She rummaged in her bag for her books and sat eating as she looked through them, every now and then glancing up at the town beyond the river to glimpse the castle at its center or the church nestling beyond the bridge in the trees. Each time she found her gaze drawn back to the water, watching it as ripples formed patterns and swirls in the reflections of the clouds. A feather danced past, curled white in the sun, and far out in the middle of the current a fish jumped, silver-bellied, and plunged back in a circle of ripples.

The afternoon was very hot and still. Jo nodded, and her book fell into her lap. Forcing her eyes open, she made herself stare at the water again, trying to concentrate on staying awake, but the reflections danced in her eyes, dazzling, forcing her to close them again, and slowly, imperceptibly, the sound of the water dulled and grew muffled. It was only after a long while that she realized she could hear the sound of horses’ hooves.


***

England lay beneath a pall of dust. The summer sun burning down beneath a coppery sky smelled acrid and the hot breeze that occasionally fanned the travelers’ faces was dust-laden and gritty.

Wearily Matilda pulled up her horse at last. The groom who had been walking at its head raised his hand and the whole tired procession halted. Behind them the forests and rolling hills of Herefordshire shimmered in a haze. The Border March, a vast, wild area of forest and mountain and desolate moorland, lay before them to the west. At their feet they could see at last the River Wye, which had shrunk in places to a narrow ribbon of water flowing between broad strips of whitened stones. There were deep pools, shadowed from the beating overhead sunlight by the crowding alders and hazels, which in places overhung the water, and by great black rocks brought down by the spring floods. They alone were cool and green, the last refuge of salmon and grayling.

William was once again in attendance on the king, this time in Normandy. Matilda had received a message from him shortly before she left Bramber. The household had stayed there too long, overtaxing the facilities, running its supplies down to nothing, but still she had been reluctant to obey William’s instructions to set off once more for Wales. He planned to join her there, the message said, by Martinmas, so that he could enjoy some of the late season’s hunting in the Hay forest.

One by one the horses and men picked their way almost dryshod across the silvery shallows. Before them lay the small township of Hay. It clustered around the church of St. Mary and the neighboring wooden castle on its mound securely surrounded by a thick high hawthorn hedge, trailing with honeysuckle and brambles. Outside the hedge the small fields, red-gold with brittle wheat, showed up in the heavy green of the encroaching forest. Somewhere nearby were the black brooding mountains, but they had withdrawn beneath a haze that hid all but the lowest wooded slopes of the foothills.

They rode slowly through the gap in the hedge and turned up the beaten earth track toward the castle. It was little more than a wooden tower, built upon a motte thrown up on the bank overlooking the river. Below it lay the still, deep waters of the church pool, the surface streaked with fronds of green weed. To the west of the castle flowed the Login Brook, shallow and stagnant in the heat of the sun.

Matilda halted the procession again just outside the castle wall and looked wearily around. The steward of the manor was waiting for her beside the church and, next to him, sunburned in homespun, the vicar and the castellan. She tried to smile at them. She was bored with the fawning servants who lived in these outlying castles and manors; she had wanted to go on to Brecknock, which at least she knew and where the faithful Robert and Hugh still served, but Hay it had to be, only eleven miles to the northeast. William had insisted on it.

She was conscious of eyes peering at her from dark doorways and around corners. An old man, his limbs wasted and immobile, lay propped up against the wall of an outhouse nearby, and he smiled toothlessly and nodded as he saw her gaze rest on him. Several children ran giggling behind her horse. One of them had a clubfoot, which dragged horribly as he tried to keep up with his friends.

“Lady Matilda, you are welcome to the Hay.” The steward hastened forward as she slipped from the saddle and bowed low, his long hair falling across the bare crown of his head to reveal an ancient scar. He introduced himself as Madoc, the castellan as Tom the Wolf, and the thin cadaverous vicar as Philip. They bowed in unison. Then Madoc straightened up. He looked Matilda in the eye, no trace of servility in his manner. “The castle is prepared for you, my lady, if your servants will bring in the furnishings, and the kitchens are ready for your cook. We’ve had the fires burning since dawn. You have a visitor, my lady.” His eyes narrowed in the sunlight. “The Earl of Clare rode in yesterday. He is in the castle waiting for you.”

