Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling. Barbara Erskine

She will wake by herself in the end!’

      The words echoed in her head for a moment, so clear they must have been spoken from beside the bed then, as she turned her face away, they receded once more and she fell back into the dark.

      When she next woke the room was absolutely silent. There were no voices, no sounds from below in the great hall. She lay for a while, her face still buried in the fur of the bedcover, too stiff and dazed to move, feeling its rancid hair scratchy against her mouth and nose, then at last she managed to raise herself a little and try to turn over. At once her head began to spin and she was overwhelmed with nausea. With a sob she fell back onto the bed.

      A hand touched her shoulder and something cool and damp and comforting was pressed gently to the back of her neck.

      ‘I’ll help you, my lady, shall I?’ Megan’s voice was little more than a whisper.

      At the sound of it Matilda forced herself to lift her head. Then reluctantly she pulled herself up onto one elbow and looked round.

      ‘Megan? Megan, is it you? Tell me it’s not true. It’s not. It’s not …’ Her voice broke. ‘It must not be true.’

      The room was dark as she groped for the woman’s hands and held them fast. Slowly as her sight adjusted to the gloom she could just see Megan’s face in the dying glow of the fire. Her eyes were shut and tears streaked her cheeks as, wordlessly, Megan shook her head.

      They remained unmoving for a long time, huddled together on the bed, their hands tightly clasped as they listened to the logs shifting on the hearth. Then at last Matilda pulled herself up against the pillows.

      ‘How long have I been asleep?’ she said. Her voice sounded strange and high to her ears. ‘Where is my … where is William?’ She could not bring herself to call him her husband.

      Megan opened her eyes wearily and sat motionless for a moment, staring in front of her. Then she shook her head, unable to speak.

      ‘Is he still here, in the castle?’

      ‘Duw, I don’t know,’ Megan answered finally, her voice lifeless. ‘They took out the dead and cleaned the blood away. Then Lord de Braose sent a detachment of his men after the people who stayed behind at Castle Arnold. Prince Seisyll’s wife, his babies …’ She began to cry openly.

      ‘His babies?’ Matilda whispered. ‘William has ordered the death of Seisyll’s babies?’ She stared at Megan in disbelief. ‘But surely there are guards, there will be men there to protect them?’

      ‘How? When all the Prince’s men came with him, thinking there is peace between King Henry and the men of Gwent, trusting the King of England’s honour!’ The gentle face had twisted with hatred.

      ‘I must stop them.’ Pushing the covers aside Matilda climbed shakily from the bed. Her feet were bare but she did not notice. Megan did not move as she made her way to the top of the stairs and listened for a moment to the silence which was broken only by the howl of the wind outside the walls. Steeling herself Matilda began to tiptoe down, her feet aching from the cold stone.

      The great hall was empty. The rushes on the floor had been swept away, leaving the flagstones glistening with water. The tables had been stacked and the chairs and benches removed. It was absolutely empty. Moving silently on her bare feet Matilda crossed to the centre of the floor and looked round. The echoing vault of the roof was quiet now and the fire had died. Two or three torches still burned low in their sconces, but there was no one to tend them and they flared and smoked by turns in the draught. The only smell that remained was the slight aroma of roasting beef.

      ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she breathed. She crossed herself fearfully as her eyes searched the empty shadowy corners but nothing stirred. There were no ghosts yet of the dead.

      Forcing herself to move she left the hall and went in search of her husband. The solar, the guardroom, the kitchens and the stores were all empty. And the chapel where the wax candles had burned almost to the stub. The whole keep was deserted. Reluctantly she turned at last to the entrance and walking out stood looking down into the dark bailey courtyard below.

      It was full of silent people. Every man, woman and child from the castle and the township appeared to be there, standing around the huge pile of dead. Behind them some of William’s guards stood muttering quietly, looking uneasily around them into the shadows or towards the lowered drawbridge. They all appeared to be waiting for something – or someone. Nowhere was there a sign of the dark twisted face which belonged to her husband.

      Matilda stepped out over the threshold and walked slowly down the flight of wooden steps. She was half-conscious of the enquiring faces turned towards her on every side, but her eyes were fixed on the bodies of the dead. The Welsh moved aside to let her pass and watched as she walked, head and shoulders taller than most of them, a stately slim figure in her gold and scarlet gown, to stand before her husband’s victims. An icy wind had arisen. It whipped at her long hair, tearing it out of the loose braids that held it. Megan must have removed her head-dress whilst she lay insensible and she had not noticed.

      She stood there a long time, head bowed, her eyes fixed on the ground, only half seeing the flickering shadows thrown by the torches of the men-at-arms. Then at last she raised her eyes to look directly at the men her husband had killed. The body of Prince Seisyll lay slightly apart from the others and someone had crossed his hands across his breast. On his forefinger a dark red stone glittered coldly in the torchlight.

      Slowly her gaze travelled to the gory heap, searching for the body of his son, the boy whose excited happy mood had so matched her own. She saw him almost at once, lying sprawled beneath another man, his head thrown back, his mouth open in horror at what he had seen. A trickle of blood had dried on the downless chin. His fingers were still clutching the linen napkin which the page had handed him as William began his speech. A few feet from his head lay the harp with its severed strings. Its frame had been snapped in two.

      Her feet no longer felt the cold as she walked across the cobbles to the gatehouse and out over the drawbridge. In fact she felt nothing at all. No one tried to stop her. The guards moved aside to let her pass and regrouped beneath the gateway behind her.

      She walked slowly down towards the shining sweep of the river, her hair quite loose now, lifting around her head in a cloud. The wind carried showers of icy raindrops off the iron whiteness of the desolate hills but she neither saw nor felt their sting on her face. Somehow she seemed to find a path as she moved unseeing through the darkness and she avoided trees and bushes and the outcrops of rock in her way. The cold moon was glinting fitfully through the rushing clouds to reflect in the Usk beneath as she stood for a while on the bank gazing into the luminous water; then she walked on. Soon the castle was out of sight and she was quite alone in the whispering trees. There the snow had melted and clogged into soft slush beneath the network of roots and the path became muddy beneath her toes, dragging at the sodden train of her gown.

      It was several times before she realised that there was someone speaking to her, the voice quietly insistent, urging her back, calming the unsteady thudding of the pulse in her head.

      ‘I’m reaching her now,’ Carl Bennet murmured to the frantic woman at his side. He sat forward on the edge of his chair, staring intently at Jo as she lay restlessly on the sofa by the window. Outside the rain had begun again, sliding down the panes, forming little black pools in the soil of the dusty window-box.

      ‘Jo? Matilda? Can you hear me?’

      His voice was professionally calm and reassuring again, only the beads of sweat on his forehead betraying the strain of the past hour.

      On the sofa Jo stirred and half turned to face him. ‘Who is that?’ she asked. ‘There is sleet in the moonlight. I cannot see properly.’ Her eyes opened and she stared blindly at Bennet. ‘Is it you? The Welsh boy who brought me my food? I did not know what was planned. You must believe me, I did not know …’ With tears running down her cheeks again she struggled to sit up, clutching at Bennet’s jacket.

      Avoiding her desperate fingers he leaned forward and put his hands gently on