He had sent her back to the Brycheiniog estates then, while he himself had stayed hopefully at the king’s side.
When Gwenwynwyn attacked the de Braose Marcher lands yet again, it had been thanks to her warnings that William was ready for him. He repelled the attack with energetic fury and was rewarded the following year with the lordships of Glamorgan, Gwynllwg, and Gower. He had seemed especially close to the king after that, but even so, some whispered that he had had to extract the rich lordship of Gower from John by threatening to leave the king when he was most in need of the baron’s support.
Matilda glanced at him again, her comb lying motionless in her lap. He had followed John to Normandy, but how did he stand with the king now?
She watched him as he raised the goblet to his lips.
“We return to France in the spring,” he commented abruptly, as if reading her thoughts. “But by then it will be too late. Normandy will have fallen to the French king. Only Château Gaillard holds out for us now, and the coastal towns. Except that Philip Augustus has lost his best excuse for fighting.”
Matilda glanced up again. “What do you mean, he’s lost his excuse?” She eyed her husband distastefully.
“Arthur. Prince Arthur is dead.” William tipped back the goblet and drained it.
“The king’s young nephew?” She began to work at a tangle in her hair with the ivory comb even as she felt a muscle somewhere in her stomach start to tense.
“Yes, Arthur. We captured him at Mirabeau. The little runt was attempting to besiege his own grandmother! Eleanor sent word to John and we marched from Le Mans in two days—two days, mark you—and had them all in the bag in hours. John had the boy sent to Falaise.” William fell silent for a moment, picking his teeth with the corner of his thumbnail.
“And?” she prompted him.
He shrugged. “Arthur hasn’t been seen since.”
“So you don’t know that he’s dead.”
“It’s fairly certain,” he admitted guardedly.
“But the king must have confided in you. He always does. Surely you can tell me, your own wife.” Matilda concentrated on her hair, carefully casual.
William was watching the rhythmic strokes of the brush, fascinated. He licked his lips, half astonished at himself to feel desire for her still after all these years.
“Oh, yes, the king confided in me.” He could not resist rising to her remark, and he did not notice her secret smile as suddenly he sat forward on the edge of the bed, his voice low. “But I didn’t need his confidence this time, Moll. I was there. I saw it all. He killed Arthur with his own hands and threw the body into the Seine!”
Matilda felt herself grow cold. “With his own hands?” she heard herself repeat the words, incredulous.
William slipped from the bed and came to squat near her, his fingers held out to the blaze. “We were at Rouen for Easter. John had been drinking. We all had! He decided he was going to interrogate the prisoners and he sent for Arthur. The boy stood there arrogantly and refused to recognize his uncle as king. John flew into a rage and went for him. But, God damn it, if the boy had had any spirit at all…He just stood there and allowed John to put his hands around his neck and shake him. We all had to swear on Christ’s sacred bones we would tell no one of his death. The king wanted him alive.” William stood up, rubbing his own neck ruefully. “He had given orders that the boy be blinded and gelded and kept a harmless hostage by Hubert de Burgh at Falaise, and Hubert refused like a whey-faced woman. It was Hubert’s fault. The boy would have been a useful pawn, damn it!” He paused, his back to Matilda.
“I helped them tie the stones to the body and we heaved it over into the river, but as ill luck would have it, a fisherman found the wretched corpse some days later. Luckily by then it was unrecognizable. Nobody could be sure. But some guessed.”
Matilda listened in silence, horrified, picturing John’s sudden drunken rage and his assault on the frightened, lonely boy, remembering the night when he had put those same hands around her throat.
Why had William not lifted one finger to help him? Why had he not tried to restrain the king at least? She looked at her husband and shuddered.
William was incredulous. “The boy was a traitor! He deserved to die! It was only John’s goodness that had kept him alive at all—”
“John has no goodness, William. He did what would have been best for his own cause—until he got drunk and lost his temper. It was Hubert among all of you, from what you say, who had goodness and compassion.”
