She watched for a moment as the woman hustled about fetching a jug of steaming, fragrant liquid and a goblet and then as Isabella climbed, still moving as in a dream, into the high bed, Matilda turned and pushed her way out of the room, suddenly stifled by its oppressive heat.
She made her way quickly and nervously back to the de Braose tents, half afraid she would be once more waylaid by the prince, conscious suddenly of the black shadows behind the circled tents, of the grove of trees, the leaves unstirring in the windless air, and of the motionless encampment guards half dozing as they leaned on their swords.
But it was Richard who waylaid her. He stepped from the shadows, his finger to his lips, and beckoned her after him into the shelter of the trees. “I could not leave like that,” he whispered. “Not without just one more moment alone with you. Dear God! Why did we not meet each other in time!” The wind teased the streaming torch on the edge of the encampment near them and she saw the shadows playing on his face.
“It was not to be, love.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “Maybe, one day—”
He seized her hands, enfolding them in his own, holding them pressed against his chest. “One day!” he echoed bitterly. “When you belong to de Braose and when the prince has already marked you for his own!”
“That’s not true!” She pulled away from him violently. “John is nothing to me and I am nothing to him. Nothing!”
He was looking down at her, his eyes gleaming strangely in the torch light.
“Nothing?” he echoed.
“Nothing. I swear by all I hold sacred!”
He shook his head. “Don’t swear. You don’t know what may happen. The prince has power, Matilde.” He touched her hair gently. “Dear God! I want to throw you on my horse and gallop away with you. Take you for my own!”
For a moment she felt a blind excitement as the power of the passion in his voice flooded through her. If he had asked her then she would have gone, but his hands fell slowly to his sides and he shrugged. “I am to be brother-in-law to the prince, it seems.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “As befits a great earl,” she whispered. Forcing herself to smile, she looked away. “I must go in, Richard.”
“Of course.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I’ll see you again. Soon.”
She nodded dumbly, then she turned away, pulling her cloak around her as she dodged past the flare and into the darkness.
***
When Tim came upstairs it was already dark. He had walked some four miles down the valley and back, shrugging off the heavy warm spots of rain, and he was tired. He pushed open the door quietly and glanced into the bedroom. Jo was asleep on the sofa, by the window. Her book had fallen to the floor. With a fond grin he picked it up and put it on the table without looking at the title, then he turned and, pulling a blanket from the bed, he tucked it gently around her. Then he paused, frowning, as he looked down at her face. An expression of anguish had crossed her features momentarily and as he took her hand, gently slipping it beneath the blanket, he found her fists were clenched.
“Jo?” he whispered. “Jo? Can you hear me?”
She did not respond. She was breathing in tight, almost imperceptible gasps.
“Where are you, Jo?” he murmured, but she did not answer. He touched her face lightly, then reached over to turn out the lamp.
He undressed quickly in the dark and slid into bed, and lay listening, but Jo was completely silent. Not so much as a sigh came from her as she lay locked in that different world on the far side of the room.
He must have dozed off after a while, for a slim moon had appeared at the window when he woke suddenly. He gazed at the luminous dial on his wrist. It was ten past three. Then he realized what had disturbed him. Jo was moving restlessly on the sofa. She moaned softly and he saw her sit up. The blanket slid to the floor and she swung her bare feet off the seat and stood, staring around the room.
“Don’t tell me it’s your turn for the bed,” he said quietly into the shadows.
She did not reply. She moved toward him slowly, staring down at him in the watery moonlight.
“I thought you’d gone,” she whispered at last.
“Only for a walk.” He propped himself up on one elbow.
“Weren’t you going after the prince?”
Tim froze. “Jo?” he said softly. “Jo, can you hear me?”
She was half smiling, her eyes on his face. “There’s no one here,” she whispered. “Oh, Richard, please. Make love to me just once more. Surely it’s no sin when we love each other so much. Tomorrow you can go. You’ll be brother-in-law to the prince. You’ll be Amicia’s forever. Give me just a few hours more.” She was fumbling with the sash of her bathrobe.
