trapdoor, his legs buckling under him, and he lay still in the dark. With Matilda they were more gentle, lowering her down beside him and flinging down a sheepskin and some sheaves of straw. She looked up, dazed; faces peered down, torches flashed and smoked above her and there was air. Then the great stone slab fell.
Light came fitfully, creeping icily through the drain gulley in the base of the wall. Kneeling to peer through it, she could see the hill opposite the castle. It was white with snow. The silence was profound, save when Will groaned. She had tried, groping in the dark with gentle fingers, to ease his leg; feeling the splintered bones and the blood, she had wept.
The light of the setting sun slowly faded from the gulley and no one came. They had no food, no water. She gnawed at the heads of wheat still clinging to the straw. Will burned beneath her hand. “Blessed Virgin, save us. Sweet Lady, intercede.” Daylight came again and brought no comfort. She clawed at the walls, tearing at the stone, and wept again.
As it grew dark once more Matilda took Will in her arms, his limbs already wasted by the fever, his face beneath her hand contorted with agony. Twice he screamed out loud as she held him close and she remembered the day of his birth-the agony of the black wizened face in her arms; and she knew there could be no hope.
When the light appeared again at the drain and a white sea mist drifted up across the hills, her eyes were too dim to see. Will lay already stiffening in her arms and she unbraided her hair, spreading it across his face, cradling him close, rocking gently to ease the pain.
Sam found a room in the rue Saint Victor.
His eyes were still swollen with grief as he pulled open the double mansard window six stories up and pushed back the shutters looking out over the rooftops of St. Germain. Then, turning, he managed to smile at the concierge, who, puffing from the steep climb up the stairs, had followed him into the room. Giving her a wad of francs, he persuaded her to fetch him a bottle of cognac with the promise that she could keep the change. His thoughts were all of Jo. Not once had he remembered Tim.
When the bottle came he locked the door. From outside the window, above the distant roar of traffic, he could hear a church bell ringing. He stood, glass in hand, looking at the street far below. He could smell new bread from somewhere and coffee and garlic and wine. The smell that was the smell of Paris. From the room next door he could hear the sound of muffled laughter.
He refilled his glass. He hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours, and already the drink was going to his head. Another glass followed, tipped down his throat, and then, impatiently, he thew the glass into the corner and drank straight from the bottle. His vision was beginning to blur.
He stared up at the sky, frowning, trying to see. The clouds were lifting. A faint ray of sunlight illuminated the line of raindrops on the wrought-iron railing outside the window in front of the parapet, turning each one into brilliant diamonds. He stared at them hard. The tears were coming back. He made no attempt to stop them, feeling them coursing down his face, soaking into his shirt. He took another drink, then, carefully putting the bottle down on the table, he stepped up onto the low sill. It was no problem to climb over the railing. He rested his hand for a moment on the warm slates of the roof and then, swaying slightly, stepped up onto the parapet.
His last thought, as he leaned forward into space, was of Matilda.
Ann stared ahead of her at the gap in the Purbeck Hills. There was no mistaking the angry silhouette of the castle, rising high above the sea of forest. Above it lay the huge cold arc of a rainbow as the last of the soft black clouds slipped away.
She saw the Porsche at once, parked carelessly, next to the market cross, and drew up near it, stiff and aching from the concentration of her journey. She wasn’t used to driving any distances these days, never mind the tortuous cross-country trip she had just made from Frome.
After slamming the van door, she set off at a run toward the broken masonry arch over the bridge across the dry moat, her sneakers silent on the road. Like Jo, she was brought up short by the need to find her entrance money. Then, already panting, she ran up the lower ward, following the path across the huge area of grass toward the causeway that crossed the inner moat and ran between the massive towers of the Martyr’s Gate.
There she hesitated, looking around her, her hair blowing in the wind. There was no sign of Jo. To the right rose the King’s Tower and all that remained of the main castle. To the left a second area of grass formed the west bailey, surrounded by gray stone walls, at the far western end of which stood the bare remains of the Butavant Tower. She walked on slowly, and hesitated. Then, turning left, she peered around the end of a wall. Jo was sitting there on the short, damp grass.
Ann let out a little sob of relief. She ran toward her, stopping six feet away from her.
“Jo?”
Jo did not turn. She was staring in front of her, her hands hanging loosely between her knees, her hair blowing in the southwesterly wind. Her hands were bruised and bleeding, her nails torn.
Ann stared at them in silent horror. “Jo, are you all right?” Crouching beside her, Ann gently touched her shoulder. There was no response. Jo’s skin was cold.
Behind them two men and a woman, cameras slung around their shoulders, had appeared through the Martyr’s Gate. Slowly, enjoying themselves, they turned away up toward the remains of the keep. The sound of laughter echoed through the bright, windy air.
When Bennet and Nick arrived they were both still sitting there on the swiftly drying grass. The tourists had come past them, stared surreptitiously, and gone. Ann held Jo’s hand gently. She could make no contact, get no reaction at all from the empty shell that was Jo. Once or twice she took her pulse. Each time it was weaker.
Bennet sat down next to them. “How is she?” he murmured.
Ann shook her head. “I can’t get through to her. She blinks. When I lift her hand it falls naturally. Her eyes are quite normal, look. But she is completely cold.”
Nick was staring round at the ruins of the castle. He was full of pent-up anger as he glanced back at Jo.
Bennet had opened the small case he had brought from the back of the Mercedes and was rummaging in a drawer, but suddenly Nick was beside him. He put a restraining hand on Bennet’s wrist. “No more drugs,” he said.
“Nicholas, I must.”
“No. Leave her to me. Please.”
Ann scrambled stiffly to her feet and backed away. Reluctantly Bennet followed suit. Both were watching Jo’s face.
Nick stooped and caught her shoulders, pulling her to her feet. “Stand up. Do you hear me? Stand up. Don’t give in. Fight.” He shook her hard so that her head snapped back and forth as she sagged toward him.
Bennet took a protesting step forward, but Ann put her hand on his arm. “Wait,” she whispered.
“Fight it. Live. I want you to live. Do you know who I am?” He held her hard in front of him.
Slowly and painfully Jo focused on his face.
“I want you to live. Come back to me. Do you hear me, Jo? It is all over!”
Darkness and pain were swirling in her head, dragging her down into the earth. Blackness, sleep, escape. Peace. She did not want to return. She felt no anger. Only regret; regret for the sun and the sky and laughter that was behind her. Soft eternal blackness waited. Blackness where her son was already at peace…
She did not want to come back. A second chance. A reprieve; the sun blazing down from behind the high towers of white stone. She put her hands up to her eyes, but he caught her wrists and pulled them away, the man who had been her king. His eyes were full of compassion now. He was ordering her back. Her life was not being
