Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
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towards the far corner of the room. Now, slowly, she turned to him and her eyes focused on his face. He held her gaze unwaveringly. ‘I am your husband,’ he said. ‘You do recognise me, don’t you, Matilde’ – he pronounced her name lightly, in the French manner – ‘I am your husband. Come to claim you.’
‘Please. No!’ Jo edged away from him. ‘My lord, I told you, it is too soon.’
Sam smiled. He put his hand out and caught her chin, forcing her face round to his. Then he bent over her and kissed her on the lips. She went completely rigid, but she did not struggle. Sitting up he looked down at her and saw her eyes were closed. ‘Look at me,’ he said threateningly. ‘Look at me!’
Her eyes flew open. They were scornful and cold.
Sam felt a sudden surge of anger flow through him. Oh yes, that had been the way she always looked at William. So superior, so dismissive, so beautiful and remote that her disdain had unmanned him, but not this time. This time he had absolute control of her body and her mind.
He levered himself off the sofa and stood looking down at her, forcing himself to be calm. She was watching him docilely enough, her eyes still mocking, but he thought he could see fear as well, hidden, but there, as she stared at her husband and waited.
He smiled grimly. ‘Stand up, Matilde,’ he said slowly.
Hesitantly she obeyed him and stood quite still. He looked at her for a moment, then he turned to the tape deck in the corner. From his pocket he produced a cassette which he slotted into the machine. He switched it on and listened as the first strains of an unaccompanied flute began to play in the room, then he sat down on the chair facing Jo. She had not moved. Her head was held at a defiant angle, her eyes watching him with cool disdain as he sat back and folded his arms.
‘Now, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘I want you to show me some wifely obedience.’
Matilda stared at her husband in horror. Behind him the blind flute player was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the window embrasure. She could hear the everyday noises of the castle all around them; any second someone would walk into the solar. She heard feet pattering down the spiral stair in the corner and the swish of skirts on the stone. They hesitated then ran on down towards the lower floors, the sound dying away into the distance.
‘Take off your mantle and gown, wife,’ he repeated his order.
She glanced at the musician, who played on as if he had heard nothing.
‘My lord, I can’t – I need my maid. Please, this can wait until nightfall –’
‘It cannot wait until nightfall.’ His eyes narrowed and she could see the vein beginning to throb in his neck. He drew the ornately decorated dagger from his girdle and tested the blade gently against his thumb. ‘If the fastenings of your gown defeat you, I shall cut them for you.’
She swallowed. She had only to call for a servant, to scream, to turn and run. He could not force her, not here. Not now. Yet something held her. She could not tear her eyes from his. Obediently she felt herself unfasten her jewelled girdle and let it fall to the floor. Her scarlet surcoat followed it. She paused nervously. ‘My lord, not here, I beg you –’
‘Here, Matilda.’ She felt his hands on her head, slipping off the gauze headdress, allowing her hair to fall loose over her shoulders, then he was unlacing her gown, pushing it down so that it too fell to the floor. She was left clad only in her shift. She shivered violently in spite of the warmth of the early autumn afternoon.
Behind her the flute player shifted his position slightly as the trembling notes of his tune died away. There was a long silence, then, unbidden, he began to play again.
‘Take it off.’ William stood back and folded his arms.
Matilda crossed her hands on her breast, clutching the embroidered neck of her shift. ‘Would you have me stand naked before the servants, and before your men?’ Her eyes blazed suddenly, her fear eclipsed by a wave of scorn and fury. She dodged away from him but he was too quick for her. He caught her wrist. ‘I’ll have you stand naked at the whipping post, my lady, before the whole world, if you defy me,’ he said evenly. He tore the flimsy shift from her body, tossing it to the rush-strewn floor. Panic-stricken, she raised her hands towards his face, clawing at him frantically, and beneath her nails a bloody welt opened down his cheek. With a curse he caught her by the hair, jerking her head back as greedily he seized her mouth with his own, his hands catching hers and holding them still as she struggled frantically to escape him. Behind them the flute player played on.
William was breathing heavily, sweat pouring from his face and with a shudder she stood still, sensing suddenly that part of his excitement came from the knowledge that she was afraid. Raising her chin slightly she stared at him disdainfully. He released her wrists immediately and she took a step back, proud in her nakedness, feeling his eyes on her body which only weeks before had been swollen and misshapen, but now had slimmed back, with the resilience of youth, to a lithe tautness. Only the fullness of her breasts betrayed the recent childbirth and as she moved her head the heavy curtain of her hair swung forward to hide them from him. He licked his lips and slowly he began to remove his mantle.
Once again she could hear steps on the spiral stairs at the corner of the chamber. They were coming closer. She could hear knocking – a loud insistent banging at a door. Near them someone was shouting. She ignored the sound, her eyes on her husband’s face, a flicker of mocking amusement showing in her expression as she saw him glance over his shoulder towards the rounded arch covered with a curtain which led towards the stairs. Abruptly he threw his mantle round her shoulders.
‘So,’ he breathed. ‘We are interrupted after all, but only for a while. You will forget this little incident until we have another opportunity to be alone, do you hear me?’ He drew her to him, his hands locked in the embroidered border of his mantle, her body pressed against his, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘You will remember nothing about it, nothing at all, but when I order you to come to me again, you will come, Jo, do you hear me? You will come.’
‘Jo!’ Nick was banging on the door again. He tried the key a second time and cursed. ‘Jo? I know you’re in there. Open the door!’
Outside the flat upstairs a face appeared, peering over the winding banisters. ‘She’s in there all right. I saw her earlier.’ Sheila Chandler came down a few steps. ‘It’s Mr Franklyn, isn’t it?’
Nick gave her a brief smile. ‘She doesn’t seem to be hearing me.’
‘Perhaps she’s asleep. What with the baby keeping her awake and everything.’
‘Baby?’ Nick stared up at her. He frowned, with a sudden shiver of apprehension, mechanically taking in the immaculate wave of the woman’s hair and her elegantly cut silk shirt, then he turned back to the door and thumped on it with his fist. ‘Jo, if you don’t open this door I’m going to break it down!’ His voice echoed up and down the silent stairwell and above him Sheila Chandler’s eyes rounded. Silently her husband came to stand beside her, staring down.
When the door was unbolted at last they both craned forward. Only Sheila saw that it was opened by a man.
‘Sam?’ Nick stared at his brother. ‘What the hell is going on? Where’s Jo?’
Sam stood back to let him in. ‘Shut up, Nick,’ he said angrily. ‘There’s no need for all this noise. Jo’s fine.’ He closed the door and as he did so Nick caught sight of a long raw scratch on his brother’s face. Sam was in shirtsleeves – two buttons from the front of the shirt were missing.
‘What the hell has been going on here?’ Nick repeated as he thrust Sam out of his way and strode into the living room. It was empty. From the stereo the lonely, monotonous sound of a flute wove a pattern into the silence.
‘She went into some kind of spontaneous regression.’ Sam was leaning against the wall, watching his brother closely. ‘She asked me to come over after she’d been having a series of nightmares about the baby –’
‘The