Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  William, when he appeared, was in jovial mood and seemed content to forget his political differences with Richard. He had never over the years by so much as a hint betrayed whether or not he had ever heard any of the rumors that she knew had abounded about her love for Richard, and now as always when she saw the two men together she could not help wondering, comparing, and guiltily moving to her husband’s side. William, for his part, flung out his arms expansively at the sight of his visitor and embraced him.

  “I heard you’d arrived. How is Reginald behaving in your service? Moll, help me with my tunic. Where are the pages?” He started to shrug the heavy garment off his shoulders. “My God, I’ll be glad when this spell at Hereford is over. Being sheriff is all very well, but dispensing the king’s justice becomes wearisome after a while, I can tell you. I need some fighting to loosen up my bones again.”

  Richard grinned. “I heard about your extra duties, William. My congratulations. I see you are a man to be reckoned with now throughout the land.”

  William beamed, holding his arms out for the new tunic that Elen had brought to him. “I think you might say so,” he agreed. “I think you might say so.”

  When William returned to his duties in the court room the following morning, Matilda and Richard ordered their horses and their hawks and rode out of Hereford toward the southeast into the great forest of Aconbury. The leaves were everywhere turning to russet and gold and the horses’ hooves brushed through the rustling carpet, stirring the bitter scents that teased the nostrils and caught at the back of Matilda’s throat. Richard rode slightly ahead of her, his eyes screwed up in the frosty glare, but after a while he reined back alongside her.

  “Tell me, how have things been, my dear?” he said quietly. “Have you heard any news of your little Tilda?”

  Matilda’s heart lurched. Did Richard know? Had he ever guessed that her strange silver-haired daughter was his? She swallowed the lump in her throat with an effort and, summoning a smile, she managed to nod. “Gerald saw her in the spring. I am a grandmother, Richard.” Her eyes sparkled suspiciously for a moment and Richard found himself fighting the urge to touch her hand. “She has a little son,” she went on. “Rhys Ieuanc, young Rhys, after his grandfather, God rot him!”

  Richard searched her face for a moment. “Rhys took Mallt’s castle in the end, of course.”

  Her face tightened with anger. “As you say, he returned after the last of the snow with no warning and with such a strong force there was no time for the constable to summon aid. William had gone to fight in Aberteifi with Will—Rhys agreed to spare the castle only if they abandoned the campaign in his lands and came back to Hay.”

  “And he agreed,” Richard said quietly. “I could not understand why. It seemed unlike William.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Whoever understands William, my dear? He is a law unto himself.”

  There was a long silence as the horses walked slowly on, then Richard spoke again.

  “I came to Hereford with a proposition which I hope will please you. I must put it to William, but I should like your views. It touches us very closely.” His eyes were fixed on the gilded leather of the rein in his hand. She followed his gaze, noting absentmindedly how thin his hands had become, the joints slightly accentuated. “I should like my daughter, little Mattie, to marry one of your sons. If you agree I think William might find the match acceptable.”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. The sun’s rays breaking through the thick treetops of the copse into which they had ridden fell across the party, throwing a gold veneer onto the horses’ coats. At the heels of her mare an excited dog suddenly began to bark, and was at once silenced by an angry command from a huntsman behind them. There was a lump in her throat when at last she spoke.

  “I should like that, Richard. Above all I should like that.” She paused again. “You were thinking of Reginald, I suppose? Have they formed an attachment to one another? That is good. Giles anyway plans to take Holy Orders after Oxford and then Paris. But Reginald—oh, yes, I am sure that William would approve of a link with the house of Clare for Reginald.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Yes, it’s what I had hoped for, Richard. We have plans for the two girls, of course. Margaret is to marry Walter de Lacy and William is hoping for an alliance with the Mortimers for little Isobel, but marriages for the other two boys have not yet presented themselves. I think”—she dropped her eyes, almost embarrassed—“I think William is becoming very ambitious, Richard. I think he has set his sights very high for the future.”

