Copyright
Copyright © 1986, 2010 by Barbara Erskine
Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Kelly Eismann/Eismann Design
Cover images © Stuart Brill/Trevillion Images; Steve Peet/Trevillion Images
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Originally published in Great Britain in 1986 by Michael Joseph Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Erskine, Barbara.
Lady of Hay : two women, eight hundred years, and the destiny they share / by Barbara Erskine.
p. cm.
1. Reincarnation—Fiction. 2. Hypnosis—Fiction. 3. Women journalists—Fiction. 4. Women—Great Britain—History—To 1500—Fiction. 5. Nobility—Great Britain—Fiction. 6. Wales—History—1063–1284—Fiction. 7. Great Britain—History—John, 1199-1216—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6055.R7L3 2010
823’.914—dc22
2010014368
Table of Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
Historical Note
Principal Dates
Note on Names
Acknowledgments
Reading Group Guide
About the Author
Back Cover
Prologue
Edinburgh 1970
It was snowing. Idly Sam Franklyn stared out of the dirty window up at the sky wondering if the leaden cloud would provide enough depth to ski by the weekend.
“Tape on now, Dr. Franklyn, if you please.” Professor Cohen’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts. Sam turned, glancing at the young woman lying so calmly on the couch, and switched on the recorder. She was an attractive girl, slender and dark, with vivacious gray-green eyes, closed now beneath long curved lashes. He grinned to himself. When the session was over he intended to offer her a lift back into town.
The psychology labs were cold. As he picked up his notebook and began a new page, he leaned across and touched the grotesquely large cream radiator and grimaced. It was barely warm.
Cohen’s office was small and cluttered, furnished with a huge desk buried beneath books and papers, some half-dozen chairs crowded together to accommodate tutorial students, when there were any, and the couch, covered by a bright tartan blanket, where most of his volunteers chose to lie while they were under hypnosis, “as if they are afraid they will fall down” he had commented once to Sam as yet another woman had lain nervously down as if on a sacrificial altar. The walls of the room were painted a light cold blue that did nothing to improve the temperature. Anyone who could relax comfortably in Michael Cohen’s office, Sam used to think wryly, was halfway to being mesmerized already. Next to him the radiator let out a subterranean gurgle, but it grew no hotter.
Professor Cohen seated himself next to the couch and took the girl’s hand in his. He had not bothered to do that for his last two victims, Sam noticed, and once more he grinned.
He picked up his pen and began to write:
Hypnotic Regression: Clinical Therapy Trials
Subject 224 Joanna Clifford 2nd year arts (English)
Age: 19
Attitude:
He chewed the end of the pen and glanced at her again. Then he put “enthusiastic but open minded” in the column.
Historical aptitude:
Again he paused. She had shrugged when they asked her the routine questions to determine roughly her predisposition to accurate invention.
“Average, I suppose,” she had replied with a smile. “O-level history. Boring old Disraeli and people like that. Not much else. It’s the present I’m interested in, not the past.”
He eyed her sweater and figure-hugging jeans and wrote as he had written on so many other record sheets: Probably average.
Professor Cohen had finished his preliminary tests. He turned to Sam. “The girl’s a good subject. There’s a deep trance established already. I shall begin regressing her now.”
Sam turned back to the window. At the beginning of the series of tests he had waited expectantly at this stage, wondering what would be revealed. Some subjects produced nothing, no memories, no inventions; some emerged as colorful characters who enthralled and amazed him. But for days now they had been working with routine ill-defined personalities who replied in dull monosyllables to all the questions put to them and who did little to further their research. The only different thing about this girl—as far as he knew—were her looks: those put her in a class by herself.
The snow was thickening, whirling sideways, blotting out the buildings on the far side of the street, muffling the sound of the car tires moving north toward the city. He did not bother to listen to the girl’s words. Her soft English voice sounded tired and blurred under hypnosis, and he would have to listen again and again to the tape anyway as Cohen transcribed it and tried to fathom where her comments, if there were any, came from.
“And now, Joanna”—the professor’s voice rose slightly as he shifted on the high stool to make himself more comfortable. “We’ll go back again, if you please, back before the darkness, back before the dreams, back to when you were on this earth before.” He is getting bored too, Sam thought dryly, catching sight of his boss glancing at his watch.
The girl suddenly flung out her arm, catching a pile of books on the table beside the couch and sending them crashing to the floor. Sam jumped, but she seemed not to have noticed. She was pushing herself up onto her elbow, her eyes open, staring in front of her.
Cohen was all attention. Quickly he slid from the stool, and as she stood up he moved it out of her way.
Sam recovered from his surprise and wrote hastily: subject somnambulant; moved from couch. Eyes open; pupils dilated. Face pale and drawn.
“Joanna.” Cohen spoke softly. “Would you not like to sit down again, lassie, and tell us your name and where you are.”
