Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘As you see, Lady Rhonwen, my wife is glad to see you. I’m sure she will welcome your company.’

  Rhonwen stiffened. Although his voice lacked warmth, there was no particular hostility in the man’s demeanour. It was as if he were distracted – his mind elsewhere.

  She hugged Eleyne. One of her worries at least had been allayed, and at last she felt the child relax.

  ‘My father and mother, Rhonwen, how are they?’ Eleyne pulled her into a private corner.

  ‘They are both well, cariad.’ Rhonwen made sure she was not overheard. ‘As are Gruffydd and Senena. They are free, free at long last! And your father has given Gruffydd part of the lands of Lleyn and he and Dafydd are friends, for now.’ She lowered her eyes and Eleyne smiled.

  ‘So, Gruffydd still plans to win back his inheritance one day?’

  ‘He will, soon. He will.’ Rhonwen had ridden to Degannwy from Chester and spoken to Gruffydd before her ride north. After that she had journeyed to Aber and spent an hour in private conversation with Llywelyn. The results of the conversation had surpassed her wildest dreams and put the death of Einion temporarily out of her mind. The prince did not speak of restoring to Gruffydd his birthright of North Wales, but he spoke of a far greater scheme and he had entrusted her with verbal messages for Eleyne and through her to Lord Chester and the King of the Scots. Nothing was to be written; nothing risked. Correctly judging that in this matter at least Rhonwen would be inestimably useful, Llywelyn had trusted her with the secrets of three nations.

  ‘We must talk alone, cariad,’ Rhonwen said softly. ‘Soon. I have messages from your father.’

  Eleyne scanned the other woman’s face and nodded. ‘We join the king and queen for supper in the castle hall. After that we’ll talk.’

  The candles had burned low, the soft beeswax clotting in sweet yellow lumps on the table. They had talked for a long time of Llywelyn’s plan for an alliance between himself and Alexander and the leaders of the growing baronial opposition in England to King Henry. Later, when he returned from the king’s hall they would talk, in secret, to John, but for now the topic was closed. Rhonwen, whose eyes had burned with cold fanaticism as she described the plan, sat back exhausted, too tired even to reach for the mead the servants had poured before they left the two women alone in the small guest chamber. But still Rhonwen was holding something back. Eleyne leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and looked through the flame of the candle at the other woman’s face with its shifting mask of shadow. The room was intensely quiet after the noise of the great hall.

  ‘What is it, Rhonwen? What have you not told me?’ Her voice was gentle, persuasive, but Rhonwen noticed there was an undertone of command there, an echo of her father.

  She sighed. ‘When the snows were still thick on the ground, you had a letter from Lord Einion.’ There was a long silence. Eleyne’s eyes did not leave her face. ‘He commanded you to go to him on Môn.’

  ‘And what happened to the letter?’ Eleyne asked.

  ‘I burned it.’ Rhonwen could feel the cold draught at the back of her neck. Her mouth had gone dry. ‘I wanted you to be happy with your husband. I knew you did not want to come back so soon to Gwynedd.’

  ‘And did you tell Einion that?’

  ‘He knows.’ Rhonwen shivered and Eleyne saw her hand go surreptitiously to her throat where the amulet lay hidden beneath her gown. ‘And he was angry with me.’

  ‘What did he want to tell me, do you know?’ Eleyne asked.

  Rhonwen put her hands over her eyes. Silently she shook her head.

  ‘Then I shall go to see him when we return south. We are going home soon.’

  ‘No, no, cariad, don’t you understand? He’s dead!’ Rhonwen cried. ‘He died after he wrote the letter. Even if I had sent it to you it would have been too late!’

  It was no less than the truth, but she didn’t believe it herself. If Eleyne had been coming, he would have waited for her – he would have found a way to stay alive until she came.

  ‘I wonder what he wanted to say to me,’ Eleyne said after another silence. There was no reproach in her voice, no anger, only curiosity.

  Rhonwen swallowed. ‘He’s tried to tell me,’ she whispered, ‘three times he’s tried to tell me …’

  Eleyne felt the hairs on the back of her neck lift and stir. Einion and Michael had both seen her destiny. What else could Einion have seen that he would have held death itself at bay to tell her?

