Lady of Hay

  Jo froze, staring at him. “You’re out of your mind! You’re talking as if he’s a real man, which he isn’t. And even if he were, it would be none of your business! You and I are through, Nick. Finished. How many more times do I have to say it?” She flung herself toward the front door and dragged it as far open as it would go. “Please, will you go now?”

  Nick did not move. “Have you seen him again?”

  “You really are going mad!” She stared at him in frightened despair. “As you just pointed out, I missed my appointment with Carl, so of course I haven’t seen him. How could I?” There was no way she was going to tell Nick what had happened in Hay. “Look. If you won’t go, then I shall—”

  She broke off with a little frightened cry as he moved toward her with astounding swiftness and, putting his hand against the front door, pushed it closed. He gave a tired smile. “Don’t worry, Jo, I’m not going to touch you.”

  Staring up at him, she was overwhelmed suddenly by pity as she recognized the deep unhappiness in his eyes behind the closed, hard mask.

  “Nick,” she said, trying to keep the ache of longing out of her voice. “What has happened to you? Where are you? You never used to be like this.”

  “Maybe you weren’t two-timing me before.” He turned away from her and stood in the middle of the room, his back to her, his arms folded across his chest. “And maybe I hadn’t just lost my biggest client before. Losing that account could mean we fold. Desco more or less carried the firm.”

  “I told you, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But you’ll find other clients. Look, I’m tired out. Can we talk tomorrow perhaps? I could meet you for lunch or something.”

  “I’ll take you out to dinner this evening. Please come, Jo.”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay. Give me a few minutes to change.”

  When she emerged at last Nick was sitting waiting for her, a book in his hands. Recognizing it, she glanced at her bag, still lying where she had dropped it in the doorway. Sure enough it was open and a pile of guidebooks and maps had spilled across the floor.

  “You’ve been to Hay-on-Wye?” Nick asked, slowly flipping the book shut and letting it fall onto the coffee table.

  She nodded mutely.

  “Why on earth didn’t you say so? What happened?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing much. I went to Abergavenny first, where”—she hesitated—“where Matilda spent so much time, to stay with an old school friend, and then they sent me on to Hay. I wanted to make notes for the article.”

  “And did you recognize anything?”

  “Not even vaguely familiar. It had all changed so much.” She was watching him while she was talking. The tension in his face had eased.

  He walked across to the French windows. After drawing back the curtains, he threw them open and walked out onto the balcony. “I’m going to have to go to the States in a week or two,” he said over his shoulder, “to see if I can win that other account we’ve been angling for. If I could get that, it would more than make up for losing Desco. And I haven’t totally given up on Mike Desmond yet—if I can only concentrate.” He frowned. “Oh, God, Jo. What is the matter with me? I know I’m behaving crazily.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

  Jo followed him outside. “You’re tired, I expect,” she said at last.

  He shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s as if—” He tightened his lips angrily. “No, no excuses. It’s me. Some foul-tempered, vicious part of me. A part of me I don’t understand.” Absently he picked a bloom from the passion flower that trailed from an ornamental urn across the stone railings around the balcony. He scrutinized it carefully. “There is something rather horrible about these,” he said after a moment, thoughtfully. “They’re like wax. So perfect; so symmetrical, they don’t look real. And all that symbolism. Nails, whips, blood, and wounds.” He flicked it with his finger. Then he looked up suddenly with another lightning change of subject. “You remember your meeting with Prince John?”

  Jo nodded, trying to ignore the sudden tightening of her stomach muscles at the mention of John’s name. She watched as Nick leaned over the balcony and let the flower drop. It spun crazily as it fell, hit the railings below, and disappeared into the dark basement area.

  “You didn’t like him much, as I recall.”

  “Not me, Nick. Matilda,” Jo corrected him gently. “No, she didn’t. He was an utterly obnoxious child.”

  Nick picked off another flower-head. “Look, they’re beginning to close for the evening.” He held it in his palm for a moment before dropping it after the first. “Have you come across him again yet?”

