Jo had gone white as a sheet. “You mean it is true?” she whispered. “He really was John? It wasn’t Sam at all?” She closed her eyes, still kneeling at Ann’s side. “He’s followed me. Followed me from the past. But why? John hated Matilda. He—” Her voice broke. “He sentenced her to death.” She looked up in despair. “Is that why he’s here? To pursue me even beyond the grave? I knew, Ann. I recognized him. Weeks ago, I saw it in his eyes, but I didn’t understand. I didn’t realize what was happening—”
“No, Jo. That’s rubbish. For God’s sake, you are not the same people! You keep on emphasizing that yourself.” Ann pulled herself to her feet. “And Nick loves you. He loves you, Jo.” She went to the sink and wrung out the cloth beneath the cold tap once more. “It could still be that Sam initiated the idea. I just can’t be sure. I don’t know. I don’t have enough experience to be able to tell. All I can say is, he seemed to know so much about John.”
“What made him push you over, Annie?” Ben asked gently. His face was grim.
Ann gave a shaky smile. “I questioned his royal prerogative. I’m a republican, don’t forget. I don’t know how to handle kings. He didn’t mean to knock me—he just didn’t know I was there. I asked him about the de Braoses and why he had chosen to persecute them. He got angry—furiously angry—and began pacing up and down. Then he—well, I guess you’d say he flung out of the room, and it was just bad luck I was in the way. It was the year 1209. He told me that William had burned the town of Leominster in Herefordshire. One moment he was apoplectic—then suddenly he laughed…”
Ben patted Jo on the shoulder, then he walked slowly to the door. “Did he go out this way?”
Ann nodded.
“You two stay here, I’ll see if I can find him.”
The kitchen was very silent. Neither Ann nor Jo said a word. In the stove a log fell, hitting the iron door with a rattle, and they both turned to look at it. Then Jo spoke in a whisper. “Ann, I must know what happened next. I have to know what the king did.”
“You do know.” Ann turned on her. “Jesus, Jo! Can’t you leave it alone? You know what he did!” She sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. “Hell, I’m sorry. That’s not fair. I guess I’m a bit rattled, that’s all. I’ll help you if I can. I said I would. But I’m no good at this, Jo. I’m in over my head.”
“You don’t have to do anything, Ann. Just be here with me.”
“Now? But they’ll come back any moment—”
“I don’t care. I have to know what he’s thinking. Don’t you see?”
“No. I don’t see. Jo, you’re upset. It probably won’t work anyway—”
“It will. All I need is a trigger, you said so yourself. So I’ll find a trigger.” Jo looked around wildly. “That lamp—that’s fine—a lamp and a bowl of water. I’ll look into the reflections.”
She stood up and went to the sideboard, staring along the shelves. Her arm caught a glass, sweeping it to the floor with a crash. She didn’t even notice. She reached up and took down one of Ann’s black earthenware mixing bowls and turned back to the sink. “I have to do it, Ann. Don’t you see? I have to look into the past so that I can go on living in the present!”
She filled the bowl with clear water and put it on the table, then she sat down opposite Ann, who reached out and gently touched her hand. In silence they both looked down into the depths of the water.
***
Matilda had been staring out of the high window toward the shadowed distances of Radnor Forest. She turned and stared at her steward in frozen disbelief as he stood, shuffling his feet uncomfortably, in the center of the high, echoing stone chamber.
“But William left to try to recapture Radnor Castle from the king!”
“He failed, my lady.” Stephen looked at her, his shoulders slumped with despair. “The king holds every de Braose Castle save Hay now. There was nowhere for Sir William to go after his assault was beaten back by the king’s constable at Radnor—I suspect he did not care to come back here defeated, my lady—” Stephen glanced up at her under his eyelashes. “So he marched to Leominster and sacked the place. He burned it to the ground. The king will never forgive this, Lady Matilda,” he went on gravely. “I fear your husband has now gone too far ever to turn back.”
“We will be outlawed.” She gasped. “What possessed him? To burn the town!” Putting her hands to her eyes, she tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.
On 21 September the king proclaimed William de Braose a traitor and appointed Gerald of Athies to travel to the borders and declare all the baron’s homagers free of any allegiance to their lord. William’s followers left him almost to a man, to pay homage direct to the king.
At last only the faithful Stephen remained, riding with Matilda into the hills to hide what remained of their money and jewels in a deserted mountaintop shrine where the old gods, if they still dwelt there, would guard the hoard. Even William was not told of the location.
Once they were safely back at Hay Matilda took Stephen’s hand. “You must stay here when we go,” she said sadly. “Our quarrel is not yours, dear Stephen. Think of us and pray for us. You must hand over Hay Castle to the king and give him your unreserved homage.”
“What will you do?” Stephen looked at her sadly.
She shrugged. “Try to get to my son Giles in France perhaps.” She looked around miserably. “We can’t stay here. Thank you, Stephen, for all you’ve done. Thanks to you the gold at least is safe, and if we ever return it will be there.”
“You will return, my lady.” He raised her hand gently to his lips. “You will return.”
