Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  “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 that 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 this water, Elen?”

  “It’s Afon Llynfi, madam, and the Lake of Llangorse that 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 trailed 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 that 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 draft 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 that 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 hysteri
cally. “And this is an offense great enough to cause the mountain waters to change their color?” 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 for her to get herself under control again. Then she turned back to him. “Have you told Sir William of this dream?” she inquired 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 that 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 color, 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, after catching sight of Jo sitting on the sofa, 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 toward 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 realize 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. Please let me stay. 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 rumbling 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 agonized 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 that 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 even 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 around 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, bloodstained hair. But as she looked the child’s face grew hazy and blackened. She watched paralyzed 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. After 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 before her then a deep roaring filled her ears, cutting out all the other sounds, and slowly, helplessly, she slipped to the floor.