Lady of Hay

“She doesn’t want him. She is using him. You know that as well as I do, I expect.”

  Judy was wearing a pink flying suit that clashed violently with the bitter orange of the upholstery in Nick’s apartment. She threw herself back in the chair, pushing her hands deep into her pockets. “I want Nick back and you want Jo.” She studied his face under her eyelashes, but his expression gave nothing away. “I think we should pool our resources, don’t you?” she went on after a moment.

  Sam got up and went to the drinks tray. “Assuming you are even remotely right,” he said slowly, “exactly what resources, as you call them, do you have?” He poured out a stiff gin for each of them and began carefully to slice up a lemon.

  Judy smiled. “Information. And a suggestion. You have a clinic or something in Edinburgh, don’t you?”

  Sam handed her a glass. “You mean I should whisk Jo off and hospitalize her somewhere, preferably behind locked doors, no doubt, thus leaving the field free for you?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a clinic, Judy. Nor am I attached to one.” He took a sip from his glass reflectively and went to stand in his favorite position by the window. “Besides, Jo doesn’t need hospitalizing.”

  “Yet.”

  He turned. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “She’s going crazy.”

  Laughing, he turned away again. “No, not crazy. A little confused, perhaps. A little frightened. But that is all.” He picked the lemon out of his glass and sucked it. “There is no need for Jo to leave London to aid your plans.” He paused. “I can drive a wedge between her and Nick that will put them farther than four hundred miles apart, I can assure you. I can make Jo hate him. I can make her afraid of him.” He hadn’t raised his voice, but Judy stared at him. His tone had been full of venom.

  “You don’t like your brother very much, do you?” she said cautiously.

  He grinned. “What makes you think that? I would be doing it for you!”

  There was a long pause as they looked warily at one another. “I don’t think so,” Judy said at last. “I don’t think you’re even doing it because you like Jo. I think you’re doing it to hurt Nick.”

  Sam laughed out loud. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you’ll be there to pick up the pieces and kiss him better, won’t you!”

  ***

  Nick was sitting in the cockpit of the Moon Dancer, the tiller tucked beneath his arm, the sun full on his face as he squinted up at the spread of cream canvas.

  “Happy?” He glanced at Jo, who was lying on the cabin roof. She was wearing white jeans, rolled up above the knees, and a striped bikini top. She rested her chin on her hands and grinned at him, her hair blowing across her face. “Happy. Better. Sane. Thanks!”

  “And hungry?”

  She nodded. “Are we going to stop at Bosham?”

  “I don’t see why not. Lunch at the Anchor Bleu and back out on the tide. Or we can spend the rest of the day there. Leave tomorrow. Whichever.”

  He adjusted the sheet a little, watching the mainsail wing out before the wind as the huge orange spinnaker flapped for a moment, then ballooned full once more.

  Jo licked her lips, tasting the salt from the spray. “Let’s wait and see.” Already she could see the little pointed roof on the tower of Bosham church at the head of the creek. The tide was nearly high, brimming to the edge of the saltings, where a cloud of terns danced over the sparkling ripples. She turned to watch a huge ocean racer draw smoothly past them under power. “I haven’t thanked you for last night,” she said suddenly.

  “For what? As I remember, nothing happened.”

  “Exactly.” She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. “You gave me space, Nick. It was what I needed. A super meal, enough Scotch to float the Titanic, and oblivion.”

  He laughed. “You certainly look a little less tense.”

  “I am. Once out of that apartment I seem to be able to think straight. I’ve behaved like an emotional idiot, allowing myself to be influenced by all this business. Can you imagine? Jo Clifford, cool, businesslike, imperturbable Jo Clifford, allowing herself to be so affected that my body reacted psychosomatically. I shall write the story next week and get it out of my system completely, then I intend to forget all about it.”

  Nick glanced at her. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said quietly. “Welcome back, Jo Clifford.”

  They anchored in Bosham creek and paddled ashore in the inflatable dinghy. After walking across the long lush grass of the quay meadow, they strolled past the church, breathing in the air heady with honeysuckle and roses, intoxicatingly sweet after the sharp salt of the sea wind, laughing as they dusted aside drifts of white petals from the hedge. They ate a ploughman’s lunch sitting outside the pub in the sun, then walked on slowly through the village hand in hand, watching the tide lap up over the road and slowly draw back, leaving a shining trail of mud and weed. They hardly spoke at all as they walked along the point then back across the causeway to lie for a while side by side on the grass, dozing in the sun.

