Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Not until I’ve seen my son born.’ His voice was calm, but she did not hear him. She had thrown herself back against the pillows, grabbing at the twisted sheet which had been tied to the bedpost for her to pull. Alice put a cloth soaked in coriander in Eleyne’s hand and encouraged her to put it to her face. ‘Breathe it in, my lady, breathe in the fumes. They’ll make it easier.’

  ‘If the child’s legs are across the way to freedom, it will never come and they will both die.’ The old woman shook her head gloomily. ‘I’ve turned babies before, my lady, you’d do best to let me see.’ Elbowing Alice aside at last she pulled back the sheets and began to feel with surprising gentleness beneath Eleyne’s bloodstained shift. ‘No,’ tis a normal birth, Blessed Mother be praised. I can feel the head. It won’t be long now.’ She wiped her fingers fastidiously on the corner of the sheet and looked down at Eleyne as she lay in an exhausted doze. ‘This child will live, my dear, and grow tall and healthy.’ She put her hand on Eleyne’s forehead. ‘A few more pushes, my lady, and she will be born.’

  ‘She?’ Eleyne’s eyes flickered open.

  The woman gave a fruity chuckle. ‘I’d lay money on it,’ she said.

  Twenty minutes later the baby was born. Robert stepped forward. ‘My son!’ he said exultantly.

  ‘Your daughter, sir.’ Alice held the naked child aloft, the pulsating cord still dangling from its belly.

  Robert’s face darkened. ‘But I wanted a son!’ He stepped back in disgust.

  ‘We get what God sends us!’ Alice handed the baby to the old woman.

  Eleyne lying exhausted on the bed turned her head slowly towards him. ‘It takes a man to father a son,’ she whispered hoarsely.

  ‘And you think I am not a man?’ Robert’s voice was dangerously low. He stepped forward threateningly. ‘You contrived this. To spite me! You with your spells and your foresight. Well, you will be sorry, my lady, very sorry.’ He looked as though he would hit her.

  Alice stepped between him and the bed. ‘My lady must sleep now, sir. You can see how tired she is …’ She folded her arms in a gesture so adamant that Robert stopped, then turned on his heel.

  Eleyne did not want the child. She turned her head away and closed her eyes and Alice beckoned forward the wetnurse who had been waiting.

  The old woman who had stood watching as they cleaned Eleyne’s torn and aching body and changed the stinking sheets sat down on the bed. ‘I told you. She will live.’

  ‘The others died.’ Tears slid down Eleyne’s cheeks. ‘My two little boys. I watched them die in my arms.’ She had wanted them; prayed for them; planned for them. And all for nothing.

  ‘Look, my lady.’ The old woman took the swaddled baby from the nurse. ‘See, it’s you she wants, bless her. See her tiny face. She’ll be a beauty, this child of yours.’

  ‘If she lives.’ Eleyne’s eyes were closed.

  ‘She will live.’ The woman’s voice was so forceful that everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and stared.

  Eleyne opened her eyes and the woman thrust the baby at her, folding Eleyne’s limp arms around her. ‘She is your child, my lady, yours,’ she whispered. ‘What does the father matter? She is of your blood, your body. It’s your love she wants.’

  Almost unwillingly, Eleyne found herself looking down at the swaddled bundle in her arms. The fuzz of hair on the baby’s head was dark, the eyes, which looked directly and unblinkingly into hers, a deep midnight blue. Involuntarily, her arms tightened and, without knowing she had done it, she bent to nuzzle the small soft head.

  Three days later as she slept, with the baby beside her in its carved cradle, Robert rode out of the castle and took the road south. He had waited only for the baptism. His daughter had been named Joanna.

  VIII

  ROXBURGH CASTLE

  Marie de Couci waited until her husband’s chancellor had left the room, followed by the clerks and servants of the chancellery. Alexander looked up at her and waited. He was weary after an afternoon of intense discussion; he wanted food and wine and relaxation. His wife’s expression was smug, and he felt his heart sink. Why did she take such an unholy pleasure in bad news? No doubt it was bad news.

  ‘So, my dear, you have something to tell me.’

