Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  Dry-eyed, Matilda climbed to her feet. She picked up her cloak and wrapped it around her tightly, trying to stem the sudden, agonized shuddering that racked her body, then wearily she climbed onto the bed and pulled the covers over her.

  Only then did she realize the music was still playing softly in a dark corner near the window.

  29

  There was a persistent knocking somewhere in the distance. Judy dragged herself up out of the fog of sleep and groped for her bedside clock. It was three-fifteen.

  With a groan she sat up and reached for her bathrobe. Staggering slightly, she switched on the bedside lamp and pushed open the door into the studio. It was quite dark in there, the smell of turpentine and oil paint pleasingly overlaid with beeswax. She sniffed appreciatively; smells were always so much stronger and better defined in the darkness.

  After snapping on a single spotlight in the corner, she made her way to the door. Behind her the new canvas, nearly finished, stood alone in the center of the floor, and she glanced at it possessively as she passed. Totally absorbed, she had been working on it, in spite of the lack of light, until nearly two.

  “Who is it?” she called. She slipped the chain into place. “Stop making such a noise and tell me what you want.”

  “It’s me, Sam Franklyn.” The knocking stopped abruptly.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Cautiously she opened the door and peered through the crack.

  Sam was leaning against the wall. His shirt was unbuttoned and he carried his jacket over his shoulder, his finger hooked through the loop. Slightly bleary-eyed, obviously tired, he was, she realized for the first time with a sudden sense of shock, as handsome in his own way as his brother. With an obvious effort he stepped forward and pushed at the door, swearing violently as the chain caught it and held it fast, bruising his knuckles. “Open up, Judy, for God’s sake. I need to talk to someone.”

  “Someone? Anyone?” She stared at him indignantly. “Are you drunk, Sam?” She reached for the light switch by the door and flooded the studio behind her with light as the fluorescent strips clicked on. After pushing the door almost shut, she slipped off the chain.

  “No, I’m not drunk.” Sam walked in past her. “But I would like to be. Do you have anything here to create the desired effect?”

  Judy raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “If it were up to the Franklyns I wouldn’t have much left for anyone to get drunk on! Anyway, I thought you were a coffee addict.”

  He grinned at her, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Coffee up till two perhaps, but then Scotch.”

  She shrugged. “One. Then you can go home. I’m sick of you and Nick using this place as a railway station bar! What’s the matter anyway?”

  “The matter? Why should anything be the matter?”

  Judy found the bottle of Scotch in the kitchen cabinet and brought it back into the studio. “People don’t usually arrive here at three in the morning wanting a drink without something being the matter,” she said curtly. “Is Nick still in Wales?”

  Sam shook his head. “They came back at the weekend. Nick is flying to the States tomorrow.” He emptied the glass and put it on the table. “I lie. This morning. He is going this morning.”

  “And does he still think he’s King John?” Judy poured herself a small measure and sipped it without enjoyment. She had begun to shiver.

  Sam smiled. He sat down and put his elbows on the table. “He was King John.”

  “Crap. You’ve been feeding him that stuff deliberately. What I want to know is why? You don’t like your brother, do you, Sam?”

  “How perspicacious of you to see it.” Sam picked up his empty glass and thoughtfully held it level with his face, squinting through it sideways.

  “And you are setting him up?”

  “Possibly. Give me another wee dram and I shall reveal all.”

  Judy hesitated. He was not obviously drunk, but he was making her feel uncomfortable. There was something strange—even frightening—about him as he sat motionless at the table, a sense of latent power that could be unleashed at any moment. Still shivering, she reached for an old sweater that was hanging over the back of a wooden chair near the table and knotted it around her neck like a scarf. “Okay. It’s a deal. One drink and you reveal all,” she said.

  She watched while he drank, then she sat down, arms folded, and waited.

  He put down the glass. “I am a puppeteer, Judith. A Punch and Judy man. A kingmaker. Nicholas is dancing on the end of my string.” He held out his hand, angled above the floor as though he held a puppet there before him, dancing at his feet.

