He stood up and walked to the window. ‘Does de Quincy know it isn’t his?’
‘Yes.’
There was a long silence. ‘How long did he intend to leave you here?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps forever.’
The king stayed four days and they were happy days. They walked around the island, they lay together on the bed and he kissed her belly and her breasts and, again, her poor sore face and hands. But when it was time to go he left her there. ‘The castle is in my custody now. You shall have food and wine and servants and guards to keep you safe from de Quincy and his men.’ He paused. ‘It is safer for you here, Eleyne.’
An image of the queen arose unacknowledged between them and she nodded. ‘I don’t want to leave, not now. Not until the baby is born and my face is better.’
To allay her fears, he had sent for a Venetian glass mirror and she spent hours staring at her face, tiptoeing with her fingers around the scars. She wept and Annie had scolded her. ‘They’ll go, I promise. See the ointment I’ve made? It softens the skin and soothes it. It will get better.’
XV
Lord Fife brought Rhonwen back three days after the king left. He brought Eleyne gifts too: lengths of rich silk; ivory combs for her hair as it grew back and a small book of hours. He kissed her hands and left.
Eight weeks later her baby was born. Rhonwen, Janet and Annie attended her and her labour was quick and easy. A priest, brought over from Kinross, baptised the baby John.
He lived only seven hours.
BOOK THREE
1244–1250
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I
LONDON 1244
The house in Gracechurch Street was very dark. Outside, the sky was black; thunder echoed across the narrow court and the rain poured down, splashing into the puddles and racing down the central gutter carrying a tide of rubbish with it. Though it was noon, the house was lit by candles.
Robert de Quincy was standing by the table. In his hand was a document which bore the seal of the King of England.
Eleyne, standing by the fireplace, was staring at it, but she had made no move to take it.
Robert laid it on the table. ‘There you are. As I promised. The king’s permission to visit your brother Gruffydd in the Tower.’
‘Thank you.’
Her hair had grown back with silver streaks amongst the red-gold, even though she was only twenty-six years old, but her curls were as rampant as ever. Her face was still beautiful; there were scars on her forehead partially concealed by her head-dress, another at the corner of her mouth; one hand was badly marked with tight shiny red scars across the back of her knuckles.
This was only the second time he had seen her in three years. King Henry had made it clear Robert was not to go to Fotheringhay; he had not asked what Henry knew or where the pressure came from to leave Eleyne alone. For a long time he had gone in terror of his life, then, slowly, the fear had receded and he had stopped gazing over his shoulder, expecting a dirk in his back. He had come now to the dowager Countess of Chester’s town house by invitation, to deliver the king’s letter, and at least until he had actually confronted Eleyne at last he had regained something of his old swagger. Now, looking at her cold face, he was not quite so confident.
‘Are you well?’ He smiled tentatively.
‘Yes.’
‘I’d better leave.’ He had come as a messenger, to test the water, thinking to win her favour by arranging for her to see Gruffydd. Her face was not encouraging, as she walked over to the table and picked up the document.
‘Eleyne – ’
‘Please go now.’ Her voice was colourless. She folded her arms, holding the letter across her chest tightly, like a shield.
He shrugged and walking towards the door he opened it, then he hesitated. He turned. ‘Greet your brother from me.’
She made no response. For a long time after he had gone she did not move.
II
THE TOWER OF LONDON March 1244
Either by accident or design the date of the visit to the Tower had been arranged for St David’s Day. Eleyne and Rhonwen found Gruffydd housed in some comfort in one of the private apartments in the White Tower. He waited until the guard had withdrawn before he spoke.
‘Eleyne. At last. How are you, little sister?’
Eleyne stared. Her handsome, red-haired brother was a travesty of his former self: he had grown very fat and he was balding.
‘For pity’s sake, Gruffydd, what have they done to you?’ She threw herself into his arms.