She climbed up into the bed, keeping her gown wrapped tightly around her. “Call the servants, William. Let them make up the fire and put out the sconces.”
William crossed to the bed and laid a tentative hand on his wife’s shoulder, but, clutching the fur even closer to her, she rolled away from him, her eyes closed, and William, shrugging, turned back to the fire.
He did not mention Arthur again, but the next morning he called for his clerks and stewards, and after several hours closeted with them before piles of parchments he sent for the prior from St. John’s at Brecknock. “I intend to build you a fine new church on your hill, Father Prior,” he said when the old man arrived, mudstained from his furious gallop at the heels of William’s messenger.
When the astonished man, speechless with surprise and gratitude, had bowed his way out of the room, William sat back at the table and smiled at Matilda, who had been summoned with peremptory haste to the meeting.
“Do you remember, years ago I planned this, Moll? A beautiful new church, to the glory of God? It will be the greatest church in the land when I’ve finished.” He swaggered across the room and poured himself a cup of wine. “People will remember me for hundreds of years for the beauty of the building, and my piety and generosity in paying for it.” He sat down again, smiling. Matilda could see he was already very drunk.
Wearily she rubbed her hand across her eyes. She had slept little, the image of the boy prince in his terror and loneliness rising before her every time she had tried to sleep. She forced herself to give her husband a wan smile. Did William really think that he could atone for his complicity in the murder of a child by building a church? Watching him drink the last dregs from the goblet and turn once more to the parchment on his table, she realized that indeed he did.
32
Judy opened the door and stared. “So, it’s you. How was New York?”
Nick followed her to the studio. “Very hot.” He walked over to her easel and looked at the sketch she had pinned there. “Would I be right in thinking you had been seeing something of Pete Leveson while I’ve been away?” Turning back toward her, he surveyed her grimly.
Judy looked defiant. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“None at all.” He was tight-lipped. “I should say you were made for each other. Your idea of loyalty is strange, to say the least, Judy.” Folding his arms, he waited for the outburst he knew would come. He was not disappointed.
Judy narrowed her eyes. “I owe you no loyalty, Nick. Nor allegiance! I’m not part of your jolly little charade. It is you and Sam and Tim. So fight it out between you. I’ve joined the spectators. Have you seen your brother yet?” she added suddenly.
Nick shook his head. “I’m on my way back to the apartment now.”
“Well, he’s been busy while you’ve been away, and he’s damn lucky he’s not in prison. He came here, drunk, and smashed up my studio. So I called the police and the bloody fool took a swing at one of them.”
“Christ!” Nick stared at her. “What happened?”
“Your friend Alistair got him off with a fine and being bound over. But I’ll tell you something right now. If you come here making trouble, you’ll get the same treatment. I really was fond of you, Nick, do you know that? You and I could have been great together, but not now. I think you’re mad, all of you. Jo’s welcome to whichever one of you wins. If she’s alive to find out!”
She walked across to the window and slammed it down,
cutting out the noise of the traffic.
“What do you mean, if she’s alive?” Nick’s voice was sharp.
“Sam is setting you up, Nick, I told you, only you’re such a blind fool you can’t see it. He hates Jo, and he’s jealous of you. He’s been programming you to hurt her. He’s been feeding you these stupid ideas—you don’t really believe you’re King John, for God’s sake? You’ll end up in a funny farm if you do!” Impulsively she clutched his arm. “Nick, I do still care about you—and I’d hate to see you get hurt, and whatever I feel about Jo, I don’t want to see her end up Sam’s victim. He’s mad, Nick. I really believe he’s mad. Do be careful. Please.”
Stunned, Nick said nothing for a moment. Then: “Is Sam still at my apartment?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t inquire—he called after he got out of court, but I told him to go to hell, so he’s probably out to get me as well by now.”
“And Jo? I tried to call her from New York but she never replied.”
