Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  She drove, slowly now, around the foot of the castle hill, staring up with a dry throat at the towering white ruins above her, then she drew up in the center of the old stone village south of the castle and, pushing open the car door, climbed out in a daze.

  Slowly she walked toward the ruins, her eyes fixed on the walls ahead of her, and over the bridge and beneath the shadow of the entrance gatehouse. There she was brought up short by the ticket kiosk and a turnstile. A man was staring at her and dimly she realized he wanted some money. She had to pay to get in! A wave of hysterical laughter swept through her and was gone as soon as it had come, as, still in a daze, she groped in the pocket of her jeans and found a pound coin. Then at last she was inside the walls, walking up the steep, narrow tarmac path toward the grotesquely broken towers of the Martyr’s Gate.

  The castle was still comparatively deserted after the rain, but she noticed little. She did not see the ancient stones, reduced by Cromwell’s sappers to their present state of ruin, nor see the wildflowers, the thistles, the yarrow, the ragwort, the wild marjoram, or the festoons of clinging ivy. She did not see the blue sky, or the white Purbeck stone with its gray shadow of lichen. Her eyes were growing dark.

  ***

  Carl Bennet swore roundly as he stamped his foot down on the accelerator and threw the blue Mercedes at a gap in the traffic. It roared past two trucks, cutting in with only inches to spare in front of the line of oncoming traffic. Unconsciously Nick was clutching the sides of his seat. He closed his eyes briefly, but said nothing. When he opened them again it was to see the streak of blue in the leaden sky. He glanced down at the road map on his knee.

  “Ten miles to go,” he said tautly.

  Bennet nodded. His tongue showed briefly at the corner of his mouth as he negotiated a tight bend in the narrow road, then he allowed himself a quick smile. “The rain has stopped, at least,” he said.

  ***

  The constable was waiting for them, his face set grimly in the flickering light. The king’s orders were still in his hand. As the horses drew to an exhausted standstill before him, he read them silently once again, still not wanting to believe. Then slowly he reached for one of the flaring torches and held the parchment in the flame until it blackened and curled.

  The oubliette lay beneath the floor of the western tower. Will fell heavily as they pushed him through the trapdoor, his legs buckling under him, and he lay still in the dark. With Matilda they were more gentle, lowering her down beside him and flinging down a sheepskin and some sheaves of straw. She looked up, dazed; faces peered down, torches flashed and smoked above her and there was air. Then the great stone slab fell.

  Light came fitfully, creeping icily through the drain gulley in the base of the wall. Kneeling to peer through it, she could see the hill opposite the castle. It was white with snow. The silence was profound, save when Will groaned. She had tried, groping in the dark with gentle fingers, to ease his leg; feeling the splintered bones and the blood, she had wept.

  The light of the setting sun slowly faded from the gulley and no one came. They had no food, no water. She gnawed at the heads of wheat still clinging to the straw. Will burned beneath her hand. “Blessed Virgin, save us. Sweet Lady, intercede.” Daylight came again and brought no comfort. She clawed at the walls, tearing at the stone, and wept again.

  As it grew dark once more Matilda took Will in her arms, his limbs already wasted by the fever, his face beneath her hand contorted with agony. Twice he screamed out loud as she held him close and she remembered the day of his birth—the agony of the black wizened face in her arms; and she knew there could be no hope.

  When the light appeared again at the drain and a white sea mist drifted up across the hills, her eyes were too dim to see. Will lay already stiffening in her arms and she unbraided her hair, spreading it across his face, cradling him close, rocking gently to ease the pain.

  ***

  Sam found a room in the rue Saint Victor.

  His eyes were still swollen with grief as he pulled open the double mansard window six stories up and pushed back the shutters looking out over the rooftops of St. Germain. Then, turning, he managed to smile at the concierge, who, puffing from the steep climb up the stairs, had followed him into the room. Giving her a wad of francs, he persuaded her to fetch him a bottle of cognac with the promise that she could keep the change. His thoughts were all of Jo. Not once had he remembered Tim.

