“I may.” He pushed away his glass. The drink was barely touched. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He stood up. Gently he put his hand on Bet’s wrist as she toyed with the stem of her glass. “I nearly killed Jo the other night. Did she tell you that, Ms. Gunning? We weren’t playing your sophisticated games. She wasn’t enjoying what I did to her, but she had mocked me. She slept around, then taunted me with what she had done. She’s playing a dangerous game. So if you see her before I do, you had better warn her of the fact.” He turned toward the door, then he stopped and looked back at her. “Did she tell you she had been playing the field?”
Bet shook her head. “She hasn’t, Nick, I’m sure—”
“You’re sure?” He took a step back toward her. “You’ve sent her off with Tim Heacham, knowing he’d give his right arm to sleep with her.”
Bet kept a tight rein on her anger. “Jo doesn’t sleep around and you know it.”
“She told me about it, Bet.” He gave her a look of withering contempt. “She bragged about it.”
Bet stared at him. “Who is it?” she whispered.
His knuckles went white as he clenched his fists. “Richard,” he said softly. “His name is Richard.”
She stared after him as he turned away out of the gilded swinging doors. Already the seat next to hers had been taken and someone was hovering waiting for hers. “Richard?” she repeated in a whisper. “Christ Almighty, Nick! Richard is a ghost!”
She took a cab back to the office, paying the driver with shaking hands, then she caught the elevator up to her office, not even hearing the cheerful banter of one of her colleagues as he got in beside her.
In her office she slammed the door and reached for the phone. The number Jo had given her was scribbled in the back of her address binder.
She bit her lip as the phone rang, hitching herself up onto the desk. “Mrs. Griffiths?” she said at last as the number was answered. “Please, I must speak to Miss Clifford. Is she there?”
“I’m sorry. She and the gentleman have left.” The Welsh voice rang out loud and clear in the quiet office. “Going on to Raglan, they were.”
“Raglan?” After putting down the receiver, Bet stared at it blankly. “Dear God, I hope it’s a long way away.”
She stood up and walked across to the window, gnawing her thumbnail as she stared down at the broad glitter of the Thames. In spite of the heat of the afternoon she was feeling very cold.
***
Tim was gazing up at the massive gray ruins of Raglan Castle. “I’m glad your friend Pugh told us to come here,” he said in awe. “It’s magnificent.” Then he glanced at her sideways. “But you don’t have to tell me. It’s not your castle.”
Jo laughed softly. “It was too long ago, Tim. Of course everything has changed. Let’s stay out here on the grass—just for now.”
He looked longingly over his shoulder at the castle. “Why don’t I go away? I could leave you to it, while I explore.”
She nodded. “Good idea.”
He looked down at her fondly as she knelt on the mossy grass, then, camera in hand, he turned away and strode up the steep bank toward the enormous walls.
Jo closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking slightly as she tried deliberately to empty her mind. The castle grounds were silent. The air was heavy, the sky soft with deep black cloud. It was very hot. She forced her eyes open slowly, staring down at the grass, feeling the heat and her exhaustion overtake her, suddenly fighting sleep.
Tim was coming back. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him walking toward her, tall, loose-limbed. She frowned. It was too soon; it should have taken him hours to go around the castle and she wasn’t ready. Behind him she saw a flicker of lightning dance for a moment behind the majestic walls of the castle, lighting up the windows as though candles still burned there against the black of the sky. Then she heard the music of a harp.
24
Matilda was standing resting her hand on the stones of the new high wall of Radnor Castle. It seemed strange that she could look out at the Welsh tents all around the castle, a sight she dreamed of with dread for so long, and yet know them to be friends. The red prancing lion flag of Prince Rhys flew gaily in the cold wind near them, as she looked down at her small daughter, who stood shivering at her side, her fur-lined mantle whipped open by the wind.
“Well.” She smiled. “To think my little girl is to be a princess.”
