Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  William’s men, however, when they fanned out in their exhaustive search of the castle, found no trace of Megan, nor had anyone been able to think how she had come to be there. She was not known by anyone at Monmouth, nor had anyone seen her come or go, save the trembling girl who had willingly given up to her the chore of carrying up the hot soup.

  “I’ve already sent messengers to Abergavenny,” William announced, stamping into Matilda’s chamber an hour later. “You and I will ride on as far as Dingestow to see how Ranulf Poer fares with the rebuilding of the fabric of the castle there. It may be that I shall wait there with him till the building season is over. You can ride on to Hay.” He rubbed his hands ruefully. “Winter is coming early this year. There won’t be many more weeks before the snows arrive if it goes on like this. What ails you, Moll?” He suddenly rounded on her irritably. “Has this wretched woman upset you?” He seemed to have noticed for the first time her pinched pale face and stooping back.

  She forced a smile. “No, William, it’s not that. I’m afraid I’m breeding again. I’m feeling sick with it, that’s all.”

  He looked relieved. Not wanting to believe that Megan’s warning might have any substance himself, he had resented the thought that Matilda might be frightened by it. “The ride’ll soon perk you up! I was afraid for a moment you were ill,” he said gruffly, and he rested his hand awkwardly for a moment on her shoulder. From time to time there were moments almost of tenderness between them now. “It’ll be good to have another baby to keep you occupied, eh?” He gave a gruff laugh. “Now, the horses are waiting. This business with the Welshwoman has delayed us long enough. Let’s ride.” He swung on his heel and, slowly, clutching her cloak around her, she followed him down the stairs.

  ***

  The extensive alterations on the remains of the old castle of Dingestow were nearly completed. As they rode along the newly cleared track toward it at the head of their troop of horsemen, Matilda saw the low curtain walls swarming with men. Obviously Poer was trying to finish the outer defenses before the weather put a stop to the season’s building. A thin film of ice turned the moat a milky blue beneath the frosted sky as they clattered across the bridge, which was still supported by a framework of scaffolding.

  Ranulf Poer was seated by a blazing fire in the echoing keep, the plans for the castle spread before him on the table. He pulled himself painfully to his feet at their approach, his foxlike features sharper and more prominent than ever, his hair snow-white. He greeted them distantly, his mind obviously still half on the plans before him.

  “We haven’t long to finish the walls,” he commented, showing William the outline on one of the pieces of parchment. “The Welsh are restless. I don’t like it. We’ve had reports that trouble is coming. I’ll be glad to have your men here while we finish. I can spare very few of mine for guard duty.” He glanced almost distastefully at Matilda. “Is your wife staying here?”

  “Thank you, no,” she replied, stiffly, conscious of all her old dislike for the man flooding back. “I plan to travel on to Tretower, if you can spare me an escort.” She tried to keep the edge of sarcasm out of her voice. It was wasted on Poer, though.

  “Spare her the minimum, de Braose. We need those men here.” He stabbed the table once more with his finger, before turning on his heel. “I can smell trouble, and I want to be prepared.”

  “It seems he’s worried too.” William threw down his riding gloves after Poer had stamped out, and held his hands to the fire, glancing around at the bare stone walls and the piles of unshaped stones still lying in heaps in the far corner below the dais. “You’d be best out of here, Moll. It’ll not be comfortable anyway. Make your way as quickly as you can out of Gwent and into Brycheiniog.” He thought for a moment, scratching his head. “I think you must give up your idea of going to Tretower. It takes you too close to Abergavenny, just in case that woman spoke the truth. Ride the direct route through the mountains from Llantilio to Llanthony. The good fathers will give you shelter for the night. From there to the Hay should be only a day’s ride, even in this weather.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Poer always was as nervous as a cat in these mountains. He doesn’t believe Rhys can keep the peace in Gwent as he does in the rest of south Wales. Personally I think he still does. Just.”

