His eyes gleamed with excitement as the bird plummeted down. “A kill,” he murmured exultantly under his breath. He urged his horse forward into the breast-high bracken, the winged lure dangling from his fingers.
Matilda followed him, her eyes fixed on his broad shoulders, and she breathed deeply and exultantly in the sharp air, almost laughing out loud as she kicked her pony on and felt the wind lifting her veil, teasing, trying to dislodge her hair.
It was a good morning’s sport. When they drew rein at midday the party was tired and hot. Richard slid from his saddle, then threw the rein to a groom and went to lie facedown on the grass beside a tiny upland brook. He grinned up at her, shaking the water from his eyes. “Come and bathe your face. It’s gloriously cool.”
Their attendants drew back into the shadow of a group of trees with the birds and Matilda, who had been watching as her horse was led away, dropped on her knees beside him and let her fingers play for a moment in the water. The mountain stream was very cold and within minutes her hands were aching with it. He laughed at her. “How improper! My Lady de Braose, paddling in the water like a child!”
She laughed a little guiltily. “I wish I could throw all my clothes off and jump in like a boy.”
“Please do, madam. I should not object.” He grinned shamelessly. She could not be angry with him. “God, Matilda,” he went on, suddenly serious. “Would that you were not de Braose’s wife.” His voice took on a new note that frightened her. She glanced up apprehensively and found him gazing at her, the message in his eyes plain. “Let’s walk in the woods a little way away from this rabble that always follows us. I must talk to you freely. Alone.”
“No!” Her voice was firm, although her heart was beating fast. She wanted so much to throw caution aside and do as he asked. “No, not again, we mustn’t. We mustn’t as long as my husband lives.” She rose, brushing the loose grass from her kirtle. “Please, don’t ever speak of it again. Many things I would dare in this world, but I must not dishonor William again.” She turned toward the trees, biting her lips miserably, wishing he had not spoken, but he had scrambled after her. He seized her hand.
“It is too late to speak of dishonor, Matilda. You are mine in your heart, and in your eyes when you look at me, and in your dreams. I know it.” Careless of who might still be able to see them, he pulled her to him, seeking her mouth with his own, caressing her shoulders gently as he pressed her against him.
She gave a little shudder of longing. “We must not,” she murmured, her lips against his. “Such love will be cursed.”
“Rubbish.” His grip was more insistent now. He bent and, flinging his arm behind her knees, he scooped her off her feet. She gave a little cry of protest, but he ignored it, carrying her down the bank of the brook and wading across the gurgling water to the shelter of some gorse bushes on the far side. There he laid her on the ground. He reached for his belt and unbuckled it, laying his sword aside, then he bent over her once more, covering her face with kisses, his hands feeling for her breasts in the low neckline of her gown. She gasped with pleasure, her arms encircling his neck, drawing him down toward her as she felt him fumbling with her long skirts. All sense of caution was gone. She did not care who saw them as he took her swiftly, bringing her again and again to the giddy climax of excitement. Once, as her back arched against him, her hips moving with his, she opened her eyes, dazzled by the brilliant blue sky above them. For a moment she stiffened as something moved—a shadow against the sun—then the thrusting excitement within her claimed her whole attention once more and she fell helplessly into the tide of her passion.
When at last Richard raised his head he was smiling. “So, my lady, you are mine.” He dropped his head to nuzzle her throat.
She stroked his hair gently, still trembling. “If I am discovered, William will kill me,” she whispered.
“William is in France. He’ll not find out,” he said, sitting up slowly. “No one has noticed our departure. If they have, we’ll say we were scouting for cover later in the day. Come.” He stood up and held out his hand to help her rise. “Let us go and eat, my lady. Love gives a man an appetite!”
They walked slowly toward the clearing. By the trees Matilda halted and beckoned the food baskets forward with an imperious wave of her hand, aware that many eyes had been watching them and had probably missed nothing of their disappearance. Aware too that Richard was looking at her with eyes that made her shiver with desire. Only the slightly heightened color in her cheeks betrayed her inner turmoil as she stood haughtily by as the cloth was laid on the ground.
She glanced at Richard again. Outwardly at least he was calm now. He sat on a rocky outcrop of the bank, his tunic unlaced at the throat, his hand held out carelessly for the wine his page brought him. Catching her eye, suddenly he grinned again and raised the cup in half salute. “To the afternoon’s sport, my lady.”
She turned away abruptly and watched as the austringers settled their frames beneath the shade. The hawks huddled disconsolately on their perches, sleepy in the heat. Around them the grooms sprawled, shading their eyes from the light that pierced the high branches of the Scots pines, chewing on their pasties. The air was heavy with the scent of pine needles and dry grass.
The riders were upon them before anyone knew it. A party of a dozen or so, wearing the light arms of the Welsh, bows strung around their shoulders, their drawn blades glinting in the sun. Their leader drew to a halt before Matilda and Richard, the hooves of his sturdy pony dancing only inches from the edge of the white cloth on the grass. He saluted and sheathed his sword with a grave smile. Behind them their startled attendants stood helpless, guarded by drawn swords.
