‘It was ever so, cariad.’ Rhonwen wrinkled her nose fastidiously at the metaphor.
‘I won’t do it!’ Eleyne swept back to the table where Rhonwen was sitting and stood glaring down at her. ‘I’d rather die!’
‘You don’t mean that, it’s not you that should die; it’s the man who lets himself be mated with you when he knows you’re unwilling.’ Rhonwen paused, her eyes hard, then she shook her head. ‘He must be a great man, to be married to the Countess of Chester – a prince at least.’
‘There are no princes who are not related within the prohibited degree.’ Eleyne paced the floor again. ‘How could he do this to me? Why does he keep it a secret? Surely I should be told whom he has chosen, or is he too afraid to tell me? Is he afraid what I will do when I find out whom he has selected?’
Outside the castle walls the town was busy; the noises of the street drifted up to the windows of the keep, and with them the stench of refuse. The long August days were unremittingly hot; there was disease in the merchants’ quarter and night after night the sound of fighting drifted up from the town as men’s tempers grew short.
Eleyne’s hand had healed, leaving only two small red scars across the knuckles of two fingers. Her grief for John was contained now, sealed deep within herself, buried beneath the worry and frustration which grew daily. Day after day she paced the floor of the solar or walked in the small garden within the inner walls – ten paces towards the setting sun, four paces back and forth north and south, the flower-strewn grass bank which bordered it long turned to grey barren dust. Beyond the castle walls the river ran low between its banks, the mud shining briefly as the tide receded, then cracking open like a desert.
The trees outside the walls began to look jaded and the leaves yellowed. Peter de Mungumery returned from his survey of the estates of Huntingdon and closeted himself with Lord Lincoln and his justice and chamberlain, Richard de Draycott and Richard de Gatesden, and her old antagonist, Stephen Seagrave, for hours in the castle scriptorium. Eleyne was neither consulted nor told the outcome of their deliberations. Her haughty enquiries were treated with tolerant scorn and tight-lipped silence. September came, then October. The drought broke at last and torrential rain turned the dusty roads and fields to quagmires within hours. At last, with the first gales from the west, came news of Eleyne’s husband-to-be.
John de Lacy never summoned her to the great hall. Instead he would beg for her presence there, sending messengers who would let it be known that they would wait until she came. He and Stephen Seagrave sat in the two great chairs on the dais, near the fire; Peter de Mungumery stood near. As Eleyne walked towards them, followed by two of her ladies, they both rose. She walked calmly to the earl’s chair, vacated by John de Lacy, and sat down, eyeing them with distaste.
‘You wished to see me, gentlemen?’
The castle shook with the strength of the wind, shutters rattling, doors banging back and forth on the latch, the floor coverings stirring and whispering, wall hangings billowing uneasily. Everywhere, the fires smoked unpleasantly.
De Lacy bowed. ‘The king has sent news at last, my lady. The accusations of murder against you have been dropped.’ He paused. ‘The king has found someone, it seems, who is prepared to take you, even with the suspicion unresolved. Your marriage is to be celebrated here, next month, on Martinmas Eve.’
Eleyne felt her stomach tighten but she kept her face impassive. ‘Indeed. And I am to be told the name of my husband-to-be?’
‘Of course, madam.’ De Lacy could not keep the triumph out of his eyes. ‘It is someone I know well. The king’s letter informs me that this – gentleman,’ he paused, ‘is to be knighted next week by the king himself. It is none other than my late father-in-law’s brother, Robert de Quincy.’
‘His youngest brother,’ Stephen Seagrave put in softly. ‘A young man of about your own age, I believe, madam.’
Eleyne stared incredulously from one man to the other: ‘I am to be married to the youngest son of an earl, a man with no title?’
‘You will, of course, under the circumstances, keep your late husband’s title, madam …’
‘A man not yet knighted –’ she swept on without heeding him.
‘He will have his knighthood before the wedding,’ Stephen added reassuringly. He was enjoying this. ‘His grace has asked me to give you a loan, madam, of fifty marks to buy finery for the wedding. Just until the sum of your dower has been agreed. I understand Robert has little or no wealth of his own.’
