He turned his back on the fire and studied her again, noting her troubled face. ‘What’s the matter? Does the idea not please you?’
Eleyne shook her head. ‘I should hate anything to happen to you …’
He roared with laughter. ‘So should I, believe me! Here, give me those letters before you knead them to pulp.’ He reached out and took them from her hand. For a moment their fingers touched, then he turned away to the table.
She stood by the fire gazing down into the flames while he read. The wood burned with the green salt flame of beached timber collected on the strand. As it dried and split and turned to ash-drawn squares, she watched the flames lick and devour and race one another into the smoke. Outside, the rain lashed the walls and splattered through the open window on to the floor. The shutter lay against the wall where the king had put it when he removed it to see better in the gloom. Near it a puddle began to form on the stone flags. The dog sighed and smacked its lips in its sleep.
She could see a horseman in the flames, riding low over the animal’s neck, lashing it with the reins, his cloak flying out behind him. Around him she could see the trees, their branches streaming before the gale; she could see the lightning; hear the thunder roll in the low crackle of the flames. Without realising it, she went closer to the fire and knelt on one knee, trying to see more clearly.
The king lowered his letter and watched her with a frown.
She could see now: the horse’s hooves pounding down the sandy track, the puddles reflecting the fire. She could hear the reverberation of the wind, see the dancing, flailing shadows which hid the path, feel the shock of the lightning as it blinded horse and rider – hear the scream of the horse as it fell …
‘Eleyne!’ The king’s voice was sharp. As she had crouched nearer the fire, her veil trailed near the sparks. Her hands were reaching almost into the flames.
‘Eleyne!’ Dropping the letters, he was across the room in two strides. Seizing her arm he swung her to her feet. ‘You’ll set fire to yourself, lass! What’s the matter with you?’
For a moment they stood, staring at each other. He was still holding her arm and she could feel his fingers biting into her flesh. Their eyes were locked. Then at last she spoke. ‘I’m sorry, I …’ She hesitated, feeling his fingers red-hot through the silk of her sleeve. ‘I felt dizzy for a moment. I …’
‘You are expecting a bairn?’ He was still holding her, his face close to hers.
She shook her head. ‘No, no, I’m not. Please.’ She tried to twist her arm free of his grip, frightened by his strength.
Abruptly he let her go. ‘Then what?’
‘I leaned too close to the fire, that’s all. I lost my balance, the heat was too great. I’m sorry.’ Her heart was hammering in her chest and she felt sick.
He looked angry as he turned back to the table and picked up the letter again. ‘Lean out of the window and take a breath of air to clear your head,’ he commanded curtly, ‘then you can talk to me about this,’ and he shook the letter at her.
The wind was icy on her burning cheeks, and the rain, driving full into her face, stung her eyelids and ran down her neck, soaking the front of her gown in seconds. She stood there for a moment trying to compose herself, then she turned back into the room.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘First she tries to burn herself to death. Now she attempts to drown. It seems she will go to any lengths to avoid serving her king. Come here.’
She went to him. She was no longer trembling as she stood before him, her eyes on his. His expression was preoccupied, as if distracted by some conflict deep within himself. Then at last he spoke: ‘I do know you. The Blessed Virgin knows where from, but I feel I’ve known you all my life.’ He drew a deep unsteady breath. ‘Sweet Virgin, lass, but you’re beautiful!’ He said it almost wonderingly as he reached for the corner of her veil and raised it to dab gently at her face, drying the rain which lay like tears on her cheeks. He touched the end of her nose gently with the tip of his finger and turned away. ‘Now, to the business in hand.’ His voice was carefully neutral.
‘I shall want you to visit my sisters in England, and then I shall want you to talk to their husbands.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘This could be dangerous for you, as a subject of King Henry. Like all who hold lands in both England and Scotland, your allegiance is finely balanced. Our countries are at peace at the moment and pray God it will continue so, but Henry tries the patience of a saint sometimes, as all his subjects will tell you. Hence a ring of allies who can resist him if necessary.’ He gave her one of his most knowing smiles.
