***

Nick lay back on his hotel bed and tore off his tie. His shirt was damp from the heat of the sidewalk outside and he was sweating and uncomfortable but, for the moment, he was too exhausted even to go and stand under the cold shower. He put his arm across his eyes. The presentation had gone well; he should be elated. He listened wearily to the wail of a police siren fifteen floors below on Lexington Avenue.

He was almost asleep when the phone rang beside him. He rolled over onto his elbows and picked up the receiver.

“Nick?” It was Jim Greerson. “How did it go?”

Nick lay back. “Okay. I think things are looking hopeful. How about your end?”

“I had dinner with Mike Desmond as arranged last night. I groveled a bit more, old boy, and then I told him what an ass he was, chucking the best up-and-coming firm in London just because we’d given a break to a new fellow. I told him we’d supervise a new campaign for him personally.” He hesitated. “When I say we, I actually said you.”

“And?” Nick crossed his ankle over his raised knee. He was gazing up at the ceiling.

“He’s not too pleased with the service he’s got so far from you know who. I gather he expected them to jump once they’d got a sniff of the account, instead of which, according to him, they send some teenybopper copywriter over. I saw him at a good psychological moment. Besides which, he said he couldn’t pass up the opportunity of being serviced by royalty.” Jim sniggered.

“Royalty?” Nick leaned over and reached for the jug of orange juice on the bedside table. “What royalty? Don’t tell me Prince Edward has decided to become an adman?”

“No, old son. You.”

“Me?”

“Your secret life. You mean you don’t know it’s blown? It’s all over the papers here, for God’s sake. The Mail had it on Thursday and the Standard on Friday.”

Nick sat up. “What secret life? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Hang on, hang on. I’ll find the page and read it to you. Bear with me, old boy. It’s midnight here, and I’ve had a hard day.”

Nick lay still, his eyes closed, as Jim read the piece to him over the transatlantic line. He felt completely detached, as if the person being talked about were someone else. He was not surprised, not even indignant. Merely very, very weary.

When Jim finished there was a brief silence. “Is it all true, old boy?” Jim said tentatively after a moment.

“It’s true that I let my brother hypnotize me, yes,” Nick said curtly. “As to what happened, you’ll have to ask him. I remember nothing about it. It all seems very far-fetched.” He heard himself laugh. “I suppose Judy Curzon is responsible for this. I’ll wring her neck when I get back.”

“Better send her to the Tower, old boy, it’s more in character.” Jim laughed uproariously. “You haven’t heard from Jo about it, then?” he asked curiously after a moment.

“No,” Nick said shortly. “Not a word.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Jim went on. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting at eight tomorrow, so I’d best go or I’ll never wake up. I’ll call you tomorrow, same time, okay?”

Nick replaced the receiver. Sitting up, he swung his legs to the floor. The air-conditioning had made the room very cold. He walked into the bathroom, stripped off his shirt, and turned the shower full on, then he went back to the phone.

“I want to call London,” he said brusquely, and he gave his own number.


***

Margiad Griffiths woke Jo with a cup of tea. She sat down on the edge of Jo’s bed. “How did you sleep, then?”

Jo stretched. “Very well. Your charm must have worked.” She felt beneath the pillow for the old Bible and touched it lightly.

Margiad nodded. “I knew it would. There was a phone call for you earlier,” she went on. She reached into the pocket of her skirt for a piece of paper. “Mr. Clements. He said would you go and have lunch with him and his wife tomorrow about twelve. He said don’t call back unless you can’t go.”

Jo smiled. “That’s nice of him. Mr. Clements is the reason I’m here. He’s written lots of books on smallholdings and animals and the history of Northumberland. He’s bought a place near Brecon.”

Margiad stood up. “Famous, is he?” She smiled. “And you’re writing about him, are you? Good. That’ll take your mind off your other troubles.” She hesitated in the doorway. “What will you do today, then?”

Jo sat up, pushing her heavy hair off her face. She glanced at the window where a thin layer of hazy cloud masked the blue of the sky. “I’ll stay here another night or two if I may,” she said. “I’ve some notes to write up about Ben Clements, and then-” She hesitated. “Then I think I’ll explore Hay a little more.”