William and Matilda rode out of Hay Castle at dawn the following day, their only companions Will and Reginald.
It was the beginning of a nightmare. King John’s pursuit of them was relentless. His troops harried them unmercifully, always close behind. Several times they tried to leave the border, heading south, but each time they were forced to retreat into the icy woods, where, after weeks of rain, the last leaves were beginning to fall, leaving the tracks exposed and dangerous. Reginald was the only one who remained healthy and tried to humor the party. William had developed a pain in his side that worsened daily. Will, try as he might to hide it, was once more succumbing to his sore throat, and Matilda, though she fought it with all the willpower she possessed, could feel her tall, slim body beginning to stoop and thicken at the joints with the hateful, inflaming rheumatism brought on by the cold weather. Riding was painful for them all, and despair very close.
Here and there they found a few days’ respite, lodged secretly by monks or relatives who still had sympathy for the homeless family, but always fear of discovery moved them on.
As Christmas approached they were once more on the border only a few miles north of Hay, almost back where they started. They had been galloping hard for two days, trying to avoid soldiers, who had come nearer to them than on any previous occasion. “It was treachery,” Matilda could not help repeating over and over to herself as she bent low over her horse’s mane, following close behind Will. Her fingers were swollen and reddened until she could no longer hold the reins. Will, not saying anything but noticing, had knotted them for her so that she could slip them over her wrist, but there was no need. The mare automatically followed the others now. “We have been betrayed,” she repeated again, “by somebody we thought was our friend. They could not have found us otherwise.” Only the strange hotness on her cheeks told her that she was crying. Then the wind and rain on her face froze the misery and her thoughts became numb again.
They followed the valley roads through the woods, trying to avoid the hills, where there was no shelter. She didn’t know if Reginald knew where he was leading them anymore, and she no longer cared very much. All she wanted was to lie down somewhere and go to sleep and never wake again. Never to mount her horse and force her aching limbs to ride another mile. Never to feel another blast of wind.
The day was so stormy it was ha
rd to tell if it was high noon or dusk, and when the armed figures stepped out on the waterlogged track in front of them, catching at Reginald’s bridle and dragging his horse to a standstill, she felt only disbelief, thinking them part of the murk. Then at last, when she realized that they were real, all she felt was dull relief that at last the chase was over.
The wind whipped their words away before she could hear what the men said to Reginald and Will, who, coughing pitifully, had ridden up beside his brother. She only saw that her sons held their hands away from their swords in surrender and looked at one another apprehensively.
Their captors ignored William, armed though he was, and he sat unmoving as his horse stopped of its own accord, his head sunk between his shoulders, one hand still pressed to his side.
Then the trek began again, but walking this time, with a man at her horse’s head. They were prisoners. She dropped the pretense of holding the reins and tried to warm her poor swollen hands by breathing on them and tucking them under her mantle.
After what seemed an eternity of frozen tracks they reached a clearing in a valley wood with, at its center, a long, low wooden building thatched with reeds. She felt herself helped somehow from the saddle and two men half carried, half dragged her toward a doorway. It was the last thing she knew.
***
The door latch rattled and Ann looked up. Her attention had been so completely on the bowl of shadowy reflections before her that she had forgotten the others. Ben walked slowly into the kitchen. Behind him came Nick, his face ashen. She saw at once that he was himself again. She held her finger to her lips and silently the two men sat down at the table. Both were staring at the bowl of water as Jo, unaware of their return, went on speaking slowly.
***
It took a long time for her to recover her senses before the fire. She was conscious of gentle hands removing her clothes, even her shift; of soft linen towels rubbing her icy skin and then of a long warm robe fastened at the waist by a girdle of spun flax. She was given flummery, a hot, spicy oatmeal gruel, from the cauldron on the fire, and meat from the spit, and mead, and then was led to sleep on a pile of sheepskins in the women’s quarters. Only when she was well enough to rejoin the men by the blazing fire in the main room of the building did she discover that they were not prisoners at all but the honored guests of one of the mountain chieftains in his tribal hall. And with him they remained for all the long weeks of one of the worst winters the Welsh hills had ever known.
Snow drifted deep across the cwms and broad valleys; fast-flowing rivers froze from bank to bank and the mountains slept beneath an icy pall. Slowly, cared for by their Welsh hosts, the invalids grew stronger. Reassured that their pursuers could not reach them through the frozen hills, they regained something of their optimism, and with it made a new plan. As soon as the thaw came they would make their way west to the coast and from there they would cross to Ireland, where they could go to Margaret and Walter, and where they had many relatives and friends in a position to help them.
Matilda never asked their host why he had given them shelter; it seemed an abuse of his hospitality to query it. She supposed it was enough that they had been truly wanderers in the storm, thrown upon a sacred trust, or perhaps it was their common enmity with King John that had made them one at last with their Welsh neighbors.
