“Hands off Jo Clifford?” Pete leaned back and crossed one long leg over the other. He stared up at the ceiling. “Do you intend to make it worth my while?”
“You mean you want me to trade stories?” Bet glanced at him quizzically.
“Possibly. If you know anything exciting that I don’t.”
Bet laughed out loud. “Touché. Supposing I promise to keep my ear to the ground?” She took up the menu and began to look at it thoughtfully. “There is one favor you might do for me, though, Pete,” she said, not taking her eyes from the list of hors d’oeuvres. “Spend a little time with la petite Curzon. I think you’ll find her grateful.”
“You mean Jo will be grateful if Judy has less time for Nick.”
Bet concealed a smile. “No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. She raised a languid hand to greet a colleague who had appeared in the doorway.
Peter gave her a sharp look. Then he grinned. “I see—and while the cat’s away…She’s gone to Wales, you said?”
Bet nodded. “Tim has gone with her. He’s going to photograph the locations—ruins and mountains and things, and also try and catch Jo while she’s in a trance. You’d be amazed how quickly he agreed to go. He dropped everything—left his entire diary to that dishy George chappie and whatever his other assistant is called, packed his knapsack and went.”
Pete gave a silent whistle. “So that’s the way the wind blows. Does Nick know what is happening?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Nick Franklyn is Jo’s worst enemy in some ways. He distracts her from her work. He turns her neurotic when I want her incisive and militant. He blunts that acerbic edge that makes Jo Jo.”
“Besides which, you’ve fancied him yourself for years.”
Bet gave an enigmatic smile. “Have you tried the nest of quails’ eggs they do here?” she said innocently. “If not, I’d recommend it.”
***
There was a knock on Jo’s bedroom door. She stood back from her suitcase and stared for a moment out of the dormer window toward the trees that screened the River Wye from her view. “Come in, Tim. I’m just about ready.” Tim appeared, stooping beneath the low sloping ceiling. “You were right about Mrs. Griffiths,” he said in an undertone. “What a gem. I’m glad she had rooms for us.” He wore an open-necked checked shirt and jeans. There was a camera case slung from his shoulder. “Shall we walk up into Hay?”
Jo nodded. She slipped her notebook into her tote bag and followed Tim down the creaking staircase and out onto the sun-baked pavement.
They walked slowly up the road past the church, stopping to stare at the grass-covered tump where once the first castle of Hay had stood, then they made their way toward the bridge that spanned the river. Leaning on the blue-painted railings, they stared down into the water far below.
“You say it happened here the first time?” Tim asked.
Jo nodded. “I was sitting on the shingle down there.”
“And it happened completely spontaneously?”
“I think I knew something was wrong. Things went strange—a bit jerky, as if I were starting a migraine. Then, quite suddenly, I was somewhere else.”
“You want to try again?”
Jo swallowed. “Of course. That’s what we’ve come for. Actually”—she gave Tim a wry smile—“I’d rather have someone there. I think I’ll feel safer somehow. Waking up and finding those people bending over me…I felt as if they had seen me naked.”
Tim nodded soberly. “I do understand. Come on.” He was about to turn away from the rail when he stiffened and leaned farther over, looking down into the bright glitter of the water. “Look. By those streamers of weed.”
Jo felt a shiver touch her shoulders. She clutched the rail, peering down, half expecting to see some shadow from the long-ago past.
“There. See it?” Tim leaned over in excitement. “A huge fish.”
Jo relaxed. She smiled at him in relief. “This is a famous fishing river. You should have brought your rods, if you fish.”
“No way.” Tim followed her toward the far side of the bridge. “I’d hate to kill anything for fun, that’s a sport for the gods. Besides, I shoot as much as I want with my camera.”
She turned in at the swinging gate that led off the road and onto the footpath. “That sounds very philosophical.”
“Perhaps.” He was grinning as he followed her down the footpath through the trees and onto the shingle strip along the river. Slowly Jo led the way to the spot where she had sat before, picking her way over the smooth rocks that lined the bank of the river. She stopped at last on the edge of the shingle once again.
