Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (english love story books .TXT) 📗

the ground, only half seeing the flickering shadows thrown by the torches of the men-at-arms. Then at last she raised her eyes to look directly at the men her husband had killed. The body of Prince Seisyll lay slightly apart from the others and someone had crossed his hands across his breast. On his forefinger a dark red stone glittered coldly in the torchlight.

Slowly her gaze traveled back to the gory heap, searching for the body of his son, the boy whose excited happy mood had so matched her own. She saw him almost at once, lying sprawled beneath another man, his head thrown back, his mouth open in horror at what he had seen. A trickle of blood had dried on the downless chin. His fingers were still clutching the linen napkin that the page had handed him as William began his speech. A few feet from his head lay the harp with its severed strings. Its frame had been snapped in two.

Her feet no longer felt the cold as she walked across the cobbles to the gatehouse and out over the drawbridge. In fact, she felt nothing at all. No one tried to stop her. The guards moved aside to let her pass and regrouped beneath the gateway behind her.

She walked slowly down toward the shining sweep of the river, her hair quite loose now, lifting around her head in a cloud. The wind carried showers of icy raindrops off the iron whiteness of the desolate hills but she neither saw nor felt their sting on her face. Somehow she seemed to find a path as she moved unseeing through the darkness and avoided trees and bushes and the outcrops of rock in her way. The cold moon was glinting fitfully through the rushing clouds to reflect in the Usk beneath as she stood for a while on the bank gazing into the luminous water; then she walked on. Soon the castle was out of sight and she was quite alone in the whispering trees. There the snow had melted and clogged into soft slush beneath the network of roots and the path became muddy beneath her toes, dragging at the sodden train of her gown.

It was several minutes before she realized that there was someone speaking to her, the voice quietly insistent, urging her back, calming the unsteady thudding of the pulse in her head.

"I'm reaching her now, " Carl Bennet murmured to the frantic woman at his side. He sat forward on the edge of his chair, staring intently at Jo as she lay restlessly on the sofa by the window. Outside the rain had begun again, sliding down the panes, forming little black pools in the soil of the dusty window box.

"Jo? Matilda? Can you hear me?"

His voice was professionally calm and reassuring again, only the beads of sweat on his forehead betraying the strain of the past hour.

On the sofa Jo stirred and half turned to face him. "Who is that?" she asked. "There is sleet in the moonlight. I cannot see properly. " Her eyes opened and she stared blindly at Bennet. "Is it you? The Welsh boy who brought me my food? I did not know what was planned. You must believe me, I did not know... " With tears running down her cheeks again she struggled to sit up, clutching at Bennet's jacket.

Avoiding her desperate fingers, he leaned forward and put his hands gently on her shoulders, pushing her back against the cushions.

"Listen, my dear, I am going to wake you up now, I want you to come back to us. I am going to count to three. When I do so you will wake up as Joanna Clifford. You will remember all that has occurred but you will be relaxed and happy. Do you understand me?" For a moment he thought she had not heard him, but after a pause her hands dropped and she ceased struggling. He watched her face, waiting for the slight nod that came after a long perplexed silence.

"Good girl, " he said softly. "Now... one—two— three. "

He waited only a moment more, to be certain, then he leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses.

Jo lay still, staring from Bennet to his secretary and back. For a moment none of them spoke. Then, as Jo raised her hand and ran her fingers through her hair, Bennet stood up. "I think we could all do with some coffee, " he said, his voice shaking. "Would you, Sarah, please?"

He walked across to the table and switched off the tape recorder with a sharp click. He took a deep breath. "Well, how do you feel, Jo?" he asked. His tone was light and conversational. His glasses polished to his satisfaction at last, he put them back on his nose. Then he turned to look at her.

"I don't know. " Jo pushed herself up against the cushions. "Oh, God, I'm so cold. My feet are freezing. " She leaned forward and rubbed them. "And my fingers are hurting— Oh, Christ, I don't believe it! Tell me it didn't happen!" She buried her face in her hands.

Bennet glanced at the open door through which came the sound of rattling cups from the kitchen.

"Do you remember everything?" he asked cautiously. After removing the reel from the recorder, he held it lightly between finger and thumb.

"Oh, yes, I remember. How could I forget!" Jo raised her face and stared at him. He recognized the same blind anguish he had seen as she acted out the role under hypnosis. "All that blood, " she whispered. "To see those men die. To smell it! Did you know blood smelled? And fear? The stink of fear!" She stood up unsteadily and crossed to stare out of the window. "That boy, Doctor. He couldn't have been more than fifteen. He watched his father die and then—" Her voice cracked to a husky whisper and she fell silent, pressing her forehead against the window