crashing waves against the wooden quay and clouds of icy spray splattered onto the marshy track that led to the few fishermen’s houses on the beach. They would not sail today.
Sadly Matilda bade farewell to her white mare. Their horses had been promised to their host as payment. Bowing, the guides made their formal farewell and then left, leading the string of animals behind them at an easy canter back up the track.
It was four days before the wind veered and dropped enough for the captain to risk putting his small vessel to sea. Matilda watched the hills behind them constantly during the short hours of daylight, expecting at any moment to see a line of horses and light-catching helms and lances that would show that the king had achieved the impossible and caught up with them. But they never came.
At last the boat nosed her way out into the bay. A brisk, cold wind sent her plunging sharply to her small sails. Matilda stood on deck gazing back at the receding land, half hidden under a pall of black cloud. Her hair was torn from the hood of her cloak and whipped mercilessly around her face and across her eyes but she ignored it. It was as though she still expected, even now, to see John galloping down onto the shore of the estuary and boarding the other vessel that remained tied to the quay. She shivered and Will put his arms around her. “The crossing doesn’t take long, Mother. Do you feel sick?”
She glanced up and saw his grin, his eyes teasing. “You know I don’t, you silly boy. I knew I would like the sea. I only wish we were crossing under happier circumstances.” She sighed.
“Well, John can whistle for us now, so enjoy yourself.” Will laughed. “You and I have the sea legs of the family, that’s plain to see.” He nodded over his shoulder. His father and Reginald had retired to a sheltered corner of the deck where they were seated on some stoutly roped barrels. Both looked very uneasy, and shortly first William and then his son slipped aft into the fetid deck cabin, where, wrapped in their cloaks, they lay down.
Before long the wind started to blow up again. It veered around to the east, whistling in the rigging, and the broad-beamed boat began to bucket up and down the troughs and waves with alarming violence.
Will’s eyes were shining. “Be pleased the wind’s getting up, Mother. We’ll be there the sooner.” Matilda laughed at his exhilaration.
Night fell early and with it the storm worsened. The passengers were sent into the stuffy cabin, where they lay awake, hurled from one side to the other amid a debris of falling cargo and luggage. The air stank of fish and vomit and outside the wind screamed in the rigging, until, with a rending crack, the tightly reefed mainsail ripped across the middle. Matilda, trying to brace herself, sitting with her back to the forward cabin wall, her arms round her knees, could hear the crewmen shouting and screaming as they fought with the thundering, shredding canvas.
At last the sail was subdued and only the crash of the wind and waves and the whistle of the rigging remained.
For three days and nights they tossed and rolled under bare spars until the gale blew itself out. Then on the fourth morning the master unbarred the cabin door and looked in, grinning. “Would you believe, the Blessed Virgin had guided us safely to the Irish coast?”
Matilda staggered out weakly and looked eagerly ahead at the long, misty, dark coastline. The waves were still huge, but the wind had dropped a little. The sailors were rigging a makeshift sail and, as she watched, it caught the wind and filled. At once the boat stopped rolling aimlessly and picked up speed, heading in toward the shore. Another blanket of rain swept past them, soaking the planking in a moment, but Matilda and Will stayed on deck, watching as the boat nosed into the harbor. Above them, on a rocky cliff, a castle rose, guarding the harbor and the sea.
“Fitzgerald’s Black Castle.” The master was behind them for a moment, his eyes gleaming triumphantly. “This is a good fortune after the storm, indeed it is. Wicklow. That’s where we are.” And he was gone again, his eyes screwed up against the icy rain, guiding his vessel to her moorings, as the torn sails were lowered into heaps of sodden canvas on the deck.
The shore of Ireland seemed unsteady. Matilda staggered and nearly fell as she led the others up the wooden quay. Reginald grinned uncertainly for the first time in days. Even William looked pleased. He gazed about him, still pale and dazed, then at last he seemed to remember who he was. He straightened his shoulders. “Will, Reginald, we must find horses. Find out about this fellow Fitzgerald. Will he shelter us until we’re ready to go on?” He turned to see the last of their coffers being swung ashore and stacked on the quay. Everywhere seaweed and debris had been piled high by the wind and tide. There was a strong smell of rotting fish.
The master approached them gesticulating toward the hill. “There you are, men from the castle. They’ll be coming to greet you, no doubt,” he called.
They turned and watched. Five horsemen were trotting down the steep trackway.
Will stiffened suddenly. “Do you see their livery, Father? Is it possible?”
William knuckled the rain from his eyes. “William Marshall’s men, by God. He’s always been a good friend to us.”
“So were a lot of people, Father.” Reginald put a warning hand on his arm. “Better be wary until we know how he stands.”
The knight in charge of the horsemen saluted as he approached. He had not been told to expect passengers and seemed surprised to see the bedraggled party on the quay. However, it seemed the Earl Marshall was himself in residence at the Black Castle and, helping Matilda onto his own horse, the knight prepared to escort them back there.
The marshall received them in the high-ceilinged hall of the keep that echoed still to the crashing waves far below.
“My friends!” The old man held out both hands with a broad smile. “Welcome. Welcome indeed.” His smile changed to a look of concern as Matilda sank onto a form by the hearth. “Poor lady, you look exhausted. You all must be. The storm was the worst I’ve ever known. It must have sent a good many unlucky ships to the bottom.” He shook his head sadly. “Come, let me call servants to show you to our guest chambers. They’ll bring you food and wine there. When you’ve slept we’ll talk.”
The phone was ringing. For a moment no one moved, then slowly Ben hauled himself to his feet and went to answer it. Behind him Jo stared around her in a daze. She took a deep breath.
Ann stood up. She picked up the bowl of water and emptied it decisively into the sink. “Lunchtime,” she said loudly. “Nicholas, will you please pour us each a glass of sherry.”
Ben hung up. “They want us to collect the kids about four,” he said.
“Fine.” Ann was stooping over the oven, looking at the pie that she had put there earlier. “Fifteen minutes, then we can eat. Jo, will you shell me some peas?”
Jo hadn’t moved. She was staring down at her hands. The knuckles of her fingers were reddened and swollen.
Ann glanced at them sharply. “That’s what a morning on a damp Welsh mountain can do for you, Jo,” she said quickly. “Fearful place for aging bones! An afternoon in the sun will soon put you right.”
Jo gave her a shaky smile. “That’s what I thought,” she said. For the first time she allowed herself to look at Nick. “Do you remember what happened?”
He nodded.
“What are we going to do?”
Nick stared at the bottle in his hands. “We can’t change history, Jo.” His voice was hoarse.
“You can’t change the past, but it doesn’t have to happen again, for chrissake!” Ann said through clenched teeth. She took the bottle from Nick and poured it into the glasses, slopping a little onto the scrubbed tabletop. “Shall we go eat outside? If so, someone will have to dry off the table and chairs.”
The sun had finally broken through the mist, sucking it up in white spirals from the fields and mountainside behind the house. Below in the valley the whiteness still rippled and bellied like a tide, but around them now the heat was coming back. Thoughtfully Ben pulled off his sweater. Then he picked up his glass. “Well. It’s been an eventful morning,” he said dryly. “I vote we drink a toast. To the successful completion of Jo’s article on