  CHAPTER NINE

  I

  ROXBURGH CASTLE July 1235

  ‘Don’t go! Please, don’t go!’ Joanna threw herself at her hus band’s feet, sobbing.

  ‘Joanna, lass …’ The king’s patience was wearing thin.

  ‘Please. You’ll be killed! You mustn’t go.’

  ‘I have to go.’ Pulling her to her feet, he set her aside as if she had been a rag doll in his path and beckoned forward once more the men who had been trying to arm him. ‘I have had enough of these rebels in Galloway. I mean to bring those people under my rule once and for all. They have disobeyed me and tried to set up a bastard lord as their leader. I mean to make them accept Alan of Galloway’s daughters as his heirs, with my sheriffs to uphold my authority. Now please, my sweet lady, leave me.’

  ‘Lord Chester isn’t going with you, and Alan’s widow Margaret is one of his sisters!’ she flung at him. ‘He cares about what happens to Margaret and his nieces, but he has more sense than to ride into a nest of thieves and rebels!’ Her voice had risen again to a panic-stricken shriek. ‘Perhaps he means to stay here and keep himself safe to inherit your throne when you are killed – ’

  After two years of travelling around the Chester and Huntingdon estates, and three more visits to London, Eleyne and John had once more been invited north to Scotland.

  Alexander frowned. ‘That is not true. Lord Chester is not well enough to ride and you know it.’ He raised his arms as the mail hauberk was settled on his shoulders over his heavy, padded gambeson. The armourer buckled the cuirass over it, and finally came the surcoat. ‘I’ll be back for Margaret’s wedding, lass, you’ll see.’ He spoke heartily, trying to cheer her. ‘You help her with all her finery. That’ll keep you busy and I’ll be back before you know it.’

  Joanna gave a weak smile, trying to pull herself together. She was ashamed of her tears. She had seen her husband off to war so many times, always fearful but always courageous – until now. It had been as much a shock to her as it was to him to find that she was shaking, wanting to cling to him, wanting to keep him with her. They both knew why. Unspoken between them was the tally of months since the miscarriage with still no sign of another pregnancy, and the presence of the Earl of Chester, summoned back to Scotland ostensibly for the wedding of the king’s sister to Gilbert, the Earl Marshal of England, but in reality so that the heir presumptive would be on hand should anything happen to the king.

  Alexander waved his men aside and, shrugging his shoulders beneath the heavy weight of his armour, strode towards the door. ‘I shall bid you farewell outside before the court, Joanna. See to it you send me to war with a smile and your favour in my helm.’ She was the queen; she must find it within her to be strong.

  The army which had been gathering for days beyond the castle walls had broken camp at last. The ranks of armed men were ready to march, waiting only for their king to lead them. In the courtyard before the tower Alexander turned and kissed his wife’s hand. Joanna’s eyes were red and swollen, but she managed to restrain her weeping. Beside her stood Eleyne, her face white. As Alexander took her hand, she curtseyed low, not looking at his face. ‘Sweet Christ go with you, your grace.’ Her voice was a whisper. He tightened his grip on her fingers briefly, then moved on to his sister Margaret, pretty gentle Margaret, soon to be the wife of the Earl Marshal of England. He smiled at her, and received a reassuring smile in return. His farewells made, he raised his hand to the assembled courtiers and turned towards his horse.

  II

  Eleyne stood
looking out of the deeply embrasured window, clutching her mantle around her as if she were cold, her embroidery – a panel of Margaret’s wedding dress – discarded on the stone seat near her. The day was hot and airless. Behind her in the body of the room the queen and her ladies chatted listlessly over their work. There had been no word from Galloway.

  Torn with guilt about his sister’s safety and his nieces’ inheritance, and knowing he should be there with the king and his brother-in-law, Lord Annandale, John had closeted himself in the guesthouse with the officials who travelled regularly from Chester and the lands of Huntingdon, immersing himself in day-to-day administration. He was there now, gaping up at the stone vaulting above his head. What if the king should die? What if a messenger should come that very morning with the news that Alexander had been mortally injured? He closed his eyes and brought his mind back to the business in hand.

