somewhere up there behind us, beyond Gyro, and they managed to go off on their own. They made love on the grass, by a mountain stream. Tim? What is it?”
Tim had scrambled to his feet. He walked to the edge of the river, kicking at the ripples with the toe of his shoe. “Nothing.” He stooped, and picking up a small stone, skimmed it across the water. “Come on. Let’s walk up and see your castle. We can always try again another time for a trance.”
“All right. If you want to.” Jo frowned, puzzled by his reaction.
Turning, he smiled at her, extending his hand to pull her to her feet. “I’d like to take some shots with the sun low like this, then why don’t we find a nice pub and grab an early meal?”
“That would be nice.” She picked up her bag and followed him over the stones. “Tim. Do you think I’m mad to pursue this?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? If you are driven to do it, then you must.”
“Driven? By Bet, you mean?”
Laughing, he shook his head. “Driven by something inside you. Matilda herself perhaps, seeking to tell her story.”
Jo shivered. “Do you think she is forcing herself on me? I don’t feel possessed, not even obsessed. I think I’m just curious.”
“Then you can choose.”
“Would you go on if you were me?”
There was a moment’s silence. Tim was looking up at the high bridge, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure. I believe in karma, you see.”
“Destiny?”
“Something like that. To know what has gone before won’t alter what is to come. Perhaps it is better not to know.”
“But I do know.” The words came out as a whisper. “I know what happened from books.”
Tim shook his head. “You don’t know the truth, Jo. You know a few disparate facts. Suppositions. It was too long ago, the characters too poorly documented, to know the truth. The only way you will find that out is to live Matilda’s life again with her.”
“Right up to the bitter end?” Jo thought for a moment. “I don’t think I have the courage. I think I am afraid of death.”
“Even when you are living proof of the fact that death isn’t the end?”
She smiled. “That is begging the question. You are assuming that Matilda was a previous incarnation.”
“I know she was,” Tim said softly.
She stared at him. “You know? Or you would like to think so?”
“I know.”
“Why are you so sure?”
For a moment she thought he was going to tell her, then he shook his head. “One day I’ll explain, Jo. Not yet. Come on, the light’s changing. Let’s get to work.”
They did a complete circle of the castle, photographing it from every angle, in some places close beneath the wall, in others viewing it beyond rooftops and trees, always at a distance.
“Aren’t you going to try to go in?” Tim said, putting one camera away and taking a second one out of his bag.
Jo shook her head. “I don’t think so. At least, not yet. It is so changed, Tim. Even if some of those walls are Matilda’s own, even if she did lay some of the stones with her bare hands, it’s not the same. I found that out at Bramber and Abergavenny. And so much of this is of a later date. No, I don’t want to go inside.”
Tim nodded. “Shall we go and look for a nice pub then?”
Jo had walked a few paces from him, staring up at the high stone wall. They were in Castle Lane, a narrow street where the buildings on the northeast side were overshadowed by the high walls of the ruin that faced them. She was staring up, her eyes focused on an empty arched window high in the crumbling walls.
Quietly Tim raised his camera. She did not notice, her attention riveted to the graying stone.
“Jo?” Tim said quietly after a moment. At first she did not appear to have heard him, then she turned. She smiled uncertainly. “I thought for a minute…”
He was putting his camera away. “Don’t worry about it. It will come if it’s going to. Bill Walton says self- hypnosis is often more effective than the other sort, but you can’t force it, Jo. You will learn or it will come by itself-”
“It’s not self-hypnosis, Tim. I told you, I never tried to do it deliberately except just now by the river.” She stopped abruptly. “When did you talk to Bill Walton about it?”
“A few days ago.” He led the way around the foot of the wall. “I…” He glanced back at her sheepishly. “I had a go myself.”
Jo stared at him. “You mean you were regressed?”
He nodded.
“And?”
“It didn’t work.” He lifted his camera bag on his shoulder. “Come on, I want food.”
How could he tell her about what had happened in that shadowed upstairs room in Richmond? The whirling blackness, the despair, the fear and anger that had possessed him, the sense of overpowering frustration and, at last, the realization of failure that had pursued him through life after life, as he spun, without identity, down through the centuries.
He shook his head wearily, following Jo back down the steep pavement that led from the High Town down toward the river. He had gone back. Twice. And on neither occasion had he been coherent or cooperative. The second time he had cried. He knew he would not try again.
The church was very cool after the heat of the morning. After letting themselves in, Jo and Tim stared around.
“There she is,” Jo whispered. Near the west wall lay the remains of a huge, worn stone effigy, barely recognizable as human. They approached it slowly and Jo stooped and rested her hand on the stone. “Moll Walbee,” she said quietly. “I wonder if it is her.”
Tim was looking at the leaflet he had picked up by the church door. “It says not here,” he said. “It says it is the figure of an unknown monk.”
They both stood in silence looking at the almost featureless figure before them, its worn head resting on a pillow of stone. Tim chuckled. “If it was her you can see why she was reputed to have been a giant. That bit alone must be over four feet long and it’s only half of her-or him.” He raised his camera and took a shot of Jo as she crouched down over the figure, her hands resting on the smooth stone, her eyes lowered, her long dark hair hanging loose over her shoulders.
She closed her eyes, trying to will some kind of warmth into the cold hardness beneath her hands. The church was completely silent. Tim did not move, watching the woman who, in her cool green linen dress, was as unmoving as the recumbent figure beside her, her tanned skin taking on the tones from the shadows of the nave. He found he was shivering and he fingered the top buttons of his shirt, drawing them together almost defensively.
Jo’s eyes were still closed. He stared at the dark lashes lying on her cheeks and fought the sudden urge to touch her shoulder.
“Oh, Christ! Why won’t it happen!” Jo cried suddenly. She slammed her fists down on the effigy. “I’ve got to know, Tim. I’ve got to. If it won’t happen here, where will it?” She stared around the church. “I’ll have to go back to Carl Bennet. I thought I could manage without him-I wanted to do it alone-”
“Perhaps that’s it, Jo,” Tim said quietly. “Perhaps you need to be alone. Perhaps its because I’m here.”
“Perhaps it is.” She swung to face him. “Perhaps it’s because I want to cash in on it. I wanted to follow Bet’s advice and do the articles for her. When she mentioned a book and even TV the idea excited me. I wanted to use all this, Tim. And it has spoiled it. It has made it contrived. Like you and your camera. You have no place here, Tim!”
“I have, Jo.” He turned away from her and sat down in one of the pews, staring up toward the dark triple-