“It was here,” she said.
Tim was watching her. “You don’t have to try to do it now, Jo. We can wait.”
“No. I want to.”
She put her bag down and sat nervously on one of the boulders. She swallowed, staring at the water, not blinking, allowing her eyes to be dazzled, deliberately trying to make her mind a blank.
Beside her Tim squatted silently, his eyes on her face. He was completely relaxed, his long limbs folded with the motionless ease of someone accustomed to the role of watcher. Jo, in contrast, was rigid with tension. He saw her swallow again. She was frowning. “It isn’t going to happen,” she said at last.
“You’re trying too hard,” Tim said easily. “Try to relax.”
“I can’t.” She tore her eyes away from the water to look at him. “I suppose, deep down, I don’t want it to happen. I’m afraid. Last time, sitting here, I was completely relaxed. It was the last thing I expected. Besides, I think I was so exhausted that my mind went a complete blank and that is when it happened.”
“Were you afraid with Dr. Bennet?” Tim smiled easily.
She nodded. “I was afraid but I couldn’t fight his hypnosis. He knew how to approach it obliquely to put me at my ease.”
“You were telling me you read a book on self-hypnosis. What did that tell you to do?”
She grinned wryly. “It was incredibly complicated. To do with separating the two halves of the brain. You have to keep one half distracted while the other half is stimulated. I didn’t read the instructions too carefully at the time, I must confess. It sounded awfully like hard work.”
Tim laughed. “You should have brought it with you. I could have read out the instructions as we went along. I find it hard enough to cope with my brain even when I think it’s working in unison.” He stretched his arms above his head lazily. “Tell me the point Matilda’s story has reached now.”
“Well, here it was rather exciting.” Jo smiled. “She met Richard again. They flew their falcons on the moors somewhere up there behind us, beyond Gyro, and they managed to go off on their own. They made love on the grass, by a mountain stream. Tim? What is it?”
Tim had scrambled to his feet. He walked to the edge of the river, kicking at the ripples with the toe of his shoe. “Nothing.” He stooped, and picking up a small stone, skimmed it across the water. “Come on. Let’s walk up and see your castle. We can always try again another time for a trance.”
“All right. If you want to.” Jo frowned, puzzled by his reaction.
Turning, he smiled at her, extending his hand to pull her to her feet. “I’d like to take some shots with the sun low like this, then why don’t we find a nice pub and grab an early meal?”
“That would be nice.” She picked up her bag and followed him over the stones. “Tim. Do you think I’m mad to pursue this?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? If you are driven to do it, then you must.”
“Driven? By Bet, you mean?”
Laughing, he shook his head. “Driven by something inside you. Matilda herself perhaps, seeking to tell her story.”
Jo shivered. “Do you think she is forcing herself on me? I don’t feel possessed, not even obsessed. I think I’m just curious.”
“Then you can choose.”
“Would you go on if you were me?”
There was a
moment’s silence. Tim was looking up at the high bridge, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure. I believe in karma, you see.”
“Destiny?”
“Something like that. To know what has gone before won’t alter what is to come. Perhaps it is better not to know.”
“But I do know.” The words came out as a whisper. “I know what happened from books.”
Tim shook his head. “You don’t know the truth, Jo. You know a few disparate facts. Suppositions. It was too long ago, the characters too poorly documented, to know the truth. The only way you will find that out is to live Matilda’s life again with her.”
“Right up to the bitter end?” Jo thought for a moment. “I don’t think I have the courage. I think I am afraid of death.”
“Even when you are living proof of the fact that death isn’t the end?”
She smiled. “That is begging the question. You are assuming that Matilda was a previous incarnation.”
“I know she was,” Tim said softly.
She stared at him. “You know? Or you would like to think so?”
“I know.”
“Why are you so sure?”
For a moment she thought he was going to tell her, then he shook his head. “One day I’ll explain, Jo. Not yet. Come on, the light’s changing. Let’s get to work.”