She swung around, but not to face him. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the middle of the room. She opened her mouth as if trying to speak and they saw her run her tongue across her lips. Then she drew herself up with a shudder, clutching
at the neck of her sweater.
“William?” she whispered at last. Her voice was husky, barely audible. She took a step forward, her eyes still fixed on the same point. Sam felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as he found himself looking at it too, half expecting someone or something to appear.
His notebook forgotten, he waited, holding his breath, for her to speak again, but she stayed silent, swaying slightly, her face drained of color as she began to stare around the room. Disconcerted, he saw that huge tears had begun to run slowly down her cheeks.
“Tell us where you are and why you are crying.” The quiet insistent voice of Professor Cohen seemed to Sam a terrible intrusion on her grief, but to his surprise she turned and looked straight at him. Her face had become haggard and old. “William,” she said again, and then gave a long desperate cry that tore through Sam, turning his guts to water. “William!” Slowly she raised her hands and stared at them. Sam dragged his eyes from her face and looked too. As he did so he heard a gasp and realized with a shock that the sound had come from his own throat.
Her hands had begun to bleed.
Electrified, he pushed himself away from the window and reached out toward her, but a sharp word from Cohen stopped him.
“Don’t touch her. Don’t do anything. It’s incredible. Incredible,” the older man breathed. “It’s autosuggestion, the stigmata of religious fanatics. I’ve never seen it before. Incredible!”
Sam stood only feet from her as she swayed once again, cradling her hands against her chest as if to ease their pain. Then, shivering uncontrollably, she fell to her knees. “William, don’t leave me. Oh, God, save my child,” she whispered brokenly. “Let someone come. Please…bring us…bring him…food. Please…I’m so cold…so cold…” Her voice trailed away to a sob and slowly she subsided onto the floor. “Oh, God…have mercy on…me.” Her fingers grasped convulsively at the rush matting that carpeted the room, and Sam stared in horror as the blood seeped from her hands onto the sisal, soaking into the fibers, congealing as she lay there emitting dry, convulsive sobs.
“Joanna? Joanna!” Cohen knelt awkwardly beside her, and, defying his own instructions, he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Joanna, lass, I want you to listen to me.” His face was compassionate as he touched her, lifting a strand of her heavy dark hair, gently stroking her cheek. “I want you to stop crying, do you hear me? Stop crying now and sit up, there’s a good girl.” His voice was calm, professionally confident as the two men watched her, but there was growing anxiety in his eyes. Slowly her sobs grew quieter and she lay still, the harsh rasping in her throat dying away. Cohen bent closer, his hand still on her shoulder. “Joanna.” Gently he shook her. “Joanna, are you hearing me? I want you to wake up. When I count three. Are you ready? One…two…three…”
Under his hand her head rolled sideways on the matting. Her eyes were open and unblinking, the pupils dilated. “Joanna, do you hear me? One, two, three.” As he counted Cohen took her by the shoulders and half lifted her from the floor. “Joanna, for the love of God, hear me…”
The panic in the man’s voice galvanized Sam into action. He dropped on his knees beside them, his fingers feeling rapidly for a pulse in the girl’s throat.
“Christ! There’s nothing there!”
“Joanna!” Cohen was shaking her now, his own face ashen. “Joanna! You must wake up, girl!” He calmed himself with a visible effort. “Listen to me. You are going to start to breathe now, slowly and calmly. Do you hear me? You are breathing now, slowly, and you are with William and you have both eaten. You are happy. You are warm. You are alive, Joanna! You are alive!”
Sam felt his throat constrict with panic. The girl’s wrist, limp between his fingers, had begun to grow cold. Her face had taken on a deathly pallor, her lips were turning gray.
“I’ll call for an ambulance.” Cohen’s voice had lost all its command. He sounded like an old man as he scrambled to his feet.
“No time.” Sam pushed the professor aside. “Kneel here, by her head, and give her mouth to mouth. Now! When I say so!” Crouched over the girl, he laid his ear to her chest. Then, the heel of one hand over the other, he began to massage her heart, counting methodically as he did so. For a moment Cohen did not move. Then he bent toward her mouth. Just as his lips touched hers Joanna drew an agonizing, gasping breath. Sam sat back, his fingers once more to her pulse, his eyes fixed on her face as her eyelids flickered. “Go on talking to her,” he said urgently under his breath, not taking his eyes from her face. Her color was beginning to return. His hands were once more on her ribs, gently feeling the slight flutter of returning life. One breath, then another; labored painful gulps of air. Gently Sam chafed her ice-cold hand, feeling the stickiness of her blood where it had dried on her fingers and over her palms. He stared down at the wounds. The cuts and grazes were real: lesions all around the fingernails and on the pads of the fingers, blisters and cuts on her palms, and a raw graze across one knuckle.