  Marie looked at the floor, her expression veiled. ‘My lord, if I don’t tell you, someone else will. You have to know.’ The triumphant glance she threw him was so swift he all but missed it. ‘Lady Chester has been brought to bed of a daughter.’ She paused. ‘By her husband.’

  Alexander had long ago schooled his expression to give nothing away. She would never have the satisfaction of knowing how the news hurt him.

  IX

  ABER February 1246

  Isabella looked for a long time staring at the letter before her then slowly she stood up and walking to the fire she dropped it on to the flames. So, Eleyne’s child continued to thrive. She had had reports over the last ten months from one of Eleyne’s servants, since that first tentative note after the baby’s birth. Each time she had cried, always secretly, always bitterly, for her own barren womb. And her tears this time had been more anguished than ever as Dafydd had drawn up the details of the succession with Ednyfed Fychan, who had been his father’s most trusted adviser and now was Dafydd’s. It was unthinkable that Henry of England should remain Dafydd’s heir. The line must after all revert, now Gruffydd was dead, to Gruffydd’s eldest son, Owain, released from the Tower the previous August; Owain who had three younger brothers behind him, all robust and healthy. What hurt Isabella so much was the way they all assumed now that there would be no direct heir; no son for Dafydd. She stamped her foot petulantly and sighed.

  The death of Gruffydd had removed any need for restraint on Dafydd’s part. At first, although he had expected it, Henry did not take the renewed rebellion seriously, but news had reached them now that he had resolved on a major campaign in Wales. Soon the war would resume in earnest. Isabella frowned at the snow which whirled thickly down. It was the first day of Lent.

  Dafydd had eaten something that disagreed with him in the wild Shrove Tide feasting the night before and had retired to his chamber with a belly ache. A few hours later he had begun to vomit violently and this morning he had been worse. She sighed again; she resented anything which kept him from her bed. She needed him with a deep aching hunger which was more than physical – it had become an obsession. The more often they made love, the more chance that she would conceive. Her hand strayed to her throat. Three amulets hung there now, three amulets to ward off the evil eye and counteract Eleyne’s curse. Because it was Eleyne’s fault that she had no child.

  She walked back to the fire and kicked out spitefully at the logs where the letter from Fotheringhay had disintegrated into ash. Perhaps it would happen tonight. The stars were propitious and Dafydd would be recovered by then. She would bathe in rose water in front of the fire and have her servants rub scented oils into her skin. She touched her breasts gently and closed her eyes. Two days before she had vowed her most beautiful necklace to the shrine at Holywell if she should conceive. Surely the Virgin would help her tonight.

  But that night Dafydd was worse. He was contorted with pain and now he had developed a fever. Isabella was suddenly afraid. ‘What is it?’ She looked at the ring of learned doctors around the bed. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  Ednyfed was standing near her, his face set with worry. ‘There’s a hard swelling in the belly,’ he said softly. ‘The doctors fear there’s some kind of obstruction.’ He glanced at the huddle of physicians who were examining samples of Dafydd’s urine, holding up their flasks to the candlelight.

  ‘He’s not going to die?’ she cried, her voice sliding out of a whisper in her panic.

  Ednyfed frowned at her sharply. ‘Of course he’s not going to die!’

  ‘But you sent for the priest to give him the last rites?’ She had only just noticed the man kneeling in the corner. She had begun to shake violently. ‘Dafydd! Dafydd bach
?’ She threw herself towards the bed. ‘What is it? What’s wrong with you?’

  He opened his eyes with an effort. ‘Too much wine and good living, sweetheart, that’s all. I’ll soon be better.’ He reached out for her hand. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be as right as rain tomorrow, you’ll see. Then we’ll celebrate, eh?’ He managed the ghost of a grin.

  She nodded, biting her lip, and she squeezed his fingers.

  Soon after that he drifted into an uneasy sleep, but later he awoke, contorted in agony, clutching at her hand. This time he was delirious. He did not know her.

  As the grey February daylight began to lighten the chamber he lay still at last and opened his eyes. He gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘The pain has gone,’ he said wonderingly. ‘The Blessed Virgin be thanked, the pain has gone.’

  ‘Thank God.’ She had not moved from his side all night. She bent and kissed his forehead.