‘The old stomach, you mean? That’ll soon go, girl, when I’m free. You’ll see. Senena called me fifty different names last time she came to see me.’ His face saddened. ‘God, how I miss them! But I’m glad they’ve gone. It was no life for them here. Have you seen her and the boys?’
Owain was still with him in captivity; the others were with Senena at Criccieth.
‘It’s no place for anyone here!’ Eleyne retorted. ‘No, I haven’t seen them. I haven’t been back to Gwynedd since papa died.’
‘So you haven’t seen our beloved brother then?’ Gruffydd’s voice was harsh.
‘No, I’ve not seen anyone.’
Rhonwen had retreated to sit on the window seat which was furnished with cushions; there were hangings on the walls, a table, benches and stools and a chair near the fire. On the table amongst the candlesticks she could see all the paraphernalia for passing the time: a game of chess, abandoned halfway through; parchment and pens, books, a little leather box of dice and several empty wine goblets.
‘Gruffydd, how could you stay here? What has happened to you? How can you live without riding and laughing and fighting?’
‘I have no choice.’ He put his arm around her. ‘I live here because I’m a prisoner, little sister. You know that as well as I do, and you know why. Because of the treachery of our brother!’ His voice was full of bitterness. ‘But we don’t want to talk about me. Tell me about yourself. Why aren’t you in Scotland?’
‘Alexander doesn’t want me any more. I bore him two sons, Gruffydd, and they both died. What use am I to him?’ Her voice was husky and she turned away.
He frowned. ‘I thought he loved you, cariad.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her back to face him. ‘He has a wife to breed for him. He wanted you for love, did he not?’ He was looking into her face with enormous compassion. ‘Have you not seen him at all?’
She shook her head wordlessly.
He had sent messages and gifts, but she had been too sunk in misery to acknowledge them when he did not come himself. She wanted him, not gifts. Two weeks after little John’s burial she had left Loch Leven Castle and begun the long ride south. He had sent no one to stop her.
She had ridden back to England in a daze, unaware of the countryside around her, her face swathed in a black veil. When she reached Fotheringhay she had gone to her bedchamber and begun her mourning for her children and for her love.
It had never occurred to her that Robert might appear at Fotheringhay, and he had not done so, for which she thanked the gods nightly. She did not wonder where he was or who kept him away, it was enough that he did not come. Comforted by her dog and her horses and by the quiet beauty of the countryside, she had recovered. She rode and walked and once more took up the reins of running what estates were left to her as dower lands.
Alexander sent her more gifts and letters there, but she had never replied. He had not come himself, he had left her to mourn alone. Her pride would not allow her to beg him to come, and now it was too late. However much she longed to throw herself into his arms, she couldn’t rid herself of the lump of ice which seemed to fill her heart; the thought of her tiny John, lying so still and white in his royal cradle, devastated her every time she let herself think about Scotland and Scotland’s king.
There had been no word of Robert until that night when she had been on a visit to London to see Luned and her brood of noisy, happy children when she had rec
eived the letter from him saying that he had interceded for her with King Henry so that she could visit Gruffydd, something Henry had steadfastly refused to allow before.
‘Have you written to Alexander? Or sent him a message?’ Gruffydd persisted gently.
‘If he wants me he knows where to find me.’
‘Perhaps he is waiting to see if you want him?’
She considered the idea, then she smiled. ‘I don’t think so. He has a wife now to keep him amused.’ She broke away from Gruffydd and walked across to the table. She studied the chessboard, then she picked up one of the carved ivory pieces and moved it thoughtfully. ‘We are a pair of miserable fools, aren’t we?’ she said slowly.
‘Looks like it.’ He grinned.
‘I, at least, have an excuse,’ she went on. ‘You do not. Look at the state you are in, Gruffydd. How could you allow yourself to become such a passive victim? How can you stand by and watch Henry inherit Gwynedd if Isabella never gives Dafydd a son? Don’t you care about your inheritance any more? Doesn’t Owain? Don’t you owe it to him? And to Llywelyn and Rhodri and Dafydd to get out of here?’ Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Don’t do that to them, Gruffydd. You seem to have few guards. If I had been you, I would have long since escaped. Or do you really like this fat living?’ She tapped his stomach so sharply he winced. ‘I’m surprised at you, brother, I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Wales needs you there, not mouldering away in London!’
