Margiad raised a brisk eyebrow. “Who by?”
“A woman who died nearly eight hundred years ago.”
“You mean you’ve seen her?”
Jo frowned. “She’s not a ghost. Not an external thing at all. She’s inside me. Somewhere in my mind—memories…” She put down her glass and put her hands over her eyes. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m mad.”
Margiad shook her head slowly. “I told my Doreen that you had a fey look about you when first I saw you. You’ve Welsh blood in you, haven’t you, for all your English way of talking?”
Jo groped in her pocket for a tissue. Not finding one, she stood up and tore a paper towel from the roll over the sink. “I think I must have,” she said slowly.
“It is like that with a lot of Celtic people,” Margiad said comfortably. “They have the sight. It is not easy for those who cannot control it, but you must learn to live with it. Don’t fight what’s in you, girl. Accept it as a gift from God.”
“But I’m not foreseeing the future,” Jo said in anguish. “Though, God knows, perhaps that would be even worse. I’m seeing the past! In great detail.”
“Then, there’s a reason for it. A truth to be learned, an injustice to be righted—who knows?” Stiffly Margiad stood up. She disappeared into her sitting room and Jo could hear her rummaging around in a drawer. A moment later she returned. In her hands was an old leather-covered Bible. She thrust it at Jo. “Pray if you can, girl. If you can’t, just put it under your pillows. It’ll ward off the bad dreams. Now, I’ve a nice stew cooking. It’ll be ready in an hour, so you go up and have a hot bath and put all this out of your head!”
***
Nick lay back on his hotel bed and tore off his tie. His shirt was damp from the heat of the sidewalk outside and he was sweating and uncomfortable but, for the moment, he was too exhausted even to go and stand under the cold shower. He put his arm across his eyes. The presentation had gone well; he should be elated. He listened wearily to the wail of a police siren fifteen floors below on Lexington Avenue.
He was almost asleep when the phone rang beside him. He rolled over onto his elbows and picked up the receiver.
“Nick?” It was Jim Greerson. “How did it go?”
Nick lay back. “Okay. I think things are looking hopeful. How about your end?”
“I had dinner with Mike Desmond as arranged last night. I groveled a bit more, old boy, and then I told him what an ass he was, chucking the best up-and-coming firm in London just because we’d given a break to a new fellow. I told him we’d supervise a new campaign for him personally.” He hesitated. “When I say we, I actually said you.”
“And?” Nick crossed his ankle over his raised knee. He was gazing up at the ceiling.
“He’s not too pleased with the service he’s got so far from you know who. I gather he expected them to jump once they’d got a sniff of the account, instead of which, according to him, they send some teenybopper copywriter over. I saw him at a good psychological moment. Besides which, he said he couldn’t pass up the opportunity of being serviced by royalty.” Jim sniggered.
“Royalty?” Nick leaned over and reached for the jug of orange juice on the bedside table. “What royalty? Don’t tell me Prince Edward has decided to become an adman?”
“No, old son. You.”
“Me?”
“Your secret life. You mean you don’t know it’s blown? It’s all over the papers here, for God’s sake. The Mail had it on Thursday and the Standard on Friday.”
Nick sat up. “What secret life? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Hang on, hang on. I’ll find the page and read it to you. Bear with me, old boy. It’s midnight here, and I’ve had a hard day.”
Nick lay still, his eyes closed, as Jim read the piece to him over the transatlantic line. He felt completely detached, as if the person being talked about were someone else. He was not surprised, not even indignant. Merely very, very weary.
When Jim finished there was a brief silence. “Is it all true, old boy?” Jim said tentatively after a moment.
“It’s true that I let my brother hypnotize me, yes,” Nick said curtly. “As to what happened, you’ll have to ask him. I remember nothing about it. It all seems very far-fetched.” He heard himself laugh. “I suppose Judy Curzon is responsible for this. I’ll wring her neck when I get back.”
“Better send her to the Tower, old boy, it’s more in character.” Jim laughed uproariously. “You haven’t heard from Jo about it, then?” he asked curiously after a moment.
