Child of the Phoenix

I

The prince’s guards were at Eleyne’s door; Princess Joan’s ladies – those who had not been dismissed or followed their mistress into captivity – crowded the nursery quarters packing great coffers full of clothes and bedding and gifts. Although he refused even to bid Eleyne farewell, Llywelyn had made sure that she would leave Aber with a train suitable for a princess and a bride.

Eleyne sat silently amidst all the activity, frozen with unhappiness, unable to bring herself to believe what was happening to her. It had been so sudden. She could eat no supper and that night she lay awake fighting her tears. She could not go to the stable. The rooms were guarded. Beside her Luned slept heavily, worn out with excitement, for she too was to go to Chester.

Eleyne groped for her pillow and hugged it to her miserably, her brain whirling. Her husband was a man; he would want to take her to his bed; he would want to do the things that William de Braose had done to her mother – William whose body was still hanging out there in the darkness, carrion for the crows. She clung to the pillow, feeling sick panic clutch at her stomach. She could have saved him. She could have saved herself. She bit her lip, pressing her small, thin body harder into the feather bed, unconsciously clamping her thighs together in the darkness.

The line of wagons and carts and the escort of armed men stretched for over a mile as the party made its way north-east along the coast road, across the Conwy and, following the old Roman road to St Asaphs, over Afon Clwyd, turned south at last on to the flat lands of Dee. Riding behind Eleyne and Rhonwen came Cenydd and Luned, Luned mounted on Cadi. Somewhere behind them one of the knights led Invictus. Llywelyn had decreed that the horse might be a suitable gift for his son-in-law.

Eleyne’s face was white and strained. There were dark rings beneath her eyes. ‘What is he like, can you remember?’ She rode closer to Rhonwen, her small hands steady on the gilded leather rein of her mother’s favourite cream-coloured mare, an outcast as she was from the purge at Aber. She was very afraid.

‘The Earl of Huntingdon?’ Rhonwen too was numb with shock. ‘He’s nephew to the great Earl of Chester, and a prince of Scotland. That’s all I know. And he is waiting at Chester Castle to meet us.’ She tightened her lips. How could Einion have let this happen? Why, when Eleyne had been given to the goddess, had he been unable to prevent it? She closed her eyes wearily and eased herself in the saddle.

Eleyne edged her mare even closer to Rhonwen’s, so that the two horses walked shoulder to shoulder. ‘Will he… will he want to…’ The question hovered on her lips. ‘Will he want to make me his wife properly at once?’ Miserably she blurted it out at last, and she saw Rhonwen’s answering frown.

‘It is his right, cariad, to consummate the marriage.’ The older woman tried to keep her voice steady.

Eleyne closed her eyes. Yet again she saw the picture she could not keep out of her mind: the writhing bodies on the bed; the man between her mother’s contorted thighs, thrusting at her; his great shout of triumph.

‘Does it hurt very much?’ she whispered. She wanted to reach across and hold Rhonwen’s hand for comfort. Instead she wound her fingers into the horse’s silky mane. She and Isabella had so often giggled and speculated about the consummation of their respective marriages, as had she and Luned. In the crowded uninhibited world in which they lived they knew what happened from an early age. Too often they had seen people in the shadows, beneath trees or against a wall, but always dressed, always shielded. Never frightening. Never before – never – had she seen a man and a woman coupling naked with such wild uninhibited lust. Never before had she seen a woman arch her back and thrust back at the man, seen the fingernails raking his back, heard a wild yell of triumph such as Sir William had given that fateful night. That act was now mixed inextricably in her mind with her vision of the man with the noose around his neck, the man whose body had jerked and grown limp and swung all day from the gallows tree on the marsh near Aber.

‘Of course it doesn’t hurt, cariad.’ Rhonwen gave a wry grimace, trying to hide her own fear and anger and her despair: despair which the night before had led her for a moment to consider pressing the soft pillow over Eleyne’s face so that she could die in her sleep rather than submit to this terrible fate. But she could not do it. Even to save Eleyne from marriage, she could not do it. She shook her head slowly. ‘I’ve never lain with a man, but I don’t think it can hurt or people wouldn’t do it so much.’

‘I think it’s only the men who enjoy it,’ Eleyne said quietly and again she thought of her mother’s raking fingernails.

