When she emerged at last Nick was sitting waiting for her, a book in his hands. Recognizing it, she glanced at her bag, still lying where she had dropped it in the doorway. Sure enough it was open and a pile of guidebooks and maps had spilled across the floor.
“You’ve been to Hay-on-Wye?” Nick asked, slowly flipping the book shut and letting it fall onto the coffee table.
She nodded mutely.
“Why on earth didn’t you say so? What happened?”
She shrugged. “Nothing much. I went to Abergavenny first, where”-she hesitated-“where Matilda spent so much time, to stay with an old school friend, and then they sent me on to Hay. I wanted to make notes for the article.”
“And did you recognize anything?”
“Not even vaguely familiar. It had all changed so much.” She was watching him while she was talking. The tension in his face had eased.
He walked across to the French windows. After drawing back the curtains, he threw them open and walked out onto the balcony. “I’m going to have to go to the States in a week or two,” he said over his shoulder, “to see if I can win that other account we’ve been angling for. If I could get that, it would more than make up for losing Desco. And I haven’t totally given up on Mike Desmond yet-if I can only concentrate.” He frowned. “Oh, God, Jo. What is the matter with me? I know I’m behaving crazily.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
Jo followed him outside. “You’re tired, I expect,” she said at last.
He shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s as if-” He tightened his lips angrily. “No, no excuses. It’s me. Some foul-tempered, vicious part of me. A part of me I don’t understand.” Absently he picked a bloom from the passion flower that trailed from an ornamental urn across the stone railings around the balcony. He scrutinized it carefully. “There is something rather horrible about these,” he said after a moment, thoughtfully. “They’re like wax. So perfect; so symmetrical, they don’t look real. And all that symbolism. Nails, whips, blood, and wounds.” He flicked it with his finger. Then he looked up suddenly with another lightning change of subject. “You remember your meeting with Prince John?”
Jo nodded, trying to ignore the sudden tightening of her stomach muscles at the mention of John’s name. She watched as Nick leaned over the balcony and let the flower drop. It spun crazily as it fell, hit the railings below, and disappeared into the dark basement area.
“You didn’t like him much, as I recall.”
“Not me, Nick. Matilda,” Jo corrected him gently. “No, she didn’t. He was an utterly obnoxious child.”
Nick picked off another flower-head. “Look, they’re beginning to close for the evening.” He held it in his palm for a moment before dropping it after the first. “Have you come across him again yet?”
“Who?”
“John.”
Jo shook her head. “Don’t let’s talk about Matilda anymore, please. She doesn’t bring out the best in either of us.” Jo glanced at her watch. “Why don’t we walk up the road slowly? I’m ravenous.”
She was very tired. She glanced at Nick across the table in the dim candlelight, watching the shadows playing on his face as he ate. He reached for his glass and raised it so that the candle reflected ruby glints off the Valpolicella. “Shall we drink to new beginnings?” he said, looking at her at last.
She smiled. “To your new account. May it be so huge you can afford two more Porsches!”
He laughed. “To that also. But I really meant to us. I didn’t mean to hurt you the other night, Jo.”
She looked away abruptly. “You damn well did, though.”
“Will you give me another chance?” His eyes sought and held hers. They were almost transparent in their clarity in the candlelight. Unwillingly she put down her fork and almost without realizing she had done it, she moved her hand slowly across the table. He grasped it, his eyes still fixed on hers. “Can you forgive me, Jo?”
The touch of his fingers sent little tingles of excitement up and down her spine. With an effort she tore her gaze away. Between them the candle guttered violently above its strangely shaped sculpture of dripped wax. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “Nick, I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll make it up to you, Jo. I make no excuses. I don’t know what happened.” He moved his thumb slowly across her palm toward her wrist. “But I will make it up to you, if you will let me.”
She was shaken by the wave of longing that flooded through her as his hand moved on lightly up the inside of her forearm, touching the rough scab that had formed over the gash there.
Slowly she shook her head. “It won’t work, Nick. We don’t belong together,” she whispered. Her hand still lay beneath his on the table. “It was never meant to be.” Tearing her eyes away from his face, she looked back at the candle, concentrating on the white heat at the center of the flame.
“It was meant to be, Jo.” His words floated almost silently into her consciousness. “You are fighting your destiny, don’t you see?”
She didn’t answer. Unblinking, she went on staring at the flame. The silence stretched between them.
“What are you seeing, Jo?” Nick’s voice came to her at last from a great distance. “Perhaps it’s John. Why don’t you spare a few dreams from Richard de Clare and think about Prince John…”
The outer bailey of Winchester Castle, below the squat tower of the new cathedral, was busy with horses and grooms. Beside Matilda, William pulled up his horse and threw his leg stiffly over the pommel. It would be good to have a few days’ rest before going on to Bramber, where the old baron, his father, had at long last died.
“Whose men are those?” he inquired curtly, seeing some of the crowd without livery as his page ran to help him.
“Prince John’s, my lord,” the boy whispered hoarsely. “The king’s son has come to hunt the New Forest.”
William snorted. “That young hound. It’s time he went to hunt himself some bigger game in France.” He gave his arm to his wife and led her toward the hall. “But if it’s to mean some good hunting in the king’s forest, then I’ll forgive him his presence here.” And, chuckling, he went to greet his host.
Prince John had grown considerably since his betrothal three years before. He was still stocky and short for his age, but his face had fined down, losing the puppy fat that had marred his features, and his hair was the red-gold of his father’s. He seemed pleased to see the newcomers at the evening meal in the great hall that night.
“Sir William, it’s good to have you here,” he exclaimed, leaning across his neighbor and gazing intently into the older man’s face. “I trust you are fully recovered from your wounds? That was a sorry business, when the men of Gwent attacked Dingestow and killed Poer.” He smiled grimly. “God rot them! You were lucky to escape.
“You will join us, I hope, for the hunt tomorrow? Then we’ll have the chance to see your prowess.” He selected a piece of meat from the plate and chewed it thoughtfully, the rings on his fingers winking in the candlelight. Beyond her husband, who seemed flattered by the boy’s attention, Matilda could see little of the prince, and she sat back, not wanting to attract his attention. Her memories of him were not particularly pleasant. She had often thought of young Isabella as she heard of the king’s youngest son traveling around England, enjoying himself in one great castle after another, sometimes in the company of Ranulf Glanville, who was acting as his tutor, sometimes with only his attendants and his favored groom, William Franceis. Her husband, who had met him often, liked the boy and spoke well of his promise, but she could not help thinking of the heart-rending scenes before the betrothal ceremony had taken place. She knew the child was safe at home in Cardiff, still with her mother, but the poignancy of the memory had been aggravated by the rumor that had reached her at Hay that the Earl of Clare was negotiating to marry Isabella’s elder sister, Amicia. Desperately she tried to dismiss the thought of Richard from her mind, and, pushing aside her dish, she concentrated on the activity in the center of the smoky hall below the dais, where a singer with a harp was being ushered forward to entertain the guests. Her vow to think no more of Richard had been often and badly broken, but somehow through the years she had avoided seeing him alone.
The glittering crowd of nobles and their attendants gathered outside the castle at sunup the next morning. The air was full of excitement shared by the nervously curveting horses and the barking hounds. Matilda reined in her black mare tightly; the horse was already frothing at the mouth, her hooves beating rhythmically on the slippery
