Lady of Hay

  She sat for many hours, however, pondering over his accounts, desperately trying to make sense of the squiggles on the pages before her, applying her limited knowledge of reading, knowing his taunting eyes were upon her, waiting for her to make a mistake.

  At last, exasperated beyond measure, she summoned Father Hugo, the priest who had been sent by Gerald to take mass at the chapel each morning.

  “Father, I need your help.” She looked up at him from Gerald’s elaborate chair by the fire. “I need to know how to read properly. Can you teach me?”

  Together they pored over the account book for some time. Then Hugo straightened up and put his hand to his eyes. “I can hardly read this man’s hand myself,” he muttered at last. “Especially these last few pages. I’ll bring the mass book from the chapel for you. That at least I know is legible.”

  Two days later Gerald was ushered into her presence. “I hear you want to learn to read,” he said without preamble. “Hugo is not the man to teach you, my lady. His eyes are too old to see the letters himself. I shall do it.”

  “You, Archdeacon? But how will you spare the time?” She was a little nervous of the energetic, handsome young man and she glanced rather apprehensively at the volumes under his arm.

  “I shall teach you to write as well,” he went on. “It is unthinkable that a lady of your standing should be unable to read and write with fluency. Writing is one of the greatest arts.”

  She blushed. He made her feel suddenly inadequate. Secretly she had been proud of the way she was handling the situation at Brecknock. It was the first chance she had had of applying her skills in running a household without her mother-in-law breathing down her neck, and although the household was abbreviated and inadequate, she was pleased with the way she was managing with the people she was carefully recruiting to her service.

  Each day while he was at Llanddeu Gerald rode down to the castle and spent an hour or two in her company. Sometimes they read from his own writings and from his poetry, which he proudly brought to show her, and sometimes from the books from his library. They also struggled together with the bailiff’s account books, and Gerald, his eyes sparkling with amusement, pointed out that the handwriting had markedly worsened from the day that Matilda had arrived at Brecknock and shown her determination to supervise his activities.

  Almost at once she discovered to her consternation that Gerald proudly claimed kinship through his grandmother with Lord Rhys himself and that he knew all about the happenings at Abergavenny.

  Since John Picard had left to ride home across the mountains to Tretower she had tried to put the memory of that terrible day out of her mind completely. It was easier than she expected because of her busyness at Brecknock, but sometimes, still, at nights, in spite of her exhaustion, the noise and stench of that bloody scene would return to her in horrifying nightmares from which she would awaken screaming. Also there was the baby. Each time it kicked she would shudder in revulsion as though it joined her by a cord to the treachery she wanted to forget. And now here was Gerald, sitting opposite her, a cup of wine in his hand, his thin, intense face serious as he gazed at her, forcing her to confront that terrible memory once more.

  “Your husband was the instrument of cruel excesses, but I haven’t any doubt that others, more powerful even than he is, were the real instigators of the crime.” He leaned forward and looked at her intently. “You must not judge him, my lady. You do, don’t you?”

  She nodded slightly. “I was there, Archdeacon. I saw it all. I tell myself that such acts occur. I know this part of the country is more liable to them than most; I know William is a cruel, hard man. I’ve been told enough about him, but still, I couldn’t believe he would commit such treachery. And I saw him, with his own hand…” She broke off, trying to stifle the sob which rose in her throat. “It was so terrible. Even that child, Geoffrey, Seisyll’s son, and later the baby.” She bit her lip and sat silent, twisting the cloth of her skirt between her fingers. Then she looked up suddenly, swallowing hard, and faced him squarely, her eyes fixed unwavering on his.

  “My child is cursed, Father, by what happened that day,” she burst out. “I would rather it is never born at all.” She waited defiantly, half expecting him to be shocked, but to her surprise he nodded understandingly.