“No,” Nick said shortly. “Not a word.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Jim went on. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting at eight tomorrow, so I’d best go or I’ll never wake up. I’ll call you tomorrow, same time, okay?”
Nick replaced the receiver. Sitting up, he swung his legs to the floor. The air-conditioning had made the room very cold. He walked into the bathroom, stripped off his shirt, and turned the shower full on, then he went back to the phone.
“I want to call London,” he said brusquely, and he gave his own number.
***
Margiad Griffiths woke Jo with a cup of tea. She sat down on the edge of Jo’s bed. “How did you sleep, then?”
Jo stretched. “Very well. Your charm must have worked.” She felt beneath the pillow for the old Bible and touched it lightly.
Margiad nodded. “I knew it would. There was a phone call for you earlier,” she went on. She reached into the pocket of her skirt for a piece of paper. “Mr. Clements. He said would you go and have lunch with him and his wife tomorrow about twelve. He said don’t call back unless you can’t go.”
Jo smiled. “That’s nice of him. Mr. Clements is the reason I’m here. He’s written lots of books on smallholdings and animals and the history of Northumberland. He’s bought a place near Brecon.”
Margiad stood up. “Famous, is he?” She smiled. “And you’re writing about him, are you? Good. That’ll take your mind off your other troubles.” She hesitated in the doorway. “What will you do today, then?”
Jo sat up, pushing her heavy hair off her face. She glanced at the window where a thin layer of hazy cloud masked the blue of the sky. “I’ll stay here another night or two if I may,” she said. “I’ve some notes to write up about Ben Clements, and then—” She hesitated. “Then I think I’ll explore Hay a little more.”
***
Heavy swirling black clouds were building up in the western sky although as yet there was no breath of wind. Matilda reined in her horse and glanced up, then she signaled the horsemen around her to hurry as they cantered back down the track toward Hay, following the curving arm of the Wye through the flat dry meadows, throwing up clouds of powdery dust that stung the eyes and choked the throat. A zigzag of lightning lit up the purple sky and sent her horse shying across the path of her companion, Lady de Say, who swore like a man and grabbed at the pommel of her saddle to prevent herself from being thrown. It was unbearably hot.
“I’ll wager a silver penny we can get back before the first raindrop falls,” Matilda called over her shoulder. She was exhilarated suddenly by the threat of the storm.
It had been a bitter and unhappy year, and she had been preoccupied during much of the ride with dark thoughts of the events that had followed Trehearne’s murder. His death had served, inevitably, as an excuse for more fighting in the hills and the intervention of his kinsman, the increasingly powerful Prince Gwenwynwyn, who had laid siege to Painscastle in his turn with a huge force of men. In a last attempt at mediation their son-in-law, Gruffydd, had, at Matilda’s suggestion, been brought back to Hay from his imprisonment at Corfe. But his surly attempts as a peacemaker failed and on 13 August, the feast of Holy Hippolytas, hostilities had culminated in a major pitched battle in the hills behind Trehearne’s home at Clyro, as the barons fought desperately to retain their ascendancy in the borders. They won, but with a terrible toll of Welsh lives.
Another flash of light
ning ripped across the sky, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. Putting her dismal thoughts firmly behind her, she raised her whip and urged her horse into a gallop, her veil streaming in the wind, tendrils of hair tearing themselves loose from her wimple and whipping across her eyes.
She raced up the hill into Hay, scattering children and poultry, oblivious of the shaken heads and secret smiles of men and women who saw her pass into the great gates in the walls of her castle. The guards came to attention smartly and Matilda reined in her horse to a rearing, sweating halt. With a glance up at the huge, swollen clouds, she turned to claim her wager from the disheveled, unhappy lady who had tried to keep up with her ahead of their bodyguard, when all thoughts of it were driven suddenly from her head by the sight of a figure coming toward her across the bailey.
Dropping her horse’s rein, she gave a short gasp, not daring to believe her eyes.
“Tilda?” she whispered at last as she slipped from the high wooden saddle. “Tilda, is it really you?” The girl had grown as tall as her mother, slim, with silver hair and a complexion as fair as the ivory of a carved crucifix.
