Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time

There was something in her voice which made Nick look up. Even upside-down he recognised Jo’s photo.

‘What the hell is that?’ he said sharply. He snatched the paper from her.

‘It’s nothing, Nick. Nothing, don’t bother to read it –’

She was suddenly afraid. After a week without a mention of her name Jo’s shadow had risen between them again. She stood up abruptly. ‘I’ll get today’s,’ she said, but he never heard her. He was staring down at yesterday’s copy of the Daily Mail.

He read the article twice, then, glancing at his watch, he stood up, folded the paper under his arm and strode towards the iron-gated lift. He passed Judy in the foyer and never saw her.

Impatiently he allowed the lift to carry him slowly up to his floor and wrenching the doors open he strode to their room. It was several minutes before the number in London was ringing. He sat impatiently on the bed, spreading the paper out beside him with his free hand, as he waited for someone to answer.

The tone rang on monotonously in Jo’s empty flat. Upstairs, Henry Chandler looked at his wife in exasperation. ‘Why doesn’t she get an answering machine if she’s a journalist? If that phone doesn’t stop ringing it’ll wake that damn baby again.’

‘She’s gone shopping,’ Sheila Chandler said slowly. ‘I saw her leave earlier.’

‘Did you see the kid?’

‘No, she was alone.’

They looked at each other significantly.

Downstairs the faint sound of the phone stopped. Seconds later they both heard the thin protesting wail.

‘Who are you ringing?’ Judy threw back the bedroom door and stood in the doorway, staring at Nick.

‘Jo.’

‘Why?’

Nick put the receiver down with a sigh. ‘I want to know why she did such an idiotic thing as to give that story to Pete Leveson.’ He slapped the newspaper with his open palm. ‘She’ll lose every bit of credibility she has as a serious journalist if she allows crap like this to be published. Look at this. “I was married to a violent, vicious man, but my heart belonged to the handsome earl who had escorted me through the mountains, protecting me from the wolves with his drawn sword.” Dear God!’

He picked up the phone and rattled it again. ‘Mademoiselle? Essayes le numéro à Londres encore une fois, s’il vous plait.’

‘It is nothing to do with you, Nick,’ Judy said softly. ‘Jo has done it, for whatever reason, and it can’t be undone now. She and Pete used to be lovers, didn’t they? What more natural than that she should tell him the story?’

She saw his knuckles whiten on the phone. ‘Eh bien, merci. Essayes un autre numèro, je vous en prie, mademoiselle.’

‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Nick.’

‘Very probably.’ He tightened his mouth grimly as he slammed the phone down at last. ‘Sam’s not there either. Look, look at this last bit. “‘I shall not rest,’ Jo told me, ‘until I have learned the whole story’ …” Even you, Judy, know enough now to have guessed that that is dangerous for her.’

Judy turned away quickly to hide her smile. ‘I don’t expect she meant it.’

Nick stood up slowly and walked across to her, spinning her round by the shoulders. ‘You knew about this article, didn’t you? Down there, in the dining room, you weren’t surprised. You were triumphant.’ His eyes narrowed as he held her facing him. ‘So, what do you know about all this?’

Judy stood quite still, staring up at his face. ‘You tell me something first, Nick Franklyn!’ She was quite suddenly boiling with rage. ‘Are you still in love with Jo? In spite of all her lovers in this century and the twelfth, are you still in love with her? Because if you are I shall bow out of your life now. Perhaps I could write an article or two myself. “How my lover challenged a man eight hundred years old to a duel over another woman.” That’s it, isn’t it? You can’t bear to think of her in his arms, this Richard de Clare. You can’t bear to think of those creepy dead hands picking over her flesh, refusing to let go of her after all those centuries. You may not want her for yourself, but you sure as hell don’t want him to have her, do you?’ She wrenched herself free of him. ‘You watched her, didn’t you? Last week when you rushed off and left me, you went to Dr Bennet’s and watched her dreaming about making love to another man. You had to see it! There are words to describe people like you, Nick Franklyn –’

She broke off with a little cry as Nick raised his hand and gave her a stinging slap across the face. The impact of it threw her against the wall and she stood there, her hand pressed to her cheek, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘You bastard –’

‘That’s right.’ His face was hard and very white. ‘And there will be more like that if you’re not very careful. I’ve warned you before, Judy. Leave Jo alone.’ He turned to the bed and picked up his portfolio. ‘I have a meeting to go to now. I suggest it might be better for both of us if you pack your stuff and clear out before I get back.’

‘Nick!’ She threw herself at him and clung to his arm. ‘Nick, please, I’m sorry. I really am. I won’t mention her again.’

‘I am going back to London tomorrow anyway, Judy. To Jo.’ Nick’s face softened slightly as he saw her stricken expression.

‘But she doesn’t want you. She keeps telling you she doesn’t want you.’