“Henpych gwell, arglwyddes. Yd oedd gennwch y hela da? Balch iawn yw dy hebogeu.” The man was swarthy. He had wavy hair and was dressed in glowing purple. “Greetings, lady; has your hunting been good?” he went on in flawless French. “I trust the sport of my mountains does me credit. I see your kill has been substantial.” He nodded in the direction of the birds that lay trussed for carrying beside one of the grooms.
He eyed Matilda slowly, taking in the tall, slim figure with the bronze hair beneath the veil. “My Lady de Braose, if I’m not mistaken? I am Einion ap Einion Clud, Prince of Elfael.” He bowed gravely in the saddle. “I was told you were in residence in Hay. May I ask when your husband is to join you there?” His eyes, green as the sunlight in the moss below the waters of the brook, were suddenly amused.
Matilda colored violently. This man had seen them. She knew it without a doubt. He had seen them make love. A quick glance at Richard showed her that he still sat, unarmed, wine cup in hand, on his rock. The set of his lips and the dangerous gleam in his eyes were the only signs that he was angered by the interruption.
“It was good of you to ride to greet us, Prince Einion,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an iron effort of will. “My husband is at present in service with the king. May I ask what you want of him? Perhaps a message could be sent.” Her face was haughty as she gazed at the man. The amusement in his face had gone. It was replaced by something hard and frightening. She refused to allow the suspicion of terror that gnawed suddenly at the back of her mind to show as stubbornly she held his gaze.
“It is a matter of a small debt, my lady. The kin of Seisyll of Gwent are unavenged. Do not think that the matter, of however little consequence, is forgotten.” His voice was level and light in spite of the irony in his words. “Think about it when you roam about my hills, and bid your men keep watch over their shoulders. I doubt if any of them could willingly lose a hand even in the defense of your gracious person.” He bowed again, mocking. She swallowed, clenching her fists to stop her hands from shaking. The moor was uncannily silent for a moment, then suddenly, close by, came the harsh grating call of a corncrake. Einion’s horse threw up its head and whinnied. Instantly his mood seemed to change. He smiled a warm smile and raised his hand. “Good hunting, my lady,” he murmured, inclining his head. “I trust your s
port is as rewarding this afternoon! Farewell. Duw a ro da it!” He threw back his head and laughed, then with a wave of his arm he called his men to him and they turned as one and galloped up the hill in a cloud of dust and vanished over the skyline, leaving the moorlands empty.
Richard sprang for his sword, which had been resting only feet from his hand against a rock. “My God, I thought we were done for.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’d heard that he had succeeded his father. He’s a firebrand, that young man. Out for trouble. I doubt if Rhys will keep him in check for long. He honors the blood feud, it seems.”
“The galanas, they call it,” Matilda repeated softly. She gazed down into the swiftly running water for a moment. “He saw us, Richard. He saw us making love.”
Richard glanced at her, his face grim. “Come, I’ll take you back. Mount up. We return to Hay at once.” He flung instructions over his shoulder at the frightened huddle of followers who waited beneath the trees. “It appears that you are not included in his particular feud,” he said quietly, eyeing her gravely as a groom ran up with their horses.
“I was there when Seisyll died, but I knew nothing of William’s plans,” she said wearily. “A Welsh boy guided me over the hill to Tretower. He said they had no quarrel with me then, but…” She shivered. “Richard, you heard what he said about the hands. It must have been his men who brought that dreadful burden to Gloucester.”
He shrugged. “As likely one as another. They are all related, these Welsh princes. They all remember the blood feud when it suits them.”
He helped her into the saddle and then swung himself onto his own horse. “But it’s a warning. Peace there may be officially, but never again should you venture into these hills without a full escort. Remember that.”
They rode swiftly and uneasily back across the moor through the bracken and the woods into the village of Clyro and down across the low hill toward the ford, the lazy good humor of the morning completely gone.
The heat haze had again obscured the mountains and a heavy thundery cloud mass was building up beyond the closer hills.
Matilda rode into the outer ward of Hay castle with relief. She slid from her horse, ignoring Richard, who had sprung forward to help her, and ran toward the children’s lodging. A terrible thought had come to her as they rode home. The children. William’s children for Seisyll’s. Would that be a fair exchange?
The elder little boy was playing in the dust with two companions at Jeanne’s feet.
“Is Will all right?” It was many months since she had felt that terrible throat-constricting fear for her eldest son.
“Of course, my lady, why not?” The old woman looked up with a peaceful smile.
Matilda gave a sigh of relief. She might be spared from the galanas as Gwladys, Seisyll’s wife, had been spared. But two of Seisyll’s children had died, and she knew the Welsh would be scrupulous in their revenge.
She heard Richard’s quick step behind her. “What is it? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “They’re fine.” She smiled at him. “A foolish mother’s sudden fears, that is all.” She fell to her knees and hugged Will close to her, feeling the softness of his hair against her mouth.