Tim ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Jo,” he said hoarsely. “Jo, I think you’d better wake up—”
She opened the gown and let it fall to the floor. Beneath it she was naked. He stared at her body, silvered in the thin moonlight, and felt himself tense all over as she threw herself toward the bed and wriggled into his arms beneath the sheet.
“Richard! Oh, Richard!” Her mouth sought his as his arms closed around her. “Dear God, please hold me!”
With a groan Tim lay back, gathering her against him, feeling the silky weight of her hair slide over her shoulders onto his face and neck, blotting out the moonlight.
He kissed her again and again, threading his fingers through her hair, holding her face still as her slim, warm body lay on his. He kissed her mouth and her eyes, her neck and her breasts, then, catching her shoulders, he turned her onto her back, lying on top of her, his tongue probing between her lips, feeling her legs fall willingly apart to receive him.
It was daylight when he fell asleep at last, his arms still around her, one thigh lying possessively across hers.
He slept heavily, barely stirring when Jo slipped from the bed and, grabbing her bathrobe, fled into the bathroom.
She was fully dressed when he woke to the sound of a knock at the bedroom door. He watched sleepily as she took a tray from their host and slid it onto the bedside table, then she sat down on the bed beside him. She smiled wanly. “So you’re awake.”
Tim grinned. “Barely. Is that early-morning tea I see?” He sat up slowly then he looked at her remorsefully. “Jo, it was my fault. I took advantage of you last night. I should have said no. I should have tried to wake you somehow—”
“I was awake.” Her face was drawn and tense. “But I thought you were Richard. I wasn’t in a trance, Tim. I knew I was in this room. I knew we were in a pub. I knew this was the twentieth century.” Her hands were shaking suddenly and she clutched them together. “But I was still Matilda. And you—you were Richard.”
Tim gave a tight smile. “Matilda was one hell of an uninhibited lady. I’m not surprised Richard could never get her out of his system.” He smiled gently.
Jo colored violently. After reaching for the teapot, she managed to pour out two cups, using both hands on the china handle. He took his cup from her hastily and sat leaning against the pillows, staring down into the tea. “That was the last time they made love,” he went on quietly.
She looked up. “How do you know?”
“I just know. They weren’t meant for each other.” He gave a rueful grin. “Shame, isn’t it?”
She was staring at him. “You were Richard de Clare,” she whispered at last. “It did work with Bill Walton!”
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he nodded reluctantly. “It’s not as simple as that, though, Jo—Jo? What is it?”
She was crying suddenly; soundless, exhausted weeping, the tears falling remorselessly down her cheeks.
“I thought it was Nick,” she said brokenly. “Oh, Tim, I’m sorry, but I so wanted it to be Nick.”
25
Nick was lying on the sofa in his apartment with his eyes closed, listening to the quiet strains of Debussy, when Sam let himself in through the front door and pulled off
his raincoat, shaking it in the hall before hanging it up. He appeared in the doorway and stared down at his brother in surprise.
“I thought you were off to New York today?”
“I’ve postponed the trip until the second.” Nick did not open his eyes. “That way I can see all the top men in one go. There’s no point in going twice.”
Sam raised an eyebrow as he crossed to the tray of drinks. “That doesn’t sound like you. Do you want a Scotch?”
Nick shook his head. “I’m energetic when I need to be,” he said. “It’s just that there are a few things I want to sort out before I go.” He sounded depressed.
Sam was pouring himself a large gin. “Would one of those things be Jo?” he said softly.
Nick altered the position of his head slightly so that he could watch Sam as his brother walked to the window. Another summer storm was brewing and the light outside was sulfurous as the cloud billowed up over London from the west. “I used to think you were quite fond of her,” he said reflectively. “But you’re not, are you?”
Sam stiffened. “What makes you think that?”
“Observation.”
“Then your powers of observation must be sadly awry. I am very fond of her.” Sam was staring out at the thunder clouds. A flicker of lightning lit the sky above the park, turning the trees fluorescent for a fraction of a second in front of the bruised purple of the storm. “It’s you who seem to be having trouble working out your feelings for her. You still need my help, I think.” He turned at last and looked at Nick. “All that hostility is still there, isn’t it?”