  “Even in the States?” she asked dryly.

  “In the States, sweet girl, the king who lives in his head will sleep. He will wait until he returns to his native land and then he will strike.”

  “Strike?” Judy echoed. She looked at him apprehensively. “What do you mean, strike?”

  “Who can tell?” Sam said. “He is a king.” He laughed suddenly, then abruptly he looked back at her. “He seduced my wife, you know.”

  “Your wife?” Judy echoed in amazement. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t know you were married.”

  “Oh, yes.” He balanced the chair on its two back legs, lolling in it comfortably, his fingertips resting on the edge of the table. “Because he is king he thinks he can do what he likes with other people’s lives. He thinks he can take with impunity. He doesn’t know how wrong he is.”

  Judy was watching him nervously. He was like Nick; he could be blind drunk and not show it at all. She eyed the bottle, which she had left on the table less than two feet from his hand. It was still half full.

  Standing up, she edged away from him. “I don’t know about you, but I need some coffee, however late it is.”

  “Not for me.” He moved slightly in his chair to watch her. “I have just come from Joanna’s apartment,” he went on after a moment. “I walked around for a long time before coming down here.”

  “Oh?” She hid her surprise as she went back into the kitchen and switched on the light.

  “She is a lying bitch.” He said it reflectively, but without malice. “A beautiful, lying bitch.”

  “Do I gather you made a pass at her?” She jumped violently as she turned from the cabinet and found him standing immediately behind her. He had moved after her with extraordinary and silent speed.

  He ignored the question. For a moment he stood staring at her, then he smiled again. “You too are a beautiful woman, Judith. One thing my brother has is an impeccable taste in women.” He reached out and touched her arm. “Look at me.”

  Startled, she lifted her eyes to his and for a moment she found herself trapped, the clear, almost colorless irises holding her gaze, and she could feel her mind reaching out to meet his, eager for the fusion. For a brief second she remained absolutely still, then with an effort she tore her eyes away. “Oh, no you don’t, Dr. Franklyn! You can’t hypnotize me. I’m immune!” Her eyes narrowed with anger. “I wasn’t good enough for you before, remember? There was no way you wanted to include me in your little happy family of medieval freaks. So, who have you decided I could be, now that you’ve changed your mind? Eleanor of Aquitaine? A serving wench to hitch up my skirts for you and bare my backside whenever you fancy a quick poke, now that Jo has rejected you! You realize you could lose your license for all this? And for what you’re doing to Nick!” She backed away hastily as he took a step toward her. “Don’t you touch me, Sam. I warn you. You’d better go!”

  Sam grabbed her wrist. “Oh, come on, Judy.” He pulled her toward him. “Don’t play the shy virgin with me—you know what it’s all about. I need you. Believe me, I need you.”

  There was no room for her to pull away from him in the small kitchen, trapped as she was between the worktop and a cabinet, and before she knew what was happening he had seized her mouth, forcing his tongue between her teeth. For a moment she was too shocked to move, then, tearing herself away, leaning backward over the work surface, she
gave him a stinging slap across the face. “I’ll give you two minutes to get out of here!” she spluttered furiously. “Then I’m calling the police.”

  He laughed. “Just try it.” He staggered very slightly as he moved toward her again.

  Sam reached for her, but she had ducked past him, and, dodging his grasp, she ran through the studio and into her bedroom, where she slammed the door and locked it. Breathing in tight, angry gasps, she waited, listening. Sam was coming after her. She heard him knock into something in the studio and flinched. “Please, God, not the painting.” Throwing herself on the bed, she grabbed the phone on the table on the far side of it, punched in 999, then she waited, holding her breath as the handle of her door rattled.

  The police were there in four minutes.

  When the doorbell rang she unlocked the door cautiously and came out, pulling the belt of her robe more tightly around her as she peered out into the studio. Two uniformed constables were already standing there, staring around, their caps held beneath their arms. Sam had opened the door to them.

  “Are you the lady who phoned for assistance?” one of them asked as Judy appeared.

