Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
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she felt a flicker of warning.
The celebrations with endless hunting and feasting lasted several days, and then at last it was time once more to move on. Richard de Clare had not come after all, to Matilda’s intense disappointment.
She had seen the King twice only since the banquet which succeeded the betrothal formalities and the mass in St Peter’s. On each occasion he was setting out in the cold dawn on a day’s hunting, surrounded by his barons and knights, William amongst them.
Once Prince John was at his side and again she felt the boy’s gaze on her. This time he was thoughtful, even calculating in his stare and with a shiver she pulled her cloak around her and turned away to her tent. But not before she had seen that strange challenge again flickering in the depths of those cold blue eyes.
The next morning she was standing watching a ship being unloaded at the wharf, clutching her squirrel fur mantle around her against the icy wind from the Welsh mountains, when she heard her name called. She spun round. ‘Richard!’ She let out a little cry of pleasure, hastily cut off as she glanced round her to see if anyone had heard. A few yards away Elen was bargaining with a packman in whose bundle she had spotted some bauble she wanted. ‘I had given up all hope of seeing you here!’
Richard glanced down at her. ‘How could I not come, knowing you would be here?’ He was breathing deeply, trying to contain the emotions which threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at her, seeing her so much more beautiful, or so he thought, than when they had parted almost a year before. She had matured – turned from a coltish child into a lovely woman, her hair glossy beneath the fur hood, her cheeks whipped to colour by the icy wind. He clenched his fist on the hilt of his sword.
‘I hear you were delivered of a fine son, my lady,’ he said slowly at last. ‘My congratulations.’
She smiled at him. She could think of nothing to say. Her heart was beating too quickly. She could hardly breathe. He had not touched her – not even kissed her glove – but she could feel his touch, feel the longing that stretched like a thong between them.
‘There, my lady!’ Elen returned triumphant with her purchase. ‘Shall we go on to the King’s hall?’ She glared at the tall, fair-haired knight with the chevrons on his surcoat who was staring with such naked longing at her mistress, and she shivered. There was danger in that look.
‘My lady.’ She pulled at Matilda’s sleeve. ‘We should go on.’
‘I’ll see you again?’ Matilda could not take her eyes off Richard’s face.
He nodded helplessly, half reaching out towards her with his hand. It fell back without touching her and with a curt bow, he turned away.
All day Matilda waited to see him again, but he did not come. Nor was he to be seen at the high table in the King’s great hall.
Disappointed and worn out with longing, she retired early, her head throbbing from the smoke and noise of the dinner, which had gone on for hours. She had unstoppered a phial of poppy syrup and was mixing a little with some wine when she looked up and caught sight of a movement against the tent wall. Her heart leaped.
‘Richard?’ she breathed. But only silence answered her, and after a moment she turned away. It was her overwrought imagination. He would never dare come to her tent. Picking up the cup she sipped the tincture, feeling it run soothing through her veins, and as she slipped quietly out of her gown she had already begun to feel drowsy. She was too tired to call Elen or one of the maids. All she wanted was to sink into the bed and sleep the pain in her head away. Then suddenly she saw a shadow, clearly, on the tent wall between the blowing hangings, silhouetted against a camp fire outside. It paused, and then moved silently towards the entrance flap. She caught her breath. That was not Richard. The shadow was too squat. Something about the stealth of the movement frightened her and she sat up abruptly, pulling up the covers beneath her chin, holding her breath. There was a tiny click, like two stones being rubbed together, and then silence.
The shadow moved quickly to the entrance and paused again, then it shrank strangely and thickened as the prowler, whoever it was, stopped momentarily as though dropping something. Then it vanished.
Matilda sat for a moment, her heart in her mouth, wondering whether to call the guard. Then she slipped out of bed and, pulling the coverlet round her shoulders, tiptoed to the entrance of the tent and looked out. There was no one there. A fine starlit sky lit the dark encampment where here and there a damped fire glowed red beneath its turves. She caught her breath in the cold air, looking left and right and then glancing down at the ground, which was already white with icy dew.
A bundle lay at her feet. Puzzled, she bent and picked it up, still thinking of Richard. It was heavy and already the frosty night had worked its way into the rough cloth leaving it stiff and frozen. She carried it into the tent and, lighting a candle from the rushlight which burned before the portable priedieu, examined it more closely. The material was tied with a leather thong.
Curiously she pulled at the knot, working at the tight leather until it came free. Unwrapping the sacking, she pulled out another bundle of cloth. It was parti-coloured, in the flickering light half grey, half scarlet. She unwrapped it.
Lying in the folds before her, heavy and stiff, were three severed hands. The scarlet of the cloth was the blood which had soaked through it, dying it into a gaudy, cheerful mockery of colour. She gazed at them in horror for fully a minute, her eyes unconsciously taking in the details of the grimy nails, the whitened fingers, the beaten copper ring on one of the knuckles, unable to comprehend the full horror of what she saw, and then she turned, retching, and ran for the entrance to the tent.
‘Someone come! Help me! Help me!’
Her screams echoed in the frosty air and within seconds the camp watch was mustering and a knight had ducked into the tent beside her, his face white beneath his chain-mail hood as he unsheathed his heavy sword. Horrified he stared down at the tent floor, then helplessly he touched Matilda’s arm.
‘Hush, my lady, hush. There is no danger now. Look, my lady – your maids are here, and Sir William has been called.’ He pulled an embroidered length of tapestry from a table and threw it over the bloodstained bundle, hiding it from sight. But she could not stop screaming. It was as if something inside her head had snapped. She was outside herself, watching herself standing there, barefoot, wrapped in a fur cloak in the streaming light of the torch which one of the watchmen carried. But she could not stop screaming.
‘Hush, Jo. Hush, there is no danger. It’s all over. You’re quite safe.’ Hands were shaking her and she could feel something cold on her face. Agitated voices surrounded her.
‘Can’t you do something, for God’s sake –’
‘Here, catch her hands. Hold her still.’
She felt people clutching at her, struggling with her, holding her.
There was a prick in her arm – then she knew no more.
The room was small, shaded by a white venetian blind against the sun. She blinked slowly, trying to clear away the fog in her mind. Her mouth tasted unpleasantly chemical.
‘Jo?’ A man was sitting by the bed. He stood up, bending over her.
‘Nick?’ Her tongue was so dry the word would not come.
‘You’re all right, Jo. Look, I’ve got a cup of tea here for you. Would you like a sip?’ His voice was more gentle than she had ever heard it.
Jo rubbed her eyes. ‘Where is this? What happened?’
She managed to sit up, and drank a little from the cup Nick gave her. Her head was spinning.
‘We are still at Dr Bennet’s, Jo. Do you remember? This is a rest room. You’ve been asleep.’
‘Asleep? I thought … I thought