Already in the distance they could see the great red castle of Chester, rising in the sharp angle of the river, and behind it the city huddled around the Abbey of St Werburgh. In a few hours she would meet her husband for the first time since their wedding day, when she had been a babe-in-arms and he a boy of sixteen.

II

John the Scot, Earl of Huntingdon, had been visiting his uncle, Ranulph, Earl of Chester, when the news came of the arrest of Sir William de Braose. The two men discussed the situation gravely but agreed, as men all over England were to agree, that Llywelyn’s death sentence was justified and not a resumption of the war with England.

More surprising was the news which followed only days later that the Prince of Gwynedd intended to proceed with the match between his recognised heir, Dafydd, and Sir William’s daughter, Isabella.

‘A realist, our neighbour Llywelyn.’ Ranulph reached for his goblet and sipped his wine. He was a small, stocky man in his late sixties, even now, dealing as he was with his correspondence, dressed for riding, his gloves and sword near him on the coffer. ‘He wants to keep the alliance.’

‘And no doubt the girl is now heir to at least a quarter of the de Braose estates,’ John said lazily. In his mid-twenties he was a complete contrast to his uncle. He was tall and painfully thin, his handsome face pale and haggard from the illness which had plagued him all the preceding winter. Even now, warm and gentle though the weather was, he was huddled in a fur-lined mantle.

He picked up another of the letters brought by the messenger from Gwynedd and began to unfold it. ‘That makes her a rich and influential young lady. It won’t only be Builth she brings to Llywelyn now, though I doubt there will be much love lost between her and her new husband’s family now they’ve hanged her father! No doubt she has the usual de Braose spirit – Holy Mother of God!’ He stopped suddenly. He had begun reading the letter in his hand.

His uncle looked up. ‘What is it?’

‘It appears Llywelyn is sending me my wife!’ John was silent for a moment, perusing the closely written parchment. ‘He feels Aber is not the place for her at the moment. I should think not,’ he interrupted himself, ‘with her mother in prison and her mother’s lover hanging on a gibbet – and he thinks it’s time she came to me.’

Lord Chester frowned. ‘With a large Welsh entourage, no doubt. So, Llywelyn feels this alliance needs strengthening too.’

John threw down the letter and, walking across to the window, stared out over the river towards the west. It was a glorious May day. From the keep he could see distant hedgerows covered in whitethorn blossom and the orchards beyond foaming with pink. The sun shone blindingly down on the broad river as it cut its way between low cliffs of sand towards the jetties where two galleys were unloading their cargoes.

‘She’s only a child still, uncle.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘She can’t be more than eleven! What on earth will I do with her?’

‘Send her followers packing for a start and take her off to show her your lands as far away as possible from here,’ Lord Chester said succinctly. ‘I want our friendship with that old fox kept firm, and I want the alliance kept watertight, but I would still rather keep him at arm’s length. And you would do well to do the same. Train her up to be the wife you want. Show her who is master and she’ll be an invaluable asset to you, my boy. When I’m gone, and you are Earl of Chester as well as Huntingdon, you will be one of the most powerful men in England. You will be allied to Wales, married to King Henry’s niece and, if Alexander stays childless, you may well be king of Scotland as well. There will be few to oppose you in Christendom.’ He grinned. ‘You’re a lucky man. I think Llywelyn is handing you a great prize.’ He frowned as John turned away with a paroxysm of coughing. ‘And you had better get a son or two on her as soon as she is capable, to safeguard your succession,’ he added a trifle grimly.

John grinned ruefully, wiping his mouth. ‘Perhaps she’ll know some wild Welsh cures for the cough and turn me into a soldier for you, uncle,’ he said quietly. He was well aware of the disappointment he was to his robust relative.

III

Eleyne was trembling by the time she rode beneath the huge archway into Chester Castle. She looked up at the standards flying above the tower and edged yet closer to Rhonwen. For a moment they sat without moving on their horses, then Eleyne saw a group of men appear in the doorway of the keep up a long imposing flight of wooden steps. Ranulph, Earl of Chester, was, she guessed, the shorter, distinguished-looking white-haired man with the ruddy complexion and piercing eyes, and next to him, was that her husband? She stared at the younger man. He was, as she had feared, nothing like the man of her dreams. Clean-shaven, slim, dressed in the robes of a rich cleric, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, he left his companion and ran down the steps towards her. She found she was holding her breath.