Eleyne looked at him coldly. ‘I don’t even know this Robert de Quincy – ’
‘No, madam, though he is of course a brother-in-law to your late husband’s Aunt Hawise. I believe he serves his elder brother, the present Earl of Winchester. They have been much in Scotland in the service of King Alexander. As you know, Lord Winchester’s wife, Elena, brought with her the office of Constable of Scotland. I am sure the King of the Scots will heartily approve the match.’
‘No.’ Eleyne shook her head slowly. ‘No, he will not approve it. I will be disparaged by this marriage, sir. I am a princess of Wales. It is unthinkable that I should marry a man with no title.’ She rose to her feet.
The men rose too, and Stephen did not attempt to hide his smirk of triumph. ‘The king, your uncle, feels the match is a good one, madam,’ he said smoothly. ‘It will please the Earl of Winchester greatly.’
‘So that’s it.’ Eleyne’s eyes blazed. ‘I am to be given to this … this nobody, to win the Earl of Winchester’s support for my uncle!’
‘So it would seem,’ Stephen nodded, smiling openly at the Earl of Lincoln. ‘And of course, it will remind the Prince of Gwynedd that he is no more than a vassal of the King of England. Prince David also needs to be reminded of that fact occasionally, I gather.’
Eleyne stared at the earl, speechless with indignation. ‘Have you thought what my father and my brothers will do when they hear this news?’
John de Lacy shrugged, ‘They will do nothing, madam. I guarantee it.’
VIII
CHESTER November 1237
‘He’s arrived.’ Nesta had stationed herself in the window embrasure at first light. A large, ungainly woman, her wild brown hair barely restrained by her coif, Nesta had been born and bred in Chester and in service in the city since she was twelve. To serve the Countess of Chester was honour indeed. ‘Are you going down to the great hall to greet him?’
‘I am not.’ Eleyne’s fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.
‘You’ll have to go when they summon you.’
‘Not unless they carry me.’ Eleyne sat back in her chair, staring at the small fire in the hearth. It was three weeks since she had been told the date of her marriage; three weeks since she had seen Luned or Rhonwen or any of her own servants. When she returned from her interview with John de Lacy and his colleagues, she had found she was a prisoner indeed, not allowed beyond the walls of her solar and the bedchamber. Worse, she was to be waited on by strangers, employed for the purpose. There had been no chance to send letters to her father, whose impotent fury at hearing the name of her proposed husband had nearly caused a second seizure, or to Scotland. There was no possibility of escape, no way of finding out what had happened to her companions. There was nothing she could do; she was helpless.
‘If that’s him, on the horse in the front, he’s ever so handsome,’ Nesta went on from her viewpoint in the embrasure. ‘There, he’s dismounted now. Tall, he is taller than the groom. He’s very dark, swarthy, I’d say …’
‘Come away from the window!’ Eleyne commanded sharply, ‘and get on with your sewing. We are not peasants to run and stare.’ Her mouth was dry with fear; her throat constricted.
Nesta ignored her. ‘He hasn’t got many attendants. There are only four menservants and one wagon. I expect that’s your wedding gifts. He’s coming towards the keep now, and he’s, yes, he’s looking up.’ She giggled shrilly. ‘I think he saw me.’
‘I’m sure he d
id.’ Eleyne’s voice was icy. ‘Close the shutter at once and come away from the window.’
When the invitation to the great hall for supper came Eleyne declined. Minutes later Stephen Seagrave arrived, panting slightly, pushing past the servant at the door.
‘I am sorry to hear you have a headache, madam; however on this occasion I think you must ignore it. Your betrothed has arrived and he would like to meet you.’
‘I am sure he would,’ Eleyne replied quietly, ‘but I feel I must disappoint him.’
‘You mean, you refuse?’
‘I mean, I refuse.’
‘You will have to meet him tomorrow at the wedding ceremony.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Eleyne had not looked at him. ‘I have already told you, I will not marry Robert de Quincy.’
‘Indeed you will, madam,’ Stephen spoke through clenched teeth, ‘it is the king’s command.’