  ‘Drink this, my lord.’ One of the physicians stepped forward with a phial of medicine. Dafydd sipped it with a grimace then lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes.

  Two hours later he was dead.

  ‘No,’ Isabella cried in disbelief. ‘He was better. No, he’s not dead, he’s asleep.’

  ‘Princess –’ Ednyfed had tears running down his face.

  ‘No.’ She went on shaking her head. ‘He’s asleep.’

  ‘Princess – ’

  ‘He’s asleep I tell you!’ She threw herself on the bed, and clutched at his hands. ‘He’ll wake up. He was better. He’s not dead. He’s not.’ She pulled at him frantically and his head rolled sideways on the pillow. A little mucus trickled from the side of his mouth and his eyes opened. ‘Dafydd! Dafydd! You see? He’s alive! I told you he was alive.’ Suddenly she was sobbing, her whole body shaking with the strength of her weeping.

  It was a long time before they could persuade her to leave the stiffening body and half carry, half drag her to a hastily prepared chamber on the far side of the llys. A messenger had already departed to find Owain Goch ap Gruffydd. And already the news was crossing the mountains from mouth to mouth and ear to ear towards King Henry’s court.

  X

  FOTHERINGHAY 1 March 1246

  Eleyne was playing with her little daughter when word came of her brother’s death. She read the letter twice and sat gazing into space, the letter dangling from nerveless fingers. Joanna crawled towards her, reaching for the red wax seal on its ribbon.

  Eleyne was numb; she had loved both her brothers and now she had lost them both. She had not seen Dafydd for a long time and she had often disagreed with him violently, but that did not mean she was any less devastated. Her eyes filled with tears and little Joanna, her small fists knotted into Eleyne’s gown, stared up with solemn eyes at her mother’s face. Eleyne stooped to pick the child up with a sad smile, and Joanna stabbed a chubby finger at Eleyne’s cheek. Eleyne hugged her, knocking the letter to the floor and, burying her face in Joanna’s curls, she began to sob.

  Nesta wrote to Rhonwen, and Rhonwen came.

  ‘So Owain Goch is prince now.’ Rhonwen cuddled Joanna and tucked a sweetmeat into the child’s mouth. ‘Gruffydd is avenged.’

  ‘Rhonwen.’ Eleyne was reproachful.

  ‘Well? You should be pleased too! I only hope young Llywelyn will be prepared to support his brother. He has no respect for Owain at all; he’s much the stronger character! And you, cariad? What are you still doing here at Fotheringhay? Your husband has gone. I had no doubt that you would ride to Scotland as soon as you were recovered from the birth.’

  Eleyne frowned. ‘Alexander sent no messages – ’

  ‘Of course not. No doubt Queen Marie has told him you are lying every night in your husband’s arms. So, you never intend to see him again?’ Rhonwen carried Joanna over to the door.

  ‘Of course I do …’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for? Your husband’s permission?’ Her tone was acidic. She handed the child to a nurse and walked back to Eleyne. ‘You still have a child to bear for Scotland, cariad. I don’t know how or why, but that is your destiny.’ Her eyes burned with a sudden fanaticism.

  ‘That’s not true, Einion was wrong.’

  ‘He was never wrong.’ Rhonwen’s face had become deeply lined over the last months and there was a permanent frown between her eyes. ‘You have a darling child there, but she is not the child the gods have promised you.’ She paused. ‘You must not let her father touch you again.’

  ‘No.’ Eleyne was watching the nurse carry Joanna from the room.

  ‘He would be better dead.’ Rhonwen’s voice was very soft.

  There was a long pause. ‘Yes.’ Eleyne bit her lip.

  Rhonwen gave a quick triumphant smile. ‘I’m glad you agree.’

  Eleyne swung round. ‘I will not have him killed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I – am – his – wife.’ The words were scarcely audible.

  ‘No.’ Rhonwen shook her head. ‘You were forced to make vows that meant nothing, before a god who cares nothing!’ She put her hands over Eleyne’s wrists. ‘And you hate him!’

