Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
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Matilda stared at him for a moment in silence. ‘You’re telling me that Sir William is misappropriating church property?’ she said at last.
The old man shrugged apologetically.
She felt like laughing hysterically. ‘And this is an offence great enough to cause the mountain waters to change their colour?’ She turned away from him so that he couldn’t see her face. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It took a moment to get herself under control again. Then she turned back to him. ‘Have you told Sir William of this dream?’ she enquired gently.
He shook his head vehemently.
‘Then I shouldn’t at the moment. I shall try to find out whether he is indeed withholding tithes due to the chapel, and whether he is doing it knowingly. I am sure there has been some mistake. He would never take something which was the church’s.’
She waited until he had gone before bursting into tearful laughter, then she shrugged, wiping her eyes, and looked at Elen in despair. ‘I wish the Archdeacon were here, Elen. He would know what to do.’ She sighed. ‘He would know the truth about Father Hugo’s dream, and about the river waters.’ She took up the sewing, which Elen had recovered from the rushes, and sat down wearily.
‘They are saying, my lady,’ Elen began cautiously, ‘that is, the townsfolk in Aberhonddu and Hay are saying that the river runs green for another reason. They say it is because of the King’s great sin in taking Walter of Clifford’s daughter Rosamund to be his mistress and casting off Queen Eleanor again.’
She glanced at Matilda shrewdly, her blue eyes merry in her freckled face. ‘I think it is more likely to be for the sins of a King, than of one of his subjects, however great, that the waters of Afon Llynfi should change colour, don’t you?’
‘I suppose so.’ Matilda walked over to the narrow window and looked out across the valley. Sheets of fine rain were sweeping in from the mountains and the smell of sweet earth rose to her from her little garden in the bailey below. She leaned out and sniffed appreciatively. ‘I pray your story is true, or Father Hugo’s – I don’t care which. As long as the warning is not for me. And who knows, perhaps Margaret was right. Perhaps it is just pondweed.’
‘Smelly it is, madam, anyway, Hugh says,’ Elen put in briskly. ‘He thinks it’s because there’s been no rain, simple as that it is. And now this morning the rain has come so we’ll soon know, if the green all goes away. And your plants will be pleased by it, so they will!’
‘Rosamund Clifford,’ Sarah whispered. ‘Do you think she was an ancestor of hers?’
Bennet looked away from Jo’s face, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Ancestral memory? Transferred genetically? I’ve read some interesting papers on the subject.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t believe it myself, but we’ll have to see what part this Rosamund plays in the story. I should wake her now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She’s getting tired. She has lived through six months in that world of hers.’
‘Oh wait, Carl. Can’t we find out about the baby – I know she would want you to ask about it –’ Sarah broke off suddenly as the door behind her opened.
Nick stared into the room. For a moment none of them spoke, then, catching sight of Jo sitting on the chesterfield, Nick stepped inside the room and closed the door.
‘Jo! Thank God, I’m in time!’
Carl Bennet stood up, taking his glasses off in agitation. ‘You can’t come in here. Please, leave at once! Who are you?’ He stepped towards Nick.
Nick was looking at Jo. ‘Jo asked me to come,’ he said. He glanced at Bennet for the first time. ‘My name is Franklyn. I’m a friend of hers.’
‘I thought I told you, Dr Franklyn, that Jo has asked you not to involve yourself in this matter!’ Bennet stood looking up at Nick, his face stern.
‘Dr Franklyn is my brother,’ Nick replied shortly. ‘Jo, for God’s sake explain.’
‘Jo does not know you’re here.’ Anxiously Carl Bennet put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. ‘She is in a deep trance. Now please, I must ask you to leave –’
‘Jo? Dear God, what have you done to her? You bastard!’ Nick knelt at Jo’s side and took her hand gently in his.
‘Shall I call the caretaker?’ Sarah said in an undertone. She had her hand on a bell by the door. Bennet shook his head. He sighed. ‘Please, Mr Franklyn. You must leave. I am sure you realise it would be dangerous for you to interfere at this stage.’
‘Dangerous?’ Nick was staring at Jo’s face. Her eyes were looking at him quite normally, but she did not see him. The scene she was watching was in another time, another place. ‘She swore this wasn’t dangerous. And she asked me to come with her,’ Nick went on, controlling his temper with an effort. ‘I only got her message an hour ago. I insist on staying. She would want me to.’
Her eyes had changed focus now. They no longer looked at him. They seemed to stray through him, unfocusing, the pupils dilating rapidly as though she were staring directly at the window. Slowly Nick released her hand. He backed away a few paces and sat down on the edge of a chair. ‘I am staying,’ he repeated. ‘I am not letting her out of my sight!’
Jo suddenly threw herself back against the sofa with a moan of agony. Her fingers convulsed and she clawed four parallel grooves in the soft hide of the upholstery.
‘Holy Mother of God!’ she screamed. ‘Where is Jeanne? Why doesn’t she come?’
There was a moment’s total silence in the room as the three looked at her, electrified. Nick had gone white.
‘Make it stop,’ Jo moaned. ‘Please, someone make it stop.’ She arched her back again, catching up one of the velvet cushions and hugging it to her in despair.
‘For God’s sake, Carl, what’s happened?’ Sarah was rooted to the spot. ‘Bring her out of it. Wake her quickly!’
Bennet sat down beside her. ‘My dear, can you hear me? I want you to listen to me –’ He broke off with a cry of pain as Jo grabbed his hand and clung to it. Her face was wet with perspiration and tears.
‘For pity’s sake, wake her,’ Nick cried. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s having a baby,’ Sarah’s voice cut in as Jo let out another moan. ‘Women do it all the time.’
‘Pregnant women, perhaps,’ Nick snapped. His skin was crawling. ‘Wake her up, man, quickly. Do you want to kill her?’ He clenched his fists as Jo screamed again.
‘Jo? Jo? Can you hear me?’ Bennet battled to catch her hands and hold them still. ‘The birth is over, Jo. There is no more pain. You are going to sleep, Jo. Sleep and rest. And when you are rested, you will wake gently. Can you hear me, Joanna? Now, close your eyes and rest …’
‘It’s taking too long!’ Elen looked at Margaret, frightened. Gently she sponged Matilda’s face with a cloth wrung out in rosewater. ‘For sweet Jesus’ sake, isn’t there anything we can do to help?’
They both looked pleadingly at the midwife who was once more feeling Matilda’s stomach beneath the bloodstained linen. The girl was practically unconscious now, propped against a dozen pillows, the deep straw litter of the childbed covered with sheets to make it soft and smooth. Between each pain black exhaustion took hold of her, drawing her down into blessed oblivion before another spasm of rending agony began inexorably to build, tearing her back to screaming wakefulness. Only the warmth of the blood in which she lay soothed her.
‘There now. He’s nearly here, the boyo.’ The birthing woman was fumbling beneath the sheet. ‘Another push or two, my lovely, and it’ll all be over. There’s brave, it is.’ She smiled imperturbably as Matilda arched her back in another agonised contortion and a further spurt of blood soaked into the bedding. The rosary they had put in her fingers broke and the beads rolled across