Читать книгу Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time - Barbara Erskine - Страница 31

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?’