Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (reading an ebook TXT) 📕

her head, above all the knowledge, unquestioning and certain, that she had to make the journey, overwhelmed her. She did not think of the future, or of the past. Her mind was drained and empty. She drank the coffee quickly, barely tasting it, and stood up. There was still a long way to go. Wearily she climbed back into the car and headed once more toward the south west.

The traffic slowed, crawling past some roadworks, then on again, plunging into the New Forest, speeding up as it swept on, then abruptly the highway ended and she found herself impatiently driving down narrowed roads, her speed held in check by the double white line. The rain was still heavy, the windshield wipers endlessly working. On and on. Back and forth. With a sudden shot of adrenaline in her stomach she realized the Porsche had drifted toward the opposite side of the road. She dragged it back as an oncoming car, its lights blazing, blasted her with its horn.

Keep awake. She must keep awake.

She peered at a signpost as it flashed toward her out of the silver streaks of rain and vanished before her eyes had time to focus.

Through Wareham, where she was forced to stop three times at traffic lights, chewing her nails, as the car stood waiting its turn to move, then at last on up the last miles of narrow road.

Corfe Castle loomed on a hill in a gap among the Purbeck Hills, the high fingers of its broken towers reaching up toward the sky, stark sentinels, visible a mile away above the trees, on the narrow, winding road. Jo slowed the car with a jolt of fear. The rain had stopped at last and streaks of vivid blue were showing in the sky to the south. In the rays of sunlight the colors were vivid. Dazzling white convolvulus trailing through the hedges, heather on the sandy verges a brilliant purple, and everywhere the trees washed to deep emerald by the glitter of the sun. Within minutes steam was rising from the tarmac and strings of mist were spiraling up from the trees.

She drove, slowly now, around the foot of the castle hill, staring up with a dry throat at the towering white ruins above her, then she drew up in the center of the old stone village south of the castle and, pushing open the car door, climbed out in a daze.

Slowly she walked toward the ruins, her eyes fixed on the walls ahead of her, and over the bridge and beneath the shadow of the entrance gatehouse. There she was brought up short by the ticket kiosk and a turnstile. A man was staring at her and dimly she realized he wanted some money. She had to pay to get in! A wave of hysterical laughter swept through her and was gone as soon as it had come, as, still in a daze, she groped in the pocket of her jeans and found a pound coin. Then at last she was inside the walls, walking up the steep, narrow tarmac path toward the grotesquely broken towers of the Martyr's Gate.

The castle was still comparatively deserted after the rain, but she noticed little. She did not see the ancient stones, reduced by Cromwell's sappers to their present state of ruin, nor see the wildflowers, the thistles, the yarrow, the ragwort, the wild marjoram, or the festoons of clinging ivy. She did not see the blue sky, or the white Purbeck stone with its gray shadow of lichen. Her eyes were growing dark.

Carl Bennet swore roundly as he stamped his foot down on the accelerator and threw the blue Mercedes at a gap in the traffic. It roared past two trucks, cutting in with only inches to spare in front of the line of oncoming traffic. Unconsciously Nick was clutching the sides of his seat. He closed his eyes briefly, but said nothing. When he opened them again it was to see the streak of blue in the leaden sky. He glanced down at the road map on his knee. "Ten miles to go, " he said tautly.

Bennet nodded. His tongue showed briefly at the corner of his mouth as he negotiated a tight bend in the narrow road, then he allowed himself a quick smile. "The rain has stopped, at least, " he said.

The constable was waiting for them, his face set grimly in the flickering light. The king's orders were still in his hand. As the horses drew to an exhausted standstill before him, he read them silently once again, still not wanting to believe. Then slowly he reached for one of the flaring torches and held the parchment in the flame until it blackened and curled.

The oubliette lay beneath the floor of the western tower. Will fell heavily as they pushed him through the trapdoor, his legs buckling under him, and he lay still in the dark. With Matilda they were more gentle, lowering her down beside him and flinging down a sheepskin and some sheaves of straw. She looked up, dazed; faces peered down, torches flashed and smoked above her and there was air. Then the great stone slab fell.

Light came fitfully, creeping icily through the drain gulley in the base of the wall. Kneeling to peer through it, she could see the hill opposite the castle. It was white with snow. The silence was profound, save when Will groaned. She had tried, groping in the dark with gentle fingers, to ease his leg; feeling the splintered bones and the blood, she had wept.

The light of the setting sun slowly faded from the gulley and no one came. They had no food, no water. She gnawed at the heads of wheat still clinging to the straw. Will burned beneath her hand. "Blessed Virgin, save us. Sweet Lady, intercede. " Daylight came again and brought no comfort. She clawed at the walls, tearing at the stone, and wept again.

As it grew dark once more