Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  The approach from Talgarth was along the foot of the small foothills that hid the huge shoulders of Pen y Beacon and Twmpa—the Black Mountains that 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 that was the castle. As she drew 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, while at the right-hand end of the edifice was a portion that looked far more recent and appeared to be in the midst of rebuilding and restoration. That part looked as if it might have been recently inhabited. She climbed out of the car feeling strangely disoriented; this time yesterday she had been standing in the London apartment, phoning Janet Pugh. Now she was standing within a stone’s throw of the building Matilda had built. She took a deep breath and made herself turn away toward the crowded streets behind her. First she must find a guidebook.

  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 gray 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 toward 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 that 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 crowfoot that the water was almost hidden. She stood for a moment staring down at the river as it rippled swiftly eastward toward Herefordshire, pouring over the smoothed, sculpted boulders and rocks through flat water meadows 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 as she watched the water. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of jeweled colors and recognized 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 center 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 realized 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 that occasionally fanned the travelers’ 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 stones. 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 silvery shallows. Before them lay the small township of Hay. It clustered around the church of St. Mary and the neighboring wooden castle on its mound securely surrounded by a thick high hawthorn hedge, trailing with honeysuckle and brambles. Outside the hedge the small fields, red-gold with brittle wheat, showed up in the heavy green of the encroaching forest. Somewhere nearby were the black brooding mountains, but they had withdrawn beneath a haze that 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 toward 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 around 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 clubfoot, which dragged horribly as he tried to keep up with his friends.

  “Lady Matilda, you are welcome to the Hay.” The steward hastened forward as she slipped from the saddle 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. With the rein over her arm, she picked her way over the dry turf, rank with thistles, and made her way excitedly toward 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 stairs that 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, wagons, 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 toward the stables and lodgings around the inside of the high wall. Matilda stood unnoticing in the middle of them all, smiling, watching as Richard toweled 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 traveling 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 that might appeal.” He looked down at the rushes for a moment. When he looked up she could see that the color in his cheeks had risen a little. He caught her eye and for a moment, as they stood together in the center 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.” He took her hand and 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 and listened 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 that 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 her 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 were 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 around 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 pale 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 Pen y Beacon, which rose sharp as a knife against the sky, back across the shallow Wye, this time turning north toward the meadows that bounded Clyro Hill; the grooms and austringers with the precious hawks, Richard’s chief falconer—some dozen horsemen altogether—clattered 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 it plunged into the dry woods that 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. After 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.