  It was dark before they once more found their dinghy and paddled out beneath the stars to find Moon Dancer swinging at her buoy. Jo lay back against the rounded rubber sides of the little boat and stared up at the sky. “Do you know the names of all the constellations?” she asked lazily in the silence.

  Nick looked up. “I used to. I’m always meaning to brush up on my astral navigation in case Dancer and I decide to head for deep water.”

  “Seriously?” She raised her head and looked at him.

  “Why not? I can think of worse things to do for a year. Let Jim take over the business.”

  She bit her lip silently, watching as he came alongside the boat and reached up to knot the painter to a stanchion. They climbed on board and Nick opened the hatchway to the cabin. Jo did not follow him below. She stood for a moment quite still in the cockpit, staring across the darkly gleaming water. Then she shivered.

  Nick had turned on the lights. “A nightcap before bed?” he called.

  She did not answer. She was watching the line of orange lights strung like beads along the main A27 at the end of the creek in the distance. With the wind off the sea she couldn’t hear the traffic. All she could hear was the occasional dull slap of water against the planking and a splash as a fish jumped in the darkness. Once more she looked up at the glitter of stars above them, with the broad swathe of the Milky Way like an untidy scarf of samite dragged across the midnight velvet of the sky.

  A cold breath of air touched her cheek and she heard the immediate chatter of the halyards against the mast and the chuckle of rippling water beneath the bow. As the wind came around, Moon Dancer turned a little across the tide. Somewhere in the dark a nightbird screamed.

  Jo climbed down into the cabin. Nick had put the kettle onto the little stove and was sitting on the bunk in the cramped cabin studying a chart of the Solent.

  “Would you like to dig out a couple of mugs?” He didn’t look up.

  She didn’t move for a moment then slowly she began to unbutton her shirt. She reached for the light switch and flipped it off.

  Nick looked up startled. “Hey!” He stopped.

  She took off her shirt and then her bra. He could see her breasts by the tiny light from the gas flame beneath the kettle. Holding his breath, he watched as she slipped off her jeans. Then she came and knelt in front of him.

  “I’m frightened, Nick,” she whispered. “It’s not all over. It all happened, all those years ago, and the echo of it is still out there.” She nodded toward the sky beyond the open hatch. “My destiny is somehow linked with a woman who lived and died eight hundred years before I was born. I can’t turn my back on her.”

  Nick was slowly unbuttoning his own shirt. Gently he reached out and touched her breasts.

  “I think you must, Jo. And I think you can.”

  He drew her between his knees, the angles of his face harsh in the blue light of the gas. “I’ll make you forget
. If it’s the last thing I do, I shall make you forget.”

  ***

  “Are you sure you don’t mind being hypnotized with Mr. Franklyn present?” Carl Bennet looked at Jo closely. Outwardly she was more relaxed than he had yet seen her. She was tanned and smiling, and yet he could sense a tension deep inside her that worried him.

  She nodded as she sat down. “I want Nick here, and you do understand I don’t want to be regressed anymore, Dr. Bennet. I want you to blot the whole thing out. Make me forget.”

  He nodded slowly. “It is the best thing, I think, my dear, although I must admit I am sorry in many ways. I had wanted an American colleague of mine to see you. I was talking to him in the States and he was hoping to fly over and see you himself—”

  “No!” Jo clenched her fists. “I’m sorry too, in a lot of ways. I wanted to know what happened, but I can’t take any more. I really can’t.” She looked at him earnestly. “It’s affecting my health and my work and, for all I know, my sanity as well, so please, put a stop to it now.”

  Bennet nodded. “Very well. I agree. So let us begin. I should like you to close your eyes, Joanna, and relax.” He was watching her hands, fisted in her lap. “Completely relax, beginning with your toes…”

  “It takes longer each time,” Sarah commented when Jo was at last in a deep trance.

  Carl nodded. “She is becoming more and more afraid of what might happen and fighting it. I doubt if we could have progressed much further with her in this state of mind anyway.”

