all this off and somehow he had to help her to get free of it again. She had to go back to him, had to persuade him to try again to make her forget, and as soon as possible.
Margiad Griffiths was in the kitchen when Jo, showered and in a fresh dark-blue cotton dress, went down. She turned from the cooker and smiled. ‘Better, are you?’ she said. ‘I’ve just made some coffee, or would you prefer tea?’
‘I’d love some coffee, please.’ Jo sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I didn’t realise I was so tired. I am sorry, I’ve put you to a lot of trouble.’
‘Not at all.’ Margiad reached down two earthenware cups from the dresser. ‘The Peters have gone, though. Sorry not to see you again, they were. They sent their best wishes.’
‘I wish I could have thanked them. I still don’t know quite what happened to me by the river yesterday.’
‘Exhaustion, I expect.’ Margiad poured the coffee. ‘I usually put my guests at the tables in the sitting room, through here, if you’d rather …’
Jo grimaced. ‘No, I’d rather stay here if I may. I expect all your other guests went out ages ago, it’s so late.’
Shrugging, Margiad passed her a bowl of sugar. ‘I’ve only the three rooms. The Peters had one, and there was a nice young teacher in the other. Walking Offa’s Dyke, he was, but he stopped here for the books. Everyone comes to Hay for the books.’
Jo smiled. ‘I was here doing some research into the history of the town.’ The coffee was strong and fragrant. She could feel the heat of it seeping into her veins.
‘Oh, it’s an old town. The castle’s very ancient. That’s Richard Booth’s now, of course. Did you see it?’
Jo shrugged. ‘I’m more interested at the moment in the old castle. The first one. It was near the church.’
‘Down here?’ Margiad stared at her. ‘Well now. I never knew that! Fancy there being another castle. You’ll be off to see it later, I suppose?’
Jo sighed regretfully. ‘I can’t today. I’ve got to go back to London.’ She stared down with some distaste as Margiad put a plate of eggs and bacon down on the table in front of her. ‘I didn’t realise that was for me –’
‘Go on, girl. Eat it up while I make you some toast. You could do with some good solid food in you.’ Margiad was watching her carefully while behind her the frying pan sputtered gently on the stove. ‘Will you be coming back this way then, or have you finished all your research?’
Jo picked up the knife and fork. She cut into the top of the egg and watched the yolk flow across the plate.
‘I don’t know,’ she said after a moment. ‘I think it’s a case of whether it has finished with me.’
Her walk back towards the town took her past the site of the old castle. All that remained was the motte, grass-covered and sown with wild flowers. There was no sign of the wooden keep or the bailey which she remembered, nor of the thick hedge. She stood and stared for a moment, half afraid that something would happen, but there were no ghosts, no shadows, just a cheerful black and white collie who loped across the grass, cocked its leg against the wall, and disappeared into the trees near the church.
It was market day and she stared in confusion at the clustered colourful stalls which had appeared around her car overnight, wondering how on earth she was going to move it. Catching the eye of the woman selling farm produce from the stall beside the MG she shrugged and grinned apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it would be market day. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, so I left the car here.’
The woman grinned back. ‘So. It’s not something you’ll do again, is it?’ she said cheerfully, and she turned away.
Jo stuck out her tongue at the woman’s back. She threw her cases into the car and climbed into the driving seat. It would take some careful manoeuvring to extricate herself from the crowded, noisy square.
Slowly, she wound down the window, and leaned forward to insert her key into the ignition. In front of her the castle walls rose high and grey against the brilliant blue of the sky. When had it been built? she wondered idly as she turned on the engine. Would she ever know now? Her eyes traversed the high walls with the empty gaping spaces where the stone arches of the windows had fallen. In one of them a white dove was bobbing to and fro in the sunlight, its throat puffed into a snowy lace cravat as it cooed. Without knowing why she found herself staring at it with total concentration as behind her the noise of the market died away. She shivered. The silence was uncanny in the midst of so many people. Uncanny and suddenly frightening.
William arrived unannounced one blustery autumn night. He appeared with his men and horses, exhausted, mud-splashed and wet with rain, before the gates of Hay, angrily demanding entrance to the castle.
‘The ford will soon be too deep to cross,’ he growled as his wife came forward to greet him. ‘By Christ’s bones, I’m glad to be here safe and sound. It’s not the weather for travelling.’ He unclasped the brooch which held his cloak and flung the soaked garment to the floor. ‘How is the hunting, my lady?’ His ruddy cheeks were a shade more deeply lined, she thought, and his paunch a trifle more pronounced, but he looked as fit and well as ever. ‘Will we kill tomorrow?’
She laughed. ‘So short a rest, my lord? Yes, the hunting’s good. But we have been warned out of Elfael.’ She scrutinised his face closely. ‘Old feuds are remembered by the new Prince.’
William threw back his head and laughed. ‘Are they indeed? Well, I’ve plans for that young man and his territory.’ He threw a boisterous arm round Matilda’s shoulder, pulling her down to plant a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘He splits my lands in two, does our Einion. If I held Elfael, I’d hold the middle March from Radnor to Abergavenny. But let be for now. King Henry wants peace with Rhys ap Gruffydd at present. I’m content to bide my time. There are more amusing things to do in winter than plan a mad campaign. Like hunting and bedding my beautiful wife.’ He laughed again.
He was true to his word. By Yule the larders were hung with boar and venison, and Matilda knew herself to be pregnant once more. But it was not with William’s child. Her monthly courses had stopped before William came back to her bed.
Gritting her teeth in disgust and pain she allowed him to maul her night after night, praying he would never suspect the truth. That Jeanne had guessed she was certain, but the old woman kept an enigmatic silence on the subject of her lady’s prematurely swelling belly. Of Richard she stubbornly allowed herself to think not at all. News had come that he was on his way to Ireland, and after that nothing.
Jeanne watched over her now with increasingly jealous care as the time passed, fending off even the faithful Elen, who had drawn apart, resentful and hurt, spitefully hinting that the old woman was a witch. Matilda was sure of it, and one day, bored with being kept indoors by the weather, she sought Jeanne out in the walled herb garden.
‘Teach me some of your art, Jeanne,’ she whispered, as she caught the old woman, muffled in a fur cloak, scraping snow into a bowl with a muttered incantation.
Jeanne jumped guiltily, then she turned, a crafty smile on her lips. She had lost the last of her front teeth and it gave her an expression of cunning. Matilda caught her breath at the sight, but she steadied herself and smiled, excited.
‘I should like to know. Please tell me some spells.’
Jeanne’s
