nodded. ‘And I would gladly learn them, but the other things, Jeanne –’ She looked the old woman in the eye. ‘What was it you whispered over my bed the night Lord Clare came to Hay?’ Clutching her fists in her skirts she was suddenly afraid as she waited for the answer.
Jeanne did not move for a moment, then slowly the hooded eyes fell to gaze at Matilda’s stomach. ‘My power was not strong enough to save you,’ she murmured. ‘Now it is too late. Events are already in train. I can do nothing.’
Matilda shivered. ‘There is nothing to do, Jeanne. My husband will never guess,’ she whispered. ‘We were discreet. We were never alone together again.’
Jeanne shrugged. ‘The truth has a way of finding daylight, ma p’tite. One day Sir William will know. One day Lord Clare must pay the price.’
‘No!’ Matilda clutched her arm. ‘No, I don’t believe you. How could William find out? No one knows. No one. You would not tell him –’
Jeanne shook her head. ‘Not me, ma p’tite, nor the Prince of the Welsh who saw you in Lord Clare’s arms –’ She ignored the look of terror which crossed Matilda’s face as she hobbled stiffly away from her, pulling her furs more closely around her. ‘It is the child herself who will betray your secret. I have seen it in my dreams. And all for nothing!’ She turned suddenly, spitting with vehemence. ‘Lord Clare is not for you, Matilda! You belong to another!’ She spread her knotted hands expressively then she shook her head.
Matilda shuddered. ‘I know,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sighing of the wind. Snowflakes were beginning to drift down out of the sky, catching in the women’s furs.
Jeanne pursed her lips over her toothless gums. ‘You don’t know, ma p’tite,’ she said softly, ‘and I pray that I have seen falsely and you never will. It is not your husband I have seen.’
‘Not my husband?’ Matilda echoed. ‘Who then?’ She ran after Jeanne, clutching at her arm. ‘What have you seen? Tell me!’
Jeanne stopped. ‘I saw a king,’ she whispered, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder. ‘He is your destiny. And I shall not be there to save you.’
Matilda stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’ Her mouth had gone dry with fear. ‘You must tell me!’ She almost shook the old woman in her impatience. ‘Tell me!’ But Jeanne shook her head, holding her finger to her lips. ‘Perhaps, one day, ma p’tite,’ was all she would say, and no matter how hard Matilda tried to persuade her she would not speak of the matter again. But she did take her mistress to her still room, and there she showed her the dried herbs and flowers, salves and creams she kept locked in a chest. There were also stones, and branches of aromatic trees from faraway lands, and scraps of parchment covered with strange symbols. Those Jeanne whisked out of sight beneath a napkin, and when Matilda went again to look in the chest, they had gone. She had to be content with the arts Jeanne showed her, the simple spell of words to induce sleep in a fretful child, the way to consult the stars about the humours of the body, and how to prepare feverfew and gromel for when the labour pains came on her in the summer. But always, she refused to speak more of what she had seen in her dreams.
Matilda was sitting one evening, listening idly to the singing of a wandering minstrel who had floundered in out of the snowdrifts, his gitterne swathed in rags slung across his back, when she saw William poring over some parchments on the table, his forehead wrinkled with the effort of reading the close writing in the flickering light of the streaming candles. Outside the wind roared up the broad Wye valley, slamming against the walls, and rattling the loose wooden shutters. Once she thought she heard the howl of a wolf and she shivered.
He looked up at her suddenly, grinning. ‘A good haul, today, my dear, eh?’ He rubbed his leg, stiff from the saddle, and stood up slowly, coming to stand close to her chair. ‘There’s some of the best hunting I know round here and I like the Hay. I’ll be pleased when we have a more solid keep here, though. What do you say? Shall we pull it down and build in stone? That would make you feel safer, wouldn’t it?’ He looked up at her, cocking an eyebrow, then he reached for one of the parchments on the table. ‘I’ve been working out the moneys with Madoc and Bernard. The tithes are good, but the area should be better defended.’ He stabbed at the parchment with a grimy finger. ‘We’re strategically placed here. I should make better use of the position. The Welsh may be quiet at the moment, but one never knows when they’re going to plan a surprise attack. We could never hold them off here for long, and we have been as good as warned by your friend Einion.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
An extra blast of wind whistled through the shutters and one of the candles blew out, scattering wax over the table. William swore quietly as a page ran to the fire for a brand to relight it and he lowered his voice suddenly. ‘There is plenty of labour and it would be a good jumping-off place should one ever have plans to move into Elfael.’ He looked at her and raised his eyebrow again. ‘Well, woman, what do you say to the idea?’
She smiled. ‘It seems good. I won’t deny I’d feel safer with a sound stone keep if we must stay at Hay.’
He nodded. ‘We’ll return to Brecknock for a while, then you can come back to supervise the building when I rejoin the King in the spring. Give you something to do, eh, while you’re waiting to spawn that brat?’ He laughed loudly and turned to pour himself more wine.
And so it was at Hay that Richard’s daughter Matilda was born, on a cool, crystal clear, midsummer night, bright with stars which seemed to have been borrowed from the frosts of winter. Jeanne delivered the child, a flaxen-haired scrap, then laid the offerings on the hearth. The baby was tiny – more like a seven-month child than either of Matilda’s lusty full-term boys – and William accepted her as such without a word of doubt, crossing himself as he caught sight of Jeanne muttering protective spells above the cradle, hastily turning away to his horses and his falcons. Alone again but for Jeanne, Matilda held out her arms for the child and took her, staring down at the delicate, perfect features. She had expected to feel an especial love for this child of her love. She felt nothing at all.
‘Are you all right?’
The woman from the produce stall had reached tentatively into the car to shake Jo by the shoulder.
Jo clutched the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The car engine was idling quietly as the sun beat down through the windscreen onto her face. She rested her forehead on the rim of the wheel for a moment, feeling suddenly sick and cold.
‘Are you all right?’ the woman repeated. ‘You’ve been sitting there for ages. I couldn’t make you hear me –’
‘I’m sorry.’ Jo looked up with an effort. ‘I think I must have fallen asleep –’
The woman looked sceptical. ‘You were staring up at the castle as if you were in a trance.’
Taking a deep breath Jo forced herself to laugh. ‘Maybe I was at that. I’m sorry, and I’m parked in your way, too. If you could help to see me out –’
‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ The woman did not look convinced as she straightened and stepped back from the car.
‘Quite sure,’ Jo said firmly. ‘Quite, quite sure.’
This Thursday was the third time she had been up to London in under a month, Dorothy Franklyn realised suddenly. She felt very tired.
Nick ordered sandwiches and coffee for them both in his office. ‘I’m