Judy raised an eyebrow. “Then let’s hope he hasn’t got at her already. He came from her apartment that night he came here, Nick. That’s all I know.”
It took Nick seven minutes to reach Cornwall Gardens. He sprinted up the stairs. Jo’s apartment was empty. It had the feel of a place that had been deserted for several days. On the mantelpiece a bowl of roses had faded, their petals scattered up the carpet; otherwise the place was unnaturally tidy.
He wandered over to the balcony doors and glanced out, noticing that the plants in the tubs outside had wilted in the heat, then he turned away. The kitchen was spotless, everything in place. In the bedroom the curtains were half drawn. He noticed the tape recorder on the chest of drawers and idly switched it on, listening as the thin, haunting strains of the flute filled the room. For a moment he stood quite still, puzzled; he had heard that music before when Sam was here, alone with Jo. He snapped off the music and was about to leave the room when his eye was caught by the belt lying across the chair. He recognized the engraved buckle. It was Sam’s.
His eyes suddenly murderous, he raced up the passage and dragged open the front door. After slamming it behind him, he descended the stairs two at a time and dived into his car. He pulled out into the traffic with only a perfunctory glance in his mirror, then tore up Gloucester Road and turned right toward Queen’s Gate.
Sam was writing at Nick’s desk. He looked up when he heard Nick’s key in the lock.
“So, the wanderer returns. How did you enjoy your bite at the Big Apple?”
Nick strode across the room and confronted him across the desk. “Where is Jo?”
“Jo? I have no idea, Nicholas. At home perhaps?” Sam’s breath smelled of Scotch.
“You know damn well she’s not at home.” Nick produced his hand from behind his back. In it was the belt. “Do you know where I found this?”
Sam stared at it. He gave a half smile. “The instrument of chastisement,” he said almost thoughtfully.
“The what?” Nick froze. He leaned across the desk and gripped the front of Sam’s shirt, half dragging him out of his chair. “What the hell are you trying to say, Sam? Have you gone crazy?”
Sam smiled. “Someone had to beat her, Nick. And it was less than she deserved. Many men would have killed their wife for what she did. She admitted it, you know, in the end, and she submitted to her punishment on her knees. She wanted it. It must have helped to ease her conscience.”
Nick let go of him abruptly. He was staring at his brother in complete horror. “You are crazy,” he whispered. “God in heaven, you are crazy! Where is she, man?” His blue eyes narrowed furiously. “If you’ve hurt her I swear to God I’ll kill you!”
Sam laughed. He pushed his chair back slightly and shifted in it sideways, draping his arm across its back, totally relaxed.
“John,” he said softly. “John, King of England. She betrayed you too. She scorned you. She mocked you publicly. Kings do not stand for treatment like that from anyone, never mind from the women they desire. You killed her before, brother mine, and you’ll kill her again.” He leaned forward suddenly. “Remember? You want her to suffer. And you want me to see her suffer. You are going to tell me what you intend to do to her, Nick, and you will beg me to come and watch you take your revenge.”
“Stop that crap, Sam! I know what you’re up to.” Nick clenched his fists till the nails bit into his palms. “You get out of this apartment. Get out and go back to Scotland, and leave us alone.” His voice had sunk to a hiss.
Sam stood up. “It’s too late, Nick. I began to plant the seeds in your brain the first day I realized who I was. I remembered that massacre at Abergavenny, you see. I remembered stabbing that Welsh quisling till his warm blood ran up my arm. I remembered I was William de Braose and Matilda was mine. Mine, Nick. And she’ll be mine again. This time I shall be ready when the trial comes.” He moved away from behind the desk. “I prepared the ground too well.” He laughed. “You are an arrogant fool. You played into my hands, trusting your mind to me.”
Nick kept an icy grip on his temper. “You are talking pure melodrama, Sam. What you’re implying is not possible and we both know it. Pack your things and get out.”