Tilly uncharacteristically groped for her mother’s hand, giving rather than seeking comfort. “I like Lord Rhys. He sent me a necklace of crystals.” The child gazed out toward the tents and pavilions encamped around them in the valley, her eyes shining. “And I’m to have a white pony with scarlet harness and John Spang, the prince’s fool, has promised me two puppies from his own bitch. I like him.”
Matilda was staring at the heavy cloud that hung over the encircling mountains, her heart heavy as Tilly prattled on. Then she stooped and kissed the top of her little girl’s head. “You’ll be happy in your new home, Tilda. Lord Rhys will be a kind father.” Her voice broke at the word, and she fiercely blinked back her tears, turning her face away.
“Can I go and play with ’Sbel and Margaret now?” The child was itching to run off, uncomfortable as she sensed her mother’s tightly controlled misery, not understanding.
Matilda forced herself to smile. “Of course, darling. Run along. I’ll come and kiss you good night later.”
She did not let herself watch the small head as it darted from her side and ran down the stairs inside the thick wall. Instead she turned back to watching the bleak hills beneath the threatening sky.
It was not until very late that she took a candle and climbed slowly, her heavy blue kirtle gathered in her hand, to the little girls’ bedroom high beneath the stone roof of the main keep. Tilly was already asleep, worn out with excitement, in the big bed that she shared with her sisters. Matilda tiptoed toward the bed and saw Eleanor, the children’s nurse, sitting in the shadows beside the dying fire. The girl was sobbing quietly into her apron.
Matilda stopped, her heart beating fast. “What is it, girl? Why are you crying?” Her voice was sharper than she intended.
Eleanor jumped and raised a reddened face from her lap. “Oh, my lady!” She screwed up her kerchief and rubbed her eyes with it. “My lady. I don’t want to leave you all and go to them heathens.” She hugged herself as the tears began to fall again.
Matilda felt her heart sink, the tears rising unbidden behind her own lids. She swallowed hard. “Don’t talk such nonsense, Eleanor. Rhys is a good Christian prince. And he is a kind man. I should never let a child of mine go to him otherwise.” She dropped her voice suddenly. “I hope you didn’t let Tilda see you cry like that.”
“Of course not, my lady.” Eleanor sniffed indignantly. “I would never let her, she’s so happy about going.” She dissolved into tears again.
Matilda crossed to the bed, looking at the three sleeping heads: Tilda serene and pale; Margaret with her shock of copper hair tossed on the pillow, so like her mother in miniature; and little frail Isobel, no more than a baby, so happy to be promoted to her sisters’ bed, not realizing she had come so that Margaret should not suddenly be alone. Margaret had her arm protectively around the little girl’s shoulders. But Tilly slept apart, her back to the others. Matilda wondered if she even realized that tomorrow she was to leave them. She sank slowly to her knees beside the bed, swallowing hard, and, crossing herself quietly, she began to pray, suppressing the sudden treacherous thought that far away in Deheubarth Tilly would be able to betray neither her mother nor her true father.
***
The wedding ceremonies were over and the feast had already lasted an age. Matilda looked anxiously at her little daughter sitting in the place of honor next to her husband. Gruffydd was a good-looking young man, rather florid, with tightly curling golden hair. He drank often and deeply and ate hungrily from the platter he shared with his new wife. Tilly had touched almost not
hing. She looked around her with unnaturally brilliant eyes, a deep flush on her usually pallid cheeks. The crystals at her throat gleamed and reflected from the candelabra on the table and the pure gold band in her hair glowed on the silk veil. She looked, among the solid men and robust women at the high table, like a delicate little fairy. Matilda eyed the Princess Gwenllian, Gruffydd’s mother, a raw-boned woman with eyes rather too close together over the high-bridged nose, with unease. But she saw the woman lean over and pat Tilda kindly on the shoulder, her eyes smiling, and she felt a little reassured.
The wedding celebrations continued for several days, and then at last came the morning when the Welsh party began to pack their tents and shelters. Matilda and William in Rhys’s great pavilion gravely kissed their solemn little daughter and her tall groom and watched as with Prince Rhys and his glittering throng of followers they mounted and prepared for the ride to Rhys’s palace of Llandovery in Cantref Bychan.