  Matilda shivered. She had a strong suspicion that Poer was correct in his doubts, but she kept her fear to herself. William seemed confident, and her concern was to reach her children as fast as she could. If he became too worried, he might begrudge her even the small escort he had promised and insist she remain with him. They spent the night, fully dressed, huddled on straw pallets around the fire, and Matilda left Dingestow the next morning at first light. The wind had changed as night drove in from the western hills and with it came a wet windy warmth that loosed the ice in the hard earth and turned the winding tracks to running mud. With Matilda went Elen and her two women, Gwenny and Nan, and an escort of twelve men-at-arms. She rode fast, forgetful of her sickness, half exhilarated by the strong wind, half frightened by the brooding deserted country as their horses’ hooves splashed through the shallow puddles on the hill tracks and through the deeper mud of the still, shadowy woods. In her girdle she carried a knife and, as they cantered on, she loosed it nervously in its sheath.

  They paused early at the square-built tower of Llantilio, secure in its commanding position on the top of the hill, and, in spite of her eagerness to go on, Matilda reluctantly agreed that they spend the night there. She hardly slept. The sickness had passed, but her mind was in a turmoil of fear and impatience, and at first light they rode on.

  They followed the old road north to where it plunged between the mountains and followed the River Honddu up the vale of Ewias toward Llanthony Abbey, the horses slipping and stumbling in the heavy rain. At midday the rain stopped at last and Matilda pushed the horses as fast as she dared beneath the threatening sky.

  They passed the little church of Cwmyoy, the track leading up to it marked by one of the stone crosses that signposted the pilgrims’ way through the mountains. Out of habit Matilda reined in her horse as so often she did when William was there. Then she remembered and, contenting herself with a quick prayer as they walked past, she spurred her horse onward again. The heavy clouds threatened more rain, which would make the road across the mountains impassable. Constantly before her was the image of her children alone with their attendants at Hay, with only a small garrison to guard them and the gates trustingly open so that the townsfolk could come and go.

  Once Elen begged her to stop, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of their sweating horses and for Gwenny, who was sobbing with the pain of a stitch in her side, but she ignored her pleas. Silent drifting clouds obscured the still, silent mountains either side of the River Honddu. Even the buzzards had deserted the valley. The moaning of the wind in the trees was the only sound save the creaking of the leather and the occasional sucking squelch of a horse’s hoof coming out of the mud. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the men escorting her had drawn their swords. The sight gave her very little comfort.

  It was early dusk when the exhausted horses filed into the windblown orchards that lay in the deep valley south of Llanthony Priory. There were signs of much activity and building. Llanthony, so long nearly deserted during the early wars, lying as it did so close to the border, had received substantial grants for its rebuilding from old Hugh de Lacy, the Lord of Ewias, and already a magnificent central tower and the presbytery had risen nearly to their full height in nests of wooden scaffolding.

  Matilda breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped from her horse. Here at least, amid the orchards, gardens, and vineyards, they were safe and might pass the night in the canons’ guesthouse without fear of attack.

  “So, Elen, we are halfway home. I’m sorry I made you all ride so fast. I had no feeling of being watched, yet I was afraid, out there, on the road.”

  Elen snorted. “You afraid, my lady! And how is your sickness now, m
ay I ask? Quite better, I’ll be bound, while we’re all as exhausted as kittens.” She gestured toward the two wilting women who had dismounted behind them.

  Matilda smiled. “Poor Elen. Perhaps my illness was all in my head. Perhaps I’m not even with child.” She pressed her hand hopefully to her stomach.

  “Indeed I think you are, madam.” Elen smiled grimly. “But it’ll be a miracle if you don’t lose it, riding like that.” She flounced indignantly ahead of her mistress into the newly built guesthouse.

  With fire, and light, and succulent meat from the prior’s kitchens washed down with raw wine from the vineyards along the Honddu, Matilda felt better.

  “Only a few hours’ ride till we reach the children.” She smiled at Gwenny, who was helping her off with her gown. It was the first time she had undressed for three days.

  Gwenny nodded shyly. “They’re safe enough, madam. Mistress Nell would never let anything happen to them.”