  Jo was lying back in her chair passively, her eyes closed, her hands hanging loosely over the armrests. Nick had seated himself unobtrusively in a corner of the room, his eyes fixed on Jo’s face.

  “Do you think this will work?” he asked softly.

  Bennet shrugged. “It will if it is what she really wants.”

  He pulled up a chair next to Jo’s and took her hand gently. “Joanna, can you hear me?”

  Jo moved her head slightly. It might have been a nod.

  “And you are relaxed and comfortable, still thinking about your weekend at sea?”

  She smiled. This time the nod was more definite.

  “Good. Now I want you to listen to me, Jo. It is twenty-five days since I first saw you here and you were first regressed. Since then the regressions have caused you much unhappiness and pain. I want you to forget them now, because you yourself want to forget them. When you wake up you will remember only that you had a few strange unimportant dreams and in time even that memory will fade. Do you understand me, Joanna?”

  He paused, watching her closely. Jo was motionless but he could see the tension had returned to her hands. Abruptly she opened her eyes and looked at him. “I can’t forget them,” she said softly but distinctly.

  Bennet swallowed. “You must forget, Joanna. Matilda is dead. Let her rest.”

  Jo smiled sadly. “She cannot rest. I cannot rest…The story has to be told…” Her gaze slipped past him. “Don’t you see, I have to go back, to find out why it all happened. I have to remember. I have to live again that first meeting with John…”

  “Stop her!” Nick had jumped to his feet. “Stop her! She’s regressing on her own. Can’t you see?” He grabbed Jo by the shoulders. “Jo! Wake up! For God’s sake, wake up. Don’t do it!”

  “Leave her alone!” Bennet’s peremptory order cut through his shout. Jo had gone rigid in her chair, looking straight through him.

  “Jo.” It was Bennet who took hold of her now, forcing her to turn her head toward him. “Jo, I want you to listen to me…”

  ***

  “Listen to me! Listen!” William de Braose was standing in front of her, furious. “You will say nothing to the king of what happened on our journey, nothing, do you understand me?”

  For a moment Matilda felt the familiar surge of defiance. She met his gaze squarely, mocking his fear, then she looked away. If she fought with him now he would refuse to take her to the king’s presence, and that, above all, she wanted. Meekly she lowered her eyes. “I shall say nothing, my lord,” she whispered.

  Gloucester was crowded. The encampment of the king’s followers was laid out between the royal castle and the king’s palace north of the city where King Henry habitually held his Christmas courts, a colorful array of tents with the leopards of the king’s standard rippling from the flagstaff on the great central keep.

  As they had arrived they had glimpsed the gleaming Severn River with the fleet of royal galleys moored in lines to the quays, but it was evening before they reached it and the castle, and the de Braose tents were raised next to those of their Marcher neighbors, who had come to attend the betrothal of the king’s youngest son, John, to the Earl of Gloucester’s daughter, Isabella; and it was even later before William, arrayed in his finest clothes, took Matilda at last to wait upon the king.

  They found him in one of the upper rooms of the palace, seated at a large table on which were unrolled several maps. Beside him stood William Fitzherbert, Earl of Gloucester, who had arrived from his castle at Cardiff only two days previously, escorting his wife and small daughter, and several other nobles. Wine goblets had been used to hold maps flat as together they pored over the rough-drawn lines in the light of a cluster of great wax candles. There was no sign of Richard de Clare, she saw at a glance as she curtsied low before the king, her heart thumping nervously. She had so desperately hoped he would be there.

  “Glad to see you made it, Sir William.” Henry acknowledged his bow. “My son is to be your neighbor in the Marches if our plans work out and we get a dispensation for this marriage.” He peered at Matilda, half hidden behind her husband. “Your wife, Sir William? She can wait on young Isabella tomorrow. See if she can stop the wench blubbering.” He snorted, holding his hand out to Matilda, who came forward eagerly.

  “Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing low. She glanced up at the heavy lined face and wiry red hair dusted with white, and found the king surveying her closely with brilliant blue eyes. She sensed at once the appreciation in his gaze and uncertainly drew closer to her husband.