She smiled in return – calmer now, her vision all but forgotten, the touch of his hand receding. She was once more in command of herself.
Neither of them heard the footsteps outside. When the door swung open, they turned as one. Joanna stood there, her hair loose, her face working. There was blood on her hands and on the skirt of her gown. She stood unmoving, looking from one to the other of them, then she burst into tears.
‘There is no baby,’ she screamed. ‘Again, there is no baby!’
XI
‘She is resting, sire.’ Eleyne stood before the king as he sat pale and exhausted in the great chair before the fire. The household was subdued, even the hound, sensing his master’s depression, lay with his head on his paws, his eyes watchful. ‘My lady, Rhonwen, has given her a sleeping draught and the Lady Auda is watching over her.’
‘Sit down, Eleyne.’ The king’s voice was husky. ‘I am glad you were here when it happened. Her ladies cannot calm her.’
‘You mean it has happened before?’ Eleyne was appalled.
‘Once, yes. But not … not like this.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘She spends more and more time here at Kinghorn. The life of the court makes her unhappy; the sight of another woman’s belly beginning to swell makes her cry. I have told her again and again that it does not matter – but of course, it does matter. It matters a great deal. I thought at first the sight of you would send her mad. You are young and happy and can have a dozen bairns. I thought she would be jealous, but you won her round. Perhaps she sees that if you and John are there, all will be well with Scotland if anything should happen to me.’ He rubbed his chin wearily. ‘I don’t know what she will do when you do produce a baby.’ He said it thoughtfully, quietly, but there was a slight inflection at the end of the sentence which turned it to a question.
Eleyne stared into the fire: the flames were empty, there were no pictures now. ‘There has been no baby yet,’ she said at last.
The king said nothing. She could read his mind. Was she another barren wife; was Scotland’s line to die with her? She wanted urgently to tell him, tell him that she knew the future, but she remembered John’s warning and remained silent. It did not do to speak of such things, especially to a king.
* * *
The following evening Alexander summoned her again to his private room. He was seated at the broad oak table when she curtseyed in the doorway. Once more he was alone. Without a word he walked to the door and pushed it closed behind her. ‘You’ve seen the queen today?’
Eleyne nodded. ‘She is better.’ Joanna had been lying in the darkened room, staring at the ceiling. She had said nothing at all when Eleyne went to see her.
The king sighed. ‘By the Virgin, I wish she was! So, Lady Chester. What do I do?’ His eyes on hers were half sad, half quizzical.
She returned his gaze, trying to read his expression. ‘You must be gentle with her, sire. She is very unhappy.’
‘So am I, unhappy.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘And you, Eleyne. Are you unhappy too?’ His voice was very quiet.
She shook her head, not daring to breathe. Her fists, hidden in the folds of her mantle, were clenched so tightly her nails cut into the palms of her hands.
‘Do you have the letters I am to take to my father, sire?’ Her reply came out as a whisper.
Slowly he stood up and walked across to her. He was frowning as his hand came up and he t
ouched her cheek almost absentmindedly.
‘No.’ Shaking her head, she backed away from him and he let his hand fall. ‘I’ll have the letters for you tomorrow,’ he said quietly. ‘Leave me now.’
XII
She spent five days at Kinghorn. On the fifth day a messenger arrived with a letter from Eleyne’s sister Margaret. She read it with dismay. Their mother had returned to Aber, and as soon as she had arrived there she had had a relapse which had left her so weak that her life was feared for. Their sisters, Gwenllian and Angharad, were there with her, but Joan kept asking for Eleyne.
‘Don’t you see, I must go at once!’ Eleyne had found Joanna lying on her bed, still too listless to get up. The king had returned to Cupar two days before. He had gone without warning or explanation and until he went Eleyne had avoided him, remaining in her room or her aunt’s, suddenly acutely aware of Rhonwen’s watchful, puzzled gaze which followed her everywhere. She had not seen him again before he left.
