Lady of Hay (16 page)

***

Reginald de St. Valerie died at dawn. Lying sleepless in her chamber watching the light pale in the stuffy room, Matilda had ceased to hear the regular snores of her husband. It was as if some part of her had slipped away to hover over the deathbed, watching her father, seeing his face relax without struggle at last into peace. “He waited to see me married,” she whispered into the dark. “He waited only for that.” And then she turned at last to her pillow and began to cry despairingly.

***

The day after the funeral the long procession of horses and wagons set off across a bleak autumnal southern England toward Sussex. Matilda rode, upright and proud, beside her husband, her face set. She was determined not to weep now, not to show any emotion to her husband or his followers. Somewhere behind her in the train of riders was Jeanne, her nurse. Jeanne had understood, had cradled her head and rocked her as she watched beside her father’s body. Jeanne had mixed her wine and herbs to drink, “
pour le courage, ma p’tite
,” and muttered magic words over the bed in which Matilda and William had slept, to help ease the girl’s troubles. Each night had been the same. He had not spared her for her father’s sake, nor had she expected it. The pain, after the first time, had not been so bad.

The elder William rode in front of them, the chestnut rump of his horse glistening beneath its gay caparison in the pale autumn sunlight. They were nearing a wayside chapel when Matilda, keeping her eyes fixed resolutely on her father-in-law’s broad back, was surprised to see him raise his hand, bringing the long procession to a halt. Then he turned in the high saddle. “I’ll wait, my son,” he announced curtly. Matilda glanced at her husband, who was dismounting. He ducked under his horse’s head and came to her side. “I always pray at holy places,” he announced self-righteously. “I should like you to accompany me.” He helped her down from the horse and, taking her arm, ushered her into the chapel. Puzzled, she glanced over her shoulder. No one else had made a move to join them. The entire cortège stood in the settling dust, disinterested, bored, as their lord’s eldest son and his bride ducked into the dark chapel. For some reason Matilda suddenly felt afraid.

She knelt reluctantly beside her husband as he prayed. No words came to her own lips; her throat was dry. The Virgin had not heeded her supplications when her help had been needed so much. Now it was too late. What was the point of praying?

She glanced sideways at William. His eyes were closed, the short sandy lashes veiling the pale irises, the coarse folded flesh of his chin resting on the thick wool of his blue mantle. On his shoulder there was a large circular brooch, at its center a purple amethyst. The stone caught a little spark of light from the candle at the shrine.

They stopped a dozen times like this on the long journey and each time Matilda, too afraid to refuse, alone dismounted with her husband. But not once did she try to pray.

***

Bramber Castle was built high on a hill overlooking the marshes that flanked the River Adur. From far away they could see the tall keep rising against the burnished blue sky while gulls circled the towers, their laughing cries echoing across the salty reed beds.

Bertha, daughter of Milo of Gloucester, heiress of Brecknock and Upper Gwent, the wife of Sir William de Braose and Matilda’s mother-in-law, was waiting for her husband and son in the lofty great hall. She was a stout woman of middle height, some years older than her husband, with white hair falling in long plaits to her waist. Her eyes were brown as hazelnuts and very shrewd. She kissed Matilda coolly and then held her at arms’ length, scrutinizing her closely until the girl felt herself blushing uncomfortably beneath the uncompromising gaze.

“So, my son’s bride,” Bertha announced at last. “Welcome to Bramber, child.” The words were not softened by a smile.

Then Bertha turned aside, drawing her son with her, and Matilda was left standing alone. After a moment, William’s father joined her. He smiled. “I hope it won’t seem too strange, my dear,” he murmured. “My son is a good man. Harsh sometimes, but good.”

Matilda lifted her green eyes to his and forced herself to return his smile, which was friendly enough. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered. “I am sure I shall do very well with William.” Happiness, they both knew, was not part of the marriage contract.

She became conscious slowly that Sir William’s eyes had strayed beyond her. Someone was standing behind her near the hearth.