  Eleyne could not focus on the fine stitches of her embroidery. Her head ached. Even in the cool stone of the old keep the air was unpleasantly humid, and she had given up trying to listen to the conversation around her. It faded into the distance and for a moment she felt her eyes close.

  At seventeen she had blossomed into a composed, beautiful young woman, outwardly confident, popular with her servants and her companions. She was eccentric still in her love of her own company, her passion for her horses and her strange abstracted moods, but she was kind and thoughtful and she was a princess and they were prepared to forgive her much. But she was still childless. That preyed on many minds, not least her own.

  The sound of the watchman’s horn from the high gatehouse brought all talk to a halt. The embrasure was suddenly crowded as Margaret and three of the other ladies craned past her to try to see out of the window. Behind them the queen sat unmoving; Eleyne saw that her knuckles were white.

  The messenger was weary and covered in dust, and still out of breath from his long ride as he knelt before Joanna.

  ‘The king was attacked, madam, after he entered Galloway. The rebels fell on our men as they were making camp.’ He gulped for breath. ‘But the rebels have been defeated. By God’s mercy the Earl of Ross was delayed in joining the main body of the army with his men. He was able to attack them from the other side and take them by surprise. Their defeat is total.’

  ‘And the king?’ Joanna’s voice was flat and hard. ‘Is the king all right?’

  ‘He is safe, your grace. He has ordered Walter Comyn to remain and complete the rebels’ defeat. He bid me return to tell you that he and his lords are on their way back for Princess Margaret’s wedding.’

  Joanna closed her eyes as relief swept over her: ‘The Blessed Virgin be thanked.’

  Eleyne silently echoed her prayer; she hadn’t realised that she had been holding her breath.

  Rhonwen was standing by the table where she had been sorting silks. Eleyne saw that she was watching her closely, a thoughtful expression on her face, and suddenly she was afraid: it was almost as though the other woman had guessed her secret. But how could she? It was a secret so terrible that Eleyne barely acknowledged it to herself. A secret which bit deep into her soul: that she had fallen in love with the man who was her aunt’s husband and so her own uncle – Alexander of Scotland.

  Later, before the shrine of Queen Margaret in Dunfermline Abbey, the court lit candles and gave thanks. At Joanna’s side Eleyne raised her eyes to the great carved crucifix upon the altar. Had her husband secretly prayed for Alexander’s death? If so, she had not known about it. In her heart she was giving thanks over and over again that the man of whom she dreamed so often was alive.

  III

  BERWICK-UPON-TWEED 28 July 1235

  King Alexander had held a meeting of his council at Berwick. He needed money to pay for the campaign in Galloway and money for the wedding which – the better to defy King Henry who had not yet given it his blessing – was to be a splendid and royal affair.

  He and John had talked long and privately once more about Llywelyn’s proposals. The possibility of an informal Celtic alliance against England’s predatory king was becoming more and more viable, and both had known that they had the perfect go-between. Intelligent, energetic and impetuous enough to escape suspicion should she take it into her head to ride about the country, Eleyne would make the ideal messenger between the parties involved. ‘If she returns from Chester to see her father it would not be remarkable,’ Alexander said slowly, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘She’ll be glad of the excuse, I’ll warrant,’ John smiled. ‘Each time she goes home my hothead wife gets chased away for yet another misdemeanour. She has enemies in the English faction in Gwynedd.’

  Alexander raised an eyebrow: ‘Her mother?’ His own wife had never meddled in politics the way her half-sister did, and for that he was profoundly glad.

  John shook his head. ‘I have a feeling things are better with her mother. It is the little de Braose. Friendship gone sour is always the worst kind of enmity.’

  Alexander laughed. ‘Nevertheless, your wife will find a way to her father’s ear, I’m sure. She has a winning way with her.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if it were less winning.’ John scowled. ‘There are those among your lords who still fawn on her too much.’

  ‘But you guard her well.’ The king spoke lightly. ‘Almost as though you did not trust her.’