He made unerringly towards her. ‘Lady Eleyne?’ He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. ‘Welcome.’

Behind them the wagons and horsemen who had accompanied them were still moving into the courtyard and assembling around them. Eleyne did not notice: she was looking down into her husband’s smiling blue eyes.

IV

‘By all the saints, uncle! I can’t bed that child!’ John stared at the Earl of Chester in horror. ‘She’s a baby still.’

‘There are girls on the estates here, a year younger than she is, get themselves with bastards,’ Lord Chester retorted. ‘She’s old enough. And you’d be a fool not to make her your wife quickly. If you don’t some other man will beat you to it and you’ll find yourself raising a bastard as your heir!’ His expression softened. He had not intended to draw attention yet again, even by implication, to his nephew’s ill health. ‘Do as I say, my boy. Send all her servants packing, take her to your bed and get a child on her as soon as possible. She’ll soon develop some curves to titillate your fancy if you feed her up.’

‘Thank you for your advice, uncle.’ John was tight-lipped. ‘But for now, I would rather she had apartments of her own. Aunt Clemence has allotted her and her servants two chambers in the west tower. Once she has grown used to me and the idea of living away from home, I shall consider your advice.’ Turning away, he did not hear his uncle’s exasperated sigh or see his sceptically shaken head.

V

‘What do you think of it?’ John appeared behind Eleyne without a sound as she stood at the high window staring down unhappily across the castle walls into the crowded streets of the city of Chester.

She jumped guiltily. ‘It seems very big and noisy to me, my lord.’ She glanced sideways at him. He had a kind face and gentle hands; he did not seem so frightening. And so far he had shown no inclination to drag her away from Rhonwen to his bed.

‘Cities always are.’ He smiled down at her, studying her thin, freckle-dusted face, her red-gold hair and big green eyes. Tall as she was for her age, she only came up to his elbow. ‘You will have to get used to them. We shall visit many towns and cities each year.’ He sighed. ‘London, Chester, York, Edinburgh, Perth.’

‘You mean we won’t stay here?’ She had known it of course. No one stayed in one place. Even her father toured his palaces and castles in Gwynedd regularly. But Aber was always home, always the favourite. And Aber was comparatively near Chester. She looked up at him, trying to hide her fear and misery. She could hear Rhonwen, bustling about in the next room with Luned. Their voices reassured her as she looked at this tall stranger. ‘We will come back here?’ she asked huskily. She was fighting her terror and despair, and trying to hide her feelings from his probing gaze.

He smiled and his blue eyes softened. ‘We’ll come back here often, I promise,’ he said.

VI

It was two weeks later that the Earl of Huntingdon summoned Rhonwen to his presence. ‘Lady Rhonwen, I understand that you have been my wife’s nurse and companion since she was a baby?’ He was seated by the fire in the solar. He studied her closely. The woman was beautiful in her way: her skin clear, her eyes a deep grey, her carriage erect and proud.

‘I must thank you for taking such care of her all these years.’ He rose stiffly from his chair and walked across to the table. ‘She does you credit, madam, and I hope that this -’ he picked up a purse from the table – ‘will be a just reward for your efforts.’ He put it into Rhonwen’s hand.

She stared at it, feeling the heavy coins inside the soft leather. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It is our gift to you, Lady Rhonwen. My wife and I are anxious you should be rewarded.’ He gave her a slight smile.

‘Your wife…’ Rhonwen lifted her eyes to his, her expression veiled to hide the hatred and jealousy of this man which had devoured her since their arrival at Chester.

‘We should like you to return to Prince Llywelyn with the escort and the other servants when they go back,’ he said gently. ‘We leave soon for my lands in the south. It will not be practicable to take such a large contingent with us.’

‘You are sending me away?’ For a moment she couldn’t grasp what he meant.

‘I have all the servants and ladies my wife needs waiting for us at my castle of Fotheringhay, my lady.’ Under the gentleness of his tone there was a hint of impatience.

‘No, no!’ Rhonwen threw down the bag of coins, her composure shattered. ‘You can’t send me away, you can’t. Eleyne wouldn’t allow it. She loves me – ’

‘She does as her husband commands, Lady Rhonwen.’ John sat down once more and reached for the goblet of wine on the table at his elbow. His hand was shaking slightly.