  “Who?”

  “John.”

  Jo shook her head. “Don’t let’s talk about Matilda anymore, please. She doesn’t bring out the best in either of us.” Jo glanced at her watch. “Why don’t we walk up the road slowly? I’m ravenous.”

  ***

  She was very tired. She glanced at Nick across the table in the dim candlelight, watching the shadows playing on his face as he ate. He reached for his glass and raised it so that the candle reflected ruby glints off the Valpolicella. “Shall we drink to new beginnings?” he said, looking at her at last.

  She smiled. “To your new account. May it be so huge you can afford two more Porsches!”

  He laughed. “To that also. But I really meant to us. I didn’t mean to hurt you the other night, Jo.”

  She looked away abruptly. “You damn well did, though.”

  “Will you give me another chance?” His eyes sought and held hers. They were almost transparent in their clarity in the candlelight. Unwillingly she put down her fork and almost without realizing she had done it, she moved her hand slowly across the table. He grasped it, his eyes still fixed on hers. “Can you forgive me, Jo?”

  The touch of his fingers sent little tingles of excitement up and down her spine. With an effort she tore her gaze away. Between them the candle guttered violently above its strangely shaped sculpture of dripped wax. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “Nick, I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll make it up to you, Jo. I make no excuses. I don’t know what happened.” He moved his thumb slowly across her palm toward her wrist. “But I will make it up to you, if you will let me.”

  She was shaken by the wave of longing that flooded through her as his hand moved on lightly up the inside of her forearm, touching the rough scab that had formed over the gash there.

  Slowly she shook her head. “It won’t work, Nick. We don’t belong together,” she whispered. Her hand still lay beneath his on the table. “It was never meant to be.” Tearing her eyes away from his face, she looked back at the candle, concentrating on the white heat at the center of the flame.

  “It was meant to be, Jo.” His words floated almost silently into her consciousness. “You are fighting your destiny, don’t you see?”

  She didn’t answer. Unblinking, she went on staring at the flame. The silence stretched between them.

  “What are you seeing, Jo?” Nick’s voice came to her at last from a great distance. “Perhaps it’s John. Why don’t you spare a few dreams from Richard de Clare and think about Prince John…”

  ***

  The outer bailey of Winchester Castle, below the squat tower of the new cathedral, was busy with horses and grooms. Beside Matilda, William pulled up his horse and threw his leg stiffly over the pommel. It would be good to have a few days’ rest before going on to Bramber, where the old baron, his father, had at long last died.

  “Whose men are those?” he inquired curtly, seeing some of the crowd without livery as his page ran to help him.

  “Prince John’s, my lord,” the boy whispered hoarsely. “The king’s son has come to hunt the New Forest.”

  William snorted. “That young hound. It’s time he went to hunt himself some bigger game in France.” He gave his arm to his wife and led her toward the hall. “But if it’s to mean some good hunting in the king’s forest, then I’l
l forgive him his presence here.” And, chuckling, he went to greet his host.

  Prince John had grown considerably since his betrothal three years before. He was still stocky and short for his age, but his face had fined down, losing the puppy fat that had marred his features, and his hair was the red-gold of his father’s. He seemed pleased to see the newcomers at the evening meal in the great hall that night.

  “Sir William, it’s good to have you here,” he exclaimed, leaning across his neighbor and gazing intently into the older man’s face. “I trust you are fully recovered from your wounds? That was a sorry business, when the men of Gwent attacked Dingestow and killed Poer.” He smiled grimly. “God rot them! You were lucky to escape.