  “Could Mistress Nell do anything against an army?” Matilda replied more sharply than she meant. She repented as she saw Gwenny’s chin tremble. “Oh, I’m sorry, Gwenny. I know I could probably do no more than she could, but we are bringing twelve more men with us.” She sat down heavily on the bed and took her brush from Gwenny’s hand. “You go and sleep. Tell Nan and Elen to as well.” She looked around the tiny cell-like room, so unlike the great chambers she was used to. “But you’ll hear me if I call, from next door. Go on, girl, get some sleep.”

  She sighed as the door closed and she was left alone. Perhaps tonight she too would be able to sleep, lulled by the safety and serenity of the great priory, soothed and protected by the chanting of the monks in the choir of their beautiful new church.

  She had only just dozed off, or so it seemed, when she was awakened by a furious knocking on the guesthouse door. It took a moment to remember where she was, then she was out of bed, groping in the dark for her fur-lined bedgown, trying to find the latch of the door to her room in the impenetrable blackness. She cursed herself for blowing out the light before she went to sleep. She ached with exhaustion.

  The main door had been opened by one of her young men-at-arms, his eyes still bleary with sleep, his fingers fumbling to buckle on his sword belt as he dragged the heavy oak back and let in the cold night air.

  It was the prior himself who hurried in, followed by two of his black-robed canons. His pale face was drawn and anxious. “Forgive me waking you so early, my lady.” He motioned the man to shut the door as one of the canons put a lantern on the table and filled the dark room with leaping shadows. The man-at-arms went to the fire and, kicking off the turves on the embers, squatted down to feed it dried apple twigs from the basket near it. Soon it was blazing up. The prior sat down heavily on the stool by the table, his white hands twisting nervously together. “I had just come from celebrating prime when a messenger arrived.” He gulped nervously. “He had galloped over the hills from Abergavenny, my lady. The castle has fallen. As far as is known no one has escaped.”

  Matilda felt Elen’s steadying arm around her as she gazed appalled at the old man’s face. She was conscious of Gwenny and Nan hovering behind her.

  “Your husband, madam.” The prior’s voice was gentle. “Was he at the castle?”

  She shook her head numbly. “He’s at Dingestow, Father Prior. We were warned not to go to Abergavenny, and messengers were sent to the garrison there.” She shook her head, anguished. “They should have been prepared.”

  “No messenger can have reached them.” The prior made a wry face. “The boy who came to warn us said the Welsh hid in the underbrush that has overgrown the moat. They surprised them yesterday at dawn.” He crossed himself. “The castle is burned. Apparently a Welshman spoke to the constable the night before and actually taunted him that they were going to take the castle, and for a while the garrison took the threat seriously and waited up. Then they gave up and went to bed. I can’t believe it, but they did! How can they have been so foolish?” He wrung his hands. “They left the usual minimum guard on the battlements of course, but…The Welsh put up their scaling ladders and went straight in over the walls. The constable and his wife are captured with many others. A lot of men died. No one escaped. I can’t think how it happened. When the Welsh themselves warned them.” He sat there, shaking his head in distress, his narrow, lined face a picture of grief.

  “Has someone sent messengers to Sir William? He must be warned in case they go on to find him at Dingestow.” Anguished, Matilda was standing in front of the old man, not noticing how her bedgown had fallen open to reveal her full breasts, half swathed in her long copper hair. The prior, swallowing, averted his eyes. “I will send my fastest horses, my lady.” He fingered the heavy silver cross that hung from a chain around his neck. “I feel sure he will have heard at once though. Dingestow is no more than a few miles from Abergavenny, but I will send, if you wish it.”

  “Please do, Father, he must be warned.” Matilda shivered. “Is it known who led this raid?”

  “The sons of Seisyll of Gwent, Lady Matilda. Two died at your husband’s orders, but others lived and they’re grown men now. They have waited a long time to avenge their father’s death. We in Ewias and Gwent have heard often of their vows for revenge in spite of Lord Rhys’s orders that peace is all-important. They only waited for their manhood and then—for de Braose.” He shrugged and again Matilda felt a shiver run across her shoulders.