‘No.’ Rhonwen shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. We’ve never been separated. Not since the day she was born – ’

‘I know it is hard, my lady, and I’m sorry. But it’s better this way.’ There was a sharp edge to his voice. ‘Now, please leave us. I have letters to write.’ He raised his hand to beckon forward his clerk who was hovering near the window.

‘No.’ Rhonwen could feel the waves of panic rising. How she hated this man who now had absolute control over Eleyne’s fate – and her own. ‘You can’t make me leave. You can’t – ’

The clerk came forward and bowed. ‘Shall I call the guard to remove her, my lord?’ he asked, bristling with disapproval.

‘I am sure there is no need.’ John stood up. He put his hand on Rhonwen’s arm and she felt with a vindictive shock of pleasure the physical weakness of the man. ‘Madam, please.’

With a sob, she turned and fled from the room.

VII

Eleyne was with the Countess of Chester, sitting nervously beside her new aunt, watching as the old woman checked some household accounts. They both looked up as Rhonwen burst in.

‘Eleyne, you can’t let him send me away. You can’t! I have to stay with you. I have to.’ Ignoring Lady Chester, etiquette long forgotten, Rhonwen sank to her knees next to Eleyne and, putting her arms around the child, began to sob.

Eleyne stood up, frightened. She had never seen Rhonwen cry before. ‘What is it? Who is going to send you away?’

‘Your husband.’ She did not bother to hide the loathing in her voice. ‘He is sending me, all of us, back to Gwynedd.’ Rhonwen steadied herself with difficulty, suddenly aware of the Countess of Chester’s eyes fixed on her face.

Lady Chester stood up stiffly. She was a small elegant woman in her mid-sixties like her husband, her blue eyes faded, but still shrewd as she looked at the sobbing woman in front of her. ‘I am sure you are mistaken, Lady Rhonwen,’ she said.

Rhonwen shook her head. ‘He gave me a bag of gold and told me to go. I can’t leave her. Please, my lady, I can’t leave her among strangers like this -’ She felt the waves of panic rising. Eleyne was her life; her child; her whole existence.

Eleyne’s face was tense with fear. ‘I am sure it is a mistake, Rhonwen. Lord Huntingdon seems so kind…’ She hesitated, with a nervous glance at her husband’s aunt, uncertain what to do. ‘Perhaps I should speak to him – ’

Lady Chester shook her head. In the short time Eleyne had been with her she had grown extraordinarily fond of the girl. Childless herself, she felt endlessly guilty that she had not provided her husband with heirs to succeed him in his great inheritance. ‘Later,’ she said firmly. ‘Never run to your husband to query anything he has ordered, Eleyne. That is one of the first lessons you must learn. If a wife wishes to get things her own way,’ she tapped the side of her nose with a little smile, ‘she must do it with subtlety. Let things remain as they are for a while. Then later, when you and he are alone and talking, and perhaps becoming closer acquainted – ’ she paused imperceptibly. Her husband had complained to her every evening for the last fortnight that his nephew was a weak-willed, soft-hearted, green-sick, womanly invalid who spent too long talking to the child and hadn’t, as far as he could see, so much as kissed the girl’s hand – ‘then,’ she went on, ‘you can perhaps say to him how lonely you will feel if all your followers are sent away. Persuade him gradually. I know he doesn’t want you to be unhappy.’

VIII

‘Let’s run away!’ Eleyne pulled Rhonwen into the window embrasure; a heavy tapestry hid them from the body of the room where the Countess of Chester and her ladies were busy about their tasks. ‘You and me and Luned. We could run away and no one would find us.’ She was talking in a frantic whisper.

Rhonwen tried to suppress the quick surge of hope the child’s words raised. ‘But where would we go?’

‘Home, of course.’

‘Eleyne, cariad. We can’t go home.’ Rhonwen put her arms around the child and rested her lips against the veil which covered Eleyne’s head. ‘Don’t you understand? Your father has forbidden you to return. Aber is no longer your home.’

‘Then I shall go to Margaret at Bramber. Or to Gruffydd.’