  “You will join us, I hope, for the hunt tomorrow? Then we’ll have the chance to see your prowess.” He selected a piece of meat from the plate and chewed it thoughtfully, the rings on his fingers winking in the candlelight. Beyond her husband, who seemed flattered by the boy’s attention, Matilda could see little of the prince, and she sat back, not wanting to attract his attention. Her memories of him were not particularly pleasant. She had often thought of young Isabella as she heard of the king’s youngest son traveling around England, enjoying himself in one great castle after another, sometimes in the company of Ranulf Glanville, who was acting as his tutor, sometimes with only his attendants and his favored groom, William Franceis. Her husband, who had met him often, liked the boy and spoke well of his promise, but she could not help thinking of the heart-rending scenes before the betrothal ceremony had taken place. She knew the child was safe at home in Cardiff, still with her mother, but the poignancy of the memory had been aggravated by the rumor that had reached her at Hay that the Earl of Clare was negotiating to marry Isabella’s elder sister, Amicia. Desperately she tried to dismiss the thought of Richard from her mind, and, pushing aside her dish, she concentrated on the activity in the center of the smoky hall below the dais, where a singer with a harp was being ushered forward to entertain the guests. Her vow to think no more of Richard had been often and badly broken, but somehow through the years she had avoided seeing him alone.

  The glittering crowd of nobles and their attendants gathered outside the castle at sunup the next morning. The air was full of excitement shared by the nervously curveting horses and the barking hounds. Matilda reined in her black mare tightly; the horse was already frothing at the mouth, her hooves beating rhythmically on the slippery cobblestones.

  Prince John, dressed splendidly in brocade trimmed with ermine, was mounted on a tall raw-boned chestnut stallion two hands too high for him, but he reined it in savagely as it plunged beside the other horses. Already William was there beside the prince, and she saw John turn and grin at her husband and shout some good-humored jest when he was not preoccupied with staying on his horse. It seemed the boy had taken a fancy to William, and she saw scowls among the prince’s friends as de Braose took the coveted position at John’s side.

  Then they were off, horses, hounds, riders, and foot followers pounding out of the gates and across the bare ground to the west of the town that separated the castle from the outskirts of the forest. The pace increased to a gallop. Matilda bent low over the mare’s neck, excited at the prospect of the chase, intent on keeping up with the leaders as they plunged into the cool leanness of the trees. Almost at once the hounds found a scent and their excited yelping turned to a full-throated roar. The huntsmen picked up the notes on their horns and the horsemen thundered after them down the grassy ride.

  It was the first day of the season and they killed plentifully before turning their tired horses at last for home. The main party of riders split up into small groups as they walked back through the leafy glades dappled with the evening sunlight. Matilda was exhausted, and she had allowed her mare to drop behind the others a little and pick her own way quietly over the soft paths between the trees, when there was a thunder of hooves behind her. As she turned to draw out of the way of the hurrying rider, she found Prince John at her side. He reined in and grinned at her.

  “A good start to the season, my lady. I trust you enjoyed your day?” His surcoat was stained with blood and the blade of his knife sheathed carelessly in his girdle showed an encrustation of gore.

  She returned his smile cautiously. “It was a good day’s hunting, Your Highness. I’m glad you were at Winchester. William always says there is some of the finest hunting in the land here.”

  “Ah, yes, the good Sir William.” The boy eyed her thoughtfully. “He’s a fine man and good with his bow, and he’s a lucky man too, to have so beautiful a wife.” He glanced at her sideways.

  The ride narrowed and as the horses jostled for position his thigh for a moment brushed against hers. She felt a surge of repugnance. Was the silly boy trying to flirt with her? She forced herself to smile. “You are very flattering, Your Highness, thank you.”

  After a few paces, to her relief, the path broadened and she was able to guide the mare away from him a little.

  “Sir William keeps you too much in those border lands of his,” John went on thoughtfully. “You should come to my father’s court with him.”

  “Oh, I stay on the estates because I want to. I hate court.” Matilda was thinking wistfully of the times she had chosen not to go rather than risk meeting Richard; not wanting to see the king. She paused abruptly, seeing the prince scowling furiously, and cursed herself for her tactlessness. “But of course,” she hurried on, trying to cover her mistake hastily, “I am much honored when I have a special invitation…”

  “Honored but not pleased, it seems,” he interrupted, his tone sarcastic. He stood up in his stirrups, reaching for a leafy branch and pulling it down as he rode under it. His horse shied, and John laughed. He seemed to make up his mind to try a different tack. “You’re a lady who knows her own mind, I think.” He reined his horse close to hers once more, “And too young and beautiful to be content with so coarse a husband. I wonder if perhaps a lusty prince would be more to your liking?” He leaned across and put his hand on her thigh.