  When the bottle came he locked the door. From outside the window, above the distant roar of traffic, he could hear a church bell ringing. He stood, glass in hand, looking at the street far below. He could smell new bread from somewhere and coffee and garlic and wine. The smell that was the smell of Paris. From the room next door he could hear the sound of muffled laughter.

  He refilled his glass. He hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours, and already the drink was going to his head. Another glass followed, tipped down his throat, and then, impatiently, he thew the glass into the corner and drank straight from the bottle. His vision was beginning to blur.

  He stared up at the sky, frowning, trying to see. The clouds were lifting. A faint ray of sunlight illuminated the line of raindrops on the wrought-iron railing outside the window in front of the parapet, turning each one into brilliant diamonds. He stared at them hard. The tears were coming back. He made no attempt to stop them, feeling them coursing down his face, soaking into his shirt. He took another drink, then, carefully putting the bottle down on the table, he stepped up onto the low sill. It was no problem to climb over the railing. He rested his hand for a moment on the warm slates of the roof and then, swaying slightly, stepped up onto the parapet.

  His last thought, as he leaned forward into space, was of Matilda.

  ***

  Ann stared ahead of her at the gap in the Purbeck Hills. There was no mistaking the angry silhouette of the castle, rising high above the sea of forest. Above it lay the huge cold arc of a rainbow as the last of the soft black clouds slipped away.

  She saw the Porsche at once, parked carelessly, next to the market cross, and drew up near it, stiff and aching from the concentration of her journey. She wasn’t used to driving any distances these days, never mind the tortuous cross-country trip she had just made from Frome.

  After slamming the van door, she set off at a run toward the broken masonry arch over the bridge across the dry moat, her sneakers silent on the road. Like Jo, she was brought up short by the need to find her entrance money. Then, already panting, she ran up the lower ward, following the path across the huge area of grass toward the causeway that crossed the inner moat and ran between the massive towers of the Martyr’s Gate.

  There she hesitated, looking around her, her hair blowing in the wind. There was no sign of Jo. To the right rose the King’s Tower and all that remained of the main castle. To the left a second area of grass formed the west bailey, surrounded by gray stone walls, at the far western end of which stood the bare remains of the Butavant Tower. She walked on slowly, and hesitated. Then, turning left, she peered around the end of a wall. Jo was sitting there on the short, damp grass.

  Ann let out a little sob of relief. She ran toward her, stopping six feet away from her.

  “Jo?”

  Jo did not turn. She was staring in front of her, her hands hanging loosely between her knees, her hair blowing in the southwesterly wind. Her hands were bruised and bleeding, her nails torn.

  Ann stared at them in silent horror. “Jo, are you all right?” Crouching beside her, Ann gently touched her shoulder. There was no response. Jo’s skin was cold.

  Behind them two men and a woman, cameras slung around their shoulders, had appeared through the Martyr’s Gate. Slowly, enjoying themselves, they turned away up toward the remains of the keep. The sound of laughter echoed through the bright, windy air.

  ***

  When Bennet and Nick arrived they were both still sitting there on the swiftly drying grass. The tourists had come past them, stared surreptitiously, and go
ne. Ann held Jo’s hand gently. She could make no contact, get no reaction at all from the empty shell that was Jo. Once or twice she took her pulse. Each time it was weaker.

  Bennet sat down next to them. “How is she?” he murmured.

  Ann shook her head. “I can’t get through to her. She blinks. When I lift her hand it falls naturally. Her eyes are quite normal, look. But she is completely cold.”

  Nick was staring round at the ruins of the castle. He was full of pent-up anger as he glanced back at Jo.

  Bennet had opened the small case he had brought from the back of the Mercedes and was rummaging in a drawer, but suddenly Nick was beside him. He put a restraining hand on Bennet’s wrist. “No more drugs,” he said.

  “Nicholas, I must.”

  “No. Leave her to me. Please.”

  Ann scrambled stiffly to her feet and backed away. Reluctantly Bennet followed suit. Both were watching Jo’s face.