‘No, Eleyne, they will obey your father. They have to. They would only send you back to Lord Chester.’ She closed her eyes to try to hold back her tears. She had written to Einion, smuggling the letter out of the castle the day after they had arrived at Chester, begging him to do something. He would think of something. He had to. Eleyne was sworn to the goddess.

‘We could hide in the forest.’ Eleyne looked up hopefully. Her eyes were feverishly bright. ‘When Lord Huntingdon sends you all away, you go, as if you were doing as he commanded, and I shall hide in one of the wagons. Once we are out of the castle you and I can slip away. Oh Rhonwen, it would work. I know it would work.’

Rhonwen bit her lip. ‘Cariad …’

‘We can do it… I know we can.’

‘And you would rather live as an outlaw in the woods than with Lord Huntingdon? Here you will be a very great lady.’ It couldn’t work. And yet she found herself seizing the idea, as if there were a chance they could escape.

‘I hate it here.’ Eleyne leaned against the wall, pressing her cheek against the cold stone. ‘I don’t want to be a great lady and I don’t want to – I don’t want to be anyone’s wife. And I don’t want to live in a city. Ever. I want to live with the mountains and the sea. And I want to stay with you, Rhonwen. I can’t live without you.’ Her eyes flooded with tears once more.

Rhonwen hesitated. So often in the past she had tried to curb Eleyne’s impetuous ideas, but now every part of her wanted to fall in with this crazy plan and run away from the great castle with all its riches, this alien English stronghold, run by its arrogant English masters. But would it work? Could it work? The consequences if they failed did not bear thinking about.

She glanced into the shadowy room where the countess and her ladies talked quietly over their sewing and their spinning. Lady Chester was kind and understanding; Lord Huntingdon, whom she loathed and mistrusted, was a different matter. And it would be Eleyne who would suffer. Eleyne who would be punished. She pictured the handsome stern face of the earl with his fair skin and his intense intelligent blue eyes. What would he do to her if she were caught? Her child, her baby who had never been beaten in her life?

So little time… no time at all to plan. His mind made up, the earl had arranged for the baggage train and its escort to leave after mass, in three days’ time.

Eleyne touched her hand. She smiled coaxingly at Rhonwen. ‘I’ll find a way,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll see. I’ll think of something.’

IX

That night Eleyne lay awake for hours, her stomach cramped again into tight knots of fear. Just before dawn she rose from her bed at last and crept down the stairs. It took her a long time, wandering through draughty corridors and cold stone passages, to find a way out into the courtyard where the stables were, and once there to creep between the horse lines to find her own particular friends. She found Cadi first and spent a long time with the gentle little mare, kissing her soft nose. Then she crept on, looking for Invictus. He was harder to find. He was already with the earl’s horses, a groom constantly on hand should the animals become restless. Silent as a shadow, Eleyne slipped into the box and put her arms around the horse’s huge head. She kissed his nose and his cheeks and felt her hot tears drip on to his coat. Walled up in the corner of her mind was the picture of the man who had loved this horse and of the noose around his neck. It was something she could not face.

The idea came with the dawn. As the castle came to life with the opening of the gates and the arrival of the first wagons loaded with produce from the city, Eleyne peered silently into the courtyard from the warm darkness of the stall. The stables were near the gatehouse. The guards were at ease, barely checking the incoming wagons, ignoring the men and women who bustled past them into the streets beyond the gates. The place was crowded, chaotic. No one paid any attention to anyone else. Silently she untied Invictus’s halter. Scrambling on to the stall partition, she clambered on to his back and with the barest touch of her heels guided him down the line of stalls and out into the courtyard. A few people stared at the red-haired child astride the stallion, but no one recognised her and no one tried to stop her. Sitting very straight, her heart in her mouth, she smiled as confidently as she could at the guard as she turned the horse beneath the gatehouse arch. His hooves rang loud and hollow for a moment, then they were through and across the bridge. Holding her breath, she nudged Invictus into a trot, then a canter, turning east along the edge of the wharf rather than back into the city itself, following the road towards the city wall.

She was stopped almost at once by the Bridge Gate, which was still barred. As she turned uncertainly northwards into the city, she heard a shout behind her. In a panic she saw four horsemen galloping after her, weaving through the crowds. They wore the livery of the Earl of Chester over their mail. Desperately she looked round for a place to hide, but within seconds they were on her, two each side. Outraged, Invictus reared up and she grabbed at his mane to stop herself falling.