Sam stood still for a moment staring at him, his face alight with malicious amusement. “She slept with Heacham, you know,” he said suddenly. “In Wales. I recognized him at once. De Clare. He still has a hold over her, of course, but he knows he will lose her.” He laughed. “He’s weak. He was too weak to save her then, and he’s too weak now.” He picked a few books off the table and collected some loose change off the desk into his pocket. Then he looked up. “You don’t believe me, do you, Nick? But it’s true, you know. I really did regress you. You were—you are John Plantagenet,” he said.
Nick did not move. The sweat was standing out on his forehead as Sam left the room. He steadied himself with an effort, then with deliberate slow movements, as if he were in a dream, he went to the pile of phone books and reached for A–H.
“Tim?” His mouth was dry. “This is Nick Franklyn.”
“Hello, Nick.” Tim sounded subdued.
“I have reason to believe you may know where Jo is.” Nick controlled his voice with an effort. “She is not at her apartment.”
There was a moment’s silence. “She went to Wales. Bet Gunning talked her into doing an interview with some guy about organic farming.”
“About what?” Nick exploded.
“I know it sounds unlikely,” Tim responded. “It was obviously a ruse to get her back there. But I don’t think it’ll work. She wants to give it all up, you know. She tore up the contract to write the story for W I A. She has decided to have nothing more to do with Matilda or the past. Something frightened her very badly.” He hesitated, and Nick heard the tremor in his voice. “Have you spoken to your brother since you came back?”
“I have indeed.” Nick glanced at the door. He could hear the closets in the spare bedroom opening and closing as Sam took out his clothes and threw them on the bed. “I think you can take it that my brother will have no more say in Jo’s affairs,” he said grimly. “No more at all. And neither will you.”
***
The sun had broken through the haze early and its heat baked the ground. Jo pushed her typewriter away on the table outside the back door and stood up. Ann was dyeing wool, pressing the loose skeins into the onion-skin water again and again. She pushed her fair hair back from her face with the back of her wrist. “Finished the article?”
Jo smiled. “The first draft. I’d like you and Ben to read it and make suggestions.” She took a deep breath of the hot mountain air. “It’s so peaceful up here, I’m even amenable to criticism today!”
Ann laughed. She hooked a skein out of the water and began to wring it out. “If your piece is too sweet and nice, won’t your editor hurl it back at you and ask you to anoint it with vitriol?”
“You’ve obviously heard about me!” Jo sat down on the close-cropped grass and after a moment stretched o
ut full length, her arms flopping above her head. “Don’t worry. I’m rude enough to upset you both quite a bit if you take it the wrong way.” She sat up again and shaded her eyes. “And I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, Ann. You’re living a pastoral idyll up here, but you just cannot claim it has any relevance to real life.”
Ann raised an eyebrow as she pegged the skein on the line to drip. “Says who? Why should real life be ‘down there’ and ‘up here’ be unreal?”
“Because real is what ninety-nine percent of the population have to live. Mass produced, mass packaged, and mass managed. It’s the only way for there to be progress. It’s sad, but it’s true.”
“So we should conform? Help to starve the land, poison the waterways, pollute the air? No, Jo. We are pioneers, prophets. Leading people back to common sense, health, and sanity.” Ann gave a gurgle of laughter suddenly. “Go on. Write that down, too.”
“What’s it like in winter?” Ignoring the comment, Jo wrapped her arms around her knees.
“Lonely. Hard. Sometimes frightening.”
“Like it was eight hundred years ago for everyone.” Jo’s voice was suddenly bleak. “The disease then. The squalor, the poverty of life! That is why we have to move on, Ann. To end all that. To make it less hard. You know, I…that is, Matilda, just accepted it. It made her unhappy—she was full of compassion and she used her medical knowledge such as it was, as best she could—but she never questioned. No one questioned anything. It was as God wished.”
Lady of Hay Page 60