He flushed angrily. ‘What am I supposed to do? They keep the doors locked and bolted and didn’t you notice that there are guards? This is the king’s fortress, Eleyne! I’m not here for my health. I’m a prisoner of state!’
‘There are no bars on the window. Go that way!’ she retorted. ‘Think of something! Other people have escaped from the Tower. The boys won’t even remember their father at this rate.’ She sat down crossly on one of the carved stools.
He smiled. ‘Same old Eleyne. Still a firebrand.’
‘No, not any more. I just live in the country with my horses and my dogs like a sturdy yeoman.’
Gruffydd laughed out loud. ‘My yeoman sister! And she dares to criticise me for growing fat!’
‘I am criticising you for giving up.’
‘And what have you done, Eleyne?’ He was goaded into retaliation. ‘You have resigned yourself to living alone, leaving your lover to his shrewish wife! You take no part in politics. You have not even been sufficiently interested in what Dafydd is doing to visit him since he inherited my lands.’ He had grown red with anger.
Through the window they could hear the ravens croaking far below in the courtyard, as they fluttered over the carcass of a dead dog. In their cages nearby two leopards prowled restlessly as they smelled the blood. Rhonwen was studying her fingernails as brother and sister faced each other with sudden hostility.
‘I have no lover,’ she whispered at last.
‘Did he say that?’
‘No, but – ’
‘Eleyne, go to him.’ He sat down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘I’ll make a pact with you – I’ll try if you’ll try. I’ll wager a hundred pounds that I can be eating my dinner at Criccieth with Senena before you sit on your lover’s knee at Roxburgh.’
She smiled. ‘I don’t have a hundred pounds, Gruffydd.’
‘Nor do I. Sixpence, then, sixpence and a kiss.’
He waited, watching her face, trying to read her thoughts as she stared into the fire.
It had been so long since she had allowed herself any hope; so long since she had allowed herself to think about Alexander at all without the tiny pale figures of her babies coming between them, but now, as she sat in Gruffydd’s chamber in the Tower, she felt a glimmer of optimism.
Gruffydd saw it and smiled. ‘We’re fighters, you and I, and we’ve both forgotten it,’ he said softly.
In the window embrasure Rhonwen listened intently. Gruffydd was succeeding where she had failed. She held her breath, not daring to move lest she break their mood.
‘I suppose it would do no harm to ride north and see.’ Eleyne’s heart had begun to beat rapidly.
‘No harm at all.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘And we must both set off on our journeys within the week. That is part of the wager. By God, Eleyne, you’re good for me. You’re right, I have accepted captivity like a capon waiting for the cook. I’ll go! I’ll go back to Wales and fight for what is mine.’ He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, then he hugged her so tightly she gasped for breath. ‘We won’t meet again here in London.’ He held her at arm’s length, suddenly serious. ‘God bless you, little sister, and keep you safe and happy.’
‘And you, brother.’ Eleyne kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll come again to Wales and bring you the King of Scotland’s greetings.’
‘Done!’ Gruffydd spat on his palm and smacked it against hers.
III
GRACECHURCH STREET, LONDON
Now that she had allowed herself to think about Alexander, Eleyne could think of nothing else. Her whole being ached with longing. Some part of her which had been walled off in misery had come alive again.
‘So, at last you have come to your senses,’ Rhonwen remarked. ‘How I bless the Lord Gruffydd for talking some sense into you.’
‘Do you think Alexander will still want me?’ Eleyne wavered and her hand went unconsciously to her temple, where the worst of her scars still showed beneath the soft loops of her hair. Was that her real reason for not facing him again? Her terror of what he would say when he saw her scars?
