Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  Nick looked away. “I don’t know, Jo. You must speak to Sam—”

  “It must have been the massacre, because I hurt my hands tearing at the stone archway. But I really bled in Edinburgh. My fingers were bruised and bleeding, not just painful!” Her voice was shaking. “Oh, God, it was all so real. Nick, I’m frightened.” She stared at her hands, holding them out before her.

  Nick took hold of them gently, standing up. “Come on,” he said. “We need another drink. And something to eat. Is there any food in the apartment?”

  She dragged her thoughts back to the present with difficulty. “In the freezer. I forgot to buy anything today.” She gave a rueful smile. “I was going to go shopping on my way back from Devonshire Place but everything went out of my head.”

  Nick grinned. “I’m not surprised. Being a baron’s lady with a castle full of serfs, you can hardly be expected to lower yourself to trundle around the supermarket with a shopping cart. You must try not to let it upset you too much, Jo. Try and see the amusing side. Think of it as a personalized horror film. You got front-row seats and no ice cream in the intermission. But, apart from that, thank God there’s no harm done this time.”

  “That doesn’t sound very scientific.” She forced herself to smile. Standing up slowly, she pulled the belt of her robe more tightly around her. Then she headed toward the kitchen and pulled open the freezer door. “There’s pizza in here or steak.” The normality of her action calmed her. Her voice was steady again.

  “Pizza’s fine. What intrigues me is where you dredged all this information up from. The details all sounded so authentic.”

  “Dr. Bennet and Bill Walton both said that they usually are. That’s one of their strongest arguments in favor of reincarnation, of course.” She lit the oven and put two pizzas in. “Where it is possible to substantiate things apparently they are usually uncannily accurate. I’m going to check as much as I can. Is there any whisky left?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  She took down two plates and put them to warm. “Here, let me make a salad to go with these. Neither Bennet nor Walton was a fake, Nick. I was wrong to think it. They didn’t ask any leading questions. Bennet didn’t influence my ‘dream’ in any way. If he had, I’d have heard on the tape. Look, if there is any period of history I would say that I should like to identify with at all it would be the Regency. If he’d been a fraud he would have found that out in two minutes.” She poured vinegar and oil into a jar and reached for the pepper mill. “I daresay I could have reenacted a dozen Georgette Heyer novels. I read everything of hers I could lay my hands on when I was a teenager. But he didn’t ask. He didn’t guide me at all. Here, give this a shake. Instead I find myself in medieval Wales. With people talking Welsh all around me, for God’s sake!”

  Nick shook up the dressing and poured it over the salad. “If it was Welsh,” he said quietly. “God knows what it was you said. If you had jumped up and down shouting Cymru am byth I might have been able to substantiate it!”

  “Where did you learn that?” she laughed.

  “Rugby. I don’t mess about when I go to Twickenham, you know, it’s very educational.” He touched her cheek lightly. “Good to see you laughing. It’s not like our Jo to get upset.”

  She pushed a plate at him. “As Dr. Bennet pointed out, it’s not every day that ‘our Jo’ witnesses a full-dress massacre, even in a nightmare,” she retorted.

  They ate in the living room. “Bach to eat by,” said Nick, putting his plate down and riffling through the stack of records. “To restore the equilibrium.”

  She did not argue. It meant they didn’t have to talk; it meant she needn’t even think. She let the music sweep over her, leaving her food almost untouched as she lay back on the sofa, her feet up, and closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again the sky was dark outside the French windows onto the balcony. The music had finished and the room was silent. Nick was sitting watching her in the light of the single desk lamp.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked indignantly. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven. Time you were in bed. You look exhausted.”

  “Don’t dictate, Nick. It’s time you went, for that matter,” she said sharply.

  “Wouldn’t you like me to stay?”

  She pushed herself up on her elbow. “No. You and I are finished, remember? You have to go back to your cozy love nest with the talented Miss Curzon. What was it you said on the phone, ‘working late’—she won’t believe it, you know, if you stay away all night!”