  Two days later Richard left. Matilda was standing in her solar, giving orders to her steward, when Elen brought him in. He was already dressed for the road.

  “My lady,” he said formally. “I come to take my leave.”

  Her hand clutched involuntarily at the quill with which she had been checking the lists before her. It was a moment before she could look up. “Must you leave so soon, Lord de Clare?” Behind her the steward bowed and left the room and she was conscious of Elen rounding up the ladies who had been at work with their sewing near the fire. In moments the place was empty but for themselves.

  As the heavy door closed behind the last of them he caught her hands in his. The pen fell to the rushes as he raised them to his lips. “I don’t know how long it will be before we see each other again.”

  “Richard!” she whispered in anguish. She clung to him blindly, raising her lips to find his as her eyes filled with tears. “I thought growing older would teach me sense,” she murmured. “I thought at least it would be easier to bear as time went on.”

  He held her so tightly she could hardly breathe. “It will never grow easier, my darling, never. That is our punishment for a forbidden love.” His lips touched her eyelids gently. “If two of our children can find love with one another, perhaps that will ease our own pain. At least William has agreed in principle to the idea.”

  She nodded, unable to speak, clinging to him desperately.

  “I have to go,” he said at last. Gently he tried to release himself from her arms.

  “I know.” She clung to him even harder. “Oh, Richard, take care of yourself, my dear.” She reached up for a final kiss. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, then at last Richard straightened and firmly pushed her away.

  “We will meet again.” He forced himself to smile. “Who knows, maybe at Mattie and Reginald’s wedding, God willing!” He caught her hand and kissed it quickly, then he turned and swung out of the tall, vaulted chamber and disappeared, his spurs ringing on the stone of the staircase as he ran down toward the entrance to the keep. Behind him Matilda began to cry.

  ***

  “That’s enough!” Nick crossed the room in two strides. His eyes were blazing. “Wake her up. Quickly!”

  Tears were pouring down Jo’s face as she spoke, her words almost unintelligible through the violence of her sobs.

  He sat down beside her, his arm around her shoulders. “Wake her up, man. She’s had enough!”

  Sam pushed himself away from the wall against which he had been leaning. “Don’t interfere, Nick. Grief is all part of life’s rich pattern. She sinned. She has to suffer.” His voice was heavy with irony. “Surely you of all people would agree with that.”

  Nick glared at him and, as Bennet and his colleagues watched, the concern and anguish vanished from his face to be replaced by cold anger. “She is weeping for Richard de Clare!” he said through clenched teeth. “One of John’s advisers and even his friend! Dear God! She mocks me, even now! Flaunting her love of the man and rejecting me. Me! As if I were no one.”

  They stared in astonishment at the arrogant fury of his expression, so unlike anything that anyone who knew Nick had ever seen, and they saw the color run up his neck to suffuse his face.

  Bennet stood up hastily. “Steady, my friend,” he said, laying his hand on Nick’s arm. “Jo was mocking no one. Couldn’t you see how she was being torn?”

  Nick shook off the hand and dragged his eyes
away from Jo’s face, visibly struggling within himself, his jaws clenched as he stared at Bennet. He was looking straight through him as if he weren’t there, oblivious of the presence of anyone else in the room. The sweat was standing out on his forehead.

  Bennet glanced at Sam. “What is wrong with him?” he said sharply. “This man is possessed in some way!”

  Sam shook his head. “As I told you, I suspect my brother has an incipient mood disorder,” he said quietly. “It is becoming less easy to hide—”

  “Rubbish!” Bennet snapped. He clicked his fingers in front of Nick’s face. “He is as much in a trance as Jo. He has been hypnotized—but not by me. I think this is a reversion of some kind. Has he been having hypnotherapy, do you know? Or trying regression himself?”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Under the circumstances, would you be surprised if he had?”

  “No.” Bennet looked up at him and pushed his glasses onto the top of his head. “I am merely concerned in case he has entrusted himself to someone who is less than competent.” The two men held one another’s gaze for a long moment. It was Sam who looked away first.