‘Of course he will want you,’ Rhonwen said. ‘I guarantee it. The love he has for you is something very special. I have never seen a man so in love.’
‘Then why didn’t he come after me?’ Eleyne moved to the mirror, studying her face, something she very rarely did. She touched her forehead with her fingertips. The scars had faded: in the evening, in the candlelight they hardly showed at all. Did they make her look ugly? She tried to view them dispassionately, as a man would, assessing them in a way she had not brought herself to do before … but she could not judge. The scars which hurt were inside her.
Would he still want her? She stared into her own eyes seeking an answer, and found none. Instinctively she glanced across at the fire. But there was no answer there either.
‘He didn’t follow you because he respects you too much. He wanted what you wanted, even if it destroyed him to wait,’ Rhonwen said softly. ‘But he has waited, and he has never given up hope.’
‘How do you know?’ Eleyne turned from the mirror and looked at her.
‘I just know.’ Rhonwen smiled enigmatically, her eyes still with that strange feral blankness which had lurked in them since her experience in the loch. ‘Alexander of Scotland is one of the few men I have ever admired unreservedly; the only man I have ever met who deserves my Eleyne. Unlike that filth who is your husband.’
Eleyne smiled. ‘I wonder if you like Alexander because he is a king.’
Rhonwen grinned. For a moment she focused totally on Eleyne’s face and Eleyne felt something of her old warmth. ‘It helps,’ she said candidly. ‘But above all he is a man of honour. He will be waiting for you if you have the courage to go to him – and you have the courage.’
‘Yes, I think I do at last.’
‘And to win your brother’s bet we must go soon.’
‘I think I can afford to lose sixpence …’
But Rhonwen was shaking her head. ‘No, no, we must go at once. Don’t you see, he might try to stop you!’
‘Gruffydd?’
‘No, not Gruffydd, de Quincy!’ Rhonwen’s voice hardened. ‘He has seen you again. You have spoken to him. He has remembered you and he has the king’s ear. Don’t trust him, cariad, he will try to get you back. I’m sure of it!’ Her eyes burned with fury. She had not seen Robert when he came to see Eleyne but she had sensed him there, his presence like a loathsome wart in the house she still thought of as hers. ‘Let me start packing. Let’s go soon. What i
s there to wait for?’
For a moment Eleyne was silent, then she nodded. What was there to wait for? She wanted Alexander, she wanted him so badly she could not imagine how she had lived without him all this time.
IV
THE TOWER
Gruffydd peered at the courtyard three storeys below. In the soft moonlight the cobbles looked like beaten earth, the shadows black holes in the wall. It was at night that the animals in the king’s menagerie grew restless; in the silence he could hear the snarling of a leopard. It was at night too that the fetid air from the moat and the cold mud smell of the river merged with the cooler winds and sometimes, through the high window, he imagined he could smell the cold clean winds of Yr Wyddfa.
He turned to look at his companions as they sat before the fire, the chessboard between them: two Welsh men, Ion and Emrys, who had loyally volunteered with so many others to share his exile and his imprisonment and with them his eldest son, Owain.
Eleyne’s visit had made him restless. When she had gone he had stood a long time looking down out of this same window, to see if he could catch a glimpse of her as she left the Tower. Had he ever intended to try to keep his part of the wager, or had he done it to goad her into going after some happiness in a bleak world? He wasn’t sure. He had hated to see her so unhappy, and he had guessed that one of the real reasons for her reluctance to go back to Scotland was her fear of Alexander seeing her scars. But they were nothing. Court beauties he had seen in Henry’s apartments had worse disfigurements by far than the marks he had seen on her face. They added, if anything, to the quirky nature of his spirited sister’s beauty. He did not know if Alexander still loved her, but she had to find out and, if she wanted him, fight for him!
He sighed. He used to be a fighter, but the mood had gone. There was so much against him: his father’s wishes, Dafydd’s success, and now the combination of Dafydd and Henry of England. His fate seemed inescapable.
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