  “It’s a natural feeling,” he said slowly, his low voice soothing and considered. “But it is wrong. You must have faith. The child is as innocent as it is possible for a human creature to be. He will be washed and sanctified by baptism and by our prayers. You must not fear for him.” He drank back the dregs of his wine suddenly and rose to his feet. “And now I have some news for you, my lady. Three nights ago your husband was at Hereford. From there I understand he plans to go to Hay and then he is coming on here to Brecknock, so you will be seeing him soon. You must prepare yourself for that.”

  Matilda pulled herself to her feet. Her hands were shaking, and nervously she tried to hide them in the folds of her skirt, but the all-seeing eyes of the archdeacon had spotted them instantly. He put his hand gently on her arm. “You have been a good and loyal wife to William de Braose. Don’t be afraid of him. He is still the Christian man you married.” He grinned suddenly, his unexpected boyish grin that she found so heartwarming. “Perhaps now I shall be able to have my chair back when he comes. I miss it, I must confess, perched on that high stool when I’m reading at Llanddeu. I must be getting old.” He sighed and put his hand to his back with a mock grimace of pain.

  In spite of herself, she laughed. She had grown very fond of Gerald in the few weeks she had known him. “Poor Archdeacon. I must give you a salve to rub on your back. When William comes, your chair will be my first thought, I promise you. It’ll travel up that track to Llanddeu faster than lightning!”

  But even the sound of his gay chuckle as he pulled on his mantle and swung out into the soft rain to find his horse did nothing to ease the sick fear that flooded through her at the thought of William’s imminent arrival.

  14

  Nick sat back and smiled at Judy fondly. “I never did ask you where you learned to cook. That was the most superb lunch. Thank you.” He eyed the empty casserole and then leaned forward to pour out the last of the wine.

  “A woman should keep some secrets surely!” Judy grinned. She had changed from her paint-stained jeans and smock into a summer dress with vivid blue stripes, which suited her coloring remarkably well. As she leaned forward to take his plate Nick caught a faint breath of Miss Dior.

  “Coffee would make it perfect,” he said hopefully.

  “First crème brûlée, then cheese. Then coffee.” Judy disappeared into the kitchen.

  Nick groaned. “Are you trying to kill me or something?”

  “As long as you can beat me at squash a meal like this once in a while won’t kill you.” She stuck her head around the door. “Do you really have to go to your mother’s this weekend, Nick?”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid I must. I haven’t seen her for ages, and as I’m going to be away so much over the next month I thought I’d get it over with. And while I’m down there, if the tides are right, I thought I’d bring Moon Dancer back from Shoreham and leave her at Lymington.” He levered himself to his feet. “There will be time for a siesta though, before I leave.” In the kitchen he put his arms around her slowly, savoring the feel of her body beneath the thin cotton voile of her dress. “Friday afternoon is the best time there is for making love.”

  Judy raised her lips to his eagerly. “Any time is the right time,” she murmured, trying not to wonder why he had not suggested she go with him to Hampshire. “Why don’t we leave the rest of the meal until later?” She ran her tongue gently along the line of his jaw and nipped his ear.

  His hands slipped around to the zipper at the back of her dress. Expertly he slid it down, pushing the fabric off her shoulders. Beneath it she was naked.

  Unembarrassed, she wriggled away from him and stepped out of the dress. “I’ll turn off the coffee.”

/>   He was undoing his shirt, his eyes on her breasts as she unplugged the pot and walked past him into the studio. In the bedroom she drew the curtain, blocking out the sun, then she turned in the shadowy twilight and held out her arms.

  Nick laughed. “No. No shadows. I want to see you properly.” Kneeling on the bed, he reached across and switched on the bedside light.

  On the notepad by the lamp was a page of whorls and faces and doodles and strange shapes and in the center of them all, framed with Gothic decoration, the name Carl Bennet and a curlicued three. Nick picked up the pad and stared at it.

  “When did you write this?”

  “What?” Judy slid onto the bed beside him and lay down, her arms above her head, her legs slim and tanned on the white candlewick cover.

  “Carl Bennet. Why did you write his name here?”

  She sat up. “To hell with him. You’re supposed to be thinking about me!”

