Slowly Walter climbed to his feet. He passed the letter to Matilda with a grin. “News to please you, Mother-in-law, I think,” he said softly. Then, beckoning Margaret after him, he strode out of the hall.

Matilda took the letter and scanned it slowly. The words were formal, dictated to a scribe, but nothing could conceal the happiness of the message they contained. Mattie had gone from Wigmore back to Suffolk and at Clare, on one of the mild December mornings untouched by wind and flecked with mackerel cloud, she had presented Will with a second son, a companion for little John.

And now that Will seemed settled for the time being at Trim, Richard proposed that he bring Mattie back to Ireland.

Matilda rolled up the letter and walked over to the fire, her heart beating wildly. Richard would be hard on the heels of the messenger; perhaps he was already in Ireland. She bit her lip to suppress a smile in a sudden moment of wry self-mockery. So much excitement, so great a longing, suddenly, in a woman of an age to know better!

Will, when he heard the news, was beside himself with joy, and ready to ride at once for the coast.

Margaret seized his arm, her eyes, so like those of her mother, blazing with fury when she heard his plan.

“Don’t you dare go to meet them, Will! You must let her father bring her all the way here. You must!” She glanced over her shoulder toward Matilda. “For Mother’s sake! Think how she would feel if Richard turned back at the port!” So Will curbed his anxiety and waited, watching the drying road and the burgeoning spring sunshine that should have brought his wife from the sea, and didn’t.

And then at last they arrived. Richard de Clare was riding beside his daughter, the two babies following with their nurses and the escort.

Matilda stood back to watch Will greet his wife, and there was a lump in her throat as she saw her son examine the small bundle that the nurse held out to him. He saw her watching and laughed, unembarrassed, his arm still round his wife’s waist, his face alight with happiness.

Then, at last, Richard was beside her. “I’m glad the children have found so much happiness in each other,” he murmured by way of greeting, touching her fingers lightly with his own. His hair now had turned completely white and his face was marked by pain and exhaustion. He met her gaze squarely with a wry smile. “Don’t look like that, my dear. I’m getting old. It shows, that’s all.”

“Richard, have you been ill?” She had forgotten her son and the crowds of people around them, conscious only, with a terrible sense of fear, of the deathly pallor of his skin.

He shrugged. “A fever, nothing more. I had my Mattie to take care of me. No harm has been done, save the delay in coming to you. Come now, you must take us to our hosts. Walter will be wondering what has happened to us.”

There was no way that Richard could hide his failing strength from Matilda during the weeks he stayed at Trim, and, as if he were conscious how unhappy it made her to see him so stooped and weak as he watched the hunting parties ride out daily without him, he insisted at last on leaving before Easter. Nothing she could say could dissuade him, nor did he make any attempt to see her alone before he left.

“Good-bye, my dear” was all he said as she bade him farewell in the bailey at Trim. “God go with you, and protect you always.” He raised her fingers to his lips for one lingering kiss and then he mounted his horse and rode slowly away with his followers over the drawbridge and out of sight. He never once turned back.


***

“Jo!” Ann was banging on the bedroom door. “Jo, for God’s sake, can you hear me?” She rattled the handle again. “Jo, let me in.”

“Here, let me.” Ben pushed past her. He thundered on the door panel with his knuckles. “You are sure she’s in there? She might have gone out for a walk.”

“She’s in there. Look, the key’s in the lock on the inside.”

Behind them the sun blazed down through the small skylight in the back roof, lighting up the stripped wooden boards of the floor and the charcoal and cream wools of the rug hung on the wall.

“Ben-what if she’s done it? What if she regressed on her own and died-”

“Don’t be stupid!” Ben’s voice was sharp. “Jo is a sensible woman. She’s not going to do a damn fool thing like that.” He knelt and put his eye to the lock. “Fetch me a pencil and a newspaper or something. Let’s see if we can push the key out and bring it through under the door.”

“Why did she lock it?” Ann moaned as she watched Ben juggling the pencil gently in the lock.

There was a small metallic bump as the key fell, and with a satisfied grunt Ben pulled gently on the paper and brought it under the door. Ann grabbed the key and with a shaking hand inserted it in the lock.

