Furious, she opened her mouth to argue, but the argument did not come. Scarcely realizing she did it, she knelt on the rich fur and stared up at him, the firelight playing on her pale skin as slowly he began to undress himself. Watching, she saw the stocky naked body, the mat of graying chest hair, tapering down to his belly, the sturdy muscular thighs, the white ugly scars, one on his left thigh, the other on his left shoulder. She had seldom seen him naked. Though everyone customarily slept unclothed, wrapped in blankets and furs, or sprawled in summer on coarse linen sheets, she resolutely rolled herself in the covers whenever possible and kept her eyes tightly closed. Now there was no escape. Some force of will in him seemed to keep her eyes open, fixed on his body. Nervously her gaze traveled down to the rigid penis, then back to the corded muscular arms that could hold her so mercilessly as he used her. She clenched her fists defiantly, her eyes rising once more at last to meet his.

He smiled. “Lie down, wife. There on the floor.”

“No,” she breathed, summoning the last vestiges of her strength to defy him. “No, my lord, I will not. It pleases you to treat me like a whore but I am your true wife, faithful to you for many years. If I must submit to you it will be on our marriage bed!”

“Faithful?” He sneered suddenly. “You have betrayed me with de Clare. With who else, I wonder?” He looked at her, suddenly calculating.

She dropped her gaze and he laughed. “Your eyes spell out your guilt! Who was it? One man? Two? A hundred?”

“Only one other, my lord.” Why was she answering him? It was as if some force compelled her to make the admission.

“And who was that one other?”

“One to whom you yourself would have given me, my lord,” she burst out. “And I did not lie with him willingly. Before God, I swear it! He took me by force.”

William raised an eyebrow. “And who was this so eager suitor, madam?”

“Prince John,” she answered in a whisper.

“So!” The angry color rose in his cheeks. “So, you are a royal whore. And where did John take you? On a bed trimmed with cloth of gold? No matter. For me you lie on the floor where you belong.”

He stooped and picked up the broad leather belt he had dropped with the rest of his clothes. “Lie down, Matilda, or I will give you the thrashing you deserve.”

Behind them the music began again suddenly, thin and breathy, unrelated to the darkness of the chamber, the flaring smoky torches in the sconces, or the bittersweet smoke of the fire. Outside the wind had begun to moan gently across the hills, an eerie, dismal sound, as lonely as the cry of the hungry wheeling buzzard, riding the currents below the streaming clouds.

Matilda did not move. Her eyes narrowed scornfully. “You resort so easily to violence. You are like an animal, my lord. What you cannot take by force you wish to destroy.” She saw his hand tighten on the leather thong and she felt a quick pang of fear, but she did not move. “I have often wondered why you have never beaten me,” she said half thoughtfully. “You have often wanted to.” She smiled at him. “Perhaps you have never dared.”

He stared down into the mocking amber eyes. The sorceress. The witch. Did she know then that he was afraid of her? He clenched his fist tighter on the belt, resisting the urge to cross himself with his free hand. He must take her now, while his desire was hot, while his anger sustained him. Whip her and mount her and by God’s bones he was not too old to get her with child again. A trueborn child to replace the bastard girl he had given to the Welsh.

He stepped forward, his arm raised, and brought down the leather thong across her shoulders with every inch of strength he possessed.

He heard the air whistle out of her lungs as the blow fell, but apart from that she did not make a sound. For an instant he saw fear in her eyes, then hatred-then, as he raised his arm for the second blow, she threw back her head and laughed. The sound rang out, wild and mocking, and he felt his desire shrivel and die as he heard it. Goose pimples raised on the flesh across his shoulders. With an oath he dropped the belt and groped at his feet for his tunic.

“So be it,” he breathed. “You may laugh now, my lady. You may call up whatever demons protect you and scorn me now, but mine shall be the last laugh. Stay here! Stay in your castle, my lady! Stay in the past and lick your wounds. Stay there! ”

He swung his mantle over his shoulder and walked out of the chamber.

Dry-eyed, Matilda climbed to her feet. She picked up her cloak and wrapped it around her tightly, trying to stem the sudden, agonized shuddering that racked her body, then wearily she climbed onto the bed and pulled the covers over her.

Only then did she realize the music was still playing softly in a dark corner near the window.