  “I am thinking about you, Judy.” Nick’s voice was suddenly hard. He pushed her back, leaning over her, his face taut with anger. “I am wondering why you have written his name down. Where did you hear it?”

  For a moment Judy contemplated lying. Her brain was moving like lightning. If he found out the truth later he would blame her. Better tell him. Softly she cursed herself for writing the name at all—a stupid absentminded, automatic reaction to having a pencil in her hand…

  “Jo rang yesterday,” she said softly. She smiled, reaching up to kiss him, winding her arms around his neck. “She thought you might be here, that’s all. It didn’t sound important.”

  “What did she say about Bennet?” Unmoving, he stared down at her and for a fleeting moment she felt a pang of fear.

  “She said she was going to see him. Nick, forget her—”

  “Did she say when?”

  “Today. I told you, forget her—”

  “When, Judy?” Nick caught her wrists and disengaged himself violently from her embrace. He sat up. “She must not go there alone!”

  She grabbed the bedspread and pulled it around herself as Nick stood up. “You’re too late. She’ll be there by now.”

  Without a word Nick strode past her into the studio. He picked up his shirt and dragged it on, groping for his shoes. Behind him Judy stood in the doorway, still swathed in candlewick. “Nick, please. Don’t go.”

  He turned. “I’m sorry, Judy. I have to be there. I have to stop her if I can!”

  ***

  The long train of horses and carts that heralded the arrival of William de Braose and his retinue began to assemble in the outer bailey of Brecknock Castle on the first day of May. The serfs and townspeople, out from dawn about their ancient rites, tending the Beltane fires on the moors despite the threats from the priests, returned to find the castle full of men.

  Matilda sat in her solar listening with Margaret to the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels below, longing to hide. She dreaded the meeting with William, try as she might to remember Gerald’s reassurances, and when her husband’s arrival was at last announced she took a deep breath to still her wildly beating heart and walked slowly down into the brisk spring sunshine to greet him. Dismounting, William looked up at his wife as she stood on the steps above him, his face impassive. He was splendidly dressed in scarlet and green, his mantle clasped by a great cabochon ruby, his fringed beard neatly trimmed. He strode up the steps two at a time and kissed her hand ostentatiously, taking in with one quick, satisfied glance the swell of her belly beneath the flowing lines of her gown.

  “How are you, my lady? I meant to be with you long before this but the king kept me with him.”

  She raised her eyes from the floor to look at him, expecting to see anger and resentment there, but his eyes, behind the sternness of his face, were indifferent.

  She forced herself to smile. “I am glad to see you, my lord. Very glad.” Her gaze met his for an instant. He straightened his back, pulling his cloak higher up on his shoulder, and when he followed her back into the hall it was with a confident swagger. The moment of nervousness he had felt under the scrutiny of his wife’s cool green eyes with their strange amber flecks had passed. He stuck his fingers jauntily into his girdle. He owed her no explanations; nor any man, save the king.

  She herself poured the mulled wine that was awaiting him and stood beside him in silence while he drank. When he handed her back the goblet with gruff words of thanks he stood awkwardly for a moment looking at her as though about to say something else. But whatever it was, he changed his mind abruptly. He turned away, shouting commands to his men, and left her alone by the fire.

  It took only a day for the castle to be transformed by the comforts carried in William’s baggage train. Hangings appeared on the walls of the great bedchamber and cushions and fine sheets and covers replaced the rougher wear lent by the Benedictines from the priory. Two men were sent at once with the archdeacon’s best chair, up the winding track to his house at Llanddeu.

  Matilda continued without interruption her running of the castle, calling before her determinedly one by one the officers of her husband’s household and making it clear that, while they should all continue their duties, she intended to oversee their activities herself in future as the mistress of the household, and that the servants she had taken on were to be assimilated into it. To her intense disappointment Jeanne was not among the train, and she did not like to ask William why the old nurse had chosen to remain at Bramber. She couldn’t prevent herself from crying about it in the secrecy of the great bed, however. She had so much wanted Jeanne to be there when the baby was born. Jeanne could comfort her and help her, and would know what to do if anything went wrong.