“Lord de Clare! My wife told me you were here. Greetings.” The old man stretched out his hands with sudden warmth. Turning, Matilda saw he was addressing a slim young man, dressed in a scarlet mantle caught at the shoulder with gold. He had laughing hazel eyes and a shock of wheat-color hair.

“Sir William, I was persuaded by Lady Bertha to wait for you.” Lord de Clare stepped forward to clasp his host’s hands. Then he turned to Matilda. He bowed, smiling. “Madam?”

“This is my daughter-in-law,” Sir William put in hastily. “Matilda, Lord de Clare has threatened this long time to ride over from his castle at Tonbridge to see my mews, haven’t you, my boy?” The old man was plainly delighted to see his visitor.

“Lord de Clare.” Matilda curtsied and her heart inexplicably began to beat a little faster as she surveyed the young man’s handsome face.

He grinned. “Do you enjoy hawking, madam? It should be an exciting day. I’m told there is good sport on these marshes.”

“Indeed there is!” Sir William put in good-naturedly. “You must join us, Matilda. Watch my birds trounce this young fellow’s, eh?” He chuckled broadly.

Matilda didn’t hear him. She was drowning in the young man’s gaze.

***

“So it was too late even when they first met,” Sarah whispered softly. “She was already married to that boor! See if she and Richard ever managed to meet alone. Please, Carl. Ask her.”

Bennet frowned. Nevertheless he leaned forward a little as he put the question. “Did you go hawking with Lord de Clare, Matilda? Did you manage to speak to him again?”

Jo smiled. Her eyes, open and dancing, were the eyes of a carefree girl.

“We rode away from the others, south toward Sompting. The forest over the Downs is thick with oak trees there and their leaves were gold and brown with autumn. Richard flew his peregrine when we got to the chalk fields and I pretended to fall from my horse. I knew he would dismount and come to me. I wanted him to hold me in his arms so much…”

***

“My lady! My lady, are you hurt?” Richard’s face was near hers as she lay still on the ground. He glanced behind him for help, then gently he cradled her head on his knees. “My lady?” His voice was sharper now. “For the love of Christ, speak to me!”

She moved slightly, letting out a small moan. His face was close to hers. She could see, through scarcely opened eyes, the fine hairs growing again on his chin where he had been shaved that morning, and feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He smelled of leather and horsesweat, quite unlike the musty reek her husband habitually exuded. She nestled a little closer in his lap and felt suddenly his hands inside her mantle. Was he feeling for her heart, or for her breast beneath the pale linen? She stiffened imperceptibly and at once he straightened, moving his hand.

“My lady?” he said again. “Speak to me. Tell me if you are hurt.”

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, her breath catching in her throat as she found his face so very close to her own. “I must have fallen,” she whispered.

“Can you rise?” He was trying to push her up as, behind them, the sound of horses’ hooves thundering on the hollow chalk announced the rest of the party.

“I can manage! Thank you.” Crossly she jumped to her feet, brushing leaves from her mantle, then she turned from him in a flurry of skirts and ran to scramble back onto her horse alone.

***

“Why didn’t you let me go on longer?” Jo asked when Bennet woke her from her trance. She glanced down at the spool on her tape recorder, which was barely a quarter used. “I want to know what happened. I wanted to see Richard again.”

Bennet frowned. “It was going well, Jo, and we have learned a lot from this session. I don’t want you to grow tired.”

She intercepted the worried look he cast in her direction. “Did you find out if someone tried to strangle me?” she asked. She was watching his face closely.

He shook his head. “At the period you described today you were scarcely more than a child—you didn’t seem to know quite how old you were yourself. But if anyone tried to strangle Matilda it was at some time far in her future, Jo. Not when she was riding on the Downs with Richard de Clare.”

“But something did go wrong. Something worried you?”

“Nothing at all. Nothing.” He smiled reassuringly. “In fact, I would like to pursue our experiment further with you, if you agree.”