  ‘Yes, I hate him.’ Eleyne’s eyes flashed. She snatched her hands away. ‘But I will not be responsible for his death.’ She moved away from Rhonwen. ‘I didn’t go to Scotland because I won’t crawl to Alexander. If he wants me he must send for me.’ She straightened her shoulders.

  Rhonwen smiled. ‘I am sure he will, cariad,’ she said meekly, ‘I am sure he will.’

  XI

  DYSERTH March 1246

  Philip de Bret, Constable of Dyserth Castle, bowed gravely to the cleric who stood before him. He glanced at Isabella. ‘The Princess of Aberffraw has been a most welcome guest here, my lord abbot.’

  The Abbot of Basingwerk bowed back. Both men looked as if they were tiptoeing on thin ice as they turned as one to Isabella. She stared back at them resentfully. ‘So? Why did you want to see me, my lord abbot?’

  ‘As you know, princess, your late husband was a patron of our abbey …’

  ‘And endowed it handsomely.’ Her voice was waspish. ‘If you come for a donation, my lord abbot, you are out of luck. I have no money until my dower is arranged.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, princess.’ The abbot bowed again. ‘I have not come to ask for your generosity.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have come at the command of the king.’

  ‘Oh?’ She looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘It appears that his grace has decided that for now –’ he paused and licked his lips nervously – ‘he would like you to go to the sisters at Godstow.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’ Isabella’s hands had gone cold.

  Henry had after all allowed Owain to succeed Dafydd, but only after he and his brother, Llywelyn, had acknowledged the King of England as their overlord.

  The abbot glanced at de Bret for support. ‘His grace commands that I escort you to Godstow. He feels that as a highborn widow – ’

  ‘He is not going to turn me into a nun!’ Her voice rose sharply. ‘I hope his grace does not intend to try to make me stay there.’

  The abbot shrugged. ‘I have my orders, madam. To deliver you to the Lady Flandrina, Abbess of Godstow. That is the king’s command.’

  ‘I won’t go! I’ll marry again.’ She looked from one man to the other wildly. ‘It’s because I can’t have children, that’s it, isn’t it? No man will want me if I’m barren. But I can have children! Ask anyone. I was cursed. But the curse can be lifted – ’

  ‘Princess.’ The old abbot shook his head. ‘Please don’t distress yourself. I am sure the arrangement is only temporary.’

  ‘Sure? How can you be sure?’ Her hands were shaking. ‘The king doesn’t confide in you, does he? No, of course he doesn’t. Suppose they lock me up and keep me there forever?’

  ‘Why should they do such a thing?’ Philip de Bret forced himself to speak calmly. He disliked excitable women in general and he was beginning to dislike this one in particular. Since her arrival
at Dyserth the smooth running of the royal castle had been relegated to the least of his worries. Instead he had found himself summoned to a series of increasingly stormy interviews with the princess, who had been packed into his care by Henry and her two nephews the moment Dafydd’s death had been announced.

  ‘When Eleyne was widowed, the king didn’t send her to a nunnery.’ Isabella’s voice had risen to a tight, nervous whine. ‘Why should he send me there? And to Godstow. It’s so far away. No, I won’t go. I shall return to Aber until the matter of my dower is arranged.’

  The abbot sighed. ‘Princess, I’m sorry, but that is not possible. The King of England’s command must be obeyed, and it is also the wish of the new Prince of Aberffraw.’ He nodded to himself smugly. Those two boys had not been able to wait, so he had heard, to get rid of her!

  ‘Not if I refuse.’ She shook her finger under his nose. ‘I’m sorry, my lord abbot. I hate to disappoint you but you must return without me.’

  She took his hand and kneeling to give his ring a perfunctory kiss – some inches above the cold amethyst on an equally cold finger – she rose and swept from the room.

  De Bret shrugged. ‘I had hoped we could avoid using force.’

  ‘And I.’ The abbot stared sadly at the door which still reverberated from the force with which Isabella had flung it shut behind her. ‘Poor woman. She is still young for such an incarceration.’

  De Bret raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m surprised to hear you of all people call going into a convent incarceration. A strong word, surely.’

  The abbot frowned. ‘What else is it, my friend, if the postulant is unwilling and must stay there for the rest of her life?’

  XII