She smiled faintly. ‘I think not. If his grace wishes me to marry, he must tell me so himself. I will not take his messages from a lackey.’
She had still not looked at him and missed the glitter of hatred in his eye.
‘Oh, I think you will find lackeys …’ he paused as if to contain his anger, ‘have methods of making you obey them, my lady. Lord Lincoln has given me authority to use any method I choose to persuade you, so that he is not embarrassed before his wife’s uncle.’ He said it so quietly she could barely hear his words. ‘Make no mistake about it, you will be in the chapel tomorrow for the nuptial mass after you have made your vows.’
‘You’ve made him very angry,’ Nesta whispered as he closed the door behind him.
‘I don’t care.’ Eleyne closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. ‘The man is a fool.’
‘I don’t think so, my lady.’ Nesta had grown fond of Eleyne in the three weeks she had served her, and she had not liked the look on Stephen’s face.
IX
Robert de Quincy had found the ride to Chester painfully slow because of the wagon, and he was tired and bored. But it had been worth it. Unconsciously, he licked his lips. His bride-to-be was beautiful, young, rich and of the highest rank, so the king had informed him, in person. A forty-pound gift from the royal wardrobe had allowed him to order new clothes, a fine brooch for his mantle, two pairs of soft leather boots – and his hair and beard had been freshly barbered only this morning. Any future clothes he wanted, the king had assured him, would be paid for by Lady Chester.
That the marriage had been arranged by the king with cold impersonal calculation mattered to him not a bit. He put that firmly to the back of his mind. What mattered now was that Eleyne of Chester, and her dower, would soon be his.
He had looked up at the steps of the keep, expecting to see her waiting for him, but two soberly gowned men stood in the doorway. He could see no women at all, save the servants who scurried around the courtyard. He scanned the windows in the high wall. She was probably there, peeping, dying to see what her new husband was like. Smiling to himself, he swaggered slightly as he began to climb the stairs.
Stephen Seagrave bowed as the young man came level with him. ‘Sir Robert, you are welcome to Chester. I have sent a messenger to inform the countess of your arrival.’ He had summed the young man up at a glance: shallow, vain, and probably with an overdeveloped sense of his own worth as a result of his impending marriage. Stephen smiled grimly to himself; the introduction of the bride and groom would be a shock to both.
Robert grinned at him amiably. He accepted a cup of wine and walked into the great chamber, staring around. The king had never said as much, but it was possible, very possible, that when he realised what a worthy young man Robert was, he would elevate him as Earl of Chester and make him lord of all this. Another servant was whispering in Seagrave’s ear, and the man’s face darkened with anger. Without a word to Robert, he strode out of the hall.
Robert drank his wine and put down the pewter goblet. He walked back and forth a couple of times. Where was Seagrave? And more to the point, where was his bride? He felt his temper rising, he had expected a better welcome than this.
‘Sir Robert!’ When Seagrave at last returned, he looked angry. ‘I’m sorry. It appears that Lady Chester has a headache and doesn’t feel able to come down this evening.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘Her ladyship is an arrogant young woman, Sir Robert, used to getting her own way. She is not pleased, it seems, with his grace’s choice of husband for her.’ His eyes gleamed maliciously and his words were audible throughout the hall.
Robert’s mouth dropped open – he was too astonished to speak. Then his face suffused with anger.
‘Are you telling me she refuses to meet me?’ His voice was very quiet. He was conscious of the men and women around them. In the crowd someone sniggered.
Stephen Seagrave eyed him coldly and Robert received the clear impression that he was enjoying the young man’s discomfort.
‘As I said, she is an arrogant young woman, with an exaggerated view of her own importance. I feel sure she will benefit enormously from the security and mastery that a strong husband will provide.’ He eyed Robert, then looked away with a dismissive shrug. ‘She will be at the wedding, Sir Robert, I promise you.’
‘I am very glad to hear it.’ The suppressed fury in Robert’s voice was almost tangible. ‘And once we are married, I shall have to teach my wife some manners, which is not what I expected to have to do to so great a lady.’ He seized his goblet from the table. ‘Wine!’ he shouted at the staring servants, ‘wine and then supper and tomorrow we have a wedding!’