“I hope you are well, Mother dear.” Tilda smiled and curtsied formally before submitting coolly to her mother’s ecstatic kiss. “I have come to be with Gruffydd.”
“And your baby, Tilda? Did you bring him?” Matilda held the girl’s two hands in her own, gazing into her face. There was so much of Richard there—and so little.
Tilda lowered her lashes. “I have two children now, mother. Rhys who is two, and Owain. He is only seven months. They—” She hesitated, glancing away. “That is, we thought it better that they should remain with Gruffydd’s mother and their nurses. I have come alone.”
“You mean they wouldn’t let you bring the children with you?” Matilda seized on the fact hotly. “The Welsh have kept them as hostages, two small babies!”
“No, Mother, do be calm. It wasn’t safe or suitable to bring them, that’s all. They are safe and happy where they are. I wouldn’t have left them otherwise.” Tilda glanced up as the first heavy drops of rain began. “Come, let’s go in, Mother. I don’t want to tell you my news in front of your entire escort, in a thunderstorm!”
She led the way to the door of the hall, her figure slim and erect like her mother’s. But there the similarity ended. Where Matilda was auburn and high-colored, Tilda was pale and ethereal. The mother belonged to the sun, the daughter to the moon.
Since Margaret had gone at last, only a month before, to marry her Walter, the castle had seemed quiet. Of all her children Margaret was the most like her mother, and Matilda missed her support and companionship sorely and dreaded the fact that at any moment Walter would take her away to his earldom across the Irish Sea, in Meath. Isobel was soon to go too, to Roger Mortimer at Wigmore, whose first wife had died in the plague and whose eager suit William had indulgently agreed, so it was a double joy to have her eldest daughter home.
But Tilda proved a hurtful disappointment. She showed little warmth to her mother, answering her excited questions in a bored tone that effectively dampened Matilda’s enthusiasm. She went to sit obediently at Gruffydd’s side as soon as he returned with William to the castle and reduced Isobel to tears with her cutting, icy criticism.
Matilda, who had been going to beg her to come with her to Bramber for the Christmas celebration, bit back the invitation. “You’ve changed, Tilda. You used to be gentle and obedient to your family,” she reproached her sadly.
Tilda drew a quick breath and turned on her mother, her eyes flashing. “I owe you no obedience, Mother. My duty is to my husband! And it is hard to be gentle when my father is called an ogre and a murderer throughout the principalities. He is known for his treachery and his double-dealing. And as for you.” The girl paused, her nostrils pinched suddenly. “They call you a sorceress,” she hissed. “I hear stories being told to my children of Mallt the witch who will come for them if they don’t sleep, and it’s their own grandmother who is being talked of!” Her voice had risen to a cry of anguish.
Matilda looked at her in horrified silence for a moment. “Why don’t you stop them?” She turned away, not wanting the girl to see the indignant tears that threatened to come suddenly to her eyes.
“Because for all I know, it’s true.” There was no mistaking the hard note of dislike in Tilda’s voice. “I remember you muttering spells when I was a child, you and that old nurse of yours. I remember the smoking concoctions you would brew up in your still room. And there are other things. They say you talk to spirits, that you called up a hundred thousand devils at Dinas, that you ride with the storm—as you did”—her eyes suddenly flashed—“the day I came here, Mother.”
Matilda sat down on a carved joint stool and gazed into the glowing embers of the fire. “If you believe all that of me, Tilly, why did you come back to us?”
“I came to see Gruffydd. I didn’t know if he would be allowed to come home. I had to come here.”
“I see.” Matilda’s voice was flat. “Well, my dear. You’d better go to him, then.” She shifted slightly on her stool, turning her back to Tilda, and sat in silence.
Her daughter stood for a moment, hesitating, half regretting her outburst, then with one backward glance at her mother’s hunched figure she swept past her out of the door.
Matilda saw to it that they were never alone together after that, and although she spoke kindly to Tilda and treated her with every consideration, it was with relief that she saw her leave Hay at last with Gruffydd.