  Matilda was overcome with anger. Not stopping to think, she raised her whip and thwacked him smartly across the wrist with the handle. “I don’t think you realize what you’re suggesting, my lord,” she flashed at him. “Do you wish to dishonor the wife of one of your father’s most loyal subjects?”

  Her fury dissolved suddenly at the sight of his red, discomfited face, and she tried to suppress a gurgle of laughter. He was, after all, but a boy. “I am sorry, my lord prince. It is just that you were only a child when last I saw you, and now—” Her words died on her lips at the sight of his face.

  It was white with fury as he groped blindly for his reins, spluttering as he tried to speak. “God’s teeth,” he managed at last. “Not so much of a child, madam, that I don’t know how to deflower a woman or father a brat, I assure you.”

  He pulled his horse to a savage halt, which sent it rearing and plunging sideways against the bushes at the edge of the path, and, giving her one murderous glance as he turned, he sent his horse galloping back down the ride.

  Matilda let her mare stand for a moment as she realized, with a shock, that she was shaking from head to foot. She knew she had been a fool. She could have put him off tactfully without making an enemy of him. “An enemy for life.” She murmured the words to herself, watching the mare’s ears twitch at the sound of her voice, and she shook her head, trying to throw off an irrational feeling of fear. How stupid, to let a little incident ruin a beautiful and exciting day. Taking a deep breath, she gathered up her reins and turned once more to follow the sounds of the other riders, slowly making their way back toward Winchester.

  She told William what had happened when they were alone together in their guest chamber that night. To her surprise he threw back his head and laughed.

  “The young puppy!” he said. “The runt of the litter and he fancies his chances with my wife. You should be very flattered, my dear. Prince John has an eye for a pretty woman.??
?

  “But he’s only a child,” she burst out. “If it wasn’t so funny, it would be disgusting.”

  “I’d bedded women and plenty by his age.” William unfastened his mantle and threw it down. “Take no notice, Moll. Think of it as a compliment. He’s spoiled and, as the king’s son, few women refuse him. It’s about the only benefit he does get from his position, poor lad. He’s not yet learned enough discretion to know whose wife he can wheedle and whose he can’t. He’ll know next time.” He laughed again.

  For the remainder of their stay at Winchester John ostentatiously ignored Matilda and as obviously courted the attention of her husband. The sturdy baron was constantly required by his side, instructing, joking, even lecturing the boy, clapping him on his shoulders and laughing uproariously at his comments. Matilda watched silently as John listened and smiled, never totally unbending, but always allowing William to feel he had his confidence and his friendship, and she found herself wondering if the boy was quite as naive as William thought.

  On the next hunting expedition she took care to remain in the center of a crowd of women followers, not once allowing her weary horse to drop back alone. She need not have worried. John went out of his way to avoid her, remaining constantly with his lords and William and the leading huntsmen.

  When they left for Bramber Castle John bade William an almost affectionate good-bye. To Matilda he extended a cold, hostile hand, and when she curtsied and murmured the appropriate words of farewell he turned away without a word.

  ***

  “Has madam finished?”

  Jo stared up with a start. The waiter was standing beside her, his hand on her plate. The food on it was practically untouched.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was very good. I’m just not hungry.”

  She looked across at Nick. He was watching her through narrowed eyes, twisting his empty glass thoughtfully between his fingers.

  “You hypnotized me!” She gasped.

  He shook his head. “I did nothing. I merely sat here and listened. Two coffees, please, and the bill.” He looked up at the waiter. Then he turned his attention back to Jo. He smiled faintly. “You were what I believe is called scrying, seeing pictures in the candle flame. No doubt you could see them in a crystal ball as well. You must be psychic!”