The little boy wriggled free almost at once and staggered a few steps away from her before sitting down and running the dust once more delightedly through his fingers. Matilda looked up smiling. Her smile faded as she noticed Jeanne’s calculating eye on Richard. The old woman’s face had contracted into a passive mask and Matilda recognized suspicion and hatred in her eyes. Abruptly she remembered the strange events of the night before. She had been inclined to dismiss them that morning as a dream. But it had not been a dream at all. It had been Jeanne. She sighed. If the magic the old woman had woven was a spell to prevent her mistress feeling the pangs of love for this tall, handsome man, it hadn’t worked, she thought sadly. For once, Jeanne, my old friend, your magic is not strong enough to save me.
She picked herself up wearily from the dust, and, shaking out her pale green skirts, she turned and walked toward her own lodgings, leaving Richard standing in the sun.
Behind her she could hear a voice calling suddenly. She stopped and hesitated, wanting to turn, but she was afraid that if she looked at Richard he would follow her inside. The voice was insistent. Someone was running after her. She felt a hand touch her shoulder and heard the soft lilt of a Welsh voice calling her…
***
“Are you all right? Come on there, wake up, my lovely. Come on.” The voice swam up again out of the shadows then receded. “You’d best go and find a doctor, Alan.” Someone was bending over her. Jo opened her eyes slowly. She was lying on the shingle near the river. With an exclamation of fright she sat up, her head swimming. The afternoon had gone. The sun was setting in a sea of golden cloud and two complete strangers were kneeling beside her at the river’s edge.
20
The blank canvas beckoned. Judy was standing in front of it, eating a hunk of cheese, the structure of the painting floating in her head, ready to be trapped and laid on the naked background. She had changed her position slightly, studying the fall of light, when something distracted her and she turned toward the door of the studio, frowning. There was someone standing on the landing outside, his weight on the creaky board.
“Who is it?” she called. She put the last piece of cheese into her mouth and wiped her fingers on the seat of her jeans.
There was no reply. Frowning, she moved toward the door. “Is there someone there?” she said. She pulled it open, irritated at the interruption.
Nick was standing, looking out of the high landing window at the sloping rooftops of the house backs. He turned slowly and looked at her without a word. “Oh, no, it’s you. What do you want?” Judy glared at him, determined he would not see the hurt and longing that rose to the surface at the sight of him.
“I thought I would see if you had got back from France safely,” he said. He did not smile at her.
“As you see, I did.” She put her hands on her hips.
“Judy—” He came toward her suddenly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you like that. It was a lousy thing to do after you had come out to join me. We’d had a good time.”
“Until someone mentioned Joanna.” Judy stood by the door holding it open as he walked past her into the studio. “How is Jo?”
Nick shrugged. “She’s gone off somewhere. Is this going to be the new painting?” He was standing in front of the blank canvas.
“No. It’s going to be a sculpture in bronze.” Her voice was sharp with sarcasm. “So Jo is missing and you decided to visit the first reserve. Dear old unfussy Judy, always there to pat your head and make a man of you again.” She was still standing by the door. “I’m sorry, Nick, but I’d like you to leave.”
He walked back toward her. “Can I have a drink first?” There was a new harshness in his voice as he pulled her hand from the door latch abruptly and hurled the door shut. “A drink, Judy.”
She took a step back in astonishment. “All right! Steady. How much have you had already?”
“Nothing. I’ve been in the office all morning trying to sort out the screw-up Jim Greerson’s made of our best account and I’m going back there this afternoon. This visit”—he waved his arm around the studio—“is lunch.”
“Then I’ll get you some food.”
“I said a drink.” His eyes were hard.
“Okay. A drink.” Judy was staring at him as she groped behind her in a cabinet and found a whisky bottle. “I’ll fetch some glasses.”
“Do that.” Nick had not moved. He was looking at the blank canvas with the same intensity he would normally have given to a painting. His head ached, and he knew he was tense and irritable and that it had been a mistake to come. He wasn’t sure why he had. His desire for Judy had gone and yet he had found himself hailing a taxi and giving her address automatically, compelled by a need to be with her that he could not defi
ne or understand.
“So what’s wrong? Apart from the office, I mean?” Judy poured half an inch into the glass and handed it to him.
He drank it quickly and held it out to her again. As she was pouring he caught her wrist, forcing her to slop the whisky until the glass was almost full.
“Careful! Look what you’ve done!” she cried.
“Shut up, Judy,” he said, bored. “One tumblerful is the same as the sum of all the prissy little doses you’re going to give me one by one.”
“I am not going to hand you little doses one by one. If you drink that lot on an empty stomach you’ll be flat on your back!”
“Fine. With you in my arms?”
“No!” She took the glass out of his hand and put it down with a bang on the table. “Please leave now, Nick.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I mean it!” She bit back sudden angry tears. “Please get out of here. Go back to your office and sort out your problems there, not in my studio.”
She pulled the door open and stood by it. “I mean it!”
For a moment he hesitated, then he picked up the whisky glass, took a couple of gulps from it, put it down, and strode past her to the door.
“I thought you wanted me back,” he said softly as he stood for a moment looking down at her.
“Out, Nick,” she repeated.
He shrugged, then, with a strangely grating laugh, he walked past her and out onto the landing.