X
Eleyne was woken next morning at first light and, still in her bed gown, was summoned from the bedchamber into the solar where the fire had just been lit. It flared brightly, without warmth. Stephen was sitting in her chair in front of it and with him were two men-at-arms. Between them stood Rhonwen. There were chains on her wrists.
Stephen squinted up at Eleyne, taking in her long flowing hair, her bare throat and the cleavage of white bosom where she clutched the gown around her.
‘Good morning, my lady.’ He smiled. ‘I have come to wait for you. When you are dressed in your wedding finery, we shall go down together to the chapel where Sir Robert is expecting you.’
Eleyne had gasped at the sight of Rhonwen. ‘What is Lady Rhonwen doing here? Why is she in chains?’
Stephen inclined his head. ‘Oh come, my lady, you are an intelligent woman. Surely I do not have to spell it out for you? Lady Rhonwen is wanted by the authorities on charges of murder, necromancy and poisoning. She is implicated too, I understand, in the charges against you. I would be doing everyone a service if I hanged her without further delay …’
Rhonwen caught her breath in terror and Stephen smiled more broadly. ‘Exactly. I could be persuaded to spare her life, but only after you have been through the marriage ceremony.’
Eleyne glared at him. ‘This is unspeakable – ’
‘It is your doing, my lady. Had you agreed to obey your king, I should have had no need to use such a lever. Make ready.’ He turned to one of the men-at-arms who produced a coil of rope. He proceeded to throw one end over one of the ceiling beams and the other he knotted into a noose. Deftly he slipped it over Rhonwen’s head.
Eleyne ran towards him, but the man pushed her back.
‘No! You can’t do this!’
‘I can, my lady.’ Stephen narrowed his eyes. ‘But I won’t, if you obey me. Go now and put on your wedding gown.’ His voice had lost its customary quietness and was harsh.
Rhonwen’s face was grey; she had not said a word.
Eleyne stared at her in despair, then slowly turned towards the bedchamber. ‘I shall expect to see that rope gone and the chains removed before I come back into this room.’
Stephen laughed mockingly. ‘I am afraid you expect in vain, madam. The rope will be removed after your vows are made and not before.’
The gown was cloth of silver. She had refused to allow it to be fitted so it hung loosely aro
und her waist, but the effect was one of ethereal beauty as Eleyne walked across the inner court to the door of the chapel where the bishop was waiting to celebrate the marriage.
Her husband-to-be was also dressed in silver, with a scarlet-lined cloak over his mantle. He was indeed tall, taller than Eleyne, and very slim, his dark face austerely handsome beneath a heavy black beard, his eyes a clear nut-brown. He gazed at her for a long minute, his face cold.
‘Madam.’ He held out his hand. Eleyne inclined her head. Her hand, when she gave it to him, was ice-cold.
The vows took only a few minutes, then they processed into the chapel and stood side by side before the altar. Eleyne was numb. She had looked only once at her husband: his eyes had been alight with greed.
After the mass Eleyne stopped on the steps of the chapel. The procession which had formed behind them stopped too. She withdrew her hand from her husband’s arm and turned to Stephen Seagrave, who stood immediately behind the Earl and Countess of Lincoln.
‘Send Rhonwen to me. Now.’
Stephen bowed. ‘All in good time, my lady …’
‘Now,’ she repeated, her voice icy. ‘I do not move from here until she comes to me.’
Robert turned a speculative look on his new wife, but said nothing.
Stephen hesitated. He glanced at Lord Lincoln and raised an eyebrow. Receiving an imperceptible nod, he turned back to Eleyne. ‘Very well. It serves no purpose to detain her any longer. Fetch her.’ He snapped the order at one of the clerks standing near him.
The procession remained where it was in the freezing November wind. Eleyne was so cold she could barely feel her hands or feet, but still she did not move. Her head held high she stood without looking at her husband. Behind her, the chapel congregation waited, whispering among themselves.
When Rhonwen appeared, the chains had been removed. She was pale but smiling.
‘Now. Perhaps we can go in to the wedding feast?’ John de Lacy said, his voice pained.
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