Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
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husband and son in the lofty great hall. She was a stout woman of middle height, some years older than her husband, with white hair falling in long plaits to her waist. Her eyes were brown as hazelnuts and very shrewd. She kissed Matilda coolly and then held her at arms’ length, scrutinising her closely until the girl felt herself blushing uncomfortably beneath the uncompromising gaze.
‘So, my son’s bride,’ Bertha announced at last. ‘Welcome to Bramber, child.’ The words were not softened by a smile.
Then Bertha turned aside, drawing her son with her, and Matilda was left standing alone. After a moment, William’s father joined her. He smiled. ‘I hope it won’t seem too strange, my dear,’ he murmured. ‘My son is a good man. Harsh sometimes, but good.’ Matilda lifted her green eyes to his and forced herself to return his smile, which was friendly enough. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered. ‘I am sure I shall do very well with William.’ Happiness, they both knew, was not part of the marriage contract.
She became conscious slowly that Sir William’s eyes had strayed beyond her. Someone was standing behind her near the hearth.
‘Lord de Clare! My wife told me you were here. Greetings.’ The old man stretched out his hands with sudden warmth. Turning, Matilda saw he was addressing a slim young man, dressed in a scarlet mantle caught at the shoulder with gold. He had laughing hazel eyes and a shock of corn-coloured hair.
‘Sir William, I was persuaded by Lady Bertha to wait for you.’ Lord de Clare stepped forward to clasp his host’s hands. Then he turned to Matilda. He bowed smiling. ‘Madam?’
‘This is my daughter-in-law,’ Sir William put in hastily. ‘Matilda, Lord de Clare has threatened this long time to ride over from his castle at Tonbridge to see my mews, haven’t you, my boy?’ The old man was plainly delighted to see his visitor.
‘Lord de Clare.’ Matilda curtseyed and her heart inexplicably began to beat a little faster as she surveyed the young man’s handsome face.
He grinned. ‘Do you enjoy hawking, madam? It should be an exciting day. I’m told there is good sport on these marshes.’
‘Indeed there is!’ Sir William put in good-naturedly. ‘You must join us, Matilda. Watch my birds trounce this young fellow’s, eh?’ He chuckled broadly.
Matilda didn’t hear him. She was drowning in the young man’s gaze.
‘So, it was too late when they first met,’ Sarah whispered softly. ‘She was already married to that bore! See if she and Richard ever managed to meet alone. Please, Carl. Ask her.’
Bennet frowned. Nevertheless he leaned forward a little as he put the question. ‘Did you go hawking with Lord de Clare, Matilda? Did you manage to speak to him again?’
Jo smiled. Her eyes, open and dancing, were the eyes of a carefree girl.
‘We rode away from the others, south towards Sompting. The forest over the Downs is thick with oak trees there and their leaves were gold and brown with autumn. Richard flew his peregrine when we got to the chalk fields and I pretended to fall from my horse. I knew he would dismount and come to help me. I wanted him to hold me in his arms so much …’
‘My lady! My lady, are you hurt?’ Richard’s face was near hers as she lay still on the ground. He glanced behind him for help, then gently he cradled her head on his knees. ‘My lady?’ His voice was sharper now. ‘For the love of Christ, speak to me!’
She moved slightly, letting out a small moan. His face was close to hers. She could see, through scarcely opened eyes, the fine hairs growing again on his chin where he had been shaved that morning, and feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He smelled of leather and horse-sweat, quite unlike the musty reek her husband habitually exuded. She nestled a little closer in his lap and felt suddenly his hands inside her mantle. Was he feeling for her heart, or for her breast beneath the pale linen? She stiffened imperceptibly and at once he straightened, moving his hand.
‘My lady?’ he said again. ‘Speak to me. Tell me if you are hurt.’
She opened her eyes and smiled at him, her breath catching in her throat as she found his face so very close to her own. ‘I must have fallen,’ she whispered.
‘Can you rise?’ He was trying to push her up as, behind them, the sound of horses’ hooves thundering on the hollow chalk announced the rest of the party.
‘I can manage! Thank you.’ Crossly she jumped to her feet, brushing leaves from her mantle, then she turned from him in a flurry of skirts and ran to scramble back onto her horse alone.
‘Why didn’t you let me go on longer?’ Jo asked when Bennet woke her from her trance. She glanced down at the spool on her tape recorder, which was barely a quarter used. ‘I want to know what happened. I wanted to see Richard again.’
Bennet frowned. ‘It was going well, Jo, and we have learned a lot from this session. I don’t want you to grow tired.’
She intercepted the worried look he cast in her direction. ‘Did you find out if someone tried to strangle me?’ she asked. She was watching his face closely.
He shook his head. ‘At the period you described today you were scarcely more than a child – you didn’t seem to know quite how old you were yourself. But if anyone tried to strangle Matilda it was at some time far in her future, Jo. Not when she was riding on the Downs with Richard de Clare.’
‘But something did go wrong. Something worried you?’
‘Nothing at all. Nothing.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘In fact I would like to pursue our experiment further with you, if you agree.’
‘Of course I agree. I want to know more about Matilda and Richard. And what happened after the massacre … just a bit more.’ Jo grinned as she picked up her recorder and stuffed it into her bag. ‘But I warn you now, I’m not going to chase her story endlessly. There’s no point in that and I have no intention of getting obsessive about all this. But just one or two more sessions as soon as you can fit me in.’
Sarah rose and went to fetch the diary. As she did so Bennet came round the desk. He was frowning again. ‘Joanna. I must tell you that I had a phone call yesterday from a colleague who says he is treating you, a Dr Franklyn.’
Jo straightened abruptly, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. She tightened her lips. ‘Oh?’ she said suspiciously.
‘He has asked me for a meeting to discuss your case.’
‘No!’ Jo threw the bag down on the sofa. ‘No, Dr Bennet. Sam Franklyn is not “treating” me as you put it. He is interested in this business because he worked for Michael Cohen years ago. He wants me to stop the regressions because he doesn’t want me to write about them. Believe me, he is not treating me for anything.’
Bennet took a step backwards. ‘I see.’ He glanced at her beneath his eyebrows. ‘Well, I told him I had to ask your permission, of course.’
‘And I will not give it. I have already told him to leave me alone. I am sorry he rang you, I really am. He should not have bothered you.’
‘That is all right, Jo.’ Bennet took the diary from Sarah and frowned at it through his spectacles. ‘Friday afternoon at three o’clock. Would that suit you? I shall make it my last appointment and then we need not be hurried. And I shall tell Dr Franklyn if he rings again that you would rather I did not speak to him.’
After she had gone Sarah turned to Bennet. ‘She is hiding something, isn’t she?’
He shrugged. ‘I suspect so.’
Sarah raised an eyebrow. ‘So. Will you talk to this Dr Franklyn?’
Carl Bennet smiled. He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘I’m sure that in the course of events he and I will meet. It is unthinkable that I should not run into him, because a colleague of Cohen’s would be an invaluable person with whom to discuss my work.’ He closed the diary and handed it