  When the prior had gone she paced up and down, nervously chewing her thumbnail. Then suddenly she made up her mind. “Dress,” she ordered Elen and the two women. “See that the horses are at the door at once,” she flung at the guard. “We ride to Hay now. The Welsh could have attacked it already. They could be on the way there now. Don’t wait for food, we must go.”

  She fled into her little room and began to pull on her clothes, bundling up her hair with pins inside the hood of her mantle, pricking her fingers in her haste on the brooch at its shoulder.

  ***

  The deep Honddu Valley still lay in darkness, and the morning light touched only the tops of the western slopes of the Black Mountains as they set off up the long climb through the thickly wooded valley toward the bleak, silent moors, past the tiny chapel on the border and so into Brycheiniog and up toward the high pass between the mountains. Their horses were still tired from the previous day’s ride but Matilda relentlessly pushed them on, her eyes fixed on the gap in the mountains ahead. Once there they paused for a moment to scan the countryside around them, bathed now in the warm russet of a watery dawn sun. Nothing moved in the bracken and grass. Even birds and sheep seemed to have deserted the high road. They pushed their gasping horses to a heavy gallop in the thick mud and began the long slow descent from the hills.

  As the exhausted party trekked the last mile into Hay the sun disappeared and rain began once more to fall, a steady blanketing downpour that shut off the mountains and the valley and blinded the riders, soaking into their clothes and streaming from the horses’ manes. The town of Hay seemed deserted, only the flattened puffs of smoke escaping from the streaming cottage roofs showing where the women were sheltering inside their dwellings. The castle was quiet. The guards on the main gate in the curtain wall stood to attention as their lady walked her steaming horse into the outer bailey and drew to a halt. All was well. There had been no attack. She breathed a silent prayer that it had been the same at Dingestow.

  22

  The shadow on the bridge had moved. Jo stared at it, puzzled, then she looked around her. The riverside was deserted; the backs of the houses that overlooked it had changed subtly—gray stone relieved here and there by boxes of geraniums and trailing lobelia now deeply textured by brilliant sunlight. The heat haze had dissipated, leaving the air quite clear.

  She moved cautiously, and winced. Her foot had gone to sleep. Bending to rub it gently, she found her feet were bare—her shoes lying several feet away on the pebbles at the edge of the river. She glanced at her watch, then, horrified, stare
d at it again. She had been sitting there for an hour.

  Slowly she stood up and hobbled painfully over the stones to reach her shoes. She remembered nothing from the moment she had kicked them off to cool her feet in the swift-running, brown water. Had she dozed off as she sat on the wall, or had she once more gone back into the past? Her mind was a complete blank. Dazed, she made her way back up the narrow lane toward her car. Somewhere at the back of her consciousness something was nagging; a memory trying to get out, but a memory of what? Had an episode of Matilda’s life taken place in her dreams as she sat on the wall, just as it had at Hay—but if so, why could she not remember it? She felt a shiver of unease stir deep down inside her as she unlocked the MG and climbed in stiffly. Why should Matilda want to hide from her now? Biting her lip, she sat for a while, deep in thought, but nothing came, nothing but a vague feeling of unease.

  ***

  Nick was waiting for her in her apartment.

  He stood up as she came in. “Where have you been?”

  “Away.”

  “And you don’t intend to tell me where, I suppose,” he said wearily.

  “No.”

  “You missed your appointment, Jo.” His eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to see Bennet yesterday and you didn’t turn up.”

  “I’ll call him and apologize.” She felt a quick flash of anger. “You didn’t have to wait to tell me that.”

  “We lost the Desco contract this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry—that’s tough. But this is not the place to think out your future.”

  Nick sat down on the Victorian chair by the fireplace and stretched out his legs in front of him. “I’ll go,” he said wearily, “when I’m ready. But I want some answers from you first.” He paused momentarily. “Have you been seeing Richard de Clare again?”