“So that seals the peace as long as King Henry lives, at least,” William commented tersely as they rode away.
Matilda turned to him, her heart growing suddenly cold at his tone. “And if the king should die, what then?”
William shrugged. “Who knows? We’ll pray he lives long and heartily. If he should die and Rhys and his sons do not acknowledge his heir, then I will have played my hand badly.” He frowned. “Tilda will be all right, whatever happens. They will keep her away from the fighting if there is any. But, by God, if they try to use her against me…” He left his threat unspoken.
Matilda found herself gazing at him in blank despair. Had he then washed his hands of the child the day she went to another man’s table? Was she nothing to him any longer other than a pawn that he might have carelessly let slip in a chess game of far more important pieces? She gazed into William’s eyes and shuddered. If his eldest daughter could look to no mercy from him, who could? She silently prayed that none of the rest of her children should find themselves dependent on his mercy one day; nor she herself.
Miserably she looked over her shoulder, back toward the west, where the sun was sinking in a blaze of gold behind Lord Rhys’s mountains. Somewhere there, Tilda was alone.
***
“Jo, don’t cry, love.” The voice was gentle. She felt an arm around her shoulders. Tim was bringing her back, but she didn’t want to come. Frantically she resisted him, fighting to regain the world from which he was dragging her. She could still see the countryside wrapped in forest below the castle wall on which she stood, while superimposed on it, like a shadow, were the ruined masses of another castle. The sky flickered with lightning and she felt the scene shift gear before her eyes. The wall beneath her hand had gone; she found she was clawing at the grass.
“I want to know how Tilly is,” she cried miserably. “I must know. I must find out what happened to her—”
“Jo, you will find out.” Tim pulled her against him gently. “But later. Not now. Get up, love. It’s beginning to rain. We’ll go back to the car and find somewhere to stay, all right?” Carefully he pulled her to her feet.
Still dazed, she clung to him as her knees threatened to give way. She had begun to shake violently.
Tim almost carried her back to her car, pushing her into the passenger seat as the rain began to fall in earnest, then he let himself in on the driver’s side. “I’ll find a hotel for us, shall I?” he said gently. “A hot bath and a good dinner is what you need.”
He glanced at her as he leaned forward to turn on the ignition. She was lying back in her seat, her eyes closed, her face pale with exhaustion. “No more, Jo,” he said softly. “It’s taking too much out of you.”
She smiled faintly. “I’ll be okay. After a good night’s sleep. I’m just so very, very tired.”
He drove for about twenty minutes through narrow lanes in the teeming rain before drawing up outside a long white-painted, stone-built inn. He peered through the windshield wipers at it and grinned. “It looks nice. I can almost smell that dinner.”
Jo smiled. “Lead on then,” she said. But it was with an effort that she climbed out of the car after him.
The landlord was a tall, florid man of about fifty, who greeted them like long-lost friends. “The best dinner in Gwent, I can give you,” he said to Tim with confidential modesty as Jo sank onto the settle in the dark hallway. “And I’ve a cellar here would make some of your London hotels green with envy, man. There’s only one problem. I’ve just got the one room free, see? A double it is. But just the one.”
Tim glanced at Jo. Then he nodded. “We’ll take it.”
She did not protest.
A hot bath and a change of clothes in the low-ceilinged whitewashed bedroom and Jo was beginning to feel herself again. She grinned at Tim. “I’ll toss you for that sofa thing later.”
He grimaced. “You won’t have to. I’ll do the gentlemanly thing and volunteer.”
They both looked at the small two-seater settle by the window with its worn toile de jouet cover. Jo laughed. “And you over six feet tall. Perhaps we can put a bolster down the bed in the best tradition.”
“No need. I shall take a temporary oath of abstinence. Anything that would be more comfortable than this bed of Procrustes.” He slapped the arm of the sofa.
“I’ll trust you then.” She laughed. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
The meal was all they had been promised and more. Looking around the small dining room, Tim let out a contented groan. “I shall recommend this place to Egon Ronay.”