They took her straight to Lord Huntingdon. She was still barefoot, her hair loose, dressed only in her shift and bed gown – a dirty, unruly and stubborn child, her cheeks streaked by tears.

He looked at her for a long time after he had dismissed her escort. At last he spoke. ‘Where were you going, Eleyne?’ he asked gently.

She stared back at him defiantly. She had expected him to be angry, not gentle. ‘To the forest.’

‘The forest?’ he repeated, astonished. ‘Why?’

‘I won’t live here without Rhonwen. I can’t. I’d rather be an outlaw or a beggar.’ Tears began to trickle down her cheeks in spite of her efforts to stop them. ‘I don’t want to be a countess. I want Rhonwen.’

John walked across to his chair and sat down, perplexed. He didn’t know what to do to comfort her, this ragged urchin who was his wife.

‘Please, Eleyne, don’t cry.’ He knew he should be angry. Probably he should whip her. Certainly he should send her for a bath. The child smelt strongly of the stables.

‘Please don’t send Rhonwen away.’ Her huge eyes, fixed on his face, were brimming with tears. ‘Please, my lord -’ She still didn’t know how to address this tall stranger who was her husband. ‘Please let Rhonwen stay.’ Her sleepless night and the weight of her tears had reddened her eyes and underlined them with shadows.

He frowned. Certainly he regretted his summary dismissal of the entire Welsh entourage. Lord Chester was wrong. Such an action would antagonise the prince and needlessly make this child unhappier than she already was.

He rubbed his thumb against his chin. ‘We are to travel across England to my lands in the Honour of Huntingdon, Eleyne. Would she wish to follow you there? She would find it very strange so far from Wales,’ he said at last.

Eleyne stared at him, her eyes alight with hope. ‘She would go with me anywhere, my lord.’ She did not point out that she too would find it strange.

‘Then perhaps I could change my mind and allow a few of your servants to remain with you. If it would make you happy and stop you running away again.’

‘Luned and Marared and Ethil?’ The girl’s eyes were shining.

He nodded tolerantly. ‘Very well. If it will convince you to stay with me you may keep half a dozen of your own ladies. But that is all- ’

‘And Cenydd. Cenydd saved my life when I swam the strait.’

‘When you – what?’ He blinked at her in astonishment.

Abashed she looked down. She should not have told him that. ‘My father asked him to be my bodyguard,’ she amended cautiously. ‘He would die to protect me.’

‘There are many here whose job will be to protect you with their lives,’ he said gently. And he would want to know today exactly where they all were, to allow the Countess of Huntingdon to ride out of the castle as she had without an escort. ‘But, yes, for now you may keep Cenydd too. But that is all.’

For a moment he thought she would fling her arms around his neck and kiss him but she remembered in time. Looking down, she gave a little curtsey. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said.

X

From the high window in the castle keep Eleyne and Rhonwen watched the huge train of wagons and carts move out of the courtyard. They were both numb with misery as this last link with home and Wales disappeared beneath the gatehouse arch with its massive portcullis, and headed west towards the ford which crossed the Dee.

Eleyne’s head ached; her limbs felt like lead. If they could get away, lose themselves in the corridors and passages of the great castle, perhaps even now they could hide in the carts and be smuggled home.

The Earl of Huntingdon watched her for a long time from the doorway as she stood in the window embrasure with Rhonwen. Allowing Rhonwen and her companions to stay had helped Eleyne a little – his eyes went to the woman’s protective arm around the child’s narrow shoulders – but the frozen misery on the child’s face, the lost bewilderment in her eyes, touched him deeply. She was his, this little girl, his to do with as he pleased. His countess, his child bride. Somehow he had to win her trust and if possible her affection.

‘Eleyne?’ Although he spoke her name gently, both women jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Lady Rhonwen can go to Lady Chester for now, my dear. I should like you to come down to the stables.’

One of his grooms had told him of the midnight visit; the tears, the anguished cuddling of the horses. With admiration, he had reported her fearless mounting of the great stallion, and Lord Huntingdon had seen a way of reaching her.

‘The stables?’