29

There was a persistent knocking somewhere in the distance. Judy dragged herself up out of the fog of sleep and groped for her bedside clock. It was three-fifteen.

With a groan she sat up and reached for her bathrobe. Staggering slightly, she switched on the bedside lamp and pushed open the door into the studio. It was quite dark in there, the smell of turpentine and oil paint pleasingly overlaid with beeswax. She sniffed appreciatively; smells were always so much stronger and better defined in the darkness.

After snapping on a single spotlight in the corner, she made her way to the door. Behind her the new canvas, nearly finished, stood alone in the center of the floor, and she glanced at it possessively as she passed. Totally absorbed, she had been working on it, in spite of the lack of light, until nearly two.

“Who is it?” she called. She slipped the chain into place. “Stop making such a noise and tell me what you want.”

“It’s me, Sam Franklyn.” The knocking stopped abruptly.

“Do you know what time it is?” Cautiously she opened the door and peered through the crack.

Sam was leaning against the wall. His shirt was unbuttoned and he carried his jacket over his shoulder, his finger hooked through the loop. Slightly bleary-eyed, obviously tired, he was, she realized for the first time with a sudden sense of shock, as handsome in his own way as his brother. With an obvious effort he stepped forward and pushed at the door, swearing violently as the chain caught it and held it fast, bruising his knuckles. “Open up, Judy, for God’s sake. I need to talk to someone.”

“Someone? Anyone?” She stared at him indignantly. “Are you drunk, Sam?” She reached for the light switch by the door and flooded the studio behind her with light as the fluorescent strips clicked on. After pushing the door almost shut, she slipped off the chain.

“No, I’m not drunk.” Sam walked in past her. “But I would like to be. Do you have anything here to create the desired effect?”

Judy raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “If it were up to the Franklyns I wouldn’t have much left for anyone to get drunk on! Anyway, I thought you were a coffee addict.”

He grinned at her, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Coffee up till two perhaps, but then Scotch.”

She shrugged. “One. Then you can go home. I’m sick of you and Nick using this place as a railway station bar! What’s the matter anyway?”

“The matter? Why should anything be the matter?”

Judy found the bottle of Scotch in the kitchen cabinet and brought it back into the studio. “People don’t usually arrive here at three in the morning wanting a drink without something being the matter,” she said curtly. “Is Nick still in Wales?”

Sam shook his head. “They came back at the weekend. Nick is flying to the States tomorrow.” He emptied the glass and put it on the table. “I lie. This morning. He is going this morning.”

“And does he still think he’s King John?” Judy poured herself a small measure and sipped it without enjoyment. She had begun to shiver.

Sam smiled. He sat down and put his elbows on the table. “He was King John.”

“Crap. You’ve been feeding him that stuff deliberately. What I want to know is why? You don’t like your brother, do you, Sam?”

“How perspicacious of you to see it.” Sam picked up his empty glass and thoughtfully held it level with his face, squinting through it sideways.

“And you are setting him up?”

“Possibly. Give me another wee dram and I shall reveal all.”

Judy hesitated. He was not obviously drunk, but he was making her feel uncomfortable. There was something strange-even frightening-about him as he sat motionless at the table, a sense of latent power that could be unleashed at any moment. Still shivering, she reached for an old sweater that was hanging over the back of a wooden chair near the table and knotted it around her neck like a scarf. “Okay. It’s a deal. One drink and you reveal all,” she said.

She watched while he drank, then she sat down, arms folded, and waited.

He put down the glass. “I am a puppeteer, Judith. A Punch and Judy man. A kingmaker. Nicholas is dancing on the end of my string.” He held out his hand, angled above the floor as though he held a puppet there before him, dancing at his feet.

“Even in the States?” she asked dryly.

“In the States, sweet girl, the king who lives in his head will sleep. He will wait until he returns to his native land and then he will strike.”

“Strike?” Judy echoed. She looked at him apprehensively. “What do you mean, strike?”

“Who can tell?” Sam said. “He is a king.” He laughed suddenly, then abruptly he looked back at her. “He seduced my wife, you know.”

“Your wife?” Judy echoed in amazement. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t know you were married.”

“Oh, yes.” He balanced the chair on its two back legs, lolling in it comfortably, his fingertips resting on the edge of the table. “Because he is king he thinks he can do what he likes with other people’s lives. He thinks he can take with impunity. He doesn’t know how wrong he is.”