Lady of Hay

knocking the tray off the low table. The coffeepot slid to the floor and cracked against the table leg, soaking the carpet with coffee.

“Nick, stop it!” she cried. She could feel her arm pressing on a sharp piece of broken china. Warm blood flowed over her wrist. “Nick, please-you’re hurting me- please , look, I’ve cut myself-” The blind fury in his face frightened her. “It was only a dream, Nick. It wasn’t real! For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you? Nick!” His hand was on her throat, his eyes murderous. Jo struggled frantically, feeling the pressure on her windpipe slowly increase. Then abruptly his mood seemed to change. He moved his hand from her throat, catching her wrists instead, clamping them above her head while with his free hand he began to pull open her bathrobe. Then he bent over her and began roughly caressing her breasts. He smiled coldly. “That’s better. You like a little medieval violence, don’t you? It reminds you of the good old days-”

“Please, Nick! Nick -” Jo was terrified by the blind savagery in his face. She had never seen anyone look like that before, except once…For a moment she stopped struggling and lay still, frozen with fear as she remembered the face of the man who had tried to strangle her before-Nick’s other face-then with a last desperate pull she managed to break free of him. She rolled away and staggered to her feet, clutching her robe around her. “Get out! Get out of here,” she shouted. “Get out of this apartment, Nick, and never, ever come back!” Her eyes were blazing with anger. “Don’t you dare lay a finger on me again! I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at, but you get out of here. I won’t be treated like this. Not ever, do you hear!” She backed away from him toward the front door, knotting her belt around her waist. “Did you hear me?” she repeated desperately.

He was smiling as he stood up. A cool, arrogant smile, which turned her anger back to terror.

“Nick, please. What’s wrong with you?” She had nearly reached the front door. Turning quickly, she scrabbled with the latch, frantically trying to drag the door open, but Nick was close behind her. He slammed the door shut and rammed the bolt home, then he caught her arm. As he swung her to face him Jo screamed. But the sound never came. It was cut off short as he clamped his hand across her mouth, pulling her hard against him. He half dragged, half carried her down the passage to the bedroom and, without turning on the light, flung her on the bed.

She lay there for a moment, winded, then as she turned, trying to struggle to her feet again, she felt a blinding blow across her face. Half stunned, she fell back as Nick’s weight came down on top of her.

“Now, my lady,” he breathed, his fingers feeling for the knot of her belt, his face so close to hers she could see the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. “Another sound and I shall have to take steps to silence you.”

She tried to wriggle sideways as she felt his knee forcing her legs apart, but he held her easily. Eventually realizing that the more she fought him the more he was going to hurt her, she made herself go limp, biting her lip in pain as he forced his way inside her. His mouth ground into hers and she opened her lips helplessly beneath his probing tongue, and suddenly through her fear she felt a little stab of excitement. As if he sensed it, Nick laughed softly, and she felt his grip on her wrists tighten. “So, my lady, you do enjoy violence,” he whispered. “I think in a lot of ways you’ll find I can please you better than Richard de Clare.” And his mouth left hers and traveled down her throat toward her breasts.

He fell asleep eventually, still spreadeagled over her numbed body, his head between her breasts, his hands, loosened at last, outstretched across the bedcover. Agonized, Jo tried to move. She was crying softly, afraid to wake him as she tried again to dislodge the dead weight that pinned her to the bed. In the end she gave up and lay still, staring toward the window where the heavy curtains cut out the first signs of a beautiful dawn.

***

Nick woke just before seven. For a long time he lay unmoving, feeling the woman’s body limp beneath his, then slowly he eased himself off her and sat up. He grabbed his trousers and staggered to the window, throwing back the curtains with a groan. It was full daylight. He looked at his watch in surprise, and then back at the bed as the stark daylight fell across Jo. She was lying naked on the bedcover, her hair spread across the pillow, her legs apart. There were vivid bruises on her wrists and breasts, and he could see bloodstains on the bedspread. There was a long jagged cut encrusted with dried blood on her forearm, more blood on the inside of her thighs-

He felt suddenly violently sick. She had not stirred. She did not even seem to be breathing. He threw himself toward the bed. “Jo? Jo! For God’s sake, are you all right?”

For a moment she did not move, then, slowly and painfully, she opened her eyes, dazzled by the light, and stared around the room. It was a few moments before she began to remember. He saw the fear flicker behind her eyes as she looked up at him and a wave of nausea shook him again. She still had not moved but he saw her lick her lips experimentally, trying to speak. He reached for her bathrobe, thrown across a chair, and laid it gently over her.

“I’ll make some tea,” he said softly.

In the bathroom he tugged at the light pull and stared at himself in the cold, uncompromising electric light. His face looked the same as usual. Tired perhaps, and a little gray, but nothing strange. There was a scratch across his shoulder, otherwise nothing to show for Jo’s fight for her life.

He walked slowly to the kitchen and made the tea, comforting himself with the familiar sounds as he filled the kettle and fished in the jar for two teabags. Then he walked through to the living room. It was cold; the French doors had been open all night. The grass in the square was still silvered with dew. He pulled the doors closed, then he turned and picked up his shirt. There were coffee stains on the sleeve. And blood. Pulling it on, he went back to the kitchen. He was numb.

Slowly he carried the two mugs back to the bedroom. Jo had not moved. Sitting on the bed beside her, he proffered one of the mugs tentatively.

“Jo-”

She turned her head away and closed her eyes.

“Jo, please. Let me explain.”

“There is nothing to explain.” She did not look at him. “Please, just go.”

He stood up. “All right.” He leaned forward as if to touch her shoulder, but he changed his mind. “I’ll come back this evening, Jo. I’ll make it up to you somehow,” he whispered.

Leaving the two cups of tea untouched beside the bed, he walked slowly to the door. After unbolting it, he let himself out onto the quiet landing.

As he tiptoed down the stairs toward the street he heard the distant sickly wailing of a baby.

For a long time after he had gone Jo did not move. She lay rigid, listening to Will crying. Her fists clenched, her eyes dry, she stared at the wall, feeling the ache of her body where Nick had bruised her. Suddenly she sat up. She threw herself out of bed and ran to the bathroom, turning both bath taps on full, then she went to find her address book. She fumbled in her canvas bag in her haste, then pulled the book out and began flipping through the pages with a shaking hand, trying not to notice the mess of bloodstains that had soaked into the pale carpet in the middle of the room.

***

She stopped at Leigh Delamere service station on the M4, pulling into the crowded parking lot and resting her head for a moment on the rim of the wheel. She had thrown in her bags, typewriter, and camera barely fifteen minutes after calling Janet Pugh.

She pulled the rearview mirror toward her and studied her face. Her lips were still swollen and her eyes were puffy from crying so much in the night. She had dabbed makeup over her white skin and used lipstick and eyeshadow. It made her feel better. The long sleeves and high neck of her Victorian blouse covered the worst of her bruises.

She pulled herself painfully out of the car and swung her bag over her shoulder. It was only another twenty miles, if that, to the Severn Bridge. Then she would be in Wales.

***