  “I don’t much care what she believes at the moment, Jo. I am more concerned about you,” Nick said. He stood up and turned on the main light. “I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

  “In case I have nightmares?”

  “Yes, in case you have nightmares. This has shaken you up more than you realize, and I think someone should be here. I’ll sleep here on the sofa if the idea of me in your bed offends you, but I’m going to stay!”

  She stood up furiously. “Like hell you are!” Then abruptly her shoulders slumped. “Oh, God, Nick, you’re right. I do want you to stay. I want you to hold me.”

  He put his arms around her gently and caressed her hair. “The trouble with you, Jo, is that when you’re nice, you’re very, very nice, but—”

  “I know, I know. And when I’m horrid you hate and detest me. And I’m usually horrid.” She forced herself to smile. “Well, tonight I’m being nice. But it is only for one night, Nick. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow.”

  In bed they lay for a long time in silence. Then Nick raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her in the faint light that filtered through the blind from the streetlamp in the mews.

  “Jo,” he said softly. “You haven’t told me yet about Richard.”

  She stiffened. “Richard?”

  “Your lover in that castle. He was your lover, wasn’t he?”

  Restlessly she moved her head sideways so he could not see her face. “I don’t know. It wasn’t me, Nick! He left the castle. He wasn’t there at the end. I don’t know what happened next. I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.” Agitated, she tried to push him away, but he caught her wrist, forcing it back against the pillow so that she had to face him.

  “You’re planning to see Bennet again, aren’t you?”

  She shook her head violently. “No, of course I’m not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Something in his voice made her stare up into his face, trying to see the expression in his eyes.

  “For God’s sake, don’t do it. It’s dangerous. Far more dangerous than you or Bennet realize. Your life could be in danger, Jo.” His voice was harsh.

  She smiled. “Now, that is melodramatic. Are you suggesting I could be locked in the past forever?” She reached up and tugged his hair playfully. “You idiot, it doesn’t work that way. People always wake up in the end.”

  “Do they?” He lay back on the pillow. “Just make sure you’ve got your facts right, Jo. I know it’s your proud boast that you always do, but just this once you could be wrong.”

  9

  Early the next morning Sam paid off the taxi and stood for a moment on the pavement staring around him. Judy’s address was scribbled on a scrap of paper in his hand.

  He looked up at the house, then, slinging his suitcase over his shoulder, he ran easily up the long flights of steps until he reached the shadowy landing at the top of the stairs. It was some time before the door opened to his ring.

  Judy stared at the rangy figure in the rumpled cord jacket and her eyes hardened. “What do you want?”

  “Hello there.” He grinned at her easily. “I’m Sam Franklyn.”

  “I guessed that. So—what do you want?” Her tone was icy. With paintstained fingers she pushed back the scarf that covered her hair.

  “May I come in?”

  “Please yourself.” She turned away and walked back into the studio. After picking up a rag, she began to scru
b at her fingertips with some turpentine. “What have you come here for?” she asked after a minute. She did not bother to turn around.

  Sam dropped his case in the corner and closed the door. “I rather hoped Nick would be here,” he said mildly, “but I can see I’ve goofed. Where is he, do you know?”

  “I don’t.” She flung down the rag. “But I can guess. He stood me up last night.” She folded her arms and turned to face him. He could see now in the harsh revealing light of the studio windows that her eyes were red and puffy. There was a streak of viridian across her forehead.

  “Any chance of some coffee while you tell me about it?” Sam said gently. “I’ve come straight from Heathrow and I’m parched.”

  “Help yourself. But don’t expect me to make polite conversation, least of all about Nick. I’m busy.” She turned her back on him again.

  Sam frowned. He watched her for a moment as she picked up a brush and attacked the canvas in front of her. Every muscle in her body was tense, the angle of her shoulders set and defensive beneath the faded green denim of her smock.