  Nick stooped and caught her shoulders, pulling her to her feet. “Stand up. Do you hear me? Stand up. Don’t give in. Fight.” He shook her hard so that her head snapped back and forth as she sagged toward him.

  Bennet took a protesting step forward, but Ann put her hand on his arm. “Wait,” she whispered.

  “Fight it. Live. I want you to live. Do you know who I am?” He held her hard in front of him.

  Slowly and painfully Jo focused on his face.

  “I want you to live. Come back to me. Do you hear me, Jo? It is all over!”

  ***

  Darkness and pain were swirling in her head, dragging her down into the earth. Blackness, sleep, escape. Peace. She did not want to return. She felt no anger. Only regret; regret for the sun and the sky and laughter that was behind her. Soft eternal blackness waited. Blackness where her son was already at peace…

  She did not want to come back. A second chance. A reprieve; the sun blazing down from behind the high towers of white stone. She put her hands up to her eyes, but he caught her wrists and pulled them away, the man who had been her king. His eyes were full of compassion now. He was ordering her back. Her life was not being demanded. The body in her arms was dissolving, fading into the mist. There was a new life inside her waiting to be born. She had to come back. She had to obey, to give him the chance to atone…

  ***

  “Jo?” Nick was willing her back to life. “Jo, can you hear me?”

  There was a very slight change in her now. He couldn’t name it, but it was as if her resistance were weakening. She had changed her mind. She was going to return. “Jo, my darling, you’re going to make it.” He shook her again. “It’s all over, love. All over.”

  She touched his jacket experimentally, as if testing the command she had over her fingers, and winced at the pain. “Over?” she repeated, dazed.

  Behind them Ann and Carl Bennet exchanged glances. Ann was smiling, but there were tears in her eyes.

  “It’s over,” Jo repeated slowly. “She died. Here, beneath this tower.”

  “I know, love.”

  “They took the bodies out of the oubliette after eleven days. They laid them in a single grave. Will was in her arms. They couldn’t separate them at the end. There was no cross, no stone. The king wanted to forget…”

  “He never forgot, Jo. He never forgot.”

  She extricated herself from his arms slowly and for half a second he moved to try to restrain her, then he stood back as she walked, shakily, across the grass to the crumbling wall behind them. “Here,” she whispered. “They are here, in the foundations of the wall. They threw them in the rubble and piled the stones on top of them.” Slowly she stooped, then, gently snapping off a stem of wild marjoram, she walked to the shadow of the wall and laid the flower on a shelf in the stone. For a moment she stood staring down at it, then she turned and began to walk back toward the shadowed entrance to the Martyr’s Gate.

  Nick hesitated, then he followed her as she made her way slowly back down the lower ward and out across the bridge. The Mercedes was parked outside the pub. Bennet opened the rear door and obediently she climbed in, sitting back, her eyes closed. In silence Ann climbed in beside her and put her arm around her shoulders.

  “She needs a brandy,” she said.

  Bennet shook his head. “That’s the last thing this girl needs,” he said curtly, “on top of all that Valium. I’ve got some coffee in the back.”

  ***

  Nick was standing uncertainly beside the car, watching as Jo clasped the mug of hot sweet coffee in her hands, sipping it. He glanced at Ann, then at Bennet. They were both preoccupied with Jo. Quietly he turned and began to retrace his steps into the castle.

  Bennet looked around. For a moment he did not move. He frowned, then he handed the Thermos to Ann. “Take care of her,” he whispered. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Nick was standing looking down at the spray of tiny mauve flowers lying in the shadow of the stone.

  Her hair had been redder than Jo’s, her eyes a little greener perhaps. She had been so full of life, so graceful, so vivacious. And she had been broken by him.

  “Forgive me.” He did not realize he had spoken aloud. Slowly he knelt in the wet grass in silence.

  It was five full minutes before he rose slowly to his feet. Without looking back he turned and headed toward the cars. Bennet was waiting for him in the shadow of the huge stone gateway.

