Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

She caught her breath. “That would not be right, Your Highness.” She gasped desperately. He was turning her to face him, his lips reaching for hers, cutting off her protest as he pulled her against him.

  His body was young, lean and strong, and in spite of her instant repugnance as he pressed her against him, Matilda felt her own flesh respond, yearning suddenly for the confident, clean touch of a young man after so long with only William to maul her. In spite of herself she hesitated, yielding slightly, her body torn with longing.

  John laughed triumphantly. “So, we make progress at last, my lady. Come.” He caught her hand, pulling her toward the pile of rugs and furs that had been heaped on the floor in the corner. “We shall find this journey was, after all, not wasted—”

  “No!” Matilda tore herself away from him. “I think, sire, you cannot know what you’re suggesting.” She spoke as repressively as she could, hoping he could not feel her violent trembling as he caught her arms and pulled her against him again. He was immensely strong. His hands gripped her cruelly tight and his face was only inches now from hers. “I am the wife of Sir William de Braose, not a common whore,” she hissed, her momentary weakness gone. She flung his hands from her arms and stood rigid, her eyes flaming. “And I think, sir, you forget your new wife. Perhaps you should reserve your attentions for her and getting that son you were so anxious for.”

  There was a long silence. Then John gave a little laugh. She did not dare to look at his face as, suddenly terrified by the audacity of what she had said, she backed away from him. He was breathing fast, his eyes narrowed, his fist clenched on the hilt of his dagger as he watched her, and she felt her bones dissolve in an icy trickle of terror as, slowly, he began to unbuckle his belt. He laid his dagger aside, on the improvised table, then he turned to her again. “You may be no whore yet, my lady,” he snarled, “though some would beg to question your innocence when they speak of your friendship with Lord de Clare. Oh, yes!” He laughed again. “You color and look away. So modest and so shy, madam. Yet your tongue betrays you for a shrew and, by God’s bones, I’ll make a whore of you as well! Sir William would not begrudge me a night with his lady, I’ll warrant. He follows my star closely. You should do the same. When I’m king I shall remember my friends.” He moved purposefully toward her. “And I shall also remember my enemies, madam.”

  She tried to dodge away around the blocks of stone toward the archway that led to the spiral stairs and to escape, but John was there, barring her way.

  “Which are you, Matilda?” he whispered, breathing heavily. “My friend or my enemy?”

  “Neither, Your Highness. I am the wife of one of your brother Richard’s most loyal subjects—” She broke off, biting her lip, seeing the blind fury in his face as she mentioned the king’s name, cursing herself for her tactlessness. “And we shall be yours too, sire, should you succeed him,” she rushed on, backing away again. “Your friends—your loyal friends—” She gave a little cry as he lunged forward and caught her arm and pushed her, stumbling, toward the pile of blankets.

  He threw her down and stood for a moment over her, staring down in cold triumph. “Then prove your loyalty, madam,” he breathed.

  “No!” She tried to crawl away, dragging herself across the piled furs, hampered by her heavy skirts. “Your Highness, please! Think of Isabella. You break your vows of knighthood, sire—”

  Her anguished cry turned to a scream as, with an oath, he threw himself on her, pushing her violently over onto her back, one hand damped over her mouth as she tried to scream again, the other groping for her throat.

  “Silence, woman!” he hissed. “Do you want the entire garrison here as spectators to our lust?”

  She was struggling desperately against him, afraid now only of the pitiless fingers tightening around her throat as she fought for breath, clawing frantically at his hands, hearing nothing but the roaring in her ears as her struggles grew weaker. Then everything grew dark and she lay still.

  She felt herself moved, her kirtle stripped from her, her gown unlaced and pulled from her body, and she was lying naked on the furs before the fire, struggling for breath through a swollen half-closed throat. Through the darkness she saw his face above her, his eyes intense, blue as the unfathomable sky, his hair and beard gold in the flickering light of the flames. Then all went black once more.