“The hostility your hypnotism was supposed to cure? It didn’t work, did it? I never thought you’d be able to do it. I doubt if I was even properly under.”
Sam smiled. “Oh, you were properly ‘under,’ as you put it. You just don’t remember. Perhaps I should do it again.” Sam perched on the edge of the coffee table, looking at him. “Why don’t we try and see what happens?”
Nick glanced at him suspiciously, suddenly remembering his mother’s anxiety. “Why are you so eager to hypnotize me, Sam?” he asked after a moment.
“I’m not eager,” Sam said. “I’m merely offering.”
Nick put his glass down. To his own surprise he found himself putting his misgivings firmly aside. “Perhaps a bit of mental massage is just what I need one way and another.”
Nick sat back in the chair and settled his shoulders against the deep-orange cushions. Only a few moments later Sam was smiling in triumph. “Well done, Nicholas,” he murmured. “That’s it. Now you are completely relaxed. Completely asleep. But you can still hear me, can’t you?”
Nick nodded.
“Good. Open your eyes and look at me. That’s it. Now, I want you to remember who I told you you were, once before, eight hundred years ago. Who was it, Nick?”
His brother’s eyes were steady. They narrowed slightly. “John,” he said.
Sam smiled again. “Good.” He took a deep draught from his glass. “Now, Your Royal Highness.” He emphasized the words mockingly. “We discussed Matilda de Braose, did we not?”
Nick nodded. A frown appeared between his eyes.
“The woman you loved, sir,” Sam went on relentlessly. “The woman who rejected your advances and spurned you. The woman who accused you of murder before the world.”
Abruptly Nick stood up, almost knocking into Sam as he strode across the room, his face angry, his fists clenched. “She taunted me about my nephew, Arthur—”
“And that was when you first decided that she must die,” Sam said softly. “But now she has returned to taunt you again. And even in this life she still despises you. She still thinks herself superior to you—to you! You will punish her again, won’t you, sir?” he whispered. “But before you do it, you will tell me what you intend.”
“I will tell you.”
Sam smiled. “I wonder who you really were in that previous life,” he said reflectively. “If you were anyone at all. Come, little brother. Why don’t we find out, just for the hell of it.” Standing up, he took Nick’s shoulder and steered him back to the chair. “I want you to think back to when you were a child. Back to when you were a baby. Back even before you lay in the womb, back to the time before the darkness, back to the late twelfth century when Richard Lion Heart was on the throne of England. Tell me, did you have a life then too? Did you know me as William de Braose?” Nick had not moved. His face was like carved stone.
“Well?” Sam leaned over Nick and, taking a handful of his hair, pulled his head back so that his brother was forced to look up at him. “Who were you?”
Nick’s eyes were cold. His mouth moved into a half smile as for the first time he looked at Sam directly. “Can you have forgotten so soon?” he said slowly.
Sam drew back abruptly. “So.” He swore under his breath. “The trance wasn’t deep enough. You’ve been fooling me. Yet I could have sworn—” He took several steps back. “Nick? Nick, can you hear me?”
Nick nodded slowly. He was watching Sam with the half smile still on his face.
“I see.” Sam reached into the pocket of his cords and pulled out a clasp knife. “Well, let’s put it to the test, shall we? I am going to tap your hand with my finger. It is not going to hurt and I doubt if you will feel it at all.” He unfolded the knife. After grabbing Nick’s hand he held it a moment, staring at the palm, the blade poised. Nick did not seem to have noticed. Slowly Sam turned the hand over and deliberately he stroked the blade across the back of Nick’s wrist. A thin line of blood welled up, but Nick had not flinched.
“So. A deep trance still exists,” Sam murmured as he put the knife away. “And your wit comes from another time. Yes, brother, I have forgotten who you are. Why don’t you tell me?”
Nick straightened his shoulders. Slowly he stood once more. “You dare call me brother?” he said.