  She nodded. “You bet I did. This bastard is as drunk as a lord and I want him out of here.” She pushed her sleeves up to the elbows, unconsciously businesslike. “He tried to force his attentions on me.”

  “Right, sir.” One of the policemen turned to Sam. “It sounds as if you’d outstayed your welcome. What about going home and sleeping it off, eh?”

  Sam glared at him. “If you think I’m drunk, officer, you are a poor judge of men.”

  “I’m not saying you’re drunk, sir,” the constable said evenly. “Just that this lady would like you to go.”

  Sam swayed gently.

  Judy caught her breath.

  “She is a painter of pornographic filth,” he went on thoughtfully. “She should be locked up for producing suggestive muck like this.” He gestured at the broad canvas with its impasto of pale colors.

  “Doesn’t look pornographic to me, sir,” the other police officer said slowly. “In fact it looks very pretty.”

  “Pretty!” Sam’s scorn distracted them from Judy’s indignation. “It is ugly! Ugly and twisted and tortured, like a woman’s mind.” Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed the canvas and wrenched it from the easel. Judy’s scream of anguish did not stop him from bringing it down with a violent crack across his knee. He hurled it into the corner of the studio and laughed, then he moved toward the wall. “More pictures. It hurts, doesn’t it, Judith! It hurts when I destroy them. Are they a part of you, then? Children? Bastard children? Like Matilda gave me?”

  The two officers closed on him before he got near the wall.

  “That’s enough, sir.”

  For a moment Sam hesitated and something that might have been regret showed in his eyes as he stared down at the ruined painting. Then it was gone. “Enough?” he yelled. “Enough! The day I hear my daughter is another man’s bastard! Christ Almighty!” He tore his arm out of the policeman’s grasp and took a furious swing at the man’s face, splitting his lip so the blood spattered across his chin. “Don’t you tell me that’s enough!” he shouted again as they dived on him. “I haven’t even begun!”

  ***

  Pete typed the last line of his story, ripped the paper out of the machine, switched it off, and sat back with a contented sigh. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly four a.m.

  He picked up his glass and sipped contentedly at a brandy and soda as he read through the piece. It was neat, snappy; not dream-factory stuff like the last one, but still very, very romantic. He grinned maliciously. This would show Bet Gunning what he thought of her claim to exclusive rights! And if it had the side effect of pushing Nick and Jo together once and for all, well and good. That would leave the sexy and informative Miss Curzon for him.

  He leaned forward and switched off the desk lamp, then, stretching, he stood up and walked across to the open window. Staring out at the silent street, he took a deep breath of the warm fragrant air. At this time of night when the accursed traffic slept at last you could smell the flowers from Regent’s Park.

  ***

  The room was very cold. Jo shivered violently, curling up for a moment as tightly as she could to try to find some warmth, and she felt around, her eyes still shut, trying to pull the bedclothes over her again. There were none there. Puzzled, she opened her eyes and stared around.

  She was lying on the carpet in her bedroom. For a moment she lay still, her mind a blank, then slowly she sat up. Outside the closed curtains she could hear the clatter of dustbins in the mews and the roar of traffic in the distance from the Cromwell Road. Overhead a broad-bellied jumbo jet was flying low across London, heading for Heathrow. Stiff and aching, she stood up slowly, and, still disoriented, she stood still for a moment. Then, suddenly realizing that she was cold because she had no clothes on, she moved awkwardly to the door and unhooked her bathrobe, wrapping it around her. Her shoulders ached and there was a raw streak of pain across her back.

  Wearily she drew back the heavy curtains, letting the daylight flood into the room. Her bed was still made, the covers unrumpled. Her clothes were on the floor and she picked them up. Her dress was torn down the front, ripped almost in half. She stared at it, feeling the first stirrings of panic. She had been in the castle—which castle? She could not remember now, and William had been there—a furiously angry William who had forced her to undress and had struck her with his belt.