They did a complete circle of the castle, photographing it from every angle, in some places close beneath the wall, in others viewing it beyond rooftops and trees, always at a distance.
“Aren’t you going to try to go in?” Tim said, putting one camera away and taking a second one out of his bag.
Jo shook her head. “I don’t think so. At least, not yet. It is so changed, Tim. Even if some of those walls are Matilda’s own, even if she did lay some of the stones with her bare hands, it’s not the same. I found that out at Bramber and Abergavenny. And so much of this is of a later date. No, I don’t want to go inside.”
Tim nodded. “Shall we go and look for a nice pub then?”
Jo had walked a few paces from him, staring up at the high stone wall. They were in Castle Lane, a narrow street where the buildings on the northeast side were overshadowed by the high walls of the ruin that faced them. She was staring up, her eyes focused on an empty arched window high in the crumbling walls.
Quietly Tim raised his camera. She did not notice, her attention riveted to the graying stone.
“Jo?” Tim said quietly after a moment. At first she did not appear to have heard him, then she turned. She smiled uncertainly. “I thought for a minute…”
He was putting his camera away. “Don’t worry about it. It will come if it’s going to. Bill Walton says self-hypnosis is often more effective than the other sort, but you can’t force it, Jo. You will learn or it will come by itself—”
“It’s not self-hypnosis, Tim. I told you, I never tried to do it deliberately except just now by the river.” She stopped abruptly. “When did you talk to Bill Walton about it?”
“A few days ago.” He led the way around the foot of the wall. “I…” He glanced back at her sheepishly. “I had a go myself.”
Jo stared at him. “You mean you were regressed?”
He nodded.
“And?”
“It didn’t work.” He lifted his camera bag on his shoulder. “Come on, I want food.”
How could he tell her about what had happened in that shadowed upstairs room in Richmond? The whirling blackness, the despair, the fear and anger that had possessed him, the sense of overpowering frustration and, at last, the realization of failure that had pursued him through life after life, as he spun, without identity, down through the centuries.
He shook his head wearily, following Jo back down the steep pavement that led from the High Town down toward the river. He had gone back. Twice. And on neither occasion had he been coherent or cooperative. The second time he had cried. He knew he would not try again.
***
The church was very cool after the heat of the morning. After letting themselves in, Jo and Tim stared around.
“There she is,” Jo whispered. Near the west wall lay the remains of a huge, worn stone effigy, barely recognizable as human. They approached it slowly and Jo stooped and rested her hand on the stone. “Moll Walbee,” she said quietly. “I wonder if it is her.”
Tim was looking at the leaflet he had picked up by the church door. “It says not here,” he said. “It says it is the figure of an unknown monk.”
They both stood in silence looking at the almost featureless figure before them, its worn head resting on a pillow of stone. Tim chuckled. “If it was her you can see why she was reputed to have been a giant. That bit alone must be over four feet long and it’s only half of her—or him.” He raised his camera and took a shot of Jo as she crouched down over the figure, her hands resting on the smooth stone, her eyes lowered, her long dark hair hanging loose over her shoulders.
She closed her eyes, trying to will some kind of warmth into the cold hardness beneath her hands. The church was completely silent. Tim did not move, watching the woman who, in her cool green linen dress, was as unmoving as the recumbent figure beside her, her tanned skin taking on the tones from the shadows of the nave. He found he was shivering and he fingered the top buttons of his shirt, drawing them together almost defensively.
Jo’s eyes were still closed. He stared at the dark lashes lying on her cheeks and fought the sudden urge to touch her shoulder.
“Oh, Christ! Why won’t it happen!” Jo cried suddenly. She slammed her fists down on the effigy. “I’ve got to know, Tim. I’ve got to. If it won’t happen here, where will it?” She stared around the church. “I’ll have to go back to Carl Bennet. I thought I could manage without him—I wanted to do it alone—”
“Perhaps that’s it, Jo,” Tim said quietly. “Perhaps you need to be alone. Perhaps its because I’m here.”