“Your name?” Sam said. “Tell me your name, then I shall know what to call you?”
“I am John Plantagenet,” Nick shouted suddenly. “ I am the king’s brother! I stand in England now in my brother’s stead,” he said slowly. “And one day, de Braose, I shall make you kneel to me. You, and that witch you call your wife.” He smiled coldly. “Are you deranged, man? Can it be that you do not know your prince?” He strode toward Sam suddenly and took hold of the front of Sam’s shirt. The blood from the cut on the back of his wrist was trickling across his palm and a smear of it transferred itself to the blue cotton as Sam tried to pull himself free. “Look at me!” Nick shouted suddenly. “And look well, de Braose! Remember the face of your future king!”
For a moment neither of them reacted to the sound of the front door buzzer. Nick had not heard it, but Sam, as he wrenched himself away, turned angrily and glanced toward the hall.
It buzzed again. Sam cursed. He had to get rid of whoever it was. He backed away from Nick cautiously. “I shall return in a moment, sir,” he said, trying to contain the anger and impatience that had swept through him. “Sit down, sir,” he added forcefully. “We shall continue this conversation in a moment.” He paused, reluctant to move, but Nick, after a second’s annoyed hesitation, had swung away from him and was standing in the middle of the room, his arms folded across his chest.
Sam hurried into the hall, closing the door behind him, as the buzzer sounded for a third time, and he dragged open the front door. A bedraggled figure was standing on the dimly lit landing, dressed in a fawn raincoat. It was Judy Curzon.
“Thank God!” she said, pushing past him. “I thought you were out. I’m half drowned.”
“Judy!” Sam was still holding the door. “Wait! You can’t come in! Why didn’t the janitor ring through to say you were here?”
She had unknotted her belt and dropped the soaked raincoat on a chair.
“He wasn’t in his cubbyhole, so I dodged past and grabbed the elevator. I hate being interrogated by your janitor. It makes me feel like a burglar. What do you mean I can’t come in, for Christ’s sake? Why not?
”
“I have a patient here, Judy—”
“Crap! You don’t have patients. You do experiments on poor, bloody animals.” Judy pushed open the drawing-room door. “Get me a drink and a towel and let me wait until the storm is over, then I’ll go—” She stopped dead in the doorway. “Nick?” Her good humor vanished. “I thought you were supposed to be in the States.”
Nick turned slightly toward her but he said nothing, and after a moment he turned back to the window where the lightning was almost continuous behind the streaming rain.
Judy scowled. “And hello to you too, Nicholas, sweetie!” She walked across to the table and picked up the gin bottle, holding it up to the light. “You said you were with a patient, Sam. Do I gather you meant your benighted brother?”
Sam had followed her into the room. He closed the door firmly. “Sit down, Judy, and please be quiet.” His voice was quietly threatening. “Nick is deeply hypnotized. He doesn’t know you are here.”
She stared at Sam, then, stunned, she turned to Nick. “You mean it? He can’t see me? Have you made him go back into the past, like Jo?” Judy raised her hand as if to touch Nick’s face, then abruptly she moved away from him again.
Sam nodded. “I’ve been trying to do that, but he is not so good a subject as Jo. He doesn’t go deeply enough into the trance.”
Judy poured herself out an inch of gin. “But he’s deeply enough in a trance for me to come into the room and him not know it! What has he done to his hand?”
Sam smiled enigmatically. “I cut him.”
Judy stared, aghast. “Why?” she breathed.
“To see if the trance was deep enough.”
Judy had begun to feel a little sick. After staring at the blood on Nick’s hand, she turned to look at Sam. “You’re sure you didn’t have a fight?” she asked faintly.
Sam shook his head. “Of course not.”
“Wake him up, please.” She was suddenly frightened.
“I was about to when you arrived.” Sam helped himself to another drink. He was watching Judy closely, noticing the conflict of emotions as they followed one another in quick succession across her face. Fear, disgust, interest, excitement, and then something like calculation betrayed themselves in her eyes. But no affection that he could see.
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