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

her neck, and although the household was abbreviated and inadequate, she was pleased with the way she was managing with the people she was carefully recruiting to her service.

      Each day while he was at Llanddeu he rode down to the castle and spent an hour or two in her company. Sometimes they read from his own writings and from his poetry, which he proudly brought to show her, and sometimes from the books from his library. They also struggled together with the bailiff’s account books, and Gerald, his eyes sparkling with amusement, pointed out that the handwriting had markedly worsened from the day that Matilda had arrived at Brecknock and shown her determination to supervise his activities.

      Almost at once she discovered to her consternation that Gerald proudly claimed kinship through his grandmother with Lord Rhys himself, and that he knew all about the happenings at Abergavenny.

      Since John Picard had left to ride home across the mountains to Tretower she had tried to put the memory of that terrible day out of her mind completely. It was easier than she expected because of her busyness at Brecknock, but sometimes, still, at nights, in spite of her exhaustion, the noise and stench of that bloody scene would return to her in horrifying nightmares from which she would awaken screaming. Also there was the baby. Each time it kicked she would shudder in revulsion as though it joined her by a cord to the treachery she wanted to forget. And now here was Gerald, sitting opposite her, a cup of wine in his hand, his thin, intense face serious as he gazed at her, forcing her to confront that terrible memory once more.

      ‘Your husband was the instrument of cruel excesses, but I haven’t any doubt that others, more powerful even than he is, were the real instigators of the crime.’ He leaned forward and looked at her intently. ‘You must not judge him, my lady. You do, don’t you?’

      She nodded slightly. ‘I was there, Archdeacon. I saw it all. I tell myself that such acts occur. I know this part of the country is more liable to them than most; I know William is a cruel, hard man. I’ve been told enough about him, but still, I couldn’t believe he would commit such treachery. And I saw him, with his own hand …’ She broke off, trying to stifle the sob which rose in her throat. ‘It was so terrible. Even that child, Geoffrey, Seisyll’s son, and later the baby.’ She bit her lip and sat silent, twisting the cloth of her skirt between her fingers. Then she looked up suddenly, swallowing hard and faced him squarely, her eyes fixed unwavering on his.

      ‘My child is cursed, father, by what happened that day,’ she burst out. ‘I would rather it is never born at all.’ She waited defiantly, half expecting him to be shocked, but to her surprise he nodded understandingly.

      ‘It’s a natural thing,’ he said slowly, his low voice soothing and considered. ‘But it is wrong. You must have faith. The child is as innocent as it is possible for a human creature to be. He will be washed and sanctified by baptism and by our prayers. You must not fear for him.’ He drank back the dregs of his wine suddenly and rose to his feet. ‘And now I have some news for you, my lady. Three nights ago your husband was at Hereford. From there I understand he plans to go to Hay and then he is coming on here to Brecknock, so you will be seeing him soon. You must prepare yourself for that.’

      Matilda pulled herself to her feet. Her hands were shaking, and nervously she tried to hide them in the folds of her skirt, but the all-seeing eyes of the Archdeacon had spotted them instantly. He put his hand gently on her arm. ‘You have been a good and loyal wife to William de Braose. Don’t be afraid of him. He is still the Christian man you married.’ He grinned suddenly, his unexpected boyish grin, which she found so heartwarming. ‘Perhaps now I shall be able to have my chair back when he comes. I miss it, I must confess, perched on that high stool when I’m reading at Llanddeu. I must be getting old.’ He sighed and put his hand to his back with a mock grimace of pain.

      In spite of herself, she laughed. She had grown very fond of Gerald in the few weeks she had known him. ‘Poor Archdeacon. I must give you a salve to rub on your back. When William comes, your chair will be my first thought, I promise you. It’ll travel up that track to Llanddeu faster than lightning!’

      But even the sound of his gay chuckle as he pulled on his mantle and swung out into the soft rain to find his horse did nothing to ease the sick fear which flooded through her at the thought of William’s imminent arrival.

       15

      Nick sat back and smiled at Judy fondly. ‘I never did ask you where you learned to cook. That was the most superb lunch. Thank you.’ He eyed the empty casserole and then leaned forward to pour out the last of the wine.

      ‘A woman should keep some secrets surely!’ Judy grinned. She had changed from her paint-stained jeans and smock into a summer dress with vivid blue stripes, which suited her colouring remarkably well. As she leaned forward to take his plate Nick caught a faint breath of Miss Dior.

      ‘Coffee would make it perfect,’ he said hopefully.

      ‘First crème brûlée, then cheese. Then coffee.’ Judy disappeared into the kitchen.

      Nick groaned. ‘Are you trying to kill me or something?’

      ‘As long as you can beat me at squash a meal like this once in a while won’t kill you.’ She stuck her head round the door. ‘Do you really have to go to your mother’s this weekend, Nick?’

      He nodded. ‘I’m afraid I must. I haven’t seen her for ages, and as I’m going to be away so much over the next month I thought I’d get it over with. And while I’m down there, if the tides are right, I thought I’d bring Moon Dancer back from Shoreham and leave her at Lymington.’ He levered himself to his feet. ‘There will be time for a siesta though, before I leave.’ In the kitchen he put his arms around her slowly, savouring the feel of her body beneath the thin cotton voile of her dress. ‘Friday afternoon is the best time there is for making love.’

      Judy raised her lips to his eagerly. ‘Any time is the right time,’ she murmured, trying not to wonder why he had not suggested she go with him to Hampshire. ‘Why don’t we leave the rest of the meal until later?’ She ran her tongue gently along the line of his jaw and nipped his ear.

      His hands slipped round to the zip at the back of her dress. Expertly he slid it down, pushing the fabric off her shoulders. Beneath it she was naked.

      Unembarrassed, she wriggled away from him and stepped out of the dress. ‘I’ll turn off the coffee.’

      He was undoing his shirt, his eyes on her breasts as she unplugged the pot and walked past him into the studio. In the bedroom she drew the curtain, blocking out the sun, then she turned in the shadowy twilight and held out her arms.

      Nick laughed. ‘No. No shadows. I want to see you properly.’ Kneeling on the bed, he reached across and switched on the bedside light.

      On the notepad by the lamp was a page of whorls and faces and doodles and strange shapes and in the centre of them all, framed with Gothic decoration, the name Carl Bennet and a curlicued three. Nick picked up the pad and stared at it. Suddenly he was frowning.

      ‘When did you write this?’

      ‘What?’ Judy slid onto the bed beside him and lay down, her arms above her head, her legs slim and tanned on the white candlewick cover.

      ‘Carl Bennet. Why did you write his name here?’

      She sat up. Snatching the notebook from him she hurled it across the room. ‘To hell with him. You’re supposed to be thinking about me!’

      ‘I am thinking about you, Judy.’ Nick’s voice was suddenly hard. He pushed her back, leaning over her, his face taut with anger. ‘I am wondering why you have written his name down. Where did you hear it?’

      For a moment Judy contemplated lying. Her brain was moving like lightning. If he found out the truth later he would blame her. Better tell him. Softly she cursed herself for writing the name at all – a stupid absentminded, automatic reaction to having a pencil in her hand …