  “Do you know,” she said suddenly, “I hate her. I have never actually hated anyone like that before.”

  Sam watched her thoughtfully. “It sounds pretty normal to me,” he said evenly. “Do I gather we are talking about Jo?”

  “Why don’t you make me some coffee too, while you’re at it,” she returned sharply, “and let’s not discuss Jo.” Once again she pushed back the scarf that covered her hair.

  Sam gave a small grimace. He found his way across to the kitchen by instinct and pushed open the door, then he stopped and surveyed the scene. There was broken glass all over the floor. Two saucepans of food had been left upside down in the sink. Staring down at the mess, he sniffed cautiously. One had contained asparagus soup, the other some kind of goulash. Sam frowned. In the pail below the sink were two china plates with the salad that had been on them. She had hurled out what appeared to him to have been a cordon bleu meal, complete with china.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he watched for a moment in silence as she worked, then he began to hunt for some coffee and set the kettle on the gas.

  “What do you call that picture?” he asked several minutes later when he handed her a mug.

  She took it without looking at him. “What you mean is, what the hell is it?” she said slowly. She stepped closer to the painting, eyes narrowed, and added a small touch of red to the swirl of colors. “I had better not tell you. You’d have me taken away in a straitjacket.” She gave a taut smile. “You’re the psychiatrist. Why don’t you tell me what it means?” She rubbed at the canvas with her little finger and stared thoughtfully at the smear of red it left on her skin. Then she swung around to face him again. “On second thought, why don’t you drink your coffee and get out of here?”

  Sam grinned. “I’m on my way.”

  “Good.” She paused. “I told her, you know. In front of the whole bloody world.”

  “Told her what?” Sam was still studying the canvas.

  “What Nick said to you on the phone. That she would crack if she were hypnotized again. That she is more or less out of her mind.” She threw down the brush and crossed to the untidy desk by the window. After pulling open a drawer, she extracted a newspaper clipping. “This was in yesterday’s Mail.”

  Sam took it. He read the paragraph, his face impassive, then he handed it back.

  “You certainly made a good job of that bit of scandal.”

  Judy smiled. She turned back to her canvas. “So hadn’t you better rush over to Cornwall Gardens and see if Nick can spare you one of her hands to hold?”

  “That’s what I’ve come for.” Sam drank the last of his coffee, then put down his empty mug. “I take it,” he added carefully, “that you think that Nick spent last night with her.”

  “Unless he got run over and is in the mortuary.”

  “And you were expecting him here to dinner.”

  “As you plainly saw.”

  “I am sorry.” Sam’s face was carefully controlled. “Nick’s a fool. You deserve better.”

  She went back to the painting and stood staring at it. “That’s right. And I mean to get it. Make no mistake about it, Dr. Franklyn, I mean to see that Nick leaves her for good. So if it’s your mission in life to comfort Jo Clifford and see that she keeps calm and safe and sane, why don’t you move in with her and send your brother to me.”

  Sam turned and picked up his case. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he said. He pulled open the door. “But if you’ll take a piece of advice from me, I suggest you use a little more subtlety with Nick. If you behave like the proverbial fishwife he’ll leave you for good. I know my brother. He likes his ladies sophisticated and in control. If he sees the mess in your kitchen he’ll leave, and I wouldn’t altogether blame him.”

  He didn’t wait to hear the string of expletives that echoed after him as he began to run down the stairs.

  ***

  Jo was sitting on the cold concrete steps outside the library watching a pigeon waddling along in the gutter. Its neck shimmered with iridescent purples and greens as it moved unconcerned between the wheels of the stationary cars intent on gathering specks of food from the tarmac. The roar of traffic in the High Street a few yards away distracted it not at all. Nor did the scream of an accelerating motorbike a few feet from it. Behind her the library doors were unlocked at last.

  Standing up slowly, she brushed the dust off her skirt, watching as the pigeon, startled into sleek slimness by her sudden movement, took off and swept with graceful speed up and over the rooftops toward the park.