  “Your father, Sir Reginald, was a good man, my dear.” The king held on to her hand. “The best steward I’ve had to attend me. And you’ve the look of him about you.” He grinned at William. “Lucky man. She’s a lovely girl.”

  Matilda blushed and stepped back as the king released his grasp, glancing nervously up at him from lowered eyes, but already his attention was on the maps before him once more. William was drawn immediately into the discussion around the table, so she moved quietly to the hearth, where the king’s two great sable dogs lay basking in the heat, and she stood gazing down into the flames, wondering whether she should withdraw.

  A moment later a door near her was flung open and a boy came striding into the room. He stopped short and looked her up and down arrogantly.

  “I saw you this afternoon with Sir William’s party,” he announced, coming to stand near her. His sandy hair was disarrayed and damp from riding in the rain. “Your mare was lame. You should have dismounted and led her.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Matilda blushed hotly. “She was not lame.”

  “She was.” He made a face at her. “I saw her. She was stumbling badly.”

  “She was tired.” Matilda was furiously indignant. “There was nothing whatsoever wrong with her. I should never have ridden her if there was.” She looked at the boy with dislike, noting his torn tunic and the scuffed shoes. “Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with you. You’ve no business to tell me what I should or should not do.” Her voice had risen slightly and she was conscious suddenly of a silence at the table behind her.

  She turned, embarrassed, and met the king’s cool gaze as he surveyed her, one eyebrow raised, over the maps.

  “I hope my son is not being a nuisance, Lady de Braose,” he commented quietly. And then, louder: “Come here, John.”

  Matilda gasped and, blushing, looked back at the prince, but already he had turned his back on her and gone to sta
nd beside his father. From the safety of his position at the king’s side he stuck out his tongue defiantly.

  His father may not have seen, but one or two of the others at the table certainly had, including William. She saw him glare sharply at the boy, raising his hand as if he wanted to clout him, then, obviously remembering where he was, he too bent once again to the map before him. The king, suppressing with difficulty the amusement in his face, bowed slightly toward Matilda and once more lowered his own eyes. Her cheeks flaming, she turned back to the fire, wishing she could run from the room.

  “He’s an odious, precocious little prig,” she burst out later to Elen when she was at last back in her tent. She turned so that the woman could begin to unlace her gown. “Heaven help that poor child Isabella if they are to be wed. The boy needs a thrashing.”

  “Hush!” Elen, frightened, glanced around. “You can’t tell who might be listening out there, my lady. It would do no good to speak ill of the prince. No good at all.”

  “Prince!” Matilda snorted, beginning to tug at the braid in her hair. “He behaves more like a stableboy, except that he knows nothing about horses. Nothing!”

  “He rides very well though, so I’ve heard.” Elen gathered up the rich folds of material as her mistress stepped out of the dress. “He’s as daring as any of his brothers, although they’re so much older.”

  “Daring may be.” Matilda was not to be placated. The hidden smiles of the men at the table still rankled, as did the look of amusement in the cold eyes of Henry himself. “He has no business to accuse me of riding a lame horse and making me look a fool in front of William and the king.” There was a suspicious prickling behind her eyes, and she rubbed them fretfully with the back of her hand. “It’s humiliating.”

  “Hush, my lady, he’s only a boy.” Elen opened a coffer and rummaged through the contents, looking for a comb. “Forget it. Think about tomorrow instead, and the lovely ceremonies and the banquet after. It’ll all be so beautiful, indeed it will. I’ve never seen so many people and so much grandeur in all my life.”

  Matilda threw her a fond smile in spite of her vexation and sat down abruptly on one of the folding chairs so that Elen could reach to comb her hair. The pink cheeks of the Welsh girl glowed with excitement in the cold air of the dimly lit tent, and she remembered suddenly that for her too tomorrow was to be a great day. It was the first time she had attended court, and it was foolish to let the boy’s deliberate taunts spoil what was to be such an exciting day—even if that boy was also the king’s youngest son, the afterthought child of Henry and his formidable queen, Eleanor. And if the boy was to be the hero of that day, well, as William pointed out, it was probably the most exciting day he would ever have, except for the wedding itself, as the center of attention. What chance had he of shining in his own right with three splendid and magnificent brothers so much older than himself?