Jo was lying on her bed, her arms across her eyes.

“Is she breathing?” Ann ran to her and dropped on her knees beside the bed. “Jo? Oh, God, Jo, are you all right?”

“I can see her breathing from here.” Ben stayed firmly in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the low neckline of Jo’s nightgown.

“Jo?” Gently Ann shook her shoulder. “Jo, wake up.”

With a little sigh, Jo stirred. She opened her eyes and stared at Ann blankly.

“Jo, it’s after ten. The children have been pestering us to wake you.”

Jo smiled faintly. “Egidia,” she said. “And Mattie’s boys. So sweet. So like Will when he was little…” She closed her eyes again.

Ann glanced over her shoulder at Ben, who looked heavenward and disappeared back into the hall. A moment later she heard the sound of his feet running down the stairs. She turned back to Jo. “Not Mattie’s boys, Jo. Polly and Bill,” she said gently.

Jo frowned. “I slept so heavily,” she said slowly. “And such a long sleep. Richard left. He had given up…He was old, Ann. Old.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I must have cried myself to sleep.”


***

Nick leaned forward and turned on the car radio. Beside him was the map and the route Ben had given him to follow via Hereford and Ross. He had spent the night, in the end, at a pub somewhere in the mountains, leaving before breakfast to try to find his way back to the route after driving aimlessly for hours the evening before. He felt drowsy and very depressed.

He blinked, trying to concentrate on the blue car in front of him, pacing himself as the early-morning sun beat down into his face. He did not want to return to London. Every ounce of his being cried out to stay in Wales with Jo. Clenching his teeth, he put his foot on the accelerator and swooped past the blue car. In its place now was a green van. It slowed, blocking his way, and he braked, swearing.

It was somewhere just south of Hereford, as the A49 swept up toward the crest of a long hill, that he slammed on the brakes again. He was staring at the signpost on the opposite side of the road. The sound of the radio faded, as did the swish of cars overtaking him, the speed of their passing making the Porsche shudder as it sat at the curbside.

Aconbury 1 mile

He frowned. The name meant something to him. But what? Slowly, without quite knowing why, he pulled the car into the side road and drove slowly down it, staring ahead through the windshield at the woods and thick hedgerows on either side of what turned out to be a narrow, winding lane. He drove on, past some farm buildings, then the car drifted to a halt outside a small deserted church. His chest felt tight and his heart was beating with an uneasy, irregular rhythm as he climbed out.

Still without knowing why, he walked through the gate and past some old yews toward it. Two carved angels hung on the oak pillars of the porch, staring across the uneven flags. Walking in between them, he tried the huge rusty iron ring handle of the church door. It did not move. Then he read the typed message pinned to the heavy oak:

Notice to Visitors

This church has been declared redundant and is now used as a diocesan store…Visitors are always welcome to view the building and the key can be made available by prior appointment…

Nick sat down abruptly on the narrow stone seat that formed part of the wall of the porch. He found himself breathing very deeply. There was a sting of tears behind his eyes and a lump in his throat. But why? Why should this small, lost church fill him with such overwhelming unhappiness?

Suddenly unable to bear the enormous misery that flooded through him, he stood up once more and, ducking outside, almost ran back to the car, climbing in and resting his head against the rim of the steering wheel. It was ten minutes before he reversed the car into the gateway and made his way back to the main road.


***

Jo reached London about seven that evening. They had tried to persuade her to stay, but when she insisted she had to go back, Ann’s relief was almost palpable. They parted with kisses and promises that they would see one another again very soon-but there was no more mention of Matilda. Jo knew that if her past came to her again, it must be alone. She could ask no more of Ann and Ben.

After making her way slowly up to her apartment, she let herself in. There was only a second’s hesitation as she looked around, wondering with a sudden feeling of nervousness if Nick were there, but the apartment was empty. She toured it once quickly, opening all the windows, then she let herself relax. It was good to be home.

She showered and changed and poured herself a glass of apple juice. Then she unpacked her notes and piled them on the coffee table. The Clements article was practically finished.

The sudden ringing of the phone made her jump. She climbed to her feet and went to answer it slowly, suddenly apprehensive.