeding, not just painful!’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Oh, God, it was all so real. Nick, I’m frightened.’ She stared at her hands, holding them out before her. Nick took hold of them gently, standing up. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We need another drink. And something to eat. Is there any food in the flat?’ She dragged her thoughts back to the present with difficulty. ‘In the freezer. I forgot to buy anything today.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I was going to go shopping on my way back from Devonshire Place but everything went out of my head.’ Nick grinned. ‘I’m not surprised. Being a baron’s lady with a castle full of serfs, you can hardly be expected to lower yourself to trundle round Waitrose with a shopping trolley. You must try not to let it upset you too much, Jo. Try and see the amusing side. Think of it as a personalised horror film. You got front row stalls and no ice-cream in the interval. But, apart from that, thank God there’s no harm done this time.’ ‘That doesn’t sound very scientific.’ She forced herself to smile. Standing up slowly she pulled the belt of her robe more tightly round her. Then she headed towards the kitchen and pulled open the freezer door. ‘There’s pizza in here or steak.’ The normality of her action calmed her. Her voice was steady again. ‘Pizza’s fine. What intrigues me is where you dredged all this information up from. The details all sounded so authentic.’ ‘Dr Bennet and Bill Walton both said that they usually are. That’s one of their strongest arguments in favour of reincarnation of course.’ She lit the grill and put two pizzas under it. ‘Where it is possible to substantiate things, apparently they are usually uncannily accurate. I’m going to check as much as I can. Is there any whisky left?’ ‘I’ll get it. Have you any books on costume? What is a – what was it, a pelisson, for instance?’ She shrugged. ‘A pelisse is a kind of cloak I think.’ She took some tomatoes out of the fridge and began to slice them as Nick reappeared with the whisky bottle and a dictionary. Moments later he looked up. ‘Pelisse is here. You’re right. But no pelisson. Perhaps I misheard. Are you going up to the library tomorrow?’ She nodded. ‘I’m going to check everything, Nick. Absolutely everything.’ He leant against the worktop watching her, relieved that she seemed calmer and more like herself. Her face was beginning to look less pinched. ‘I wonder if Matilda really existed?’ he said at last. ‘And you read about her somewhere. Either that or she’s a fictional heroine or was in a TV film or a comic or a strip cartoon when you were a child, or perhaps a film you saw when you were about two years old and have completely forgotten with your conscious mind.’ ‘And all my wealth of detail is pure Cecil B. De Mille?’ She laughed, ruefully. ‘All your theories have been put forward before. Mainly by sceptics like me!’ ‘Well, if it isn’t any of those what is it?’ He stared down at the glass in his hands. ‘Have you considered the fact that Bennet could be right, Jo? That reincarnation could exist?’ She shook her head thoughtfully. ‘No, I can’t believe that. There must be a perfectly good explanation which does not strain one’s credulity that much, and I intend to try and find it. Perhaps Matilda is my alter ego. The woman I would have liked to have been. Have you thought of that?’ He set down his glass and put his arms around her waist. ‘I hope not. All those swords and guts and things. No, you told me the premises you’d be working on in your article, Jo, and that tape hasn’t made me change my mind about a thing you said. It’s all fantasy, you’re right. Whose, I’m not sure. But that is all it is. It’s none the less dangerous for that, but there is nothing supernatural about what happened to you.’ She released herself with a frown and reached to lower the gas. ‘All the same, I’m not starting to write the article, Nick. Not without asking a great many more questions. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone.’ She reached down two plates and put them to warm. ‘Here, let me make a salad to go with these. Neither Bennet nor Walton was a fake, Nick. I was wrong to think it. They didn’t ask any leading questions. Bennet didn’t influence my “dream” in any way. If he had I’d have heard on the tape. Look, if there is any period of history I would say that I should like to identify with at all it would be the Regency. If he’d been a fraud he would have found that out in two minutes.’ She poured vinegar and oil into a jar and reached for the pepper mill. ‘I dare say I could have re-enacted a dozen Georgette Heyer novels. I read everything of hers I could lay my hands on when I was a teenager. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t guide me at all. Here, give this a shake. Instead I find myself in medieval Wales. With people talking Welsh all round me, for God’s sake!’ Nick shook up the dressing and poured it over the salad. ‘If it was Welsh,’ he said quietly, ‘God knows what it was you said. If you had jumped up and down shouting Cymru am byth I might have been able to substantiate it!’ ‘Where did you learn that?’ she laughed. ‘Rugger. I don’t mess about when I go to Twickenham you know, it’s very educational.’ He touched her cheek lightly. ‘Good to see you laughing. It’s not like our Jo to get upset.’ She pushed a plate at him. ‘As Dr Bennet pointed out, it’s not every day that “our Jo” witnesses a full-dress massacre, even in a nightmare,’ she retorted. They ate in the living room. ‘Bach to eat by,’ said Nick, putting his plate down and riffling through the stack of records. ‘To restore the equilibrium.’ She did not argue. It meant they didn’t have to talk; it meant she needn’t even think. She let the music sweep over her, leaving her food almost untouched as she lay back on the sofa, her feet up, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again the sky was dark outside the French windows onto the balcony. The music had finished and the room was silent. Nick was sitting watching her in the light of the single desk lamp. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ she asked indignantly. ‘What time is it?’ ‘Eleven. Time you were in bed. You look exhausted.’ ‘Don’t dictate, Nick. It’s time you went, for that matter,’ she said sharply. ‘Wouldn’t you like me to stay?’ She pushed herself up on her elbow. ‘No. You and I are finished, remember? You have to go back to your cosy love nest with the talented Miss Curzon. What was it you said on the phone, “working late” – she won’t believe it, you know, if you stay away all night!’ ‘I don’t much care what she believes at the moment, Jo. I am more concerned about you,’ Nick said. He stood up and turned on the main light. ‘I don’t think you should be alone tonight.’ ‘In case I have nightmares?’ ‘Yes, in case you have nightmares. This has shaken you up more than you realise, and I think someone should be here. I’ll sleep here on the sofa if the idea of me in your bed offends you, but I’m going to stay!’ She stood up furiously. ‘Like hell you are!’ Then abruptly her shoulders slumped. ‘Oh God, Nick, you’re right. I do want you to stay. I want you to hold me.’ He put his arms round her gently and caressed her hair. ‘The trouble with you, Jo, is that when you’re nice, you’re very, very nice, but –’ ‘I know, I know. And when I’m horrid you hate and detest me. And I’m usually horrid.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Well, tonight I’m being nice. But it is only for one night, Nick. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow.’ In bed they lay for a long time in silence. Then Nick raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her in the faint light which filtered through the blind from the street lamp in the mews. ‘Jo,’ he said softly. ‘You haven’t told me yet about Richard.’ She stiffened. ‘Richard?’ ‘Your lover in that castle. He was your lover, wasn’t he?’ Restlessly she moved her head sideways so he could not see her face. ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t me, Nick! He left the castle. He wasn’t there at the end. I don’t know what happened next. I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.’ Agitated, she tried to push him away, but he caught her wrist, forcing it back against the pillow so that she had to face him. ‘You’re planning to see Bennet again, aren’t you?’ She shook her head violently. ‘No, of course I’m not.’ ‘Are you sure?’ Something in his voice made her stare up into his face, trying to see the expression in his eyes. ‘For God’s sake don’t do it. It’s dangerous. Far more dangerous than you or Bennet realise. Your life could be in danger, Jo.’ His voice was harsh. She smiled. ‘Now that is melodramatic. Are you suggesting I could be locked in the past forever?’ She reached up and tugged his hair playfully. ‘You idiot, it doesn’t work that way. People always wake up in the end.’ ‘Do they?’ He lay back on the pillow. ‘Just make sure you’ve got your facts right, Jo. I know it’s your proud boast that you always do, but just this once you could be wrong.’ 10 (#ulink_3d51ef51-de51-5db4-865a-3dd982f9c128) Early next morning Sam paid off the taxi and stood for a moment on the pavement staring round him, Judy’s address scribbled on a scrap of paper in his hand. He looked up at the house then, slinging his case over his shoulder, he ran easily up the long flights of steps until he reached the shadowy landing at the top of the stairs. It was some time before the door opened to his ring. Judy stared at the rangy figure in the rumpled cord jacket and her eyes hardened. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Hello there.’ He grinned at her easily. ‘I’m Sam Franklyn.’ ‘I guessed that. So – what do you want?’ Her tone was icy. With paint-stained fingers she pushed back the scarf which covered her hair. ‘May I come in?’ ‘Please yourself.’ She turned away and walked back into the studio. Picking up a rag, she began to scrub at her fingertips with some turps. ‘What have you come here for?’ she asked after a minute. She did not bother to turn round. Sam dropped his case in the corner and closed the door. ‘I rather hoped Nick would be here,’ he said mildly, ‘but I can see I’ve goofed. Where is he, do you know?’ ‘I don’t.’ She flung down the rag. ‘But I can guess. He stood me up last night.’ She folded her arms and turned to face him. He could see now in the harsh revealing light of the studio windows that her eyes were red and puffy. There was a streak of viridian across her forehead. ‘Any chance of some coffee while you tell me about it?’ Sam said gently. ‘I’ve come straight from Heathrow and I’m parched.’ ‘Help yourself. But don’t expect me to make polite conversation, least of all about Nick. I’m busy.’ She turned her back on him again. Sam frowned. He watched her for a moment as she picked up a brush and attacked the canvas in front of her. Every muscle in her body was tense, the angle of her shoulders set and defensive beneath the faded green denim of her smock. ‘Do you know,’ she said suddenly, ‘I hate her. I have never actually hated anyone like that before. Not so much that I would like to see them dead. Do you think I’m paranoid or something?’ Her tone was almost conversational as with cool deliberation she loaded her brush with cadmium red and blotted a small figure out of the painting. Sam watched her thoughtfully. ‘It sounds pretty normal to me,’ he said evenly. ‘Do I gather we are talking about Jo?’ ‘Why don’t you make me some coffee too, while you’re at it,’ she returned sharply, ‘and shut up about Jo.’ Once again she pushed back the scarf which covered her hair. Sam gave a small grimace. He found his way across to the kitchen by instinct and pushed open the door, then he stopped and surveyed the scene. There was broken glass all over the floor. Two saucepans of food had been left upside down in the sink. Staring down at the mess, he sniffed cautiously. One had contained asparagus soup, the other some kind of goulash. Sam frowned. In the bucket below the sink were two china plates with the salad that had been on them. She had hurled out what appeared to him to have been a cordon bleu meal, complete with crockery. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched for a moment in silence as she worked, then he began to hunt for some coffee and set the kettle on the gas. ‘What do you call that picture?’ he asked several minutes later when he handed her a mug. She took it without looking at him. ‘What you mean is, what the hell is it?’ she said slowly. She stepped closer to the painting, eyes narrowed, and added a small touch of red to the swirl of colours. ‘I had better not tell you. You’d have me taken away in a strait-jacket.’ She gave a taut smile. ‘You’re the psychiatrist. Why don’t you tell me what it means?’ She rubbed at the canvas with her little finger and stared thoughtfully at the smear of red it left on her skin. Then she swung round to face him again. ‘On second thoughts, why don’t you drink your coffee and get out of here?’ Sam grinned. ‘I’m on my way.’ ‘Good.’ She paused. ‘I told her, you know. In front of the whole bloody world.’ ‘Told her what?’ Sam was still studying the canvas. ‘What Nick said to you on the phone. That she would crack open if she were hypnotised again. That she is more or less out of her mind.’ She threw down the brush and crossed to the untidy desk by the window. Pulling open a drawer she extracted a newspaper clipping. ‘This was in yesterday’s Mail.’ Sam took it. He read the paragraph, his face impassive, then he handed it back. ‘You certainly made a good job of that bit of scandal.’ Judy smiled. She turned back to her canvas. ‘So, hadn’t you better rush over to Cornwall Gardens and see if Nick can spare you one of her hands to hold?’ ‘That’s what I’ve come for.’ Sam drank the last of his coffee, then he put down his empty mug. ‘I take it,’ he added carefully, ‘that you think that Nick spent last night with her.’ ‘Unless he got run over and is in the mortuary.’ ‘And you were expecting him here to dinner.’ ‘As you plainly saw.’ ‘I am sorry.’ Sam’s face was carefully controlled. ‘Nick’s a fool. You deserve better.’ She went back to the painting and stood staring at it. ‘That’s right. And I mean to get it. Make no mistake about it, Dr Franklyn, I mean to see that Nick leaves her for good. So if it’s your mission in life to comfort Jo Clifford and see that she keeps calm and safe and sane, I suggest you move in with her, and send your brother to me, otherwise I’ll see to it that she regrets the day she was born.’ Sam turned and picked up his case. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said. He pulled open the door. ‘But if you’ll take a piece of advice from me, I suggest you use a little more subtlety with Nick. If you behave like the proverbial fishwife he’ll go off you for good. I know my brother. He likes his ladies sophisticated and in control. If he sees the mess in your kitchen he’ll leave, and I wouldn’t altogether blame him.’ He didn’t wait to hear the string of expletives which echoed after him as he began to run down the stairs. Jo was sitting on the cold concrete steps outside the library watching a pigeon waddling along in the gutter. Its neck shimmered with iridescent purples and greens as it moved unconcerned between the wheels of the stationary cars intent on gathering specks of food from the tarmac. The roar of traffic in the High Street a few yards away distracted it not at all. Nor did the scream of an accelerating motorbike a few feet from it. Behind her the library doors were unlocked at last. Jo did not move. The events of the previous afternoon, and the restless tormented night which had followed, had receded a little, dreamlike, now that it was day. Standing in the kitchen drinking a hasty cup of tea before Nick woke up, Jo had stared out of the window and scowled. Somehow Carl Bennet had managed to influence her. There was no other explanation. She would go to the library, look up the few facts she had, draw a complete blank there, and return to begin work on an article which would ridicule out of existence the whole idea of hypnotic regression. Now standing up slowly, she brushed the dust off her skirt, watching as the pigeon, startled into sleek slimness by her sudden movements, took off and swept with graceful speed up and over the rooftops towards the park. As she ran up the echoing staircase to the library she became aware suddenly that she could hear her own heartbeats drumming in her ears. The sound was disconcerting and she stopped outside the glass swing doors to try to steady herself. Her head ached violently and her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep. Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the doors and turned towards the reference section, skirting the tables where already students and newspaper readers were establishing their base camps for the day. As she pulled the notebook from her bag she realised that her hands had begun to shake. Begin with The Dictionary of National Biography. It was unlikely she would find Matilda there, but it was a place to start. She approached the shelf, her hand outstretched. Her fingers were trembling. ‘Braos?’ she murmured to herself. ‘Breos? I wonder how they spelled it?’ There was a rustle of paper beside her as a large bespectacled priest turned to the racing page. He looked up and caught her eye. His wink was comforting. She walked slowly along the shelf, squinting at the gold-lettered spines of the books, then she heaved out a volume and carried it to a table, perching uncomfortably on the very edge of the chair as she began to leaf through the pages. Don’t let it have been real … Please don’t let it have been real … I can’t cope with that … She shook her head angrily. The thick paper crackled a little, the small print blurring. A slightly musty smell floated from between the covers as the riffling pages stirred the hot air of the room. … Bowen … Bradford … Branston … Braose, Philip de (fl. 1172), two inches of print, then Braose, William de (d. 1211). There were more than two pages. She sat still for a moment fighting her stomach. She could taste the bile in the back of her throat. Her forehead was damp and ice-cold and her hands were burning hot. It was a while before she became conscious that the priest was watching her closely and she realised suddenly that she had been staring at him hard, oblivious of everything but the need not to be sick. Somehow she forced herself to smile at him and she looked away. All it meant was that she must have read about them somewhere; she had a good memory, an eye for detail. She was a reporter after all. And that was what she was here for now, her job made easier because the characters she was searching for were obviously at least moderately well known. She took a deep breath and stared down at the page. Was Matilda there, in the article, which she could see at a glance was full of place names and dates? Had she lived long enough to make her mark on history and have her name recorded with her cruel overbearing husband? Or had she flitted in and out of life like a shadow, leaving no trace at all, if she had ever existed? The priest was still watching her, his kind face creased with concern. Jo knew that any minute he was going to stand up and come over to her. She looked away again hastily. She had to look up Richard de Clare, too, and Abergavenny and make notes on them all. Then, perhaps, she would go and have a cup of coffee and accept the consolations of the Church if they were offered. It was several minutes before the intercom on the doorstep below Jo’s flat crackled into life. Sam bent towards the display board. ‘Nick? It’s Sam. Let me come up.’ Nick was waiting on the landing as Sam walked slowly up the carpeted stairs. ‘You’re too late,’ he said brusquely. ‘She went to a hypnotist yesterday and let him regress her.’ Sam followed him into the brightness of the flat and stared round. ‘What happened? Where is she?’ He faced his brother coldly, taking in the dark rings beneath Nick’s eyes, and the unshaven stubble. ‘She had gone before I woke up.’ Nick ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I think she was OK. She was last night. Just shocked and rather frightened. She had a long session which seemed to get out of control. The hypnotist couldn’t bring her back to consciousness. She seemed to get so involved in what was happening, it was so real to her.’ ‘You were with her?’ Sam turned on him sharply. ‘Of course not! Do you think I’d have let her go! No, she brought back a tape of what happened and I heard it last night.’ Nick shook his head wearily. ‘She was in a terrible state – but not in danger as far as I could tell. She never stopped breathing or anything. I stayed the night with her and she spent most of it tossing and turning and pacing up and down the floor. She must have got up at dawn and gone out. She did say she’d go to the library first thing. Maybe she went there to see if she could find any of these people in a history book.’ Sam took off his jacket and threw it on the back of the sofa. Then he sat down and drew the tape recorder towards him. ‘Right, Nick. May I suggest you return to your titian-haired artist friend and try to apologise for last night’s ruined meal? Leave Jo to me.’ ‘Like hell I will!’ Nick glared at him. ‘I mean it. Go back to Miss Curzon, Nick. She is your new love, is she not? I went there straight from the airport under the impression that you would be there. She is not pleased with you, little brother. If you value your relationship with her I should go and make amends as fast as you can. Meanwhile I shall listen to the tape and talk to Jo when she returns. I shan’t want you here.’ Nick took a deep breath. ‘Jo asked me to stay.’ ‘And I am asking you to go.’ Sam turned his back on Nick, his shoulders hunched as he searched for the ‘play’ button on the machine. ‘She is my patient, Nick.’ Nick hesitated. ‘You’ll ring me after you’ve spoken to her?’ ‘I’ll ring you. Better still, do you still have your flat in Mayfair?’ ‘You know I do.’ ‘Give me the key then. I’ll stay there for a night or two. And I’ll see you there some time no doubt.’ He switched on the tape and sat back on the sofa thoughtfully as Jo’s voice filled the room. It was four hours before Jo came home. She stopped dead in the doorway, her keys still in her hand, staring at Sam. He had long ago finished playing the tape and was lying on the sofa, his eyes closed, listening to the soft strains of the ‘Concierto de Aranjuez’. ‘How did you get in?’ He did not immediately open his eyes. Jo sighed. She dropped her shoulder bag on the floor and banged the door behind her. ‘Where’s Nick?’ Sam’s eyes narrowed. ‘He felt he should return to make his peace with Judy. I’m sorry.’ ‘I see.’ Jo’s voice dropped. ‘And he’s left you here to pick up the pieces. I suppose I should be grateful he stayed at all last night. I hope he told you I don’t need you, Sam. Nothing awful happened. I’m perfectly all right. I did not become incurably insane, nor did I kill anyone as far as I know.’ She unbuttoned her jacket wearily. ‘When did he leave?’ ‘Soon after I arrived. He was worried about you Jo.’ Sam was watching her closely. ‘Nick’s a nice bloke. Even if it is all over between you both he wouldn’t have left you alone, you know that.’ Jo dropped her jacket on a chair and reached for the Scotch bottle on the table by the phone. ‘That’s right. Good old St Nicholas who never leaves a friend in the lurch. Want one?’ Sam shook his head. He watched as she poured; she did not dilute it. ‘Have you heard it?’ Her eyes had gone past him to the cassette lying on the coffee table. ‘Twice.’ Her face was pale and drawn he noted, her hair tied back into an uncompromising pony-tail which showed new sharp angles to her cheekbones and shadows beneath her eyes. ‘It all happened, Sam.’ She raised the glass to her lips. ‘I found it so easily. William de Braose, his wife – most books seem to call her Maude – I didn’t even know it was the same name as Matilda – their children, the massacre of Abergavenny. It was all there for anyone to read. Not obscure at all.’ She swallowed a mouthful of whisky. ‘I must have read about it somewhere before, but I swear to God I don’t remember it. I’ve never studied Welsh history, but all that detail in my mind! It doesn’t seem possible. Christ, Sam! Where did it all come from?’ Sam had not taken his eyes from her face. ‘Where do you think it came from?’ She shrugged, flinging herself down on the sofa beside him, turning the glass round and round in her fingers. Sam eyed the length of lightly tanned thigh exposed where her skirt caught on the edge of the cushions. He moved away from her slightly. ‘Where would you like it to have come from?’ Jo frowned. ‘That’s a loaded question. Yesterday morning I wouldn’t have hesitated to answer it. But now. Matilda was so real to me, Sam. She was me.’ She turned to face him. ‘Was it the same in Edinburgh? Did the same thing happen then too?’ He nodded slowly. ‘You certainly reacted dramatically under regression. A little too dramatically. That was why we decided it would be better if you remembered nothing of what happened afterwards.’ Jo jumped to her feet. ‘You admit it! So you told me to forget it, as if it had never happened. You took it upon yourselves to manipulate my mind! You thought it would be bad for me to know about it, so bang! You wiped it clean like a computer program!’ Her eyes were blazing. Sam smiled placatingly. ‘Cool it, Jo. It was for your own good. No one was manipulating you. Nothing sinister happened. It was all taped, just as it was for you yesterday. It’s all on the record.’ ‘But you deliberately destroyed my memory of what happened!’ She took a deep breath, trying to control her anger. ‘Was I the same person? Matilda de Braose?’ ‘As far as I remember you didn’t tell us what your name was,’ Sam said quietly. ‘Well, did I talk about the same events? The massacre?’ Sam shook his head. ‘You were much more vague with us.’ He stood up abruptly and walked over to the windows, looking up through the net curtains towards the sky. ‘You must not go back to this man, Jo. You do understand that, don’t you? ‘Why not?’ Her voice was defiant. ‘Nothing terrible happened. And he at least is honest with me. He has professional standards.’ She threw herself down on the sofa again, resting her head against the cushions. ‘Oh sure, it was a bit nerve-wracking for him, as it obviously was for you, but I was all right, wasn’t I? I didn’t seem hysterical, my personality didn’t disintegrate. Nothing happened to me.’ She looked down at her hands suddenly then abruptly she put them behind her. ‘What’s wrong?’ Sam had seen her out of the corner of his eye. He went over to her and, kneeling, he took both her hands in his. He studied the palms intently. Then he turned them over and looked at her nails. She tried to pull away. ‘Sam –’ ‘Your hands aren’t hurt?’ ‘No, of course they’re not hurt. Why should they be?’ He let them go reluctantly, his eyes once more on her face. ‘They were injured last time, in Edinburgh,’ he said gently. ‘They started to bleed.’ She stared at him. ‘There was blood on the floor, wasn’t there?’ she whispered after a moment. ‘I remembered that. And when I got home I found I was covered in bruises.’ She stood up, pushing past him. ‘I thought I’d had an accident. But somehow I never bothered to ask you about it, did I?’ She bit her lip, staring at him. ‘That was your post-hypnotic suggestion too, I suppose. “You will not remember how you were injured, nor will you question why.” Is that what you said to me? God it makes me so angry! All this has happened to me before and I did not know about it. You snatched an hour or so of my life, Sam, and I want it back.’ She looked down into her glass, her knuckles white as she kneaded it between her fingers. ‘It’s the thought that these memories, this other life has been lying hidden in me, festering all these years, that frightens me … Wherever they come from, whatever they are, they must mean something special to me, mustn’t they?’ She paused then she looked away from him. ‘Do you know how she died?’ Sam’s jaw tightened. ‘Who?’ ‘Matilda, of course. They think she was starved to death.’ Jo drank the rest of her whisky quickly and put down the glass. She was suddenly shuddering violently. Sam stood up. He caught her arm. ‘Jo –’ ‘No, Sam, it’s all right. I know what you’re going to say. I’m not about to get obsessive about her. It’s me, remember. Level-headed Jo Clifford. I’m over the shock of it all now, anyway. Reading about it has put it in perspective. All those dry dates and facts. Ugh! Funny how history never seemed to be to do with real people, not to me anyway. At least not until now …’ Her voice tailed away. ‘When you and Professor Cohen finished your experiments, Sam, did you reach any conclusions?’ ‘We were able to float various hypotheses, shall we say,’ Sam smiled enigmatically. ‘And they were?’ ‘Roughly? That different subjects reacted in different ways. We tabulated almost as many theories as there were regression sessions. You must read his book. Some people faked, there was no question about that. Some openly re-enacted scenes from books and films. Some produced what they thought we hoped we would hear. And some were beyond explanation.’ ‘And which was Joanna Clifford?’ ‘I think one of the latter.’ He gave a wry smile. Jo eyed him thoughtfully. ‘I had a feeling you were going to say that. Tell me, Sam, do you believe in reincarnation?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then what do you think happens?’ ‘I have one or two ill-formed and unscientific theories about, shall we say, radio waves trapped in the ether. Some people, when in a receptive state, tune into the right wavelengths and get a bit of playback.’ ‘You mean I was actually seeing what happened in 1174?’ ‘An echo of it – a reverberation, shall we say? Don’t quote me, Jo, for God’s sake. I’d be drummed out of every professional body there is. But it does go some way to explain why more than one person gets the same playback on occasions. It explains ghosts as well, of course. A good all-round theory.’ He laughed. ‘Have you seen a ghost?’ The strain, he noted with satisfaction, had lessened in her face; her neck muscles were no longer so prominent. ‘Never! I’m not the receptive type, thank God! You haven’t any coffee I suppose, Jo?’ He changed the subject thankfully. ‘I need a regular fix every two hours or I get withdrawal symptoms and it’s been twice that at least.’ ‘Why not? Sam –’ She paused in the doorway, running her fingernail up and down the cream-painted woodwork. ‘Can you hypnotise people?’ ‘I can. Yes.’ ‘And regress them?’ ‘I haven’t gone on with Cohen’s experiments,’ he replied carefully. ‘There are others chasing that particular hare now. My field is rather different.’ Jo grinned. ‘You didn’t answer my question, Dr Franklyn. Can you regress people?’ ‘I have done, yes.’ ‘And would you do it to me?’ ‘Under no circumstances. Jo –’ He paused, groping for the right words. ‘Listen, love. You must not contemplate pursuing this matter. I meant it when I said you should not see Carl Bennet again. You must not allow anyone to try and regress you. I am not so concerned about the drama and the psychological stress that you are put under, although that is obviously not good for you. What worries me is the fact that you are prone to physiological reaction. You reflect physically what you are describing. That is very rare. It is also potentially dangerous.’ ‘You mean if William beat me … her up, I’d wake up with bruises?’ ‘Exactly.’ Sam compressed his lips. ‘And if she starved to death?’ The question came out as a whisper. There was a pause. Sam looked away. ‘I think that is unlikely.’ He forced himself to laugh. ‘Nevertheless, it would obviously be foolish to put yourself deliberately at risk. Now, please – coffee?’ For a moment Jo did not move, her eyes on his face. Then slowly she turned towards the kitchen. It was dark when Dorothy Franklyn arrived at the flat carrying an armful of roses. A tall, striking woman in her mid-sixties, she habitually wore tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and immaculate Jaeger suits which made her look the epitome of efficiency. She was in fact always slightly disorganised and invariably late for whatever she was trying to do. Jo was enormously fond of her. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me dropping in like this, Jo?’ she said apologetically as she came in. ‘I came up for a matin?e and then I had supper but I wanted to leave you the flowers.’ She eyed Jo surreptitiously. ‘You look tired my dear. Would you rather I just left them and went?’ Jo shook her head. She caught the other woman’s arm and pulled her into the room. ‘Sit down and I’ll put the kettle on. You’ve just missed your son. That’s why I’m tired, he took me out to dinner.’ Dorothy smiled, her whole face lighting with pleasure. ‘Jo! I’m so glad. It broke my heart when you and he split up –’ ‘No –’ Jo interrupted. ‘I meant Sam.’ ‘Sam?’ Dorothy frowned. ‘I thought he was in Switzerland.’ ‘He was. He’s stopped off in London for a few days – mainly to do a quick psychoanalysis of me, I think.’ Jo grinned wryly. ‘He’s staying at Nick’s flat if you want to see him. Nick’s not there of course, so the flat is free.’ She could feel the other woman’s eyes on her face, bright with embarrassment and sympathy, and she forced herself to go on smiling somehow. ‘How is Sam?’ Dorothy asked after a long pause. ‘Fine. He’s been giving a paper on some terribly obscure subject. I was very impressed. He took me to tea at the zoo.’ She laughed. Dorothy smiled. ‘He always says the zoo teaches one so much about people.’ She hesitated, eyeing Jo thoughtfully. ‘He has always been very fond of you, you know, Jo. I don’t think you and Nick ever realised how much it hurt Sam when Nick walked off with you. Nick has always found it so easy to have any girl he wanted – I’m sorry, that sounds dreadful, and I know you were different – you were special to him. But you have been special to Sam too.’ Jo looked down guiltily. ‘I think I did know. It’s just that we met under such strange circumstances. I was a guinea pig in one of his experiments.’ She shivered. ‘Our relationship always seemed a little unreal after that. He was so concerned about me, but I always had the feeling it was a paternal concern, as if he were worried about my health.’ She paused abruptly. ‘He was, of course. I know that now. Anyway, he was twenty-six or -seven and I was only nineteen when we first met. We belonged to different worlds. I did rather fancy him –’ She was staring at the roses lying on the table. ‘If I’m honest I suppose I still do. He’s an attractive bloke. But then Nick came along …’ She stood up abruptly. ‘Let me put these in water or they’ll die before our eyes. And I’ll make you some coffee.’ ‘Is it serious, this thing with Judy Curzon?’ Dorothy’s voice was gentle. ‘It sounds like it. She is much more his type than I ever was. She’s domesticated and artistic and a redhead.’ Jo forced herself to laugh. ‘Perhaps I should cultivate old Sam now. Better late than never and we seem to have quite a bit in common after all. It might even make Nick jealous!’ Scooping up the flowers, she buried her face in the velvet blooms, then she carried them through to the kitchen and dropped them into the sink. Turning the cold tap on full, she turned and saw Dorothy had followed her. She was frowning. ‘Jo. Please don’t just amuse yourself with Sam. I know it must be tempting to try and hurt Nick, but that’s not the way to do it.’ She leaned past Jo as water began to splash off the flowers and onto the floor and turned off the tap. ‘There’s too much rivalry between those two already.’ ‘Rivalry?’ Jo looked astonished. ‘But they hardly see each other so how could there be?’ ‘Sam has resented Nick since the day he was born.’ Dorothy absentmindedly picked the petals off a blown rose and threw them into the bin. ‘I used to think it was normal sibling rivalry and he’d grow out of it. But it was more than that. He learned to hide it. He even managed to fool Nick and their father that he no longer felt it, but he never fooled me. As he grew up it didn’t disappear. It hardened. I don’t know why. They are both good-looking, they are both confident and bright. Sam is enormously successful in his own field. There is no reason for him to resent Nick at all. At least, there wasn’t until you came along.’ Jo stared at her. ‘I had no idea. None at all. I thought they liked each other. That’s awful.’ Wearily she pushed the hair off her face. ‘I’m sure Nick likes Sam. He told me that he used to worship him when they were children, and I sometimes think that secretly he still does. Look at the way he turned to him when he was worried about me.’ She stopped. Had Nick really turned to Sam for help, or was he merely using him cynically to take her off his hands? She closed her eyes unhappily, trying to picture Sam’s face as he kissed her goodnight. It had been a brotherly kiss, no more. Of that she was sure. Dorothy had not noticed Jo’s sudden silence. With a deep sigh she swept on after a minute. ‘I used to wonder if it was my fault. There was a six-year gap between them, you know, and we were so thrilled when Nick came along. Elder children sometimes think such funny things, that somehow they weren’t enough, or that they have failed their parents in some way …’ ‘But Sam is a psychiatrist!’ Jo burst out in spite of herself. ‘Even if he felt that when he was six, he must be well enough read by now to know it wasn’t true. Oh come on, Dorothy, have some coffee. This is all too Freudian for me at this time of night.’ She plugged in the coffee pot and switched it on. Dorothy reached into the cupboard and brought out two cups. ‘Are you seeing Sam again?’ Jo nodded. ‘On Wednesday evening.’ Dorothy frowned. ‘Jo. Is it over between you and Nick? I mean, really over?’ Jo turned on her, exasperated. ‘Dorothy stop it! They are grown men, not boys fighting over a toy, for God’s sake! I don’t know if it’s over between me and Nick. Probably, yes. But we are still fond of each other, nothing can change that. Who knows what will happen?’ After Dorothy had gone Jo sat staring into space for a long time. Then slowly she got up and poured herself a drink. She glanced down at the books and notes piled on the table, but she did not touch them. Instead, restlessly, she began to wander round the room. In front of the huge oval mirror which hung over the fireplace she stopped and stared at herself for a long time. Then solemnly she raised her glass. ‘To you, Matilda, wherever you are,’ she said sadly. ‘I’ll bet you thought men were bastards, too.’ The answerphone was to the point: ‘There is no one in the office at the moment. In a genuine emergency Dr Bennet may be reached on Lymington four seven three two zero. Otherwise please phone again on Monday morning.’ Jo slammed down the receiver. She eyed the Scotch bottle on the table, then she turned her back on it and went to stand instead on the balcony in the darkness, smelling the sweet honeyed air of the London garden, cleansed by night of the smell of traffic. It was a long time before she turned and went back inside. Leaving the French windows open she slotted her cassette back into the machine, and switched it on. Then, turning off the lights, she sat down alone in the dark to listen. 11 (#ulink_cde0f8f1-6e94-5f86-bb79-5d82d72defd8) ‘Is he here?’ Judy was standing in the darkened hallway outside Jo’s door with her hands on her hips. She was wearing a loosely belted white dress and thonged sandals which made her look, Jo thought irrelevantly, like a Greek boy. ‘Come in and shut up or you’ll wake the whole house.’ Jo stood back to allow her to enter, as Judy’s furious voice wafted up and down the stairwell outside the flat door. It was barely nine o’clock on Sunday morning. The flat was untidy. Cassettes littered the tables and the floor; there were empty glasses lying about and ashtrays full of half-smoked cigarettes. Jo stared round in distaste. Beside the typewriter on the coffee table there was a pile of papers and notes where she had been typing most of the night. Books were stacked on the carpet, and overflowing onto the chairs. She threw open the French windows and took a deep breath of cool morning air. Then she turned to Judy. ‘If it’s Nick you’ve lost, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s not here. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.’ She went through into the kitchen and reached into the fridge. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ she called. Judy looked taken aback. ‘He said he was coming back here.’ She followed Jo into the kitchen uncertainly. ‘Well he plainly didn’t come.’ Jo reached down a large jug off the cupboard and stuffed the roses from the sink into it. ‘Aren’t these lovely? Nick’s mother brought them up from Hampshire for me yesterday.’ Judy’s jaw tightened fractionally. ‘I have never met his mother.’ ‘Oh you will. She is already on your trail. Every girlfriend has to be vetted and approved and then cultivated.’ Jo leaned against the counter and looked Judy straight in the eye. ‘Have you come for a fight? Because if you have, I’m in the right mood. I haven’t slept for two nights, I’ve a foul headache and I am fed up with people coming here to look for Nick Franklyn.’ ‘Do you still love him?’ Judy tried hard to hold her gaze. Jo snorted. ‘What kind of naive question is that? Do you really think I’d tell you if I did?’ Behind her the coffee began to perk. She ignored it. ‘At this moment I wish both Sam and Nick Franklyn at the other end of the earth, and if it makes you happy I will cordially wish you there with them. But I should like to say one thing before you go there. If you decide to make any more inventive little statements to the press about my sanity or lack of it, be very careful what you say, because I shall sue you for slander and then I shall come to your happy love nest in Fulham and knot some of your oh so original and outstandingly beautiful paintings around your pretty little neck.’ Judy retreated a step. ‘There is no need to be nasty about it. I didn’t know anyone was listening. And I only repeated what Nick said –’ ‘I am well aware of what Nick said,’ Jo said quietly. She turned and took two mugs out of the cupboard. ‘You’ll have to have your coffee black. I haven’t been out for milk yet.’ ‘I don’t want any coffee.’ Judy backed out of the kitchen. ‘I don’t want anything from you. I’m not surprised Nick couldn’t wait to get away from here!’ She turned to the front door and dragged it open. Behind them the phone in the living room began to ring. Jo ignored it as she unplugged the coffee pot. ‘Shut the door behind you,’ she called over her shoulder. Judy stopped in her tracks. ‘Sam told me you’re schizophrenic,’ she shouted, ‘did you know that? He said that you’ll be locked up one of these days. And they’ll throw away the key!’ She paused as if hoping for a response. When none came she walked out into the hall and slammed the door. Jo could hear her footsteps as she ran down the stairs outside. Moments later she heard the porch door bang. Behind her the phone was still ringing. Dazed, Jo moved towards it and picked up the receiver. Her hands were shaking. ‘Jo? I thought you weren’t there!’ The voice on the other end was indignant. Jo swallowed. She was incapable of speaking for a moment. ‘Jo dear? Are you all right?’ The voice persisted. ‘It’s me, Ceecliff!’ Jo managed to speak at last. ‘I know, Grandma. I’m sorry. My voice is a bit husky. Is that better?’ She cleared her throat noisily. ‘How nice to hear you. How are you?’ ‘I am fine as always.’ The tones were clipped and direct. Celia Clifford was a vivacious and attractive woman of seventy-six who, in spite of the alternate cajoling and threats of her town-dwelling daughter-in-law and granddaughter, lived completely alone in a rambling Tudor farmhouse in the depths of Suffolk. Jo adored her. Ceecliff was her special property; her refuge; her hidden vice; the shoulder that tough abrasive Jo Clifford could cry on and no one would ever know. ‘You sound a bit odd, dear,’ Ceecliff went on briskly. ‘You’re not smoking again, are you?’ Jo looked ruefully at the ashtray beside the phone. ‘I’m trying not to,’ she said. ‘Good. And nothing is wrong?’ Jo frowned. ‘Why should anything be wrong?’ There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘There shouldn’t. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t have any excuses up your sleeve. You’re coming to lunch here, Jo, so you’d better get ready to leave within half an hour.’ Jo laughed. ‘I can’t come all the way to Suffolk for lunch,’ she protested. ‘Of course you can. Take off those dreadful jeans and put on a pretty dress, then get in the car. You’ll be here by one.’ ‘How did you know I had jeans on?’ Jo had begun to smile. ‘I’m psychic.’ Ceecliff’s tone was dry. ‘Now, no more talking. Just come.’ There was a click as she rang off and Jo was left staring down at the receiver in her hand. Bet Gunning turned over in bed and ran a languid hand over Tim Heacham’s chest. ‘Much drunker, and you wouldn’t have been able to make it, my friend.’ Tim groaned. ‘If I had been much drunker, you could have been accused of necrophilia! If you have any sense of decency at all, Ms Gunning, you’ll fix me one of your magic prairie oysters in the kitchen and shut up.’ Laughing, Bet sat up and lazily pulled on Tim’s discarded shirt over her lean figure. She wrinkled her nose fastidiously. ‘My God. This stinks!’ ‘Sweat, I expect.’ Tim closed his eyes. ‘Your fault for getting me so excited. Stick it under the shower and turn the tap on it. You can have special dispensation to wear my monogrammed bathrobe.’ He stretched luxuriously and grinned. Bet gave him an old-fashioned look as she padded out to the kitchen but she said nothing. She was too content. In a few moments she was back with a tray containing two coffee mugs and a glass. She watched as Tim drank down the mixture pulling a series of agonised faces, then she held out her hand for the glass. ‘Now. Coffee and then a cold shower. That will get you compos mentis.’ ‘Sadistic bitch.’ Tim patted her knee fondly as she sat down next to him. ‘Is this what makes you such a good editor? Rouse them, satisfy them, give them their medicine, kiss them better and send them away!’ She laughed. ‘So you think I sleep with my staff as well?’ ‘It’s the general word. And all your ancillary acolytes – like me. But only the men, of course, as far as I know.’ Bet reached forward and tugged his hair. ‘Shut up, Tim! Now if you want to talk shop tell me how you are getting on with Jo’s pictures. Have you started on them yet?’ ‘Of course. But I thought the deadline wasn’t for months.’ ‘It isn’t.’ Bet inserted her legs beneath the sheet next to his and ran an exploratory finger across his solar plexus. Tim flopped back against the pillows and pushed her hand away. ‘No go, love. Don’t even hope. I’ve had it!’ He grinned at her fondly. ‘I took some super pictures of a woman being hypnotised to think she was a nineteenth-century street girl. I’ll show you the contacts. The only trouble with that article from my point of view is that however glamorous and exciting the stories these people are telling, basically they are still just Mr and Mrs Bloggs sitting there in a chair. But it is a tremendous challenge – to catch those faces and make your readers see in them the reflection of whatever character is inhabiting the person’s mind at that moment.’ ‘If anyone can do it, you can.’ Bet lay back on her elbow beside him and reached for her cup. ‘You know Jo was regressed herself once?’ ‘Yes. She told me about it. It was a failure. All that guff Judy sounded off was jealous rubbish.’ Bet shook her head. ‘Not so. Nick talked to me about it a couple of weeks back. He begged me to kill the article. According to him Jo nearly died under hypnosis.’ Tim sat up. ‘For Christ’s sake –’ Bet smiled. ‘He overreacts. It would make a better article, you must admit, if Jo could say it had happened to her. I have a feeling it could be a tremendous story when she gets round to it. Jo is nothing if not honest. If something strange happens to her she’ll write about it.’ ‘Even if it’s published posthumously?’ Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. ‘My God, Bet! I thought you were Jo’s friend! Would you really want something awful to happen to her just to make a good story?’ He reached for his trousers and pulled them on. ‘Bloody hell!’ Bet laughed. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. I want some action. I want to see Jo up against something she can’t debunk, just for once. I want to see how she handles an article which really stirs her up. It’ll do her good. I suspect Nick resents her success. He’s jealous of her independence. That’s why they split up, so a plea from him to call off the article comes over to me as very suspicious. She doesn’t need his help – or his hindrance. Oh yes, I am her friend, sweetie, probably her best friend.’ ‘Then God help her.’ Tim tugged open a drawer and pulled out a black cashmere sweater, drawing it down awkwardly over his head. ‘With you and Judy Curzon for friends who else does she need!’ ‘Well there’s always you, isn’t there?’ Bet took another sip from her coffee. ‘You wouldn’t be entertaining me so enthusiastically if you thought you could lay your sticky little hands on our Jo, would you, my love?’ Tim flushed a dusky red as he turned away. ‘Crap. Jo’s never had eyes for anyone but Nick since I’ve known her.’ He stared into the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘More fool her then, because Nick is playing the field. Where are you going?’ ‘Sunday or not, I have work to do. Are you going to cook me lunch?’ Bet stretched, snuggling back under the covers. ‘Why not? Who were you in your previous life, Tim, do you know?’ Tim turned and looked down at her. ‘Funnily enough I think I do.’ Bet’s eyes grew round. ‘You are joking?’ ‘No.’ ‘Well?’ She sat up, the sheet pulled up tightly round her breasts. ‘Who were you?’ He grinned. ‘If I told you that, my love, I’d regret the indiscretion for the rest of my life. Now, you may go back to sleep for exactly forty-one minutes, then you get up and put the joint on. I should be finished in the darkroom in an hour.’ With a wave he ducked out of the bedroom and ran down the spiral stairs to the studio below. The north London traffic was heavy, and Jo was impatient, but she was so preoccupied she barely noticed the queueing cars and the heavy pall of fumes under the brassy blue sky. It was not until eventually the road widened and the cars began to thin that she started to relax and look round her. The air became lush with country summer: blossom, thick and scented on the trees, rich new green leaves, hedgerows smothered in cow parsley and hawthorn, while overhead the sky arched in an intensity of blue that never showed itself in London. Jo smiled to herself, turning off the main road to make her way through the lanes towards Long Melford. She always felt light-headed and free when she arrived in Suffolk. Perhaps it was the air or the thought of seeing Ceecliff, or perhaps it was only the fact that she was nearly always faint with hunger by the time she reached her grandmother’s house. She turned down the winding drive which led towards the mellow, pinkwashed house and drew up slowly outside the front door. Nick’s Porsche was parked in the shade beneath the chestnut tree. She sat and stared at it for a moment, then angrily she threw open the car door and climbed out. Nick must have heard the scrunch of her car tyres on the gravel for he appeared almost at once around the corner of the house. He was in shirt-sleeves, looking relaxed and rested as he grinned at her and raised his hand in greeting. ‘You’re just in time for a drink.’ ‘What are you doing here?’ Her anger had evaporated as fast as it had come and there was a strange tightness in her throat as she looked at him. Hastily she turned away to pull her bag out of the car. She held it against her chest and wrapped her arms around it defensively. ‘I needed to talk to your grandmother, so I rang her up and came down last night.’ He stopped six feet from her, looking at her closely. She had unfastened her hair, letting it fall loosely over her shoulders in an informal style which suited her far better than her usual severe line, and she had changed into a soft clinging dress of peacock-blue silk before leaving home. She looked, Nick thought suddenly, very fragile and very beautiful. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her. ‘She’s in the garden at the back with the sherry bottle. Come on round.’ ‘What was so important you suddenly have to drive out to Suffolk to talk about it?’ Jo asked mildly. Nick was silent for a moment, still staring at her. Then he shook his head slowly. ‘I thought I’d do some research for you.’ He grinned. ‘Guess who came from Clare, just round the corner?’ He began to lead the way across the gravel. Jo followed him. ‘You came here to check on that?’ she said in disbelief. Nick shrugged. ‘Well no, not exactly. I wanted to talk mainly. And I admit it, I told Ceecliff not to say anything about me when she rang you. I wanted to talk to you too and I thought you might not come if you knew I was here.’ ‘It’s a pity she didn’t mention you,’ Jo retorted. ‘Your girlfriend was with me when she rang. You could have had a word with her and put her mind at rest. She clearly thought I had hidden you under my bed.’ ‘Judy was at your flat this morning?’ Nick frowned. Jo had begun to walk towards the garden at the back of the house. The grass was soft, scented beneath her sandals, with patches of damp velvety moss and strewn with daisies. ‘She was just telling me that your brother had confided to her that I was schizophrenic and would need to be locked up soon.’ Nick laughed. ‘I hope you didn’t believe her. I’m afraid you seem to bring out the worst in Judy.’ He was following her now, round the corner of the house. ‘Jo, I think there’s something I should explain. Wait a minute, please.’ He caught her arm. ‘There’s no explaining to do, Nick.’ Jo turned to him, pulling herself free. ‘You and I have split up. You have a new woman in your life. The night before last you were kind enough to help me out for old times’ sake, when I was feeling a bit frayed, but as soon as someone else turned up to sort me out, you went back to Judy. End of story. Lucky Judy. Only I wish you would explain to her she need not feel so insecure.’ She could feel a sudden warm breeze stirring her hair as she walked on towards the walnut tree near the willow-shaded pond where her grandmother was sitting in a deckchair. On the horizon white cumulus was beginning to mass into tall thunderheads. She bent and kissed Ceecliff’s cheek. ‘That was unfair to trap me into coming here. Nick and I have nothing to talk about.’ Ceecliff surveyed her from piercingly bright dark eyes. ‘I would have thought you had a great deal to talk about. And if he hasn’t, I have! Nick has told me about your amazing experiences, Jo.’ She reached up and took her granddaughter’s hand. ‘I want to hear all about them. You mustn’t be frightened of what happened. You have been privileged.’ Jo stared at her. ‘You sound as if you believe in reincarnation.’ ‘I think I must. Of a kind.’ Ceecliff smiled. ‘Come on. Sit down and have a sherry and relax. You’re as taut as a wire! Nicholas came up last night to talk to me about you. He was worried that you’re trying to do too much, Jo. And I agree with him. From what he’s told me, I think you need to rest. You must not try and venture into your past again.’ ‘Oh, so that’s it.’ Jo levered herself back out of the deckchair she had settled into. ‘He came here to get you to talk me out of going on with my researches. Part of the great Franklyn conspiracy. I wish you would all get it into your heads that this is no one’s business but mine. What I do with my mind and my memory, or whatever it is, is my affair. I am a sober, consenting, rational adult. I make my own decisions.’ Ceecliff was looking up at her as she talked. She grinned impishly. ‘There you are, Nicholas. I told you she’d say that.’ Nick shrugged ruefully. ‘You did. But it was worth a try.’ He handed Jo a glass. ‘So come on, Jo. You haven’t told us whether you found anything out in the library yesterday. We are all agog.’ Jo stared at him in feigned astonishment. ‘Are you telling me now that you’re interested? You amaze me! You weren’t so interested yesterday when you couldn’t wait to leave and go back to Judy!’ She had forgotten her grandmother, seated between them. ‘I only went because Sam said I had to, for God’s sake!’ Nick’s face was flushed with anger. ‘Don’t you think I wanted to stay? If he hadn’t pulled rank and reminded me you were his patient I’d have waited all day to make sure you were all right.’ Jo put her glass down on the tray so abruptly the sherry spilled onto the silver, spattering into amber droplets. ‘He said I was his patient?’ she echoed. Her face had gone white. Ceecliff had been watching them both intently. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it literally, dear,’ she put in hastily. ‘I expect he meant that as you had both called him in for his advice he would like the opportunity of talking to Jo alone.’ ‘I didn’t call him in!’ Jo glared at Nick repressively. ‘It was Nick’s idea.’ ‘Because he is obviously enormously concerned about you.’ Stiffly Ceecliff pulled herself to her feet. ‘Now, no more fighting, children. I wish to enjoy my lunch. Come inside and later Jo can tell us what she found out about her Matilda.’ They took their coffee in the conservatory at the back of the house as huge clouds massed and foamed over the garden, blotting out a sky which had become brazen with heat. Ceecliff sent Nick out to bring in the garden chairs as the rain began to fall in huge sparse drops, pitting the surface of the pond. Then she turned to Jo. ‘You’re going to drive that young man straight into her arms, you know!’ Jo was pouring the coffee, frowning with concentration as she handled the tall silver pot. ‘It’s where he wants to be.’ ‘No, Jo, it isn’t. Can’t you see it?’ Ceecliff leaned forward and helped herself to a cup from the tray. ‘You are being very stubborn. Especially as you obviously love him. You do, don’t you?’ Jo sat down on the window-seat, her back to the garden. ‘I don’t know,’ she said bleakly. Her hands were lying loosely in her lap. She stared blankly down at them, suddenly overwhelmingly tired. ‘I’m not sure what I feel any more about anyone. I’m not sure I even know what I feel about myself.’ ‘That’s ridiculous.’ Ceecliff leaned forward and picking up Jo’s cup put it into her hands. ‘Drink that and listen to me. You’re getting things out of perspective.’ ‘Am I?’ Jo bit her lip. ‘Either Nick or Sam lied to me and I don’t know which.’ ‘All men are liars, Jo.’ Ceecliff smiled sadly. ‘Haven’t you discovered that yet?’ The rain was growing stronger now, releasing the warm scents of wet earth which reached them even through the conservatory windows. Jo could see Nick hastily stacking the deckchairs in the summerhouse. ‘That’s a bit cynical, even for you, Grandma.’ She reached forward and touched the old woman’s hand as Nick sprinted back towards them across the grass. Behind him the horizon flickered and shifted slightly before Jo’s eyes. She blinked, watching as he opened the door and came in, shaking himself like a dog. He was laughing as she handed him a cup of coffee. ‘You’re soaked, Nick,’ she said sharply. ‘You’d better take off your shirt or you’ll get pneumonia or something.’ He spooned some sugar into the cup and sat down beside her. ‘It’ll soon dry off, it’s so hot. Go on with what you were telling us at lunch, Ceecliff, about Jo’s grandfather.’ Ceecliff leaned back against the cushions on her chair. ‘I wish you remembered him better, Jo, but you were only a little girl when he died. He used to love talking about his ancestors and the Clifford family tree, which was more of a forest, he used to say. The trouble is I never used to listen all that carefully. It bored me. It was about yesterday and I wanted to live today.’ She paused as another zigzag of lightning flickered behind the walnut tree. ‘I didn’t realise how soon the present becomes the past. Perhaps I’d have listened more if I had.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘Sorry. You’ll have to allow for an old lady’s maudlin tendencies. Now, what I was saying was that hearing you talking about your William de Braose being a baron on the Welsh borders reminded me that of course that is where the Clifford family originally came from. I’ll find Reggie’s papers and give them to you, Jo. You might as well have them and you may find them interesting now you have decided the past could have something to recommend it, even if it is only a handsome son of the Clares.’ Again the impish twinkle. She sighed. ‘But now you are going to have to excuse me because I am going to lie down for a couple of hours. One of the compensations of old age is being able to admit to being tired and then do something about it.’ With Nick’s help she pulled herself out of the low chair in which she had been sitting and walked back slowly through into the house. ‘She’s not tired,’ Jo said as soon as she was out of hearing. ‘She has ten times more energy than I have.’ ‘She thinks she is being tactful.’ Nick stooped over the tray and poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘She thinks we should be given the chance to be alone.’ ‘How wrong she is, then,’ Jo said quickly. She flinched as another shaft of lightning crossed the sky. It was followed by a distant rumble of thunder. ‘There’s nothing we need to talk about that she wouldn’t be welcome to join in.’ The heaviness of the afternoon was closing over her, dragging her down. Her eyelids were leaden. She forced them open. Nick was standing with his back to her, looking at the rain sweeping in across the garden. ‘I do have to talk to you alone,’ he said slowly. ‘And I think you know it.’ Jo moved across to her grandmother’s vacated chair and threw herself into it. ‘Well, now is not the moment. Oh God, how I hate thunder! It’s thundered practically every day this week!’ Nick turned and looked at her. ‘You never used to mind it.’ ‘Oh, I don’t mean I’m afraid of it. It just makes me feel so headachy and tense. Perhaps I’m just tired. I was working all last night.’ She closed her eyes. Nick put down his cup. He moved to stand behind her chair and, gently resting his hands on her shoulders, he began to massage the back of her neck with his thumbs. Jo relaxed, feeling the warmth of his fingers through the thin silk of her dress, the circling motion easing the pain in her head as a squall of wind beneath the storm centre sent a flurry of rain against the glass of the conservatory. Suddenly she stiffened. For a moment she could not breathe. She tried to open her eyes but the hands on her shoulders had slipped forward, encircling her throat, pressing her windpipe till she was choking. She half rose, grasping at his wrists, fighting him in panic, clawing at his face and arms, then, as another rumble of thunder cut through the heat of the afternoon she felt herself falling. Frantically she tried to catch her breath, but it was no use. Her arms were growing heavy and there was a strange buzzing in her ears. Why, Nick, why? Her lips framed the words, but no sound came as slowly she began the long spiral down into suffocating blackness. 12 (#ulink_27db5588-4fa9-5e38-b85f-22798df95c7a) Two faces swam before her gaze. Absently she tried to focus on them, her mind groping with amorphous images as first one pair of eyes and then the other floated towards her, merged, then drifted apart once more. The mouths beneath the eyes were moving. They were speaking, but she couldn’t hear them; she couldn’t think. All she could feel was the dull pain of the contusions which fogged her throat. Experimentally she tried to speak, but nothing happened as she raised a hand towards one of the faces – the blue eyes, the red-gold moustache, the deep furrowed lines across the forehead coming sharply into focus. It drew back out of reach and she groped towards the other. It was younger, smoother, the eyes lighter. ‘I’ve phoned Dr Graham.’ A woman’s voice spoke near her, the diction clear, echoing in the hollow spaces of her head. ‘He was at home, thank God, not on that damn golf course! He’ll be here in five minutes. How is she?’ Jo frowned. Ceecliff. That was Ceecliff, standing close to her, behind the two men. She breathed in slowly and saw her grandmother’s face near hers. Swallowing painfully, she tried once more to speak. ‘What happened?’ she managed to murmur after a moment. As Ceecliff sat down beside her Jo realised she was lying on the sofa in the dimly lit living room. Her grandmother’s cool, dry hand took hers. ‘You fainted, you silly girl. Just like a Victorian Miss!’ ‘Who’s there?’ Jo looked past her into the shadows. ‘It’s me, Jo.’ Nick’s voice was taut. ‘Why is it so dark?’ Jo levered herself up against the cushions, her head spinning. ‘There’s the mother and father of a storm going on, dear,’ Ceecliff said after a moment. ‘It’s dark as doomsday in here. Put the lights on, Nick.’ Her voice sharpened. The three table lamps threw a warm, wintry light in the humid bleakness of the room. Through the window-panes the sound of the rain was deafening on the broad leaves of the hostas in the bed outside. ‘Where’s the doctor?’ Jo stared round. ‘He’s not here yet, Jo.’ Ceecliff smiled at her gravely. ‘But I saw him –’ ‘No, dear.’ Ceecliff glanced at Nick. ‘Listen. That must be his car now.’ Above the sound of the rain they could all hear the scrunch of tyres on the gravel. Moments later the glass door of the entrance hall opened and a stout figure let himself into the hall. Ceecliff stood up. She met David Graham in the dim, heavily beamed dining room, which smelled of pot pourri and roses, and put her finger to her lips. ‘It’s my granddaughter, David,’ she murmured as he shook himself like a dog and shed his Burberry on the mellow oak boards. David Graham was a fair-haired man of about sixty, dressed, despite the heat, in a tweed jacket and woollen tie. He kissed her fondly. ‘It’s probably the storm, Celia. They affect some people like this, you know. Unless it’s your cooking. You haven’t been giving her that curry you gave Jocelyn and me, have you?’ He did not wait to see her mock indignation. His case in his hand, he was already moving towards the door of the living room. Nick smiled down at Jo uncertainly. ‘I’ll leave you both to it, shall I?’ ‘Please.’ David Graham looked at him searchingly for a moment, noting the tension of Nick’s face – tension and exhaustion, and something else. Putting down his case beside Jo, he waited until Nick had closed the door behind him. Guilt, that was it; Nick Franklyn had looked guilty. He sat down beside Jo and grinned at her, picking up her wrist. ‘Do you make a habit of this sort of thing, my dear?’ he asked quietly. Jo shook her head. ‘It’s never happened before. I’m beginning to feel such a fraud. It’s just the storm, I’m sure. They always make me feel strung up and headachy.’ ‘And you’re not pregnant as far as you know?’ He smiled. ‘Certainly not! And before you ask I’ve given up smoking. Nearly.’ ‘There’s something wrong with your throat?’ She moved away from him slightly on the sofa. ‘A bit painful, that’s all. I expect I’m getting a cold.’ ‘Humph.’ The doctor bent to open his bag. He withdrew a wooden spatula. ‘Open up. Let’s have a look, shall we?’ Her throat was agony. Not sore. Not raw, but bruised and aching. Without registering any emotion at all the doctor put down the spatula and reached for a thermometer. When it was in her mouth he brought his hands up gently to her neck and, brushing aside her hair, he felt beneath her ears and under her chin with cool impersonal fingers. Jo could feel her hands shaking. ‘What is it?’ she said as soon as she could speak. He held the thermometer up to the green-shaded table lamp and squinted viciously as he tried to see the mercury. ‘I’m always telling Celia to get some proper lights in this damn room. In the evening you can’t tell your gin from the goldfish water. It is thirty-seven which is exactly what it ought to be. Your pulse is a bit above average for a Sunday afternoon, even in a storm, though. Let’s try some blood pressure shall we?’ ‘But my throat?’ Jo said. ‘What’s wrong with my throat?’ ‘Nothing that I can see.’ He was rummaging in his case. ‘Where does it hurt?’ ‘It aches. Here.’ She raised her hand to her neck while her eyes focused on the little pump in his hand as he inflated the cuff around her arm. It was all coming back to her. She had been in the conservatory with Nick. He had stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, then slowly he – or somebody – had slid them up around her throat and begun to squeeze … She could remember what happened quite clearly now. It was Nick. It had to have been Nick. No one else was there. Nick had tried to kill her! She felt sick. Nick wouldn’t hurt her. It wasn’t possible. It must have all been some hideous nightmare. She swallowed painfully. But it was too real for a nightmare. She realised suddenly that the doctor was watching her face and turned away sharply. ‘Is it high?’ she asked as he folded away his equipment. ‘A little, perhaps. Nothing to get excited about.’ He paused. ‘Something is wrong, my dear, isn’t it? You look worried. Is there something you ought to be telling me?’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing, Dr Graham. Except that perhaps I should own up to a few late nights, working. I expect that could make me feel a bit odd, couldn’t it?’ He frowned. ‘I expect it could.’ He waited as though he expected her to say more. When she didn’t he went on, ‘I can’t explain the throat. Perhaps you’re getting one of these summer viruses. Gargle. That will help, and I suggest you take it easy for a bit. Spend a few days here, perhaps.’ Smiling, he stood up. ‘Not that Celia is my idea of a peaceful companion, but this is a good house to rest in. It’s a happy house. Better than London, I’ll be bound. If it happens again, go and see your own doctor.’ ‘Thank you.’ Pushing herself up, Jo managed to stand. Outside the window there was another pale flicker of lightning. ‘I’m sorry my grandmother called you out in this.’ He laughed as he picked up his case. ‘If she hadn’t I’d have slept through it and kicked myself for not closing the vents in the greenhouse, so she did me a favour! Now, remember what I said. Take it easy for a bit. And do see your own doctor if you go on feeling at all unwell …’ He gave her a piercing glance, then with a nod he turned to the door. As soon as he had stepped out into the hall Jo turned to the sideboard. The lamp shed a green, muted light behind it towards the mirror, and tipping the shade violently so that the naked light of the bulb shone onto her face Jo stood on tiptoe, peering at the glass. Her reflection was white and stark, her eyes shadowed and huge in the uncompromising light. Leaning forward she held her hair up away from her neck and peered at it. Her skin looked normal. There were no marks there. ‘Jo! You’re burning the silk on that shade!’ Ceecliff’s cry made her jump. Hastily she put it straight, noticing guiltily the brown mark already showing on the lining. She could smell the scorched fabric. ‘What on earth were you doing?’ ‘Just looking at my throat.’ Jo glanced behind her grandmother. ‘Where is Nick?’ ‘He’s holding an umbrella over David while he gets in the car. I suppose you won’t do what David suggests and stay here for a few days?’ Jo sighed. ‘You know I can’t. I’m too busy.’ ‘Then you’ll have some tea before you let Nick drive you home –’ ‘No!’ Ceecliff stared at her in astonishment. ‘Jo dear –’ ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt.’ Jo swallowed. ‘It’s just that I don’t want Nick to drive me.’ ‘Well you can’t drive yourself, Joey. David was quite clear about that.’ Ceecliff’s tone was surprisingly firm. ‘You stay here or you go with Nick.’ Jo glanced towards the door. Her lips had gone dry. She took a deep breath. ‘Who was the man in here as I came round?’ Ceecliff had turned away, patting her injured lampshade with a proprietorial hand. ‘There was no one else in here, Jo. Only Nick and I.’ Jo crossed to the door, steadying herself with her hand on the back of a chair. Swiftly she closed it. Leaning against it she looked at Ceecliff. ‘Someone tried to strangle me this afternoon.’ Her grandmother pursed her lips. ‘Jo, dear –’ ‘I am not imagining it. Out there in the conservatory. Nick was massaging my shoulders. Then –’ She shrugged wildly. ‘Someone tried to kill me!’ ‘Nick was the only person there, Jo.’ Ceecliff came towards her slowly and put her hands on Jo’s arms. ‘Are you accusing Nick?’ She was scandalised. ‘No, of course not.’ Jo’s voice had fallen to a whisper. ‘Did you tell David all this?’ ‘I said my neck hurt.’ Jo shook her head. ‘I think he would have been able to tell, Jo, if anyone had tried to kill you. There would have been bruises on your throat for one thing.’ Ceecliff moved towards the sofa and sat down on the edge of it. ‘I think Nick was right to be worried about this hypnosis, Jo. You are too susceptible –’ Jo flung herself away from the door. ‘This has nothing to do with the hypnosis! I wasn’t imagining it! You would know if someone had tried to kill you!’ She put her hands to her throat. ‘There was someone else there. Someone else, Ceecliff. It can’t have been Nick. He wouldn’t … He wouldn’t want to kill me. Besides, there was someone else in the room when I woke up. You must have seen him. You must! For God’s sake, he was standing right behind Nick!’ ‘Joey, there was no one there,’ Ceecliff said gently. ‘If there had been, I would have seen him.’ ‘You think I’m imagining it?’ ‘I think you’re tired, emotionally upset, and what we as children used to call thunder-strung.’ Ceecliff smiled. She turned as Nick pushed open the door. He went straight to Jo, who had tensed nervously as he came into the room. ‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She forced herself to smile at him. ‘But she is going to let you drive her back, Nick, after you’ve both had some tea,’ Ceecliff said firmly. ‘She can come and pick up her car another time.’ Jo swallowed. Her eyes had gone automatically to Nick’s hands, resting on the back of the chair. They were firm, strong hands, tanned from sailing, slightly stained now with lichen from the rain-soaked wood of the summerhouse door. As if feeling her gaze on them Nick slipped them into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never had a woman faint at my feet before. It was all very dramatic. And you still look very pale.’ Ceecliff stood up. ‘She’s fine,’ she said firmly. ‘You know where the kitchen is, Nick? Go and put the kettle on for me, there’s a dear. I’ll be out in a minute.’ As he left the room, Jo caught her hand. ‘Don’t tell Nick what I said, will you. He’ll think it is something to do with the hypnosis too, and I’m not going to fight with him all the way back to London.’ Ceecliff smiled. ‘I shan’t tell him, Jo. But I think you should,’ she said slowly. ‘I really think you should.’ The storm crackled viciously across Hyde Park, highlighting the lush green of the trees against the bruised sky. Sam stood looking out of the window of Nick’s flat in South Audley Street feeling the claustrophobia of London all around him. He sighed. If it weren’t for that keyhole glimpse of the park up the narrow street in front of the flat, he would not be able to stay here. It calmed and restored the quiet sanity of self-perception. He spared a moment’s regretful thought for his high-ceilinged flat in Edinburgh with its glorious view across the Queen’s Park towards the Salisbury Crags, then turning from the window he drew the curtains against the storm and switched on the light. Throwing himself down on the sofa, he picked up his third glass of Scotch and reached for the pile of books stacked on the coffee table. The first which came to hand was A History of Wales by John Edward Lloyd, M.A., volume two. Turning to the index he began to look for William de Braose. ‘What the hell is wrong, Jo?’ Nick glanced across at her as he swung the car at last onto the M11. The windscreen wipers were cutting great arcs in the wet carpets of rain which swept towards them off the road. For the second time, as he reached forward to slot a new cassette into place, he had noticed her shrink away from his hand. And she was obviously having trouble with her throat. With an effort she smiled. ‘Sorry. I’m still feeling rather odd. My head is splitting.’ She closed her eyes as the car filled with the bright cold notes of Vivaldi. Don’t talk. Don’t let him see you’re afraid. It did not happen. It was a hallucination – or imagination. Nick is no killer and the other … the face with the hard, angry blue eyes and the beard. It was not a face she knew. Not from this world, nor from that other time of wind and snow and spinning distances. It was not William, nor the young and handsome Richard. It was a double vision; a dream. Part of the dream where someone had tried to kill her. Something out of her own imagination, like the pain. ‘The traffic is building.’ Nick’s voice hung for a moment in the silence, coming from a long way away as the tape came to an end. He leaned forward and switched it off before it had a chance to start playing again. ‘You should have stayed with Celia. You’re worn out, you know.’ She forced her eyes open, realising that the engine was idling. Cars were round them on every side; the end-of-weekend rush back to London, earlier than usual because of the bad weather, had brought the traffic to a standstill. ‘You’ve been asleep.’ He glanced across at her. ‘Do you feel any better?’ The light in the sky was already fading. Jo eased her position slightly in the seat. ‘I’ll be OK. I’m sorry I’m being such a nuisance. I can’t think what came over me.’ ‘That damn hypnosis came over you.’ Nick eased the car forward a few yards behind the car in front and braked. His elbow out of the open window, he drummed his fingers in irritation on the roof above his head. ‘I hope this has finally convinced you, Jo, of the idiocy of persisting with this research. Sam must have spelled out the risks for you.’ Jo coloured angrily. ‘What the devil has my fainting to do with the fact that I was hypnotised a couple of days ago? Oh Nick, drop the subject, please!’ She hunched her shoulders defensively. How was it possible to feel so many conflicting emotions for the man sitting next to her? Love. Anger. Despair. And now fear. Real fear, which would not listen to the reason which told her it was groundless. She knew Nick had not tried to kill her. The thought was farcical. But if not his, then whose were the hands which had encircled her neck? And if they had been imaginary, then why had she imagined them? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps being hypnotised had some delayed effect. Some dangerous, delayed effect. She shuddered violently. Half of her wanted to beg Nick to pull onto the hard shoulder and put his arms around her and hold her safe, but even as she glanced towards him she felt again that irrational shiver of fear. It was another hour before they turned into Cornwall Gardens. She had already extricated her key from her bag and was clutching it tightly in her hand as the car drew to a halt and she swung the door open. ‘Please, Nick, don’t come in.’ She almost threw herself onto the pavement. ‘I’m going to take an aspirin and go to bed. I’ll call you, OK?’ She slammed the door and ran towards the steps, not looking round to see if he followed. She had banged the front door shut behind her before he had levered himself out of the car. Nick shrugged. He stood where he was in the middle of the road, his hand resting on the car’s roof, waiting until he saw the lights go on in the room behind the first-floor balcony doors, then he climbed back in and drove away. He was very worried. Jo double-locked the door behind her. Throwing down her bag she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Flu. It had to be flu. That would explain everything. A horrible, vicious summer flu which had given her a few fleeting moments of delirium before changing direction and locating in her throat. She found a Beecham’s Powder in the back of the cupboard and tipped it into a glass, filling it up with hot water. Carrying the glass into the bathroom, she turned on the taps full and began to take off her dress. The mirror steamed over. As she stepped into the warm silky water she could feel her headache already beginning to relax its grip and cautiously she sipped the liquid. It made her feel slightly sick, but she forced herself to drink it all and then she lay back, staring up at the fawn patterned tiles on the bathroom walls with their delicate misty swirls. It was twenty minutes before she walked slowly into her bedroom, wrapped in her bathrobe, and pulled the heavy sash windows up. Outside, the night was very warm and still. Darkness had come early with the heavy cloud and there was an almost tropical humidity about the air. She could hear the sound of flamenco coming from the mews and, suddenly, a roar of laughter out of the dark. Half drawing the curtains, she switched on her bedside light with a sigh and untied her bathrobe, slipping it from her bare shoulders. The light was dim and the small antique mirror which stood on her low chest was the other side of the room, but even from where she stood she could see. Her body was evenly tanned save for the slight bikini mark, but now there were other marks, marks which had not been there before. Her neck was swollen, and covered with angry bruises. For a moment she could not move. She could not breathe. She stood transfixed, her eyes on the mirror, then she ran naked to the bathroom, dragging the main pull-switch on, flooding the room with harsh cold light from the fluorescent strip in the ceiling. She grabbed her bath towel and frantically scrubbed at the condensation which still clung to the large mirror, then she looked at herself again. Her neck was violently bruised. She could even make out the individual fingermarks in the contusions on the front of her throat. She stared at herself for a long time before walking slowly to the living room and, kneeling down beside the phone, which still lay on the coffee table, she did not even realise she had memorised Carl Bennet’s number until she had dialled it. There was a series of clicks, then the answering machine spoke. Jo slammed the receiver down and glanced up at the clock on her desk. It was nearly midnight. For a moment she contemplated ringing Sam. Her fingers hovered over the dial, then her hands dropped to her sides. Nick might have gone back to the flat, and besides, she knew without a shadow of doubt that whatever Sam or Nick might think she had made up her mind to return to Carl Bennet. Slowly she made her way back towards her bedroom. She was shaking violently, beads of perspiration standing out on her forehead. Somewhere in the distance she heard a rumble of thunder. The storm was coming back. She walked to the window and stood looking out at the London night. It was only at the sound of a soft appreciative whistle from somewhere in the banks of dark windows behind the mews that she realised she was standing there naked in the lamplight. With a wry smile she turned away and switched off the light, then she climbed into bed and lay staring up at the darkness. It was very early when she woke and the room was cold and fresh from the wide-open windows. Shivering, Jo got up and put on her robe. For a moment she did not dare look at her reflection in the mirror. The pain in her throat had gone as had her headache and all she felt now was an overwhelming longing for coffee. In the bathroom she dashed cold water over her face and reached for her toothbrush. Only then did she raise her eyes to the mirror. There wasn’t a single mark on her throat. At the flat in South Audley Street the following evening Nick threw himself down into the armchair facing the windows and held out his hand for the drink Sam had poured for him. ‘I see it didn’t take you long to find my booze,’ he said with weary good humour. ‘You can afford it.’ Sam looked at him enquiringly. ‘So, what did you want to see me about? It must be important if it brings you here from the lovely Miss Curzon.’ Nick sat forward, clasping his glass loosely between his fingers. He sighed. ‘I haven’t seen Judy for two days, Sam. If you want to know, I spent last night in an hotel. I went to Judy’s then I couldn’t face going in.’ He paused. ‘I want to talk to you about Jo. How did you find her on Saturday?’ ‘Tense. Excitable. Hostile.’ Sam was thoughtful. ‘But not, I think, in any danger. She was thrown by what happened at Dr Bennet’s, but quite capable of handling it, as far as it went on that occasion.’ ‘But you are worried about her being hypnotised again?’ Sam swirled the ice cubes around in his glass. ‘I am worried, yes, and I spoke to Bennet this morning about it.’ He glanced at Nick. ‘Unfortunately the man was on the defensive. He seemed to think I was trying to interfere and spouted a whole bag of crap about medical ethics at me. However, I shall persevere with him in case Jo goes back to him. Tell me, why are you still so interested? I should have thought the beautiful Miss Curzon took up most of your time these days, and if she doesn’t, she ought to!’ Nick stood up. ‘I still care for Jo, Sam, and there is something wrong. On Sunday she and I went to Suffolk. She was taken ill –’ He stood staring out of the window towards the park as he drained his glass. ‘There was something very strange about what happened. We were talking during a violent thunderstorm and she had some kind of fit. The local quack said it was exhaustion, but I’m not so sure he was right.’ Putting his glass down, he held his hands out in front of him, flexing the fingers one by one. ‘I think it was in some way related to what happened at Bennet’s on Friday.’ Slowly Sam shook his head. ‘I doubt it. What were you doing in Suffolk anyway?’ He was watching Nick carefully. ‘Just visiting Jo’s grandmother.’ ‘I see.’ Sam stood up abruptly. ‘So, you’re still in with the family, are you? Nice, rich, respectable Nick! Does grandma know you’re living with someone else?’ ‘I expect so.’ Nick stared at him, astonished at his sudden vehemence. ‘Jo tells her most things. Sam, about Jo’s illness –’ ‘I’ll go over and see her.’ ‘You can’t. She’s taken the phone off the hook and she’s not answering the door.’ ‘You tried?’ ‘Earlier this evening.’ ‘She wasn’t ill –’ Nick laughed wryly. ‘Not too ill to tell me to bugger off over the intercom.’ Sam smiled. ‘In that case I should stop worrying. The whole thing will have blown over in another few days. She’ll write her article and forget all about it. And I’ll have a word with Bennet to make sure he won’t see her again, just in case she does take it into her head to try. But I’m not taking any of this regression bit too seriously and neither should you. As to the fainting fit, it probably was heat exhaustion. A day’s rest and she will be right as rain.’ Nick did not look particularly convinced as he turned his back on the sunset and held out his glass for a refill. ‘That is what she said when I dropped her off on Sunday night.’ ‘Then she’s a sensible girl. Hold on, I’ll get some more ice.’ Sam disappeared towards the kitchen. With a sigh Nick walked over to the coffee table and picked up the top book on the pile which was there. It was a biography of King John, borrowed from the London Library. Surprised, he flipped it open at the place at the back, marked by an envelope. There, in the voluminous index, underlined in red pencil, was the name Briouse, Matilda of. Putting the book down, he glanced curiously at the others. A two-volume history of Wales, the Everyman edition of Gerald of Wales’s Itinerary and Poole’s volume of The Oxford History of England. ‘Phew!’ Nick let out a quiet whistle. Gently he put the books back in place and moved away from the table. ‘So, you’re not taking it seriously, brother mine,’ he whispered thoughtfully. ‘Like hell you’re not!’ It was Tuesday morning before Carl Bennet could see Jo. Sarah Simmons was waiting, as before, at the head of the stairs, her restrained manner barely hiding her excitement as she led Jo through into Bennet’s consulting room. He was waiting for her by the open window, his glasses in his hand. ‘Joanna! I am so glad you came back.’ He eyed her as she walked towards him, noting the paleness of her face beneath her tan. Her smile, however, was cheerful as she shook hands with him. ‘I explained what happened on the phone,’ she said. ‘I had to come and find out why. If it had anything to do with the past, that is.’ He nodded. ‘Your throat was bruised, you said.’ Putting on his glasses he tipped her chin gently sideways and peered at her neck. ‘No one else saw this phenomenon?’ ‘No. It was gone by yesterday morning.’ ‘And there has been no recurrence of pain or any of the other symptoms?’ ‘None.’ She threw her canvas bag down on the chesterfield. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined the whole thing.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘We can’t be sure that it had anything at all to do with your regression, Joanna. It is, to be honest, so unlikely as to be almost impossible. It presupposes a degree of self-hypnosis on your part that I find hard to credit and even if that were possible, we had no intimations that anyone tried to strangle you in your previous existence. However –’ he drew his breath in with a hiss ‘– what I suggest is that we try another regression, but very differently this time. I propose to regress you to an earlier period. Your Matilda was scarcely more than a child when we met her last. Let us try and find her again when she is even younger, and when, hopefully,’ he grinned disarmingly, ‘the personality is less strong and more malleable. I intend to keep a tight control of the session this time, and before we start, whilst we drink our first cup of coffee – please, Sarah –’ he laughed in suppressed excitement, ‘I suggest that you and I draw up a list of questions which I can ask her. Knowing who she is and the period to which she belongs makes everything so much easier.’ He picked up a volume from his desk and held it out. ‘See.’ He was as pleased as a child. ‘I have brought a history book. Last night I read up the chapter on the reign of King Henry II and there are pictures, so I even know roughly about her clothes.’ Jo laughed. ‘You’ve done more research than me, then. Once I knew she was real, and what happened to her –’ She shivered. ‘I suppose I was more interested with the technicalities of regression originally and I never considered that it would really happen to me. Or how I would feel if it did. But now that it has, it’s so strange. It’s an invasion of my privacy, and I’m conscious all the time that there is someone else there in my head. Or was. I’m not sure I like the feeling.’ ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. People react in different ways. Interest, fear, resentment, complete disbelief, mild amusement. By far the most common reaction is to refuse to have anything more to do with regression.’ ‘For fear of becoming involved,’ Jo nodded almost absently. ‘But I am involved. Not only professionally, but, somehow, inside myself. Because I’ve shared such intimate emotions with her. Fear … pain … horror … love.’ She shook her head deprecatingly. ‘Am I being very gullible?’ ‘No,’ Bennet smiled. ‘You are sensitive. You empathise with the personality.’ ‘To the extent where I develop the symptoms I’m describing.’ Jo bit her lip. ‘But then while it’s happening I am Matilda, aren’t I?’ She paused again. ‘I don’t understand about my throat, but after Friday’s regression …’ She stopped in mid-sentence. If she told Bennet about Sam’s warning, he might refuse to risk hypnotising her again, and she did want very much to go back to Matilda’s life. She wanted to know what happened. ‘You’ve had other symptoms?’ Bennet persisted quietly. She looked away. ‘My fingers were very bruised. I hurt them on the stones of the castle wall, watching William kill those men …’ Her voice died away. ‘But they only felt bruised. There was nothing to see.’ He nodded. ‘Anything else?’ She could feel his eyes on her face as she took her coffee from Sarah and sipped it. Did the ability to hypnotise her mean he could read her thoughts as well? She bit her lip, deliberately trying to focus her attention elsewhere. ‘Only stray shivers and echoes. Nothing to worry about.’ She grinned at him sheepishly. ‘Nothing to put me off, I assure you. I would like to go back. Amongst other things I want to find out how she met Richard de Clare. Is it possible to be that specific in your questions?’ Had he guessed, she wondered, just how much, secretly, she longed to see Richard again? Bennet shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Why don’t we start and find out?’ He watched as she took out her tape recorder and set it on the ground beside her as she had done before, the microphone in her lap. She switched on the recorder then at last she lay back on the long leather sofa and closed her eyes. Every muscle was tense. She was hiding something from him. He knew that much. And more than that understandable desire to see Richard again. But what? He thought once again about the phone call he had had from Samuel Franklyn and he frowned. The call had come on Monday morning before Sarah had arrived and Sarah knew nothing about it. He had not allowed Franklyn to say much, but there had been enough to know that there was some kind of problem. He looked at his secretary, who had seated herself quietly once more in her corner, then he turned back to Jo. He licked his lips in concentration and taking a deep breath he began to talk. Jo listened intently. He was talking about the sun again. Today it was shining and the sky was clear and uncomplicated after the weekend of storms. But there was no light behind her eyelids now. Nothing. Her eyes flew open in a panic. ‘Nothing is happening,’ she said. ‘It isn’t going to work again. You’re not going to be able to do it!’ She pushed herself up against the slippery leather back of the sofa. The palms of her hands were damp. Bennet smiled calmly. ‘You’re trying too hard, Jo. You mustn’t try at all, my dear. Come, why not sit over here by the window?’ He pulled a chair forward from the wall and twisted it so that it had its back to the light. ‘Fine, now, we’ll do some little experiments on you to see how quick your eyes are. There’s no hurry. We have plenty of time. We might even decide to leave the regression until another day.’ He smiled as he felt under his desk for a switch which turned on a spotlight in the corner of the room. Automatically Jo’s eyes went towards it, but he had seen already that her knuckles on the arm of the chair were less white. ‘Is she as deeply under as before?’ Sarah’s cautious question some ten minutes later broke into a long silence. Bennet nodded. ‘She was afraid this time. She was subconsciously fighting me, every inch of the way. I wish I knew why.’ He looked at the list of questions in his hand, then he put it down on his desk. ‘Perhaps we’ll discover eventually. But now it just remains to find out if we can re-establish contact with the same personality at all! So often one can’t, the second time around.’ He chewed his lip for a second, eyeing Jo’s face. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Matilda,’ he said softly. ‘Matilda, my child. There are some things I want you to tell me about yourself.’ 13 (#ulink_31c13d5d-ba3b-5377-a34e-a1ca86833a75) The candle on the table beside his bed was guttering as Reginald de St Valerie lay back against his pillow and began to cough again. His eyes, sunk in the pallid hollows of his face, were fixed anxiously on the door as he pulled another rug round his thin shoulders. But it made no difference. He knew it was only a matter of time now before the creeping chill in his bones reached his heart, and then he would shiver no more. His face lightened a little as the door was pushed open and a girl peered round it. ‘Are you asleep, Father?’ ‘No, my darling. Come in.’ Cursing the weakness which seemed to have spread even to his voice, Reginald watched her close the heavy door carefully and come towards him. Involuntarily he smiled. She was so lovely, this daughter of his; his only child. She was tall, taller than average. She had grown this last year, until she was a span at least higher even than he, with her dark auburn hair spread thickly on her shoulders and down her back and the strange green eyes flecked with gold which she had from her dead mother. She was all he had left, this tall graceful girl. And he was all she had, and soon … He shrugged. He had made provision long ago for the future when he had betrothed her to William de Braose. And now the time had come. ‘Sit here, Matilda. I must talk to you.’ Feebly he patted the rugs which covered him and the lines of his face softened as she took his hand, curling up beside him, tucking her long legs under her. ‘Will you eat something today, Father? If I prepare it myself and help you with the spoon?’ she coaxed, nestling close. ‘Please?’ She could feel the new inexorable cold in his hand and it frightened her. Gently she pressed it to her cheek. ‘I’ll try, Matilda, I’ll try.’ He pushed himself a little further up on the pillows with an effort. ‘But listen, sweetheart, there is something I must tell you first.’ He swallowed, trying to collect his thoughts as he gazed sadly into her anxious face. So often he had hoped this moment would never come. That somehow, something would happen to prevent it. ‘I have written to Bramber, Matilda. Sir William de Braose has agreed that it is time the marriage took place. His son could have married long since, but he has waited until you were of age. You must go to him now.’ He tried not to see the sudden anguish on her face. ‘But Father, I can’t leave you, I won’t.’ She sat up straight, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Nothing will make me leave you. Ever.’ He groped for her hand again, and held it gently. ‘Sweetheart. It is I who must leave you, don’t you see? And I couldn’t die happy without knowing that you were wed. Please. To please me, go to him. Make him an obedient wife.’ He was seized by another fit of coughing and Matilda slipped from the end of the bed and ran to the pillow, cradling his head on her breast. Her eyes were full of tears as she clutched him, desperately clinging to him. ‘You can’t die, Father, you can’t. You’ll get well. You will. You always have before.’ The tears spilled over and dropped onto her father’s grey head. He looked up, trying to smile, and raised a shaky hand to brush her cheek. ‘Don’t cry, darling. Think. When you marry William you will be a great lady. And his mother will take care of you. Come, please don’t be so unhappy.’ ‘But I want to stay with you.’ She still clung to him stubbornly. ‘I hate William, you know that. He’s ugly and he’s old and he smells.’ Reginald sighed. So often he had given her her way, this girl of his, and he longed to do so again. But this time he had to stand firm. For her own sake. He closed his eyes, smelling the lavender of her gown, remembering. She was so like her mother had been: wilful; beautiful; wild … Sleep came so suddenly these days. He could feel his lids drooping. There was no way of fighting it. He supposed death would come like that and he welcomed the thought. He was too old now, too racked with pain to regret the young man’s dream of death on the field of battle. Smiling a little he relaxed against her, feeling the soft warmth of her body, the gentle brush of her lips on his hair. Yes. She was very like her mother … Instinctively Matilda ran first to the chapel for comfort. She pushed open a heavy door and peered in. It was empty. She could see the statue of Our Lady, lit by the single flickering candle which stood on the altar. Running to it she crossed herself and knelt. ‘Please, Holy Mother, don’t let him die. You mustn’t let my father die. I won’t marry William de Braose, so there’s no point in trying to make me.’ She gazed up at the serene stone face of the statue. It was cold in the chapel. A stray draught coming from the slit window high in the stone vault above the altar sent a shiver of cold down her spine and she wondered suddenly with a tremor of fear if anyone was listening to her at all; if there was anyone there to care. She pushed away the thought and, ashamed, she crossed herself again. ‘You must help me, Holy Mother, you must.’ Her tears were blinding her again and the candlelight hazed and flickered. ‘There is no one else. If you don’t help me, I’ll never pray to you again. Never.’ She bit her lip, scared by what she had said. She shouldn’t have done it, but the chapel held such echoing emptiness … Scrambling to her feet, she crept out, closing the door softly behind her. If she could find no comfort there, there was only one other thing to do. Ride. When you galloped fast into the wind you could forget everything but the speed and the cold and the power of the horse between your legs. She ran to the chamber she shared with her nurse and the two maidens who were supposed to be her friends, and rummaged through the rail, looking for her heaviest mantle. ‘Matilda, come to your embroidery now, ma p’tite.’ She could hear her nurse Jeanne’s voice from the garderobe where she was sorting clothes. ‘Tilda?’ The tone sharpened. Grabbing a fur-lined cloak, Matilda threw it round her shoulders and tiptoed to the door. Then, deaf to Jeanne’s indignant shouts she pelted down the spiral stairs. ‘Shall I come with you, young mistress?’ The groom who held her excited horse knew as well as she that her father had forbidden her to ride alone. She flung herself into the saddle. ‘Not this time, John. Blame me if anyone’s angry.’ She raised her whip and set the horse across the high slippery cobbles of the courtyard at a canter. Once beyond the crowded muddy village she pushed the animal into a gallop, feeling her hair stream behind her in the cold wind. Galloping like this, fast, she didn’t have time to think. Not about her poor, sick father, or about the squat, red-haired man at Bramber who was destined to become her husband. Nothing mattered out here. Here she was free and happy and alone. At the top of the hill she reined in breathlessly, pushing her tangled hair back as the wind tugged it across her eyes. She turned to look back at the village far away in the valley, and her father’s castle behind it. I need never go back, she thought suddenly. If I don’t want to, I need never go back. I could ride and ride and ride and they would never find me. Then she thought of Reginald lying so pale in his chamber, and imperceptibly she straightened her shoulders. For his sake she would go back. For his sake she would marry William de Braose. For his sake she would go to the end of the world if he asked it of her. Sadly she turned the horse and began to pick her way back down the steep track. For two days before the wedding the attendants of the de Braose household crowded them out, overspilling from the small castle and its walls into tents and marquees on the edge of the village. Old Sir William, a wiry hawklike man with piercing grey eyes, spent much of his time closeted with Matilda’s father, while his son hunted across the hills, sparing no time for his betrothed. Matilda was extremely glad. She had been horrified by her glimpse of the younger William, whom she had barely remembered from their introduction at their bethrothal years before. She had forgotten, or perhaps then he had been different. His reddish hair and beard now framed a coarse heavily veined face with an uncompromisingly cruel mouth. He had kissed her hand once, running his eye expertly up her body, judging her, Matilda thought furiously, as if she had been a filly he was contemplating buying for his stable, then he turned away, more interested in his host’s hunting dogs than in his bride. Reginald was too ill even to be carried in a litter to the wedding ceremony, so he summoned his daughter and new son-in-law to his room as soon as they returned from the parish church. Matilda had spent the first part of the day in a frozen daze. She allowed herself to be dressed in her finest gown and mantle without interest. She followed Jeanne down to the hall and gave her arm to old Sir William without a flicker of emotion on her face. Then she walked with him to the church without any sign that she heard or even saw the gay procession of men and women who followed them. But her fists were bunched so tightly into her skirt that her nails had bitten into her palms. ‘Please, Holy Mother, don’t let it happen. Please, Holy Mother, don’t let it happen.’ She was murmuring the phrase over and over again under her breath like a magic charm. If she kept on saying it, without stopping, it would work. It must work. She scarcely saw when Sir William left her side in the church porch and his son took his place. She didn’t hear a word of the service as the old half-blind priest gabbled the form, shivering in his surplice as the autumn leaves tossed round them and a few drops of icy rain splattered in under the porch roof. Even later, as she knelt to kiss her father’s hand, she was dazed. It was not until he put gentle fingers beneath her chin and tilted it a little to look into her face, murmuring, ‘Be happy, sweetheart, and pray for your old father,’ that her control broke. She flung herself at him, clinging to him, her fingers wound into the wool of the blankets. ‘Please, please don’t die. Darling, darling Papa, don’t make me go with him, please –’ Hastily William stepped forward, his hands on her arms, and he dragged her off the bed. ‘Control yourself, madam,’ he hissed at her sharply. ‘Come away. Can’t you see your father’s upset? Don’t make it worse. Come quickly.’ His voice was rough. Tearing herself free of his grip, Matilda rounded on him. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she almost spat at him, her eyes blazing. ‘I’ll stay with my father as long as I please, sir!’ William was taken aback. He stepped forward awkwardly, frowning. ‘You must do as I say, Matilda. You’re my wife now.’ ‘Yes, I’m your wife, God pity me,’ she whispered in anguish, ‘but I’m his daughter first.’ She was shaking with fear and anger. ‘Matilda, please.’ Reginald stretched out painfully to lay his fingers on her arm. ‘Obey your husband, sweetheart. Leave me to sleep now.’ He tried to smile, but his lids were falling. The familiar blackness was closing round him. ‘Go, sweetheart,’ he mumbled. ‘Please go.’ With one longing agonised look at him Matilda turned away. She glanced at William as he reached forward to take her arm and then dodged past him, gathering her skirts in her hands and, blind with tears, she ran towards the door. The wedding feast was interminable. She only nibbled at the food on the platter in front of her which she shared with her husband. He was drinking vast quantities of wine, roaring with laughter at the bawdy jokes of the men near him, rocking towards her every so often, trying to plant a kiss on her cheek or her shoulder. She gritted her teeth and reached for her own goblet, and, trying not to let the tiny seed of panic inside her grow, she kept thinking of the peaceful warm glow of the candle in her father’s room, and of the gentle, lined face on the pillow and the loving reassuring touch of his hands. The bed was strewn with flowers. Matilda stood, clutching her embroidered bedgown tightly round her, not daring to look at her husband as he chased the last of the giggling women out of the room. His face was blurred with wine and lust as he turned triumphantly to her at last. ‘So. My wife.’ He leered a little, his own fur-trimmed gown held round his waist by a gilded leather girdle. She stood transfixed, her back to the high shuttered window, her hands once more tight fists at her sides. She was much taller than he, but so slight he could have snapped her in half with one blow from his enormous fist. Her heart was beating very fast as he raised his hands to her shoulders. She wanted to push him away, to run, to scream, but somehow she forced herself to stand still as he loosed her girdle and thrust the gown back from her shoulders. She made no attempt to hold it as it fell, sliding from her unresponsive arms to the floor, billowing out in blues and silvers around her knees, leaving her standing before him, naked. Almost wonderingly he raised a hand and touched her shoulder, drawing his calloused fingers down across her breast. Then he seized her, crushing her to him, running his hand down her back, over her buttocks, fondling, caressing. Her hair fell in a dark auburn curtain across her face as he lifted her onto the bed and she made no attempt to push it away. She lay limp after a first involuntary struggle of protest at what he did, biting her lips in pain, trying not to cry out as the agony of his thrusting tore through her and the first dark drops of blood stained the bridal sheets. Then at last with a grunt he rolled off her and lay still. She remained dry-eyed in the dark and tried to ease her aching body on the hot mattress, not seeing the embroidered tester which hung over the bed. Some of the flowers had been caught beneath them and crushed, and their sweet scent mingled with the reek of sweat and drying blood. Reginald de St Valerie died at dawn. Lying sleepless in her chamber watching the pale light in the stuffy room, Matilda had ceased to hear the regular snores of her husband. It was as if some part of her had slipped away to hover over the deathbed, watching her father, seeing his face relax without struggle at last into peace. ‘He waited to see me married,’ she whispered into the dark. ‘He only waited for that.’ And then she turned at last to her pillow and began despairingly to cry. The day after the funeral the long procession of horses and waggons set off across a bleak autumnal southern England towards Sussex. Matilda rode, upright and proud, beside her husband, her face set. She was determined not to weep now, not to show any emotion to her husband or his followers. Somewhere behind her in the train of riders was Jeanne, her nurse. Jeanne had understood, had cradled her head and rocked her as she watched beside her father’s body. Jeanne had mixed her wine and herbs to drink, ‘pour le courage, ma p’tite,’ and muttered magic words over the bed in which Matilda and William had slept, to help ease the girl’s troubles. Each night had been the same. He had not spared her for her father’s sake, nor had she expected it. The pain, after the first time, had not been so bad. The elder William rode in front of them, the chestnut rump of his horse glistening beneath its gay caparison in the pale autumn sunlight. They were nearing a wayside chapel when Matilda, keeping her eyes fixed resolutely on her father-in-law’s broad back, was surprised to see him raise his hand, bringing the long procession to a halt. Then he turned in the high saddle. ‘I’ll wait, my son,’ he announced curtly. Matilda glanced at her husband, who was dismounting. He ducked under his horse’s head, and came to her side. ‘I always pray at Holy Places,’ he announced self-righteously. ‘I should like you to accompany me.’ He helped her down from the horse and taking her arm ushered her into the chapel. Puzzled, she glanced over her shoulder. No one else had made a move to join them. The entire cort?ge stood in the settling dust, uninterested, bored, as their lord’s eldest son and his bride ducked into the dark chapel. For some reason Matilda felt suddenly afraid. She knelt reluctantly beside her husband as he prayed. No words came to her own lips; her throat was dry. The Virgin had not heeded her supplications when her help had been needed so much. Now it was too late. What was the point of praying? She glanced sideways at William. His eyes were closed, the short sandy lashes veiling the pale irises, the coarse folded flesh of his chin resting on the thick wool of his blue mantle. On his shoulder there was a large circular brooch, at its centre a purple amethyst. The stone caught a little spark of light from the candle at the shrine. They stopped a dozen times like this on the long journey and each time Matilda, too afraid to refuse, alone dismounted with her husband. But not once did she try to pray. Bramber Castle was built high on a hill overlooking the seamarshes which flanked the River Adur. From far away they could see the tall keep rising against the burnished blue sky while gulls circled the towers, their laughing cries echoing across the salty reed beds. Bertha, daughter of Milo of Gloucester, heiress of Brecknock and Upper Gwent, the wife of Sir William de Braose and Matilda’s mother-in-law, was waiting for her husband and son in the lofty great hall. She was a stout woman of middle height, some years older than her husband, with white hair falling in long plaits to her waist. Her eyes were brown as hazelnuts and very shrewd. She kissed Matilda coolly and then held her at arms’ length, scrutinising her closely until the girl felt herself blushing uncomfortably beneath the uncompromising gaze. ‘So, my son’s bride,’ Bertha announced at last. ‘Welcome to Bramber, child.’ The words were not softened by a smile. Then Bertha turned aside, drawing her son with her, and Matilda was left standing alone. After a moment, William’s father joined her. He smiled. ‘I hope it won’t seem too strange, my dear,’ he murmured. ‘My son is a good man. Harsh sometimes, but good.’ Matilda lifted her green eyes to his and forced herself to return his smile, which was friendly enough. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered. ‘I am sure I shall do very well with William.’ Happiness, they both knew, was not part of the marriage contract. She became conscious slowly that Sir William’s eyes had strayed beyond her. Someone was standing behind her near the hearth. ‘Lord de Clare! My wife told me you were here. Greetings.’ The old man stretched out his hands with sudden warmth. Turning, Matilda saw he was addressing a slim young man, dressed in a scarlet mantle caught at the shoulder with gold. He had laughing hazel eyes and a shock of corn-coloured hair. ‘Sir William, I was persuaded by Lady Bertha to wait for you.’ Lord de Clare stepped forward to clasp his host’s hands. Then he turned to Matilda. He bowed smiling. ‘Madam?’ ‘This is my daughter-in-law,’ Sir William put in hastily. ‘Matilda, Lord de Clare has threatened this long time to ride over from his castle at Tonbridge to see my mews, haven’t you, my boy?’ The old man was plainly delighted to see his visitor. ‘Lord de Clare.’ Matilda curtseyed and her heart inexplicably began to beat a little faster as she surveyed the young man’s handsome face. He grinned. ‘Do you enjoy hawking, madam? It should be an exciting day. I’m told there is good sport on these marshes.’ ‘Indeed there is!’ Sir William put in good-naturedly. ‘You must join us, Matilda. Watch my birds trounce this young fellow’s, eh?’ He chuckled broadly. Matilda didn’t hear him. She was drowning in the young man’s gaze. ‘So, it was too late when they first met,’ Sarah whispered softly. ‘She was already married to that bore! See if she and Richard ever managed to meet alone. Please, Carl. Ask her.’ Bennet frowned. Nevertheless he leaned forward a little as he put the question. ‘Did you go hawking with Lord de Clare, Matilda? Did you manage to speak to him again?’ Jo smiled. Her eyes, open and dancing, were the eyes of a carefree girl. ‘We rode away from the others, south towards Sompting. The forest over the Downs is thick with oak trees there and their leaves were gold and brown with autumn. Richard flew his peregrine when we got to the chalk fields and I pretended to fall from my horse. I knew he would dismount and come to help me. I wanted him to hold me in his arms so much …’ ‘My lady! My lady, are you hurt?’ Richard’s face was near hers as she lay still on the ground. He glanced behind him for help, then gently he cradled her head on his knees. ‘My lady?’ His voice was sharper now. ‘For the love of Christ, speak to me!’ She moved slightly, letting out a small moan. His face was close to hers. She could see, through scarcely opened eyes, the fine hairs growing again on his chin where he had been shaved that morning, and feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He smelled of leather and horse-sweat, quite unlike the musty reek her husband habitually exuded. She nestled a little closer in his lap and felt suddenly his hands inside her mantle. Was he feeling for her heart, or for her breast beneath the pale linen? She stiffened imperceptibly and at once he straightened, moving his hand. ‘My lady?’ he said again. ‘Speak to me. Tell me if you are hurt.’ She opened her eyes and smiled at him, her breath catching in her throat as she found his face so very close to her own. ‘I must have fallen,’ she whispered. ‘Can you rise?’ He was trying to push her up as, behind them, the sound of horses’ hooves thundering on the hollow chalk announced the rest of the party. ‘I can manage! Thank you.’ Crossly she jumped to her feet, brushing leaves from her mantle, then she turned from him in a flurry of skirts and ran to scramble back onto her horse alone. ‘Why didn’t you let me go on longer?’ Jo asked when Bennet woke her from her trance. She glanced down at the spool on her tape recorder, which was barely a quarter used. ‘I want to know what happened. I wanted to see Richard again.’ Bennet frowned. ‘It was going well, Jo, and we have learned a lot from this session. I don’t want you to grow tired.’ She intercepted the worried look he cast in her direction. ‘Did you find out if someone tried to strangle me?’ she asked. She was watching his face closely. He shook his head. ‘At the period you described today you were scarcely more than a child – you didn’t seem to know quite how old you were yourself. But if anyone tried to strangle Matilda it was at some time far in her future, Jo. Not when she was riding on the Downs with Richard de Clare.’ ‘But something did go wrong. Something worried you?’ ‘Nothing at all. Nothing.