  His lips took hers, his tongue moistening her dry mouth, his hands crushing her breasts before moving on to caress her body and push demandingly between her thighs. She did not struggle, scarcely conscious anymore of what he did to her, seeing the arched vaults of the roof, smoky and dark above his shoulders, spin and recede into the darkness, flicker in the firelight, and grow dark once more. He took her again and again, seemingly unconcerned whether she lived or died, venting his fury and his lust on her acquiescent body, then he pulled her roughly over onto her face and threw himself on her again. Her single agonized scream, dragged in pain and humiliation from her bruised throat as he drove deep inside her, was lost in the rancid sheep’s wool of the fleece that filled her mouth and nose.

  It was a long time before she realized that he had at last moved away from her. Her bruised body, spreadeagled over the untidy heap of blankets, refused for a moment to respond as she tried to ease her position, wanting to curl up against the cold that hit her now the sweating body of the man left her uncovered. With a groan she rolled onto her side and managed to drag the fleece over her, then she lay still, her eyes still closed, her body a mass of aching bruises.

  John had pulled on his tunic and mantle. Buckling on his belt with its jeweled dagger, he turned to her at last and stood looking down at her for several moments. Then he smiled. “If you will excuse me, Lady Matilda,” he said softly, “I will go and see that the horses are comfortable and fed.” She heard him cross the room and run down the steps. He did not come back.

  She did not move for a long time, then, driven by cold as the fire died, she dragged herself to her feet and, still dizzy and confused, groped wearily for her clothes before taking wood from the basket and dropping it on the cooling embers.

  For ages she stood rigid by the fire as it blazed up again, then at last, weary beyond endurance, she sank to her knees and, wrapping herself in her cloak, rested her head on her arms on one of the upturned boxes.

  She slept fitfully, half listening for John’s returning footsteps, but they did not come. Toward dawn she fell more deeply asleep for a while and then awoke abruptly when somewhere just outside the window of the keep a cock crowed. She was painfully stiff and very cold. The fire had died to white ashes and through the badly improvised shutters in the windows the cold morning light stretched across the floor. A pool of dull light showed in the hearth beneath the broad chimney.

  Climbing numbly to her feet, Matilda crossed to the window and pulled down the shutter. A mist swam outside, lapping the mountains, condensing like rain on the sill of the embrasure. She shivered.

  The great hall had been cleaned. A fire had been lit in the fireplace and a makeshift table was already standing on the dais. At it sat John, finishing his breakfast. He half rose when she appeared, giving her a mocking bow, then he continued eating. His eyes were cold and uncompromising.

  Matilda stood for a moment watching him, fighting her revulsion and terror as she pulled the hood of her cloak more closely around her bruised throat.

  “Come, join me for breakfast, my lady,” he called, not looking up. “You must be hungry after so disturbed a night.” He beckoned a servant from the shadows and indicated his empty goblet.

  Summoning every shred of dignity to her aid, Matilda walked toward him across the floor. By the dais she dropped him a haughty curtsy. The castle seemed full of people this morning as, reluctantly, she took her place beside the prince. A shame-faced servant brought her bread and mulled wine, while another scattered fresh rushes on the floor. From somewhere in the bailey came the sound of hammering. John looked up again.

  “Where is the castellan?” he snapped to
the man with the rushes. “Now that Lady de Braose is here, bring him at once—let us hear the reasons for the state of this place.”

  The servant bowed and ran out, returning almost at once with a tall man dressed in his hauberk and fully armed. He fell on his knees before Matilda. John, seemingly uninterested, continued eating.

  Matilda swallowed painfully. “Well,” she said with an effort, “what have you to say?”

  The man’s face was gray. “I am Bernard, my lady. Forgive us.” He clasped his hands pleadingly. “This castle is a terrible place. No man can stay here and keep sane. I’ve begged for a transfer, but no one comes to relieve us.” He glanced at the prince. “My lord, have pity.”

  John snorted. “Pity. When you can’t take a little discomfort!”

  “It’s not the discomfort, sir, no indeed.” The man leaned forward earnestly.