  As she ran up the echoing staircase to the library she became aware suddenly that she could hear her own heartbeats drumming in her ears. The sound was disconcerting and she stopped outside the glass swing doors to try to steady herself. Her head ached violently and her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the doors and turned toward the reference section, skirting the tables where already students and newspaper readers were establishing their base camps for the day. As she pulled the notebook from her bag she realized that her hands had begun to shake.

  Begin with The Dictionary of National Biography.

  It was unlikely she would find Matilda there, but it was a place to start. She approached the shelf, her hand outstretched. Her fingers were trembling.

  “Braos?” she murmured to herself. “Breos? I wonder how they spelled it.” There was a rustle of paper beside her as a large bespectacled priest turned to the racing page. He looked up and caught her eye. His wink was comforting.

  She walked slowly along the shelf, squinting at the gold-lettered spines of the books, then she heaved out a volume and carried it to a table, perching uncomfortably on the very edge of the chair as she began to leaf through the pages.

  Don’t let it have been real…Please don’t let it have been real…I can’t cope with that…She shook her head angrily. The thick paper crackled a little, the small print blurring. A slightly musty smell floated from between the covers as the riffling pages stirred the hot air of the room.

  …Bowen…Bradford…Branston…Braose, Philip de (fl. 1172) two inches of print, then Braose, William de (d. 1211). There were more than two pages.

  She sat still for a moment, fighting her stomach. She could taste the bile in the back of her throat. Her forehead was damp and ice cold and her hands were burning hot. It was awhile before she became conscious that the priest was watching her closely and she realized suddenly that she had been staring at him hard, oblivious of everything but the need not to be sick. Somehow she forced herself to smile at him and she looked away.

  She took a deep breath and stared down at the page. Was Matilda there, in the article that she could see at a glance was full of place names and dates? Had she lived long enough to make her mark on history and have her name recorded with her cruel, overbearing husband? Or had she flitted in and out of life like a shadow, leaving no tr
ace at all, if she had ever existed?

  The priest was still watching her, his kind face creased with concern. Jo knew that any minute he was going to stand up and come over to her. She looked away again hastily. She had to look up Richard de Clare, too, and Abergavenny, and make notes on them all. Then, perhaps, she would go and have a cup of coffee and accept the consolations of the Church if they were offered.

  ***

  It was several minutes before the intercom on the doorstep below Jo’s apartment crackled into life. Sam bent toward the display board.

  “Nick? It’s Sam. Let me come up.”

  Nick was waiting on the landing as Sam walked slowly up the carpeted stairs. “You’re too late,” he said brusquely. “She went to a hypnotist yesterday and let him regress her.”

  Sam followed him into the brightness of the apartment and stared around. “What happened? Where is she?” He faced his brother coldly, taking in the dark rings beneath Nick’s eyes and the unshaven stubble.

  “She had gone before I woke up.” Nick ran his fingers through his hair. “I think she was okay. She was last night. Just shocked and rather frightened. She had a long session that seemed to get out of control. The hypnotist couldn’t bring her back to consciousness. She seemed to get so involved in what was happening, it was so real to her.”

  “You were with her?” Sam turned on him sharply.

  “Of course not! Do you think I’d have let her go! No, she brought back a tape of what happened and I heard it last night.” Nick shook his head wearily. “She was in a terrible state—but not in danger as far as I could tell. She never stopped breathing or anything. I stayed the night with her and she spent most of it tossing and turning and pacing up and down the floor. She must have got up at dawn and gone out. She did say she’d go to the library first thing. Maybe she went there to see if she could find any of these people in a history book.”

  Sam took off his jacket and threw it on the back of the sofa. Then he sat down and drew the tape recorder toward him. “Right, Nick. May I suggest you return to your titian-haired artist friend and try to apologize for last night’s ruined meal? Leave Jo to me.”