He saw with satisfaction the sudden light in her eyes and he nodded. ‘Your father gave me several horses as a gift and you have your own there too. I should like to look them over.’ He held out his hand and, hesitating, she went to him.

Invictus whickered his usual welcome as she ducked into his box, her velvet skirts catching on the straw. Lord Huntingdon smiled. ‘He obviously knows you well.’

Eleyne nodded. ‘Sir William…’ Her voice wavered and she bit her lip, unprepared for the wave of misery which the mention of his name brought. ‘Sir William used to let me ride him. He… he gave him to me before…’ her sobs tightened her throat, ‘before they hanged him.’

Lord Huntingdon raised an eyebrow. ‘So, this was de Braose’s horse?’

Eleyne nodded numbly. ‘My father wanted you to have him.’ Her despair at losing her treasured inheritance after so short an ownership was obvious in her voice.

‘He is not a lady’s horse, Eleyne.’ He smiled at her. Nor a slip of a child’s were the words he left unsaid.

‘No.’ Her reply was barely audible.

‘You must ride well if Sir William allowed you to ride him,’ he persisted gently. Lord Chester’s men-at-arms had told him as much.

She nodded. The germ of an idea had lodged in her mind. ‘Could we go for a ride now?’ She looked her husband in the eye for the first time. ‘Please?’

He looked down at her, amused. ‘I don’t see why not.’

‘And could I ride Invictus?’

‘Ah, I see. You want to show me you are the mistress of my new stallion.’

She nodded shyly. ‘I used to race against Sir William,’ she said hopefully.

‘Did you indeed?’ He grimaced. ‘I fear I don’t have Sir William’s prowess in the saddle, but we could certainly ride.

‘Saddle him, and my horse too.’ He turned to the groom who hovered behind them. ‘Do you wish to change, my lady?’ He smiled.

Eleyne glanced down at her velvet skirts and scowled. ‘I never usually bother.’ She did not want the moment to pass. She didn’t want Rhonwen or Lady Chester or any of the strangers inside these high walls to cluck over her and try to dissuade Lord Huntingdon from letting her ride the great horse.

‘I see.’ He hid his amusement with difficulty. ‘Then perhaps you had better not bother now.’

They were accompanied by half a dozen well-mounted knights who rode behind them as they turned south beyond the castle and out of the town walls into the forest. Eleyne glanced sideways at her husband, shocked to find him mounted on a staid gelding some two hands shorter than Invictus. He rode well, but stiffly, as if ill at ease in the saddle. Gently she eased Invictus’s long stride back to match that of the smaller horse.

‘I thought you would ride a destrier,’ she said a little reproachfully after they had ridden in silence for some time, following the road out of the city and through the fields until they were beneath the new-green leaves of the oak forest.

He smiled. ‘A warhorse, for a ride in the woods? In England we cherish our valuable horses, Eleyne.’

Her cheeks coloured at the implied rebuke. ‘But it will be no race if we gallop,’ she said sadly. ‘No one here could keep up with Invictus.’ She cast a professional eye at the mounts of the escort trotting two abreast behind them.

Lord Huntingdon hid a smile. ‘I’m sorry we disappoint you. Come, why don’t we gallop now?’ Ahead of them the grassy ride broadened into an open track. He kicked his horse forward and with surprising speed it stretched its legs into a gallop.

Eleyne did not hesitate. The great stallion was like a coiled spring: as she relaxed her gentle hands he leaped forward and thundered after his companion. In seconds they had overtaken him and, leaving the others behind, streaked away up the track.

She did not rein him in for a long time, enjoying the rush of wind in her hair, the feel of the horse’s powerful muscles between her legs, the thunder of his hooves on the soft track. When at last she stopped, laughing, her hair was loose around her shoulders, her cap gone, her long skirts ridden high on her slim thighs and she was alone. The track behind her was empty.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, exhilarated. For a moment she was tempted to ride on and on into the forest, to be lost forever away from her husband and his escort. Then slowly she walked the horse back the way they had come.

She thought he would be angry with her, but his frown was one only of concern. ‘What if you had run into trouble? No one could have saved you.’

‘I don’t get into trouble. I’ve never fallen off in my life -’ She was conscious of the admiring smiles, scarcely hidden, of the men around them, and she found herself sitting a little straighter.