  Her mouth went dry. She turned and fled into the bathroom, tugging on the light cord and throwing off the bathrobe as she turned to look at her back in the huge mirror. There was an angry bloody welt across it, reaching from her left shoulder blade across and around to her ribs on the other side. She swallowed hard, trying to control the urge to retch, her hands shaking so much she could barely turn on the tap and splash cold water over her face. It was now she needed Carl Bennet’s expert’s advice on hysterical and psychosomatic manifestations! Yesterday she had produced none, but now! She bit back a sob, burying her face in a towel. Now she had produced a beauty!

  Painfully she dressed. Then she wandered, still feeling strangely disoriented, to the front of the apartment. The balcony doors were open, the remains of a meal spread on the coffee table. She must have gone into a trance quite suddenly after Nick had left. She picked up the three placemats—then she frowned again. Sam. Sam had been there too. When had he left? He had not gone with Nick—she had made him some coffee—or had she? Frowning, she carried the things through into the kitchen and stared around. All the paraphernalia for making coffee was spread around on the worktop, the jar of instant still open. She screwed the lid on automatically; she would never normally have left a coffee jar unsealed. Had it happened then, while she was busy? It didn’t make sense. Nor did the spoonful of coffee in the bottom of each cup, the kettle unplugged, full, standing on the worktop, the milk—sour—out of the refrigerator. She sighed and plugged in the kettle again, then thoughtfully she made her way to the phone.

  She dialed Nick’s apartment.

  There was no reply. She glanced at her watch. It was after nine. Nick could already be on his way to the airport and Sam must have gone out. As she slammed down the receiver, she winced at the pain in her shoulder.

  After making herself a cup of coffee, she carried it back to the bedroom thoughtfully. At least there would be no baby crying today; he had gone, faded, like the strange discarnate dream he must have been, now that her children were all grown up.

  She put the cup down on the mahogany chest of drawers in the corner, then she frowned. Her tape recorder was sitting there beside a pile of magazines and she distinctly remembered putting it in the drawer in the living room the day before, after they had come back from Devonshire Place. She clicked it open and looked down at the unfamiliar tape. Then, puzzled, she slotted it back into position and switched it on. For a moment there was silence, then the haunting, breathy sounds of a flute filled th
e room.

  “No!” She clapped her hands to her ears. “No, it’s not possible! It was in the castle, not here! No one could have recorded it! Not from my dream!”

  The sound filled the room; the sound the old man had made, sitting in the corner of the bedchamber as William humiliated her; the sound that had gone on without ceasing even when he had raised the leather thong and brought it down across her shoulders. Shaking her head, she desperately tried to block out the sounds, then she grabbed the tape recorder and switched it off, ejecting the cassette and turning it over and over with trembling hands. It wasn’t a commercial recording. On the blank label someone had written perpetuum mobile. Nothing else. There was no clue as to the player or the instrument. Dropping the tape as if it had burned her, she stared around the room, trying to calm herself. Was this some joke of Sam’s? Some stupid trick to make her regress even when she had no wish to? Some way of hypnotizing her without the preliminaries—even without her knowledge? She pushed her hair out of her eyes with both hands and took a deep breath. But surely he wouldn’t do such a thing! Why should he want to? And if he had, why hadn’t he stayed with her and woken her himself? Her eyes fell suddenly on the torn dress in the corner where she had thrown it across the chair, and she felt the breath catch in her throat. “Oh, no,” she whispered out loud. “No, Sam, no! You wanted to help me! Why should you want to hurt me, Sam? Why?”

  For a moment she thought the sharp sound of knocking was from inside her head and she winced, putting her hands to her ears, then she realized suddenly that the noise came from the hall. There was someone knocking on her front door. For a moment she couldn’t bring herself to move. Then slowly she turned.

  It was Sheila Chandler from upstairs. The woman smiled tightly. “How are you, dear? We haven’t heard the baby lately.”

  Jo forced herself to smile back. “The baby has gone,” she said.

  “I see. Look, I don’t want always to seem to be complaining”—Sheila looked down sideways as if overcome with embarrassment—“and we never would on a weekend, of course, that would be different, but, well, it is only Wednesday, and it really was so terribly loud—and it was one in the morning!”