“Of course I agree. I want to know more about Matilda and Richard. And what happened after the massacre…just a bit more.” Jo grinned as she picked up her recorder and stuffed it into her bag. “But I warn you now, I’m not going to chase her story endlessly. There’s no point in that and I have no intention of getting obsessive about all this. But just one or two more sessions as soon as you can fit me in.”

Sarah rose and went to get the diary. As she did so Bennet came around the desk. He was frowning again. “Joanna. I must tell you that I had a phone call yesterday from a colleague who says he is treating you, a Dr. Franklyn.”

Jo straightened abruptly, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. She tightened her lips. “Oh?” she said suspiciously.

“He has asked me for a meeting to discuss your case.”

“No!” Jo threw the bag down on the sofa. “No, Dr. Bennet. Sam Franklyn is not ‘treating’ me, as you put it. He is interested in this business because he worked for Michael Cohen years ago. He wants me to stop the regressions because he doesn’t want me to write about them. Believe me, he is not treating me for anything.”

Bennet took a step backward. “I see.” He glanced at her beneath his eyebrows. “Well, I told him I had to ask your permission, of course.”

“And I will not give it. I have already told him to leave me alone. I am sorry he rang you, I really am. He should not have bothered you.”

“That is all right, Jo.” Bennet took the diary from Sarah and frowned at it through his glasses. “Friday afternoon at three o’clock. Would that suit you? I shall make it my last appointment and then we need not be hurried. And I shall tell Dr. Franklyn if he calls again that you would rather I did not speak to him.”

After she had gone Sarah turned to Bennet. “She is hiding something, isn’t she?”

He shrugged. “I suspect so.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “So. Will you talk to this Dr. Franklyn?”

“I’m sure that in the course of events he and I will meet. It is unthinkable that I should not run into him, because a colleague of Cohen’s would be an invaluable person with whom to discuss my work.” He closed the diary and handed it back to Sarah. “I would not discuss Joanna with him, of course, unless I thought it to be in her best interests.”

Sarah smiled thinly. “Which it would be, of course. Tell me. What do you really think about the bruises she told us about? Do you think they were real? No one else saw them.”

“I’m sure they were real.” He walked to the window and glanced down into the street.

“But you think they were of hysterical origin?” Sarah’s voice was hushed. “She’s not the type, surely?”

“Who can tell who is the type?” he replied thoughtfully. “Who can ever tell? And if she isn’t the type, and the bruises were there…” He paused.

“If she isn’t,” Sarah echoed quietly, “then the man she was with really did try to strangle her.”

***

As arranged, Jo met Sam on Wednesday evening at Luigi’s. He took one look at her and grinned across the table. “Let’s order before you hit me with your handbag, Jo.”

“I’ll hit you with more than a handbag if you try a trick like that again,” Jo said. Her voice was cool as she glanced at him over the menu. “I absolutely forbid you to talk to Carl Bennet about me. What I do is none of your damn business. I am not your patient. I have never been your patient, and I don’t intend to be. What I do and what I write is my own affair. And the people I consult in the course of my research have a right to privacy. I do not expect you to harass them, or me. Is that quite clear?”

“Okay. I surrender. I’ve said I apologize.” He raised his hands. “What more can I do?”

“Don’t ever go behind my back again.”

“You must trust me, Jo. I’ve said I’m sorry. But I am interested. And I do have a right to worry about you. I have more right than you’ll ever know.” He paused for a moment. “So you decided to see him again. You’d better tell me what happened. Did you learn anything more about your alter ego?”

“A bit.” Jo relented. “About her marriage to William…” She was watching his face in the candlelight. The restaurant was dark, crowded now at the peak evening hour, and very hot. Sam was sweating slightly as he looked at her, his eyes fixed on her face. The pupils were very small. Without knowing why, she felt herself shiver slightly. “Nothing dramatic happened. It was all rather low key after the first session.” Her voice trailed away suddenly. Low key? The violence! The rape! The agony of that man thrusting his way into her child’s resisting body, silencing her desperate screams with a coarse, unclean hand across her mouth, laughing at her terror. She realized that Sam was still watching her and looked away hastily.