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

What do you say? Shall we pull it down and build in stone? That would make you feel safer, wouldn’t it?’ He looked up at her, cocking an eyebrow, then he reached for one of the parchments on the table. ‘I’ve been working out the moneys with Madoc and Bernard. The tithes are good, but the area should be better defended.’ He stabbed at the parchment with a grimy finger. ‘We’re strategically placed here. I should make better use of the position. The Welsh may be quiet at the moment, but one never knows when they’re going to plan a surprise attack. We could never hold them off here for long, and we have been as good as warned by your friend Einion.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

      An extra blast of wind whistled through the shutters and one of the candles blew out, scattering wax over the table. William swore quietly as a page ran to the fire for a brand to relight it and he lowered his voice suddenly. ‘There is plenty of labour and it would be a good jumping-off place should one ever have plans to move into Elfael.’ He looked at her and raised his eyebrow again. ‘Well, woman, what do you say to the idea?’

      She smiled. ‘It seems good. I won’t deny I’d feel safer with a sound stone keep if we must stay at Hay.’

      He nodded. ‘We’ll return to Brecknock for a while, then you can come back to supervise the building when I rejoin the King in the spring. Give you something to do, eh, while you’re waiting to spawn that brat?’ He laughed loudly and turned to pour himself more wine.

      And so it was at Hay that Richard’s daughter Matilda was born, on a cool, crystal clear, midsummer night, bright with stars which seemed to have been borrowed from the frosts of winter. Jeanne delivered the child, a flaxen-haired scrap, then laid the offerings on the hearth. The baby was tiny – more like a seven-month child than either of Matilda’s lusty full-term boys – and William accepted her as such without a word of doubt, crossing himself as he caught sight of Jeanne muttering protective spells above the cradle, hastily turning away to his horses and his falcons. Alone again but for Jeanne, Matilda held out her arms for the child and took her, staring down at the delicate, perfect features. She had expected to feel an especial love for this child of her love. She felt nothing at all.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      The woman from the produce stall had reached tentatively into the car to shake Jo by the shoulder.

      Jo clutched the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The car engine was idling quietly as the sun beat down through the windscreen onto her face. She rested her forehead on the rim of the wheel for a moment, feeling suddenly sick and cold.

      ‘Are you all right?’ the woman repeated. ‘You’ve been sitting there for ages. I couldn’t make you hear me –’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Jo looked up with an effort. ‘I think I must have fallen asleep –’

      The woman looked sceptical. ‘You were staring up at the castle as if you were in a trance.’

      Taking a deep breath Jo forced herself to laugh. ‘Maybe I was at that. I’m sorry, and I’m parked in your way, too. If you could help to see me out –’

      ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ The woman did not look convinced as she straightened and stepped back from the car.

      ‘Quite sure,’ Jo said firmly. ‘Quite, quite sure.’

      This Thursday was the third time she had been up to London in under a month, Dorothy Franklyn realised suddenly. She felt very tired.

      Nick ordered sandwiches and coffee for them both in his office. ‘I’m sorry, Ma, but as you see I’m up to my eyes here today … I’ll get you a slap-up lunch next time you come up to town, I promise.’ He smiled at her fondly. ‘Now, what can I do for you? Your call sounded urgent.’ He had been looking at her with some concern since Jane had shown her up to his office. Her face was drawn and she seemed suddenly old and frail as she drew off her gloves.

      She sat down on the low sofa which stood against one wall of the room beneath a colourful display of some of Franklyn-Greerson’s artwork. ‘I want to talk to you about Sam,’ she said without preamble.

      Nick closed the office door carefully and leaned against it. ‘What about Sam?’ he asked.

      ‘How do you think he is?’

      ‘Fine. Sam has never been ill in his life as you well know.’

      ‘I don’t mean physically, Nick.’ She fiddled with the clasp of her handbag.

      ‘Then what do you mean exactly?’ Eyebrows raised, Nick sat down beside her and reached for one of her hands. ‘What is this all about?’