***

Heavy swirling black clouds were building up in the western sky although as yet there was no breath of wind. Matilda reined in her horse and glanced up, then she signaled the horsemen around her to hurry as they cantered back down the track toward Hay, following the curving arm of the Wye through the flat dry meadows, throwing up clouds of powdery dust that stung the eyes and choked the throat. A zigzag of lightning lit up the purple sky and sent her horse shying across the path of her companion, Lady de Say, who swore like a man and grabbed at the pommel of her saddle to prevent herself from being thrown. It was unbearably hot.

“I’ll wager a silver penny we can get back before the first raindrop falls,” Matilda called over her shoulder. She was exhilarated suddenly by the threat of the storm.

It had been a bitter and unhappy year, and she had been preoccupied during much of the ride with dark thoughts of the events that had followed Trehearne’s murder. His death had served, inevitably, as an excuse for more fighting in the hills and the intervention of his kinsman, the increasingly powerful Prince Gwenwynwyn, who had laid siege to Painscastle in his turn with a huge force of men. In a last attempt at mediation their son-in-law, Gruffydd, had, at Matilda’s suggestion, been brought back to Hay from his imprisonment at Corfe. But his surly attempts as a peacemaker failed and on 13 August, the feast of Holy Hippolytas, hostilities had culminated in a major pitched battle in the hills behind Trehearne’s home at Clyro, as the barons fought desperately to retain their ascendancy in the borders. They won, but with a terrible toll of Welsh lives.

Another flash of lightning ripped across the sky, followed by a distant rumble of thunder. Putting her dismal thoughts firmly behind her, she raised her whip and urged her horse into a gallop, her veil streaming in the wind, tendrils of hair tearing themselves loose from her wimple and whipping across her eyes.

She raced up the hill into Hay, scattering children and poultry, oblivious of the shaken heads and secret smiles of men and women who saw her pass into the great gates in the walls of her castle. The guards came to attention smartly and Matilda reined in her horse to a rearing, sweating halt. With a glance up at the huge, swollen clouds, she turned to claim her wager from the disheveled, unhappy lady who had tried to keep up with her ahead of their bodyguard, when all thoughts of it were driven suddenly from her head by the sight of a figure coming toward her across the bailey.

Dropping her horse’s rein, she gave a short gasp, not daring to believe her eyes.

“Tilda?” she whispered at last as she slipped from the high wooden saddle. “Tilda, is it really you?” The girl had grown as tall as her mother, slim, with silver hair and a complexion as fair as the ivory of a carved crucifix.

“I hope you are well, Mother dear.” Tilda smiled and curtsied formally before submitting coolly to her mother’s ecstatic kiss. “I have come to be with Gruffydd.”

“And your baby, Tilda? Did you bring him?” Matilda held the girl’s two hands in her own, gazing into her face. There was so much of Richard there-and so little.

Tilda lowered her lashes. “I have two children now, mother. Rhys who is two, and Owain. He is only seven months. They-” She hesitated, glancing away. “That is, we thought it better that they should remain with Gruffydd’s mother and their nurses. I have come alone.”

“You mean they wouldn’t let you bring the children with you?” Matilda seized on the fact hotly. “The Welsh have kept them as hostages, two small babies!”

“No, Mother, do be calm. It wasn’t safe or suitable to bring them, that’s all. They are safe and happy where they are. I wouldn’t have left them otherwise.” Tilda glanced up as the first heavy drops of rain began. “Come, let’s go in, Mother. I don’t want to tell you my news in front of your entire escort, in a thunderstorm!”

She led the way to the door of the hall, her figure slim and erect like her mother’s. But there the similarity ended. Where Matilda was auburn and high-colored, Tilda was pale and ethereal. The mother belonged to the sun, the daughter to the moon.

Since Margaret had gone at last, only a month before, to marry her Walter, the castle had seemed quiet. Of all her children Margaret was the most like her mother, and Matilda missed her support and companionship sorely and dreaded the fact that at any moment Walter would take her away to his earldom across the Irish Sea, in Meath. Isobel was soon to go too, to Roger Mortimer at Wigmore, whose first wife had died in the plague and whose eager suit William had indulgently agreed, so it was a double joy to have her eldest daughter home.

But Tilda proved a hurtful disappointment. She showed little warmth to her mother, answering her excited questions in a bored tone that effectively dampened Matilda’s enthusiasm. She went to sit obediently at Gruffydd’s side as soon as he returned with William to the castle and reduced Isobel to tears with her cutting, icy criticism.