“The Earl of Clare?” Matilda’s heart stood still for a moment. It was months since she had allowed herself to think of him. And now, suddenly, unannounced and unexpected, he was here! She did not bother to remount her exhausted horse. With the rein over her arm, she picked her way over the dry turf, rank with thistles, and made her way excitedly toward the gate in the castle wall.

Richard had just returned from a hawking expedition. He was standing, stripped to the waist, at the foot of the stairs that led up the side of the steep motte to the castle tower, while one of his men poured buckets of cold water over his head. He was quite unembarrassed when he saw her. “My lady!” He took another bucket of water full in the face and, spluttering, turned to chase the man away. The long line of pack animals, wagons, and attendants was crowding into the bailey around them, milling in the dust as they halted and began to dismount and unload, before making their way toward the stables and lodgings around the inside of the high wall. Matilda stood unnoticing in the middle of them all, smiling, watching as Richard toweled himself dry and wriggled into his tunic. Her heart was beating very fast.

He fastened his belt and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Where’s Sir William, my lady? I see he isn’t with you.” He ran ahead of her two at a time up the stairs to the keep. It was hot and stuffy inside and full of acrid smoke from the small fire in the hearth. Matilda followed him more slowly and stopped abruptly, her eyes smarting as she tried to accustom them to the dark after the bright sun outside. When she could see at last she saw Richard gather up his sword and gird it on.

“William is in attendance on the king. What are you doing here at Hay, Richard?” Suddenly she felt shy and ill at ease.

“Waiting for you, of course.” He raised his eyebrow slightly, stepping close to her to kiss her hand. “I’m returning from Gloucester, so I sent most of my people ahead and stayed to do a little hawking in your beautiful valley. I heard you were on your way. It’s been so long.” He was still holding her hand.

She tried to pull it away without success. “Lord de Clare…” She glanced behind her at the doorway.

“I’ve tried again and again to visit you,” he went on in a whisper, “but events have always stood in the way. I’ve been in France with the king or up north or in the Marches, but never when you’ve been here, or in far away Suffolk.” He still held her hands, looking into her eyes solemnly. “Dear sweet God, but I’ve missed you so.”

“No, Richard, please.” She interrupted him, pulling her hands away at last. “Please don’t talk like that.” She hesitated, letting her light traveling cloak slip from her shoulders to the rushes, looking uncertainly into his face. He had not changed at all from the carefree youth who had escorted her across England. He was a tall young man, fractionally taller than she, broad-shouldered and painfully slim, with merry hazel eyes. She bit her lip and half turned.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He swung his sword comfortably onto his hip. “Why do you look so sad? I thought you might be glad to see me!”

“Oh, I am, Richard.” She swallowed, and smiled at him with an effort. “You’ll never know how glad. It’s just that…I’m tired, that’s all. We’ve ridden such a long way today.”

“My lady…”

She turned to find Jeanne pulling at her sleeve. The old woman’s face was disapproving. “The little ones are asleep already, my lady. You should be the same.” The old woman stooped slowly to pick up the fallen cloak, which lay forgotten on the ground. “Your room is prepared. I’m sure Lord de Clare will excuse you after your long journey.”

“That I won’t, old dame.” Richard reached for Matilda’s hand again. “Come, my lady, call for food and wine and music! We’ll celebrate your arrival. I’m not letting you slip away to sleep with children tonight. You need cheering up, not sleep.”

His high spirits were infectious, and Matilda could not help laughing with him, her eyes on his smiling face. It would be good to celebrate her arrival. Her weariness and depression began to slip away. She turned to Jeanne.

“Go to the children. They need you now, I don’t. I can rest later.”

“My lady, you’re most unwise. You must rest.” Stubbornly Jeanne remained at her elbow.

“I said you can go, Jeanne,” Matilda rounded on her. “Lord de Clare and I have much to talk about.”

Jeanne hesitated, her hands braced stubbornly at the front of her full black skirts, then reluctantly, muttering to herself, she left them, vanishing behind the screens at the end of the hall.

“She watches you closely, that one,” he whispered as she left.

Matilda turned to follow his gaze. Then she laughed. “She was my nurse before she was my children’s. Sometimes I think she forgets I’m grown up now. Now, my lord, tell me all the news, and cheer me up. I command it.” She clapped her hands to summon her page. “Bring lights, and food and seats, Simon. Let’s see what kind of food those Hay fires can provide.”