‘No, don’t go. You must stay!’ Joanna sat up in agitation. Her hair was uncombed and her face pale and drawn.
‘I must, aunt. Mama is ill; she might be dying.’ Eleyne’s voice rose unsteadily. ‘Please, give me your good wishes for her and let me go.’
‘You can’t go, not without Alexander’s permission.’ Joanna lay back triumphantly. ‘The reason you are here was to see him, after all. You can’t just leave. He has letters and messages for you to carry.’ It was true.
Eleyne took a deep breath. ‘Then I must find him and ask him for them.’
Margaret’s messenger, riding hard, had taken several days to reach Kinghorn from Aber through the mud and heavy rain. Already it might be too late. Eleyne gave orders for her companions to pack. Despite Joanna’s pleas she had resolved to leave Kinghorn at once, find the king and ride south. Her need to see the king was solely to collect the letters for John and her father; she refused to countenance the idea that it was because she longed to see him before she left. That was unthinkable.
The roads were like quagmires, muddy and full of potholes, and the horses made slow progress. It was well past noon when they cantered into the burgh of Cupar and rode up the high street towards the castle.
The king was surrounded by petitioners as he sat on the dais in the great hall. For a moment Eleyne hovered on the outskirts of the crowd watching him, staring at his handsome face as, preoccupied, he spoke to the man who stood before him. With a sinking heart, she realised that he was talking to Lord Fife.
Cenydd had cleared a way for her to approach the king, and after a moment’s hesitation she walked forward. After all, Lord Fife could hardly accost her here, in front of his sovereign and hundreds of people.
When the king saw her, he broke off his conversation; he did not look pleased to see her. ‘Lady Chester?’
Her throat was constricted as she curtseyed before him. ‘Forgive me, sire, but I have to return to Wales. My mother is ill.’ Her voice faltered. ‘She is dying. I must cut short my visit.’
She saw a frown of irritation cross his face and she looked down miserably. Her visit was supposed to have been a private one to her aunt. Would people wonder why she had ridden miles in the wrong direction to say farewell to him? But it was too late now to worry about that. All she could think of, all she must think of was a speedy start towards the south.
The king had collected himself if she had not. ‘Forgive me, my lords. I would speak with Lady Chester before she leaves.’
She thought she was going to see him alone, and her heart began to beat wildly but, bowing, the men withdrew to the far end of the hall and waited. Alexander sat down again and held out his hand so that she had to move nearer to him. Their privacy was to be notional. No one could overhear their conversation, but they would not be alone. She was half disappointed, half relieved.
‘I have had no time to write letters,’ he said quietly. ‘You are going to have to remember what I tell you. Say to your father that I am going to wait. There is still a chance of a treaty with Henry and I have no wish to jeopardise that or the chance of a meeting with him next year. Visit us again in the spring, when I shall have revised my plans and decided what action needs to be taken. You can say the same to the earl marshal when you visit Margaret.’ He smiled. ‘I am sorry to hear of your mother’s illness. I shall pray for her.’
That was all. She waited a moment, searching his face, wondering if he were going to say something else, but already he had beckoned Lord Fife back to his side.
The earl smiled at her, his gaze running hungrily over her body as he bowed. ‘Lady Chester, I am sorry to hear you are leaving so soon. I had not realised you were in Scotland or I should have paid my respects much sooner.’
Eleyne stepped away from him. ‘I was on a private visit to my aunt, my lord. I did not intend to see anyone but her, and the king my uncle. Forgive me, but I am leaving now.’
‘Then let me ride with you.’ Lord Fife turned to the king and bowed. ‘Sire, may I escort your beautiful niece as far as the border? My business here is done and I should deem it an honour to go with her.’
Eleyne’s eyes flew to the king’s face, pleading. ‘Please, my lord, there is no need. I am going to be riding very fast …’
Alexander grinned: ‘You are sure you would not like an escort, Lady Chester? Lord Fife can move very fast when he wants to – ’
‘No. Thank you, your grace, but no.’ With a flash of impatient anger she realised he was laughing at her.