  John pushed his chair back abruptly as if he were about to rise. Then, remembering he was in the presence of the king, he subsided once more on to the embroidered cushion. ‘I trust her with all my heart,’ he said coldly, ‘she would never dishonour me. Not with any man.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘I am glad to hear it, cousin,’ the king replied. ‘Then you have no need to worry when she comes to Scotland without you.’

  August the first was the date fixed for the wedding of the king’s youngest sister to the Earl Marshal of England, an act of defiance against King Henry worthy of Llywelyn himself, and an occasion to which the court had been looking forward with much excitement.

  The rumour was that King Henry had fallen in love with Margaret four years earlier and had wanted her for his queen. She too had been much smitten by the handsome young King of England, but her elder sister was married to Henry’s justiciar, Hubert de Burgh, a man now rapidly falling out of favour in England, and Henry’s advisers persuaded him that it would not be suitable for the king to marry de Burgh’s wife’s younger sister. Margaret was heartbroken, but with the passing of time it seemed her heart was willing to be mended.

  The first part of the wedding feast over, the guests were wandering across the meadow which lay at the foot of the castle walls. Beyond it flowed the Tweed, silver in the afternoon heat, and beyond it the border with England. Nearby a group of minstrels played a selection of the latest popular dances as they side-stepped and dipped across the turf, a group of people dancing and clapping to the noisy refrains.

  Rhonwen had stopped to supervise a servant who was pinning up Eleyne’s hem, caught beneath the enthusiastic foot of the lady next to her in the ring dance. The repair completed to her satisfaction, she waved the girl away.

  ‘What is wrong between you and Lord Chester, cariad?’ Making sure that they would not be overheard Rhonwen caught her arm. ‘When I saw you together in Chester Castle you were like lovesick doves, the pair of you, but in Scotland he watches you as wistful as a dog outside the kitchen, and you jump with guilt every time you see him.’

  Eleyne pulled her arm away. ‘Nothing is wrong. What could be?’

  ‘The handsome Lord Fife for one?’ Rhonwen narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ve seen him watching you.’

  ‘Oh, him.’ Eleyne dismissed him with a shrug. ‘The king my uncle has told him to stay away from me.’ She felt the colour rise in her cheeks and turned away to look at the river. The tide was low and the sun reflected on the mud, turning it to rich silk stained with gold.

  ‘The king your uncle, is it now?’ The soft voice at her elbow was ge
ntly probing. ‘And the queen your aunt, what does she say in the matter?’

  ‘She thinks it amusing,’ Eleyne replied dry-lipped. ‘She teases me about my followers.’

  There was a burst of laughter near them and a group of girls scampered past, giggling, pursued by two young men. The wind was rising. The ornate tents set up around the castle walls began to flutter and thrum, a background accompaniment to the steady beat of whistle, viol and cymbals, timbrel and cittern.

  Rhonwen smiled. There was more. Oh, yes, there was more there. She could always tell when Eleyne had secrets, and she could always worm them out of her. In the end.

  The Chesters were being accommodated in a large tent, the gaudy canvas surmounted by pennants, the tall conical roof surrounded by scalloped bunting.

  Chairs had been placed outside the tent near the fire which had been lit as soon as dusk fell. The revelry continued all around them, the noise as loud as ever. Glancing up at the high stone walls of Berwick Castle above them, Eleyne shivered.

  The banquet over at last, the bride and groom had departed to their chamber in the great keep. At last she and John had been able to leave the hall with its reek of cooking and wine and hot excited humanity, and pick their way through the dozens of fires to their own. Their servants were mulling wine, and inside the tent she could see in the warm lamplight the piles of rugs and furs unnecessary on such a hot night, but nevertheless a soft bed awaiting them.

  John sprawled in one of the chairs and let out a great sigh of exhaustion. ‘Perhaps we can rest a few days here before we ride south.’

  ‘The burgesses of Berwick won’t thank us; they are already complaining at the number of people camped in the town,’ Eleyne said drowsily. ‘They hope to see us all on our way as soon as possible.’