  Suddenly noticing him, Nick stopped, looking embarrassed.

  “I thought I was alone.”

  Bennet smiled gravely as he fell in step beside him. “You were not alone,” he said. “Someone was listening. I think, for some reason, you have been given a second chance.”

  Nick nodded. “I believe I have.”

  ***

  In the back of the car Jo reached across and touched Nick’s hand. She was staring at the wet, muddied knees of his trousers. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He put his arm around her. “It’s finally over.” He pulled her against him.

  “For them.” She gave him a shaky smile. “But what about for us?”

  “For us it is the beginning. A new beginning.”

  “And Sam?” she whispered.

  “I don’t think Sam will come back.” His arms tightened around her. “And nor will Tim, Jo. They had a fight last night. Tim slipped and cracked his skull.” He hesitated, feeling her body tighten. “He’s dead, love.”

  She tried to swallow her tears. “But why? Why Tim? He never hurt anyone.”

  “It was an accident—”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” she cried miserably. “Nothing has been an accident. It has all happened by design. Every single thing, from that first time I met Sam in Edinburgh. I should have known then. I should have recognized the danger.” Her voice rose. “It has all been Sam, hasn’t it? Every bit was staged by him. It wasn’t real. You weren’t King John. I wasn’t Matilda. He set the whole thing up. He’s been laughing at us all the time.”

  Nick said nothing. He was gazing past her out of the car window, up at the silhouette of white stone against the brilliant blue of the sky.

  He did not see the huge cracks in the masonry. He did not see the fallen slabs of stone or the weeds and the ivy. He was looking at the solid, newly built keep of a powerful great castle, with the three huge snarling leopards of England streaming in a blaze of red and gold from the topmost battlements.

  He had been there before.

  Epilogue One

  10 October 1216

  Margaret de Lacy pushed back her hood and carefully straightened her gown, shaking off the rain. The roars of merriment from inside the dining hall showed the people of Lynn were enjoying the feast they had prepared for the king as he progressed through the eastern counties of his realm. She took a deep breath and nodded to the page at the door, who, having bitten her coin, had pocketed it cheerfully. He pushed it open with a flourish and winked at her. The hall was packed with people and noisy, but determinedly Margaret pushed her way toward the high table where the k
ing was eating.

  He did not notice her at first, raising his goblet to toast the fat sheriff. There had been supplicants on and off all evening and he was disposed to be benevolent. Then he turned and saw the woman who waited at his elbow, her green eyes fixed quietly on his face. Slowly his smile faded and he lowered his goblet. Sweat stood out on his brow and he wiped it with the back of his hand. Rising to his feet, he pushed back his chair with sudden violence. Silence fell over the table as curious faces watched on every side.

  John crossed himself, and she saw his lips move, questing, toying with a name.

  She curtsied to the ground. “I am Margaret, sire. Her daughter.”

  She heard the whispers running down the hall and saw the excitement and puzzlement on the faces near the king. He had grown pale as he watched her and his expression was guarded.

  “I have come to beg a grant of land, Your Grace. To build a convent to my mother’s memory. I hoped you would do that much for her—now.” She looked down, not wanting, suddenly, to see the pain in his eyes.

  “Of course.” She hardly heard the words, but she saw his lips move. “Where?”

  “In the Marches that she loved, sire.”

  He saw her eyes through a swimming haze, green and beautiful, flecked with gold; the eyes of another woman.

  Suddenly the king doubled over, racked with a spasm of pain. He clutched his stomach, retching, and the silence around him turned to cries of concern, but he waved help away. “Bring me pen and ink.” He gasped. “Quickly. You shall have your convent, Margaret de Lacy. For her sake.”

  The clerk took down the record of the king’s grant of land in the royal forest of Aconbury, south of Hereford, and the royal seal was appended to it, there in the hall at King’s Lynn, before he allowed himself to be helped, groaning, to his bed. In the chaos that surrounded his illness Margaret slipped away, clutching her parchment.