Child of the Phoenix (37 page)

‘You have seen it again? Seen it in the fire?’ he asked. ‘You know what will happen, don’t you?’ He had forgotten that he had forbidden her to look into the fire; told her to close her eyes and pray if she feared the visions were close. The touch of her lips had awakened him. She could see the excitement in his eyes. Reaching up, he began to unfasten her mantle. ‘Tell me, Eleyne. Tell me what you saw.’ In his hurry he had torn the neck of her gown. Bending, he kissed her breasts. Her excitement rose with his, and she wanted to reassure him, to tell him what he so badly needed to hear, but she couldn’t. About the Sight she couldn’t lie.

‘I’ve seen nothing, my love, nothing,’ she breathed. ‘We must wait.’ She was naked now, her gown and kirtle around her knees, cradling his head to her breast as he caught hungrily at the nipple with his teeth. The pain sent the excitement knifing through her belly, and she found she was pulling at his hair, willing him to throw her down and mount her, there on the floor. But already his ardour was cooling; he glanced ruefully at the beauty of her pale body and reached for her gown. ‘Someone might come in – ’

‘Then bar the door, my lord.’ She smiled at him, her hunger in her eyes. ‘Quickly – ’

She pulled the cover from the bed and throwing it down on the floor before the fire, she knelt on it and began with shaking hands to unbraid her hair.

‘Eleyne –’ His voice was husky.

‘Bar the door, my lord.’ She heard the imperious tone in her voice with faint surprise and expected him to frown, but he obeyed her at once. Her fingers still busy with her hair, she knelt upright on the rug, conscious that her breasts beckoned him, conscious as he fumbled with the buckle of his girdle that this time he could not resist her.

When he had finished she lay a long time on her back, gazing at the vaulted stone arch of the ceiling. The sunlight slanted through the mullioned windows, striking the warm colours of the embroidered hangings on the wall, animating them into strange and wonderful life. She felt the chill of sweat drying on her skin. His, not hers: as always, her excitement had died and she was left cradling his head in her arms, her body tight with longing, unslaked and lonely.

Below them the manor house was quiet. Everyone was out about their chores, even the women taking advantage of the cold spring sunshine to gain a respite from the badly ventilated hall. In the lord’s solar the only sound was the sighing of the ashes as they cooled.

II
ROXBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND
May 1233

‘Sire, you must speak to the queen.’ The distraught official was hovering behind Alexander as he paced the great hall. ‘She is pleading for you, sire.’

‘No!’ Through clenched teeth Alexander repeated the word for the tenth time. ‘No! No! No! I do not wish to see her.’

‘But she blames herself, sire – ’

‘With good reason!’ The king swung to face him. ‘She was warned to rest. All the signs told her to rest. It was written in the stars themselves!’ He flung his hand towards the distant roof of the hall. ‘But she took no notice! She knew best! She had to ride with her hawk and now she’s lost the bairn. Oh yes, I blame her. And I do not wish to see her. Now get out of my sight!’

The man bowed unhappily and scurried towards the door at the west end of the hall, his face a picture of disapproval. Outside a cluster of women waited in agitation. One look was enough to tell them the king’s response and dejectedly they hurried away.

The queen’s rooms were full of the sound of her sobbing. It was three days since her miscarriage, but still she could not stop crying. She had not eaten or slept and cried constantly for her husband.

‘Hush, madam, please.’ The distraught lady at the bedside dabbed at her face with a cloth wrung out in rose water. ‘You’ll harm yourself. There will be other babies, you’ll see.’

Joanna spotted the women clustered by the door. She pulled herself up on the pillows, her face swollen and blotchy with tears. ‘Where is he? Is he coming?’

The Princess Margaret, the king’s youngest sister, came forward. She shrugged and shook her head. ‘Soon, my dear, soon. Alexander doesn’t wish to tire you …’

‘That’s because he blames me. He does, doesn’t he? It’s my fault! He knows it’s my fault!’ Her voice rose in a wail. ‘If I hadn’t gone riding; if I had stayed at home and rested …’

‘Hush, hush.’ Margaret took her hand and stroked it unhappily. ‘Don’t upset yourself so much. Rest now.’

‘No! I must see him, I must!’ Joanna’s voice rose in a hysterical scream. Pushing back the sheets, she threw her thin legs over the edge of the bed and staggered to her feet.

‘Your grace, please! Please, come back to bed –’ Her ladies clustered around her, frantically trying to push her back.

‘Where is he? Where is the king?’ Tears were streaming down her face.

‘Joanna, I don’t know where he is – please, please calm yourself –’ Margaret caught her arm. ‘You’ll do no good by trying to find him. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.’

‘But he won’t, he won’t.’ She pushed at the other woman so violently that Margaret staggered backwards as Joanna ran for the door, her long bed gown trailing behind her, her feet bare.

No one else tried to stop her but her ladies followed her down the long winding staircase as fast as they could. Instinctively, she knew where to find him. In the royal stables, waiting impatiently whilst his grooms threw saddle and bridle on his great stallion. There was a goblet of wine in his hand. He had been drinking heavily all morning, but he was far from drunk when he saw his wife running barefoot towards him across the high cobbles, her hair flying, her face streaked with tears.