  “I am sure he wouldn’t do that.” Sam did not bother to hide his amusement. “Why don’t you ask him what he’s been up to?” He turned to Nick. “Nicholas, you are making a fool of yourself, brother,” he said sharply. “Wake up! Look at all these keen scientific minds watching your performance!”

  Nick glanced around. For a moment he looked bewildered. Then he gave a sheepish grin, the anger gone from his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t know what I was saying—”

  “That’s all right,” Bennet said slowly. He was scrutinizing Nick closely. “You didn’t say anything to worry about. Now, let’s see what we can do for Jo, shall we? It is, after all, she we have come to discuss.” He glanced around at the others. “Does anyone want to question her further before I awaken her? No? Right, then.”

  Jo stared around the room blankly for a moment as she regained her awareness of the present day. Her nose was swollen, her eyes streaming. Unobtrusively Sarah picked up a box of tissues and put them down on the sofa beside her. Jo grabbed one. “Sorry,” she said miserably. “It’s so silly to be upset. I can’t seem to stop crying.”

  “I’ll make coffee,” Sarah said softly. “For everyone. I think that should be the next priority before anyone asks any questions.”

  “But I want to know,” Jo said. She blew her nose. “Did I speak real Welsh? Did you understand what I was saying?” She looked at Wendy.

  Wendy nodded. “You spoke a version of real Middle Welsh. I don’t think there is any possibility at all that you could have picked that up by accident, or without long and intensive study, so it would not have been cryptomnesia. Your pronunciation was fluent if unusual—I have no way of knowing if it was genuine, of course, but I suspect so. I am completely lost for an explanation as to how you could have done it.”

  Bennet smiled. “You are still not content with my explanation, then?”

  Wendy laughed. “I’m reserving judgment. A ydych chi’n fyn deall i? Pa rydw i’n dweud?” She turned back to Jo suddenly.

  Jo shook her head and shrugged. “It’s no use. It’s gone. I don’t understand anymore.” She put her hands to her head. “What did you say?”

  “I only asked whether you still understood me.” Wendy stood up and threw her notes down on the table. “It is extraordinary. Quite extraordinary!” She swung around to face Carl. “Could it be some kind of possession? Or even a case of multiple personality?”

  “There is no question of it,” Carl said swiftly. “Jo came to me with no history whatsoever of mental or personality problems. Whatever this is, I am certain in my own mind that it is from her own past.”

  “And it has now become part of her present,” Sam put in quietly. “I suspect that the past was unresolved. Perhaps resolution can only come in this life.”

  Jo shivered violently. “Sam! That’s horrible! What are you saying?”

  “People are not reborn without a purpose, Jo. They return to progress or to expiate their sins.”

  “Rubbish, man!” Jim Paxman gave Sam a look of undisguised dislike. “I have never heard such arrant nonsense. If this is an echo from the past, then that is all it is, an echo. With no more meaning or purpose than the accidental replaying of an old record. This woman is in some way acting as an instrument, a…a…” He groped for the right word.

  “A medium?” Wendy put in thoughtfully.

  “If you like, but that has psychic connotations which I don’t accept. We are not dealing with ectoplasm or crystal balls here. That is not what we are talking about at all.”

  “Aren’t we?” Nick said.

  Everyone looked at him. There was an expectant silence.

  Behind them Sarah pushed open the door. On her tray were eight cups of coffee.

  ***

  Sam and Nick both went back to Cornwall Gardens with Jo. They were all silent in the taxi, and once they were in the apartment Nick went straight to the cabinet in search of the bottle of Scotch.

  Jo threw herself down on the sofa. “I feel as if I’ve been through a mental mincer,” she said. She put her arm across her eyes. “Isn’t it funny? I thought today would prove something—either that I’m hallucinating or inventing things or that it is all real and I am the reincarnation of Matilda de Braose, and yet, with all that talk and all that argument and all those experts, it has proved nothing. In fact, now it is worse. All they have done is make me terribly aware of the fact that there are a whole lot more theories to account for my condition than I had ever thought of and I am more muddled than ever.”

