“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. She picked up the cup and 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 campfire outside. It paused and then moved silently toward 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 around 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 that burned before the portable prie-dieu, examined it more closely. The material was tied with a leather thong.
Curious, she pulled at the knot, working at the tight leather until it came free. She unwrapped the sacking, then pulled out another bundle of cloth. It was multicolored, in the flickering light half gray, 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 that had soaked through it, dyeing it into a gaudy, cheerful mockery of color. 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 that 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.
18
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 recovery room. You’ve been asleep.”
“Asleep? I thought…I thought he was going to hypnotize 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?”
***
It was ten past five before Nick finally paid off the taxi and followed Jo upstairs to her apartment. 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. It was strange how few of the balconies had flowers. In Germany or Switzerland they would all be a riot of tumbling color, 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 that 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 has turned down our presentation out of hand and is threatening to go over to the opposition. God damn 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 okay 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 can 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 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 screwed 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 posthypnotic 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 realized 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 and 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 anymore.
“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 whispered 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 head 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 around 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 around 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 trailed 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 Willi
am 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 realized 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 realization 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. After 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 anymore. 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 coffeepot. “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.”
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