35
Jo was sitting on the wall looking at the mist in the distance as the sun began to sink behind it, sending shafts of crimson and flesh tones through the peach and saffron, when Nick found her. He pulled himself onto the wall beside her.
“I thought I might drive home tonight,” he said.
Jo looked down at her hands. As Ann had predicted, they had returned to normal in the sun that afternoon. She nodded. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” she said slowly.
“Jo. You must stop the regressions,” Nick said after a moment. “You do realize, it’s getting near the end. Matilda is going to die.”
She shook her head desperately. “Not yet. Not yet, Nick. There is still time to sort things out. Maybe the books are wrong. No one seems to know for sure what happened. Perhaps William Marshall kept them safe-”
“No!” Nick caught hold of her shoulders. “Look at me, Jo. Nothing can save her. Nothing. She is going to die!” He turned away. “Part of me wants you to go on, Jo. Part of me wants to see you defeated and on your knees.” He stopped. In the silence that stretched out between them Jo did not dare to raise her eyes to his face. She felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stir.
“It’s not you, Nick,” she said at last. “And it’s not John.” She raised her eyes at last. “It’s what Sam wants.”
Nick nodded bleakly.
“And it was Sam who warned me not to go on with the regressions at the beginning. He didn’t want to hurt me then-”
“He hadn’t got this idea in his head then, that he was William,” Nick said grimly. “Somehow he wants to assuage his guilt by playing you and me off against one another. I can’t believe he really wants you to be hurt, and yet-”
“I won’t be hurt, Nick. Not by the regressions.” Jo gave a rueful smile. “Carl Bennet often takes people up to and through the death experience. After all, if we believe in reincarnation, then death isn’t the end-”
“It is the end of your current life, Jo.” Nick shook her gently. “Are you ready to die? Do you want to stop being Jo Clifford and go into limbo or wherever it is you think you go for another eight hundred years?”
Jo drew back, her eyes on his face. “Of course not. But it won’t happen.”
“It might.” Nick’s hands tightened. “Please, Jo. Promise me you won’t risk it.”
For a moment they looked at each other in silence. Almost without realizing he had done it, Nick reached up to touch her face. “I don’t dare trust myself with you, Jo. If I were really John-” He paused, then he shook his head. “I don’t-I can’t believe I was-but if it were true, then God help me, as far as I can see, it was not a life to be proud of. Perhaps he was the kind of man who would persecute someone beyond the grave.” He shuddered, then he gave a taut laugh. “What a strange new body he’s chosen to inhabit! A fraught and at the moment not very prosperous advertising executive! No, I can’t believe it. And even if I can, it’s the person I am at the moment who interests me, Jo. I don’t give a damn for King John. Or Sam. He’s been having a ball, setting me up and manipulating me, and it’s over.” He paused. “But until I’m sure there is nothing lurking inside me bent on doing you harm I don’t want to risk being alone with you. So I’m leaving.”
Jo moved toward him, a lump in her throat. “Nick-”
Nick closed his eyes. Then slowly he put out his arms and drew her toward him gently. He rumpled her hair. “You can’t trust me, Jo. Whatever I do, whatever I say. Don’t trust me, and don’t trust yourself.”
“Ann can help us, Nick-”
“She can’t, Jo, and it’s not fair to ask her anymore.”
“Carl Bennet, then.”
“Possibly.” He kissed her forehead. “But I think it must be Sam. I have a feeling he is the only one who can exorcise this nightmare, and I intend to see he does so.” He released her abruptly and pushed his hands into his pockets. “There is also the matter of Tim.” He tightened his jaw. “I want to find out just exactly where he fits in to this charade.”
Jo bit her lip. “Sam never hypnotized Tim,” she said, so quietly he could barely hear her.
“No.” Nick turned away from her. “That doesn’t fit, does it? Three men. Richard, John, and William. They each loved Matilda in their own way. And now here we are. Tim and Sam and me.” He gave a cold laugh. “Are you the prize, Jo? Is that what this is all about? If you are, then two people are going to lose out in this little exercise in karmic handouts. There have to be losers.” He was watching as a black thread of cloud drifted over the huge muffled crimson disc of the sun as it slid toward the mountain.
“I hope you win.” Jo’s voice was a tiny whisper.
Nick looked back at her, his eyes strangely impersonal. “I intend to,” he said. “This time I intend to.”
Somewhere on the hillside Jo could hear the plaintive bleating of a sheep. The sound echoed slightly in the emptiness of the night and she shivered.
Slowly she sat up. She pushed back the sheet and climbed out of bed, her eyes on the pale curtains that hid the moonlight. Drawing them back, she caught her breath at the beauty of the silvered mist lapping up the flanks of the mountain below the farm, and for a long time she stood staring out, her elbows on the stone sill. Her body ached for Nick. She wanted the comfort of his arms around her and the feel of his mouth on hers. Whatever the danger, she needed him. But he had gone.
She put her head in her arms and wept.
It was Richard who had come between them. If she had not met Richard, could she have loved the prince who had favored her with his passion? Richard. Always Richard. The name ran in her head. Had Matilda, in those last months, seen Richard again?
She raised her head and glanced at the door. Ann too had made her promise never to try to regress again alone, but surely, just once more, just to find out if there was news of Richard. After all, Matilda had not died in Ireland. There could be no danger yet. Just ten minutes, that was all she needed, to search her memory for a sight of him once more-to take her mind off John.
She tiptoed to the door and turned the key, then she sat down in front of the window. Putting her hands on the sill, she fixed her eyes on the huge silvered moon and deliberately she began to empty her mind.
It was late in the evening when they reached the castle of Trim. Somewhere a blackbird had begun to sing softly, warbling in the green twilight. At last the rain had stopped and a watery sun sent slanting shadows across the track. The great gates of the castle swung slowly open and their horses trotted over the drawbridge and into the shadowy bailey to safety.
Margaret greeted her mother with open arms, hugging her and trying to loosen her thick cloak at the same moment, laughing and brushing away the tears. Then Walter too came forward to greet her; tall and handsome as ever, a humorous glint in his eyes. “So my two reprobate parents-in-law come to see us at last.” He bent to kiss her and took her hands. “Welcome to Trim, Lady Matilda. We’ll keep you safe, never fear.” He guided her to the fire, leaving his wife to greet her father and brothers, and he stood for a moment studying her face. Matilda avoided his eye, embarrassed, conscious suddenly of the silvered hair snatched untidily from her veil by the wind and of the lines that worry, hard weather, and fear had etched around her eyes, and of the swollen, ugly hands he held so gently in his own. He raised one of them to his lips and kissed it. “Have you the strength to see Margaret’s pride and joy before you rest, Mother?” He spoke so quietly she almost missed his words against the background of noise in the hall beyond them. “I know she had no chance to tell you and you’ll have had no way of hearing the news. Our prayers were answered at last. We have a little daughter.”
“Oh, Walter!” Matilda’s tired face lighted with happiness. She pulled away from him and turned back to Margaret. “Why didn’t you tell me instantly, you wicked girl? Take me to see her quickly, my darling, before I really