‘Whether she wants me or not, I want her.’ He spoke with enormous force, his eyes hardening.

Judy felt a sudden shiver. He was looking not at her, but through her. She backed away from him. ‘I believe you’re as crazy as she is,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t force a woman to love you.’

He stared at her, his attention fully on her again now. ‘Force her? he echoed. ‘I won’t have to force her.’ He laughed grimly. ‘I must go. Don’t worry about your bill, I’ll settle it. I’ll see you soon, Judy.’ Gently he touched her cheek – still reddened from his slap – then he turned and left her alone.

Judy did not move. She stared round the room. The crumpled copy of the Daily Mail was still lying on the pillow where Nick had left it. She sat down, smoothing the page, and began to read slowly and carefully, taking in every word. When she had finished she tore out the page and, folding it up very small, she slipped it into the pocket of her skirt. When she left the room there was a bitter smile on her face.

Sam was standing with his back to the window, his arms folded, listening as, hesitantly, Jo began to talk. Matilda had regained her strength slowly after the birth, but the day came at last when, accompanied by Sir Robert and four armed horsemen, she mounted for the first time the little bay mare William had given her. They rode out of the castle and turned north east, following the rocky bed of the Honddu through a field silver and green with ripening oats, and plunging almost at once into the woods.

‘Llanddeu is up there, my lady.’ Sir Robert pointed up a hill to their left. ‘About three miles, I reckon. We’ll go there when you’re stronger if you like.’ But Matilda shook her head. Gerald had gone to St David’s now, confident he was to be its new bishop, and Llanddeu had lost its interest.

She was amazed to find how stiff she had become, but she gritted her teeth and pushed the bay into a gallop behind Robert as they followed a well-worn track through the heavy, dusty woods. They had slowed again to a trot when suddenly Robert pulled to a rearing halt in front of her and drew his sword. ‘Stop,’ he shouted. The four men with them closed round Matilda protectively at once, their swords raised and ready. She could feel herself shaking with fear and the mare plunged nervously away from the horse next to her, sensing the danger. But straining her eyes she could see nothing in the heavy greenery all round them. She could hear nothing but the thudding of her own heart.

‘What? What is it?’ She looked round wildly.

‘See, a rope.’ Sir Robert had dismounted. With one slash of his sword he severed a rope which had been tied across the track at the height of a man’s neck as he rode on a horse. It fell, green-stained and invisible, into the grass at their feet.

‘If we’d been going any faster, or if I’d been distracted, it would have had us all off our horses.’ Sir Robert hit the undergrowth with the flat of his sword. ‘See, here. The rogues have gone. They were hiding behind these bushes. They must have fled before we arrived. They could be anywhere in the woods by now.’ A broken area of trampled greenery showed where several people had been crouching behind the thick holly.

‘Were they robbers?’ Matilda was still trying to soothe her horse, stroking the sweating neck, wishing she herself wasn’t shaking quite so violently. She knew it was as much exhaustion as fear, but nevertheless she felt weak and frightened.

Sir Robert nodded silently. He had stopped to pick up the rope and was coiling it over his arm. ‘Outlaws of some kind, I’ll be bound. I’ll have a word with Sir William. I doubt if the Welsh would set up a trick like that if they were after reprisals. No one knew which way we were coming.’ He swung the rope over his saddle and remounted.

Matilda noticed he didn’t sheathe his sword.

‘Reprisals?’ Her heart began to hammer again at the word.

‘That’s right. They’re bound to come some time.’ He turned his horse. ‘We’ll go straight back, my lady, with your permission. I was a fool to come out with so few men. In future when you ride, I will see to it that you have a full escort.’

She followed, relieved to be cutting short the ride. The thought of Welsh reprisals had become remote in the months at Brecknock, distracted as she had been by the baby and by William’s arrival with all his men. The Welsh she had met in the county of Brycheiniog were friendly towards her. None had seemed to bear any grudge. She shivered. Outlaws. They must have been outlaws of some kind, bent on robbery. She refused to let herself believe that they were men from Gwent.

Nevertheless it was a relief to be back inside the castle, but although William sent search parties out to hunt for the men who had set up the rope, no trace of them was ever found. They had melted into the forest as silently and efficiently as if they had never been.

‘That was foolish, to ride so far the first time out after the baby,’ Sam said softly. He had seated himself next to Jo again. ‘But if you are well enough to ride, you are well enough to resume your wifely duties.’

Jo drew in her breath sharply. ‘It is too soon,’ she whispered.

‘No,’ Sam said, ‘it is the right time. Look at me, my lady. Open your eyes and look at me.’

Jo had been staring towards the far corner of the room. Now, slowly, she turned to him and her eyes focused on his face. He held her gaze unwaveringly. ‘I am your husband,’ he said. ‘You do recognise me, don’t you, Matilde’ – he pronounced her name lightly, in the French manner – ‘I am your husband. Come to claim you.’