Alexander frowned. When she was with him the girl guarded her feelings most of the time, masking them with a cold, almost austere formality, but he had seen fury and disappointment in her eyes just then and, when she looked at Malcolm of Fife, cold hatred. Her volatility was captivating, as was the hint of longing he had caught in her eyes when she looked at him. She intrigued him, this beautiful niece of his wife’s; this woman he felt he had known for a thousand years. He found her more attractive than any woman he had met for a long time, and that was why he had left Kinghorn so abruptly. She was dangerous, she was forbidden fruit. Wife to his heir, daughter to his ally, niece to his enemy, and so close to him by marriage that even to think of her too much was incest.
He turned back to the earl, and looked at him coldly. The man was almost visibly panting. ‘Then I shall feel no guilt in asking Lord Fife to remain here. I have need of his services, and clearly you do not.’ He bowed with stiff formality. ‘Farewell, niece, and God go with you.’
XIII
ABER February 1237
In the bed which she had not left for many months, Joan grew weaker.
She had been lying there when Eleyne had arrived, exhausted and covered in mud from the long wet ride south from Scotland sixteen months before. The last few miles had been ridden by the light of flaring torches, hissing and spitting as the rain sizzled on the slow-burning resin, and Eleyne’s fear that her mother would be dead before they got there had grown with every mile as Aber drew closer.
In the event, Joan had been well enough to welcome her youngest daughter, and she had seemed stronger than they had dared hope.
They stayed only a few weeks, returning to Chester after Martinmas, and in the spring Eleyne was able to convey her messages to Alexander’s sisters at last. As she and John rode around England, they found themselves several times in King Henry’s presence, as the court moved from Westminster to Windsor, to Winchester and Northampton. It was at Nottingham that letters caught up with them, informing them that Joan had had a relapse, and they had ridden west once more. There had been two more visits as her health began to decline faster and now they had made the journey through hard-packed snow and icy winds to the princess’s bedside for the last time.
They were all there, Joan’s six children: Dafydd, with Isabella, Margaret, Gwenllian, Gwladus, Angharad and Eleyne, and the end was very near.
Rhonwen sat at the table, her nimble fingers sorting through the candles, counting under her breath. There were some missing. There had been a hu
ndred in the candle box, enough for two days more at this, the darkest time of the year, and she had been about to order another gross to be sent up from the storeroom beneath the ty hir. Now there were enough for only one more day. She watched the boy walking round the room lifting the candle stumps from the prickets with his knife and tossing them into his leather bucket, and she frowned. The wax candle ends were a valuable perquisite of the household officials; stolen candles were another matter. The thief had to be found. Pursing her lips, she closed the lid of the box and stood up. There was no supervision in the llys; no order. Senena was at Criccieth with Gruffydd, and as for Isabella – she shook her head as she searched for the missing key to the candle box – Isabella was still a child, alternately spoiled and berated by her husband, disliked by the servants, as poisonous as a snake and as little use.
She found the key where it had obviously lain for many months, in the stale rushes beneath the coffer. Eleyne would have to give some orders to the servants or somehow shame Isabella into supervising the royal household.
It was strange, but Eleyne, the youngest by far of all the daughters, was the most composed now that Joan’s death was near. And that, Rhonwen had decided, was because her mind was elsewhere. It was still, as it had been for the last sixteen months, in Scotland.
The visit to Kinghorn had told her all she wanted to know. Listening and watching in the shadows, Rhonwen had seen it all. She loved him! Her child, her Eleyne, loved the King of Scots! It had been so obvious: the blushes, the stammering, the defiance, the interviews alone and unchaperoned, the stolen glances, the sleepless nights when Rhonwen in the truckle bed had heard her sigh and toss and turn. She had got it all wrong. It was not the Earl of Chester the girl loved at all. She had saved his life to no purpose. Rhonwen had spent a great deal of time thinking over the implications of her realisation, then slowly, over the long months, she began to plan.
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