William, his elbows firmly spread upon the table, commented at the meal that evening. “That was a good marriage. I’ve had my doubts about the politics of it often enough: the link wasn’t strong enough to hold old Rhys, but Gruffydd is a good enough man, for a Welshman. I could wish he were stronger, but I reckon he’s made our daughter a good husband. She looked well and happy.” He glanced at her, grinning. “I know you were never content to see her off into the Welsh hinterland, Moll. I hope this visit has at last put your worries at rest.” All Matilda could do was lower her eyes and nod.
***
“No! That’s wrong!” Jo was shaking her head. “William knew! He knew she was not his daughter! He would not have said that! He would not have cared…”
She staggered slightly, her hand against the cold, shadowed castle wall; her head was spinning and her mouth was dry. She felt slightly sick. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles trying desperately to clear her head. “He would not have called her ‘our’ daughter. He knew. He knew about Richard by then. He had forced me to tell him…”
But did he know? She could feel her heart beginning to pump uncomfortably beneath her ribs. Was it William who had questioned her about her unfaithfulness with Richard, or had it been Sam? Sam pursuing her into the past. A Sam who had taken upon himself the face of William de Braose. A Sam who had forced her to strip and then whipped her—something the real William had never dared to do.
She closed her eyes, breathing hard.
When she opened them again she was conscious suddenly that a man was staring at her. He had parked a Land Rover in the shadow of the wall near her, watching her closely as he climbed out and locked it. She smiled uncomfortably at him and forced herself to walk on slowly, aware suddenly that he probably thought she was drunk.
She stumbled again, and as her hand shot out to steady herself, she stared at her fingers braced against the stone. Make notes. That was the thing to do. With a pencil in her hand she felt real; she could fight Sam and William and the past and everything they threw at her.
Determinedly she groped in her bag for her notebook, trying to fend off the strange dislocation that still lingered as she stared up toward Pen y Beacon and the pearly mist that clung about its summit.
***
Three-quarters of the way across England, at Clare, Tim Heacham, a page meticulously cut from a newspaper in his pocket, was standing by the walls of what had once been a mighty castle. The taxi that had brought him out from Colche
ster had gone. He was alone. Slowly he walked over the grass, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground a few yards in front of him. There had to be something he could do, but his mind was a blank.
Nick and Sam Franklyn. He should have known. He should have trusted his instincts. He should have warned Jo while there was still time. Now it was too late. Whatever was to happen was already in train, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing.
He looked up at the sky. “Oh, God, Jo, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”
31
Ann Clements was fifteen years younger than her husband, a plump, very blond woman with large teeth and a warm, irrepressible smile. She kissed Jo as if she had known her for years.
“Are you going to interview me or shall I interview you?” she said cheerfully as they picked their way into the house over the two small toddlers, a vast quantity of scattered Legos, and a large white rabbit with pink eyes.
Jo laughed as she patted one of the children on the head. “Perhaps we’d better toss for it.”
“All right.” Ann smiled at her. “That is Polly you’re stroking. The other one is Bill and the rabbit is called Xerxes. Sit down. I’ll make us some coffee. Once Ben comes in I’ll start lunch.” She turned to an immense heap of unwashed dishes, searching for two mugs. “Ben told me all about you, of course. Put that down, Polly.” She had not turned around and Jo concluded with a grin that she had eyes in the back of her head as the little girl with her mop of blond curls guiltily put down the milk jug. “I’ve seen people being regressed back home in the States—it’s practically a minor industry there—but your case sounds absolutely amazing. Ben tells me you intended to write a book about it.”
Jo nodded.
“But you changed your mind?”
Jo shrugged. “I thought I had when I saw Ben. Now I’m undecided again. I went straight from here to Brecon on Tuesday after I’d seen him. I regressed there, and once again yesterday in Hay. Both times deliberately. But I just don’t know what to think anymore. If it were just me, I’d go on. It is all so real to me, and someone has proved I was speaking real old Welsh, and that clinched it for me, but then some rather unpleasant things happened.”