“And, even then, you might not find it, Mother dear.” His voice was gentle again suddenly. He kissed her forehead lightly. “It seems to me that we must pray for a miracle.”
It was at Bristol Castle on the feast of St. Eustace that the prisoners were summoned at last to the great hall after the evening meal was over. John was listening to the carolers who had arrived from Gloucester. He sat on his great chair, his legs stuck out in front of him, a goblet of wine still in his hand.
“It appears your obedient husband has decided to accede to your wish, Lady Matilda,” he called loudly as soon as he saw her. A hush fell over the crowded hall and Matilda drew herself up, feeling hundreds of eyes on her as she walked slowly toward the dais and waited, her eyes lowered. John gestured at one of the servants and he ran, bowing, to a door.
The two men had obviously been waiting just outside, for they came in at once, hastening to the dais, where both went down on one knee. Matilda saw with a sudden lurch of her heart that one of them was William. He did not look at her, and she saw his surcoat and tunic were torn and mud-splashed and his beard unkempt. The old, unhealthy pallor had returned to his cheeks.
John rose, belching slightly as he moved, and set his cup down. He clicked his fingers at a clerk, who brought forward a parchment, which Matilda recognized at once as the one she had signed only weeks before, in Dublin.
“You agree, I take it, Sir William, to your wife’s terms.” John spoke curtly. “Fifty thousand marks she has promised. You realize that?”
William nodded almost imperceptibly. Still he did not look at her. “Then you will sign the agreement?” John stood and watched as pen and ink were brought to William. Then the de Braose seal was produced from his companion’s pouch. There wasn’t a sound in the great hall as the red wax dropped slowly onto the parchment, the pungent smell for a moment stronger even than the aroma of food and fire and candles and the strong smell of sweat that came from the lower tables of the hall. There was a hiss as the seal met the wax and the clerk carefully removed the document and passed it to the king. John waved it away. “Enough. I want to hear the singers. The first installment, Sir William, by the feast of St. Agnes, and”-he shot his head forward suddenly, his eyes blazing-“not one day later.”
They were all ushered from the hall as the minstrels struck up a merry tune for the king.
Outside in the icy ward Matilda flung herself at her husband as he turned away toward the stables. “William, will you not even greet me? Surely you’re allowed to talk to me before you go? For pity’s sake!”
He turned back and looked at her, his face blank. “What am I to say, Moll? I have to go to find this money. There is so little time.”
Matilda threw herself at him, clinging. The guards made no attempt to stop her. “It’s not so much, the first installment. Ten thousand marks, that’s all, my dear. The marshall will help and Reginald and Giles, of course. You must write to them at once, and our friends in the Marches. Please, William. You will try?”
“Mother.” Will was behind her suddenly, his hand on her arm. “Mother, come into the warm. My father knows what to do.”
“You do know, William? You will do it? There’s so little time. Oh, my dear, you will help me…” She was sobbing now, still clinging to him.
William turned away, shaking her off. “I’ve told you, woman. I’ll do what I can. What else can I say?” A gust of wind blew his cloak open as a groom brought two horses forward and the guard closed in on Will and Matilda, beginning to hustle them toward the corner tower where they were lodged.
“William, William…” Her voice rose to a scream as Will put his arm around her and pulled her away. “William, help us, please!
But already his horse was trotting toward the portcullis as it slid upward into the darkness of the gateway. Seconds later the two figures had vanished into the night.
Matilda collapsed onto Will’s shoulder as Margaret and Mattie ran, consoling, to her side, and slowly they led her back to the tower as the first drops of rain began to fall on the cobbles.
Sam was standing looking out of the window across the square. There were tears on his cheeks as his hand clenched in the curtains. Slowly he turned. “So William left you, my lady,” he whispered, “to fetch the money.” He laughed bitterly. “Did you believe him? Did you wish that you had been a faithful and loving wife? Tell me how it happened, my lady. Tell me how it felt when finally you realized that William was never coming back.”
Jo’s fingers moved restlessly over the cushions on the chair, scratching harshly at the tapestry work, shredding the wool beneath her nails. Her eyes moved unseeing over the flickering TV screen.
“William,” she cried again. “William, for the love of the Holy Virgin, please, come back.”
Tim knocked on the door, easing the heavy camera bag on his shoulder. He was panting heavily after climbing the long flight of stairs.
Judy opened it at the third knock. She was wearing her painting smock and old jeans. She looked slightly harassed as she saw him standing there.
He grinned. “I hope I’m not too late. You did say any time after eight would be okay.”
“Oh, God, Tim, I’m sorry, I forgot. Come in, please.” She dragged the door wider. “I never meant you to go to so much trouble. When I asked you to do the catalogue, I didn’t realize you were going abroad.”
“It’s no trouble, Judy. You put quite a challenge to me. A catalogue of your inner thoughts, not just reproductions of your paintings. How could any photographer resist the temptation to photograph a lady’s inner thoughts!”
She laughed. “I shall obviously have to censor them heavily.” She closed the door behind him. “Can I get you a beer or something?”
Tim shook his head. “I think I’d rather get on. I want to look at the work that’s going to the gallery in Paris and the studio, and I want to look at you.” He smiled at her impishly. “You realize a lot of this will rely on the processing and I’m going to have to leave that to George, but he’ll do it well. I think you’ll be pleased with what he produces.” He put down the bag and pulled it open. “First I want a picture of you in front of that sunset before it fades.”
The back window of the studio was ablaze with crimson and orange. Judy glanced at it. “I’ll change-”
“No! Like that. Jeans, paint stains, everything.” He caught her shoulders and propelled her toward the window, turning her in profile to the light. “That’s it. You’ll be almost totally in silhouette. Just the slightest aura of color around your face and those streaks of red on your shirt. They look like overspill from the clouds.”
He photographed her dozens of times against the window as the light faded to gold and then to green, then at last he turned his attention to the pictures. One by one she brought them forward into the strong studio lights.
“Are you really leaving tomorrow?” She studied his thin, tired face as he raised the light meter in front of a huge, unframed canvas.
He nodded. “Tomorrow evening.”
“And you’ll be gone months?”
“At least three.” He squinted through the viewfinder and then retreated several paces before clicking the shutter.
“Are you going to see Jo before you go?”
He was suddenly very still. “I don’t know. Probably not.” He stepped away from the camera and helped her replace the canvas against the wall. “I had thought I might call in on my way back from here, but I’m not sure. Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t see her again.”
Judy raised an eyebrow. “You made that sound very final.”
Tim gave a harsh laugh. “Did I?” He helped her lift the next picture onto the easel. “Jo has plenty to occupy her without me intruding. I want you in this one, standing facing the painting, that’s it, back to the camera with your