“Perhaps it is.” She swung to face him. “Perhaps it’s because I want to cash in on it. I wanted to follow Bet’s advice and do the articles for her. When she mentioned a book and even TV the idea excited me. I wanted to use all this, Tim. And it has spoiled it. It has made it contrived. Like you and your camera. You have no place here, Tim!”
“I have, Jo.” He turned away from her and sat down in one of the pews, staring up toward the dark triple-arched chancel, with his back to her. “I do have a place here.”
“I don’t believe you.” She glared at him. “I should never have asked you to come!” She scrambled to her feet and ran toward the door, pulling it open and disappearing out into the sunshine.
Behind her, Tim sat unmoving, listening to the echoing silence as the sound of the falling latch died beneath the church’s vaulted roof.
Jo walked swiftly across the grass, swinging her bag, seeing it scattering the seedheads of the dandelions as she headed toward the overgrown untended half of the churchyard that sloped down steeply around the north side of the church. Somewhere nearby she could hear the gurgling of a brook. It was very hot indeed. The morning haze had cleared away and the full heat of the sun beat down on the top of her head.
She could feel the sudden perspiration on her back and between her breasts as she stopped and looked around. The churchyard was deserted. There was no sign of Tim. With a sigh she pushed her way through knee-high wild grasses, threaded with meadowsweet and campion and buttercups, and sat down on one of the ancient lichen-covered tombs, beneath a yew tree, dropping her bag on the grass. She opened the top buttons of her shirtwaist and turned back the collar, lifting the hair off her neck as she stared up through the thick green of the tree toward the metallic blue of the sky. It was here, or somewhere very close to this spot, that Jeanne was buried. She could hear the drowsy cooing of a woodpigeon in a tree nearby.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back, letting the dappled sunlight play across her face.
***
The hall of the castle was crowded, wisped with smoke from the fires as the diners sat at the long tables. It was
the autumn of 1187.
Matilda was seated at the high table, next to her husband, and on her right was Gerald, Archdeacon of Brecknock. Beyond William was Baldwin, the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Gerald leaned toward her with a cheerful grin. “His Grace looks tired. He did not expect his preaching of the Third Crusade in Hay to be greeted by a riot!”
Matilda smiled. “The men of Hay so eager to follow the cross, their wives so eager to stop them! It was ever so, I fear.” She broke off, biting her lip. William had been conspicuous among the men of the Border March in not volunteering to go to rescue the Holy City from Saladin.
Gerald noticed her silence at once and guessed the reason for it. “The king has need of Sir William at home, my lady,” he said gently. “Your husband will give money to the cause, which is as welcome as his sword.”
“Even Lord Rhys and Einion of Elfael pledged their swords!” Matilda retorted. “And William dares to call them savages—” She broke off, glancing at William to see if he had heard, and hastily changed the subject. “Tell me about yourself, Archdeacon. Are you content? You seem to be high in the archbishop’s favor.”
His piercing eyes had lost none of their alertness and never ceased probing the men around him, but now they confronted her quietly as he wiped his lips on his napkin and reached for his wine. “I am never content, Lady Matilda. You should know that by now. I serve the king and I serve the archbishop, but I will confess to you a certain restlessness, a lack of fulfillment.” He put down his goblet so abruptly it slopped on the linen cloth. “God needs me as bishop of St. David’s!” he said vehemently. “Wales needs me there. And yet, still I wait!” He took a deep breath, steadying himself with an effort. “But I have continued with my work. And always I write. That has brought me much solace.” He glanced past her at the archbishop. “Tomorrow we go on to my house at Llanddeu. The archbishop has graciously consented to spend the night there before going on to Brecknock and I have decided to present him with my work on the topography of Ireland. Did you know I was there with Prince John three years ago?” He shook his head wearily. “A fiasco that expedition turned out and no mistake, but it showed me Ireland again. And my book has been well received.”
Lady of Hay Page 40