Cohen, making a supreme effort to sound calm, began to talk her slowly out of her trance. “That’s great, Joanna, good girl. You’re relaxed now and warm and happy. As soon as you feel strong enough I want you to open your eyes and look at me…That’s lovely…Good girl.”
Sam watched as she slowly opened her eyes. She seemed not to see the room nor the anxious men kneeling beside her on the floor. Her gaze was focused on the middle distance, her expression wiped smooth and blank. Cohen smiled with relief. “That’s it. Now, do you feel well enough to sit up?”
Gently he took her shoulders and raised her. “I am going to help you stand up so you can sit on the couch again.” He glanced at Sam, who nodded. Carefully the two men helped her to her feet and guided her across the room; as she lay down obediently Cohen covered her with the blanket. Her face was still drawn and pale as she laid her head on the pillow. She curled up defensively, but her breathing had become normal.
Cohen hooked his stool toward him with his toe, and, perching himself on it, he leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. “Now, Joanna, I want you to listen carefully. I am going to wake you up in a moment and when I do you will remember nothing of what has happened to you here today, do you understand? Nothing, until we come and ask you if you would like to be regressed another time. Then you will allow us to hypnotize you once more. Once you are in a trance again, you will begin to relive all the events leading up to this terrible time when you died. Do you understand me, Joanna?”
“You can’t do that.” Sam stared at him in horror. “Christ! You’re planting a time bomb in that girl’s mind!”
Cohen glared back. “We have to know who she is and what happened to her. We have to try to document it. We don’t even have a datefix—”
“Does that matter?” Sam tried to keep his voice calm. “For God’s sake! She nearly died!”
Cohen smiled gently. “She did die. For a moment. What a subject! I can build a whole new program around her. Those hands! I wonder what the poor woman can have been doing to injure her hands like that. No, Dr. Franklyn, I can’t leave it at that. I have to know what was happening to her, don’t you see? Hers could be the case that proves everything!” He stared down at her again, putting his hands lightly on her face, ignoring Sam’s protests. “Now, Joanna, my dear, you will wake up when I have counted to three and you will feel refreshed and happy and you will not think about what happened here today at all.” He glanced up at Sam. “Is her pulse normal now, Dr. Franklyn?” he asked coldly.
Sam stared at him. Then he took her hand, his fingers on her wrist. “Absolutely normal, Professor,” he said formally. “And her color is returning.”
“We’ll send her home now, then,” Cohen said. “I don’t want to risk any further trauma. You go with her and make sure she is all right. Her roommate is a technician at the labs here, that’s how we got her name for the tests. I’ll ask her to keep an eye on things too, to make sure there are no after-effects, though I’m sure there won’t be any.”
Sam
walked over to the window, staring out at the snow as he tried to control his anger.
“There could well be after-effects. Death is a fairly debilitating experience physically,” he said with quiet sarcasm.
It was lost on Cohen, who shook his head. “The lass won’t remember a thing about it. We’ll give her a couple of days to rest, then I’ll have her back here.” His eyes gleamed with excitement behind the thick lenses. “Under more controlled conditions we’ll take her back to the same personality in the period prior to her death.” He pursed his lips, took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped his forehead with it. “All right. Here we go. Joanna, do you hear me? One…two…three.”
Joanna lay still, looking from one to the other, dazed. Then she smiled shakily. “Sorry. Didn’t hypnosis work on me? In my heart of hearts I thought it probably wouldn’t.” She sat up and pushed back the blanket, swinging her feet to the floor. Abruptly she stopped and put her hands to her head.
Sam swallowed. “You did fine. Every result is an interesting result to us, remember.” He forced himself to smile, shuffling the papers on the table so that her notes were lost out of sight beneath the pile. The tape recorder caught his eye, the spools still turning, and he switched it off, unplugging it and coiling up the wire, not taking his eyes off her.
She stood up with an effort, her face still very pale, looking suddenly rather lost. “Don’t I get a cup of tea or anything, like a blood donor?” She laughed. She sounded strained; her voice was hoarse.
Cohen smiled. “You do indeed. I think Dr. Franklyn has it in mind to take you out to tea in style, my dear. It’s all part of the service here. To encourage you to return.” He stood up and went over to the door, lifting her anorak down from the hook. “We ask our volunteers to come to a second session, if they can, to establish the consistency of the results,” he said firmly.
“I see.” She looked doubtful as she slipped into the warm jacket and pulled the scarf around her neck. As she groped in the pocket for her gloves, she gave a sudden cry of pain. “My hands! What’s happened to them? There’s blood on my scarf—there’s blood everywhere!” Her voice rose in terror.
Cohen did not blink. “It must be the cold. You’ve been a naughty girl and not worn your gloves, that’s nasty chapping.”