Jo leaned forward to top up his wineglass. “Don’t. It will be swamped with horrible townees and spoiled. This must stay a secret. Just ours.” She yawned. “But, nice as it is, Tim, I think I’m going to have to go to bed. I’m completely exhausted.”
He nodded. “I think you should. You still look shattered. Go on up, Jo. As it’s stopped raining I shall go for a bit of a walk.”
Jo stumbled up the narrow twisting staircase to their room. Snapping on the light, she stared around it. There was little furniture. The large old-fashioned bed, with a candlewick bedspread, an Edwardian dressing table and chair, and the settee by the window. On the polished floor there was a rush mat. With a sigh she slipped off her clothes and put on her thin silk bathrobe. She brushed her hair slowly, then, after pulling one of the books from her tote bag, she flung herself down by the window.
The casement was open, looking out over a small back garden. Beyond the drystone wall the hillside stretched downward into the shadows of the valley. In the silence she thought she could hear the sound of a stream out of sight in the darkness. Slowly she opened the book, frowning as a moth dived in through the window and blundered toward the lamp at her elbow. The volume was a biography of King John. She looked at the picture of him on the cover. It showed an elegant stone effigy, wearing a crown. She turned slowly to the illustrations in the book, staring at statues, sketches, illuminations, even coins. One thing they all seemed to agree about. John had been a good-looking man. A straight nose, a firm mouth—frequently bearded—and deep-set arrogant eyes. She half closed her eyes with a shiver. This was the man who had ordered Matilda’s death.
She glanced up at the window again, staring at the raindrops as they fell, huge and wet, onto the sill. Then with an effort she tore her gaze away. She forced her eyes open as slowly the book slid from her hands to the floor. She did not try to pick it up. She stared around the room. The walls appeared to be moving slightly in the shadows; the floor rippled. She pushed herself up on the sofa, clutching at its back, and put her hands over her eyes, rubbing them violently, trying to swing her feet to the mat, but somehow they would not obey her. They felt heavy, as if they no longer belonged to her. Her head was hammering and once again she was conscious of a strange flickering behind her eyes. Exhausted, she fell back, her head on the shiny material of the sofa arm, and, defeated, she closed her eyes.
***
The borders shimmered beneath the burnished August sky as Matilda and William and their attendants ro
de toward Marlborough for the royal wedding. It was a long time since Matilda had thought about the girl who was soon to become John’s wife. It pained her to think of the child she remembered—small, frail, and very frightened—being linked forever with the volatile prince, a prince who was now heir to the throne after his father’s death and the succession of his brother, Richard.
The Downs reflected the beating sunlight as the horses wearily made their way toward the encampment around the abbey outside the walls of Marlborough. The pennants and the flags hung limp and unmoving from the tents and flagstaffs. Everywhere horses and men stood dejected and exhausted in the heat. In the center of the encampment the royal pavilion stood open and empty. Prince John had taken a few companions and gone into the forests, seeking the cool of the shade.
In the Countess of Gloucester’s quarters, late at night, after William had gone off to roister with the prince and his cronies, Matilda found Isabella, seated quiet and pale before a polished mirror, looking in something like wonder as a lady combed out her pale silver hair, fingering her silky tresses as though she had never seen them before. Beside her on the stool sat another girl, almost as fair, almost as delicate; a little taller, with watchful dark eyes. She was patting her sister’s arm reassuringly when Matilda was shown in, and Matilda saw her eyes at once seek her own in the mirror, hostile and suspicious. This then was Amicia, Isabella’s sister, the girl who, she now knew for sure, was to marry Richard de Clare.
Refusing to meet the glance in the mirror, Matilda went to put her arm around Isabella’s thin shoulders and dropped a kiss on the fair head.
Isabella looked up and smiled weakly. “I’m glad you’ve come.”
“I promised, didn’t I?” Matilda took the comb from the maid and gently continued combing, drawing the fair hair back from the girl’s hot face.
“And you’ll attend me tomorrow, in the abbey?”
“Of course.” Matilda tried to smile at Amicia. “Do you attend your sister too?” she asked quietly.
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