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘In fact I would like to pursue our experiment further with you, if you agree.’ ‘Of course I agree. I want to know more about Matilda and Richard. And what happened after the massacre … just a bit more.’ Jo grinned as she picked up her recorder and stuffed it into her bag. ‘But I warn you now, I’m not going to chase her story endlessly. There’s no point in that and I have no intention of getting obsessive about all this. But just one or two more sessions as soon as you can fit me in.’ Sarah rose and went to fetch the diary. As she did so Bennet came round the desk. He was frowning again. ‘Joanna. I must tell you that I had a phone call yesterday from a colleague who says he is treating you, a Dr Franklyn.’ Jo straightened abruptly, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. She tightened her lips. ‘Oh?’ she said suspiciously. ‘He has asked me for a meeting to discuss your case.’ ‘No!’ Jo threw the bag down on the sofa. ‘No, Dr Bennet. Sam Franklyn is not “treating” me as you put it. He is interested in this business because he worked for Michael Cohen years ago. He wants me to stop the regressions because he doesn’t want me to write about them. Believe me, he is not treating me for anything.’ Bennet took a step backwards. ‘I see.’ He glanced at her beneath his eyebrows. ‘Well, I told him I had to ask your permission, of course.’ ‘And I will not give it. I have already told him to leave me alone. I am sorry he rang you, I really am. He should not have bothered you.’ ‘That is all right, Jo.’ Bennet took the diary from Sarah and frowned at it through his spectacles. ‘Friday afternoon at three o’clock. Would that suit you? I shall make it my last appointment and then we need not be hurried. And I shall tell Dr Franklyn if he rings again that you would rather I did not speak to him.’ After she had gone Sarah turned to Bennet. ‘She is hiding something, isn’t she?’ He shrugged. ‘I suspect so.’ Sarah raised an eyebrow. ‘So. Will you talk to this Dr Franklyn?’ Carl Bennet smiled. He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘I’m sure that in the course of events he and I will meet. It is unthinkable that I should not run into him, because a colleague of Cohen’s would be an invaluable person with whom to discuss my work.’ He closed the diary and handed it back to Sarah. ‘I would not discuss Joanna with him, of course, unless I thought it to be in her best interests.’ Sarah smiled thinly. ‘Which it would be, of course. Tell me. What do you really think about the bruises she told us about? Do you think they were real? No one else saw them.’ ‘Oh, I’m sure they were real.’ He walked to the window and glanced down into the street. ‘But you think they were of hysterical origin?’ Sarah’s voice was hushed. ‘She’s not the type, surely?’ ‘Who can tell who is the type?’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Who can ever tell? And if she isn’t the type, and the bruises were there …’ He paused. ‘If she isn’t,’ Sarah echoed quietly, ‘then the man she was with really did try to strangle her.’ As arranged, Jo met Sam on Wednesday evening at Luigi’s. He took one look at her and grinned across the table. ‘Let’s order before you hit me with your handbag, Jo.’ ‘I’ll hit you with more than a handbag if you try a trick like that again,’ Jo said. Her voice was cool as she glanced at him over the menu. ‘I absolutely forbid you to talk to Carl Bennet about me. What I do is none of your business. I am not your patient. I have never been your patient, and I don’t intend to be. What I do and what I write is my own affair. And the people I consult in the course of my research have a right to privacy. I do not expect you to harass them, or me. Is that quite clear?’ ‘OK. I surrender. I’ve said, I apologise.’ He raised his hands. ‘What more can I do?’ ‘Don’t ever go behind my back again.’ ‘You must trust me, Jo. I’ve said I’m sorry. But I am interested. And I do have a right to worry about you. I have more right than you’ll ever know.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So, you decided to defy me and see him again. You’d better tell me what happened. Did you learn anything more about your alter ego?’ ‘A bit.’ Jo relented. ‘About her marriage to William …’ She was watching his face in the candlelight. The restaurant was dark, crowded now at the peak evening hour, and very hot. Sam was sweating slightly as he looked at her, his eyes fixed on her face. The pupils were very small. Without knowing why, she felt herself shiver slightly. ‘Nothing dramatic happened. It was all rather low key after the first session.’ Her voice tailed away suddenly. Low key? The violence! The rape! The agony of that man thrusting his way into her child’s resisting body, silencing her desperate screams with a coarse, unclean hand across her mouth, laughing at her terror. She realised that Sam was still watching her and looked away hastily. ‘Jo?’ He reached across and lightly ran his thumb across her wrist. ‘Are you all right?’ She nodded. ‘Of course. It’s just a bit hot in here.’ She withdrew her hand a little too quickly. ‘Let’s eat. I’m starving.’ They waited in silence as the waiter brought their antipasto. As they were starting to eat, Sam said thoughtfully, ‘William was very close to King John, did you know that?’ Jo stared up at him. ‘You’ve been looking it up?’ ‘A bit. I have a feeling William was much maligned. Historians seem to doubt if the massacre was his idea at all. He was a useful pawn, the man at the sharp end, the one to carry it out and take the blame. But not quite as bad as you seemed to think.’ ‘He enjoyed it.’ Jo’s voice was full of icy condemnation. ‘He enjoyed every moment of that slaughter!’ She shuddered violently and then she leaned forward. ‘Sam. I want you to do something for me. I want you to do whatever you have to do to lift that post-hypnotic suggestion that I forget that first session in Edinburgh. I have to remember what happened!’ ‘No.’ Sam shook his head slowly. ‘No. I’m sorry. I can’t do that.’ ‘You can’t, or you won’t?’ Jo put down her fork with a clatter. ‘I won’t. But I probably couldn’t anyway. It would involve rehypnosis, and I’m not prepared to try and meddle with something Michael Cohen did.’ ‘If you won’t, I’ll get Carl Bennet to do it.’ Jo’s eyes were fixed on his. She saw his jaw muscles tighten. ‘That wouldn’t work, Jo.’ ‘It would. I’ve been reading up about hypnosis. Believe me, I haven’t been sitting around the last few days wondering what is happening to me. There are hundreds of books on the subject and –’ ‘I said no, Jo.’ Sam sat back slowly, moving sideways slightly to ease his long legs under the small table. ‘Remember what I told you. You are too suggestible a subject. And don’t pretend that you are not reacting deeply again because you have proved you are. Not only under hypnosis either. It is possible that you are susceptible to delayed reaction. For instance, Nick has told me what happened at your grandmother’s house.’ Jo looked up, stunned. ‘Nick doesn’t know what happened,’ she said tightly. ‘At least –’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Supposing you tell me what you think happened.’ Sam did not look at her. He was staring at the candle flame as it flared sideways in the draught as someone stood at the next table and reached for their coat. Jo hesitated. ‘Nothing,’ she said at last. ‘I fainted, that’s all. It had nothing to do with anything. So, are you going to help me?’ For a moment he did not answer, lost in contemplation of the candle, the shadows playing across his face. Then once more he shook his head. ‘Leave it alone, Jo,’ he said softly. ‘Otherwise you may start something you can’t finish.’ 14 (#ulink_ea321398-7683-5ad1-a764-4dd4dfaff078) ‘May I have the Maclean file, please?’ Nick’s assistant’s voice was becoming bored. ‘For Jim, if it isn’t too much trouble!’ Behind her the office door swung to and fro in the draught from the open window. Nick focused on her suddenly. ‘Sorry, Jane. What did you say?’ ‘The Maclean file, Nick. I’ll try to get Jo again, shall I?’ Jane sighed exaggeratedly. She was a tall, willowy girl whose high cheek-bones and Roedean accent were at variance with the three parallel streaks of iridescent orange, pink and green in her short cropped hair. ‘Though why we go on trying when she is obviously out, I don’t know.’ ‘Don’t bother!’ Nick slammed his pen down on the desk. He bent to rummage for the file and threw it across to her. ‘Jim has remembered that I’m supposed to be going to Paris next Wednesday?’ ‘He’d remembered.’ Jane put on her calming voice. It infuriated Nick. ‘Good. Then from this moment I can leave the office in your hands, can I?’ ‘Why, where are you going until Wednesday?’ Jane held the file clasped to her chest like a shield. ‘Tomorrow the printers, then lunch with a friend, then I said I’d look in at Carters on my way to Hampshire.’ He smiled. ‘Then the blessed weekend. Then Monday and Tuesday I’m in Scotland.’ He closed his case with a snap and picked it up. ‘And now I’m playing hookey for the rest of the afternoon. So if anyone should want me you can tell them to try again in ten days.’ Three minutes after he had left the building the phone rang. It was Jo. Each time Nick had phoned her, Jo had put the phone down. The last time she slammed the receiver down she switched off her typewriter and walked slowly into the bathroom. Turning on the light she gathered her long hair up from her neck and held it on top of her head, then she studied her throat. There still wasn’t a mark on it. ‘So. That proves he did not touch me!’ she said out loud. ‘If anyone really had tried to strangle me the bruises would have been there for days. It was a dream. I was delirious. I was mad! It wasn’t Nick, so why am I afraid of him?’ She walked thoughtfully through into the kitchen and poured a glass of iced tomato juice, then she went back to the typewriter. All she had to do was see him. Even his anger was better than this limbo without him, and once he was there in the flesh, and she reminded herself what he really looked like, surely this strange terror would go? The memory of those eerie, piercing eyes kept floating out of her subconscious, haunting her as she walked around the flat. And they were not even Nick’s eyes. She found she was shivering again as she stared at the half-typed sheet of paper in her machine. On impulse she leaned over and picked up the phone to dial Nick’s office. The phone rang four times before Jane picked it up. ‘Hi, it’s Jo. Can I speak to Nick?’ Jo sipped her juice, feeling suddenly as if a great weight had been lifted off the top of her head. ‘Sorry. You’ve just missed him.’ Jane sounded a little too cheerful. ‘When will he be back?’ Jo put down her glass and began to pluck gently at the curled flex of the phone. ‘Hold on. I’ll check.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘He’ll be back on the twelfth.’ ‘The twelfth,’ Jo repeated. She sat bolt upright. ‘Where has he gone?’ ‘Scotland on Monday and Tuesday, then back and straight over to France on Wednesday morning for a week.’ Jo could hear the smile on Jane’s face. ‘And today and tomorrow?’ Jo could feel her voice turning prickly. ‘Out. Sorry, I don’t know where exactly.’ Jo put down the phone thoughtfully. Then she picked it up again and dialled Judy Curzon. ‘Listen, Judy, I need to see Nick. Will you give him a message please? Tell him I’m seeing Carl Bennet again tomorrow afternoon. That’s Friday – at three. Tell him I’m going to find out what really happened on Sunday, come hell or high water, and if he wants to know he’d better be there. Have you got that?’ There was a long silence on the other end. ‘I’m not a message service,’ Judy replied eventually. Her tone was frosty. ‘I don’t give a screw who you’re going to see tomorrow afternoon, and obviously Nick doesn’t either or you wouldn’t have to ring him here, would you!’ Jo sat looking at the phone for several minutes after Judy rang off, then she smiled. ‘Hoist with your own petard, Miss Clifford,’ she muttered with wry amusement. ‘You walked right into that one!’ ‘Pidwch cael ofon.’ The voice spoke to Matilda again as she stood once more outside the moon-silvered walls of Abergavenny. Then it tried in words she understood. ‘Do not be afraid, my lady. I am your friend.’ His French was halting but dimly she recognised before her the dark Welsh boy who had brought her food the night before. But he was no longer afraid; it was her turn for terror. She did not speak. She felt the hot wetness on her face and she felt him brush the tears away with a gentle hand. ‘You did not know then?’ he stammered. ‘You did not know what was planned at the feast?’ Wordlessly she shook her head. ‘It is not safe for you here, whatever.’ The boy spoke earnestly. ‘My people will seek revenge for the massacre. You must go back into your castle.’ Taking her elbow he tried to turn her back but she found her feet scrabbling agonisingly on the sharp stones of the river path as she fought against him on the slippery ground. ‘No, no. I can’t go back there. I’ll never go back there, never.’ She broke from him and ran a few steps further on, towards the moon. Before it lay the mountains. ‘Where will you go then?’ The boy caught up with her in three strides and stood in front of her again. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’ She looked around desperately. ‘I will take you to Tretower.’ The boy spoke, suddenly making up his mind. ‘You will be safe there.’ He took her firmly by the hand and strode out along the river and in a daze, oblivious of her torn and bleeding feet, she followed him. She never knew how long she stumbled on behind him. At one point her strength gave way and she sank onto the ground unable to go further along the steep rough bank of the river. The water ran mockingly pure and silver near her as though no blood had ever stained it. Bending she scooped some of it, icy and clean, into her mouth and then she lay back on the wet grass, her eyes closed. The boy came back for her and coaxed and pleaded, but she was unable to rise. Her back pained spasmodically. She realised suddenly that she was going to lose her baby and she was glad. The boy tugged at her hand, begging her to go with him, continually glancing over his shoulder, obviously worried that they were being followed, and then suddenly he seemed to give up the struggle and he disappeared as quickly and silently as he had come. He has left me to die, she thought, but she was past feeling any fear. She tried to recite the Paternoster, but the words would not come in the right order and she gave up. How would God ever find his way again to this country? she wondered bleakly, and she closed her eyes to shut out the silver trail of the moon in the water. But the boy returned with a shaggy mountain pony and somehow he helped her onto it. They forded a narrow river, the pony picking its way sure-footed through water shadowed now by stark overhanging branches entangled with clinging ivy. They passed the dark shape of Crickhowell Castle in the night, but she did not see it and the boy, apart from detouring slightly to avoid it, did not acknowledge its presence. Somewhere once a vixen screamed and Matilda clutched the pony’s mane as it shied. They left the river and travelled through black unfriendly forest and over hills where the country was silent except for the occasional lonely hoot of an owl and the wind in the branches of the trees. Closing her eyes she rode in a daze of pain and fatigue, not caring where she went or what he intended doing with her. Beneath her the pony, confident even in the dark, followed the boy at a steady pace, slowly climbing through the misty rain. Then she opened her weary eyes in the cold dawn and saw the keep of Tretower at last in the distance. She knew dimly that they must have been seen and been followed by the people of the forest, but for some reason she had been spared. The boy who held her bridle had been her talisman. He turned as they neared the tower and she studied his face in the colourless light. He smiled up at her, a sad, fond, smile. Then he pointed. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘There will be your friends. Go with God and be safe, meistress.’ He released her bridle and he was gone, gliding back into the woods on silent feet. The pony stumbled on some rocks as she guided it as fast as she dared along the winding track towards the castle in the broad valley. She fixed her eye on the tower and refused to look to left or right as her mount carried her at a shambling trot along the path. To her surprise the drawbridge was down and she rode across unchallenged. Had everyone gone mad? Did they not know that the warring Welsh must be everywhere? There was a veil of blood before her eyes as she sat astride her mount in the courtyard of the castle. She didn’t dare try to slip from the saddle. The beast hung its head, its flanks heaving, and nuzzled a blown wisp of hay. There appeared to be no one there. Then, slowly, as though from a great distance, people came. She heard voices and saw lights and she recognised the clanking sound of a bridge being raised behind her. Hands pulled at her dress. People took the reins, gripped her arms, tried to ease her off the horse. The air was full of the sound of someone sobbing and dimly she realised it was her own voice she could hear. ‘Do not distress yourself, my dear.’ Bennet sat down beside Jo and gently put his hand on hers. His foot touched the small microphone on the floor and it fell over with a rattle. He did not notice. He was staring down at her hand which was ice cold and covered in chilblains. ‘Is she all right?’ Sarah came over and knelt beside them. After a moment’s hesitation he nodded. ‘Go on, my lady. What happened next?’ Jo withdrew her hand gently from his, rubbing it painfully as she stared past him into the room, her eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, far away. ‘I stayed there at Tretower with the Picards,’ she said slowly. ‘They put me to bed and cared for me and my pains stopped. I was not to lose the baby after all. William sent after me. I was too ill to be moved then, so Nell came with my baggage from Abergavenny. But William did not come.’ Christmas came and was over. Thick snows fell and melted into the swift running Rhian Goll. Ice locked its water, thawed and it flowed again. Slowly, almost unnoticeably, her belly began to swell. The child inside her was doubly cursed by its father’s name and by the scene she had witnessed that terrible night and she still wanted to lose it. But it grew and seemed to flourish. She wanted Jeanne, her old nurse, Jeanne who would have understood the need to be rid of the baby and who would have found for her the juniper berries, pennyroyal and tansy which, with the right magic words, would procure a miscarriage. Matilda shuddered and crossed herself every time she thought about it, for she knew what she contemplated was mortal sin, but what else could she do when the child within her was blighted? But blighted or not the baby grew and her own health improved. Nell tended her as best she could, and with her a new maid, Elen, one of Dame Picard’s women, an orphaned Welsh girl with a plump cheery face and an infectious smile who made Matilda laugh, and stilled for a while with her stories and songs the deep restlessness within her. There was no word from William. As the winter weather began to ease its iron grip Matilda longed more and more to leave Tretower. She wanted to travel on to Brecknock, where at least she would be her own mistress in her husband’s castle. But it was nearly Easter before the weather broke at last and the first chilly primroses began to force their way from the iron ground into the fitful sunshine. Matilda had long given up the idea of taking a horse and riding alone to Brecknock, trusting on speed and surprise to get her there safely. Such tomboy escapades were beyond her now, but she was still resolved to go. Anxiously she watched the trees bending low before the March gales, willing the winds to dry the earth and make the roads passable. For that she had to wait until the first day of April. It was a beautiful bright breezy day, the trees tossing their buds, the river peaceful, the sky a pure azure. She dressed herself quietly before the women with whom she shared the chamber were awake and slipped silently down into the great hall, where she knew John Picard would be taking some ale and bread before going out with his dogs. He gazed at her appalled when she faced him with her cool demand for a litter and an escort to Brecknock, his eyes staring from beneath his heavy eyebrows, his mouth slightly open. Then he turned to his wife, who had appeared at the door of the still-room, an apron tied over her gown. ‘She wants to leave us. She wants to go to Brecknock.’ ‘And will go, by your leave, John Picard.’ Matilda smiled coolly down at him. She turned to her hostess. ‘My mind is made up. I can’t impose on your kindness any longer.’ ‘But the danger!’ Anne Picard stepped down into the hall and came to take her hands. ‘My dear, think of the dangers. And in your condition.’ Matilda flinched away and drew her mantle round her shoulders as though trying to conceal her thickened body. ‘There can be no danger if you will lend me a litter and an escort,’ she repeated stubbornly. She stood looking down at the couple, a tall, lonely girl, her face and hands grown thin, her eyes weary, but resolute, and both knew that they would have to do as she asked. John Picard insisted that he should ride with her to Brecknock, and Anne pressed on her the services of two of her own women, Margaret and Welsh Elen. ‘There will be hardly any household over there, beyond the garrison,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s no place for a woman. Oh, please change your mind. Stay, at least till the babe is born.’ She gazed earnestly at Matilda’s face, unable to hide her anxiety, but the girl was adamant. She refused even Anne’s pleas that she postpone her start for a day or two to give them time to get ready. ‘No preparations are needed,’ she announced firmly, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. ‘Nell and Margaret and Elen can pack my boxes in the time it takes to harness the horses.’ She was not prepared even to remove her cloak again while she waited. The restlessness of the past weeks had suddenly become unbearable. She did feel a pang of sorrow as she hugged Anne before climbing into the waiting litter, but as she settled herself beneath the fur rugs excitement began to take over again. The women who were to go with her mounted their ponies and John Picard, blowing a kiss towards his wife as she stood beneath the gateway, led the small cavalcade across the bridge. Only a matter of minutes after they set out Matilda had begun to regret her impetuosity. She had not foreseen the horrors of travelling over the mountain tracks in a litter. She swayed and bumped inside the uncomfortable vehicle, unable to rest or balance, not knowing which way the next lurch would go. John Picard rode close at her side, his hauberk over his linen shirt beneath a warm mantle, his helmet in place, his eyes ever searching the budding thickets and bramble scrub along the road. The day was bright and it seemed quiet, but he was certain that from the moment they clattered across the lowered drawbridge they were being watched. Secretly he was very relieved to be seeing Matilda away from Tretower at last. He was genuinely concerned for her safety, but he had daily been expecting trouble from the Welshmen in the hills since the paths and tracks had reopened. They must know that the wife of de Braose was there and her life surely would be a fitting revenge for the death of their prince and his sons. The castle of Brecknock was not prepared for its lady. The small garrison in the outer bailey lived in wooden lean-tos and small stone outbuildings within the outer wall. The private chambers inside the keep – the great hall and the solar above it – were bare. Standing in the draughty damp upper chamber, Matilda felt herself ready to weep. Never before had she arrived somewhere before it had been ready for occupation. Turning, she swept back down the newel stair into the main hall and confronted the constable of the castle. ‘The place seems hardly prepared,’ she said to him with a forced smile. ‘However, have your men light a fire so at least we can be warm. What is your name, sir?’ ‘Sir Robert Mortimer, my lady.’ He gave a slight bow, turning to relay her orders to the men hovering in the doorway. ‘Where is the chatelaine? Why isn’t she here to greet me?’ Sir Robert seemed embarrassed. ‘My wife died eighteen months back, my lady. The village women have done their best …’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Matilda bit back the rude words which had been on the tip of her tongue. ‘Where then is the bailiff? I want him here by sundown.’ With energy born of despair she set about directing the inhabitants of the castle to work. Torches blazed in the sconces, the fire burned up at last and wooden shutters were found and fastened over the narrow windows. John Picard lounged on a bench in the great hall, holding out his hands to the fire. The lack of comfort made no difference to him but he watched with admiration the figure of his hostess, still swathed in her mantle against the cold, as she moved from place to place directing operations. He saw her pause and look towards the door as a group of new figures appeared from the dusk outside. ‘Clerics,’ he muttered to himself. He had no time for the church but he was pleased to see them for her sake. Matilda gazed at the senior amongst the black-robed figures and smiled uncertainly. He was a grave, thin man in his late twenties, dressed with restrained sumptuousness, his mantle trimmed with miniver which showed up the plain black habit of the monk at his side. His eyes, ranging round the hall, took in every detail of the place, and of the lady standing in front of him. Then he bowed courteously and held out his hand in the gesture of benediction. ‘I am Gerald, madam, Archdeacon of Brecknock.’ He spoke softly and yet with great presence. Matilda bowed her head to accept his blessing. ‘I was with Prior John when your messenger arrived, my lady,’ he went on. ‘Some of the lay brothers are bringing furnishings across for you and I have sent to my house at Llanddeu for other comforts which may help you. I am sorry you should find Brecknock so unready for you.’ ‘It’s my own fault.’ She found herself responding to his warm smile. ‘I brought no retinue, Archdeacon. No escort except for the one John Picard there could spare me, out of his kindness. I was foolish to come, I suppose.’ He scrutinised her face for a moment, and then grinned boyishly. ‘I can understand you wanting to come here. One’s home is always the best place to be and I believe women in your condition frequently conceive such fancies. After all, where else should your child be born but here?’ She felt herself blushing at his outspokenness and drawing her mantle more closely round her she retreated to the fire, where she stood and watched as two sandalled lay brothers from the priory carried in a folding stool and set it down near her. They were followed by others with trestles and table tops for the dais, benches and candlesticks. Finally a linen cloth was produced and carefully laid on the table. Matilda waited in silence as the hall was transformed. Slowly, through Gerald’s eyes, she was beginning to see the funny side of her undignified arrival. He had been watching her closely and he didn’t drop his eyes when she caught his stare, but grinned pleasantly once more. ‘Better?’ he enquired humorously. She laughed. ‘Much better, Archdeacon. I don’t know how to thank you.’ ‘Don’t bother. My own reading chair is on its way down to you from Llanddeu. You will find it easier sitting on a chair with a back I should imagine. If there’s anything you need, or any help wanted, send for me. I’m usually there when I’m not travelling round the diocese.’ He stepped forward and took her hand earnestly. ‘I’ll take my leave now, I can see you’re tired. But remember I’m there if you need me.’ John Picard raised an eyebrow as Gerald left. ‘An intense young man, that. But I’m glad he’s here. He’ll keep an eye on you till your husband comes,’ and he leaned back tucking his thumbs comfortably into his belt. It was from Sir Robert Mortimer that she at last understood the full extent of the danger in which she stood and which the Picards had managed to keep from her throughout the winter. John Picard had left at dawn the next morning, bidding her a cheerful goodbye and leaving her with a smacking kiss on the cheek, then Sir Robert had found his way to Matilda’s side. ‘I’ve ordered a double guard, my lady, on the walls and on the gate, and I’ve told them to keep the townsfolk out for now,’ he reported. ‘Why?’ She stopped clearing a pile of linen from the table and turned to look at him, puzzled. Nell went on folding the material, but her eyes too were fixed on the constable’s face. ‘We cannot take any risks with you here at Brecknock, my lady. Things have been peaceful this winter. We’ve had no trouble, but now you’re here I’d expect them to have a go at you.’ He clenched his fist over the hilt of his sword. ‘Have a go? Who?’ Matilda narrowed her eyes. ‘The Welshies of course, my lady. An eye for an eye; a death for a death, all that. You’ve heard of the galanas?’ She looked puzzled and he shook his head. ‘The blood feud. They will seek revenge, my lady. It’s the law of these hills. Then, no doubt, if they get it, your descendants and relatives will seek theirs in their turn and so on it will go. It’s the way the Marches take their justice.’ Matilda shivered. ‘So Seisyll’s wife died?’ He shrugged. ‘As to that, I haven’t heard for sure. But we’ve got to assume you’ll be a target, with Sir William away at Windsor or wherever. Did the Picards not warn you?’ Matilda licked her lips nervously. ‘Yes, they did mention it. Lady Picard told me of the feud, but I paid no attention – I was ill … I must have put them in great danger while I was there.’ She walked over towards the hearth, her light green skirts sweeping the rushes. ‘They sheltered me all winter, Sir Robert, and never let me know that.’ Sir Robert rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Aye, they’re good folk right enough.’ ‘Let the town people come and go as usual. I don’t want them to resent me from the start. Give me a bodyguard of some sort, that’ll be enough. These are my husband’s people after all, not Seisyll’s. I’m sure they’re not involved in any feud.’ Sir Robert frowned. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘There’s something I think you should understand, my lady.’ He looked at the floor, embarrassed. ‘The thing is, your husband is not exactly well liked by the people. These lordships came to him from the family of his lady mother. They do not like de Braose.’ His voice tailed away into silence. ‘All the more reason that I should make them like me, Sir Robert,’ she flashed back at him. Then she smiled. ‘Please. Help me make friends with them. I should hate to feel that I have enemies here. Perhaps we can win them round if we try.’ He looked at her determined, eager face and grinned. ‘Well, my lady, if those are your orders, I’d be glad, for one. They’re not a bad crowd in Aberhonddu. We’ll guard you well and hope they’re not over-concerned with the doings in Gwent. Will you be sending messages to Sir William?’ She nodded. ‘I must. He should be told I’m here and I want some of my servants from Bramber. Will you arrange for someone to go to find him? Meanwhile I’ll choose some women to serve me and we’ll make a start at trying to make this place comfortable.’ She grinned, and turned back to help Nell with her task. The next few days passed in a bustle of activity. As word got round that Lady de Braose was there, people from the small township below the castle walls began to make their way to her presence. She was called upon to act as arbiter and judge amongst them. They seemed to be accepting her. She had scarcely any time at all to herself, and almost forgot the worries and torments of the long winter. She found the people prepared with their tithes of provisions and supplies, all eager and curious to see Sir William’s bride; all apparently prepared to be friendly. She spent long mornings closeted with Hugh the Bailiff, who had eventually turned up between two men-at-arms, so drunk he was unable to stand. She had curbed her initial desire to have him flogged and waited to see him when he was sober. And she was pleased she had done so. He was in his own way grateful for her restraint and proved himself a competent enough steward after his initial defensiveness had worn off. He took her on a tour of the barns, storerooms, pantries and the cellar, proud that Brecknock should still be comparatively well stocked after the long winter. She sat for many hours, however, pondering over his accounts, desperately trying to make sense of the squiggles on the pages before her, applying her limited knowledge of reading, knowing his taunting eyes were upon her, waiting for her to make a mistake. At last, exasperated beyond measure, she summoned Father Hugo, the priest who had been sent by Gerald to take mass at the chapel each morning. ‘Father, I need your help.’ She looked up at him from Gerald’s elaborate chair by the fire. ‘I need to know how to read properly. Can you teach me?’ Together they pored over the account book for some time. Then Hugo straightened up and put his hand to his eyes. ‘I can hardly read this man’s hand myself,’ he muttered at last. ‘Especially these last few pages. I’ll bring the mass book from the chapel for you. That at least I know is legible.’ Two days later Gerald was ushered into her presence. ‘I hear you want to learn to read,’ he said, without preamble. ‘Hugo is not the man to teach you, my lady. His eyes are too old to see the letters himself. I shall do it.’ ‘You, Archdeacon? But how will you spare the time?’ She was a little nervous of the energetic, handsome young man and she glanced rather apprehensively at the volumes under his arm. ‘I shall teach you to write as well,’ he went on. ‘It is unthinkable that a lady of your standing should be unable to read and write with fluency. Writing is one of the greatest arts.’ She blushed. He made her feel suddenly inadequate. Secretly she had been proud of the way she was handling the situation at Brecknock. It was the first chance she had had of applying her skills in running a household without her mother-in-law breathing down her neck, and although the household was abbreviated and inadequate, she was pleased with the way she was managing with the people she was carefully recruiting to her service. Each day while he was at Llanddeu he rode down to the castle and spent an hour or two in her company. Sometimes they read from his own writings and from his poetry, which he proudly brought to show her, and sometimes from the books from his library. They also struggled together with the bailiff’s account books, and Gerald, his eyes sparkling with amusement, pointed out that the handwriting had markedly worsened from the day that Matilda had arrived at Brecknock and shown her determination to supervise his activities. Almost at once she discovered to her consternation that Gerald proudly claimed kinship through his grandmother with Lord Rhys himself, and that he knew all about the happenings at Abergavenny. Since John Picard had left to ride home across the mountains to Tretower she had tried to put the memory of that terrible day out of her mind completely. It was easier than she expected because of her busyness at Brecknock, but sometimes, still, at nights, in spite of her exhaustion, the noise and stench of that bloody scene would return to her in horrifying nightmares from which she would awaken screaming. Also there was the baby. Each time it kicked she would shudder in revulsion as though it joined her by a cord to the treachery she wanted to forget. And now here was Gerald, sitting opposite her, a cup of wine in his hand, his thin, intense face serious as he gazed at her, forcing her to confront that terrible memory once more. ‘Your husband was the instrument of cruel excesses, but I haven’t any doubt that others, more powerful even than he is, were the real instigators of the crime.’ He leaned forward and looked at her intently. ‘You must not judge him, my lady. You do, don’t you?’ She nodded slightly. ‘I was there, Archdeacon. I saw it all. I tell myself that such acts occur. I know this part of the country is more liable to them than most; I know William is a cruel, hard man. I’ve been told enough about him, but still, I couldn’t believe he would commit such treachery. And I saw him, with his own hand …’ She broke off, trying to stifle the sob which rose in her throat. ‘It was so terrible. Even that child, Geoffrey, Seisyll’s son, and later the baby.’ She bit her lip and sat silent, twisting the cloth of her skirt between her fingers. Then she looked up suddenly, swallowing hard and faced him squarely, her eyes fixed unwavering on his. ‘My child is cursed, father, by what happened that day,’ she burst out. ‘I would rather it is never born at all.’ She waited defiantly, half expecting him to be shocked, but to her surprise he nodded understandingly. ‘It’s a natural thing,’ he said slowly, his low voice soothing and considered. ‘But it is wrong. You must have faith. The child is as innocent as it is possible for a human creature to be. He will be washed and sanctified by baptism and by our prayers. You must not fear for him.’ He drank back the dregs of his wine suddenly and rose to his feet. ‘And now I have some news for you, my lady. Three nights ago your husband was at Hereford. From there I understand he plans to go to Hay and then he is coming on here to Brecknock, so you will be seeing him soon. You must prepare yourself for that.’ Matilda pulled herself to her feet. Her hands were shaking, and nervously she tried to hide them in the folds of her skirt, but the all-seeing eyes of the Archdeacon had spotted them instantly. He put his hand gently on her arm. ‘You have been a good and loyal wife to William de Braose. Don’t be afraid of him. He is still the Christian man you married.’ He grinned suddenly, his unexpected boyish grin, which she found so heartwarming. ‘Perhaps now I shall be able to have my chair back when he comes. I miss it, I must confess, perched on that high stool when I’m reading at Llanddeu. I must be getting old.’ He sighed and put his hand to his back with a mock grimace of pain. In spite of herself, she laughed. She had grown very fond of Gerald in the few weeks she had known him. ‘Poor Archdeacon. I must give you a salve to rub on your back. When William comes, your chair will be my first thought, I promise you. It’ll travel up that track to Llanddeu faster than lightning!’ But even the sound of his gay chuckle as he pulled on his mantle and swung out into the soft rain to find his horse did nothing to ease the sick fear which flooded through her at the thought of William’s imminent arrival. 15 (#ulink_df58cc93-0a02-51e1-abe8-8cd317911d0f) Nick sat back and smiled at Judy fondly. ‘I never did ask you where you learned to cook. That was the most superb lunch. Thank you.’ He eyed the empty casserole and then leaned forward to pour out the last of the wine. ‘A woman should keep some secrets surely!’ Judy grinned. She had changed from her paint-stained jeans and smock into a summer dress with vivid blue stripes, which suited her colouring remarkably well. As she leaned forward to take his plate Nick caught a faint breath of Miss Dior. ‘Coffee would make it perfect,’ he said hopefully. ‘First cr?me br?l?e, then cheese. Then coffee.’ Judy disappeared into the kitchen. Nick groaned. ‘Are you trying to kill me or something?’ ‘As long as you can beat me at squash a meal like this once in a while won’t kill you.’ She stuck her head round the door. ‘Do you really have to go to your mother’s this weekend, Nick?’ He nodded. ‘I’m afraid I must. I haven’t seen her for ages, and as I’m going to be away so much over the next month I thought I’d get it over with. And while I’m down there, if the tides are right, I thought I’d bring Moon Dancer back from Shoreham and leave her at Lymington.’ He levered himself to his feet. ‘There will be time for a siesta though, before I leave.’ In the kitchen he put his arms around her slowly, savouring the feel of her body beneath the thin cotton voile of her dress. ‘Friday afternoon is the best time there is for making love.’ Judy raised her lips to his eagerly. ‘Any time is the right time,’ she murmured, trying not to wonder why he had not suggested she go with him to Hampshire. ‘Why don’t we leave the rest of the meal until later?’ She ran her tongue gently along the line of his jaw and nipped his ear. His hands slipped round to the zip at the back of her dress. Expertly he slid it down, pushing the fabric off her shoulders. Beneath it she was naked. Unembarrassed, she wriggled away from him and stepped out of the dress. ‘I’ll turn off the coffee.’ He was undoing his shirt, his eyes on her breasts as she unplugged the pot and walked past him into the studio. In the bedroom she drew the curtain, blocking out the sun, then she turned in the shadowy twilight and held out her arms. Nick laughed. ‘No. No shadows. I want to see you properly.’ Kneeling on the bed, he reached across and switched on the bedside light. On the notepad by the lamp was a page of whorls and faces and doodles and strange shapes and in the centre of them all, framed with Gothic decoration, the name Carl Bennet and a curlicued three. Nick picked up the pad and stared at it. Suddenly he was frowning. ‘When did you write this?’ ‘What?’ Judy slid onto the bed beside him and lay down, her arms above her head, her legs slim and tanned on the white candlewick cover. ‘Carl Bennet. Why did you write his name here?’ She sat up. Snatching the notebook from him she hurled it across the room. ‘To hell with him. You’re supposed to be thinking about me!’ ‘I am thinking about you, Judy.’ Nick’s voice was suddenly hard. He pushed her back, leaning over her, his face taut with anger. ‘I am wondering why you have written his name down. Where did you hear it?’ For a moment Judy contemplated lying. Her brain was moving like lightning. If he found out the truth later he would blame her. Better tell him. Softly she cursed herself for writing the name at all – a stupid absentminded, automatic reaction to having a pencil in her hand … ‘Jo rang yesterday,’ she said softly. She smiled, reaching up to kiss him, winding her arms around his neck. ‘She thought you might be here, that’s all. It didn’t sound important.’ ‘What did she say about Bennet?’ Unmoving, he stared down at her and for a fleeting moment she felt a pang of fear. ‘She said she was going to see him. Nick, forget her –’ ‘Did she say when?’ ‘Today. I told you, forget her –’ ‘When, Judy?’ Nick caught her wrists and disengaged himself violently from her embrace. He sat up. ‘She must not go there alone!’ Judy stared at him in cold fury. ‘So that’s it. She wanted you to take her to her shrink! Is that who he is? “Uncle Nicholas hold my hand.”’ She grabbed the bedspread and pulled it round herself as Nick stood up. ‘Well, you’re too late. She’ll be there by now. He’s probably got her in a strait-jacket already!’ Without a word Nick strode past her into the studio. He picked up his shirt and dragged it on, groping for his shoes. Behind him Judy stood in the doorway, still swathed in candlewick. ‘Nick please. Don’t go.’ He turned. ‘I’m sorry, Judy. I have to be there. I have to stop her if I can!’ The long train of horses and carts which heralded the arrival of William de Braose and his retinue began to assemble in the outer bailey of Brecknock Castle on the first day of May. The serfs and townspeople, out from dawn about their ancient rites, tending the Beltane fires on the moors despite the threats from the priests, returned to find the castle full of men. Matilda sat in her solar listening with Margaret to the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels below, longing to hide. She dreaded the meeting with William, try as she might to remember Gerald’s reassurances, and when her husband’s arrival was at last announced she took a deep breath to still her wildly beating heart and walked slowly down into the brisk spring sunshine to greet him. Dismounting, William looked up at his wife as she stood on the steps above him, his face impassive. He was splendidly dressed in scarlet and green, his mantle clasped by a great cabuchon ruby, his fringed beard neatly trimmed. He strode up the steps two at a time and kissed her hand ostentatiously, taking in with one quick, satisfied glance the swell of her belly beneath the flowing lines of her gown. ‘How are you, my lady? I meant to be with you long before this but the King kept me with him.’ She raised her eyes from the floor to look at him, expecting to see anger and resentment there, but his eyes, behind the sternness of his face, were indifferent. She forced herself to smile. ‘I am glad to see you, my lord. Very glad.’ Her gaze met his for an instant. He straightened his back, pulling his cloak higher up on his shoulder and when he followed her back into the hall it was with a confident swagger. The moment of nervousness he had felt under the scrutiny of his wife’s cool green eyes with their strange amber flecks passed. He stuck his fingers jauntily into his girdle. He owed her no explanations; nor any man, save the King. She herself poured the mulled wine which was awaiting him and stood beside him in silence while he drank. When he handed her back the goblet with gruff words of thanks he stood awkwardly for a moment looking at her as though about to say something else. But whatever it was he changed his mind abruptly. He turned away, shouting commands to his men, and left her alone by the fire. It took only a day for the castle to be transformed by the comforts carried in William’s baggage train. Hangings appeared on the walls of the great bedchamber and cushions and fine sheets and covers replaced the rougher wear lent by the Benedictines from the priory. Two men were sent at once with the Archdeacon’s best chair, up the winding track to his house at Llanddeu. Matilda continued without interruption her running of the castle, calling before her determinedly one by one the officers of her husband’s household and making it clear that, while they should all continue their duties she intended to oversee their activities herself in future as the mistress of the household, and that the servants she had taken on were to be assimilated into it. To her intense disappointment Jeanne was not amongst the train, and she did not like to ask William why the old nurse had chosen to remain at Bramber. She couldn’t prevent herself from crying about it in the secrecy of the great bed, however. She had so much wanted Jeanne to be there when the baby was born. Jeanne could comfort her and help her, and would know what to do if anything went wrong. Of William she saw little. He was constantly busy, riding to outlying castles or closeted with his scribes, writing endless long-winded letters which, according to Hugh, kept the clerks so busy that William had to pay them extra money to finish them. At night William slept in an upper chamber above hers. She was heavy and lethargic now, with the baby so close, and had dreaded that he might try to force his attentions on her even though but two months remained until the baby was due, but he remained distantly polite. Of Abergavenny they never spoke at all, and all her tormented questions, so long suppressed, remained unanswered. It wasn’t long before she noticed the small blonde serving wench so often at her husband’s side, giggling as he pressed sweetmeats and baubles on her. ‘He’ll not grow cold at night, that’s for sure, madam, with that puss to keep him warm,’ Elen commented tartly, seeing her lady’s eyes following the girl round the hall, and Matilda forced herself to smile. Gerald continued to visit the castle but less frequently. He combined his visits with journeys through the diocese and seemed suddenly even more preoccupied than before with church affairs. Matilda missed his attention and the talks they used to have, but she was less inclined to make any effort now, and thankfully set aside her reading save where she had to go over the household accounts. Now William’s steward Bernard was there to do it for her, and she had only to supervise him and soothe his occasional quarrels with Hugh. The soft warmth of June succeeded the windy days of May at last. She began to spend long hours in the small garden she was making between the kitchen buildings and the chapel, tending the seedlings she had planted and pulling the ever strangling weeds. Her three women were constantly with her, helping her to her feet after she had knelt too long on the grass and scolding her when she dirtied her fingers in the earth, never leaving her alone, crowding her till sometimes she wanted to scream. She dreamed often of her lonely hillside vigils as a girl, far from crowded castles, and fought to keep herself shouting out loud with frustration. ‘Oh God! When will this waiting be over!’ She rounded on Margaret at last. ‘I shall go mad. How do women put up with it!’ Margaret looked shocked. ‘It’s our place, my lady. We must be patient like the Holy Virgin.’ ‘The Holy Virgin was a saint, I’m not,’ Matilda retorted. She pulled viciously at a string of bindweed. ‘If it wasn’t for this garden I would throw myself off the top of the keep. I never dreamed child-bearing could be so awful.’ Margaret lowered her eyes, embarrassed. ‘My lady, it’s not for much longer,’ she whispered soothingly. ‘It’s long enough. Every minute is too long. And we need rain for these god-forsaken herbs. Why doesn’t it rain?’ She stared up, furious, at the clear blue sky, determined to be out of temper. Nearby Nell and Elen were sitting on the wall chatting quietly together, their veils pulled forward round their faces to keep off the sun. Matilda put her hand up to Margaret’s shoulder and pulled herself heavily from the ground, shaking out her skirts. From the forge on the far side of the bailey came the sound of hammering and the hiss of a horseshoe going into cold water. She looked around, vaguely soothed by the familiar sights, but it was only the promise she had made to herself that once she was free from the burden of the child she would ride up to see Gerald in his own house which bolstered her in the long dreary days. She put her hand to her back wearily. The lying-in woman had been at the castle now for two weeks. The wet nurse had been chosen and sat this very moment on the steps of the chapel, suckling her child in the drowsy sun, oblivious of the horses which stamped around her, waiting their turn at the forge. Throwing down her trowel, Matilda lowered herself onto the little wall beside Elen. She had had it built bounding the garden on the side that faced the bailey and although it was designed to keep marauding dogs and animals out and keep the hooves of excited horses from the tender young plants, it made a useful seat. She turned to watch the activity in the bailey beyond. On the far side of the cobbled area beyond the kitchens a knot of Welshmen stood talking together urgently, their excitable lilt plainly audible above the noise of the horses. Then, as she listened idly to the unintelligible music of their speech they suddenly fell silent, listening to one of their number who, with waving arms and much gesticulation, had moved into the centre of the group. They all looked at each other and then to her surprise over their shoulders towards her, and she saw that they were crossing themselves, and making the sign against the evil eye. ‘What’s the matter with those men?’ she asked uneasily. Elen, following her gaze, smiled a little ruefully. ‘They’ll be talking about the green water, my lady. I heard in the hall this morning. It’s magic, so they say, and a message from God.’ ‘Green water?’ Matilda turned to her with a little frown. ‘I’ve heard nothing of this. Tell me about it.’ ‘It’s nothing, my lady. Stupid gossip, that’s all,’ Margaret interrupted hastily. ‘Don’t be foolish, Elen, talking like that. It’s serfs’ talk.’ Her plump face flushed with anxiety. ‘It’s not indeed,’ Elen defended herself hotly. She put her hand up to the irrepressible curly hair which strayed from her veil no matter how hard she tried to restrain it. ‘Everyone was talking about it this morning. It happened before, a hundred years ago, so they say, and then it was a warning from God that he was displeased about a terrible murder there had been.’ The blue eyes in her freckled face were round with importance. ‘It’s a warning so it is.’ Matilda shivered as though the cold shadow of the mountains had reached out and fallen over her. ‘If it’s a warning,’ she said quietly, ‘it must be meant for me. Where is the water, Elen?’ ‘It’s Afon Llynfi, madam, and the Lake Llangorse which it flows from, up in the Black Mountains yonder.’ She crossed herself hastily. ‘They say it is as green as emeralds, and runs like the devil’s blood the whole way down to the Wye.’ Nell pushed a furious elbow into her companion’s side. ‘Be quiet,’ she hissed. She had seen Matilda’s face, chalk-white, and the expression of horror in her eyes. ‘It’s stupid to talk like that, Elen. It’s all nonsense. It’s nothing more than pondweed. I heard Hugh the Bailiff say so himself. He’s been down to Glasbury to take a look at it.’ Matilda did not seem to have heard. ‘It is a warning,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a warning about my child. God is going to punish my husband for his cruelties through my son.’ She stood up, shivering. ‘Nonsense, my lady. God would never think of such a thing.’ Margaret was crisply practical. ‘Elen had no business to repeat such stupid gossip to you. No business at all.’ She glared at Elen behind Matilda’s back. ‘It’s all a fantasy of these people. They’re touched in the head.’ She looked disdainfully at the group of Welshmen still huddled near the kitchens. ‘Now, my lady, you come in and lie down before the evening meal. You’ve been too long out in the air.’ Scolding and coaxing, Margaret and Nell led their mistress back into the cool dimness of the castle, with Elen following unrepentant behind. Matilda lay down as they insisted and closed her eyes wearily, but she was feverish and unsettled and she couldn’t rest. She didn’t go down to the crowded hall for the evening meal and at last as the shadows lengthened across the countryside to the west she sent for Gerald. In spite of Margaret’s soothing words she became more and more agitated waiting for him. Her hands had started shaking and she began to finger the beads of a rosary. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, spare my child, please, please, spare my child. Don’t let him be blamed for William’s wickedness.’ The half-formed prayers caught in her throat as she walked agitatedly up and down the room. When at last, out of sheer exhaustion, she was persuaded to sit down again by the empty hearth in her chamber with Margaret and Nell and two of her waiting women, she felt herself near to panic. Then they heard the steady slap of sandals ascending the newel stair, and she pushed herself eagerly to her feet. ‘Archdeacon,’ she exclaimed, but she slumped back into her chair disappointed. By the light of the rushlight at the top of the stair she saw the bent figure of Father Hugo. ‘A thousand apologies, my lady,’ he muttered, seeing her disappointment only too clearly. ‘The Archdeacon is not at Llanddeu. He has ridden urgently to St David’s, where his uncle the bishop has died. When I heard the messenger’s news I came myself to tell you. I thought perhaps I might be able to help.’ His voice tailed off as he stood anxiously before her, his face gentle and concerned, as he took in the signs of distress in his mistress’s eyes. Matilda looked up and smiled faintly. ‘Good Father Hugo. You’re always very kind to me.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I’m stupid, it’s just that I heard about the River Llynfi, and I was afraid.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘It is many months since my husband’s trouble at Abergavenny, but still it haunts my dreams. I was frightened it was God’s warning that my child will suffer.’ She looked up again, pitifully seeking reassurance. Hugo stood staring for a moment, puzzled. He knew from her anguished confessions what she feared for the baby, and he had vaguely heard something about the river. The latter he had dismissed as Welsh talk. He drew his brows together trying to think what would be best to say to this distraught woman. He had had no experience before of females and their ways and groped for the words which would relieve the pained look in her eyes. ‘Be at peace, my daughter. God would not punish an innocent babe. The Archdeacon has told you as much.’ ‘But is it not written that the father’s sins shall be visited on the child?’ she flashed back at him. He was taken aback and did not answer for a minute. Then he bent and patted her hand awkwardly. ‘I will pray. I will pray for guidance and for your safe delivery, as I pray every day. God will spare your child in his mercy, I am certain of it.’ He bowed, and hesitated, waiting for her to say something else. When she made no response, he sighed and, backing away, turned and plodded back down the stairs. She slept hardly at all that night, tossing on the hot mattress, her eyes fixed on the rectangle of starry sky visible through the unshuttered window. Then at last as the first light began to push back the darkness she got to her feet and went to sit in the embrasure of the window, gazing out over the misty valley, watching as the cool dawn crept across the forests reaching towards the foothills of the mountains. Behind her, as the room grew light, Margaret slept without stirring on her truckle bed. She was sitting in the solar, alone save for Elen, stitching the hem of a small sheet for the empty cradle by the wall when the chaplain once more padded up the stairs and stood bowing before her, out of breath from the climb. He was agitated and pale himself, but seeing her face with the great dark rings beneath her eyes as she looked up at him, he felt a new and unexpected wave of compassion. ‘What is it, Father?’ she smiled gently, the sewing falling into her lap. He twisted his wrinkled old hands together uncomfortably. ‘I told you, my lady, that I would pray for guidance last night. I knelt for many hours in the chapel and prayed to Christ and St Nicholas, our patron.’ He winced, remembering the draught on the cold stone, which in spite of the straw-filled hassock had left his old knees rheumaticky and swollen. ‘Then I slept, and I had a dream. I believe it was in answer to my prayer, my lady.’ He crossed himself and Matilda and Elen, glancing at one another nervously, followed suit. ‘The dream told you the reason for the river being green?’ Matilda’s voice was awed. ‘I believe so, madam. An old man came to me in my dream, and said that Christ was greatly displeased.’ He paused and gulped nervously. Matilda rose to her feet, ignoring the sewing, which fell to the rushes, her eyes wide, one hand straying involuntarily to her stomach. She felt suddenly sick. ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why is Our Lord displeased?’ ‘It is something that Sir William has done, my lady.’ The old man spoke in a hushed voice, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. ‘But it is something he has done here. He has kept some property for himself which was granted to our chapel. It was to be used both for its upkeep and for works of charity and Sir William has not allowed the money to come to us.’ Matilda stared at him for a moment in silence. ‘You’re telling me that Sir William is misappropriating church property?’ she said at last. The old man shrugged apologetically. She felt like laughing hysterically. ‘And this is an offence great enough to cause the mountain waters to change their colour?’ She turned away from him so that he couldn’t see her face. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It took a moment to get herself under control again. Then she turned back to him. ‘Have you told Sir William of this dream?’ she enquired gently. He shook his head vehemently. ‘Then I shouldn’t at the moment. I shall try to find out whether he is indeed withholding tithes due to the chapel, and whether he is doing it knowingly. I am sure there has been some mistake. He would never take something which was the church’s.’ She waited until he had gone before bursting into tearful laughter, then she shrugged, wiping her eyes, and looked at Elen in despair. ‘I wish the Archdeacon were here, Elen. He would know what to do.’ She sighed. ‘He would know the truth about Father Hugo’s dream, and about the river waters.’ She took up the sewing, which Elen had recovered from the rushes, and sat down wearily. ‘They are saying, my lady,’ Elen began cautiously, ‘that is, the townsfolk in Aberhonddu and Hay are saying that the river runs green for another reason. They say it is because of the King’s great sin in taking Walter of Clifford’s daughter Rosamund to be his mistress and casting off Queen Eleanor again.’ She glanced at Matilda shrewdly, her blue eyes merry in her freckled face. ‘I think it is more likely to be for the sins of a King, than of one of his subjects, however great, that the waters of Afon Llynfi should change colour, don’t you?’ ‘I suppose so.’ Matilda walked over to the narrow window and looked out across the valley. Sheets of fine rain were sweeping in from the mountains and the smell of sweet earth rose to her from her little garden in the bailey below. She leaned out and sniffed appreciatively. ‘I pray your story is true, or Father Hugo’s – I don’t care which. As long as the warning is not for me. And who knows, perhaps Margaret was right. Perhaps it is just pondweed.’ ‘Smelly it is, madam, anyway, Hugh says,’ Elen put in briskly. ‘He thinks it’s because there’s been no rain, simple as that it is. And now this morning the rain has come so we’ll soon know, if the green all goes away. And your plants will be pleased by it, so they will!’ ‘Rosamund Clifford,’ Sarah whispered. ‘Do you think she was an ancestor of hers?’ Bennet looked away from Jo’s face, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Ancestral memory? Transferred genetically? I’ve read some interesting papers on the subject.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t believe it myself, but we’ll have to see what part this Rosamund plays in the story. I should wake her now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She’s getting tired. She has lived through six months in that world of hers.’ ‘Oh wait, Carl. Can’t we find out about the baby – I know she would want you to ask about it –’ Sarah broke off suddenly as the door behind her opened. Nick stared into the room. For a moment none of them spoke, then, catching sight of Jo sitting on the chesterfield, Nick stepped inside the room and closed the door. ‘Jo! Thank God, I’m in time!’ Carl Bennet stood up, taking his glasses off in agitation. ‘You can’t come in here. Please, leave at once! Who are you?’ He stepped towards Nick. Nick was looking at Jo. ‘Jo asked me to come,’ he said. He glanced at Bennet for the first time. ‘My name is Franklyn. I’m a friend of hers.’ ‘I thought I told you, Dr Franklyn, that Jo has asked you not to involve yourself in this matter!’ Bennet stood looking up at Nick, his face stern. ‘Dr Franklyn is my brother,’ Nick replied shortly. ‘Jo, for God’s sake explain.’ ‘Jo does not know you’re here.’ Anxiously Carl Bennet put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. ‘She is in a deep trance. Now please, I must ask you to leave –’ ‘Jo? Dear God, what have you done to her? You bastard!’ Nick knelt at Jo’s side and took her hand gently in his. ‘Shall I call the caretaker?’ Sarah said in an undertone. She had her hand on a bell by the door. Bennet shook his head. He sighed. ‘Please, Mr Franklyn. You must leave. I am sure you realise it would be dangerous for you to interfere at this stage.’ ‘Dangerous?’ Nick was staring at Jo’s face. Her eyes were looking at him quite normally, but she did not see him. The scene she was watching was in another time, another place. ‘She swore this wasn’t dangerous. And she asked me to come with her,’ Nick went on, controlling his temper with an effort. ‘I only got her message an hour ago. I insist on staying. She would want me to.’ Her eyes had changed focus now. They no longer looked at him. They seemed to stray through him, unfocusing, the pupils dilating rapidly as though she were staring directly at the window. Slowly Nick released her hand. He backed away a few paces and sat down on the edge of a chair. ‘I am staying,’ he repeated. ‘I am not letting her out of my sight!’ Jo suddenly threw herself back against the sofa with a moan of agony. Her fingers convulsed and she clawed four parallel grooves in the soft hide of the upholstery. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ she screamed. ‘Where is Jeanne? Why doesn’t she come?’ There was a moment’s total silence in the room as the three looked at her, electrified. Nick had gone white. ‘Make it stop,’ Jo moaned. ‘Please, someone make it stop.’ She arched her back again, catching up one of the velvet cushions and hugging it to her in despair. ‘For God’s sake, Carl, what’s happened?’ Sarah was rooted to the spot. ‘Bring her out of it. Wake her quickly!’ Bennet sat down beside her. ‘My dear, can you hear me? I want you to listen to me –’ He broke off with a cry of pain as Jo grabbed his hand and clung to it. Her face was wet with perspiration and tears. ‘For pity’s sake, wake her,’ Nick cried. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ ‘She’s having a baby,’ Sarah’s voice cut in as Jo let out another moan. ‘Women do it all the time.’ ‘Pregnant women, perhaps,’ Nick snapped. His skin was crawling. ‘Wake her up, man, quickly. Do you want to kill her?’ He clenched his fists as Jo screamed again. ‘Jo? Jo? Can you hear me?’ Bennet battled to catch her hands and hold them still. ‘The birth is over, Jo. There is no more pain. You are going to sleep, Jo. Sleep and rest. And when you are rested, you will wake gently. Can you hear me, Joanna? Now, close your eyes and rest …’ ‘It’s taking too long!’ Elen looked at Margaret, frightened. Gently she sponged Matilda’s face with a cloth wrung out in rosewater. ‘For sweet Jesus’ sake, isn’t there anything we can do to help?’ They both looked pleadingly at the midwife who was once more feeling Matilda’s stomach beneath the bloodstained linen. The girl was practically unconscious now, propped against a dozen pillows, the deep straw litter of the childbed covered with sheets to make it soft and smooth. Between each pain black exhaustion took hold of her, drawing her down into blessed oblivion before another spasm of rending agony began inexorably to build, tearing her back to screaming wakefulness. Only the warmth of the blood in which she lay soothed her. ‘There now. He’s nearly here, the boyo.’ The birthing woman was fumbling beneath the sheet. ‘Another push or two, my lovely, and it’ll all be over. There’s brave, it is.’ She smiled imperturbably as Matilda arched her back in another agonised contortion and a further spurt of blood soaked into the bedding. The rosary they had put in her fingers broke and the beads rolled across the floor. Horrified, Margaret crossed herself and it was left to Elen to twist a towel into a rope and give it to Matilda to grip as, with a final desperate convulsion, the girl’s body rid itself of its burden. For a moment there was total silence. Then at last there was a feeble wail from the bloodstained scrap of life which lay between her legs. Matilda did not hear it. She was spinning away into exhausted sleep, her body still hunched against another pain. ‘Is he all right?’ Margaret peered fearfully at the baby as the woman produced her knife and severed the cord. None of them had ever doubted Matilda’s prediction that it would be a boy. The baby, wildly waving its little arms in the air, let out another scream. It was unblemished. ‘There, my lady, see. He’s beautiful.’ Gently Elen laid the child in Matilda’s arms. ‘Look at him. He’s smiling.’ Fighting her exhaustion Matilda pushed away the birthing woman who had been trying roughly to massage her stomach. She dragged herself up onto her elbow, trying to gather her courage. The moment she had dreaded was here. Somehow she clawed her way back to wakefulness and with outward calm she received the baby and gazed down into the small puckered face. For a moment she could not breathe, then suddenly she felt a strange surge of love and protective joy for her firstborn. She forgot her fears. He was beautiful. She buried her face in the little shawl that had been wrapped round him and hugged him, holding him away from her again only to look long and lovingly at the deep blue-black eyes and tiny fringed lids, the button nose and pursed mouth, and the thatch of dark, blood-stained hair. But as she looked the child’s face grew hazy and blackened. She watched paralysed as the tiny features became contorted with agony and she heard the child begin to scream again and again. They were not the screams of a child, but those of a grown man, ringing in her ears. In her arms she held a warm woven shawl no longer. She was clutching rags, and through the rags she could feel the bones of a living skeleton. Thrusting the body away from her with revulsion she feverishly threw herself from the bed and collapsed weakly on her knees, retching, at the feet of the terrified women who had been tending her. ‘Sweet Mary, Mother of God, save him and save me,’ she breathed, clutching at the coverlet convulsively. Slowly the world around her began to swim, she saw the great bed rocking, then a deep roaring filled her ears, cutting out all the other sounds, and slowly, helplessly, she slipped to the floor. ‘Jo!’ Nick reached her first. ‘Jo! It’s all right. Jo, please, Jo …’ He gathered her limp form into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. ‘Leave her, man.’ Bennet knelt beside them. ‘Let me see her. Jo!’ He snapped his fingers in her face. ‘Listen to me, Joanna. You are going to wake up now. Do you hear me. Now!’ There was a moment of total silence. Outside the sound of a police siren wailing in the Marylebone Road brought the twentieth century back into the room. Jo stirred. She opened her eyes and lay looking up at Nick. The strain and anguish were slowly clearing from her face as she eased herself upright. ‘Jo? Are you all right?’ Nick’s voice was gentle. He still had his arm around her shoulders. She frowned, staring round the room, looking first at Bennet and then at Sarah who was standing, white-faced, by the desk. Then her gaze came back to Nick. She smiled weakly. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she said shakily. ‘Jo, love –’ Nick pulled her close, his face in her hair. ‘None of it happened. Nobody died –’ She stared at him. ‘Don’t lie to me.’ Her voice was very weary. ‘I want to know the truth.’ Her gaze travelled past Nick suddenly. ‘Archdeacon?’ The room in Devonshire Place faded slightly as she peered towards the end of the bed. She was once again lying beneath the covers but now they were cleansed. Darkness had come outside and the room was lighted with a dozen torches. Gerald held a crucifix in his hand and he was praying quietly, his eyes occasionally flitting up to her passive face. ‘The child is dead.’ She heard her voice as a hollow whisper in the silence of the castle. Somewhere in the distance the police car still wailed. Her lips and tongue were dry as dust. Gerald kissed the crucifix calmly and tucked it back into his girdle. Then he came to the side of her bed and put his cool hand on her brow. ‘Not at all,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The child is squalling manfully. I’ve seen it. A fine healthy boy, my lady, to set all your fears at rest.’ His grave eyes surveyed her carefully, taking in the disarrayed tangled hair all over the pillow, the pallid, damp skin, the quick shallow breathing. ‘You have a touch of fever. Enough to cause some wandering of the mind in your overwrought condition, but there is nothing to fear, for the child or for yourself. I have ordered sleep-wort and poppy for you to take. A good night’s rest will set you right.’ She opened her mouth to speak, but sternly he put his fingers to his lips and pronounced a blessing over her. Then he stood by and watched as Margaret, looking pale and shaken, brought her the sleeping draught, after which she lay back, exhausted. Too tired to think, she let her mind go blessedly blank and drifted slowly into the welcome forgetfulness of sleep. ‘Who was she talking to?’ Nick found himself glancing over his shoulder as Jo settled once more into his arms, her eyes closed. His skin prickled uncomfortably. Bennet shook his head. ‘She was still seeing her archdeacon,’ he said slowly. ‘He must have spoken to her, reassured her. Look at the flush on her cheeks almost as if she were asleep –’ Gently he picked up Jo’s wrist and felt her pulse. Sarah covered her with a blanket and for a moment they all stood looking at her. Bennet took off his glasses. His hands were shaking. ‘The brandy, Sarah, if you please.’ ‘I hope you’re satisfied!’ Nick rounded on him. ‘Didn’t you realise after last time, how vulnerable she is? Didn’t it dawn on you it might be dangerous to play with this … this asinine previous time with Jo? She nearly died under hypnosis before in Edinburgh. Didn’t my brother tell you? She stopped breathing then! Christ!’ He struck his fist onto his open palm. ‘You’re supposed to be a reputable practitioner! If Jo hasn’t got the sense to stay away from you, then surely to God you can say no to her yourself!’ ‘Nick?’ Jo’s voice from the sofa was still very weak. ‘Nick. Don’t shout. Please.’ He swung round to look at her. Jo was struggling to sit up. ‘Please, don’t be angry. It’s not Carl’s fault. Everything went fine before. It was just that … that having a baby …’ Tears began to trickle down her face. Sarah tiptoed forward. She crouched beside Jo. ‘Here, have some of this. It will steady you.’ She closed Jo’s fingers round the glass, and helped guide it to her lips. ‘My baby really is all right, isn’t he?’ Jo asked after a moment as she pushed the glass away. Nick and Bennet looked at each other. ‘Jo.’ Bennet waved Sarah away and sat down on the sofa next to her. He took her hands in his. ‘What’s happened?’ She glanced wildly from him to the others and back. ‘What’s wrong? It was some sort of hallucination, wasn’t it? That way he changed in my arms. That wasn’t real. Why don’t you tell me? My baby is all right?’ Bennet swallowed. He was still firmly holding her wrists. ‘Jo, my dear. There is no baby. That was all in the past. Another world. Another age. Another you. There is no baby here.’ His face was full of compassion. ‘But I gave birth to him! I held him …’ Jo was crying openly now. She stared round bewildered. ‘He was here … in my arms …’ Bennet held out his hand to Sarah for the glass. ‘Drink a little more of this, Jo. It will help to clear your mind. The experience was so real for you it is hard to imagine it did not happen, but you must try and put things in perspective.’ Behind him Nick and Sarah exchanged glances. Without a word she poured two more measures of brandy and taking one for herself she handed the other to Nick. He sat down heavily on the edge of the desk, his hand shaking as he raised it to his lips. Bennet beckoned Sarah over. He stood up. ‘Sit here with her for a minute,’ he said softly. As Sarah took his place and put a comforting hand on Jo’s arm he spoke to Nick in an undertone. ‘Is there someone at home to look after her?’ Nick nodded grimly. ‘I shall be there.’ ‘Then I suggest the best thing is for you to take her back and put her to bed. All she needs is a good night’s sleep. I’ll prescribe something.’ He reached into his desk for his prescription pad. ‘You mentioned that she nearly died under hypnosis before. Do you know the circumstances? You must believe me, she did not tell me, and neither did your brother.’ ‘She doesn’t know.’ Nick glanced at Jo. He lowered his voice still further. ‘I think you should speak to Sam. He was there.’ ‘Dr Franklyn did try and contact me.’ Bennet frowned. ‘But Joanna said I was not to confer with him. I must confess I did intend to speak to him. I suspected something must have occurred before, in spite of her protestations, but nothing like this!’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Nothing.’ Nick scowled. ‘It is obviously time you and Sam got together, whatever Jo says. I’ll tell him to get in touch with you again. Meanwhile, can you be sure she is all right?’ Bennet glanced at Jo. ‘I’ll give you my home number. If anything happens over the weekend to worry you, ring me.’ He frowned. ‘On Monday I fly to Chicago for ten days. It can’t be avoided – but, I can give you the name of a colleague –’ ‘Don’t bother.’ Nick stood up. ‘She won’t need to see anyone else. I shall take care of her.’ It was another hour before Jo was well enough to stand. Helped by Sarah, Nick half carried her out to the waiting taxi and thankfully climbed in beside her and sat back, putting his arm round her shoulders. ‘Feeling OK now?’ She drew away slightly. ‘I’m fine. I’m sorry. I made a fool of myself in there.’ ‘It was hardly your fault.’ He stared out of the window. ‘I’ve asked the driver to stop off at a late-opening chemist.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Bennet’s prescribed something to help you sleep tonight.’ He felt in his pocket for the prescription. Jo snatched it out of his hand. ‘You know what I think of sleeping pills, Nick. Tell the driver to go straight to Cornwall Gardens.’ She tore the paper into tiny pieces. ‘You can drop me off and then go on back to Judy.’ ‘Jo.’ Nick’s voice was threatening. ‘Well.’ She stared at him defiantly. ‘That is where you were, presumably. She is the only person who knew what I was doing this afternoon. I don’t know why I told her really.’ She closed her eyes wearily, letting the scraps of the prescription flutter unnoticed onto the floor of the cab. ‘You told her because you wanted me with you,’ Nick said gently. ‘Perhaps. Please, Nick, tell him not to go to the chemist.’ Having redirected the driver, Nick turned back to Jo. Her eyes were closed. ‘Do you want a hand inside, guv?’ The driver climbed out after they reached the flat and came round to open the door. Nick was holding Jo’s arm and in spite of herself she knew she was still shaking too much to walk upstairs alone. She shook her head firmly, however. ‘We can manage, thank you.’ ‘Been ill, have you, love?’ Ignoring her protest the driver caught her other elbow firmly, helping her onto the pavement. Jo smiled wanly. ‘Nothing too bad. I’ve just had a baby.’ He looked down at her slim figure. ‘I see.’ He released her and went to close the door of his cab. ‘That’s the reason for all the bleedin’ confetti, I suppose!’ He jerked his head towards the paper on the floor, then with a grin he headed towards the driver’s seat once more. Jo managed a faint laugh. ‘He didn’t believe me,’ she said as the cab turned out of sight. ‘No, I don’t think he did.’ Nick took the key out of her hand and opened the front door. Then unceremoniously he picked her up and carried her up the stairs. He set her down gently on the sofa. ‘Shall I call Sam, Jo? He ought to come and look at you.’ ‘No!’ Jo sat up and swung her feet to the floor. ‘I’ll be fine, Nick. I’m going to have a bath, then I’ll go to bed. There’s no need for you to stay. Really.’ She glanced at him. At Bennet’s and in the taxi she had been glad he was there, been reassured by his touch, but something had happened as he bent and picked her up. She had been consumed with panic. It had obliterated every other feeling in her for a moment, even making her forget the baby. She had felt herself go rigid in his arms, her breath caught in a spasm of fear. Then, as swiftly as it had come the feeling had disappeared, leaving her shaking like a leaf. She swallowed hard, clenching her fists. ‘Please, Nick. Can’t you see I want to be alone?’ Nick frowned. He was torn between concern and the usual irritation her stubbornness roused in him. ‘At least let me wait until you’re in bed,’ he said at last. ‘I shan’t come near you, if that’s what’s worrying you. But I ought to stay a while. Supposing you fainted in the bath or something?’ Jo hesitated. She had been on the point of protesting that she had never fainted in her life. ‘OK,’ she said at last unwillingly. ‘Thank you. Perhaps you can make some tea or something. I won’t be long.’ ‘At least let me stay next door on the sofa.’ He tried one more time when she was at last in bed and a hot whisky and lemon stood on the table beside her. ‘No, Nick. Thanks, but no.’ She took his hand. ‘You’ve been marvellous, but I need to be alone. I’d rather you went. I shall be OK.’ ‘You won’t play the tape of what happened or anything stupid to upset you?’ ‘No. I’m going to sleep.’ Her patience was wearing very thin. Nick looked at her for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘Right. Have it your own way. I’ll be at my flat. Promise me you’ll ring if you need me.’ ‘Not going back to Judy?’ She couldn’t resist a final dig. ‘No.’ He scowled. ‘You haven’t promised.’ ‘I promise. Now go.’ She sat unmoving until she finally heard the door bang behind him. Then at last she lay back on the pillows and allowed the tears to fall. How could she tell him how much she wanted him to stay? Or how much she was suddenly afraid of him? She fell asleep at last with the bedside lamp on, unable to bring herself to face total darkness. Outside her window the night was hot and stuffy. Slowly the pubs in Gloucester Road emptied and the sound of talk and laughter echoed up from the mews as people strolled home, enjoying the heady magic of a London night. Restlessly she turned on her pillow, trying to find a cool spot for her head, half hearing the noise as she drifted further into sleep. Outside the street quietened. A stray breeze, carrying the scent of heliotrope from amongst the pleached limes of the sunken garden beside Kensington Palace, stirred the curtains, and somewhere a cat yowled, knocking over an empty milk bottle which rolled down a flight of steps into the gutter. Jo did not move. She was lying on her side, her hair loose across her face, her arms round the pillow. It was just beginning to grow light when she woke suddenly. For a moment she did not know what had awakened her, as she stared around the shadowy room. The lamp was still on by her bed, but outside, between the curtains, she could see the pale light of dawn above the rooftops. Then she heard it again. The hungry cry of her baby. Sitting up, yawning, she flung back her hair and reached slowly towards the cradle on the far side of the bed. 16 (#ulink_3ccb787a-7a7f-59c5-8685-68a43d856496) It wasn’t there. The room was silent. And empty. For a moment she sat quite still, completely bewildered, then, slowly, she remembered and with a sigh she flung herself back on the pillows. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Her arms felt empty, desolate; she ached with loneliness. It was as if part of her had been removed. The baby, with his downy hair, his tiny fringed eyelids, the fragments of caul still clinging behind his ears, the pale blue swaddling bands which had imprisoned his little fists as he lay in her arms, staring up at her with so much love and trust. ‘Oh God!’ She turned over and buried her face in the pillows. ‘It was a dream. A stupid, bloody dream!’ She groped on the bedside table for a box of tissues, then she pulled her clock to face her. It was half past four. She had begun to shiver violently. For a moment she lay back, huddled beneath the covers, trying to get warm, then miserably she sat up again. It was no good. She would not sleep again and she was getting colder by the minute. She wished fervently she had allowed Nick to stay now. She wanted someone to talk to. Her head was splitting and her breasts ached. She crossed her arms, trying to ease the discomfort, and suddenly felt a cold wetness on the front of her nightdress. She stared down at herself in horror, then she shot out of bed. Running into the bathroom, she turned on the light and slipped down the ribbon straps, letting the thin cotton slip to the floor, leaving her standing naked in front of the mirror. Her breasts were full and tight, laced with blue veins and even as she stared in fascinated horror at her reflection she saw a drop of watery blue liquid forming on her left nipple. Her heart was pounding violently. Desperately she tried to control her tears as she reached for her bathrobe from the back of the door and folded it around her. Knotting the belt she groped her way into the living room and reached for the phone. Her hand was shaking so much she could scarcely dial, but at last she could hear the tone. It was several seconds before the receiver was lifted. ‘Nick. Oh Nick, please come. Please.’ She struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘Jo? Is that you?’ The voice the other end was so quiet it was almost a whisper. It was Sam. ‘What’s wrong?’ Jo took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, Sam. Can I speak to Nick please?’ There was a slight pause, then his voice, very gentle, came again. ‘He’s not here, Jo. Is something wrong?’ ‘Not there?’ she echoed bleakly. ‘I’m afraid not. What is it? You sound frightened. Has something happened? Tell me, Jo.’ Jo swallowed hard. For a moment she could not speak, then she managed to whisper, ‘Sam, can you come over?’ He asked no more questions. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ he said at once, then he hung up. After she had rung off Jo didn’t move. Slowly the milk was soaking into her robe. Her teeth were chattering in spite of the warmth of the room and she huddled on the edge of her chair, rocking herself gently back and forth, only dragging herself upright at last when she heard the sound of a taxi in the quiet street outside. She reached the entryphone at the same moment that it buzzed. Sam came up the stairs two at a time. ‘What is it, Jo? Are you ill?’ He closed the door behind him and stood staring at her. She saw with a quick pang of misery that he was wearing one of Nick’s jackets over his dark roll-neck shirt. She was looking, he thought irrelevantly, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, her long dishevelled hair dark against the stark white of her robe, her face pale, her huge eyes accentuated by the shadows beneath them. ‘Nick said he’d go back to the flat,’ she stammered. ‘He said I could phone.’ ‘I’m glad you did.’ Sam steered her into the living room and towards a chair. ‘Now, tell me about it slowly.’ Hestitatingly she told him about her latest visit to Bennet. She glanced at his face, expecting an outburst of anger, but he said nothing and she forced herself to go on. ‘Perhaps he knew what would happen. He prescribed sleeping pills for me before I came home, but I never take them. Nick wanted to stay, but I wouldn’t let him, so I suppose he went back to Judy after all.’ She glanced down at her hands. Sam said nothing. He was watching her face closely. ‘I woke up,’ she went on with a heavy sigh. ‘The baby woke me with his crying – William, he was to be called, like his father and his father’s father – but he wasn’t there.’ Her voice shook. ‘And then I found –’ She stopped. ‘I found that I’m …’ She hesitated again, suddenly embarrassed. Mutely her hands went to her breasts. Sam had seated himself near her on the arm of another chair. ‘I am a doctor, Jo,’ he said softly. ‘You’re producing a bit of milk, right?’ She nodded, blushing. He smiled. Getting up, he knelt before her. ‘May I see?’ Softly he pulled her robe open and looked at her breasts. He touched one lightly. Then he closed the robe again. He smiled. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Jo. Spontaneous lactation is unusual but not unheard of. It’ll be a bit uncomfortable for a day or two but it will ease off. Stick some tissues in your bra.’ Standing up, he crossed over to the table and picked up the whisky bottle. ‘I’ll get some glasses, shall I?’ She followed him into the kitchen, pulling the knot of her belt tighter. ‘But how is it possible?’ she asked huskily. ‘Is this another of your physiological reactions, like my hands?’ She took the glass from him and sipped the neat whisky. ‘I suppose so, in a way. You obviously went through all the emotional trauma of childbirth yesterday and in some women that would be enough to stimulate the glands. The breast is far more of a machine than people realise. It doesn’t necessarily always need a pregnancy and a birth to start it working. Adoptive mothers have been known to produce milk for their babies, you know. Anyway, you mustn’t worry about it. It’s perfectly natural. Just leave things well alone and it will calm down on its own in a day or two.’ He leaned forward and tipped some more whisky into her glass. His hand was shaking slightly. ‘Our dog had a phantom pregnancy once, when I was a child. Is that what I’ve had?’ She managed a grin. He laughed. ‘Something like that. But I don’t expect you to produce any puppies.’ ‘You are sure Nick wasn’t there?’ Her smile had vanished already as she turned away from him. ‘You checked in his room?’ She paced up the small kitchen and then back, her arms wrapped around herself to stop herself shaking, the glass still clutched in one hand. ‘I still love him, Sam. That’s the stupid thing. I love the bastard.’ She stopped in front of the sink, staring at the pink geranium in its pot on the draining board. Absently she leaned forward to pick off a dead leaf and so she did not see Sam’s face. The cords in his neck stood out violently as he stared at Jo’s back. With a little laugh she went on without turning. ‘You won’t tell him I said that, will you?’ ‘No, Jo.’ Shaking his head, he recovered himself with an effort. ‘I won’t tell him. That I promise you.’ Sam was whistling softly to himself as he nodded to the porter at Lynwood House, where Nick had his flat, and let himself into the lift. It was still not quite eight o’clock. He pushed open the flat door and stood for a moment, listening. ‘You’ve been out early.’ Nick appeared at the bathroom door, razor in hand. ‘Make some coffee, will you? I’ll be there in a minute.’ Sam smiled. ‘Whatever you say, little brother. I trust you slept well?’ He pulled Nick’s jacket off and hung it up. Nick was looking at his watch. ‘I’m going to give Jo a ring to see if she is OK. I half expected her to phone last night, the state she was in –’ ‘No!’ Sam said sharply. He withdrew the copy of the Daily Telegraph he had under his arm and held it up to scan the headlines. ‘Leave her in peace, Nicholas, for God’s sake. If everything you told me last night about her session with Bennet is true, the last thing she will want is to be wakened at this hour of the morning by the telephone.’ Nick had turned back to the bathroom. He unplugged the razor. ‘I suppose you’re right –’ ‘I know I’m right.’ Sam raised his eyes for a moment from the paper to give his brother a penetrating look. ‘I suggest you go down to see our mother this morning as arranged and let Jo alone for a couple of days. In fact leave her alone until you get back from your wanderings across Europe. She does know you are going away?’ Nick shrugged. He was buttoning his shirt. ‘Scotland I can’t cancel, but the trip to France I could postpone.’ ‘Don’t.’ Sam walked into the kitchen and rummaged on the shelf for the jar of coffee. ‘It isn’t worth it. Jo has made it clear enough it is over between you. Don’t let a temporary wave of sentiment because you saw her unhappy and emotional undo all the good you achieved by walking out on her. You’ll just make the poor girl more neurotic than she already is.’ ‘Why did she ask me to go with her yesterday, then, if she doesn’t want to see me any more?’ Nick followed him into the kitchen, tucking his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. ‘Did she, though?’ Sam glanced at him. ‘She rang Judy, you said, to leave a message for you. Judy of all people. That was a pretty provocative thing to do, wasn’t it? If you ask me it was just to make sure you knew she was defying you – defying both of us – and going back to see Bennet. I think it is time you showed Jo Clifford you are not going to be treated like that, and the best way is to ignore her.’ He fished a loaf out of the bin and began to cut meticulously thin slices, tossing them into the toaster. ‘Have you any marmalade? I haven’t been able to find it.’ Nick sat down at the kitchen table. He reached for the paper and stared at it unseeing. ‘She shouldn’t be alone, though, Sam,’ he said at last. ‘She won’t be,’ Sam replied. ‘I’ll ring her later. Remember I am a doctor as well as a friend. I’ll give her a quick check over, if necessary, and make sure she’s in good spirits and while I’m at it read her the riot act about ignoring our warnings.’ ‘And you’ll phone me if she wants me?’ ‘She won’t want you, Nicholas.’ Sam looked at him solicitously. ‘Get that into your thick head before you are really hurt.’ Judy stared morosely beyond the reflection of the dimly lit lunch-time bar, through the indigo windows, at the rainwashed Pimlico Road. ‘I never thanked you for giving me such a good write-up,’ she said at last to Pete Leveson, who was sitting opposite her. She turned her back on the window. ‘I’m sure it was thanks to you that the exhibition went so well.’ ‘Rubbish. You deserved success.’ Pete was watching her closely, noting the taut lines between her nose and mouth, the dullness of her eyes. ‘It is a bit of an anticlimax, now it’s over, I suppose,’ he said tentatively. Judy sighed. She picked up her glass, staring round the wine bar with apparent distaste. ‘That’s probably it.’ ‘And how is Nick?’ His voice was deliberately casual. She coloured. ‘He’s in Scotland, on business.’ ‘And Jo? Is she still dabbling in the paranormal?’ Judy drank back her Buck’s Fizz, then with a grimace she asked, ‘Does the name Carl Bennet mean anything to you?’ Pete raised an eyebrow. ‘Possibly. Why?’ ‘Jo went to see him on Friday afternoon, and the thought that she was going there was enough to make Nick wet his pants. He shot off after her as if she had left a message that she was having tea with the devil himself. Can I have another of these?’ Pete raised his hand to beckon the waitress without taking his eyes off Judy’s face. He gave the order and tossed a five-pound note on the table. ‘Bennet is a hypnotherapist,’ he said. ‘One of the best, I believe. And amongst other things he takes people back into their previous incarnations to treat them for otherwise incurable phobias.’ Judy’s mouth dropped open. ‘You mean that is what Jo is doing? Jesus! She doesn’t believe in that sort of thing, does she?’ She laughed suddenly. ‘She really is loony, isn’t she? My God!’ ‘You are not a believer, I take it?’ Pete was looking amused. ‘I am not! No wonder Nick is worried for her sanity. Anyone who believes that kind of thing is certifiable.’ She shivered ostentatiously. ‘And imagine, letting yourself be hypnotised.’ She raised her hands theatrically in front of his face. ‘I have you under my power,’ she intoned. She giggled. ‘No wonder she freaked out when I told her Sam thought she was schizoid.’ Pete was sitting back, still watching her closely. ‘She is doing it for a story, Judy,’ he said tolerantly. ‘I think you should watch what you say, you know.’ Judy laughed again. Her third Buck’s Fizz on an empty stomach was going to her head. ‘I don’t have to in front of you, do I?’ she said archly. ‘Or do you think William Hickey is under the table? But seriously, who needs him when I’m having a drink with one of the most prestigious reporters in Fleet Street.’ She glanced at him provocatively under her eyelashes. ‘You had a thing going with Jo once, didn’t you?’ Pete leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t believe it was a secret.’ ‘And you still like her. Everyone who has had an affair with Jo seems to still like her. What a likeable person she must be!’ she added sarcastically. ‘Well, why don’t you find out exactly what it is she is doing? It would make a good story, surely?’ ‘Jo is researching her own story, Judy.’ His voice was carefully neutral. ‘It sure as hell wouldn’t be the same story if you told it, though, would it?’ She ran her finger round the inside of her glass and sucked it pointedly. ‘Yours would be much more … sensational!’ She had huge eyes – light grey, with radiating streaks in the irises, fringed with dark red lashes. Pete contemplated them for a moment as he thought over what she had said. Jo was a friend and yes, he was still fond of her, but the story, if there was a story, would not hurt her. On the contrary, it would counteract that bit in the Mail. In fact, why not sell this one to the Mail? Give the real version of what was going on. Sensational, Judy had said. It was a word Pete could not resist. Leaning forward, he put his hand over Judy’s and squeezed it gently. ‘Why don’t I get you another of those,’ he said quietly. ‘Then you needn’t lick the glass. Later I’ll drop you back at your place and we’ll talk about this some more.’ Two days later Dorothy Franklyn rang the bell of the flat in Lynwood House. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Sam, dear. I did so want to see you before you went back to Scotland.’ She dropped three green and gold Harrods carrier bags on the floor of the hall then she straightened, looking at him for a moment. Reaching up to kiss him, she rumpled his hair affectionately before walking past him into the living room. ‘When are you going back?’ Sam followed her. ‘I’ve a few things to do in town and Nick said I could use the flat whilst he’s in France, so I’ll be here a week or so I expect.’ He threw himself into a chair and looked up at her. ‘You’re looking very spry, Ma.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. ‘Now tell me, how is Jo?’ Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘What did Nick tell you?’ ‘Enough to make me very worried. This reincarnation business, Sam, it is all rubbish, isn’t it? I don’t like the sound of it at all. I didn’t like it when you were working on your thesis under that creepy man Cohen, and I don’t like it any better now. I think it’s dangerous. It’s got nothing whatsoever to do with medicine, or science. And to think that Jo has got involved with mumbo-jumbo like that!’ She shuddered, visibly. ‘Can’t you do something, Sam?’ Sam turned away from her and looked out of the window. In the distance he could see a solid wedge of traffic sitting in the broad sweep of Park Lane. ‘I’m not sure that I can,’ he said slowly. ‘I think Jo has already become too involved to extricate herself even if she wanted to. I believe that we are dealing with a genuine case of total recall of a previous incarnation. There are too many facts, too many details.’ He sighed. ‘Too many things fit into the picture, Ma.’ He glanced down at the books on the table. ‘I’ve been thinking about all this very hard over the past week. When I heard the tapes of Jo’s first regression a lot of things began to make sense.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It has forced me to change my views. I believe, now, that maybe, once in a while, if a person – or people – have left things undone, or perhaps made a terrible mistake in one life, it is possible that when they are reborn they are given a second chance.’ ‘And you think Jo is being given a second chance?’ Her face was inscrutable as she watched him. Sam smiled. ‘Jo. Or someone else. Come on, I’ll make you some coffee.’ She followed him to the kitchen. ‘You don’t really believe that?’ she said after a moment. ‘That there is some kind of karmic replay?’ She frowned. ‘That is an Eastern philosophy, Sam, not one that sits easily on Western shoulders.’ She took the spoon out of his hand and began to make the coffee herself. ‘But how is Jo in herself, Sam? Nick was very worried about her. Especially when you rang and said she didn’t want to see him before he went off to France. She did say that?’ She was watching him carefully again. Sam was searching in the cupboard for some sugar. ‘She was badly shaken by what happened last Friday and a bit confused. I think she felt she had made rather a fool of herself in front of him. It will all have blown over by the time he gets back and they will both be glad they didn’t meet again to prolong the embarrassment. Here, let me put the sugar in for you.’ ‘This theory of yours.’ She accepted a cup from him and waved away the sugar hastily. ‘Does Jo believe it too?’ ‘Jo is still fighting it.’ Sam frowned. ‘And until she accepts it she is unlikely to accept the wider implication that others must have been reincarnated with her, so that they can work out their destiny together with hers. It has to work like that.’ ‘So, you think now that Jo is not the only one.’ Thoughtfully she walked back into the living room, carrying her cup. ‘Do you think Nick is involved?’ She looked at him suddenly. ‘He wasn’t someone in this past life of hers?’ ‘Oh yes, Nick is involved.’ Sam’s voice had suddenly lost its lightness. ‘How do you know?’ she asked sharply. She sat down, putting her cup on the coffee table. ‘And you?’ she said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Are you involved too?’ ‘I rather think I am.’ Sam sat down opposite her. ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ He gave her a disarming smile. ‘And do you have any proof for this theory?’ ‘Proof?’ He looked at her in astonishment. ‘How can there be proof? Don’t be obtuse, Ma.’ ‘I mean, have you or Nick had this hypnosis thing done to you, to find out?’ He shook his head. ‘Some things one knows. One remembers …’ She shuddered. ‘You’re giving me the creeps, Sam! I have never heard such a load of nonsense in my life. You’ve let your imagination run away with you. I suggest you go back to Scotland and imbue yourself with a good dose of Scots common sense!’ She drank her coffee quickly. ‘Who do you think you are – or were – in her story?’ Sam grinned. ‘Never you mind, Ma. I think we should stop talking about this.’ He stirred his cup energetically. ‘Now, what have you been buying? Are you going to show me?’ She refused to be distracted. ‘Did this Matilda have many men in her life?’ Sam grimaced. ‘At least two. Probably three.’ Dorothy was watching him closely. ‘Were they brothers?’ she asked bluntly. He laughed. ‘No, they weren’t brothers! Come on. Let me get you some more coffee.’ She pushed her cup away, irritated. ‘I don’t want any more coffee. Have you told Nick about this idea of yours?’ ‘No.’ ‘Are you going to?’ Sam shrugged. ‘That depends. I think it would be better if baby brother concentrated on his advertising at the moment – and the delectable redhead in Fulham. There is no point in stirring things up needlessly.’ ‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Dorothy stood up briskly, trying to ignore her increasing panic. ‘Sam, I have to go. I’ve one or two things to do before I catch my train.’ She reached up to kiss him on the cheek, then she hesitated. ‘But tell me one thing first. You said you thought you had remembered things from the past. That is such a strange, frightening idea. What have you remembered?’ ‘It was when I was listening to the tape of Jo’s first regression,’ he replied slowly. ‘I remembered a ring. A ring on the finger of a man.’ He stared at the ceiling over her head. ‘I have remembered that ring for eight hundred years.’ There was silence in the room. Dorothy licked her lips uneasily. ‘Why?’ she whispered at last. ‘Because he was my guest. And I murdered him.’ It was several days before Jo’s breasts returned to normal. Grimly she worked, typing notes, concentrating on her article about food, using every ounce of willpower she possessed to put Carl Bennet and Matilda de Braose out of her mind. She spring-cleaned the flat, filled the store cupboards, arranged to go back to Suffolk by train on Saturday morning to collect the MG, and less and less often had to remove the soggy tissues from her bra. Sam had told her that Nick was in France and she was glad. Nick was a complication she could not handle at the moment. Dutifully, each night she took the two Mogadon Sam had prescribed, went to bed at eleven and slept heavily. Unpleasantly heavily. She only saw Sam once more. He checked her over with quiet professionalism, ruffled her hair as if she were a naughty child, drank a cup of coffee and went. She wished he had stayed longer. When Pete Leveson rang out of the blue she accepted his invitation to dinner with alacrity. He took her to the Gasworks and they sat in the huge, dimly lit reception room idly playing with the ornate chess pieces laid out in front of them whilst they waited for their table. Pete watched her covertly as he sipped his gin and tonic. ‘You’re looking great, Jo. Really great. How is work?’ She smiled. ‘It’s going quite well actually.’ ‘How did you get on with Carl Bennet? I hope the introduction was useful.’ He moved a king’s pawn, not taking his eyes from her face and saw her wary look at once. ‘It was very interesting. Thank you, Pete.’ He waited for her to say more as she leaned back, staring idly round the room. ‘Did you find out anything revealing?’ he prompted at last. She reached for her glass. ‘The woman never turned up that first time.’ ‘First time?’ He picked her up at once. ‘So, you’ve been again? Did he use hypnosis on you?’ He moved one of her knights for her with a malicious grin. ‘Three times now.’ Gently she took it back from him and replaced it. She moved a bishop instead. ‘And?’ She laughed uneasily. ‘It appears I have an alter ego. I still don’t believe I am her reincarnation, I can’t bring myself to accept that, but this woman is living a life somewhere there inside my head and it is so real! More real in some ways than the life I’m leading here and now.’ ‘Check.’ Pete drained his glass. ‘You always were useless at chess, Jo. Why didn’t you let me help you? We could have made the game last at least ten minutes. Tell me about her, this lady who lives in your head.’ Jo glanced at him. ‘You’re not laughing?’ ‘No. I told you. I find it fascinating. I have always hankered after the idea of having a past life. It’s romantic, and comforting. It means if you fuck this one up, you can have another go. It also means that there might be a reason why I’m so unreasonably terrified of water.’ Jo smiled. ‘I expect your mother dropped you in the bath.’ ‘She swears not.’ Pete raised his hand to the young man hovering in the background and ordered fresh drinks. ‘So. Shoot. Tell me about your other self.’ It was a relief to talk about it again. Relaxed and reassured by Pete’s quiet interest, Jo talked on. They finished their drinks and moved to their table in the grotto dark of the restaurant and she went on with the story. She only kept one thing back. She could not bring herself to mention her baby, or what had happened after his birth. When at last she had finished Pete let out a long, low whistle. ‘My God! And you’re telling me that you intend to let it go at that? You’re not going back?’ Jo shook her head. ‘If I go back again, I’ll go a thousand times. I’ve got to make myself drop it, Pete.’ ‘Why? What’s wrong with knowing what happened? For God’s sake Jo! It’s better than Dallas!’ He grinned. ‘I wouldn’t stop. I’d go back again and again till I had the whole story, whatever it cost. To hell with where she comes from. Whether she’s a spirit from the past or a part of your own personality fragmenting up for some reason, or you in a previous existence, she is a fascinating woman. Think of the people she might have known.’ Jo smiled wryly. ‘She knew King John.’ ‘Bad King John?’ He rocked back on his seat. ‘What a story that would be, Jo. Think – if you could interview him, through her! You can’t leave it there. You can’t. You must see that. You have to go back and find out what happened next.’ Judy was in the shower when Sam rang next morning. Wrapped in a towel she picked up the phone, shaking her wet hair out of her eyes, watching the drops lying on the studio floor. The water was still running down her legs making pools around her feet. She dropped the towel and stood in the rectangle of stark sunshine from the window. ‘Yes, Dr Franklyn, of course I remember you,’ she said grinning. ‘What can I possibly do for you?’ Sam heard the grin the other end of the phone. ‘I want you to do something for Nick,’ he said slowly. ‘He was feeling pretty low last week – I expect you know. And now he is in France and he could use some company. Supposing I give you his address. How soon could you be at Heathrow?’ ‘Assuming I ever want to see him again, and that I’m not busy and that I have a passport and enough money for a ticket and nothing better to do …’ Judy stared at her naked reflection in the full length mirror on the wall in front of her. ‘Assuming all that. Except that I shall pay for your ticket. And I’ll even drive you to the airport if you like. I’ve got Nick’s car.’ Judy raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re very anxious I should go, Dr Franklyn. If I weren’t such an innocent I might wonder why.’ He laughed out loud. ‘Then I’m glad you’re an innocent, Miss Curzon. I wouldn’t want you any other way.’ Ceecliff met Jo at Sudbury on Saturday morning and bore her home in an elderly Land Rover. The old house was full of dappled sunlight, every door and window open onto the garden and Jo looked round her with enormous pleasure and relief. Somewhere deep inside she had been afraid the tension of that weekend two weeks ago might return. Triumphantly Ceecliff produced a bottle of Pimms. ‘Nick is in France, you say?’ She poured out two glasses as they sat down beneath the willow. Jo nodded. ‘And did you make it up before he went?’ ‘We parted friends, I suppose,’ Jo said cautiously. What was the point of telling Ceecliff that he had left her frightened and alone in her flat and gone straight round to Judy? That he hadn’t been there when she needed him and that she hadn’t seen him since? She felt her grandmother’s eyes on her face and forced a smile. ‘I’ve decided to go back to the hypnotist again. No more hysteria, no more involvement. Just to find out, objectively, what happened.’ Ceecliff pursed her lips. ‘That is madness, Jo. How can you possibly be objective? How could anyone?’ ‘Because Dr Bennet can tell me to be. That is the beauty of hypnosis, one does what one is told. He can use my own mind to hold everything at arm’s length.’ Ceecliff raised an exasperated eyebrow. ‘I think you’re being naive, Jo. Extraordinarily naive.’ She sighed. Then, heaving herself out of her chair, she turned towards the house. ‘But I know better than to argue with you. Wait there. I’m going to fetch Reggie’s papers for you.’ She returned with an attach? case. Inside was a mass of papers and notebooks. ‘I think you should have all these, Jo. The Clifford papers. Not much compared with some families’ archives, but better than nothing. Most of it is about the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. You can look at that another time. Here. This is what I wanted to show you.’ She unfolded an old letter, the wafer which had sealed it still attached to the back, the spidery scrawls of the address faded to brown. Reverently Jo took it and screwed up her eyes to read the unfamiliar copperplate hand. It was dated 12 June 1812. Jo read aloud. ‘My dear Godfon and Nephew – he’s using long s’s! – I was interested in your remarks about Clifford Castle, near Whitney-on-Wye, as I too visited the place some years back. I have been unable to trace a family connection with those Cliffords – Rosa Mundi, you will remember, was poisoned by the indomitable Eleanor, wife to King Henry II, and I should dearly have wished to find some link to so tragic and romantic a lady. There is a legend, however, which ties us with the land of Wales, so close to Clifford. I have been unable to substantiate it in any way, but the story has persisted for many generations that we are descended from Gruffydd, a prince of south Wales – though when and how, I know not. Let it suffice that perhaps somewhere in our veins there runs a strain of royal blood –’ Jo put down the letter, laughing. ‘Oh no! That’s beautiful!’ Ceecliff grimaced. ‘Don’t go getting any ideas above your station, my girl. Come on, put it all away. You can look at it later. Let’s eat now, before the food is spoiled.’ Whilst her grandmother rested, Jo drove to Clare. She parked near the huge, beautiful church with its buttresses and battlemented parapets, and stood gazing at it, watching the clouds streaming behind the tall double rank of arched windows. Had Richard de Clare stood looking at that same church? She could picture him now, the last time she had seen him, in the solar at Abergavenny, his hazel eyes full of pain and love and courage, the deep green mantle wrapped around him against the cold, clasped on the shoulder by a large round enamelled brooch. She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans and stared at it morosely; then, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder, she let herself in through the gate and began to walk towards the south porch. Richard de Clare had never stood in this church. One look round the fluted pillars and high windows told her it had been built long after Richard’s time. In disappointment she began to walk up the broad aisle looking around her. There were several other people wandering around with guide books, talking in muted tones. Ignoring them, she made her way slowly up the chancel steps and stood staring at the altar, thinking of the last time she had stood before a shrine – was it at Brecknock? – with Gerald, saying mass. She remembered the mingling of the incense and the candles, their acrid smoke blown by the cold wind off the mountains which filtered through every corner of the castle. She remembered looking up at a carved, painted statue of the Holy Virgin and praying for her unborn baby, praying with a faith suddenly so intense, so absolute that it had filled her at the time with a calm certainty that her prayers would be heard. I wonder how long Matilda kept that faith, she thought grimly, her eyes on the cross which stood on the altar. Did she still have it when she died? She had not told Pete Leveson that she already knew the end of the story, nor Ceecliff. She was conscious suddenly of someone watching her as she gazed at the cross, and embarrassed she turned away. In this so Puritan, so Spartan church, the memories of her Catholic past seemed almost indecent, and to the agnostic, twentieth-century Jo, the urge to go down on her knees and then cross herself as she turned away from the sanctuary was like a primeval hangover of some strange superstition. Hastily she retraced her steps and let herself out into the churchyard. She drove slowly through Clare, savouring the beautiful medieval buildings of the Suffolk town, and turned to follow the signs towards the country park and the castle. Parking once more, she stood and stared around her. Where the huge castle of the Clares had once stood were now the hollow remains of a ruined railway station. The Great Eastern Railway had come, destroyed most of what remained of the castle, and in its turn had gone, leaving only the empty shell of the station, trimmed and manicured, with mown grass between the platforms where the track had been. Only a few fragments of wall remained of the castle which had stood for nine hundred years. But the motte was still there – the high, tree-covered mound on which the original keep had stood – and determinedly Jo climbed it, following the spiralling path to its summit. From there she could see the whole of Clare spread out in a shimmering panorama before her. The air was soft. It smelled of new-mown hay and honey. She stood there for a moment and rested her hands on the surviving chunk of flint-built wall, as if by touching the stones she could reach back over the years, but nothing happened. There were no vibrations from the past. Nothing at all. That night Jo went through her grandfather’s attach? case. Sitting in her bedroom, the windows thrown open to the scented garden, she felt absolutely at peace. The small table lamp was attracting the moths but she didn’t notice as she pulled out the old letters and diaries and his notes. Never before had she felt even the remotest curiosity about her ancestors. Like Ceecliff her interest was in the present, perhaps because her father had died whilst she was still too young to remember him properly. Her mother Jo rarely saw now. They met from time to time, felt a rush of warm emotion as they kissed, then slowly sank into mutual incomprehension as they tried to find some common ground. At present Julia Clifford was in San Tropez. A fond smile touched Jo’s mouth for a moment as she thought of her mother. They would meet again in the autumn or at Christmas, probably here, at Ceecliff’s, exchange gifts and a little bit of gossip, then their paths would once more diverge. Jo looked back at the letter in her hand wondering suddenly how much of her own tartness was a direct reaction against her mother’s vapid fluttering. But Julia, she knew, would have no time for the past either. For her the past, like Jo’s father, was dead. There was only one mention of the distant past in the letters. The mysterious Gruffydd of Wales. Was Matilda somehow an ancestress of hers, through him? But how was that possible when William was so implacably the enemy of the Welsh? She wished she had noted the names of Matilda’s children more closely now, and what had happened to them. Only one name lived in her memory. Little William. Her baby. She got home very late on Sunday evening, exhausted by the long drive through the heavy traffic, and she slept soundly, untroubled by dreams, to be woken by the phone. ‘Jo? Is that you?’ It was Bet Gunning. ‘What the hell are you up to, giving that story to Pete Leveson?’ ‘What story?’ Jo yawned. She looked at her clock sleepily. ‘God! Is it really nine? Sorry, Bet, I overslept.’ ‘Then you haven’t seen today’s papers?’ ‘No.’ Jo could feel her stomach beginning to tighten. ‘You’d better tell me the worst.’ ‘Daily Mail exclusive – a whole page – by Pete Leveson. Entitled, Jo Clifford’s Secret Life. It’s all here, Jo. Your hypnosis. Matilda de whatever-her-name is … bloody hell! I thought we had a deal. I thought this was one of your articles for W I A.’ Bet was furious. ‘I know we’re a monthly. I know Pete is a friend of yours, but you could at least have given me an option –’ ‘Bet,’ Jo interrupted. ‘I know nothing about this. That bastard took me out to dinner on Friday night. We talked off the record, as friends.’ ‘Off the record?’ Bet scoffed. ‘That’s just what it’s not. He’s got you verbatim. “Imagine my terror and confusion,” Jo said to me last night, “when I found myself alone in an alien world …”’ Jo could feel herself shaking with anger. ‘I never said any such thing!’ she said furiously. ‘I’ll sue him, Bet. How dare he!’ Her eyes were blazing. ‘I’ll ring him now, then I’ll get back to you –’ She slammed down the phone and dialled Pete’s number. It was several minutes before he answered. ‘Jo, how nice. Have you seen it?’ His voice was laconic. ‘No I haven’t seen it, you turd!’ Jo stamped her bare foot on the carpet like a child. ‘But I’ve heard about it. Bet Gunning is hopping mad – but not as mad as I am. Everything I said to you was in confidence –’ ‘You never said so, Jo,’ Pete put in gently. ‘Sorry, but not once did you ever mention the fact that you wanted all this kept secret. If I’d known that –’ ‘You could have guessed, Pete.’ Her voice dropped coldly. ‘You used our friendship. That was the most cynical piece of underhand behaviour I have ever witnessed. And the fact that you didn’t tell me what you wanted to do, proves that you knew it.’ There was an exaggerated sigh the other end of the line. ‘Cool it, Jo. It counteracts the item in the Mail Diary the other day. It establishes that you’re into something interesting and it keeps you in the headlines. Three plus factors, if you ask me. When your own story comes out they’ll be out there baying to read it!’ ‘Did you use Carl Bennet’s name?’ Jo was not to be appeased. ‘Of course –’ ‘He’ll be furious! You had no right without asking him.’ ‘So, if he wants, I’ll apologise, but he won’t object to some free advertising. The Great Public will beat a path to his door. Look Jo, love, it’s super talking to you, but my coffee’s perking and I’ve got to get dressed. Keep your hair on, there’s a love. When you’ve thought about it a bit you’ll realise it’s all good publicity. See you!’ Blandly, he hung up. Still angry, Jo dragged on her jeans and a sweater. Catching her hair back from her face with a scarf, she grabbed her purse. Outside Gloucester Road underground station she bought a paper from the news vendor, then she sprinted back to the flat. As Bet had said, it was a whole-page feature. There were no fewer than three photos of her – one a glamorous, misty picture taken three years before at a ball with Nick. He had been blocked out. The picture made her look dreamy and romantic and very beautiful. It had been taken by Tim Heacham. Jo had to dial three times before she got through. ‘I am sorry, Jo, I really am. I didn’t know what he wanted it for.’ Tim was contrite. ‘Hell, what was I to think? Pete was back in favour as far as I could see. I had no reason not to give it to him.’ ‘But it is such a god-awful picture! It makes me look –’ Words failed her. ‘It makes you look quite lovely, Jo, unlike that hard bitch face you insist on using over your byline.’ Tim was grinning. ‘I did try to ring you, as it happened, to check, but you were away.’ ‘I was in Suffolk.’ Jo flopped down beside the phone. She laughed wryly. ‘I went to look at Clare whilst I was there.’ ‘Clare?’ Tim’s voice sharpened. ‘Why?’ ‘Didn’t you read the article?’ Jo was staring at it as she spoke. ‘“The handsome man whose love had come too late … The passionate Richard who had to turn away and leave his lady to her fate …”’ She grimaced. ‘He came from Clare. I went to see his castle.’ ‘And did you find him there?’ Tim’s voice was curiously flat. ‘No, of course not. Is something wrong, Tim?’ ‘No.’ He said quietly. ‘Why on earth should anything be wrong?’ That night the baby woke her again. She was deeply asleep, the sheet thrown back because of the warm humidity of the night, the curtains and the window wide open. She woke very suddenly and lay, wondering what it was she had heard. Then it came again, the restless mewling cry of a hungry baby. She felt herself grow rigid, her eyes wide in the darkness, not daring to breathe as the sound filled the room. Slowly she forced herself to sit up and grope for the light switch. As the darkness shrank back into the corners she stared round. She could still hear him. Hear the intake of breath between each scream, thin pathetic yells as he grew more desperate. She pressed her hands against her ears, feeling her own eyes fill with hot tears, rocking backwards and forwards in misery as she tried to block out the sound. At last she could bear it no longer. Hurling herself out of bed, she ran to the door and dragged it open, closing it behind her with a slam. Then she ran to the kitchen. With the two doors closed she could no longer hear his anguished cries. Her hands shaking, she filled the kettle, banging it against the taps in her agitation. The Scotch was in the living room. To reach it she would have to open the kitchen door. She stood with her hand on the handle for a moment, then taking a deep breath she opened it. There was silence outside in the hallway. She ran to the living room, grabbed the bottle, then she hesitated, looking at the phone. Any time, Sam had said. Ring any time … She knelt and drew it towards her, then she stopped. The flat was completely silent, save for the sound of the kettle whining quietly in the kitchen. She could not ask Sam to come to her in the middle of the night a second time, because of another nightmare. She made herself some tea, took a slug of Scotch and the last three Mogadon, then she lay down on the sofa in the living room and pulled a rug around her shoulders in spite of the hot night. There was no way she was going back into her bedroom until morning. Tim was in his studio, staring at a copy of the photo of Jo and Nick. He had blown it up until it was almost four feet across, and had pinned it to a display board. A spotlight picked out their faces with a cold hard neutrality which removed personality, leaving only features and technique behind. Thoughtfully he moved across the darkened studio to the tape deck and flipped a switch, flooding the huge, empty room with the reedy piping of Gheorghe Zamfire, then he returned to the photograph, standing before it, arms folded, on the very edge of the brilliant pool of light, the only focus in the huge vaulted darkness of the studio. Beside him on the table lay a small piece of glass. As he tapped the powder onto it and methodically rolled up a piece of paper his eyes were already dreamy. He sniffed, deeply and slowly, then he walked back to the picture. It was some time later that, with a felt pen, working with infinite care, the tip of his tongue protruding between his teeth, he began to draw a veil and wimple over Jo’s long, softly curling hair. Jo worked late into Tuesday night, typing up the notes of her interview with Rose Elliot. The draft of the article was going well and she was pleased with her results. Absently she reached out for the cigarette packet, then she drew back. The same three cigarettes had been there since the end of June and it was now the eleventh of July. She tossed the packet to the back of the table, typed another paragraph and then got up to make coffee. In the hall she caught herself listening for sounds from the bedroom, but none came. The flat was silent. She worked for another two hours, then she switched on the TV and stretched out on the sofa to watch the late film. She spent a second night there. It was about ten o’clock next morning that a knock came at the flat door. She opened it to find Sheila Chandler, one of her upstairs neighbours, standing on the landing. She was a prim-looking woman in her late fifties, the intense unreal blackness of her iron-waved hair set off by a startling pink sleeveless chiffon dress. Jo barely knew her. She gave Jo an embarrassed smile. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Clifford,’ she said. ‘I know you’re busy. We can hear you typing. It’s just that I thought I must look in and see if there is anything I can do to help.’ Jo smiled vaguely. ‘Help?’ she said. ‘With the baby. I’ve had four of my own and I know how it can be if you get one that cries all night. Staying with you, is it?’ The woman was staring past Jo into the flat. Jo swallowed hard. ‘He … you heard him?’ She clutched at the door. ‘Oh, I’m not complaining!’ Sheila Chandler said, hastily. ‘It’s just that on these hot nights, with all the windows open, the noise drifts up the well between the buildings. You know how it is, and my Harry, he’s not sleeping too soundly these days …’ Jo took a grip on herself. ‘There’s no baby here,’ she said slowly. ‘The noise must be coming from somewhere else.’ The woman stared. ‘But it was here. I came down – last night, about eleven, and I listened outside your door. I nearly knocked then. Look, my dear, I’m not making any judgement. I don’t care whose baby it is or how it got there, it’s just, well, perhaps you could close the window or something. Have you tried gripe water?’ Jo took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chandler –’ at last she had remembered the woman’s name ‘– but whatever you think there is no baby!’ There is no baby. She repeated the words to herself as she closed the door. Last night at eleven she had sat here, in silence, listening, and there had been no sound … She went straight to the phone and rang Sam, then she walked through into the bedroom and looked round. The windows were wide open. The room was tidy – and empty. The only sound was the distant roar of traffic drifting between the houses from the Cromwell Road. Sam arrived at ten to twelve. He kissed Jo on the cheek and presented her with a bottle of Liebfraumilch. She had put on some make-up to try to hide the dark rings under her eyes and was wearing her peacock-blue silk dress. Her hair was tied back severely with a black velvet ribbon. He looked her up and down critically and then smiled. ‘How are you feeling, Jo?’ The make-up did not fool him, no more than had her cheerful voice and breezy invitation. She had sounded near to breaking point. ‘I’m fine. My tits are back to normal, thank God!’ She managed a shaky smile. ‘Let’s open that bottle. I’ve drunk all the Scotch. Sam – I think I’m going mad.’ Sam raised an eyebrow as he rummaged in the drawer for a corkscrew. She found it for him. ‘It’s the baby. I’ve heard him again.’ ‘I see.’ Sam was concentrating on the bottle. ‘Last night?’ ‘No. The night before. But Sam, the woman upstairs has heard him too. She came down to complain.’ Her hands were shaking slightly as she reached two wine glasses from the cupboard. He took them from her, his hands covering hers for a moment. ‘Calm down, Jo. If the woman upstairs has heard it there has to be a logical explanation. There must be a baby in one of the other flats and you’ve both heard it.’ ‘No.’ Jo shook her head. ‘It was William.’ ‘Jo –’ ‘The noise was in this flat, Sam. She said so. Last night. She stood on the landing outside my door and listened but I didn’t hear him –’ Sam pressed a glass of wine into her hand. ‘May I wander round?’ He strode down the passage into the bedroom and stood looking round, before he went to the window and, throwing up the lower sash, leaned out. Then, slowly and thoroughly he explored the whole flat. Jo waited on the balcony, sipping her wine, staring across into the trees in the square. It was five minutes before Sam joined her. ‘I admit it is a puzzle,’ he said at last. ‘But I’m not convinced there isn’t a baby – a real baby – somewhere in the building, or perhaps next door.’ He had brought the bottle with him and topped up her glass. ‘Unless – I suppose there is a faint possibility that somehow psychokinetic energy is being created, presumably by you – to project the sound of a child crying, but no, I don’t think so. It is so unlikely as to be impossible. I suggest you put it out of your mind.’ ‘I can’t,’ Jo cried. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like hearing little Will cry, knowing he’s hungry, wanting to hold him? Wondering why, if I can’t feed him, someone else doesn’t? Someone who is there, in the past with him!’ ‘Jo, I did warn you,’ Sam said gently. ‘You should have stopped while you still could.’ Jo stared at him. ‘You mean I can’t stop now?’ She snapped off a stem of honeysuckle. ‘No, of course I can’t, you’re right.’ Leaning on the balustrade, she sniffed at the delicate red and gold flower. ‘I tried to ring Dr Bennet but he’s still away in the States. Sam, I’ve got to work this thing through, haven’t I? I’ve got to get it out of my system. And the only way to do that is to go on with the story. Find out what happened next.’ She turned to face him. ‘Please, Sam, I want you to hypnotise me. I want you to regress me.’ Sam was watching her closely. Thoughtfully he raised his glass and took a sip of wine. ‘I think that’s a good idea, Jo,’ he said at last. ‘You mean you will?’ She had been prepared for a stand-up argument. ‘Yes, I’ll hypnotise you.’ ‘When?’ He laughed. ‘Why don’t we eat that very appetising salad I saw in the kitchen, finish this bottle and relax, then if the mood seems right we’ll have a go this afternoon.’ To her surprise Jo wasn’t nervous. She was relaxed in Sam’s company, relieved not to be alone in the flat any more, and she enjoyed the lunch with him. Several times she found herself talking about Nick, as if she could not avoid the sound of his name, but each time she sensed Sam’s disapproval and, not wanting to spoil the atmosphere between them, she changed the subject. They played music and drank the wine, then Sam made coffee while she lay back on the sofa and listened to the soft strains of the guitar. She was almost asleep when she felt him sit down on the sofa beside her and gently take the empty wine glass from her hand. ‘I think this is as good a moment as any to start, don’t you?’ he said. He raised his hand and lightly passed it over her face, closing her eyes as he began to talk. She could feel herself drifting willingly under his spell. It was different from Carl Bennet. She could hear Sam’s voice and she was aware of her surroundings, just as in Devonshire Place, but she could not move. She was conscious of him standing up and going over to the front door where she heard him draw the bolt. Puzzled, she wanted to ask him why, but she could feel part of her mind detaching itself, roaming free, settling back into blackness. Suddenly she was afraid. She wanted to fight him but she could not move and she could not speak. Beside her, on the sofa, Sam smiled. ‘No, Jo,’ he said softly. ‘There is nothing you can do about it, nothing at all. It never seems to have crossed your mind, Jo, that you might not be alone in your new incarnation, that others might have followed you. That old scores might have to be settled and old pains healed. In this life, Jo.’ He gazed down at her silently for several minutes. Then he raised his hands to her face again. ‘But for now, we’ll meet in the past. You know your place there. You are still a young and obedient wife there, Jo, and you will do as I say. Now, you are going back … back to that previous existence, Jo, back to when you were Matilda, wife of William, Lord of Brecknock, Builth and Radnor, Hay, Upper Gwent and Gower, back to the time at Brecknock after Will’s birth, back to the day when you must once again welcome your husband and lord into your bed.’ 17 (#ulink_ba702c51-a806-5c85-8606-dd48ac58369b) The morning before Jo and Sam had lunch together, the dining room at the hotel in the rue Saint-Honor? had been very full. Judy stared across the table at Nick as he tore his croissant in half. ‘Won’t there be any more time for us to be together? Please?’ she coaxed again. He had been furious when she arrived five days before; refusing to believe it was Sam’s idea. ‘Why should he, of all people, tell you to come here?’ he had said angrily. ‘He knew how tight my schedule was. It’s not as though I’m here for a holiday, for God’s sake. Oh Judy!’ He had sighed heavily, catching her hands as he saw the tears in her eyes. ‘I am sorry. It isn’t that I’m not glad to see you. It’s just, well –’ He put some papers into his black case. ‘It’s just that you’re beginning to feel a little bit hounded.’ She had picked up her bag again. ‘Don’t worry, Nick. I’m as capable of getting on a plane going in the opposite direction as I was of coming in this.’ ‘Don’t be silly.’ He pushed the door closed and took the bag out of her hand. ‘Listen. I’m free about eight o’clock tonight. We’ll go and have a meal, right?’ She grinned weakly. ‘Right.’ ‘And tomorrow is Saturday. I’m going to spend the day with one of my clients in Passy. I’ll ring him and ask if I can bring you.’ She reached up and kissed him on the cheek, jubilant. ‘Thank you, Nick.’ ‘But next week I’m tied up most of the time.’ ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she had said meekly. ‘I shall paint.’ And now it was Tuesday. The dining room was beginning to empty, Nick was immersed in some sketches and Judy was bored. Petulantly she got up and helped herself to some English newspapers discarded on the next table, then pouring herself more coffee she began to leaf through them. ‘God! They’re not even today’s,’ she exclaimed in disgust after a moment. Nick glanced up. ‘They get the new ones in the foyer. Here.’ He tossed some francs on the table. ‘Get me a Times while you’re at it, will you?’ But Judy was staring down at the paper on the table in front of her, open-mouthed. ‘So, he went ahead and did it,’ she said softly. She chuckled. ‘He actually did it.’ There was something in her voice which made Nick look up. Even upside-down he recognised Jo’s photo. ‘What the hell is that?’ he said sharply. He snatched the paper from her. ‘It’s nothing, Nick. Nothing, don’t bother to read it –’ She was suddenly afraid. After a week without a mention of her name Jo’s shadow had risen between them again. She stood up abruptly. ‘I’ll get today’s,’ she said, but he never heard her. He was staring down at yesterday’s copy of the Daily Mail. He read the article twice, then, glancing at his watch, he stood up, folded the paper under his arm and strode towards the iron-gated lift. He passed Judy in the foyer and never saw her. Impatiently he allowed the lift to carry him slowly up to his floor and wrenching the doors open he strode to their room. It was several minutes before the number in London was ringing. He sat impatiently on the bed, spreading the paper out beside him with his free hand, as he waited for someone to answer. The tone rang on monotonously in Jo’s empty flat. Upstairs, Henry Chandler looked at his wife in exasperation. ‘Why doesn’t she get an answering machine if she’s a journalist? If that phone doesn’t stop ringing it’ll wake that damn baby again.’ ‘She’s gone shopping,’ Sheila Chandler said slowly. ‘I saw her leave earlier.’ ‘Did you see the kid?’ ‘No, she was alone.’ They looked at each other significantly. Downstairs the faint sound of the phone stopped. Seconds later they both heard the thin protesting wail. ‘Who are you ringing?’ Judy threw back the bedroom door and stood in the doorway, staring at Nick. ‘Jo.’ ‘Why?’ Nick put the receiver down with a sigh. ‘I want to know why she did such an idiotic thing as to give that story to Pete Leveson.’ He slapped the newspaper with his open palm. ‘She’ll lose every bit of credibility she has as a serious journalist if she allows crap like this to be published. Look at this. “I was married to a violent, vicious man, but my heart belonged to the handsome earl who had escorted me through the mountains, protecting me from the wolves with his drawn sword.” Dear God!’ He picked up the phone and rattled it again. ‘Mademoiselle? Essayes le num?ro ? Londres encore une fois, s’il vous plait.’ ‘It is nothing to do with you, Nick,’ Judy said softly. ‘Jo has done it, for whatever reason, and it can’t be undone now. She and Pete used to be lovers, didn’t they? What more natural than that she should tell him the story?’ She saw his knuckles whiten on the phone. ‘Eh bien, merci. Essayes un autre num?ro, je vous en prie, mademoiselle.’ ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Nick.’ ‘Very probably.’ He tightened his mouth grimly as he slammed the phone down at last. ‘Sam’s not there either. Look, look at this last bit. “‘I shall not rest,’ Jo told me, ‘until I have learned the whole story’ …” Even you, Judy, know enough now to have guessed that that is dangerous for her.’ Judy turned away quickly to hide her smile. ‘I don’t expect she meant it.’ Nick stood up slowly and walked across to her, spinning her round by the shoulders. ‘You knew about this article, didn’t you? Down there, in the dining room, you weren’t surprised. You were triumphant.’ His eyes narrowed as he held her facing him. ‘So, what do you know about all this?’ Judy stood quite still, staring up at his face. ‘You tell me something first, Nick Franklyn!’ She was quite suddenly boiling with rage. ‘Are you still in love with Jo? In spite of all her lovers in this century and the twelfth, are you still in love with her? Because if you are I shall bow out of your life now. Perhaps I could write an article or two myself. “How my lover challenged a man eight hundred years old to a duel over another woman.” That’s it, isn’t it? You can’t bear to think of her in his arms, this Richard de Clare. You can’t bear to think of those creepy dead hands picking over her flesh, refusing to let go of her after all those centuries. You may not want her for yourself, but you sure as hell don’t want him to have her, do you?’ She wrenched herself free of him. ‘You watched her, didn’t you? Last week when you rushed off and left me, you went to Dr Bennet’s and watched her dreaming about making love to another man. You had to see it! There are words to describe people like you, Nick Franklyn –’ She broke off with a little cry as Nick raised his hand and gave her a stinging slap across the face. The impact of it threw her against the wall and she stood there, her hand pressed to her cheek, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘You bastard –’ ‘That’s right.’ His face was hard and very white. ‘And there will be more like that if you’re not very careful. I’ve warned you before, Judy. Leave Jo alone.’ He turned to the bed and picked up his portfolio. ‘I have a meeting to go to now. I suggest it might be better for both of us if you pack your stuff and clear out before I get back.’ ‘Nick!’ She threw herself at him and clung to his arm. ‘Nick, please, I’m sorry. I really am. I won’t mention her again.’ ‘I am going back to London tomorrow anyway, Judy. To Jo.’ Nick’s face softened slightly as he saw her stricken expression. ‘But she doesn’t want you. She keeps telling you she doesn’t want you.’ ‘Whether she wants me or not, I want her.’ He spoke with enormous force, his eyes hardening. Judy felt a sudden shiver. He was looking not at her, but through her. She backed away from him. ‘I believe you’re as crazy as she is,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t force a woman to love you.’ He stared at her, his attention fully on her again now. ‘Force her? he echoed. ‘I won’t have to force her.’ He laughed grimly. ‘I must go. Don’t worry about your bill, I’ll settle it. I’ll see you soon, Judy.’ Gently he touched her cheek – still reddened from his slap – then he turned and left her alone. Judy did not move. She stared round the room. The crumpled copy of the Daily Mail was still lying on the pillow where Nick had left it. She sat down, smoothing the page, and began to read slowly and carefully, taking in every word. When she had finished she tore out the page and, folding it up very small, she slipped it into the pocket of her skirt. When she left the room there was a bitter smile on her face. Sam was standing with his back to the window, his arms folded, listening as, hesitantly, Jo began to talk. Matilda had regained her strength slowly after the birth, but the day came at last when, accompanied by Sir Robert and four armed horsemen, she mounted for the first time the little bay mare William had given her. They rode out of the castle and turned north east, following the rocky bed of the Honddu through a field silver and green with ripening oats, and plunging almost at once into the woods. ‘Llanddeu is up there, my lady.’ Sir Robert pointed up a hill to their left. ‘About three miles, I reckon. We’ll go there when you’re stronger if you like.’ But Matilda shook her head. Gerald had gone to St David’s now, confident he was to be its new bishop, and Llanddeu had lost its interest. She was amazed to find how stiff she had become, but she gritted her teeth and pushed the bay into a gallop behind Robert as they followed a well-worn track through the heavy, dusty woods. They had slowed again to a trot when suddenly Robert pulled to a rearing halt in front of her and drew his sword. ‘Stop,’ he shouted. The four men with them closed round Matilda protectively at once, their swords raised and ready. She could feel herself shaking with fear and the mare plunged nervously away from the horse next to her, sensing the danger. But straining her eyes she could see nothing in the heavy greenery all round them. She could hear nothing but the thudding of her own heart. ‘What? What is it?’ She looked round wildly. ‘See, a rope.’ Sir Robert had dismounted. With one slash of his sword he severed a rope which had been tied across the track at the height of a man’s neck as he rode on a horse. It fell, green-stained and invisible, into the grass at their feet. ‘If we’d been going any faster, or if I’d been distracted, it would have had us all off our horses.’ Sir Robert hit the undergrowth with the flat of his sword. ‘See, here. The rogues have gone. They were hiding behind these bushes. They must have fled before we arrived. They could be anywhere in the woods by now.’ A broken area of trampled greenery showed where several people had been crouching behind the thick holly. ‘Were they robbers?’ Matilda was still trying to soothe her horse, stroking the sweating neck, wishing she herself wasn’t shaking quite so violently. She knew it was as much exhaustion as fear, but nevertheless she felt weak and frightened. Sir Robert nodded silently. He had stopped to pick up the rope and was coiling it over his arm. ‘Outlaws of some kind, I’ll be bound. I’ll have a word with Sir William. I doubt if the Welsh would set up a trick like that if they were after reprisals. No one knew which way we were coming.’ He swung the rope over his saddle and remounted. Matilda noticed he didn’t sheathe his sword. ‘Reprisals?’ Her heart began to hammer again at the word. ‘That’s right. They’re bound to come some time.’ He turned his horse. ‘We’ll go straight back, my lady, with your permission. I was a fool to come out with so few men. In future when you ride, I will see to it that you have a full escort.’ She followed, relieved to be cutting short the ride. The thought of Welsh reprisals had become remote in the months at Brecknock, distracted as she had been by the baby and by William’s arrival with all his men. The Welsh she had met in the county of Brycheiniog were friendly towards her. None had seemed to bear any grudge. She shivered. Outlaws. They must have been outlaws of some kind, bent on robbery. She refused to let herself believe that they were men from Gwent. Nevertheless it was a relief to be back inside the castle, but although William sent search parties out to hunt for the men who had set up the rope, no trace of them was ever found. They had melted into the forest as silently and efficiently as if they had never been. ‘That was foolish, to ride so far the first time out after the baby,’ Sam said softly. He had seated himself next to Jo again. ‘But if you are well enough to ride, you are well enough to resume your wifely duties.’ Jo drew in her breath sharply. ‘It is too soon,’ she whispered. ‘No,’ Sam said, ‘it is the right time. Look at me, my lady. Open your eyes and look at me.’ Jo had been staring towards the far corner of the room. Now, slowly, she turned to him and her eyes focused on his face. He held her gaze unwaveringly. ‘I am your husband,’ he said. ‘You do recognise me, don’t you, Matilde’ – he pronounced her name lightly, in the French manner – ‘I am your husband. Come to claim you.’ ‘Please. No!’ Jo edged away from him. ‘My lord, I told you, it is too soon.’ Sam smiled. He put his hand out and caught her chin, forcing her face round to his. Then he bent over her and kissed her on the lips. She went completely rigid, but she did not struggle. Sitting up he looked down at her and saw her eyes were closed. ‘Look at me,’ he said threateningly. ‘Look at me!’ Her eyes flew open. They were scornful and cold. Sam felt a sudden surge of anger flow through him. Oh yes, that had been the way she always looked at William. So superior, so dismissive, so beautiful and remote that her disdain had unmanned him, but not this time. This time he had absolute control of her body and her mind. He levered himself off the sofa and stood looking down at her, forcing himself to be calm. She was watching him docilely enough, her eyes still mocking, but he thought he could see fear as well, hidden, but there, as she stared at her husband and waited. He smiled grimly. ‘Stand up, Matilde,’ he said slowly. Hesitantly she obeyed him and stood quite still. He looked at her for a moment, then he turned to the tape deck in the corner. From his pocket he produced a cassette which he slotted into the machine. He switched it on and listened as the first strains of an unaccompanied flute began to play in the room, then he sat down on the chair facing Jo. She had not moved. Her head was held at a defiant angle, her eyes watching him with cool disdain as he sat back and folded his arms. ‘Now, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘I want you to show me some wifely obedience.’ Matilda stared at her husband in horror. Behind him the blind flute player was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the window embrasure. She could hear the everyday noises of the castle all around them; any second someone would walk into the solar. She heard feet pattering down the spiral stair in the corner and the swish of skirts on the stone. They hesitated then ran on down towards the lower floors, the sound dying away into the distance. ‘Take off your mantle and gown, wife,’ he repeated his order. She glanced at the musician, who played on as if he had heard nothing. ‘My lord, I can’t – I need my maid. Please, this can wait until nightfall –’ ‘It cannot wait until nightfall.’ His eyes narrowed and she could see the vein beginning to throb in his neck. He drew the ornately decorated dagger from his girdle and tested the blade gently against his thumb. ‘If the fastenings of your gown defeat you, I shall cut them for you.’ She swallowed. She had only to call for a servant, to scream, to turn and run. He could not force her, not here. Not now. Yet something held her. She could not tear her eyes from his. Obediently she felt herself unfasten her jewelled girdle and let it fall to the floor. Her scarlet surcoat followed it. She paused nervously. ‘My lord, not here, I beg you –’ ‘Here, Matilda.’ She felt his hands on her head, slipping off the gauze headdress, allowing her hair to fall loose over her shoulders, then he was unlacing her gown, pushing it down so that it too fell to the floor. She was left clad only in her shift. She shivered violently in spite of the warmth of the early autumn afternoon. Behind her the flute player shifted his position slightly as the trembling notes of his tune died away. There was a long silence, then, unbidden, he began to play again. ‘Take it off.’ William stood back and folded his arms. Matilda crossed her hands on her breast, clutching the embroidered neck of her shift. ‘Would you have me stand naked before the servants, and before your men?’ Her eyes blazed suddenly, her fear eclipsed by a wave of scorn and fury. She dodged away from him but he was too quick for her. He caught her wrist. ‘I’ll have you stand naked at the whipping post, my lady, before the whole world, if you defy me,’ he said evenly. He tore the flimsy shift from her body, tossing it to the rush-strewn floor. Panic-stricken, she raised her hands towards his face, clawing at him frantically, and beneath her nails a bloody welt opened down his cheek. With a curse he caught her by the hair, jerking her head back as greedily he seized her mouth with his own, his hands catching hers and holding them still as she struggled frantically to escape him. Behind them the flute player played on. William was breathing heavily, sweat pouring from his face and with a shudder she stood still, sensing suddenly that part of his excitement came from the knowledge that she was afraid. Raising her chin slightly she stared at him disdainfully. He released her wrists immediately and she took a step back, proud in her nakedness, feeling his eyes on her body which only weeks before had been swollen and misshapen, but now had slimmed back, with the resilience of youth, to a lithe tautness. Only the fullness of her breasts betrayed the recent childbirth and as she moved her head the heavy curtain of her hair swung forward to hide them from him. He licked his lips and slowly he began to remove his mantle. Once again she could hear steps on the spiral stairs at the corner of the chamber. They were coming closer. She could hear knocking – a loud insistent banging at a door. Near them someone was shouting. She ignored the sound, her eyes on her husband’s face, a flicker of mocking amusement showing in her expression as she saw him glance over his shoulder towards the rounded arch covered with a curtain which led towards the stairs. Abruptly he threw his mantle round her shoulders. ‘So,’ he breathed. ‘We are interrupted after all, but only for a while. You will forget this little incident until we have another opportunity to be alone, do you hear me?’ He drew her to him, his hands locked in the embroidered border of his mantle, her body pressed against his, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘You will remember nothing about it, nothing at all, but when I order you to come to me again, you will come, Jo, do you hear me? You will come.’ ‘Jo!’ Nick was banging on the door again. He tried the key a second time and cursed. ‘Jo? I know you’re in there. Open the door!’ Outside the flat upstairs a face appeared, peering over the winding banisters. ‘She’s in there all right. I saw her earlier.’ Sheila Chandler came down a few steps. ‘It’s Mr Franklyn, isn’t it?’ Nick gave her a brief smile. ‘She doesn’t seem to be hearing me.’ ‘Perhaps she’s asleep. What with the baby keeping her awake and everything.’ ‘Baby?’ Nick stared up at her. He frowned, with a sudden shiver of apprehension, mechanically taking in the immaculate wave of the woman’s hair and her elegantly cut silk shirt, then he turned back to the door and thumped on it with his fist. ‘Jo, if you don’t open this door I’m going to break it down!’ His voice echoed up and down the silent stairwell and above him Sheila Chandler’s eyes rounded. Silently her husband came to stand beside her, staring down. When the door was unbolted at last they both craned forward. Only Sheila saw that it was opened by a man. ‘Sam?’ Nick stared at his brother. ‘What the hell is going on? Where’s Jo?’ Sam stood back to let him in. ‘Shut up, Nick,’ he said angrily. ‘There’s no need for all this noise. Jo’s fine.’ He closed the door and as he did so Nick caught sight of a long raw scratch on his brother’s face. Sam was in shirtsleeves – two buttons from the front of the shirt were missing. ‘What the hell has been going on here?’ Nick repeated as he thrust Sam out of his way and strode into the living room. It was empty. From the stereo the lonely, monotonous sound of a flute wove a pattern into the silence. ‘She went into some kind of spontaneous regression.’ Sam was leaning against the wall, watching his brother closely. ‘She asked me to come over after she’d been having a series of nightmares about the baby –’ ‘The woman upstairs talked about a baby.’ Nick frowned. ‘That is the strange part.’ Sam threw himself down on the sofa. ‘Apparently they’ve heard it wailing. Assuming the noises do come from this flat, I can only put forward the hypothesis that the sounds come from Jo herself.’ ‘You mean she’s crying?’ ‘Either that or the sounds are being created by the strength of her emotions. You’ve heard of poltergeists! Noises created by energy charges within an individual.’ Sam wiped his face with a handkerchief. Noticing the blood on it he frowned. ‘She … she flew at me when I tried to restrain her,’ he said quietly, dabbing at the scratch. ‘No, don’t worry. She’s all right now. She’s asleep.’ Nick gave him a long hard look. Then he strode down the hall towards the bedroom. Jo lay on the bed wearing her bathrobe, her hair loose around her shoulders. ‘Jo –’ Nick sat down beside her and took her hands gently in his. ‘Jo?’ ‘Don’t touch her.’ Sam had followed him. His voice was sharp. ‘I was about to awaken her when you started trying to break the door down. May I suggest you go and pour us all a drink while I sort things out in here?’ Nick’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’d rather stay.’ ‘I am sure Jo would prefer it if you did not. She would be extremely embarrassed to think you had seen her like this.’ Sam walked to the bedroom door and held it open for him. ‘Wait next door please. This won’t take long.’ Nick hesitated, then with a shrug he walked through to the living room. He reached for the bottle of Scotch. It was empty and he began to rummage in the cupboard, unconsciously straining his ears for the sound of voices. In the distance he could hear Sam’s gently monotonous tones and on impulse he tiptoed back towards the bedroom door and listened. ‘Can you hear me, Jo?’ Sam was standing over her now, looking down. ‘When you wake up you will remember nothing of what happened whilst you were hypnotised today, do you understand? You will remember that you asked me to help you, that is all. You will awaken calm and happy, but you will remember that next time I wish to hypnotise you, for whatever reason, you will agree. You will hear my voice and you will obey me. Do you understand me, Jo?’ Nick pushed open the door. ‘What the hell are you saying to her, Sam?’ Sam did not look round. ‘Do you understand me, Jo?’ he repeated. ‘Now, when I count three you will wake. One. Two. Three.’ On the bed Jo lay quite still, then slowly she opened her eyes. She looked around her, completely dazed, her gaze going past Sam to Nick. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Sam,’ Nick hissed at him furiously. Sam smiled coldly. ‘Nor do I intend to. My methods of professional practice are none of your business.’ He sat down on the bed next to Jo. ‘How are you feeling now? You had another little fainting spell,’ he said. ‘Fainting?’ Jo hoisted herself up on her elbow. ‘I don’t understand. What time is it? We were having coffee –’ She tried to sit up but Sam pushed her gently back against the pillows. ‘Rest a minute, Jo. You’ll be all right in a short time, I promise.’ He pushed the hair back from her face with a cool hand. Jo was staring at him. ‘You!’ she said suddenly. ‘You made me take my clothes off! You stood and watched me while that man was playing the flute. You said he was blind, but he wasn’t, he was watching too –’ A frown crossed Sam’s face. ‘You’ve been dreaming, Jo,’ he said. There was an edge to his voice. ‘Oh no, I remember clearly. You ordered me to take off my clothes.’ Her voice shook. ‘You had given orders that no one come in, hadn’t you? I expect everyone in the castle knew what you had planned for me. Did that make you feel big, my lord? Did it? Is that how you get your pleasure?’ Jo scrambled across the bed away from him and stood up. She tightened the belt of the bathrobe. ‘What a shame that someone came!’ ‘Dear God, she’s still in the past,’ Nick murmured. ‘Sam, it’s happened to her again. For God’s sake, wake her up properly!’ ‘Jo?’ Sam ignored him. ‘Jo, calm down. Don’t you recognise me?’ ‘Of course I recognise you!’ She pushed her hair back off her face. ‘You’re …’ She stopped short, groping for a name. A second later she put her face in her hands, shaking her head from side to side. ‘You’re not William,’ she whispered between her fingers. ‘You’re not William, you’re not … you’re not.’ Sam caught her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. ‘Who am I, Jo?’ he said. His eyes held hers. ‘Sam,’ she whispered. ‘You’re Sam.’ ‘And who is this with me?’ He was still holding her wrists. ‘Nick.’ Her reply was scarcely audible. He released her. ‘Fine. I suggest we all have a cup of coffee. Nick, rather than snooping in here, perhaps you could do that much for us?’ He rounded on his brother harshly as Jo walked slowly over to her mirror and stood before it, staring at her face. Numbly she picked up her comb and began to draw it through her hair. With a shrug Nick went into the kitchen. His hands were shaking as he picked up the kettle and held it under the tap. Behind him he did not see Sam walk swiftly down the hall to the living room where he slipped the cassette into his pocket, and then picked up Jo’s dress and her bra and panties from the carpet and stuffed them behind a cushion on the sofa. When Nick appeared he was standing at the open French window staring out across the square. ‘How is she?’ Nick slid the tray onto the low table. ‘Confused and disorientated.’ Sam did not turn round. ‘Give her a little time and she’ll be fine.’ ‘She needs help, Sam. If this is going to happen spontaneously, for God’s sake! She needs psychiatric help.’ ‘You seem to forget, little brother, that that is what I’m here for,’ Sam said, turning at last to look at him. ‘I warned you both what might happen if she got involved in this. Now all I can do is help. And first I want to see to it she doesn’t go near that quack Bennet again.’ ‘He’s in the States.’ Absently Nick picked up a cup and drank. His mouth tasted acid. ‘Good.’ Sam smiled enigmatically. ‘Long may he remain there.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t told me, incidentally, what you are doing here. I thought you were in Paris until the weekend.’ ‘I changed my mind.’ Nick drained the coffee and picked up the coffee pot. ‘That was a pretty damn fool trick to play, sending Judy after me. What was the idea exactly?’ Sam sat down. ‘It was her idea, old son. I just gave her the name of the hotel. Where is she now?’ Nick shrugged. ‘I told her to get lost.’ ‘I see.’ Sam’s gaze narrowed. ‘And you thought Jo would be interested to hear all this?’ ‘I don’t give a damn if she’s interested or not. I was worried about her. I saw that article Pete Leveson wrote and I thought she must be going out of her mind to give him the story. You have seen it I suppose?’ ‘I’ve seen it. And she didn’t give, Nick. He took.’ Sam stretched his legs out in front of him slowly. ‘I must say I think it was singularly naive of her to talk to him at all, but she’s not herself these days as we can all see. I want you to leave her alone, Nick.’ He sat forward suddenly. ‘Do you understand me? I want you to keep away from her. She can’t cope with any more hassle.’ ‘I don’t think that’s for you to say, Sam.’ Behind them Jo had appeared silently in the doorway. She was wearing jeans and a deep-red silk shirt, unbuttoned at the throat. Her face was still very white. Sam climbed to his feet. ‘Have some coffee, Jo.’ She accepted the cup coolly. ‘I keep getting the feeling you two are trying to run my life for me,’ she said. ‘I’m very grateful and all that, but I don’t need it.’ ‘You do need help, Jo.’ Sam’s voice was gentle. ‘And I think you realise it. That was why you rang me this morning.’ Jo bit her lip. ‘I wanted someone to talk to. But full-scale analysis, no.’ Sam grinned back amiably. ‘You couldn’t afford me, love, not for full-scale analysis! But seriously, I do want to help you. I have to go home tomorrow. I’m giving a lecture on Friday and another on Monday at a post-graduate conference, but after that I can come back and I want you to agree to see me then, just to talk things through.’ She frowned. ‘I won’t need to, Sam. Really.’ ‘If you really don’t need to, we’ll forget it, but if you have any more dreams, any more crying babies, then you must call me. Promise?’ Jo sighed. ‘All right, I promise.’ ‘I’ll give you my number in Edinburgh so that you can reach me there as well. And I don’t want you to go back to see Bennet. He’s away anyway at the moment, I gather, but he’s not competent to help you, Jo. He doesn’t know how to cope with the reactions he’s getting from you and more to the point, neither do you.’ He sipped his coffee thoughtfully, not looking at her. ‘I know you’ll do the sensible thing.’ Jo grinned. ‘You’re the first person who has ever said that to me,’ she said. She reached forward and kissed him on the cheek, then she frowned. ‘What is that awful mark on your face?’ Sam glanced at Nick. ‘I scratched it on some wire,’ he said quickly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll live.’ He put the cup down. ‘And now, I must go and get on with some packing. I’ll give you a lift back to the flat, Nick, shall I? I’ve got your car. It’s parked round the corner.’ ‘Then I’ll have the keys.’ Nick held out his hand. ‘Perhaps you’d grab a taxi, Sam, if you don’t mind. I’ll come on later. I want to talk to Jo.’ ‘It will be easier if we drive back together.’ Sam’s tone was insistent. Stubbornly Nick shook his head. ‘I’ll be along later.’ ‘Jo –’ Sam appealed to her. ‘You’re tired. You don’t want Nick here.’ ‘That’s all right, Sam, thanks. But I do want to talk to Nick as it happens.’ Jo smiled almost apologetically. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him again. ‘You’ve been very sweet, Sam, thanks for coming.’ Nick closed the door behind his brother thankfully and stood for a moment staring at it. Mortice, Yale lock, chain and bolt. Why the bolt, in broad daylight when Sam was here? He shot it experimentally. ‘What are you doing?’ Jo was behind him; she looked apprehensive. ‘I was wondering why Sam found it necessary to bolt the door. Unless it was you, of course?’ He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘I never bolt the door. What are you talking about?’ The particular shade of burgundy silk she was wearing suited her exceptionally well. His eyes travelled to her breasts, outlined beneath the low-buttoned blouse. They seemed more prominent than usual. She was looking very beautiful. ‘Then Sam must have done it,’ he said. ‘Did you ask him to hypnotise you, Jo?’ He moved away from the door and picked up his empty cup. He stared at it absently. She nodded. ‘I heard the baby crying again and Carl Bennet wasn’t there and I didn’t know what to do, so I rang Sam. He was marvellous, Nick.’ Nick put down the cup. ‘He is pretty good, so I’ve heard,’ he said cryptically. Jo smiled. ‘You heard right.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘So. How was France? I gather you had company while you were there.’ ‘I thought Sam might just find it necessary to tell you she had come after me,’ Nick said cynically. ‘It was the end of us, if it’s of any interest. As far as I know, she’s still there.’ He glanced at her. ‘Jo –’ ‘The answer is no, Nick. I don’t accept cast-offs.’ His face hardened. ‘You are assuming too much. I came here to see if you had recovered, not to resume our affair. I don’t beg women to take me back.’ ‘Good.’ She looked defiant. ‘I don’t think begging would suit you.’ She walked out onto the balcony and stood there for a moment with her back to him. Then she turned. ‘Nick, do you believe in reincarnation now, after what’s happened?’ ‘No. I do not.’ ‘Then what do you think is happening to me?’ ‘I think you are the victim of your own imagination. No more than that.’ ‘You don’t think it is possible that everyone lives again? You don’t believe that we might have known each other before, when I was Matilda –’ ‘No, I don’t.’ Nick joined her on the balcony. He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Don’t try and talk yourself into this, Jo. It’s madness.’ ‘It was when I fainted at Ceecliff’s,’ she went on as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘As I was coming round I saw someone else’s face there, in the room. Someone who was you, and wasn’t you. Someone beside you –’ ‘Shut up, Jo. I don’t want to hear any more –’ ‘That person tried to strangle me. I couldn’t breathe. That was why I fainted. I thought it was you, but it wasn’t. His eyes were different and he had a beard …’ She pushed past him and went back inside. ‘Nick, you were part of that life. And it’s catching up with me! The people from the past are following me into the present! They are here, in the shadows!’ Her voice was rising. ‘William, my husband William was here, in my bedroom, and the baby, my baby, little Will. Nick, I started producing milk to feed him! That’s why I called Sam. I didn’t know what to do!’ Tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘And the man at Ceecliff’s house reached out of the past to try and kill me, Nick. None of it was my imagination. They were real!’ Nick was staring at her in horror. ‘Jo, for God’s sake, get a grip on yourself. You’re talking rubbish.’ ‘Am I?’ She took a deep breath. ‘How come the Chandlers upstairs heard the baby crying?’ ‘You should be very glad they did, Jo. That proves absolutely, beyond a shadow of doubt, that it was a real baby they heard.’ Nick sat down, still watching her. ‘You need to get away, Jo. Right away for a few days. Listen, I’m not due back in the office until Monday –’ ‘I know what you’re going to say.’ She gave him a brittle smile. ‘Thanks, but no.’ ‘You don’t know what I’m going to say. I was going to suggest that you come down to the boat with me –’ ‘Nick! Don’t you understand? I’m afraid of you! Afraid of that other person –’ ‘There is no other person, Jo!’ Nick caught her arms. ‘You’ve been cooped up too long in this flat with this story all round you – tapes, books, nightmares. You’ve got to get away before it sends you really insane. I’m going to take Moon Dancer back to Lymington – I never got round to it when I went to see Ma last. Come with me. You know you’ve always loved the boat, and the sea air will help get things straight for you. It always did, remember?’ Jo hesitated. He was right. She had got to get away. ‘No strings? Separate bunks?’ Nick grinned. ‘Scout’s honour. Why don’t I ring the marina and ask them to get her ready? We’ll call in at Lynwood House and pick up my gear and we could be at Shoreham in a couple of hours or so.’ Jo sighed. She stared round the room, thinking of the night before, sitting all alone, waiting to hear if the baby was going to start crying again. Abruptly she capitulated. ‘OK, I’ll come. Thanks.’ He smiled. ‘Pack a bag while I phone.’ He watched as she moved towards the bedroom, seeing already a new lightness about her. He made the call and then threw himself back on the cushions of the sofa. They slipped a little and a bundle of rolled-up clothing fell onto the floor. He picked it up and shook the garments out, puzzled, then his face darkened. Standing up, he strode towards the bedroom. ‘Did you do a striptease for Sam as the hors d’oeuvre or the encore?’ he asked, dropping her briefs on the bed. She stared at them blankly. ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘You don’t understand?’ Nick threw her dress and bra down as well. ‘How strange. I should have thought it was obvious. It is no doubt part of that precious professional relationship Sam is so keen to preserve. He takes off your clothes perhaps to take your pulse, then hides them under the pillow for tidiness’ sake! Or was it because I arrived unexpectedly? Not that it’s any of my business, of course.’ ‘No, it isn’t any of your business!’ Jo flared angrily. She picked up her dress and shook out the creases. She felt suddenly very sick. ‘I must have left them there earlier. I don’t know … perhaps last night. I felt so strange last night. I was drinking, and I took the last of the pills –’ ‘Jo, for God’s sake!’ ‘There is nothing between Sam and me, Nick. Nothing. If it’s any of your business.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I’m not so sure this boat thing is such a good idea after all!’ ‘We’re going, Jo.’ Nick picked up her bag. ‘Forget Sam for now. We’ll talk about him later. Get a jacket. It might be cold on the water.’ She hesitated. ‘Nick, this is stupid. We can’t do it. To go away together would be crazy.’ ‘Then it’s a kind of craziness we both need.’ His tone was becoming threatening. ‘I’m prepared to carry you to that car, Jo.’ She was too tired to argue any more. She swallowed the automatic flareup of rebellion and followed him downstairs, thankful only when the front door was closed without her hearing again the echoing wail of baby William’s hungry cries. Two and a half hours later, Jo clutched Nick’s arm. ‘Nick stop! Go back!’ The Porsche screamed to a standstill on the dusty road. ‘For God’s sake, what’s wrong?’ ‘That signpost! Did you see it?’ ‘Jo, you could have caused an accident. Christ! What is wrong with you? What signpost?’ Turning in his seat he reversed up the empty road, past the narrow turning to which Jo had pointed. ‘There.’ She was pale and excited. ‘Look. It points to Bramber!’ ‘So?’ Nick glanced in the rear-view mirror and waved a lorry past, then he pulled the car into the grass verge. ‘What’s so special about Bramber, suddenly?’ ‘It was William’s home. It was where I went after I was married!’ Nick’s hand tightened on the wheel. ‘After Matilda was married, I suppose you mean?’ ‘That’s what I said. Oh Nick, can we go there? Please?’ A car slowed behind them, hooted and overtook, the driver gesturing rudely as he disappeared around the curve of the road. ‘Jo, we’ve come to forget all that.’ ‘Oh please, Nick. I’ll never rest until I’ve been there now. Just for a few minutes. It’s research for the article amongst other things. I can see how much it’s changed. Nick, don’t you see? I’ll be able to compare. It might prove that everything has been in my imagination –’ Sadness showed in her eyes suddenly. ‘If I recognise nothing at all, at least we’ll know then. The Downs can’t have changed all that much, or the river. Please, Nick?’ With a sigh Nick engaged gear. He turned up the narrow road, glancing at the countryside round them. ‘We’ve been round here half a hundred times before, Jo. Every time we’ve left the boat at Shoreham we’ve explored the Downs to find pubs and restaurants –’ ‘But we’ve never turned off here.’ She was peering through the windscreen, her hand on the dash. ‘I don’t recognise anything, Nick. Not the countryside, the Downs are so naked – so small.’ He could hear the disappointment in her voice. ‘They are the same as they were the last time you and I came down to the boat,’ he said gently. ‘Look –’ He slowed the car. ‘It says “To the Castle”. Shall I turn up there?’ She nodded. Her mouth had gone dry. Nick swung the car up the steep lane between two small modern flint turrets and into a muddy car park. Above them rose a wooded hill with a squat little church nestling into its side. Jo pushed the car door open and stood up, her eyes fixed on the church. Nick hadn’t moved. He was leaning across, watching her. She looked down at him unhappily. ‘Nick, I have to do this alone. Do you mind?’ ‘Are you sure?’ She nodded. ‘And you’ll be all right?’ She looked round. ‘I’ll be all right. Go and find one of those pubs you were talking about. Come back in an hour.’ She pushed the door shut. Nick watched her walk towards the church. Only when she had disappeared inside did he turn the car and drive back down the lane. Jo opened the door into the nave and stared round. The church was completely empty. She stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind her, her eyes on the huge arch of pale stone which spanned the roof before the altar. In her hand was a copy of the little tenpenny guide. This was William’s chapel – and before him the chapel of his father, and his grandfather. It had been dedicated, the guide book said, in the year 1073. Slowly she walked towards the altar. If it were anywhere, his ghost would be here, in the very walls where he had knelt and prayed. She felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle as she stood staring up at the simple wooden cross with the pale ochre curtain behind it. No lighted candles, no incense. The bell was silent. But there was a sense of prayer. A presence. ‘I should be praying for their souls,’ she thought. ‘Their souls – our souls – which are not at rest.’ With a shiver of something like defiance she made the sign of the cross and knelt before the altar, but the prayers would not come. The faith and burning trust which Matilda had felt before the twelfth-century statue of the Virgin were not for the twentieth-century Jo Clifford, kneeling in her shirt and jeans on the cold soap-scented flagstones. She felt nothing. She was suddenly conscious of how quiet the church was, and how empty. Raising her eyes to the three small, arched windows above the altar she felt very cold. The air around her had become oppressive; the silence so intense she could hear it beating inside her head. Overwhelmed with panic, she scrambled to her feet and fled down the aisle, letting herself out of the door to stand in the vestibule, breathing deeply. Two women walked in past her and she felt them staring at her. They too bought a copy of the little guide, then they disappeared inside the church. She stood in the graveyard shivering, feeling the warmth of the evening sun sinking through her shirt and into her bones. The air was glorious. It smelled of honeysuckle and woodsmoke from a bonfire below the churchyard, and of wild thyme from the Downs which ringed Bramber, bare and dusty beneath the hot evening sky. Immediately below her around the foot of the hill clustered the uneven, ancient roofs of the village of Bramber. Above, like a reproving finger, stood a huge pillar of masonry – part of the now ruined castle. Taking a deep breath, Jo left the churchyard and began to walk up the shallow steps cut in the side of the castle hill, across the overgrown depths of the defensive ditch and on towards the ruins. The top of the hill was a broad flat area of mown grass in the centre of which rose another steep-sided hillock, the motte on which the first William de Braose’s wooden keep had been raised in the days of the Conqueror. It was shrouded now by trees, guarded by ancient yews. Very little of the castle remained. A few areas of crumbling wall around the perimeter of the hill where the only invaders were ash and sycamore, hung with the greenish, scented flowers of wild clematis. Only the one tall finger of wall remained rearing into the sky to remind the visitor of the castle’s former glory. Jo stood staring round her, lost. She could recognise nothing. Slowly she began to walk, seeing her shadow running before her across the grass, looking south towards the sea. Somewhere out there in the forest she had gone hawking with Richard and fallen at his feet to lie with her head on his lap. The forest had gone. Trees climbed the castle hill now, which then had been bare. Only the gap in the Downs was the same. The river was quite different too. So small. Surely then it had been vastly wider and there had been a jetty right here beneath the hill with ships and bustle and noise. The only noise now was the roar of traffic from the broad sweep of the fast road south, carried on the still evening air. ‘Are you all right, Jo?’ Nick had been following her silently. She smiled at him. ‘The only thing I can recognise is the gap where the Downs aren’t.’ She laughed wryly. ‘And the church. I think the tower was the same, though there used to be something on top, then. And there was water all round here.’ She waved her arm. ‘I thought I said an hour?’ She looked at him closely. ‘I didn’t like to leave you, so I parked in the lane at the bottom of the hill. I was afraid …’ He hesitated. ‘Well, that something might happen.’ ‘So was I.’ She put her hands on a fragment of wall, lightly touching the flints and mortar. ‘I should be able to feel something. I know I’ve been here before – how often have you heard people say that, joking? I do know it, yet I feel nothing. Why?’ ‘Perhaps you don’t need to.’ He touched the wall himself. ‘Besides, it’s quite possible that you had no particular affinity with Bramber. You probably have no reason to remember it. Matilda spent most of her time in Wales, didn’t she?’ Jo nodded. ‘You’re right. I expect all her memories are there.’ She sighed. ‘There was something, though – just for a minute, in the church.’ She shivered again. ‘William was so obsessive about religious observance. Do you know, his clerks had to be paid extra because of all the flowery bits of religious pomposity he insisted on adding to all his correspondence –’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I must have read that somewhere –’ Nick took her arm. ‘Come on, Jo. Let’s get on to Shoreham.’ She shook off his hand. ‘You were right. I took my clothes off for Sam.’ She was staring into the distance. ‘I thought he was William. He ordered me to do it, Nick.’ ‘Are you sure?’ Nick stared at her grimly. ‘I was in the solar of the castle at Brecknock and he stood in front of me and ordered me to undress whilst the blind man played the flute.’ ‘William may have ordered you in your dream, Jo. Not Sam, surely. Sam wouldn’t do such a thing.’ Nick swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Why did I take my clothes off, then?’ she cried. ‘Why? If it was just for William I would have described it, not actually done it!’ He frowned. ‘You’re making a terrible accusation, Jo.’ ‘There was no tape of what happened,’ she whispered. ‘No one else there. Just Sam and me. And a pile of crumpled clothes.’ She shivered again, looking down at the shadow of the castle wall on the grass. ‘People can’t be forced to do anything against their will whilst under hypnosis, I know that. But I was Matilda, and I thought he was my husband –’ ‘No, that’s crap! You’re talking complete, unmitigated crap.’ Nick turned away sharply. ‘I can quite believe that you might do anything. I’ve seen you, remember? But Sam? He’d be crazy to try something like that. Besides, nothing happened, did it? Your husband didn’t rape you?’ His voice was harsh. Jo coloured. ‘No, he didn’t rape me, because someone – presumably you – came. But not before he had humiliated me and mocked me and set out to browbeat me like the sexist pig he was. He threatened to whip me, naked, before everyone in the castle and no doubt if there had been time he would have had me on my knees before he put me on my back.’ She began to walk swiftly down the way they had come. Nick followed her. ‘Well, that proves it wasn’t Sam at any rate,’ he said grimly. ‘I don’t see him as kinky.’ ‘Don’t you?’ Jo flashed back. ‘You surprise me.’ Nick glanced at Jo from the phone. She was sitting in the corner of the pub nursing a Scotch and ginger. The noise level in the bar was fairly high. Taking out his diary, he found the number he was looking for and dialled it, leaning against the wall so that he could watch her while he waited, change in hand, for the call to connect. He was thinking about Sam. Carl Bennet had only come in from Gatwick airport three-quarters of an hour before. He cursed quietly as his wife came to get him out of the bath. ‘Nick Franklyn? What the hell does Nick Franklyn want?’ he muttered, wrapping a towel round his middle. ‘I don’t know, dear, but he’s in a phone box.’ Melissa Bennet smiled fondly at her husband as he tried to clean the steam off his spectacles. ‘Get rid of him, darling, then come down and eat.’ ‘Eat, she says,’ Bennet snorted as his wife ran down the stairs. ‘What the hell else does she think I did on that plane?’ He picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he barked. His glasses had steamed over again. Within seconds he was reaching for his notepad. ‘You are right. I should see her as soon as possible. I could fit her in tomorrow here.’ He listened again for a few minutes, frowning with irritation as Nick paused to slot more money into the phone. ‘Very well, Mr Franklyn. Monday at ten. I agree a break would do her good. But should this happen again – anything which worries you – I want you to promise to ring me, here, at once.’ He hung up at last and sat still, chewing the inside of his cheek. He sighed. Post-hypnotic suggestion was always a dangerous field. To do as Nick Franklyn asked and wipe out the girl’s memory of Matilda forever – that was a sad request. But the man was right. The past had to be controlled. It had to be relegated to where it belonged, otherwise it threatened to take Jo Clifford over, and in so doing, destroy her. 18 (#ulink_13af3125-76a1-5bab-973d-a9a01c63e220) Sam opened the front door of the flat to Judy that evening with a scowl. ‘I’m packing to go to Edinburgh,’ he said curtly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t spare you much time.’ ‘You can’t?’ Judy threw herself down on a chair. ‘That’s good, because I don’t require much time. You know of course that by now Nick and Jo are back together.’ ‘I know they’ve gone down to the boat.’ He was watching her closely as he sat down opposite her. ‘She doesn’t want him. She is using him. You know that as well as I do, I expect.’ Judy was wearing a pink flying suit which clashed violently with the bitter orange of the upholstery in Nick’s flat. She threw herself back in the chair pushing her hands deep into her pockets. ‘I want Nick back.’ Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Lucky old Nick,’ he said coldly. ‘So?’ She smiled. ‘You want Jo.’ She studied his face under her eyelashes, but his expression gave nothing away. ‘I think we should pool our resources, don’t you?’ she went on after a moment. Sam got up and went to the drinks tray. ‘Assuming you are even remotely right,’ he said slowly, ‘exactly what resources, as you call them, do you have?’ He poured out a stiff gin for each of them and began carefully to slice up a lemon. Judy smiled. ‘Information. And advice. I think that London is getting too hot for Jo. I think she would be better in a colder climate. Like Edinburgh for example. Don’t you have a clinic or something in Edinburgh?’ Sam handed her a glass. ‘You mean I should whisk Jo off and hospitalise her somewhere, preferably behind locked doors, no doubt, thus leaving the field free for you?’ ‘Something like that, yes.’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a clinic, Judy. Nor am I attached to one.’ He took a sip from his glass reflectively and went to stand in his favourite position by the window. ‘Besides, Jo doesn’t need hospitalising.’ ‘Yet.’ He turned. ‘What does that mean exactly?’ ‘She’s going crazy.’ Laughing, he turned away again. ‘No, not crazy. A little confused, perhaps. A little frightened. But that is all.’ He picked the lemon out of his glass and sucked it. ‘There is no need for Jo to leave London to aid your plans.’ He paused. ‘I can drive a wedge between her and Nick which will put them further than four hundred miles apart, I can assure you. I can make Jo hate him. I can make her afraid of him, I can make her revile and scorn him.’ He hadn’t raised his voice, but Judy stared at him. His tone had been full of venom. ‘You don’t like your brother very much, do you?’ she said cautiously. He grinned suddenly. ‘What makes you think that? I would be doing it for you!’ There was a long pause as they looked warily at one another. ‘I don’t think so,’ Judy said at last. ‘I don’t think you’re even doing it because you like Jo. I think you’re doing it to hurt Nick.’ Sam laughed out loud. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But you’ll be there to pick up the pieces and kiss him better, won’t you!’ Nick was sitting in the cockpit of the Moon Dancer, the tiller tucked beneath his arm, the sun full on his face as he squinted up at the spread of cream canvas. ‘Happy?’ He glanced at Jo, who was lying on the cabin roof. She was wearing white jeans rolled up above the knees and a striped bikini top. She rested her chin on her hands and grinned at him, her hair blowing across her face. ‘Happy. Better. Sane. Thanks!’ ‘And hungry?’ She nodded. ‘Are we going to stop at Bosham?’ ‘I don’t see why not. Lunch at the Anchor Bleu and back out on the tide. Or we can spend the rest of the day there. Leave tomorrow. Whichever.’ He adjusted the sheet a little, watching the mainsail wing out before the wind as the huge orange spinnaker flapped for a moment, then ballooned full once more. Jo licked her lips, tasting the salt from the spray. ‘Let’s wait and see.’ Already she could see the little pointed roof on the tower of Bosham church at the head of the creek. The tide was nearly high, brimming to the edge of the saltings where a cloud of terns danced over the sparkling ripples. She turned to watch a huge ocean racer draw smoothly past them under power. ‘I haven’t thanked you for last night,’ she said suddenly. ‘For what? As I remember, nothing happened.’ ‘Exactly.’ She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. ‘You gave me space, Nick. It was what I needed. A super meal, enough Scotch to float the Titanic and oblivion.’ He laughed. ‘You certainly look a little less tense.’ ‘I am. Once out of that flat I seem to be able to think straight. I’ve behaved like an emotional idiot, allowing myself to be influenced by all this business. Can you imagine? Jo Clifford, cool, businesslike, imperturbable Jo Clifford, allowing herself to be so affected that my body reacted psychosomatically. I shall write the story next week, and get it out of my system completely, then I intend to forget all about it.’ Nick glanced at her. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said quietly. ‘Welcome back, Jo Clifford.’ They anchored in Bosham creek and paddled ashore in the inflatable dinghy. Walking across the long lush grass of the quay meadow, they strolled past the church, breathing in the air heady with honeysuckle and roses, intoxicatingly sweet after the sharp salt of the sea wind, laughing as they dusted aside drifts of white petals from the hedge. They ate a ploughman’s lunch sitting outside the pub in the sun, then walked on slowly through the village hand in hand, watching the tide lap up over the road, and slowly draw back leaving a shining trail of mud and weed. They hardly spoke at all as they walked along the point, then back across the causeway to lie for a while side by side on the grass, dozing in the sun. It was dark before they once more found their dinghy and paddled out beneath the stars to find Moon Dancer swinging at her buoy. Jo lay back against the rounded rubber sides of the little boat and stared up at the sky. ‘Do you know the names of all the constellations?’ she asked lazily in the silence. Nick looked up. ‘I used to. I’m always meaning to brush up on my astral navigation in case Dancer and I decide to head for deep water.’ ‘Seriously?’ She raised her head and looked at him. ‘Why not? I can think of worse things to do for a year. Let Jim take over the business.’ She bit her lip silently, watching as he came alongside the boat and reached up to knot the painter to a stanchion. They climbed on board and Nick opened the hatchway to the cabin. Jo did not follow him below. She stood for a moment quite still in the cockpit staring across the darkly gleaming water. Then she shivered. Nick had turned on the lights. ‘A nightcap before bed?’ he called. She did not answer. She was watching the line of orange lights strung like beads along the main A27 at the end of the creek in the distance. With the wind off the sea she couldn’t hear the traffic. All she could hear was the occasional dull slap of water against the planking and a splash as a fish jumped in the darkness. Once more she looked up at the glitter of stars above them, with the broad swathe of the Milky Way like an untidy scarf of samite dragged across the midnight velvet of the sky. A cold breath of air touched her cheek and she heard the immediate chatter of the halyards against the mast and the chuckle of rippling water beneath the bow. As the wind came round Moon Dancer turned a little across the tide. Somewhere in the dark a nightbird screamed. Jo climbed down into the cabin. Nick had put the kettle onto the little stove and was sitting on the bunk in the cramped cabin studying a chart of the Solent. ‘Would you like to dig out a couple of mugs?’ He didn’t look up. She didn’t move for a moment, then slowly she began to unbutton her shirt. She reached for the light switch and flipped it off. Nick looked up, startled. ‘Hey! –’ He stopped. She took off her shirt and then her bra. He could see her breasts by the tiny light from the gas flame beneath the kettle. Holding his breath, he watched as she slipped off her jeans. Then she came and knelt in front of him. ‘I’m frightened, Nick,’ she whispered. ‘It’s not all over. It all happened, all those years ago and the echo of it is still out there.’ She nodded towards the sky beyond the open hatch. ‘My destiny is somehow linked with a woman who lived and died eight hundred years before I was born. I can’t turn my back on her.’ Nick was slowly unbuttoning his own shirt. Gently he reached out and touched her breasts. ‘I think you must, Jo. And I think you can.’ He drew her between his knees, the angles of his face harsh in the blue light of the gas. ‘I’ll make you forget. If it’s the last thing I do, I shall make you forget.’ ‘Are you sure you don’t mind being hypnotised with Mr Franklyn present?’ Carl Bennet looked at Jo closely. Outwardly she was more relaxed than he had seen her yet. She was tanned and smiling, and yet he could sense a tension deep inside her which worried him. She nodded as she sat down. ‘I want Nick here, and you do understand I don’t want to be regressed any more, Dr Bennet. I want you to blot the whole thing out. Make me forget.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It is the best thing I think, my dear, although I must admit I am sorry in many ways. I had wanted an American colleague of mine to see you. I was talking to him in the States and he was hoping to fly over and see you himself –’ ‘No!’ Jo clenched her fists. ‘I’m sorry too, in a lot of ways. I wanted to know what happened, but I can’t take any more. I really can’t.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘It’s affecting my health and my work, and for all I know my sanity as well, so please, put a stop to it now.’ Bennet nodded. ‘Very well. I agree. So, let us begin. I should like you to close your eyes, Joanna, and relax.’ He was watching her hands, fisted in her lap. ‘Completely relax, beginning with your toes …’ ‘It takes longer each time,’ Sarah commented when Jo was at last in a deep trance. Carl nodded. ‘She is becoming more and more afraid of what might happen and fighting it. I doubt if we could have progressed much further with her in this state of mind anyway.’ Jo was lying back in her chair passively, her eyes closed, her hands hanging loosely over the armrests. Nick had seated himself unobtrusively in a corner of the room, his eyes fixed on Jo’s face. ‘Do you think this will work?’ he asked softly. Bennet shrugged. ‘It will if it is what she really wants.’ He pulled up a chair next to Jo’s and took her hand gently. ‘Joanna, can you hear me?’ Jo moved her head slightly. It might have been a nod. ‘And you are relaxed and comfortable, still thinking about your weekend at sea?’ She smiled. This time the nod was more definite. ‘Good. Now I want you to listen to me, Jo. It is twenty-five days since I first saw you here and you were first regressed. Since then the regressions have caused you much unhappiness and pain. I want you to forget them now, because you yourself want to forget them. When you wake up you will remember only that you had a few strange unimportant dreams and in time even that memory will fade. Do you understand me, Joanna?’ He paused, watching her closely. Jo was motionless but he could see the tension had returned to her hands. Abruptly she opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘I can’t forget them,’ she said softly but distinctly. Bennet swallowed. ‘You must forget, Joanna. Matilda is dead. Let her rest.’ Jo smiled sadly. ‘She cannot rest. I cannot rest … The story has to be told …’ Her gaze slipped past him. ‘Don’t you see, I have to go back, to find out why it all happened. I have to remember. I have to live again that first meeting with John …’ ‘Stop her!’ Nick had jumped to his feet. ‘Stop her, man! She’s regressing on her own. Can’t you see?’ He grabbed Jo by the shoulders. ‘Jo! Wake up! For God’s sake wake up. Don’t do it!’ ‘Leave her alone!’ Bennet’s peremptory order cut through his shout. Jo had gone rigid in her chair, looking straight through him. ‘Jo.’ It was Bennet who took hold of her now, forcing her to turn her head towards him. ‘Jo, I want you to listen to me …’ ‘Listen to me! Listen!’ William de Braose was standing furiously in front of her. ‘You will say nothing to the King of what happened on your journey, nothing, do you understand me?’ For a moment Matilda felt the familiar surge of defiance. She met his gaze squarely, mocking his fear, then she looked away. If she fought with him now he would refuse to take her to the King’s presence, and that, above all, she wanted. Meekly she lowered her eyes. ‘I shall say nothing, my lord,’ she whispered. Gloucester was crowded. The encampment of the King’s followers was laid out between the royal castle and the King’s palace north of the city where King Henry habitually held his Christmas courts, a colourful array of tents with the leopards of the King’s standard rippling from the flagstaff on the great central keep. As they had arrived they had glimpsed the gleaming Severn river with the fleet of royal galleys moored in lines to the quays, but it was evening before they reached it and the castle and the de Braose tents were raised next to those of their Marcher neighbours who had come to attend the betrothal of the King’s youngest son, John, to the Earl of Gloucester’s daughter, Isabella, and even later before William, arrayed in his finest clothes, took Matilda at last to wait upon the King. They found him in one of the upper rooms of the palace, seated at a large table on which were unrolled several maps. Beside him stood William Fitzherbert, Earl of Gloucester, who had arrived from his castle at Cardiff only two days previously, escorting his wife and small daughter, and several other nobles. Wine goblets had been used to hold maps flat as together they pored over the rough drawn lines in the light of a cluster of great wax candles. There was no sign of Richard de Clare, she saw at a glance, as she curtseyed low before the King, her heart thumping nervously. She had so desperately hoped he would be there. ‘Glad to see you made it, Sir William.’ Henry acknowledged his bow. ‘My son is to be your neighbour in the Marches if our plans work out and we get a dispensation for this marriage.’ He peered at Matilda, half hidden behind her husband. ‘Your wife, Sir William? She can wait on young Isabella tomorrow. See if she can stop the wench blubbering.’ He snorted, holding his hand out to Matilda, who came forward eagerly. ‘Your Grace,’ she murmured, bowing low. She glanced up at the heavy lined face and wiry red hair dusted with white, and found the King surveying her closely with brilliant blue eyes. She sensed at once the appreciation in his gaze and uncertainly drew closer to her husband. ‘Your father Sir Reginald was a good man, my dear.’ The King held on to her hand. ‘The best dapifer I’ve had to attend me. And you’ve the look of him about you.’ He grinned at William. ‘Lucky man. She’s a lovely girl.’ Matilda blushed and stepped back as the King released his grasp, glancing nervously up at him from lowered eyes, but already his attention was on the maps before him once more. William was drawn immediately into the discussion around the table, so she moved quietly to the hearth where the King’s two great sable dogs lay basking in the heat, and she stood gazing down into the flames, wondering whether she should withdraw. A moment later a door near her was flung open and a boy came striding into the room. He stopped short and looked her up and down arrogantly. ‘I saw you this afternoon with Sir William’s party,’ he announced, coming to stand near her. His sandy hair was disarrayed and damp from riding in the rain. ‘Your mare was lame. You should have dismounted and led her.’ ‘I beg your pardon.’ Matilda blushed hotly. ‘She was not lame.’ ‘She was.’ He made a face at her. ‘I saw her. She was stumbling badly.’ ‘She was tired.’ Matilda was furiously indignant. ‘There was nothing whatsoever wrong with her. I should never have ridden her if there was.’ She looked at the boy with dislike, noting his torn tunic and the scuffed shoes. ‘Anyway it’s got nothing to do with you. You’ve no business to tell me what I should or should not do.’ Her voice had risen slightly and she was conscious suddenly of a silence at the table behind her. She turned, embarrassed, and met the King’s cool gaze as he surveyed her, one eyebrow raised, over the maps. ‘I hope my son is not being a nuisance, Lady de Braose,’ he commented quietly. And then, louder, ‘Come here, John.’ Matilda gasped and, blushing, looked back at the Prince, but already he had turned his back on her and gone to stand beside his father. From the safety of his position at the King’s side he stuck out his tongue defiantly. His father may not have seen, but one or two of the others at the table certainly had, including William. She saw him glare sharply at the boy, raising his hand as if he wanted to clout him, then, obviously remembering where he was, he too bent once again to the map before him. The King, suppressing with difficulty the amusement in his face, bowed slightly towards Matilda and once more lowered his own eyes. Her cheeks flaming, she turned back to the fire, wishing she could run from the room. ‘He’s an odious, precocious little prig,’ she burst out later to Elen when she was at last back in her tent. She turned so that the woman could begin to unlace her gown. ‘Heaven help that poor child Isabella if they are to be wed. The boy needs a thrashing.’ ‘Hush!’ Elen, frightened, glanced round. ‘You can’t tell who might be listening out there, my lady. It would do no good to speak ill of the Prince. No good at all.’ ‘Prince!’ Matilda snorted, beginning to tug at the braid in her hair. ‘He behaves more like a stable-boy, except that he knows nothing about horses. Nothing!’ ‘He rides very well though, so I’ve heard.’ Elen gathered up the rich folds of material as her mistress stepped out of the dress. ‘He’s as daring as any of his brothers, although they’re so much older.’ ‘Daring maybe.’ Matilda was not to be placated. The hidden smiles of the men at the table still rankled, as did the look of amusement in the cold eyes of Henry himself. ‘He has no business to accuse me of riding a lame horse and making me look a fool in front of William and the King.’ There was a suspicious prickling behind her eyes, and she rubbed them fretfully with the back of her hand. ‘It’s humiliating.’ ‘Hush, my lady, he’s only a boy.’ Elen opened a coffer and rummaged through the contents looking for a comb. ‘Forget it. Think about tomorrow instead, and the lovely ceremonies and the banquet after. It’ll all be so beautiful, indeed it will. I’ve never seen so many people and so much grandeur in all my life.’ Matilda threw her a fond smile in spite of her vexation and sat down abruptly on one of the folding chairs so that Elen could reach to comb her hair. The pink cheeks of the Welsh girl glowed with excitement in the cold air of the dimly lit tent, and she remembered suddenly that for her too tomorrow was to be a great day. It was the first time she had attended court and it was foolish to let the boy’s deliberate taunts spoil what was to be such an exciting day; even if that boy was also the King’s youngest son, the afterthought child of Henry and his formidable Queen, Eleanor. And if the boy was to be the hero of that day, well, as William pointed out, it was probably the most exciting day he would ever have, except for the wedding itself, as the centre of attention. What chance had he of shining in his own right with three splendid and magnificent brothers so much older than himself? Dismissing Elen at last, she stepped wearily out of her shift, gasping at the cold, and, leaving it lying where it fell, she climbed naked into the low bed, and curled up beneath the heap of furs listening to the shouts and noise of the vast encampment. It was nearly the hour of curfew when the fires would be damped, and it would grow colder still. She longed to call Elen into her bed for warmth, but she did not dare. Her husband’s lust had been roused by the King’s obvious admiration for her and his crude fumblings and explicit leers at the banqueting board had made it clear that she was to expect him in her bed again that night. Sure enough, the fires were barely doused when William came stamping into the tent, already beginning to unfasten his mantle. ‘The moon’s riding in a ring tonight,’ he exclaimed loudly, unclasping his cloak. ‘It’ll blow before morning.’ He waved his esquire away and sat down to pull off his boots himself. ‘Well, my lady, you certainly impressed His Grace the King.’ He chortled. ‘Not many stand up to that spoiled brat of his, I gather, and come away to tell the tale without having their hair pulled.’ He saw his wife’s eyes flash angrily in the light of the dim rushlight and stopped hastily. ‘I’m glad you’re to attend Isabella tomorrow, my dear.’ He tried to appease her gruffly. ‘That’s a great honour. You’ll be right in the forefront of everything.’ He pulled off the other boot with a grunt and threw it to the floor. ‘By Christ, Matilda, the King was in a fine mood today. He plans a great hunt the day after tomorrow and I for one shall be there with him. There’s good sport to be had in the forests round here at the moment. We shall have a fine day.’ He threw off the rest of his clothes and, blowing out the rushlight, turned towards the bed. She gritted her teeth as he fell on her, and she felt his hands closing on her breasts, his knee forcing her thighs apart in the dark. ‘The King liked you, Matilda,’ he murmured, his face nuzzling into her neck. ‘He said I was a lucky man and he knows a thing or two about women, does King Henry. I’ll have to watch you, won’t I?’ and he laughed exultantly as he thrust his way inside her. The morning dawned frosty and bright, and the wisps of mist which had drifted up river from the estuary were soon spirited away by the sun. Matilda stood in the chilly tent and allowed Elen and Nell to dress her. First the pleated shift, then the undertunic of watchet green and lastly, over it, her gown of scarlet cloth, embroidered at the hem with gold stitching and crystals. Around her slim hips the girls placed the beautifully worked girdle which was saved for state occasions. She bade Elen pin up her long braids under her veil and then she surveyed herself critically in the polished metal hand mirror Nell held for her. She saw herself pale, her auburn hair neat beneath the snowy veil, the gilt fillet which held it in place sparkling from a ray of sun which escaped the tent flap and strayed through the shadows to where she stood. There was no hint on her face of the raw ache between her legs, nor the vicious marks on her breasts. She had been too proud to cry, but she had prayed for hours in the dark after William had at last fallen asleep that tonight he would be too drunk to leave the banqueting hall and that His Grace the King would never look in her direction again. The rooms occupied by the Countess of Gloucester were on the far side of the palace. Without William, who had left early to attend the King and the Earl of Gloucester for the signing of the formal betrothal documents, Matilda was lost. She stood in the centre of the courtyard around which lay a huddle of buildings, surrounded by noise and bustle, feeling bewildered. Behind her, Elen stood wide-eyed, barely able in her excitement and nervousness to refrain from stretching out to catch her mistress’s sleeve. Eventually they had to find a boy to guide them to the Countess’s rooms. They followed him through a cluster of stone and wooden buildings, some new built, some already derelict, into the palace itself, and through dark passages and up stairs until at last they came to a heavy door hung with tapestry. ‘She be in there, my lady.’ The boy jerked his thumb at the door. He sidled up to Elen and held out his hand. ‘I’ve brought ’e like ’e asked, mistress.’ Elen looked at him puzzled. ‘He wants you to give him a coin, Elen,’ Matilda commented abruptly, scarcely noticing as Elen, blushing, groped in the purse at her girdle for a quarter penny. She took a deep breath and, holding aside the hangings, opened the door. The large solar behind it was full of women. Hawise Fitzherbert, Countess of Gloucester, large and florid, was surrounded by her tiring women, her voice, shrill with impatience and ill-humour, clearly floating above the subdued chatter around her. She turned as Matilda came in and, catching sight of her, raised her narrowly plucked eyebrows till they almost vanished into her hairline. ‘Not another one. Has every woman in the country been sent to attend us?’ She pursed her mouth sourly. ‘The King, Lady Gloucester, asked me to attend your daughter today.’ Matilda, her cheeks burning, bobbed a small curtsey, conscious of the eyes which were all focused on her. The woman snorted. ‘You and who else? Well, madam, and who might you be?’ ‘Matilda de Braose, Countess.’ Matilda took a deep breath, determined not to be put out. ‘Never heard of you.’ The woman seemed determined to be ill-natured. She turned to take a brooch from an attendant and then paused as another lady stepped from the throng. ‘Lady de Braose is the wife of Sir William, Countess, Lord of Brecknock in the middle March. It is a great honour that she should wait upon the little lady during her betrothal to Prince John.’ She spoke in a stage whisper, designed to be heard by everyone in the room, and Matilda saw the Countess pause and frown, looking at her again, and she blessed her unknown champion. She drew herself up. ‘Where is the Lady Isabella? May I offer her my greetings?’ The Countess held herself upright, holding in her stomach as her gown was laced up, and then held out her arms for her girdle. ‘You can try,’ she said grudgingly. ‘She’s snivelling in the garderobe.’ With a swift glance at Elen, Matilda strode across the room. The women stepped back to let her pass and she could feel their eyes uncomfortably on her back, but her attention was fixed on the little side room from where she could hear the sound of heartbroken sobs. In the corner, huddling on the floor beneath a rail of hanging clothes, a little girl was weeping as though her heart would break, clutching a rag doll. A large plump-faced nurse bent over her, coaxing, and behind, two maids hovered, clutching a selection of gowns and little mantles with which they were obviously hoping to dress her. ‘What’s the matter?’ Matilda demanded, looking down at the child. She was horrified to see the little girl dirty and unkempt. Her hair was tangled with grass and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes. ‘She tried to run away, madam, that’s what’s the matter.’ The nurse gave up coaxing and stood, her hands on her hips, looking down at the child in exasperation. ‘Here we are, with everyone nearly ready to go to the abbey and the child refuses to dress. She says she wants none of the King’s son. Imagine! How dare she, the little minx. You wait till her father gets wind of this. He’ll take the strap to her buttocks until they’re raw.’ The little girl gave another sob and clutched her doll more tightly. ‘Well he won’t get to hear of it,’ said Matilda quietly, trying resolutely to keep her temper with the insensitive woman. Her heart went out to the little girl. She had a sudden vivid picture of her own bethrothal to William. She too had been a child, not much older than this one. She who had dreamed of a tall, radiant, chivalrous knight had been informed by her father with excitement of the great honour that had been done his family, that she had been chosen by the stocky, ill-tempered baron whose reputation even then was marred by cruelty and viciousness. Her first reaction too had been to run away. But then she sat down on her favourite spot on the hill and thought about her duty and, at heart a realist about what chance she had of ever having a better offer of marriage, she had come home, apologised to her frightened mother, wheedled her angry father and resigned herself to making the most of it, comforting herself with the thought that she was to be a great lady. But could she persuade this little girl to see the sense in that? A little girl whose real world was still peopled by dolls and puppies and her snow-white pony. ‘Please, nurse, will you leave us for a while?’ She turned and forced herself to give the agitated woman her most brilliant smile. ‘I’d like a little talk with Isabella.’ The woman drew herself up to argue, but already Elen, who had followed close at her mistress’s heels, was pushing her out, and the two protesting maids with her. Then she stood, her back to the doorway, panting. ‘Silly women,’ she muttered. ‘Clucking like so many chickens, they are indeed. Poor cariad bach.’ Matilda knelt down in the rushes and held out her arms to the little girl. ‘Come here, Isabella my love. Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you so unhappy?’ Whether it was the sympathy in her voice, or the sight of a stranger, she couldn’t tell, but Isabella, with another strangled sob, scrambled to her feet and rushed to her, throwing herself into Matilda’s outstretched arms. ‘There, there, child. There, there.’ Matilda rocked her gently for a while, touched by the feel of the tiny, frail body, so thin beneath the skimpy clothes. Then as the child’s sobbing grew less, she pushed back the fair hair from her hot face and smiled gently at her. ‘Come on, sweeting, tell me what’s wrong.’ ‘I don’t want to be betrothed.’ Isabella sniffed loudly. ‘I hate John. He’s a bad, wicked boy. I don’t want to be married to him, ever.’ ‘Why Isabella? Why not? Why do you think he’s wicked?’ ‘He pulls the wings off sparrows.’ The ready tears spilled over again as the little girl buried her head in Matilda’s shoulder. ‘He likes hurting things. He told me. And when I belong to him, he said he could hurt me. And he said he could make me cry.’ ‘Christ blast that boy!’ Matilda swore under her breath. She exchanged glances with Elen over the child’s head. ‘Listen, Isabella. John only said that to tease. He would never hurt you. He couldn’t. After mass in the abbey there will be a lovely party, and then you are to stay with your mother and father until you’re grown up. John probably won’t come near you again. And when you marry him, years and years from now, you’ll be a princess. You’ll be the most beautiful princess there ever was.’ She smiled down at the drawn, pale little face. ‘Come on, remember you’re a great lady. Ladies must never be afraid.’ She dropped a kiss on the tangled hair. ‘Now, will you let your nurse comb you and wash you and get you ready?’ ‘But I saw him.’ The little girl was shaking still. ‘He pulled the wings till the bird screamed.’ Matilda shivered. ‘I’ll ask my husband to tell the King. John should be whipped for such cruelty.’ ‘You promise?’ Isabella rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I promise.’ Gently Matilda pushed her from her lap. ‘Now come on, there’s not much time.’ The nurse reappeared so swiftly it was obvious she had been listening outside the doorway. Half resentful of Matilda, half relieved that her charge had calmed down, she pushed her way to the child’s side. ‘Would you credit that boy,’ she muttered as she stripped the little girl and began rubbing the frail body with a cloth wrung out in a jug where the water had long since grown cold. ‘They sat there yesterday, side by side, when His Grace the King brought them together, neat as two pins they were, both scrubbed and combed, and we saw John whispering to her. Then he took her by the hand and led her away. Lady Gloucester was that pleased, she was. Then the child comes racing in, screaming the place down. The Earl was furious, and the King. Then young John came in all innocent. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know what’s making her cry.”’ She pulled a clean shift over the little girl’s head. Then the embroidered gown. Then she began to drag a brush through the delicate fair hair. Outside in the solar the other women had been too preoccupied with the Countess of Gloucester’s grumblings to pay much attention to what was going on in the garderobe, so when Matilda emerged, holding Isabella, now neat and clean and dry-eyed, by the hand, there was a moment’s astonished silence. ‘Well,’ her mother said at last. ‘About time too.’ Ignoring Matilda with calculated disdain she went to take her daughter’s hand. But Isabella snatched it away, clinging to Matilda and dodging behind her out of her mother’s reach. Exasperated, the Countess gave up without any further effort. ‘Oh for pity’s sake, you go with the child if she cares for you so much,’ she snapped. ‘Stay with her and see she behaves. I want no more trouble.’ Her heart beating with excitement, Matilda took Isabella’s hand again and led the way out of the room. Outside she could hear the trumpet calls as the procession lined up to await the King. St Peter’s Abbey was packed. They walked slowly up the nave between the lofty columns which vanished into smoky darkness high overhead, where the painted colours were still blackened and tarnished by the disastrous fire which had swept the church fifty years earlier. Matilda caught her breath with excitement and unconsciously clutched Isabella’s hand even tighter. The abbey blazed with candles, and every light was reflected a dozen times in the finery of those who had crowded in to hear high mass. The air was giddy with incense. The King was waiting for them in the choir with Prince John, splendidly dressed, beside him. With them was the tall figure of the King’s justiciar, Ranulf Glanville, who supervised John’s education, and the Earl of Gloucester, Isabella’s father, with the bishops and clergy ranked on either side. The boy John stood quietly, his eyes resting on the tomb of Robert, Duke of Normandy. He looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Never once did he raise his eyes to look at the trembling little girl who stood at his side as the blessing was pronounced. Nor did he look up as the choir burst into a joyful hymn of praise. Once, though, he looked at Matilda. And she was surprised to see a direct challenge in his blue eyes. Amazed, she stared at him for a moment, not believing she had seen aright. The look had been so quickly veiled. I imagined it, she thought, bringing her attention sternly back to her charge, and to the sacred mass, but somewhere a shadow had moved in the back of her mind, and she felt a flicker of warning. The celebrations with endless hunting and feasting lasted several days, and then at last it was time once more to move on. Richard de Clare had not come after all, to Matilda’s intense disappointment. She had seen the King twice only since the banquet which succeeded the betrothal formalities and the mass in St Peter’s. On each occasion he was setting out in the cold dawn on a day’s hunting, surrounded by his barons and knights, William amongst them. Once Prince John was at his side and again she felt the boy’s gaze on her. This time he was thoughtful, even calculating in his stare and with a shiver she pulled her cloak around her and turned away to her tent. But not before she had seen that strange challenge again flickering in the depths of those cold blue eyes. The next morning she was standing watching a ship being unloaded at the wharf, clutching her squirrel fur mantle around her against the icy wind from the Welsh mountains, when she heard her name called. She spun round. ‘Richard!’ She let out a little cry of pleasure, hastily cut off as she glanced round her to see if anyone had heard. A few yards away Elen was bargaining with a packman in whose bundle she had spotted some bauble she wanted. ‘I had given up all hope of seeing you here!’ Richard glanced down at her. ‘How could I not come, knowing you would be here?’ He was breathing deeply, trying to contain the emotions which threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at her, seeing her so much more beautiful, or so he thought, than when they had parted almost a year before. She had matured – turned from a coltish child into a lovely woman, her hair glossy beneath the fur hood, her cheeks whipped to colour by the icy wind. He clenched his fist on the hilt of his sword. ‘I hear you were delivered of a fine son, my lady,’ he said slowly at last. ‘My congratulations.’ She smiled at him. She could think of nothing to say. Her heart was beating too quickly. She could hardly breathe. He had not touched her – not even kissed her glove – but she could feel his touch, feel the longing that stretched like a thong between them. ‘There, my lady!’ Elen returned triumphant with her purchase. ‘Shall we go on to the King’s hall?’ She glared at the tall, fair-haired knight with the chevrons on his surcoat who was staring with such naked longing at her mistress, and she shivered. There was danger in that look. ‘My lady.’ She pulled at Matilda’s sleeve. ‘We should go on.’ ‘I’ll see you again?’ Matilda could not take her eyes off Richard’s face. He nodded helplessly, half reaching out towards her with his hand. It fell back without touching her and with a curt bow, he turned away. All day Matilda waited to see him again, but he did not come. Nor was he to be seen at the high table in the King’s great hall. Disappointed and worn out with longing, she retired early, her head throbbing from the smoke and noise of the dinner, which had gone on for hours. She had unstoppered a phial of poppy syrup and was mixing a little with some wine when she looked up and caught sight of a movement against the tent wall. Her heart leaped. ‘Richard?’ she breathed. But only silence answered her, and after a moment she turned away. It was her overwrought imagination. He would never dare come to her tent. Picking up the cup she sipped the tincture, feeling it run soothing through her veins, and as she slipped quietly out of her gown she had already begun to feel drowsy. She was too tired to call Elen or one of the maids. All she wanted was to sink into the bed and sleep the pain in her head away. Then suddenly she saw a shadow, clearly, on the tent wall between the blowing hangings, silhouetted against a camp fire outside. It paused, and then moved silently towards the entrance flap. She caught her breath. That was not Richard. The shadow was too squat. Something about the stealth of the movement frightened her and she sat up abruptly, pulling up the covers beneath her chin, holding her breath. There was a tiny click, like two stones being rubbed together, and then silence. The shadow moved quickly to the entrance and paused again, then it shrank strangely and thickened as the prowler, whoever it was, stopped momentarily as though dropping something. Then it vanished. Matilda sat for a moment, her heart in her mouth, wondering whether to call the guard. Then she slipped out of bed and, pulling the coverlet round her shoulders, tiptoed to the entrance of the tent and looked out. There was no one there. A fine starlit sky lit the dark encampment where here and there a damped fire glowed red beneath its turves. She caught her breath in the cold air, looking left and right and then glancing down at the ground, which was already white with icy dew. A bundle lay at her feet. Puzzled, she bent and picked it up, still thinking of Richard. It was heavy and already the frosty night had worked its way into the rough cloth leaving it stiff and frozen. She carried it into the tent and, lighting a candle from the rushlight which burned before the portable priedieu, examined it more closely. The material was tied with a leather thong. Curiously she pulled at the knot, working at the tight leather until it came free. Unwrapping the sacking, she pulled out another bundle of cloth. It was parti-coloured, in the flickering light half grey, half scarlet. She unwrapped it. Lying in the folds before her, heavy and stiff, were three severed hands. The scarlet of the cloth was the blood which had soaked through it, dying it into a gaudy, cheerful mockery of colour. She gazed at them in horror for fully a minute, her eyes unconsciously taking in the details of the grimy nails, the whitened fingers, the beaten copper ring on one of the knuckles, unable to comprehend the full horror of what she saw, and then she turned, retching, and ran for the entrance to the tent. ‘Someone come! Help me! Help me!’ Her screams echoed in the frosty air and within seconds the camp watch was mustering and a knight had ducked into the tent beside her, his face white beneath his chain-mail hood as he unsheathed his heavy sword. Horrified he stared down at the tent floor, then helplessly he touched Matilda’s arm. ‘Hush, my lady, hush. There is no danger now. Look, my lady – your maids are here, and Sir William has been called.’ He pulled an embroidered length of tapestry from a table and threw it over the bloodstained bundle, hiding it from sight. But she could not stop screaming. It was as if something inside her head had snapped. She was outside herself, watching herself standing there, barefoot, wrapped in a fur cloak in the streaming light of the torch which one of the watchmen carried. But she could not stop screaming. ‘Hush, Jo. Hush, there is no danger. It’s all over. You’re quite safe.’ Hands were shaking her and she could feel something cold on her face. Agitated voices surrounded her. ‘Can’t you do something, for God’s sake –’ ‘Here, catch her hands. Hold her still.’ She felt people clutching at her, struggling with her, holding her. There was a prick in her arm – then she knew no more. 19 (#ulink_031d1fd4-a991-5b5c-8087-86902c56a9a0) The room was small, shaded by a white venetian blind against the sun. She blinked slowly, trying to clear away the fog in her mind. Her mouth tasted unpleasantly chemical. ‘Jo?’ A man was sitting by the bed. He stood up, bending over her. ‘Nick?’ Her tongue was so dry the word would not come. ‘You’re all right, Jo. Look, I’ve got a cup of tea here for you. Would you like a sip?’ His voice was more gentle than she had ever heard it. Jo rubbed her eyes. ‘Where is this? What happened?’ She managed to sit up, and drank a little from the cup Nick gave her. Her head was spinning. ‘We are still at Dr Bennet’s, Jo. Do you remember? This is a rest room. You’ve been asleep.’ ‘Asleep? I thought … I thought he was going to hypnotise me again.’ She fell silent, leaning back against the pillows, discovering suddenly that there was a soft blanket over her legs. ‘He was going to see if he could make me forget,’ she repeated slowly. ‘Has it worked?’ Nick sat down on the chair beside the bed once more. ‘I … I don’t know.’ She pushed her hair off her face with both hands. ‘I feel so strange. I can’t think straight …’ Through the blind she could see horizontal lines of brightness shimmering slightly, casting shadows on the cool olive of the walls around her. The room smelled of antiseptic. It was claustrophobically small. Behind Nick the door opened quietly and Sarah peered in. She smiled with obvious relief as she saw Jo sitting up. ‘How are you feeling?’ ‘A bit peculiar.’ Jo managed to grin. ‘Carl is very sorry but he is involved with his afternoon appointment now. He was wondering if you could both come back on Wednesday morning. It would probably be better anyway to leave things for a couple of days to see how you are feeling.’ Jo frowned. ‘Afternoon appointment? I don’t understand. What time is it?’ ‘It’s teatime, Jo.’ Nick stood up. ‘You’ve been asleep for several hours. She’ll be here on Wednesday,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll see to that.’ ‘What do you mean several hours?’ Jo repeated in bewilderment as he closed the door behind Sarah and turned back to her. ‘What’s happened? Did I faint again?’ ‘You got a bit upset and Dr Bennet had to give you a shot of valium to calm you down, that’s all.’ ‘Upset? Why was I upset?’ Nick gave the ghost of a grin. ‘I’m hardly going to tell you that, Jo. The idea was that you forget everything that has been worrying you. If the suggestion has worked, then it would be madness for me to tell you what happened, wouldn’t it?’ ‘Try Judy Curzon’s flat again, May.’ Jim Greerson ran his fingers through his thinning hair as he held down the intercom switch. ‘Just did, Jim. And Jo’s. Shall I try Mrs Franklyn in Hampshire?’ ‘No, don’t bother.’ Jim slumped back in his chair and spun it to face the window. His broad, pleasant face was haggard as he lifted the letter off the desk next to him and read it for the sixth time. ‘Get here, Nick, old son,’ he murmured out loud. ‘If you want a business to come back to, stop chasing women, my friend, and get here soon.’ It was ten past five before Nick finally paid off the taxi and followed Jo upstairs to her flat. The phone was ringing as she opened the door. ‘It’s for you.’ She handed him the receiver with a weary grin. ‘The office.’ She walked as always first to the French doors and threw them open, smelling the rich scent from the flowers on her balcony. Looking left and right up and down the terrace of buildings, it was strange how few of the balconies had flowers. In Germany or Switzerland they would all be a riot of tumbling colour, but here in London hers stood out almost alone with its tubs and pots of pinks and geraniums, the honeysuckle, and the exotic passion flower which clambered around the stone balustrade. She smiled faintly. Nick had always teased her that she must be a country girl at heart because of her love of flowers. She leaned on the balustrade. Her mind felt drugged. She could not focus her thoughts. Carl Bennet’s face, and Sarah’s, floated in her head, but there were others there too she could not grasp. Someone had talked about a horse being lame … she could remember being very angry about that … and then, later, there had been a hand with a ring on the finger, a hand with filthy nails … ‘That was Jim.’ Nick came out onto the balcony behind her. ‘It appears Desco have turned down our presentation out of hand and are threatening to go over to the opposition. Goddamn it to hell! That was going to be one of the best promotions we’ve planned. I’ve only been away from the office ten days – lord knows how they’ve managed to get it wrong!’ He made an effort at a grin. ‘Will you be OK on your own for a bit, Jo? I hate to leave you, but I think I’ve got to get over there to stop Jim cutting his throat!’ She nodded. ‘Nick, I’m sorry. It’s my fault – you’d have gone back last week if it wasn’t for me –’ ‘Jo – I should be able to leave them.’ He took a deep breath, trying to steady his anger. ‘Look, I’ll be back for a late supper. We’ll talk then. Don’t go out. Rest till I get back and we’ll make do with a tin of soup or something.’ She followed him to the door and closed it behind him. She felt tired and hot and sticky and slightly sick, and she didn’t want him to go. She was lying on the sofa dressed only in her towelling bathrobe with her eyes closed after a long cool bath when she remembered what had happened. One minute she was gazing vaguely across the room, wondering whether she had the energy to fetch herself a cup of coffee, the next she sat bolt upright. It was as if a curtain had lifted. As clearly as if he were speaking in the room she heard Carl Bennet’s voice, ‘You will remember that you had a few strange, but unimportant dreams …’ ‘Gloucester …’ she murmured. ‘But it wasn’t a dream. It was at Gloucester that I met John …’ It was nearly ten by the time Nick got back from Berkeley Street and he was in a foul temper. ‘Jim has cocked the whole thing up,’ he said, flinging himself down in a chair. He looked exhausted. ‘I doubt if I can sort things out. If I can’t I’m going to have to go to the States and stay there till I get another account as big as Desco, otherwise it’s the end of Franklyn-Greerson. Jim just doesn’t have a clue when it comes to fighting the big boys. He’s completely naive!’ He closed his eyes wearily. ‘But I thought Mike Desmond was a friend of yours.’ Jo sat down beside him. Nick shrugged. ‘This is business, not friendship. But I’ll have a damn good go at getting it back before I give up entirely, you can be sure of that.’ He held out his hand to Jo. ‘Hell, I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear about all this. How are you feeling? Has the headache gone?’ ‘Your post-hypnotic suggestion didn’t work,’ she replied bleakly. ‘I’ve remembered everything. Going to Gloucester, meeting Prince John – seeing Richard again.’ Nick swore softly. ‘We’ll have to try again, that’s all.’ He shook his head. ‘I wonder if Sam is right and Bennet doesn’t have the experience to cope.’ ‘I don’t think it’s that. I think it’s probably that in my heart I don’t really want to give up. I want to know what happens. Anyway, come on,’ she released Nick’s hand, ‘you must be starving and I’ve defrosted some lamb cutlets. Is that a bottle of wine you brought in with you? If not, there are several in the wine rack. I’ve been stocking up.’ He drew the cork and poured two glasses for them while Jo put the cutlets on the grill pan and ground black pepper over them. She was beginning to feel hungry at last. Nick handed her a glass. ‘It’s not getting any time to breathe, my need is too great at the moment!’ He sighed. ‘Well, what do we do about you now?’ ‘Nothing. I’ll handle it alone.’ ‘Handle it alone? You were screaming so loud that people came running from all over the building. Bennet had to give you a shot to calm you down, for God’s sake! How can you handle it alone?’ Jo frowned. ‘It was only finding those hands like that, knowing suddenly that the Welsh were there, even in the King’s encampment. I hadn’t realised how afraid I’d been when we were in Wales – always wondering when their revenge would start. I felt safe at last at Gloucester and I was alone in that tent, dreaming about Richard when suddenly, out of the night, in the middle of the King of England’s men, they were there. They could have cut my throat!’ She shuddered as she began slicing some tomatoes, sprinkling them with a few dried basil leaves before setting them beside the cutlets to cook. She stared down at the knife in her hand and dropped it hastily into the sink. ‘Whose hands were they?’ Nick asked quietly. ‘Do you know?’ She rinsed her fingers under the tap. ‘Three of William’s knights.’ She took the glass he offered her and sipped it thoughtfully. ‘I remember it quite clearly. We had been riding for some time, through mist, on the way to Gloucester when we saw a small wayside chapel, a shrine to a local saint. It was only a huddle of stones with a heather-covered roof, but as usual William went to kneel before the altar.’ Nick felt a quick shiver of warning touch his skin as he watched her. Her eyes were staring into the distance as she began to describe the scene and he found himself wondering suddenly if she even knew he was there any more. ‘Someone had left a garland of wild roses and honeysuckle on the stone slab and sweet herbs had been scattered around on the earth. I didn’t dismount, but Will had begun to squeal and I turned in my saddle and watched as the nurse raised him to her breast, wishing I could hold him myself.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘Her mule lowered its head looking for grass to nibble and the boy at its head let it wander to a patch at the side of the road and stood there with the leading rein loose in his hand. It was silent, save for the champ of bits and the stamp of horses’ hooves. I used to join William, but lately I had taken to waiting in the road like the others – sometimes with a whistled prayer of my own – sometimes not.’ She smiled at Nick, who was staring at her. ‘After a moment William rose and crossed himself. Then he stopped. He was listening. Then we all heard it in the early morning silence, the sound of a woman singing somewhere on the hillside behind the shrine. Everyone’s heads turned and two of his knights wheeled their horses, closing up near him, as he stood dusting off his blue mantle at the knees. I remember they both had their hands on the hilts of their swords. ‘The deep, melodious singing was in Welsh, but I could not pick out the words. I pulled my cloak more closely round me, patting the neck of my horse, which was beginning to fidget, impatient to be moving. Still no one spoke. I think we were all frightened. ‘Suddenly William turned to one of his knights. “Take two men and find her. Be careful. It may be a trap.” He swung himself back up into his saddle. Although his face beneath its weatherbeaten ruddiness was pale, he sat erect, gazing after the three men. ‘After a few minutes the singing grew more distant, as though the singer were walking away from us, up the hillside. ‘I saw William swallow nervously, his eyes fixed on the track where his men had vanished. His horse shook its bit impatiently and pawed the ground and he stilled it with an oath and a tug at the reins. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees and the drift of mist obscured the track completely and the air grew chill. ‘He waited a few more minutes, as usual unable to conceal his irritation, then he barked a command and four more riders, their swords drawn, cantered up the track into the mist. ‘The skin at the back of my neck began to prickle and I looked round uneasily while the armed escort fingered their swords nervously. Only the nurse with the placidly suckling child at her breast seemed unconcerned. ‘Suddenly the four knights reappeared, slithering down the track. They were alone. The rider of the leading horse drew his mount to a rearing halt at William’s side and saluted with his sword. ‘“No sign of them, Sir William. The track divides in several places, but the mist is thick in the trees and we could see no hoof marks. It’s so quiet up there. We tried shouting, but …” Then his voice tailed away and he glanced over his shoulder at his companions for support. ‘William’s face flushed. “They can’t be lost,” he shouted. “Look again. Take more men – take twenty men – and scour the hillside! I want those men found, and I want the woman who was singing.” He drew his sword and held it ready across his saddle, then he gave me a grim smile. “This is some trick of those damn Welsh,” he said. ‘The hillside above us echoed to the shouts of the armed men as they forced their horses through the thick undergrowth, hacking with their swords. But they found no sign of the missing men. Eventually William had to give orders to continue without them. ‘It was not until we had trekked over the pass at Bwlch that I ceased to feel that strange prickling sensation beneath my skin. It was then that I realised what it was. We were no longer being watched. The severed hands came from those three missing knights.’ Jo came to herself suddenly with the realisation that the kitchen was full of the smell of burning. She put down her glass with a little cry and grabbed the grill pan. Nick was staring at her, a strange expression on his face. ‘You described none of that under hypnosis,’ he said quietly. ‘Didn’t I?’ She glanced up as she turned the meat and tomatoes and lowered the flame. Putting them back, she poured some more wine. ‘No harm done, thank goodness. It was just the fat catching. A good thing we were standing here.’ Nick hadn’t moved. ‘How much else can you remember?’ he asked after a moment. She reached into the cupboard for two plates. ‘Everything, I suppose, until we left Gloucester. At least, it seems like everything. Come on, let’s eat before this lot gets itself incinerated. I don’t want to talk about Matilda any more. Tell me what you’re going to do to sink the opposition.’ It was nearly midnight when Jo had tidied away their plates and made some coffee. Nick was sitting on the floor of the living room leaning against the sofa, his head resting on the seat cushions, his eyes closed, as he listened to the last tape of the ‘St Matthew Passion’. As the last notes of the final chorus died away he raised his head and looked at her. ‘What was that flute music you had on that day Sam came over?’ ‘Flute music?’ She knelt beside him and reached for the orange coffee pot. ‘I haven’t any recordings of flute music.’ ‘You must have.’ He frowned. ‘It was a strange, rather haunting, formless solo piece. I’ve never heard it before.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was on the radio.’ She glanced at him uncomfortably. Nick had drunk most of the bottle of wine himself, quickly, without savouring it, which was unusual for him, and she could see that he was still tense and angry, the lines of his jaw taut as he lay back against the sofa cushions. ‘Tell me,’ he went on after a moment, ‘if you remember everything about your visit to Gloucester so clearly, did you meet Richard de Clare again?’ ‘Nick. I don’t want to talk about it.’ She was filling her cup and did not look at him. ‘I want to know, Jo.’ His voice was quietly insistent. She sighed. ‘I did see him, yes. He was a close adviser of the King’s. Once he arrived at Gloucester he was constantly in attendance on him.’ ‘But did you see him alone?’ Jo smiled reminiscently in spite of herself. ‘Yes, I saw him alone the day after the awful business with the hands. He came to my tent. William had announced that we were going back to Bramber before the weather closed in. He was unnerved by the whole affair and he had given orders that we were to set out the following day.’ ‘And Richard came to your tent?’ Jo glanced up, hearing the undercurrent of anger in his voice. ‘We said goodbye, yes,’ she said cautiously. ‘Did he kiss you?’ She saw his blue eyes narrow. ‘Nick. For goodness’ sake –’ ‘Did he?’ He sat up watching her intently. ‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘If you must know, he did. It was the first time he had ever held me properly in his arms. The tent was flapping in the wind, the heavy hangings which lined the walls rippling as if they were going to be torn off their hooks – it was so cold. The boy hadn’t kept the brazier outside the door fed properly, and it was smoking, not giving out much heat. Richard came in and I realised Nell must have let him pass. Elen would never have let him come to me alone. William was with the Earl of Gloucester –’ She paused, sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, gazing at the table lamp. There was a long silence. Nick’s eyes had not shifted from her face. ‘Go on,’ he said at last. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what happened next?’ She glanced up. ‘He didn’t say anything at all. He just strode in, dropped the heavy curtains across the tent doorway and laced them together, then he took me in his arms. It was the first time we had kissed properly and I remember, for a moment, I was afraid. Then I forgot everything – William, little Will in the next tent with his nurses, the fear that someone might come – everything. I had never known physical desire before, only hints of it whenever Richard came near me, but suddenly I was overwhelmed by it.’ She paused and then went on thoughtfully, ‘I think we had both imagined that the feeling we had for each other could be contained in some courtly flirtation, but suddenly it took fire. I didn’t care what happened. I led him to the bed and he pushed me down on the furs –’ She stopped abruptly, seeing Nick’s face, and gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘Sorry. I was getting carried away! Anyway it was quite good as I remember. Matilda’s first orgasm –’ She broke off as he lunged forward and caught her wrist, pulling it viciously so that she fell towards him, knocking the tray off the low table. The coffee pot slid to the floor and cracked against the table leg, soaking the carpet with coffee. ‘Nick, stop it!’ she cried. She could feel her arm pressing on a sharp piece of broken china. Warm blood flowed over her wrist. ‘Nick please – you’re hurting me – please, look, I’ve cut myself –’ The blind fury in his face frightened her. ‘It was only a dream, Nick. It wasn’t real! For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you? Nick!’ His hand was on her throat, his eyes murderous. Jo struggled frantically, feeling the pressure on her wind-pipe slowly increase. Then abruptly his mood seemed to change. He moved his hand from her throat, catching her wrists instead, clamping them above her head while with his free hand he began to pull open her bathrobe. Then he bent over her and began roughly caressing her breasts. He smiled coldly. ‘That’s better. You like a little medieval violence, don’t you? It reminds you of the good old days –’ ‘Please Nick! Nick –’ Jo was terrified by the blind savagery in his face. She had never seen anyone look like that before, except once … For a moment she stopped struggling and lay still, frozen with fear as she remembered the face of the man who had tried to strangle her before – Nick’s other face – then with a last desperate pull she managed to break free of him. She rolled away and staggered to her feet, clutching her robe round her. ‘Get out! Get out of here,’ she shouted. ‘Get out of this flat, Nick, and never, ever come back!’ Her eyes were blazing with anger. ‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on me again! I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at, but you get out of here. I won’t be treated like this. Not ever, do you hear!’ She backed away from him towards the front door, knotting her belt around her waist. ‘Did you hear me?’ she repeated desperately. He was smiling as he stood up. A cool, arrogant smile, which turned her anger back to terror. ‘Nick, please. What’s wrong with you?’ She had nearly reached the front door. Turning quickly she scrabbled with the latch, frantically trying to drag the door open, but Nick was close behind her. He slammed the door shut and rammed the bolt home, then he caught her arm. As he swung her to face him Jo screamed. But the sound never came. It was cut off short as he clamped his hand across her mouth, pulling her hard against him. He half dragged, half carried her down the passage to the bedroom, and without turning on the light flung her on the bed. She lay there for a moment, winded, then as she turned, trying to struggle to her feet again, she felt a blinding blow across her face. Half stunned she fell back as Nick’s weight came down on top of her. ‘Now, my lady,’ he breathed, his fingers feeling for the knot of her belt, his face so close to hers she could see the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. ‘Another sound and I shall have to take steps to silence you.’ She tried to wriggle sideways as she felt his knee forcing her legs apart, but he held her easily. Eventually realising that the more she fought him the more he was going to hurt her she made herself go limp, biting her lip in pain as he forced his way inside her. His mouth ground into hers and she opened her lips helplessly beneath his probing tongue and suddenly through her fear she felt a little surge of excitement. As if he sensed it Nick laughed softly, and she felt his grip on her wrists tighten. ‘So, my lady, you do enjoy violence,’ he whispered. ‘I think in a lot of ways you’ll find I can please you better than Richard de Clare,’ and his mouth left hers and travelled down her throat towards her breasts. He fell asleep eventually, still spreadeagled over her numbed body, his head between her breasts, his hands, loosened at last, outstretched across the bedcover. Agonised, Jo tried to move. She was crying softly, afraid to wake him as she tried again to dislodge the dead weight which pinned her to the bed. In the end she gave up and lay still, staring towards the window where the heavy curtains cut out the first signs of a beautiful dawn. Nick woke just before seven. For a long time he lay unmoving, feeling the woman’s body limp beneath his, then slowly he eased himself off her and sat up. He grabbed his trousers and staggered to the window, throwing back the curtains with a groan. It was full daylight. He looked at his watch in surprise, and then back at the bed as the stark daylight fell across Jo. She was lying naked on the bedcover, her hair spread across the pillow, her legs apart. There were vivid bruises on her wrists and breasts, and he could see bloodstains on the bedspread. There was a long jagged cut encrusted with dried blood on her forearm, more blood on the inside of her thighs – He felt suddenly violently sick. She had not stirred. She did not even seem to be breathing. He threw himself towards the bed. ‘Jo? Jo! For God’s sake, are you all right?’ For a moment she did not move, then, slowly and painfully, she opened her eyes, dazzled by the light, and stared around the room. It was a few moments before she began to remember. He saw the fear flicker behind her eyes as she looked up at him and a wave of nausea shook him again. She still had not moved but he saw her lick her lips experimentally, trying to speak. Reaching for her bathrobe, thrown across a chair, he laid it gently over her. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ he said softly. In the bathroom he tugged at the light pull and stared at himself in the cold, uncompromising electric light. His face looked the same as usual. Tired perhaps, and a little grey, but nothing strange. There was a scratch across his shoulder, otherwise nothing to show for Jo’s fight for her life. He walked slowly to the kitchen and made the tea, comforting himself with the familiar sounds as he filled the kettle and fished in the jar for two teabags. Then he walked through to the living room. It was cold; the French doors had been open all night. The grass in the square was still silvered with dew. He pulled the doors closed then he turned and picked up his shirt. There were coffee stains on the sleeve. And blood. Pulling it on, he went back to the kitchen. He was numb. Slowly he carried the two mugs back to the bedroom. Jo had not moved. Sitting on the bed beside her he proffered one of the mugs tentatively. ‘Jo –’ She turned her head away and closed her eyes. ‘Jo, please. Let me explain.’ ‘There is nothing to explain.’ She did not look at him. ‘Please just go.’ He stood up. ‘All right.’ He leaned forward as if to touch her shoulder, but he changed his mind. ‘I’ll come back this evening, Jo. I’ll make it up to you somehow,’ he whispered. Leaving the two cups of tea untouched beside the bed, he walked slowly to the door. Unbolting it, he let himself out onto the quiet landing. As he tiptoed down the stairs towards the street he heard the distant sickly wailing of a baby. For a long time after he had gone Jo did not move. She lay rigid, listening to Will crying. Her fists clenched, her eyes dry, she stared at the wall, feeling the ache of her body where Nick had bruised her. Suddenly she sat up. She threw herself out of bed and ran to the bathroom, turning both bath taps on full, then she went to find her address book. Fumbling in her canvas bag in her haste, she pulled the book out and began flipping through the pages with a shaking hand, trying not to notice the mess of blood and coffee stains which had soaked into the pale carpet in the middle of the room. She stopped at Leigh Delamere service station on the M4, pulling into the crowded car park and resting her head for a moment on the rim of the wheel. She had thrown in her bags, typewriter and camera barely fifteen minutes after ringing Janet Pugh. Pulling the rear-view mirror towards her she studied her face. Her lips were still swollen and her eyes were puffy from crying so much in the night. She had dabbed make-up over her white skin and used lipstick and eye-shadow. It made her feel better. The long sleeves and high neck of her Victorian blouse covered the worst of her bruises. She pulled herself painfully out of the car and swung her bag over her shoulder. It was only another twenty miles, if that, to the Severn Bridge. Then she would be in Wales. Tim stood for a long time outside the house in Church Road, staring up at the grey slate roof with its dentilation of wrought-iron decoration. The house was identical to its neighbours, save for the front door, which was cream with a brightly polished knocker. The windows were hung with fresh, plain net curtains, like old-fashioned muslin, he thought, as at last he raised his hand to the knocker. Sylvia Walton opened the door at his second knock. She had plaited her hair and wound it round her head in a silvery braid. It made her look like an Austrian peasant. His fingers itched for his camera, but he had not brought it with him. He grinned at her. ‘It was very good of you and Bill to let me come back and talk to you.’ Sylvia smiled as she led him up the long flight of stairs. ‘He was pleased to hear from you again. Miss Clifford isn’t with you this time?’ Tim shook his head. He followed her into the room they had been in before, but this time the lines of chairs were missing. Instead a small wheeled table which had been laid for three was standing near the fireplace. Bill Walton was writing at his desk. He rose as his wife ushered Tim into the room and held out his hand. The prominent green eyes surveyed Tim shrewdly. ‘So, Mr Heacham, you want to try a little regression yourself,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m glad you found your previous visit so interesting.’ Jo drew the car up in a narrow lane and stared ahead of her through a stone arch. Her stomach muscles knotted. Abergavenny Castle. Climbing out of the MG, she walked slowly through the arch and stared around her. The sleepless night and the long drive from London were catching up with her fast now and she ached all over with exhaustion; her mind mercifully blank whenever she thought about Nick. All she knew was that she did not want to be in London and that if anyone could comfort her it would not be Nick but Richard – a Richard she might never see again, but for whom she longed with an almost physical ache. She drew a deep painful breath of air into her lungs, and walked on. This castle too was a ruin but there was far more of it left than at Bramber. She stepped onto a grass lawn strewn with daisies and stared up at a mock-Gothic stone keep, somehow garishly out of place on the motte at the centre of the bailey where the Norman tower had stood. Around her rose high pinkish grey ruined walls, while below the hillside the river elbowed in a lazy curve through the valley. Beyond it lay the soft Welsh hills, shrouded in heat haze. One of the massive walls was covered in scaffolding and she could hear the soft lilt of conversation from high on the ladders near the top of the masonry, where a tree cast its shade over the stone. Shivering, she began to walk around the perimeter path. Somewhere here, in the bailey below the motte, the Welsh dead had lain in terrible disarray, and in their midst Seisyll and his son. She stood still again, staring round. Surely something of the horror must remain? The stench of blood? The screams? She felt the warm wind from the south lift her hair slightly on her neck. A patch of red valerian in the wall near her stirred, but nothing more. The echoes were still. William de Braose was dead and Seisyll long ago avenged. She parked her car outside Janet and David Pugh’s neat white-painted house and rang the doorbell, staring back up the empty street as she listened to the sound of footsteps running down the stairs and towards the door. For a moment she and Janet stood staring at each other incredulously when the door opened. Janet saw a tall, elegant young woman with long, dark hair wearing a high-necked long-sleeved blouse and well cut slacks, most of her face obscured by dark glasses. Jo saw a very pregnant, fair-haired woman in a sleeveless summer dress and Scholl sandals. She grinned. ‘My God, you’ve changed since school!’ ‘So have you.’ Janet reached forward tentatively and kissed her cheek. ‘Come in. You must have had a hell of a drive from London.’ From her bedroom at the top of the house Jo could see the castle ruins. She stood staring out across the low huddle of rooftops, her hand on the curtain, before turning to her hostess who was hovering in the doorway. ‘It was good of you to let me come like this, with no warning,’ she said. ‘I had forgotten you lived in Abergavenny, then when I knew I had to come here something clicked in my mind and I remembered your Christmas card.’ ‘I’m glad you did. You’re working on an article, you said?’ Janet’s eyes went to the typewriter standing in its case at the foot of the bed. ‘David was very impressed when I rang the school and told him you were coming here. You’re famous!’ Jo laughed. ‘Infamous is a better word these days, I fear.’ She took a brush out of her bag and ran it down her hair which crackled with static. ‘You really don’t mind my coming?’ Janet shook her head. Her eyes sparkled with sudden irrepressible giggles. ‘I’m thrilled. Really. You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to us for months!’ She sat down on the end of the bed with a groan, her hand to her back. ‘Well, what do you think of Wales, then?’ Jo sat down beside her. ‘I haven’t seen much so far, but what I’ve seen is beautiful. I think I’m going to love it here.’ How could she explain that already it felt like coming home? Impatiently she pushed the sentimental phrase aside and pulled off her dark glasses at last, throwing them on the bed. Beneath them her face was very pale. David Pugh came home at about six. He was a squat, florid, sandy-haired man with twinkling eyes. ‘So, you’ve come to see where it all happened,’ he said cheerfully as he handed Jo a glass of sherry. ‘We were intrigued when we read the article about you in the paper.’ He stood staring at her for a moment, the bottle still in his hand. ‘You’re not like her, are you? Not how I imagined her, anyway.’ ‘Who?’ Jo was looking around the small living room curiously. Books and records overflowed from every shelf and flat surface onto the floor. ‘Our Moll Walbee.’ He was watching her closely. ‘You know who that is, surely?’ Jo frowned. She took a sip of sherry. Out of the back window across the small garden there was a hedge and more roofs and behind them she could still see the pink-grey stone of the strange Gothic keep in the castle grounds. ‘Moll Walbee,’ she repeated. ‘It’s strange. I seem to know the name, but I can’t place it.’ ‘It is what the Marcher people called Maude de Braose. You seem to prefer the name Matilda, which is, I grant, more euphonious, but nevertheless she was, I think, more often known as Maude.’ He poured a glass of sherry for his wife and pushing open the hatch into the kitchen passed it through to her. Janet, a plastic apron over her dress, was chopping parsley. She looked slightly flustered as she dropped the knife and took the glass from him. ‘Shut up about that now, David,’ she said in an undertone, glancing at Jo. ‘No.’ Jo had seen the challenge in David’s eyes. ‘No, don’t shut up. I’m interested. If you know about her I want to hear it. I can see you’re sceptical, and I don’t blame you. You’re a historian, I believe?’ He snorted. ‘I teach history at a local school. That doesn’t make me a historian, but I have read a bit about the history of the Welsh Marches. The Braose family made a name for themselves around here. And Maude is something of a legend. Moll is a corruption of Malt, the Welsh for Maude, of course. Walbee, I surmise, comes from St Valerie, which was her father’s name.’ Jo grinned. ‘That at least I know. Reginald.’ He nodded. ‘Or it could, I suppose, be a corruption of de la Haie – from her association with Hay-on-Wye, but there must be dozens of parishes up and down the borders which claim stories about her. She was reputed to be a witch, you know.’ Jo raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know.’ She leaned forward and took the bottle out of his hand, refilling his glass and then her own. ‘I’m not an historian, David. I know nothing about her, save what I remember from my –’ she hesitated, seeing the disbelief in his face, ‘my dreams, if you like to call them that. I looked her up in the Dictionary of National Biography, but I didn’t look at any books on Welsh history. Perhaps I should.’ Janet appeared with a saucer of peanuts which she put on the arm of David’s chair. ‘My husband is a bit of an expert on local legend,’ she said almost apologetically. ‘We must shut him up about it, because if he starts, he’ll go on all night.’ ‘No, I won’t.’ He frowned at her. ‘All I said was that Joanna does not look like her. She was reputed to have been a giantess. She is said to have stood in the churchyard at Hay and, finding a stone in her shoe, thrown it across the Wye, where it landed at Llowes.’ He grinned. ‘The stone is about ten feet long! And of course she built Hay Castle singlehanded in a night. And she was Mallt y Nos, who you can see riding across the mountains with the hounds of hell in the wild of a storm.’ He laughed out loud at the expression on Jo’s face. ‘She must have been a fearsome lady, Jo. Overpowering, Amazonian even, who kept old William in terror of his life. Or that is the way the story goes.’ Jo said nothing for a moment. Then slowly she began to pace up and down the carpet. ‘I don’t think she was especially tall,’ she said reflectively. ‘Taller than William, yes. And taller than a lot of the Welsh, but then they are a short people –’ She broke off in embarrassment, looking at her host. He roared with laughter. ‘I’m five foot four, girl, and proud of it. It’s power not height that counts in the rugby scrum, and don’t you forget it!’ Smiling, Jo helped herself to peanuts. ‘It’s hard to explain what it’s like being someone else, even if only as a vivid dream. She doesn’t inhabit my skin. I find myself in hers. I think and speak and feel as her. But I don’t know her future any more than she would have known it. Now, talking to you, I know roughly what happened to her, but in the regressions I know no more than we know now what will happen to us tomorrow. If in later life she was called Moll Walbee, I don’t know it yet. If later she came to dominate William, I have no clue. As a young woman only a year or so married she was afraid of him. And her only defence against him was disdain.’ There was a moment’s silence. Janet had seated herself on the arm of a chair near the kitchen door. ‘Do you really believe you are her reincarnation?’ she asked at last, awed. ‘Really, in your heart of hearts?’ Jo nodded slowly. ‘I think I am beginning to wonder, yes.’ ‘And are you going to go on being hypnotised to see what happened?’ This time Jo shrugged. ‘I’m not too happy about being hypnotised, to be honest. Sometimes I think I must, other times I’m too scared and I swear I’ll never go back. I tried to get the hypnotherapist to make me forget her, but it didn’t work, so now I don’t know what I’ll do.’ ‘Well, that’s honest at least.’ David had wandered across to his bookshelves. He picked out a heavy tome. ‘People who are capable of regression usually, if not invariably, regress into several previous lives,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever read of a case where just one life was picked out like this.’ He smiled at her quizzically. ‘It is most intriguing. Do you think that anyone else from Maude’s lifetime has returned with her?’ Jo hesitated. ‘It is as much as I can do to believe in myself,’ she said slowly, ‘but sometimes I wonder …’ Nick’s face suddenly rose before her eyes. A Nick she had never known. A Nick, his face contorted with jealousy and anger, who had pinned her to the bed and raped her, and behind his face another, a face with red-gold hair and beard – the man who had tried to strangle her. ‘Jo, what is it?’ Janet’s whisper brought her back abruptly to the room where she was sitting. She smiled and gave another shrug. ‘Just something I thought of, someone who’s been behaving rather strangely.’ She bit her knuckles for a moment. ‘But if he is the reincarnation of someone from my – from Matilda’s – past who is he?’ David let out a little chuckle. ‘Don’t worry about it too much, girl. I’m sure it will come to you. Either that, or you’ll regain your wits. Now, why don’t I find a bottle of wine so we can celebrate your visit, then while we eat I’ll help you plan an itinerary so you can follow Matilda’s footsteps, starting at Hay, where most of her legend is centred. That is why you’ve come to Wales, isn’t it? To follow her footsteps?’ ‘I suppose it must be,’ Jo said after a moment. ‘You know,’ he said, his hand to his cheek, ‘you could be like her, at that. I suspect you’re a very determined lady when you want to be!’ Jo laughed. ‘I have that reputation, I believe.’ ‘And you’re not superstitious or anything?’ he went on, almost as an afterthought. ‘Not in the slightest.’ ‘Good.’ He handed her the book. ‘Some bedtime reading for you, Jo. I think you’ll find it interesting.’ Nick let himself into his flat with a sigh. He dropped his case to the floor and picked up the mail from inside the door, then he stopped and looked round, listening. ‘Is someone there?’ he called. An inner door opened and Sam appeared, lifting his hand in a laconic greeting. ‘Sam!’ Nick threw down the letter. Sam raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘I don’t think I’ve had so ecstatic a welcome for years!’ ‘Shut up and listen!’ Nick pushed past him and went through into the living room. ‘I hurt Jo.’ Sam had followed him and was about to help himself to a drink. He swung round and stared at Nick. ‘You did what?’ he said. ‘I hurt her, Sam. Last night. We were talking about the regressions and she began to tell me about things that had happened to her in that life – things she hadn’t mentioned under hypnosis. She began talking about de Clare – describing how they had made love …’ He went to the tray of drinks. ‘I grabbed her, Sam. I saw red and grabbed her. I wanted to punish her. I wanted to hurt her. I might have killed her.’ Sam was very still. ‘Where is she?’ Nick shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I rang a dozen times this morning and went back at lunchtime. Her car had gone. I went up to the flat and looked round. She’d taken her typewriter and a case. There wasn’t a note or anything.’ Pushing him aside, Sam poured out two glasses of Scotch. He handed his brother one, then stood watching him thoughtfully. ‘How badly did you hurt her?’ Nick shrugged. ‘She knocked the tray off the coffee table and cut her arm. That was an accident, but I was pretty rough with her –’ ‘Did you rape her?’ Nick could feel Sam’s eyes on him. He straightened defiantly. ‘Technically, I suppose I did.’ ‘Technically?’ There was something in the coldness of Sam’s voice which made Nick step back. ‘She and I have been living together on and off for years, for God’s sake!’ ‘That is hardly the point.’ Sam sat down slowly. ‘So, you forced her. Did you beat her up?’ ‘I hit her. She was covered in bruises. I don’t know what came over me, Sam. It was as if I wasn’t me any more. I couldn’t control myself. I knew I was hurting her, and I didn’t want to stop!’ He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for a pack of cigarettes, extracted one, then threw it down with a curse. ‘Christ! This is all such a mess. I was jealous, Sam, of a man who died God knows how many hundreds of years ago. I thought for a while it was Jo going out of her mind. Now I think it’s me!’ He threw himself down opposite his brother. ‘You’ve got to help me. What the hell do I do?’ Sam leaned back in his chair. He was gently swirling his Scotch around in his glass. ‘Have you ever considered,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that Jo might not be the only one amongst us who is living again?’ Nick snorted. ‘You’re not suggesting I am the reincarnation of her husband, or something?’ ‘No.’ Sam’s voice was icy. ‘I am not suggesting that. But I think it possible that you were perhaps someone close to her in the past.’ Nick stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’ ‘Perfectly.’ ‘Oh come on! Don’t hand me that crap. Jo might have been persuaded by all this. In fact she actually asked me if I thought I’d lived before –’ ‘Perhaps she recognised you.’ ‘No! Oh no, I don’t believe it. I’ve got enough problems in this life, and I’d have thought you’d have more sense than to encourage her. You of all people who saw the danger right from the start!’ ‘I saw the danger.’ Sam swung his feet up onto the coffee table. ‘But as Jo would not sidestep it, neither can we.’ Nick glanced at him sharply. ‘What do you mean exactly?’ Sam had closed his eyes. ‘There is one way of finding out whether you were involved in her past, Nick,’ he said. ‘How?’ Nick paused. ‘Oh no! You think I’m going to Bennet to let him try his regression on me?’ ‘There’s no need.’ Sam took a sip from his glass. ‘I can do it.’ Nick’s mouth dropped open. ‘Are you suggesting that I let you hypnotise me?’ he said incredulously. ‘If so, you’re out of your skull!’ ‘Why not? I have a feeling you might be surprised by what we find out.’ Sam smiled gently. ‘Have you never wondered why Jo and you were so instantly attracted when you first met? Could it not have been that you were lovers once before? Is it not possible that the Richard she loved so much was your alter ego, eight hundred years ago?’ He was watching Nick’s expression closely. ‘It might be fun to find out,’ he went on persuasively. ‘It couldn’t do any harm, and it might explain a lot of your ambivalence towards Jo now.’ Nick sat down on the edge of a table, one foot on the carpet, the other swinging slowly back and forth. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. You actually think I am the reincarnation of Richard de Clare?’ Sam shrugged. ‘When dealing with anything like this, Nick, I keep an open mind. I think for Jo’s sake you ought to as well. You owe it to her, if only to find out why you attacked her.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But why,’ Nick said slowly, ‘if I was Richard de Clare, would I be so jealous of him?’ Sam smiled. ‘Good question. Shall we find out?’ ‘You are serious?’ ‘Perfectly. If you don’t regress, fair enough. Not everyone does by any means. At least we will have tried. If you do, it will be interesting.’ ‘And you expect me to trust you!’ Nick stared at him suspiciously. ‘After what happened to Jo?’ ‘What happened to Jo?’ Sam’s voice was hard. ‘She is a deep-trance subject, Nick, you are not. The experience would not be the same for you.’ ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Nick said coolly. ‘There are one or two things you never explained, Sam.’ His knuckles tightened on his glass. ‘Like why it was necessary for Jo to take off her clothes the other night, when you regressed her.’ Sam raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what she said happened?’ ‘That is what she said.’ Nick was watching him closely. Sam smiled. ‘She experiences the trances so vividly she finds it hard to differentiate between that state and reality, at least for a time, as I told you.’ ‘It was reality, Sam, that I found her clothes that night, hidden in the living room –’ ‘Perhaps she put them there before I came.’ Sam crossed one knee over the other, his whole body relaxed. ‘I’m not sure what you are implying, Nicholas, but may I remind you that it is you who raped Jo, not I. It is you who needs help. I think you need to try hypnosis.’ Still uncertain, Nick hesitated. ‘I suppose it would do no harm to try. And I’d rather you did it than Bennet,’ he said at last, reluctantly. ‘But I hate the idea. And I doubt if it would work on me, anyway.’ ‘Why don’t we try?’ Sam sat up slowly. ‘In fact, why don’t we have a go now? You’re worried. You’re tired. If nothing else, I can help you to relax.’ He smiled. ‘Come and sit down over here, little brother. That’s right, facing the window. Now. Relax. Put the glass down, man. You’re clutching it like a lifebelt! Now, let’s see whether you can do one or two little experiments for me. We’ll start with the lamp.’ Sam leaned forward and switched on the Anglepoise at Nick’s elbow. ‘No, don’t look at the light. I want you to look past it, into the corner of the room.’ Nick laughed suddenly. ‘It’s like having the “fluence” put on you by someone at school. Why don’t you use a watch and chain?’ ‘It may have escaped your notice, Nicholas, but I don’t wear a watch and chain.’ Sam moved silently from his chair and gently put his thumb and forefinger on Nick’s eyelids. ‘Now, look towards the lamp again and start counting slowly backwards from one hundred.’ Several minutes later Sam stood up. He was smiling. He walked towards the window and threw it up, staring out for a minute up the narrow street opposite towards the traffic in Park Lane. Then he turned towards Nick, who was lying back in his chair, his eyes closed. ‘Comfortable, little brother?’ he said softly. ‘No, don’t try and answer me. You can’t. I don’t want you to speak at all. I want you to listen.’ 20 (#ulink_199702b5-09b2-5fdb-baac-1c02aec18d99) Janet knocked on Jo’s door as she was undressing late that night. Pushing it open, she hovered for a moment, staring at Jo who, wearing only her bra and briefs, was sitting on the edge of her bed. ‘God, I’m sorry! I didn’t think – shall I come back?’ Flustered, Janet backed away. ‘I brought us some cocoa. I thought you might like to chat a bit. Old Welsh custom!’ Jo laughed. ‘Come in.’ She reached for her thin silk dressing-gown hastily and drew it round her. Janet sat down on the stool in front of the kidney-shaped dressing table, manoeuvring her heavy body with difficulty. ‘Jo, I wanted to apologise for David. He can be a bit belligerent at times. He shouldn’t have given you the third degree like that. He tends to think all Welsh history is his special province and he almost resents anyone else who is interested in it, besides which, as you can’t have failed to gather, he is a rabid nationalist –’ ‘Quite apart from thinking that I am completely mad anyway.’ Jo smiled wearily. ‘He could be right at that. I’m glad he didn’t order me out of your house. I really did want to know about Matilda, though – his Moll Walbee.’ She reached for the mug and sipped it slowly. ‘It was so odd to hear him talk about her with such knowledge. He knew so much more about her than I do, and yet at the same time, he didn’t know her at all.’ Janet gave a rueful laugh. ‘That could apply to David on a lot of subjects.’ She was silent a moment, watching as Jo sipped again from her mug. The pale blue silk of Jo’s sleeve had slipped back to her elbow, showing clearly the livid bruising round her wrist and the long curved gash on her arm. ‘Jo,’ she said tentatively. ‘I couldn’t help noticing – the bruises and that awful cut –’ She coloured slightly. ‘Tell me if it’s none of my business, but well … you sounded in such a state when you rang this morning.’ She groaned slightly, her hand to her back. ‘There is more to this sudden trip than just research, isn’t there?’ Jo set down the mug and pulled her sash more tightly around her waist. ‘A bit of man trouble,’ she admitted reluctantly at last. ‘And he did that to you?’ Jo sighed. ‘He was drunk – far more I think than I realised. I’ve never seen Nick like that before.’ ‘Nick?’ Jo laughed wryly. ‘The man in my life. Correction, the man who was in my life. We’d been having lots of rows and we split up a couple of times, then we got back together and I thought everything was going to be all right. Then suddenly –’ She paused in mid-sentence. ‘It was to do with my regressions. He doesn’t approve of my doing it and he became a bit uptight about a lover I – Matilda – had had in the past …’ ‘Richard de Clare?’ Janet nodded. ‘I remember him from the article. He sounded really rather a dish. Every woman’s fantasy man!’ She broke off with an exclamation. ‘You mean this Nick knocked you about because you talked about a lover in a previous life while you were being hypnotised?’ Jo lay back on the bed, her arm across her face. ‘I think that was what it was about. The awful thing was I think I wanted to tell him about Richard. I wanted him to know.’ ‘And this is the man you mentioned earlier, the one you said had been behaving so strangely you wondered if he had lived before too?’ Jo nodded. She rolled over so that she could see Janet’s face. ‘Isn’t it strange? You and I used to talk in school about how it would be. You were the one who was never going to marry or have kids. Now look at you. Elephantine! And I was going to be a woman alone, without men.’ ‘I always thought that was a stupid idea,’ Janet put in humorously. ‘One has to have men. Lovers.’ Jo stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘We were so idealistic, so naive! Do you know, I found out through Matilda what it was like to be forced to marry a man you hated. Forced, by a father who doted on you, yet who by custom because you were a mere woman, had to hand you and your inheritance on to another man. I became a man’s property, Janet. He could do what he wanted with me. Threaten me, lock me up, treat me like a slave and order me into his bed and expect me to obey him. It’s been like that for women for centuries and only now are we fighting for liberation. It’s unbelievable.’ She sat up. ‘The only way I – I mean Matilda – could keep him out of her bed was to tell him when she was pregnant that a witch had foretold doom for the baby if he touched her.’ Janet chuckled. ‘I’d like to see Dave’s face if I tried that one. Mind you, I like him to touch me. Imagine, in my condition!’ She patted her stomach affectionately, then she glanced up. ‘Did you – did Matilda have the baby?’ Jo nodded. ‘Do you want to hear the gory details of medieval obstetrics? Perhaps it’s not tactful at the moment. The entire range of facilities were available to me – no expense spared. A pile of straw to soak up the blood, a midwife who stank and had all her front teeth missing – I imagine kicked out by a previous client – and I was given a rosary to hold. I broke it, which was considered an ill omen, and I had a magic stone tied on a thong around my neck. I was naked, of course, and the labour went on for a day and a night and most of the next day.’ Janet shuddered. ‘Spare me. I’m going to have an epidural. Did it hurt terribly?’ Jo nodded. ‘I was too tired by the end to know what was going on properly. Then afterwards, in real life, I began to produce milk for that poor scrap of a baby who was only a dream!’ ‘You’re not serious.’ Janet looked shocked. ‘Oh, it only lasted a day or two, thank God, but it was rather disgusting at the time.’ Janet was staring at her. ‘It doesn’t seem possible.’ ‘No.’ ‘And your Nick. Did he know about all this?’ ‘Oh yes. He was, you might say, present at the birth. He was watching while I was describing it all under hypnosis.’ ‘Then I’m not surprised he’s a bit rattled.’ Janet shivered again. ‘The poor man must really feel weird. I’ll tell you one thing. If all that had happened to me, I’d never let myself be hypnotised again as long as I lived. Never!’ She shuddered theatrically. ‘You wouldn’t want to know what happened?’ ‘But you do know what happened, Jo. David showed you, in that book. She died. Horribly.’ Jo drew her knees up to her chin and hugged them. ‘She died in about 1211. The events I am describing happened around 1176. That’s thirty-five years later.’ ‘And you’re going to relive thirty-five years of her life?’ Janet’s expression dissolved suddenly into her irrepressible smile. ‘I take it this is a fairly long project, Jo?’ The smile faded abruptly. ‘I think you’re mad. Nothing on earth would make me go through with that deliberately. Didn’t Dave say she had six children? Are you going to go through another five pregnancies and deliveries like that first one? I’m prepared to bet real money they still hadn’t even invented morphine by the turn of the thirteenth century.’ Jo grinned tolerantly. ‘Perhaps you’re right. And it is a pretty thankless task, with no baby at the end of it …’ She blinked rapidly, aware of a sudden lump in her throat. Janet heaved herself to her feet and came and put her arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Jo. I didn’t mean to upset you –’ ‘You haven’t.’ Jo pulled away from her and stood up. ‘Besides, if I’m honest I have a particular reason for wanting to go back. Not just to see Will, though I want to hold him so much sometimes it hurts.’ She gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I have to go back to see Richard again. I need him, Janet. He’s got under my skin. To me he is completely real.’ ‘Supposing Matilda never saw him again,’ Janet said thoughtfully after a moment. ‘Then I’ll have to learn to live without him. But until I know for sure I have a feeling I shall go back. Come on.’ She reached for the bedcover and pulled it down. ‘I need my beauty sleep, even if you don’t. Tomorrow I am going to Hay and Brecon and places to see if I can lay Matilda’s ghost. If I can then there will be no more regressions. No more Richard. Just an article in Women in Action which will be of passing interest to some and total boredom to others and then it will all be forgotten.’ She climbed into bed and lay back tensely after Janet had gone, staring up at the ceiling in the dark, half afraid that all the talk of babies might once more conjure up the sound of crying in the echoing chambers of that distant castle, but she heard nothing but the gentle sighing of the wind. Outside the window the clouds streamed across the moon and shadowed silver played over the ruins. If Seisyll’s ghost walked, she did not see him. Within minutes she was asleep. The breezes of Sussex were gentle after the frosty mornings of the west and the trees were still heavy with leaves as yet untouched by frost. As Matilda’s long procession slowly travelled the last miles to Bramber she could see from far away the tall keep of the castle, standing sentinel on its height above the River Adur. They rode slowly down the long causeway into the small village which clung among the saltings around the foot of the castle hill. The parish church and the castle looked out across the marshes and the deep angle of the river towards the sea. The tide was in and the deep moat full of water as they clattered across the drawbridge, with gulls swooping and wheeling around them and diving into the slate-coloured catspaws below. Her beloved nurse Jeanne greeted them outside the towering gatehouse with tears of joy, but she had news of death. ‘What is it, Jeanne dear? Is it the old lord?’ Matilda gazed round as she slipped from her horse, dreading suddenly any visitation of sickness which might come near her son. He was so little and vulnerable. She ached sometimes with love for the little boy and with the terrible fear of what might become of him. ‘It’s Sir William’s mother, the Lady Bertha.’ Jeanne’s wrinkled old face was suddenly solemn. ‘She slipped on the stairs and broke her thigh two months since. She lived on for weeks in terrible pain, poor soul, and then she died at last a week ago, God rest her. The bones were too old to knit properly.’ The old woman crossed herself and then looked up shrewdly under her heavy eyelids. ‘I wonder you didn’t meet the messengers we sent after Sir William. You’ll be mistress of your own, now, ma p’tite. I’m glad for you.’ Secretly Matilda felt no sorrow for the domineering old woman, but she felt a moment’s regret for William, who had cared for his mother in an embarrassed way. William had left Gloucester with the King, taking with him most of his fighting men, save her escort, after a brief, futile enquiry into the murder of the three missing knights. It would be some time before he returned to Bramber. Matilda suppressed the smile of relief which kept wanting to come. It might not be seemly, but a great weight had been lifted from her mind. She had dreaded her meeting with Bertha. The old woman’s bitter tongue would not have spared her a lashing for her impropriety and disobedience in leaving Bramber the year before, nor would she have allowed Matilda to continue ordering her husband’s household. She glanced round at Bernard who was sitting slackly on his roan gelding behind her, apparently lost in thought. He would have lost all his respect for her if he’d heard Bertha. Now there was no danger. Bramber was hers. Breathing a silent prayer of gratitude she raised her arm in a signal and the tired procession of horses and waggons moved slowly under the gatehouse into the steeply cobbled bailey within. Dismounting once more, Matilda followed Jeanne into the cool dimness of the great hall and looked around with a quiet sigh of satisfaction at the beautiful arched windows, trimmed with delicately carved flintstone borders and the intricate carving which adorned pillars and doorways. Bramber was beautiful compared with Brecknock. Beautiful, civilised and safe. She forced herself to go at once to look at the recumbent body of her father-in-law. It was because he still lived that Bertha had remained mistress of Bramber. Had he died as God, she was sure, had intended, Bertha would have gone to her dower lands and left Matilda in charge of the castle. It was because he still lived too, that William was in such a strange position, a baron in all but title. She looked down at old William’s face. He had changed not at all since she had left Bramber. The skin was perhaps more shrunken, the eye sockets more hollow as his dimmed eyes still gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. The only sign of life was the clawed hand which grasped incessantly at the sheet drawn up over the old man’s chest. Dutifully she dropped a light kiss on the papery skin of his brown cheek. He gave no sign of recognition, and after a moment she left his bedside. In the privacy of her own solar she hugged Jeanne again, and taking Will from his nurse, unwrapped him herself and presented him for the old woman’s inspection. Jeanne examined the baby’s sleeping face. Then to Matilda’s relief she nodded and smiled. ‘A fine boy,’ she commented. ‘He does you credit, ma p’tite, but then I’d expect you to have bonny children.’ She glanced sideways at Matilda. ‘I can see you’re going to have another too. That is good. This time I shall be near to watch over you.’ Matilda smiled. She had suspected that she was pregnant again, though outwardly her slim waist hadn’t thickened an inch, so she wondered how Jeanne could tell so easily. But she was happy. This time she would stay at Bramber. Nothing would induce her to travel after William as she had done before. There was to be no possibility of the evil eye being directed at her unborn child. She took Jeanne’s hands and kissed the old woman again on the cheek. The black mist-covered mountains of Wales and their unhappy memories seemed very far away. Giles, her second son, was born in April the following year, as the heavy-scented air of Sussex drifted like balm through the open windows of Bramber Castle, bringing with it the slight tang of salt from the hazy Channel, floating in from the saltings below, and from the fields and Downs, the heady perfume of apple blossom and bluebells. As the child was laid, sleeping peacefully, in its crib, Jeanne slipped silently to the glowing hearthstone and there laid wine and water and fresh towels for the fairies. With their blessing the child would grow strong and lucky. Matilda felt a sudden shiver of fear. There had been no such magic for baby Will. Dimly she remembered as a bad dream from the past the vision she had had at her eldest son’s birth and she crossed herself, afraid for him. Then, even as she tried to recall the meaning of the vision it blurred and slipped from her and she saw that Jeanne was watching her with strangely narrowed eyes. Matilda fought to look away but somehow she could not move. The memory grew dim and she saw only the reflection of the sunlight glinting on the ewer of water by the fire, and then again she slept. In her bed at Abergavenny Jo stirred in her sleep as the dream faded. The moonlight touched her face with cold fingers and she flung her arm across her closed eyes and shivered before lying still again. ‘I want you to listen to me carefully.’ Sam sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of Nick, his eyes on his brother’s face. ‘You trust me, don’t you?’ Imperceptibly Nick nodded. ‘Good. And you know I would do nothing to harm you – and I think it would harm you, Nick, to take you back into the past too soon. First I must prepare you. I must warn you who you were in that life, long ago …’ Sam paused, a flicker of grim humour straying across his face. ‘You were not Richard de Clare, Nick, and you have good reason to be jealous of him. He was your friend and your adviser. And he was your rival. You and he both loved Matilda de Braose. But Richard won her. It was to him that she turned. She despised you. She feared you and hated you. She was your enemy, Nick. Do you remember?’ He paused, watching Nick’s face closely as his brother shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his face sombre. His gaze had strayed from Sam towards the lamp once more, his eyes fixed on it, the pupils pin-sized in the brilliant blue of the flood-lit irises. Hanging down towards the carpet at his side, one of his hands twitched involuntarily as he clenched and unclenched his fist. Sam smiled, wondering for a brief second if what he was saying had a grain of possibility behind it. Where had the violence in his brother come from? One day he would find out for sure, but not today. Today he was setting the scene. ‘I think perhaps you do remember, Nick,’ he went on quietly. ‘You were a prince when you first saw her. She was beautiful and tall and charming. A lady. And you were a snotty boy. Do you remember? You were born too late. She was the first woman you ever desired and she was already another man’s wife and the mother of his child, and you were too young still even to screw the serving wenches you caught in the dark corners of the palace. You made do then with pinching their breasts and thrusting your hand up their skirts, but later it was different. Later you could have any woman you wanted. And you took them. Peasant or lady. Willing or not. Your reputation has echoed down through the centuries. You took them all. All save Lady de Braose. Her scorn unmanned you. When she looked at you, you knew she still saw you as a snivelling child. And your love began to sour. You determined to bring her to her knees, do you remember, Nick? You told her husband to control her better, but he was weak.’ His jaw tightened momentarily. ‘She needed William’s help and he failed her. When he should have whipped her and bridled her shrewish tongue, he let her speak. He let her walk into your trap, when he could have saved her.’ He stopped, unable to go on for a moment, sweat standing out on his forehead as he watched Nick’s face. ‘You hated her by then, and you determined she would pay for her scorn with her life.’ He sat forward on the edge of the table, hooking his forefinger into the knot of his tie, and pulling it loose whilst behind him the sky was losing its colour, the sunset fading as the glare of street lights took over outside the open window. ‘And now, Nick,’ he went on after a pause, ‘you and she have been born in another century and in another world, and this time you are not a child. This time she sees you as a man, a man she finds attractive, a man to whom she has submitted. But you cannot trust her. Your hate remains. You have not forgotten, Nick. And you have not forgiven. You swore vengeance against Matilda de Braose eight hundred years ago and you are pursuing it still.’ He stood up abruptly and turned away from his brother, tearing off his shirt and throwing it to the carpet. He was perspiring heavily as he stood at the window and took deep breaths of the cool evening air, consciously trying to slow his pulse rate as he felt the violence of his heart beating beneath his ribs. Suddenly he laughed out loud, throwing back his head exultantly. ‘And this time, my friend,’ he murmured, ‘when she calls on her husband for help, it will be there. I shall not let her down again. I have waited for the chance to make amends, and now at last I have it. Now at last we are all once more on the stage together.’ He turned. ‘You will love the role I’ve given you, Nick. You always were a conceited little bastard – so self-assured. So clever. So sure every woman will fall for you. And they all do, don’t they? But Jo is beginning to see through you. She has tasted your violence now. She no longer trusts you.’ He walked back towards Nick and pushed him back on the seat with a contemptuous hand. ‘When she rejects you you will be angry. You will hit her again, Nick, and this time she will come to me. She will always come to me, I shall see to that. And I shall comfort her. She’ll return to you for more because there is something of the masochist in Jo. Violence excites her. She may even tempt you to kill her, Nick. But I shall be there.’ He smiled evenly. ‘And this time I shall be the one in charge. This time I shall have men to help me. And you will crawl away, my liege.’ His voice was heavy with sarcasm and there were little bubbles of spittle on his lips. ‘You will lick your wounds and beg for forgiveness as William did to his King, and I shall have you sent away, not to hide in France to die a whimpering shameful death like William had to, no, I shall have you committed, brother mine, to an asylum. The sort of place they put people who live in a world of make believe and pretend that they are kings. And Jo will come to me. Jo will be mine. She will repent that she slighted me and beg for forgiveness and I will console her as a husband should.’ He walked towards the tray and poured himself half a tumbler of whisky. He drank it down at a gulp and then poured another. ‘Have you been listening to me, Nick?’ He turned slowly. For a moment Nick gave no sign of having heard, then slowly he nodded. ‘And have you understood what I have told you?’ Nick licked his lips. ‘I understand,’ he said at last. Sam smiled. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘So, tell me what your name was, Nicholas, in this past life of yours.’ ‘John.’ Nick looked at Sam with alarming directness. ‘And you know what you must do?’ Nick shifted in his chair. He was still staring at Sam but there was a clouded, puzzled look on his face. Sam frowned. He put down his glass. ‘Enough now,’ he said slowly. ‘You are tired. I am going to wake you soon. You must ask me to hypnotise you again, little brother. You find that hypnosis is soothing. It makes you feel good. You are going to forget all that I have told you today with your conscious mind, but underneath, slowly, you will remember, so that when you are next with Jo you will know how to act. Do you understand me?’ His tone was peremptory. Nick nodded. ‘And one other thing.’ Sam picked up his shirt and began carefully to straighten the sleeves. ‘A favour for a friend. Before Jo comes back you must go and see Miss Curzon. Make your peace with her, Nick. You like Judy, remember? She’s good in bed. She makes you feel calm and happy. Not like Jo, who makes you angry. Go and see Judy, Nick. Soon.’ He smiled. ‘Now, I want you to relax. You are feeling happy now and at ease. You are feeling rested. That’s good. Now, slowly, I want you to count from one to ten. When you reach ten you will awake.’ He threw himself down on the chair, his head back against the cushion and watched with a mocking grin as, slowly, Nick began to count. ‘Abergavenny, Crickhowell, Tretower,’ Jo murmured as she swung the MG onto the A40 next morning. She glanced up at the line of hills and then at the gleam of the broad Usk on her left, and she shivered, remembering the icy feel of the water, the snow beneath her bare feet and the silence of the hills. Thankfully she concentrated as a tractor swung out onto the narrow road ahead of her. She leaned forward and turned on the car radio. She could not look at the hills now, not as well as hold the car on the road. She turned the station up loudly and, hooting at the tractor, tore past him north towards Hay, refusing to let herself think about the vast empty area of moor and mountain far away on her right. The approach from Talgarth was along the foot of the small foothills which hid the huge shoulders of Pen y Beacon and Twmpa – the Black Mountains which David had showed her on his map – but she could smell them through the open roof of the car, the sweet indefinable smell of the mountains of Wales, which she remembered from her dream. The town of Hay, nestling in a curve of the Wye, was a maze of little narrow streets, crowded and busy, which clustered around the gaunt, imposing half ruin which was the castle. Drawing into a parking space in the market square immediately below the castle, Jo sat staring up at it in awe. In front of her, to the left, was a cluster of ancient ruins, whilst at the right-hand end of the edifice was a portion which looked far more recent and appeared to be in the course of rebuilding and restoration. That part looked as if it might have been recently inhabited. She climbed out of the car feeling strangely disorientated; this time yesterday she had been standing in the London flat, phoning Janet Pugh. Now she was standing within a stone’s throw of the building which Matilda had built. She took a deep breath and made herself turn away towards the crowded streets behind her. First she must find a guide book. Bookshops throng the narrow streets of Hay-on-Wye. Shelves overflow onto the pavements. Fivepenny paperbacks rub shoulders with priceless esoterica and antiquarian treasures. Fascinated, Jo wandered around, resisting the urge to stop and browse, drawn constantly back to the brooding grey ruin. She bought her guide, a history of the town and a little street map, then, with a pasty, an apple and a can of lager she walked slowly down the hill towards the Wye, away from the castle. It was too soon to look at the castle. First she wanted to get her bearings. Beyond the high modern bridge which spanned the river she found a footpath leading down through the trees to a shingle bank at the edge of the broad expanse of peat-stained water, carpeted so thickly in places with the tiny white flowers of water crowsfoot that the water was almost hidden. She stood for a moment staring down at the river as it rippled swiftly eastwards towards Herefordshire, pouring over the smoothed, sculpted boulders and rocks through flat watermeadows and away from the mountains, then she found a deserted piece of sun-baked shingle and sat down. Opening the lager, she propped her back against a bent birch tree, watching the water. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of jewelled colours and recognised her first sight of a kingfisher. Enchanted, she stared after it, but it had vanished as quickly as it had come. She rummaged in her bag for her books, and sat eating as she looked through them, every now and then glancing up at the town beyond the river to glimpse the castle at its centre, or the church nestling beyond the bridge in the trees. Each time she found her gaze drawn back to the water, watching it as ripples formed patterns and swirls in the reflections of the clouds. A feather danced past, curled white in the sun, and far out in the middle of the current a fish jumped, silver-bellied, and plunged back in a circle of ripples. The afternoon was very hot and still. Jo nodded, and her book fell into her lap. Forcing her eyes open she made herself stare at the water again, trying to concentrate on staying awake, but the reflections danced in her eyes, dazzling, forcing her to close them again, and slowly, imperceptibly, the sound of the water dulled and grew muffled. It was only after a long while that she realised she could hear the sound of horses’ hooves. England lay beneath a pall of dust. The summer sun burning down beneath a coppery sky smelled acrid and the hot breeze which occasionally fanned the travellers’ faces was dust-laden and gritty. Wearily Matilda pulled up her horse at last. The groom who had been walking at its head raised his hand and the whole tired procession halted. Behind them the forests and rolling hills of Herefordshire shimmered in a haze. The Border March, a vast, wild area of forest and mountain and desolate moorland, lay before them to the west. At their feet they could see at last the River Wye, which had shrunk in places to a narrow ribbon of water flowing between broad strips of whitened shingle. There were deep pools, shadowed from the beating overhead sunlight by the crowding alders and hazels, which in places overhung the water, and by great black rocks brought down by the spring floods. They alone were cool and green, the last refuge of salmon and grayling. William was once again in attendance on the King, this time in Normandy. Matilda had received a message from him shortly before she left Bramber. The household had stayed there too long, overtaxing the facilities, running its supplies down to nothing, but still she had been reluctant to obey William’s instructions to set off once more for Wales. He planned to join her there, the message said, by Martinmas, so that he could enjoy some of the late season’s hunting in the Hay forest. One by one the horses and men picked their way almost dryshod across the silver shallows. Before them lay the small township of Hay. It clustered around the church of St Mary and the neighbouring wooden castle on its tump securely surrounded by a thick high hawthorn hedge, trailing with honeysuckle and brambles. Outside the hedge the small fields, red-gold with brittle corn, showed up in the heavy green of the encroaching forest. Somewhere nearby were the black brooding mountains, but they had withdrawn beneath a haze which hid all but the lowest wooded slopes of the foothills. They rode slowly through the gap in the hedge, and turned up the beaten earth track towards the castle. It was little more than a wooden tower, built upon a motte thrown up on the bank overlooking the river. Below it lay the still, deep waters of the church pool, the surface streaked with fronds of green weed. To the west of the castle flowed the Login Brook, shallow and stagnant in the heat of the sun. Matilda halted the procession again just outside the castle wall and looked wearily around. The steward of the manor was waiting for her beside the church and next to him, sunburned in homespun, the vicar and the castellan. She tried to smile at them. She was bored with the fawning servants who lived in these outlying castles and manors; she had wanted to go on to Brecknock which at least she knew and where the faithful Robert and Hugh still served, but Hay it had to be, only eleven miles to the northeast. William had insisted on it. She was conscious of eyes peering at her from dark doorways and round corners. An old man, his limbs wasted and immobile, lay propped up against the wall of an outhouse nearby and he smiled toothlessly and nodded as he saw her gaze rest on him. Several children ran giggling behind her horse. One of them had a club-foot, which dragged horribly as he tried to keep up with his friends. ‘Lady Matilda, you are welcome to the Hay.’ The steward hastened forward and bowed low, his long hair falling across the bare crown of his head to reveal an ancient scar. He introduced himself as Madoc, the castellan as Tom the Wolf, and the thin cadaverous vicar as Philip. They bowed in unison. Then Madoc straightened up. He looked Matilda in the eye, no trace of servility in his manner. ‘The castle is prepared for you, my lady, if your servants will bring in the furnishings, and the kitchens are ready for your cook. We’ve had the fires burning since dawn. You have a visitor, my lady.’ His eyes narrowed in the sunlight. ‘The Earl of Clare rode in yesterday. He is in the castle waiting for you.’ ‘The Earl of Clare?’ Matilda’s heart stood still for a moment. It was months since she had allowed herself to think of him. And now, suddenly, unannounced and unexpected, he was here! She did not bother to remount her exhausted horse. The rein over her arm, she picked her way over the dry turf, rank with thistles, and made her way in excitement towards the gate in the castle wall. Richard had just returned from a hawking expedition. He was standing, stripped to the waist, at the foot of the stair which led up the side of the steep motte to the castle tower, while one of his men poured buckets of cold water over his head. He was quite unembarrassed when he saw her. ‘My lady!’ He took another bucket of water full in the face and spluttering turned to chase the man away. The long line of pack animals, waggons and attendants was crowding into the bailey around them, milling in the dust as they halted and began to dismount and unload, before making their way towards the stables and lodgings around the inside of the high wall. Matilda stood unnoticing in the middle of them all, smiling, watching as Richard towelled himself dry and wriggled into his tunic. Her heart was beating very fast. He fastened his belt and ran his fingers through his wet hair. ‘Where’s Sir William, my lady? I see he isn’t with you.’ He ran ahead of her two at a time up the stairs to the keep. It was hot and stuffy inside and full of acrid smoke from the small fire in the hearth. Matilda followed him more slowly and stopped abruptly, her eyes smarting as she tried to accustom them to the dark after the bright sun outside. When she could see at last she saw Richard gather up his sword and gird it on. ‘William is in attendance on the King. What are you doing here at Hay, Richard?’ Suddenly she felt shy and ill at ease. ‘Waiting for you, of course.’ He raised his eyebrow slightly, stepping close to her to kiss her hand. ‘I’m returning from Gloucester, so I sent most of my people ahead and stayed to do a little hawking in your beautiful valley. I heard you were on your way. It’s been so long.’ He was still holding her hand. She tried to pull it away without success. ‘Lord de Clare …’ She glanced behind her at the doorway. ‘I’ve tried again and again to visit you,’ he went on in a whisper, ‘but events have always stood in the way. I’ve been in France with the King or up north or in the Marches, but never when you’ve been here, or in far away Suffolk.’ He still held her hands, looking into her eyes solemnly. ‘Dear sweet God, but I’ve missed you so.’ ‘No, Richard, please.’ She interrupted him, pulling her hands away at last. ‘Please don’t talk like that.’ She hesitated, letting her light travelling cloak slip from her shoulders to the rushes, looking uncertainly into his face. He had not changed at all from the carefree youth who had escorted her across England. He was a tall young man, fractionally taller than she, broad-shouldered and painfully slim, with merry hazel eyes. She bit her lip and half turned. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ He swung his sword comfortably onto his hip. ‘Why do you look so sad? I thought you might be glad to see me!’ ‘Oh I am, Richard.’ She swallowed, and smiled at him with an effort. ‘You’ll never know how glad. It’s just that … I’m tired, that’s all. We’ve ridden such a long way today.’ ‘My lady …’ She turned to find Jeanne pulling at her sleeve. The old woman’s face was disapproving. ‘The little ones are asleep already, my lady. You should be the same.’ The old woman stooped slowly to pick up the fallen cloak which lay forgotten on the ground. ‘Your room is prepared. I’m sure Lord de Clare will excuse you after your long journey.’ ‘That I won’t, old dame.’ Richard reached for Matilda’s hand again. ‘Come, my lady, call for food and wine and music! We’ll celebrate your arrival. I’m not letting you slip away to sleep with children tonight. You need cheering up, not sleep.’ His high spirits were infectious, and Matilda could not help laughing with him, her eyes on his smiling face. It would be good to celebrate her arrival. Her weariness and depression began to slip away. She turned to Jeanne. ‘Go to the children, they need you now, I don’t. I can rest later.’ ‘My lady, you’re most unwise. You must rest.’ Stubbornly Jeanne remained at her elbow. ‘I said you can go, Jeanne,’ Matilda rounded on her. ‘Lord de Clare and I have much to talk about.’ Jeanne hesitated, her hands braced stubbornly at the front of her full black skirts, then reluctantly, muttering to herself, she left them, vanishing behind the screens at the end of the hall. ‘She watches you closely, that one,’ he whispered, as she left. Matilda turned to follow his gaze. Then she laughed. ‘She was my nurse before she was my children’s. Sometimes I think she forgets I’m grown up now. Now, my lord, tell me all the news, and cheer me up. I command it.’ She clapped her hands to summon her page. ‘Bring lights, and food and seats, Simon. Let’s see what kind of food those Hay fires can provide.’ Richard, one foot on a stool near the fire, gazed at her for a moment, head to one side. ‘We’ll have music and poetry and good wine and conversation in that order. Will that cheer you?’ He raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘If it doesn’t, I’m sure I can think of one or two other things which might appeal.’ He looked down at the rushes for a moment. When he looked up she could see that the colour in his cheeks had risen a little. He caught her eye and for a moment, as they stood together in the centre of the bustle of preparation, they gazed at each other without speaking. She felt a stab of excitement running up her body, and swallowed nervously. He feels the same, she thought and she felt herself beginning to tremble. She looked away first. ‘William joins me here soon for the autumn hunting.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘Autumn is a long way away, my lady.’ Taking her hand, he raised it almost to his lips. Then he let it fall. ‘Come, where is that music? We must have music while we eat.’ Matilda lay awake a long time that night, listening to the owls hooting in the yew trees below the Login Brook. She could feel the touch of Richard’s hand on hers, and sense the message in his eyes as, sitting next to her, he had shared her dish as they ate, listening to the boy who piped one dance tune after another for them. The firelight had played on his face as he leaned back in his chair and she had seen him watching her, his eyes never leaving her face. She lay still and fought back the longing which overwhelmed her, trying to think instead of her two baby sons, asleep with their nurses. The river was lapping gently over its stones, murmuring peacefully beyond the bailey wall. The castle was silent. She gazed up at the ceiling over her head and the rail from which her bed curtains hung, and stared, near to tears, into the darkness. Somewhere in the blackness of the room beyond the curtains a board creaked. She moved her head slightly, trying to see between the heavy folds of material. Perhaps one of her women had stirred in their sleep? Not a breath of wind moved in the trees outside. She stiffened. A slight scraping noise caught her ear, followed by profound silence. It was as though someone else, too, was listening in the dark. She swallowed nervously, trying to forget the sudden awful memory of the shadow outside the walls of her tent at Gloucester. The entire garrison was within earshot if she screamed, and there could be no enemies within the castle. She shut her eyes, her fingers clutching the thin sheet up round her face. Then distinctly she heard the slight rattle of a curtain ring. Someone was touching the curtains of her bed. Her mind flew to Richard. Surely he would not be so stupidly reckless? She lay tense, waiting, not daring to open her eyes. The curtains were eased back a little more and she felt a slight pressure on the bed as someone leaned over her. Little prickles of panic were beginning to chase up and down her back and she fought desperately to remain still. Something wet fell on her hair, then on her face and her shoulder. A light mist like spring rain. Then she heard whispered words. She strained her ears trying to hear, wondering what prevented her still from crying out. It was a woman’s voice, intoning softly. It sounded like a prayer. Or a spell. She felt herself grow cold. It was Jeanne; Jeanne was casting a spell on her. She tried to sit up, to shout at the old woman, to scream for Elen or the guards, but a black silken web seemed to be holding her down. She opened her mouth, but no sound would come. The voice was silent and she heard the curtains being closed gently once more. The old woman had gone. Whatever her spell had been, it was complete. It was too late to fight it. Matilda tried to raise her hand to make the signs against evil and the sign of the cross but her hands were too heavy to raise. Surely, she told herself sleepily, Jeanne could mean her no harm. Slowly her eyelids dropped. Her sleeplessness had gone. Relaxed and at peace she turned over and was instantly asleep. She rose at dawn and Elen dressed her in her gown of wachet green; she twisted her heavy hair up beneath a simple veil, held in place by a woven fillet. It was too hot for a wimple or barbette, or even a mantle, and she did not send for Jeanne. There had been no sign of the old woman. Richard was already in the bailey surrounded by men and horses and dogs. ‘I hope you’re coming hawking,’ he called cheerfully when he saw her. ‘The birds are ready.’ The sky was limpid and clear. It was going to be another hot day. She forgot the fears of the night as she gathered up her skirts and ran down the steps to her horse. They were no more to her now than some uneasy nightmare about which, though she remembered having been frightened, she could recall no details. They rode out of Hay away from the sweeping escarpment of Peny Beacon, which rose sharp as a knife against the sky, back across the shallow Wye, this time turning north towards the meadows which bounded Clyro Hill; the grooms and austringers with the precious hawks, Richard’s chief falconer – some dozen horsemen altogether – clattering after them along the stony track, and another dozen or so men on foot. In the distance a curlew called. All at once from a bed of reeds nearby they put up a heron. With an exclamation Richard pulled the hood from the bird on his wrist and tossed her into the air. They reined their horses in and watched as the humped figure of the heron flew low and lumbering for the river, but it was too late. The hawk struck it down within seconds. Excited, Matilda turned and called for her own bird, a small but swift and deadly brown merlin. She grinned at Richard. ‘I’ll match you kill for kill.’ She pulled on the heavy gauntlet and reached down for the bird, feeling the power of its talons as it settled itself, bells jingling, onto the leather on her fist. She gripped the jesses and kicked her pony on. Gradually the path began to climb and after a while plunged into the dry woods which cloaked the southern side of Elfael. Then the trees cleared and the moors rose bare before them. They waited as the beaters with their dogs scattered into the tall bracken. Richard’s horse shifted restlessly beneath him as he turned to Matilda with a smile, soothing the glossy peregrine on his wrist. ‘We should have some good sport up here. It’s early yet, and not too hot.’ He tensed suddenly as the beaters flushed a snipe from a marshy cwm. Slipping the hood from the bird’s head again Richard flew her and they waited, eyes narrowed against the glare as she climbed high into the blue, towering above the quarry, ready for the deadly swoop. His eyes gleamed with excitement as the bird plummeted down. ‘A kill,’ he murmured exultantly under his breath. He urged his horse forward into the breast-high bracken, the winged lure dangling from his fingers. Matilda followed him, her eyes fixed on his broad shoulders, and she breathed deeply and exultantly in the sharp air, almost laughing out loud as she kicked her pony on and felt the wind lifting her veil, teasing, trying to dislodge her hair. It was a good morning’s sport. When they drew rein at midday the party was tired and hot. Sliding from his saddle Richard threw the rein to a groom and went to lie face down on the grass beside a tiny upland brook. He grinned up at her, shaking the water from his eyes. ‘Come and bathe your face. It’s gloriously cool.’ Their attendants drew back into the shadow of a group of trees with the birds and Matilda, who had been watching as her horse was led away, dropped on her knees beside him and let her fingers play for a moment in the water. The mountain stream was very cold and within minutes her hands were aching with it. He laughed at her. ‘How improper! My Lady de Braose, paddling in the water like a child!’ She laughed a little guiltily. ‘I wish I could throw all my clothes off and jump in like a boy.’ ‘Please do, madam. I should not object.’ He grinned shamelessly. She could not be angry with him. ‘God, Matilda,’ he went on, suddenly serious. ‘Would that you were not de Braose’s wife.’ His voice took on a new note which frightened her. She glanced up apprehensively and found him gazing at her, the message in his eyes plain. ‘Let’s walk in the woods a little way away from this rabble which always follows us. I must talk to you freely. Alone.’ ‘No!’ Her voice was firm, although her heart was beating fast. She wanted so much to throw caution aside and do as he asked. ‘No, not again, we mustn’t. We mustn’t as long as my husband lives.’ She rose, brushing the loose grass from her kirtle. ‘Please, don’t ever speak of it again. Many things I would dare in this world, but I must not dishonour William again.’ She turned towards the trees, biting her lips miserably, wishing he had not spoken, but he had scrambled after her. He seized her hand. ‘It is too late to speak of dishonour, Matilda. You are mine in your heart, and in your eyes when you look at me, and in your dreams. I know it.’ Careless of who might still be able to see them he pulled her against him, seeking her mouth with his own, caressing her shoulders gently as he pressed her against him. She gave a little shudder of longing. ‘We must not,’ she murmured, her lips against his. ‘Such love will be cursed.’ ‘Rubbish.’ His grip was more insistent now. He bent, and flinging his arm behind her knees he scooped her off her feet. She gave a little cry of protest, but he ignored it, carrying her down the bank of the brook and wading across the gurgling water to the shelter of some gorse bushes on the far side. There he laid her on the ground. He reached for his belt and unbuckled it, laying his sword aside, then he bent over her once more, covering her face with kisses, his hands feeling for her breasts in the low neckline of her gown. She gasped with pleasure, her arms encircling his neck, drawing him down towards her as she felt him fumbling with her long skirts. All sense of caution was gone. She did not care who saw them as he took her swiftly, bringing her again and again to the giddy climax of excitement. Once, as her back arched against him, her hips moving with his, she opened her eyes, dazzled by the brilliant blue sky above them. For a moment she stiffened as something moved – a shadow against the sun – then the thrusting excitement within her claimed her whole attention once more and she fell helplessly into the tide of her passion. When at last Richard raised his head he was smiling. ‘So, my lady, you are mine.’ He dropped his head to nuzzle her throat. She stroked his hair gently, still trembling. ‘If I am discovered, William will kill me,’ she whispered. ‘William is in France. He’ll not find out,’ he said, sitting up slowly. ‘No one has noticed our departure. If they have, we’ll say we were scouting for cover later in the day. Come.’ He stood up and held out his hand to help her rise. ‘Let us go and eat, my lady. Love gives a man an appetite!’ They walked slowly towards the clearing. By the trees Matilda halted, and beckoned the food baskets forward with an imperious wave of her hand, aware that many eyes had been watching them, and had probably missed nothing of their disappearance. Aware too that Richard was looking at her with eyes which made her shiver with desire. Only the slightly heightened colour in her cheeks betrayed her inner turmoil as she stood haughtily by as the cloth was laid on the ground. She glanced at Richard again. Outwardly at least he was calm now. He sat on a rocky outcrop of the bank, his tunic unlaced at the throat, his hand held out carelessly for the wine his page brought him. Catching her eye suddenly he grinned again and raised the cup in half salute. ‘To the afternoon’s sport, my lady.’ She turned away abruptly, and watched as the austringers settled their frames beneath the shade. The hawks huddled disconsolately on their perches, sleepy in the heat. Around them the grooms sprawled, shading their eyes from the light that pierced the high branches of the Scots pines, chewing on their pasties. The air was heavy with the scent of pine needles and dry grass. The riders were upon them before anyone knew it. A party of a dozen or so, wearing the light arms of the Welsh, bows strung round their shoulders, their drawn blades glinting in the sun. Their leader drew to a halt before Matilda and Richard, the hooves of his sturdy pony dancing only inches from the edge of the white cloth on the grass. He saluted and sheathed his sword with a grave smile. Behind them their startled attendants stood helpless, guarded by drawn swords. ‘Henpych gwell, arglwyddes. Yd oedd gennwch y hela da? Balch iawn yw dy hebogeu.’ The man was swarthy. He had wavy hair and was dressed in glowing purple. ‘Greetings lady; has your hunting been good?’ he went on in flawless French. ‘I trust the sport of my mountains does me credit. I see your kill has been substantial.’ He nodded in the direction of the birds, which lay trussed for carrying beside one of the grooms. He eyed Matilda slowly, taking in the tall, slim figure with the bronze hair beneath the veil. ‘My Lady de Braose, if I’m not mistaken? I am Einion ap Einion Clud, Prince of Elfael.’ He bowed gravely in the saddle. ‘I was told you were in residence in Hay. May I ask when your husband is to join you there?’ His eyes, green as the sunlight in the moss below the waters of the brook, were suddenly amused. Matilda coloured violently. This man had seen them. She knew it without a doubt. He had seen them make love. A quick glance at Richard showed her that he still sat, unarmed, wine cup in hand, on his rock. The set of his lips and the dangerous gleam in his eyes were the only signs that he was angered by the interruption. ‘It was good of you to ride to greet us, Prince Einion,’ she said, keeping her voice steady with an iron effort of will. ‘My husband is at present in service with the King. May I ask what you want of him? Perhaps a message could be sent.’ Her face was haughty as she gazed at the man. The amusement in his face had gone. It was replaced by something hard and frightening. She refused to allow the suspicion of terror which gnawed suddenly at the back of her mind to show, as stubbornly she held his gaze. ‘It is a matter of a small debt, my lady. The kin of Seisyll of Gwent are unavenged. Do not think that the matter, of however little consequence, is forgotten.’ His voice was level and light in spite of the irony in his words. ‘Think about it, when you roam about my hills, and bid your men keep watch over their shoulders. I doubt if any of them would willingly lose a hand even in the defence of your gracious person.’ He bowed again, mocking. She swallowed, clenching her fists to stop her hands from shaking. The moor was uncannily silent for a moment then, suddenly, close by, came the harsh grating call of a corncrake. Einion’s horse threw up its head and whinnied. Instantly his mood seemed to change. He smiled a warm smile and raised his hand. ‘Good hunting, my lady,’ he murmured, inclining his head. ‘I trust your sport is as rewarding this afternoon! Farewell. Duw aroda it!’ He threw back his head and laughed, then with a wave of his arm he called his men to him and they turned as one and galloped up the hill in a cloud of dust and vanished over the skyline, leaving the moorlands empty. Richard sprang for his sword, which had been resting only feet from his hand against a rock. ‘My God, I thought we were done for.’ He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I’d heard that he had succeeded his father. He’s a firebrand, that young man. Out for trouble. I doubt if Rhys will keep him in check for long. He honours the blood feud, it seems.’ ‘The galanas they call it,’ Matilda replied softly. She gazed down into the swiftly running water for a moment. ‘He saw us, Richard. He saw us making love.’ Richard glanced at her, his face grim. ‘Come, I’ll take you back. Mount up. We return to Hay at once.’ He flung instructions over his shoulders at the frightened huddle of followers who waited beneath the trees. ‘It appears that you are not included in his particular feud,’ he said quietly, eyeing her gravely as a groom ran up with their horses. ‘I was there when Seisyll died, but I knew nothing of William’s plans,’ she said wearily. ‘A Welsh boy guided me over the hill to Tretower. He said they had no quarrel with me then, but …’ She shivered. ‘Richard, you heard what he said about the hands. It must have been his men who brought that dreadful burden to Gloucester.’ He shrugged. ‘As likely one as another. They are all related, these Welsh princes. They all remember the blood feud when it suits them.’ He helped her into the saddle, and then swung himself onto his own horse. ‘But it’s a warning. Peace there may be, officially, but never again should you venture into these hills without a full escort. Remember that.’ They rode swiftly and uneasily back across the moor through the bracken and the woods into the village of Clyro and down across the low hill towards the ford, the lazy good humour of the morning completely gone. The heat haze had again obscured the mountains and a heavy thundery cloud mass was building up beyond the closer hills. Matilda rode into the outer ward of Hay Castle with relief. She slid from her horse, ignoring Richard, who had sprung forward to help her, and ran towards the children’s lodging. A terrible thought had come to her as they rode home. The children. William’s children for Seisyll’s. Would that be a fair exchange? The elder little boy was playing in the dust with two companions at Jeanne’s feet. ‘Is Will all right?’ It was many months since she had felt that terrible throat-constricting fear for her eldest son. ‘Of course my lady, why not?’ The old woman looked up with a peaceful smile. Matilda gave a sigh of relief. She might be spared from the galanas as Gwladys, Seisyll’s wife, had been spared. But two of Seisyll’s children had died and she knew the Welsh would be scrupulous in their revenge. She heard Richard’s quick step behind her. ‘What is it? Is anything wrong?’ ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘They’re fine.’ She smiled at him. ‘A foolish mother’s sudden fears, that is all.’ She fell to her knees and hugged Will close to her, feeling the softness of his hair against her mouth. The little boy wriggled free almost at once and staggered a few steps away from her before sitting down and running the dust once more delightedly through his fingers. Matilda looked up smiling. Her smile faded as she noticed Jeanne’s calculating eye on Richard. The old woman’s face had contracted into a passive mask and Matilda recognised suspicion and hatred in her eyes. Abruptly she remembered the strange events of the night before. She had been inclined to dismiss them that morning as a dream. But it had not been a dream at all. It had been Jeanne. She sighed. If the magic the old woman had woven was a spell to prevent her mistress feeling the pangs of love for this tall, handsome man, it hadn’t worked, she thought sadly. For once, Jeanne my old friend, your magic is not strong enough to save me. She picked herself up wearily from the dust and, shaking out her pale green skirts, she turned and walked towards her own lodgings, leaving Richard standing in the sun. Behind her she could hear a voice calling suddenly. She stopped and hesitated, wanting to turn, but she was afraid that if she looked at Richard he would follow her inside. The voice was insistent. Someone was running after her. She felt a hand touch her shoulder and heard the soft lilt of a Welsh voice calling her … ‘Are you all right? Come on there, wake up, my lovely. Come on.’ The voice swam up again out of the shadows then receded. ‘You’d best go and find a doctor, Alan.’ Someone was bending over her. Jo opened her eyes slowly. She was lying on the shingle near the river. With an exclamation of fright she sat up, her head swimming. The afternoon had gone. The sun was setting in a sea of golden cloud and two complete strangers were kneeling beside her at the river’s edge. 21 (#ulink_48ff112b-2d7b-5e57-9a01-09cc48214c99) The blank canvas beckoned. Judy was standing in front of it, eating a hunk of cheese, the structure of the painting floating in her head, ready to be trapped and laid on the naked background. She had changed her position slightly, studying the fall of light, when something distracted her and she turned towards the door of the studio, frowning. There was someone standing on the landing outside, their weight on the creaky board. ‘Who is it?’ she called. She put the last piece of cheese into her mouth and wiped her fingers on the seat of her jeans. There was no reply. Frowning, she moved towards the door. ‘Is there someone there?’ she said. She pulled it open, irritated at the interruption. Nick was standing, looking out of the high landing window at the sloping rooftops of the house backs. He turned slowly and looked at her without a word. ‘Well? What the hell do you want?’ Judy glared at him. ‘I thought I would see if you had got back from France safely,’ he said. He did not smile at her. ‘As you see, I did.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Judy –’ He came towards her suddenly. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you like that. It was a lousy thing to do after you had come out to join me. We’d had a good time.’ ‘Until someone mentioned Joanna.’ Judy stood by the door, holding it open as he walked past her into the studio. ‘How is Jo?’ Nick shrugged. ‘She’s gone off somewhere. Is this going to be the new painting?’ He was standing in front of the blank canvas. ‘No. It’s going to be a sculpture in bronze.’ Her voice was sharp with sarcasm. ‘So, Jo is missing and you decided to visit the first reserve. Dear old unfussy Judy, always there to pat your head and make a man of you again.’ She was still standing by the door. ‘I’m sorry, Nick, but I’d like you to leave.’ He walked back towards her. ‘Can I have a drink first?’ There was a new harshness in his voice as abruptly he pulled her hand from the door latch and hurled the door shut. ‘A drink, Judy.’ She took a step back in astonishment. ‘All right! Steady. How much have you had already?’ ‘Nothing. I’ve been in the office all morning trying to sort out the balls-up Jim Greerson’s made of our best account and I’m going back there this afternoon. This visit –’ he waved his arm around the studio ‘– is lunch.’ ‘Then I’ll get you some food.’ ‘I said, a drink.’ His eyes were hard. ‘OK. A drink.’ Judy was staring at him as she groped behind her in a cupboard and found a whisky bottle. ‘I’ll fetch some glasses.’ ‘Do that.’ Nick had not moved. He was looking at the blank canvas with the same intensity he would normally have given to a painting. His head ached and he knew he was tense and irritable, and that it had been a mistake to come. He wasn’t sure why he had. His desire for Judy had gone and yet he had found himself hailing a taxi and giving her address automatically, compelled by a need to be with her which he could not define or understand. ‘So what’s wrong? Apart from the office, I mean?’ Judy poured half an inch into the glass and handed it to him. He drank it quickly and held it out to her again. As she was pouring he caught her wrist, forcing her to slop the whisky until the glass was almost full. ‘You clumsy idiot. Look what you’ve done!’ she yelled. ‘Shut up, Judy,’ he said, bored. ‘One tumblerful is the same as the sum of all the prissy little doses you’re going to give me one by one.’ ‘I am not going to hand you little doses one by one. If you drink that lot on an empty stomach you’ll be flat on your back!’ ‘Fine. With you in my arms?’ ‘No!’ She took the glass out of his hand and put it down with a bang on the table. ‘Please leave now, Nick.’ ‘Oh, come on!’ ‘I mean it.’ Her eyes were cold with anger. ‘Please get out of here. Go back to your office and sort out your problems there, not in my studio.’ She pulled the door open and stood by it. ‘I mean it!’ For a moment he hesitated, then he picked up the whisky glass, took a couple of gulps from it, put it down and strode past her to the door. ‘I thought you wanted me back,’ he said softly as he stood for a moment looking down at her. ‘Out, Nick,’ she repeated stonily. He shrugged, then, with a strangely grating laugh, he walked past her and out onto the landing. She slammed the door. For a moment she listened to the sound of his footsteps running down the long flights of stairs, then she turned back into the studio. ‘Oh yes, I want you back, Nick Franklyn,’ she said to herself softly. ‘But on my terms. Not yours.’ Picking up his glass, she began to pour the whisky carefully back into the bottle. Alan and Shirley Peters had motored up to the Welsh border from Cardiff that morning. ‘We love this part of the country, see.’ Shirley had a firm grip on Jo’s arm. ‘Mind the pebbles here, they’re that uneven. Are you feeling better now?’ She had Jo’s bag over her shoulder. On Jo’s other side her tall, taciturn husband was holding her elbow as though he were afraid she would try to escape. ‘It gave me a real turn, it did, seeing you lying there near the water,’ she rushed on. ‘We saw you earlier from the bridge, see. “There’s a mermaid, cast up on the strand,” Alan said, didn’t you my lovely? And then when we came back two hours later you hadn’t moved, so we thought, there’s something wrong. You couldn’t be asleep, you looked so uncomfortable, you did, with your head on the stones – and your eyes were open. Quite normal they looked, but we couldn’t make you hear. “She’s epileptic, she is,” Alan said, didn’t you my lovely?’ Jo smiled shakily as the woman paused for breath. ‘I’m all right, really. It’s good of you to help me, but I can manage. My car is up there, by the castle.’ ‘Car?’ Shirley let out a shriek. ‘You can’t drive a car! It wouldn’t be safe! Where are you staying? We’ll take you there.’ Jo shrugged. ‘I hadn’t found anywhere. I thought I’d look for an hotel or something, but then I must have fallen asleep in the sun …’ She was still confused, dazed by the sudden transition from past to present without the intermediary of Carl Bennet’s gentle voice. Shakily she put her hand to her head. ‘Well, there now, that’s your problem solved then. We’ll take you back with us to Margiad’s house. That’s where we stay, down by the church. Bed and breakfast she does, and she’s a nice kind soul. She’ll see you get to a doctor if you’re still poorly tomorrow, see?’ Swept on in the tide of their concern Jo allowed herself to be fitted into the back of a small red Volkswagen and driven the few hundred yards to Margiad Griffiths’s guest house. There, amid much fuss, she was shown a spotless little room with a mansard window overlooking the high common beyond the river and told to lie down whilst her landlady brought her a cup of tea. She lay back gratefully on the pink nylon sheets and gave a deep sigh. She was exhausted. She had been so tired and confused she had not even waited to see if Richard had seen where she went to – She sat up, feeling suddenly very sick. Richard de Clare did not exist. There was a knock on the door and Mrs Griffiths appeared carrying a tray. She was a small, plump woman with pepper-and-salt hair and a soft pink complexion which complemented faded blue eyes. Once she must have been very pretty. ‘They’ve gone out again, you’ll be glad to hear,’ she said gently. ‘Talk the hind leg off a donkey, that Shirley would, and no mistake. How are you, my dear?’ She put the tray down beside the bed. Jo forced herself to smile. ‘I’m fine – just very tired. I had such a strange dream by the river. It made me feel so odd –’ To her embarrassment she knew suddenly that she was near to tears. Mrs Griffiths gave her a close look, then with innate tact she turned away, delving into her pocket. ‘I’ve some aspirin here if you need them and the bathroom is across the hall,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you have a hot bath and pop into bed for a while? I can give you some supper later. Shirley said your car was up by the castle. She said her Alan would fetch your things if you liked.’ Jo smiled. ‘Would he really?’ She stood up shakily and felt in the pocket of her jeans for the car keys. ‘It’s a blue MG, by the War Memorial. I’d be so grateful –’ Mrs Griffiths took the keys and dropped them into her apron. ‘I’ll run downstairs and find you a spare nightdress for now, shall I?’ And she was gone. Jo sat back on the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Then, wearily, she lay back on the pillow. Her last thought as she drifted into sleep was of little Will. As he played in the dirt of the castle bailey he had fallen on the ground and grazed his knees. She had to see that someone cleaned them properly and smeared on some antiseptic; the whole place was so filthy … She awoke next morning to the smell of frying bacon. Puzzled, she lay staring around her room, looking at the pink chintz curtains blowing at the open window and the pink drapes of an unfamiliar dressing table. Her mind was fuddled with sleep. Slowly she pulled herself into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. She was still fully dressed. Someone had put a tartan blanket over her while she slept. Her bag and typewriter stood on the floor by the door and she could see her car keys on the dressing table. It was all coming back to her. Sitting by the River Wye, looking up at the broken silhouette of the castle, she had somehow gone into a regression; on her own, and without wanting to, she had slipped back to the time of Matilda and for two or three hours had lain on the white shingle in a trance, oblivious of the world around her. She hugged her knees with a shiver, wishing suddenly that Nick was there. Then she put her head in her hands. Had she even forgotten that? That she could never see Nick again? She bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears. Nick and she were finished and Richard was far away beyond her reach. She was alone. Standing up shakily, she glanced at her watch. It was ten past nine. She went to the window and stared out at the low hills beyond the trees. It was somewhere up there that she and Richard had ridden with their hawks. She found she was clenching her fists violently, suddenly overcome by fear. Was it her need to see Richard that had made her regress alone and unprompted, or was it something else? Was Matilda beginning to take her over? She took a deep breath. She had been mad to come to Wales, mad to think she could handle this alone. She did need Carl Bennet’s help. He had started all this off and somehow he had to help her to get free of it again. She had to go back to him, had to persuade him to try again to make her forget, and as soon as possible. Margiad Griffiths was in the kitchen when Jo, showered and in a fresh dark-blue cotton dress, went down. She turned from the cooker and smiled. ‘Better, are you?’ she said. ‘I’ve just made some coffee, or would you prefer tea?’ ‘I’d love some coffee, please.’ Jo sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I didn’t realise I was so tired. I am sorry, I’ve put you to a lot of trouble.’ ‘Not at all.’ Margiad reached down two earthenware cups from the dresser. ‘The Peters have gone, though. Sorry not to see you again, they were. They sent their best wishes.’ ‘I wish I could have thanked them. I still don’t know quite what happened to me by the river yesterday.’ ‘Exhaustion, I expect.’ Margiad poured the coffee. ‘I usually put my guests at the tables in the sitting room, through here, if you’d rather …’ Jo grimaced. ‘No, I’d rather stay here if I may. I expect all your other guests went out ages ago, it’s so late.’ Shrugging, Margiad passed her a bowl of sugar. ‘I’ve only the three rooms. The Peters had one, and there was a nice young teacher in the other. Walking Offa’s Dyke, he was, but he stopped here for the books. Everyone comes to Hay for the books.’ Jo smiled. ‘I was here doing some research into the history of the town.’ The coffee was strong and fragrant. She could feel the heat of it seeping into her veins. ‘Oh, it’s an old town. The castle’s very ancient. That’s Richard Booth’s now, of course. Did you see it?’ Jo shrugged. ‘I’m more interested at the moment in the old castle. The first one. It was near the church.’ ‘Down here?’ Margiad stared at her. ‘Well now. I never knew that! Fancy there being another castle. You’ll be off to see it later, I suppose?’ Jo sighed regretfully. ‘I can’t today. I’ve got to go back to London.’ She stared down with some distaste as Margiad put a plate of eggs and bacon down on the table in front of her. ‘I didn’t realise that was for me –’ ‘Go on, girl. Eat it up while I make you some toast. You could do with some good solid food in you.’ Margiad was watching her carefully while behind her the frying pan sputtered gently on the stove. ‘Will you be coming back this way then, or have you finished all your research?’ Jo picked up the knife and fork. She cut into the top of the egg and watched the yolk flow across the plate. ‘I don’t know,’ she said after a moment. ‘I think it’s a case of whether it has finished with me.’ Her walk back towards the town took her past the site of the old castle. All that remained was the motte, grass-covered and sown with wild flowers. There was no sign of the wooden keep or the bailey which she remembered, nor of the thick hedge. She stood and stared for a moment, half afraid that something would happen, but there were no ghosts, no shadows, just a cheerful black and white collie who loped across the grass, cocked its leg against the wall, and disappeared into the trees near the church. It was market day and she stared in confusion at the clustered colourful stalls which had appeared around her car overnight, wondering how on earth she was going to move it. Catching the eye of the woman selling farm produce from the stall beside the MG she shrugged and grinned apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it would be market day. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, so I left the car here.’ The woman grinned back. ‘So. It’s not something you’ll do again, is it?’ she said cheerfully, and she turned away. Jo stuck out her tongue at the woman’s back. She threw her cases into the car and climbed into the driving seat. It would take some careful manoeuvring to extricate herself from the crowded, noisy square. Slowly, she wound down the window, and leaned forward to insert her key into the ignition. In front of her the castle walls rose high and grey against the brilliant blue of the sky. When had it been built? she wondered idly as she turned on the engine. Would she ever know now? Her eyes traversed the high walls with the empty gaping spaces where the stone arches of the windows had fallen. In one of them a white dove was bobbing to and fro in the sunlight, its throat puffed into a snowy lace cravat as it cooed. Without knowing why she found herself staring at it with total concentration as behind her the noise of the market died away. She shivered. The silence was uncanny in the midst of so many people. Uncanny and suddenly frightening. William arrived unannounced one blustery autumn night. He appeared with his men and horses, exhausted, mud-splashed and wet with rain, before the gates of Hay, angrily demanding entrance to the castle. ‘The ford will soon be too deep to cross,’ he growled as his wife came forward to greet him. ‘By Christ’s bones, I’m glad to be here safe and sound. It’s not the weather for travelling.’ He unclasped the brooch which held his cloak and flung the soaked garment to the floor. ‘How is the hunting, my lady?’ His ruddy cheeks were a shade more deeply lined, she thought, and his paunch a trifle more pronounced, but he looked as fit and well as ever. ‘Will we kill tomorrow?’ She laughed. ‘So short a rest, my lord? Yes, the hunting’s good. But we have been warned out of Elfael.’ She scrutinised his face closely. ‘Old feuds are remembered by the new Prince.’ William threw back his head and laughed. ‘Are they indeed? Well, I’ve plans for that young man and his territory.’ He threw a boisterous arm round Matilda’s shoulder, pulling her down to plant a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘He splits my lands in two, does our Einion. If I held Elfael, I’d hold the middle March from Radnor to Abergavenny. But let be for now. King Henry wants peace with Rhys ap Gruffydd at present. I’m content to bide my time. There are more amusing things to do in winter than plan a mad campaign. Like hunting and bedding my beautiful wife.’ He laughed again. He was true to his word. By Yule the larders were hung with boar and venison, and Matilda knew herself to be pregnant once more. But it was not with William’s child. Her monthly courses had stopped before William came back to her bed. Gritting her teeth in disgust and pain she allowed him to maul her night after night, praying he would never suspect the truth. That Jeanne had guessed she was certain, but the old woman kept an enigmatic silence on the subject of her lady’s prematurely swelling belly. Of Richard she stubbornly allowed herself to think not at all. News had come that he was on his way to Ireland, and after that nothing. Jeanne watched over her now with increasingly jealous care as the time passed, fending off even the faithful Elen, who had drawn apart, resentful and hurt, spitefully hinting that the old woman was a witch. Matilda was sure of it, and one day, bored with being kept indoors by the weather, she sought Jeanne out in the walled herb garden. ‘Teach me some of your art, Jeanne,’ she whispered, as she caught the old woman, muffled in a fur cloak, scraping snow into a bowl with a muttered incantation. Jeanne jumped guiltily, then she turned, a crafty smile on her lips. She had lost the last of her front teeth and it gave her an expression of cunning. Matilda caught her breath at the sight, but she steadied herself and smiled, excited. ‘I should like to know. Please tell me some spells.’ Jeanne’s eyes shifted sideways. ‘I know no spells, Lady Matilda. ’Tis healing I practise, that’s all, with herbs and prayers. Those I’ll teach you gladly.’ Matilda nodded. ‘And I would gladly learn them, but the other things, Jeanne –’ She looked the old woman in the eye. ‘What was it you whispered over my bed the night Lord Clare came to Hay?’ Clutching her fists in her skirts she was suddenly afraid as she waited for the answer. Jeanne did not move for a moment, then slowly the hooded eyes fell to gaze at Matilda’s stomach. ‘My power was not strong enough to save you,’ she murmured. ‘Now it is too late. Events are already in train. I can do nothing.’ Matilda shivered. ‘There is nothing to do, Jeanne. My husband will never guess,’ she whispered. ‘We were discreet. We were never alone together again.’ Jeanne shrugged. ‘The truth has a way of finding daylight, ma p’tite. One day Sir William will know. One day Lord Clare must pay the price.’ ‘No!’ Matilda clutched her arm. ‘No, I don’t believe you. How could William find out? No one knows. No one. You would not tell him –’ Jeanne shook her head. ‘Not me, ma p’tite, nor the Prince of the Welsh who saw you in Lord Clare’s arms –’ She ignored the look of terror which crossed Matilda’s face as she hobbled stiffly away from her, pulling her furs more closely around her. ‘It is the child herself who will betray your secret. I have seen it in my dreams. And all for nothing!’ She turned suddenly, spitting with vehemence. ‘Lord Clare is not for you, Matilda! You belong to another!’ She spread her knotted hands expressively then she shook her head. Matilda shuddered. ‘I know,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sighing of the wind. Snowflakes were beginning to drift down out of the sky, catching in the women’s furs. Jeanne pursed her lips over her toothless gums. ‘You don’t know, ma p’tite,’ she said softly, ‘and I pray that I have seen falsely and you never will. It is not your husband I have seen.’ ‘Not my husband?’ Matilda echoed. ‘Who then?’ She ran after Jeanne, clutching at her arm. ‘What have you seen? Tell me!’ Jeanne stopped. ‘I saw a king,’ she whispered, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder. ‘He is your destiny. And I shall not be there to save you.’ Matilda stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’ Her mouth had gone dry with fear. ‘You must tell me!’ She almost shook the old woman in her impatience. ‘Tell me!’ But Jeanne shook her head, holding her finger to her lips. ‘Perhaps, one day, ma p’tite,’ was all she would say, and no matter how hard Matilda tried to persuade her she would not speak of the matter again. But she did take her mistress to her still room, and there she showed her the dried herbs and flowers, salves and creams she kept locked in a chest. There were also stones, and branches of aromatic trees from faraway lands, and scraps of parchment covered with strange symbols. Those Jeanne whisked out of sight beneath a napkin, and when Matilda went again to look in the chest, they had gone. She had to be content with the arts Jeanne showed her, the simple spell of words to induce sleep in a fretful child, the way to consult the stars about the humours of the body, and how to prepare feverfew and gromel for when the labour pains came on her in the summer. But always, she refused to speak more of what she had seen in her dreams. Matilda was sitting one evening, listening idly to the singing of a wandering minstrel who had floundered in out of the snowdrifts, his gitterne swathed in rags slung across his back, when she saw William poring over some parchments on the table, his forehead wrinkled with the effort of reading the close writing in the flickering light of the streaming candles. Outside the wind roared up the broad Wye valley, slamming against the walls, and rattling the loose wooden shutters. Once she thought she heard the howl of a wolf and she shivered. He looked up at her suddenly, grinning. ‘A good haul, today, my dear, eh?’ He rubbed his leg, stiff from the saddle, and stood up slowly, coming to stand close to her chair. ‘There’s some of the best hunting I know round here and I like the Hay. I’ll be pleased when we have a more solid keep here, though. What do you say? Shall we pull it down and build in stone? That would make you feel safer, wouldn’t it?’ He looked up at her, cocking an eyebrow, then he reached for one of the parchments on the table. ‘I’ve been working out the moneys with Madoc and Bernard. The tithes are good, but the area should be better defended.’ He stabbed at the parchment with a grimy finger. ‘We’re strategically placed here. I should make better use of the position. The Welsh may be quiet at the moment, but one never knows when they’re going to plan a surprise attack. We could never hold them off here for long, and we have been as good as warned by your friend Einion.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. An extra blast of wind whistled through the shutters and one of the candles blew out, scattering wax over the table. William swore quietly as a page ran to the fire for a brand to relight it and he lowered his voice suddenly. ‘There is plenty of labour and it would be a good jumping-off place should one ever have plans to move into Elfael.’ He looked at her and raised his eyebrow again. ‘Well, woman, what do you say to the idea?’ She smiled. ‘It seems good. I won’t deny I’d feel safer with a sound stone keep if we must stay at Hay.’ He nodded. ‘We’ll return to Brecknock for a while, then you can come back to supervise the building when I rejoin the King in the spring. Give you something to do, eh, while you’re waiting to spawn that brat?’ He laughed loudly and turned to pour himself more wine. And so it was at Hay that Richard’s daughter Matilda was born, on a cool, crystal clear, midsummer night, bright with stars which seemed to have been borrowed from the frosts of winter. Jeanne delivered the child, a flaxen-haired scrap, then laid the offerings on the hearth. The baby was tiny – more like a seven-month child than either of Matilda’s lusty full-term boys – and William accepted her as such without a word of doubt, crossing himself as he caught sight of Jeanne muttering protective spells above the cradle, hastily turning away to his horses and his falcons. Alone again but for Jeanne, Matilda held out her arms for the child and took her, staring down at the delicate, perfect features. She had expected to feel an especial love for this child of her love. She felt nothing at all. ‘Are you all right?’ The woman from the produce stall had reached tentatively into the car to shake Jo by the shoulder. Jo clutched the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The car engine was idling quietly as the sun beat down through the windscreen onto her face. She rested her forehead on the rim of the wheel for a moment, feeling suddenly sick and cold. ‘Are you all right?’ the woman repeated. ‘You’ve been sitting there for ages. I couldn’t make you hear me –’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Jo looked up with an effort. ‘I think I must have fallen asleep –’ The woman looked sceptical. ‘You were staring up at the castle as if you were in a trance.’ Taking a deep breath Jo forced herself to laugh. ‘Maybe I was at that. I’m sorry, and I’m parked in your way, too. If you could help to see me out –’ ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ The woman did not look convinced as she straightened and stepped back from the car. ‘Quite sure,’ Jo said firmly. ‘Quite, quite sure.’ This Thursday was the third time she had been up to London in under a month, Dorothy Franklyn realised suddenly. She felt very tired. Nick ordered sandwiches and coffee for them both in his office. ‘I’m sorry, Ma, but as you see I’m up to my eyes here today … I’ll get you a slap-up lunch next time you come up to town, I promise.’ He smiled at her fondly. ‘Now, what can I do for you? Your call sounded urgent.’ He had been looking at her with some concern since Jane had shown her up to his office. Her face was drawn and she seemed suddenly old and frail as she drew off her gloves. She sat down on the low sofa which stood against one wall of the room beneath a colourful display of some of Franklyn-Greerson’s artwork. ‘I want to talk to you about Sam,’ she said without preamble. Nick closed the office door carefully and leaned against it. ‘What about Sam?’ he asked. ‘How do you think he is?’ ‘Fine. Sam has never been ill in his life as you well know.’ ‘I don’t mean physically, Nick.’ She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag. ‘Then what do you mean exactly?’ Eyebrows raised, Nick sat down beside her and reached for one of her hands. ‘What is this all about?’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/barbara-erskine/barbara-erskine-3-book-collection-lady-of-hay-time-s-legac/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.