  “What, then?” John looked scornful. “Have the Welsh prince’s men been frightening you, then?” He put on a singsong voice full of sarcasm and scorn.

  “No, sir. We’re not afraid of the Welsh.” Bernard was indignant. “No, my lady, it’s something else.” He dropped his eyes suddenly and shifted his weight uncomfortably from one knee to the other.

  “What?” John demanded unsympathetically.

  “It’s the old ones of the castle, Your Highness.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “They walk the ramparts beside our men. They tramp the ditch, they ride on the hill. They are everywhere in the dark.” He crossed himself fervently and they saw him finger the amulet that hung at his throat.

  Matilda glanced at John, shivering in spite of herself.

  “What nonsense is this you talk?” he asked. “What old ones of the castle? There’s no one in these hills but shepherds and warring Welsh tribes.”

  Beside him, Matilda’s fingers were pressing white on the goblet in her hand. A little hot wine slopped on her wrist.

  “They’re shadows, Your Highness. Castel Dinas was theirs a thousand years ago. Maybe more. Before Our Lord was born this land belonged to them. We find their belongings in the foundations. The ditches and ramparts were dug by them. Their gods still rule, my lord. Christ is not welcome here. The walls of the chapel fall each time we begin to build…” He was speaking quickly now, his hands pressed together, beads of sweat standing out on his brow.

  John stood up and leaned toward him across the table. “God’s teeth! Are you telling me that this garrison is reduced to total terror by a pack of ghosts?” His voice was icy.

  The man lowered his eyes. “They’re real, my lord. I’ve seen them. Spirits, maybe, from the old days, but they’re real. My lady, please release us. The only way is to abandon the castle to them.” He turned to Matilda at last, his hands pressed together in supplication.

  “How dare you suggest such a thing?” John’s voice cut through the man’s pleading like a whiplash. “The punishment for desertion is known to you, no doubt. I think you had better consider well before you suggest abandoning a strategic point such as this.”

  “That is enough.” Matilda rose painfully to her feet and tried to clear her throat. “You may go for now,” she said wearily. “There will be no punishments until messages have been sent to Sir William. You will see to it meanwhile that the building goes on and that there is no more drunkenness.”

  The man scrambled to his feet and, bowing low, fled from the hall.

  John turned to her. “What, no floggings, Lady Matilda? Do you feel that they’re justified being lazy good-for-nothing hounds because they can tell a good ghost story?”

  She colored. “Perhaps they’re right, my lord,” she said defiantly. “There is something evil about this place.”

  “Apart from me, you mean?” His voice was heavy as her clear green eyes sought his and held his stare for a moment. He looked away first.

  “It’s lonely here certainly,” he said at last, rising to his feet, goblet in hand still, and walking over toward the hearth, “and it’s eerie in all this mist.”

  She watched him as he stood looking down into the glowing ash. His handsome face was pale and drawn, and there was an almost feline tautness about his muscles as he flexed his fingers slowly around the stem of the earthenware cup. She shuddered violently.

  “The mountains are often eerie to the sensitive, Your Highness,” she said softly. “I believe the men here are right. The old gods still walk these hills. This place is theirs and they will protect their own.”

  He swung around and gave her a searching look. “And are you their own too, my lady?” he said mockingly. “I think not. These gods or ghosts or men did not leap to your defense, as I recall, last night.”

  Ignoring the impotent fury that showed for an instant in her eyes, he took another thoughtful sip from the goblet. “No, this is rubbish. I’m prepared to swear that a few floggings and perhaps a hanging or two would ensure that no more gods or ghosts were ever seen here. You cross yourself, my lady? Can it be you are afraid of ghosts?” His eyes glittered once more. “Surely not, with me here to protect you even if your gods will not!” He took a step toward her.

  Matilda felt the blood drain from her face. “You are no protection, my lord prince,” she said. “God help the people of this country if ever you should become its king!”

  She turned her back on him sharply, trying to steady her shaking hands.

  Behind her there was a moment’s silence, then she felt his fingers lightly touch her shoulders. “You presume too far, my lady,” he said softly in her ear.