  Of William she saw little. He was constantly busy, riding to outlying castles or closeted with his scribes, writing endless long-winded letters that, according to Hugh, kept the clerks so busy that William had to pay them extra money to finish them. At night William slept in an upper chamber above hers. She was heavy and lethargic now, with the baby so close, and had dreaded that he might try to force his attentions on her even though but two months remained until the baby was due, but he remained distantly polite. Of Abergavenny they never spoke at all, and all her tormented questions, so long suppressed, remained unanswered.

  It wasn’t long before she noticed the small blond serving wench so often at her husband’s side, giggling as he pressed sweetmeats and baubles on her. “He’ll not grow cold at night, that’s for sure, madam, with that puss to keep him warm,” Elen commented tartly, seeing her lady’s eyes following the girl around the hall, and Matilda forced herself to smile.

  Gerald continued to visit the castle but less frequently. He combined his visits with journeys through the diocese and seemed suddenly even more preoccupied than before with church affairs. Matilda missed his attention and the talks they used to have, but she was less inclined to make any effort now, and thankfully set aside her reading save where she had to go over the household accounts. Now William’s steward Bernard was there to do it for her, and she had only to supervise him and soothe his occasional quarrels with Hugh.

  The soft warmth of June succeeded the windy days of May at last. She began to spend long hours in the small garden she was making between the kitchen buildings and the chapel, tending the seedlings she had planted and pulling the ever-strangling weeds. Her three women were constantly with her, helping her to her feet after she had knelt too long on the grass and scolding her when she dirtied her fingers in the earth, never leaving her alone, crowding her till sometimes she wanted to scream. She dreamed often of her lonely hillside vigils as a girl, far from crowded castles, and fought to keep herself shouting out loud with frustration.

  “Oh, God! When will this waiting be over!” She rounded on Margaret at last. “I shall go mad. How do women put up with it!”

  Margaret looked shocked. “It’s our place, my lady. We must be patient like the Holy Virgin.”

  “The Holy Virgin was a saint, I’m not,” Matilda retorted. She pulled
viciously at a string of bindweed. “If it wasn’t for this garden I would throw myself off the top of the keep. I never dreamed childbearing could be so awful.”

  Margaret lowered her eyes, embarrassed. “My lady, it’s not for much longer,” she whispered soothingly.

  “It’s long enough. Every minute is too long. And we need rain for these godforsaken herbs. Why doesn’t it rain?” She stared up, furious, at the clear blue sky, determined to be out of temper. Nearby Nell and Elen were sitting on the wall chatting quietly together, their veils pulled forward around their faces to keep off the sun.

  Matilda put her hand up to Margaret’s shoulder and pulled herself heavily from the ground, shaking out her skirts. From the forge on the far side of the bailey came the sound of hammering and the hiss of a horseshoe going into cold water. She looked around, vaguely soothed by the familiar sights, but only the promise she had made to herself that once she was free from the burden of the child she would ride up to see Gerald in his own house bolstered her in the long dreary days. She put her hand to her back wearily. The lying-in woman had been at the castle now for two weeks. The wet nurse had been chosen and sat this very moment on the steps of the chapel, suckling her child in the drowsy sun, oblivious of the horses that stamped around her, waiting their turn at the forge.

  Throwing down her trowel, Matilda lowered herself onto the little wall beside Elen. She had had it built bounding the garden on the side that faced the bailey, and although it was designed to keep marauding dogs and animals out and keep the hooves of excited horses from the tender young plants, it made a useful seat. She turned to watch the activity in the bailey beyond. On the far side of the cobbled area beyond the kitchens a knot of Welshmen stood talking together urgently, their excitable lilt plainly audible above the noise of the horses. Then, as she listened idly to the unintelligible music of their speech, they suddenly fell silent, listening to one of their number who, with waving arms and much gesticulation, had moved into the center of the group. They all looked at each other and then to her surprise over their shoulders toward her, and she saw that they were crossing themselves and making the sign against the evil eye.