  “Forget it all, Jo.” Nick sat down near her with a sigh. “Why the hell should you turn yourself into a specimen under a microscope for that lot? Or me, for that matter.” He frowned. “We know what we believe. That is what is important.”

  “And what do we believe?” Sam put in.

  “That’s the point!” Jo sat up. The Scotch had brought the color back to her cheeks. “I don’t know anymore. Except that it’s not just me. We are all three involved. We are, aren’t we?” She looked from one to the other.

  “Perhaps.” Sam walked out onto the balcony and stood looking down at the square. A group of children were playing on the grass behind the railings with a huge striped plastic ball. He turned to lean on the balustrade. “We must all experience with an open mind and record meticulously and with unbiased comment what happens. Particularly you, Jo, if you still intend to write a book on all this. The book will be of enormous scientific—or occult or historical or linguistic or whatever—significance. Let those experts of Bennet’s with their analytical minds tear that apart. From now on we’ll leave them out of it. We don’t need them. The man himself is, of course, a fool. You do realize that, don’t you? For all his expensive offices and the panoply of medical props he is not a qualified psychiatrist.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. “He couldn’t call himself doctor, surely, if he weren’t qualified.”

  “He qualified as a physician in Vienna just after the war, but he never practiced as far as I can see, either in general practice or as a specialist, until he came to England, when he did a minimal training in hypnotherapy and launched himself as an expert on some decidedly fringe activities.”

  Nick gave a lazy smile. “It struck me he didn’t think much of you either.”

  “Shut up, both of you.” Jo stood up. “Why don’t I get us all a salad. I want to think about something else for a change. My mind is so tired, so terribly tired of all this—” Her voice trembled slightly.

  With a glance at Sam, Nick followed her into the kitchen. “Jo, what happened to me at Bennet’s?” he asked in an undertone. “Did I go into some sort of trance as well?”

  She looked at him, astonished. “You?”

  “Yes, me, Jo.” He glanced over his shoulder hurriedly. “I am beginning to think Sam may have given me some sort of posthypnotic suggestion—”


  “Sam?” Jo stared. “You haven’t let Sam hypnotize you?”

  “Now, who is taking my name in vain?” Sam had brought the bottle of Scotch with him into the kitchen.

  “No one.” Jo glanced at him uncomfortably. She turned hastily to the refrigerator and took out a plate of cold meats and a bowl of salad, then she reached into the door for a bottle of wine. “Sam, the corkscrew is in the drawer behind you. Leave my Scotch alone and pour us all some wine instead, will you? When did you say your plane was tomorrow, Nick?” she went on hastily.

  Nick was watching his brother expertly insert the tip of the corkscrew into the center of the cork. He was frowning.

  “Eleven. I’m going to have to go as soon as we’ve eaten, Jo. There are things I must do at the office before I go back to the apartment to pack.”

  Jo looked down at the bottle of olive oil in her hand. “You haven’t said how long you will be away,” she said. He must not know how lost she felt at the thought of his leaving.

  “Ten days at least.” His voice was gentle.

  “Ten days for Jo to sort out her affairs with Richard de Clare,” Sam put in as he poured out the three glasses of wine, meticulously stooping, his eye level with the worktop, to check that all contained identical amounts.

  “Sam.” Jo glanced at Nick, suddenly terrified that the mention of the name would change him again, back to the frightening travesty of the Nick she knew. His face had hardened, but he was still Nick. The stranger was not there behind his eyes.

  “She’s finished with de Clare,” Nick said after a moment. He picked up one of the glasses. “And de Clare knows it.”

  “Knew it, Nick,” Jo said quickly. “It was all a long time ago. Here, take the salad through, and the bottle.”

  Sam was watching her as she took the plates from the cabinet.

  “You intend to follow this story through to the end, don’t you, Jo?” he said softly as the door swung closed behind Nick.