  “As you did, Your Highness,” she whispered. “God forgive you.”

  His hands fell away, but for a moment he did not move. “We were meant for each other, Matilda,” he said quietly. “You cannot fight what God intended.”

  “God!” She faced him abruptly. “You think God intended you to take me as you did last night?”

  He gave a half smile. “He was perhaps the source more of the inspiration than the method, madam. The result is the same. You are mine.”

  For a moment she stared at him in silence, her eyes huge as they held his, searching for some trace of gentleness behind the stark words. There was none.

  He held out his hand suddenly and, taking hers, raised it to his lips. “You have to accept the inevitable, my lady,” he said softly. “The stars themselves have spelled out our destinies—”

  “No!” She pulled her hand away from him violently. “No, I don’t believe you.”

  He smiled faintly. “As you wish, but it will be the harder lesson for you to learn. Come, let us inspect the holy well that graces this unholy place. Then perhaps we can return to the Hay. Your hospitality on this occasion does not overwhelm me, madam!”

  Brushing past her, he pulled his cloak from the stool where he had flung it and ran down the steps into the misty cold sunshine. For a moment she did not move, overcome with fear and disgust, then reluctantly she forced herself to follow him outside.

  The cold windswept valley was swathed in feeble sunshine as the heavy clouds streamed past, while all around them the mountains rose like evil presences, brooding, guarding Dinas and its secrets. She found she was shivering violently once more.

  Dinas Well lay outside the north gate, a small bubbling spring surrounded by sharp rushes where a low wall of loose stone had been raised to protect it. There were signs that offerings had been left to the guardians of the well, whoever they might be, and garlands of wilted michaelmas daisies decorated the stone.

  For a moment John stood staring down at it, then slowly he pulled off his heavy mantle and began to unlace the russet cotte beneath it, baring his breast to the teeth of the gale. Matilda caught her breath in horror. On his breast was an angry suppurating wound in the shape of a crescent moon.

  He knelt, hesitating for a moment at the edge of the bubbling spring, then, clenching his teeth, he bent toward it and began to splash the icy mountain water over the wound. It was as she watched that somewhere the memory stirred at the back of her mind of Jeanne’s voice talkin
g about the holy well of Dinas. It was this water alone that could heal the incurable wounds procured by witchcraft; and this man was a descendant of Melusine—the daughter of the devil. Crossing herself, Matilda turned quickly away, her fear and revulsion doubled. It was a long time before she dared turn back as for the last time he bent and scooped some water into the palm of his hand and splashed it over his throat. And when she did turn she saw him toss a gold coin into the opaque green waters of the pool.

  At last he rose to his feet, the water still glistening on his neck. “Let’s see what magic this can perform,” he said as he shrugged his mantle back on. “Perhaps it will redeem my good opinion of this Godforsaken place! Shall we call the horses and get out of here? I feel we’ve done all we can. I’ve seen the splendors of your defenses.” He smiled amiably enough, but she flinched at the double-edged cut to his meaning. “Come,” he went on. “We’ve seen the well. I wish to return to Hay. The day is several hours old, and I don’t relish the thought of another night here.”

  ***

  There had been no storm in London. Above the high dome of the Reading Room at the British Museum the sky was relentlessly blue and harsh. Sam Franklyn stretched and sat back in his seat, staring thoughtfully upward. Making up his mind abruptly, he began to shut the books in front of him. He closed his slim notebook and twisted around to tuck it into the pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, then he stood up. He was smiling as he handed in the armful of textbooks at the circular central counter.

  He made his way out of the museum through the crowds of visitors, pushed out of the swing doors, and ran down the broad flight of steps. The heat hit him like a hammer as he headed for the shade of the plane trees in Great Russell Street and began to walk briskly southwest, threading his way purposefully toward Long Acre.

  Tim was peering through the viewfinder of his camera at the brilliantly lit dais in his studio. Nearby George was altering the positioning of the spots trained on a young man holding the leash of a tall, elegantly bored Dalmatian.