As the thaw freed the high moorland trackways and the valleys of snow and ice, William and Matilda and their sons, accompanied by two Welsh guides, set off again into the teeth of the wind on their journey to the sea. They rode fast, muffled in sheepskins, nervous, in spite of the kindness and hospitality they had received, of penetrating so deep into the land of the Welsh, so often their enemies. But the journey, though bitter cold and wearisome, was without incident. They arrived at last at the broad Dovey estuary that separated north from south Wales, opposite the castle that guarded the river mouth, and looked down from the hillside onto the two ships tied up at the low wooden quay at the marsh edge. Will glanced at his mother and smiled. “Nearly there now. By tomorrow, God willing, we’ll be safe.”
She stared gravely at the ships. “I wonder how long it will be before John knows where we’ve gone. He could follow us to Ireland.” She shivered, pulling the fur closer around her throat.
“He won’t, Mother.” Reginald took her hand. “The Irish lords are too powerful. He’d never challenge them. And between us, we’re married into most of their families.” He nudged his brother and chuckled.
The horses picked their way down into the village and their guide negotiated a passage for them with the dark, burly master of one of the vessels before carefully stowing their baggage in his ship. A strong onshore wind was crashing waves against the wooden quay and clouds of icy spray splattered onto the marshy track that led to the few fishermen’s houses on the beach. They would not sail today.
Sadly Matilda bade farewell to her white mare. Their horses had been promised to their host as payment. Bowing, the guides made their formal farewell and then left, leading the string of animals behind them at an easy canter back up the track.
It was four days before the wind veered and dropped enough for the captain to risk putting his small vessel to sea. Matilda watched the hills behind them constantly during the short hours of daylight, expecting at any moment to see a line of horses and light-catching helms and lances that would show that the king had achieved the impossible and caught up with them. But they never came.
At last the boat nosed her way out into the bay. A brisk, cold wind sent her plunging sharply to her small sails. Matilda stood on deck gazing back at the receding land, half hidden under a pall of black cloud. Her hair was torn from the hood of her cloak and whipped mercilessly around her face and across her eyes but she ignored it. It was as though she still expected, even now, to see John galloping down onto the shore of the estuary and boarding the other vessel that remained tied to the quay. She shivered and Will put his arms around her. “The crossing doesn’t take long, Mother. Do you feel sick?”
She glanced up and saw his grin, his eyes teasing. “You know I don’t, you silly boy. I knew I would like the sea. I only wish we were crossing under happier circumstances.” She sighed.
“Well, John can whistle for us now, so enjoy yourself.” Will laughed. “You and I have the sea legs of the family, that’s plain to see.” He nodded over his shoulder. His father and Reginald had retired to a sheltered corner of the deck where they were seated on some stoutly roped barrels. Both looked very uneasy, and shortly first William and then his son slipped aft into the fetid deck cabin, where, wrapped in their cloaks, they lay down.
Before long the wind started to blow up again. It veered around to the east, whistling in the rigging, and the broad-beamed boat began to bucket up and down the troughs and waves with alarming violence.
Will’s eyes were shining. “Be pleased the wind’s getting up, Mother. We’ll be there the sooner.” Matilda laughed at his exhilaration.
Night fell early and with it the storm worsened. The passengers were sent into the stuffy cabin, where they lay awake, hurled from one side to the other amid a debris of falling cargo and luggage. The air stank of fish and vomit and outside the wind screamed in the rigging, until, with a rending crack, the tightly reefed mainsail ripped across the middle. Matilda, trying to brace herself, sitting with her back to the forward cabin wall, her arms round her knees, could hear the crewmen shouting and screaming as they fought with the thundering, shredding canvas.
At last the sail was subdued and only the crash of the wind and waves and the whistle of the rigging remained.
For three days and nights they tossed and rolled under bare spars until the gale blew itself out. Then on the fourth morning the master unbarred the cabin door and looked in, grinning. “Would you believe, the Blessed Virgin had guided us safely to the Irish coast?”
Matilda staggered out weakly and looked eagerly ahead at the long, misty, dark coastline. The waves were still huge, but the wind had dropped a little. The sai
lors were rigging a makeshift sail and, as she watched, it caught the wind and filled. At once the boat stopped rolling aimlessly and picked up speed, heading in toward the shore. Another blanket of rain swept past them, soaking the planking in a moment, but Matilda and Will stayed on deck, watching as the boat nosed into the harbor. Above them, on a rocky cliff, a castle rose, guarding the harbor and the sea.
“Fitzgerald’s Black Castle.” The master was behind them for a moment, his eyes gleaming triumphantly. “This is a good fortune after the storm, indeed it is. Wicklow. That’s where we are.” And he was gone again, his eyes screwed up against the icy rain, guiding his vessel to her moorings, as the torn sails were lowered into heaps of sodden canvas on the deck.
The shore of Ireland seemed unsteady. Matilda staggered and nearly fell as she led the others up the wooden quay. Reginald grinned uncertainly for the first time in days. Even William looked pleased. He gazed about him, still pale and dazed, then at last he seemed to remember who he was. He straightened his shoulders. “Will, Reginald, we must find horses. Find out about this fellow Fitzgerald. Will he shelter us until we’re ready to go on?” He turned to see the last of their coffers being swung ashore and stacked on the quay. Everywhere seaweed and debris had been piled high by the wind and tide. There was a strong smell of rotting fish.