The sight of her sliced through his anger and disappointment with ice-cold shock; for the first time he thought of her misery and pain.

He threw down the goblet, splashing the cobbles with the blood-red wine, and strode towards her. ‘Joanna! Joanna, lass.’ He scooped her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair. ‘It doesn’t matter, lass. There will be others. You’ll see, there will be others.’

Sobbing, she clung to him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It was all my fault …’

‘No, no, it was God’s will.’ He was carrying her back towards the door, neither of them seeing the men and women around them. He carried her inside and up the stairs, soothing her as if she were a small child who had had a nightmare, and gently he put her down on the bed. Then he sat beside her and took her hand. ‘All I want now is for you to get better quickly. Then,’ he smiled, ‘we’ll try again. Now, you must rest. I’ll call the physician to give you something to help you sleep.’ He pulled the covers over her tenderly and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. As he walked from the room his face was bleak.

Impassively his clerk took down the letter to the Earl of Chester informing him of the Queen of Scots’s miscarriage and commanding him to come to Scotland. It was time the heir presumptive to the throne became better acquainted with his future kingdom.

III
CHESTER CASTLE
May 1233

Rhonwen woke with a start and peered around in terror. The chamber outside the bed curtains was completely dark. The fire had died. She could hear nothing at all, but she was shaking and could feel the perspiration cold on her body. The covers of her bed were tangled. She lay still, rigid with fear. A gentle snore came from the fireside where two of the serving girls lay, curled up on pallets, huddled into tight cold humps beneath their rugs. Across the room her companions were invisible behind the curtains of their bed. The room was full of people, and yet it was totally silent. She thought about the rush lights in their box near the pricket and the flint and tinder near it, but she couldn’t move.

‘Einion?’ She breathed the name into the silence.

He knew. He knew she had burned his letter and he was displeased. More than displeased: she could feel his anger whipping around her in the dark. She clutched a pillow in front of her, her eyes wide, huddling back into the wall, feeling the stone against her shoulder blades beneath the heavy embroidered hangings.

‘I did it for her.’ Even as she mouthed the words, she knew it was no excuse. He had commanded Eleyne to return and she, Rhonwen, had intercepted that command. With a little sob, she clutched the amulet she wore at her throat, but what could an amulet do to protect her when the gods themselves were angry?

With a groan, one of the girls by the fire sat up, shaking with cold. She looked around in the darkness and then, feeling in front of her, found the cold cinders at the edge of the fire. It was her job to keep the fire in. She groped through the litter in the hearth, her fingers floury with ashes, feeling for warmth, feeling for the tiny spark which could ignite new kindling. She found it, burning her hand suddenly on a hidden ember, and scrabbling the rubbish of twigs and leaves from the hearth’s edge to it she blew gently on the fragment of bark, watching as it glowed, seeing the reassuring wisp of smoke as the tinder ignited. In minutes the fire leaped to life once more.

Through the crack in her curtain Rhonwen saw the flame. She stared into the shadows and took a deep breath: he had gone and with him the anger and despair. She rested her damp forehead on her knees, feeling her hair fall forward around her shoulders. Perhaps it had been no more than a warning; perhaps she could still send a message to Eleyne to return to Wales. She closed her burning eyes, cutting out the shadows where the servant girl, the fire made up and banked to her satisfaction, had once more settled to sleep.

The next morning Chester Castle was buzzing with the news. The Queen of Scots had miscarried her child and the earl and countess were leaving for Scotland immediately without returning to Chester. They would be gone until the autumn.

Rhonwen listened tight-lipped. She had lain late, missing mass as was her custom, and taking no food. She had drunk only a cup of watered wine brought by one of the servants. So, Eleyne was moving north with no message to her; no summons for her to join the household. Her head throbbed. She gathered up some embroidery, used always to having her hands employed, and wearily made her way to the women’s bower. Outside the spring sunshine was warm after the chill of the night. From the city beyond the castle walls she could hear the noise of the new day: shouts, yells, laughter, music, the rumble of iron-bound wheels on cobbles, the bellowing of cattle penned out beyond St John’s waiting to be brought to the market. The other women had taken their work outside; she was alone. She sat in the embrasure and allowed the thin sunlight to fall on the fabric on her knee; reaching for her needle, she began to thread a length of madder silk.

Take her the message
. The words were so loud in her head she thought someone had spoken.
Tell her
… Slowly she put down her sewing. She could feel her heart thumping unsteadily beneath her ribs.

‘Who’s there?’ Her voice sounded thin and reedy in the silence.

There was no reply.

She thought of Eleyne, perhaps already on the long ride north. She would not return now; no summons however urgent would call her back to Gwynedd. She shivered. Einion’s message had boded ill: did he have a warning for Eleyne? A message from the gods? She closed her eyes.

Tell her
… The words were fading now, indistinct inside her head. Perhaps they had not been there at all.

‘She won’t come back! She can’t come back!’ she cried out loud into the shadows. ‘Don’t you see? She has to go with him. She doesn’t belong to us any more.’