‘I am sure you haven’t.’ He was smiling too. ‘But you might have met undesirable company. The march is a nest of robbers and thieves and outlaws. That is why the wife of an earl must always have an escort. Does Cenydd manage to keep up with you?’ He threw her a quizzical glance.

She smiled at him unrepentantly. ‘Only if I let him.’

‘And you let him the day you swam the strait?’ He hid a smile.

She blushed and nodded. ‘He saved my life.’

‘One day, Eleyne, I think you must tell me the story of the great swim, but in the meantime I think you must only ride Invictus if you promise to hold him in,’ he said gently. ‘Sir William bequeathed him to you and as far as I am concerned, he is your horse, but only if you ride him slowly. I want your promise.’ His face was stern.

Her eyes were shining. ‘I promise.’ Then she frowned. ‘Don’t you want to ride him yourself?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve been ill, Eleyne. I can’t ride fast yet. My bones are stiff and my body aches.’ He laughed. ‘But I improve daily and I shan’t long be able to resist the challenge of having a wife who can outride me, I promise you. When I am recovered, I shall borrow him back and test his paces myself.’

XI

It took many days for the huge household to ride across England, and as they did so Rhonwen grew more and more depressed. The country was heavily forested, dull beneath lowering wet skies, even though around them hawthorn erupted in the hedges and the trees were full of birdsong as they crossed broad, shallow, slow-moving rivers and threaded their way across the flat central spine of England. From time to time they climbed hills and rode between small neat fields, the strips of crops showing green beneath the rain, but they had left the great mountains of Wales far behind and with them any hope of reprieve. No word had come from Einion, no ray of hope or explanation how his plans for Eleyne could have gone so far astray. She looked often at Eleyne, riding the cream mare some paces behind her husband, huddled in her cloak against the driving rain, and wondered what the child was thinking.

With every step their journey took them farther and farther from the land of their birth towards a new, strange life, but Eleyne was silent, her eyes only now and then flicking to left or right to note some aspect of the scenery they passed. The sense of desolation, which had swiftly replaced her initial excitement when they had set out on their journey, was overwhelming. The long days in the saddle, moving slowly but inexorably south and east, weighed on her, and it gave her time to think. There was no way now of avoiding the pictures which kept returning to her mind of the gallows; of her mother’s bed and of Sir William’s handsome face, and his rueful smile as he walked towards his death. Had he known? Had he known who it was who had betrayed him?

Again and again she tried to close her mind to the horror, tried to fight the guilt and remorse which threatened to overwhelm her. And again and again she failed. Hourly, or so it seemed to Rhonwen, her face grew more pinched and white and the shadows darker beneath her eyes.

XII

Lord Huntingdon called Eleyne to him three weeks after they arrived. ‘I have had a letter from your father.’

He was still tired after the long journey, but the frailty and misery in the child’s eyes dismayed him far more than his own failing health. Her face lit however at the mention of her father and she went to him eagerly. So, after all, he missed her as much as she missed him; he was calling her home; it must be that. Her eyes on her husband’s face, she waited for him to hand it to her, but he held it curling loosely in his hand. There had been no message for Llywelyn’s daughter in the long document, no piece of news of home which he could tell her, save one. ‘Your father tells me your brother, Dafydd, is to be married soon to Isabella de Braose,’ he said after a pause. ‘It appears the wedding is to take place as though nothing has happened. She has arrived at Aber.’

‘Isabella?’ Eleyne looked stricken. ‘But I wanted to be there.’ Somewhere deep inside herself she had kept the hope that her father would relent, that he would allow her back for the wedding – the event she and Isabella had dreamed of and planned together for so long.

‘I am sure you’ll see her soon.’ Instead of giving her the letter he dropped it into a coffer and locked it, then he turned back to her and smiled. ‘So, how do you like this part of the country?’

‘Well enough, my lord.’ Crestfallen, she dragged her eyes away from the casket where the letter had disappeared, trying to hide her disappointment, and she forced a shy smile. She had seen little yet. The weather had been too wet for riding, but the rooms to which she and Rhonwen and her ladies had been shown were comfortable and richly appointed. Fotheringhay, one of the chief castles of the huge Honour of Huntingdon, was a large stone-built fortress set beside the River Nene in Northamptonshire amid a gentle landscape of flat meadows and fields, of fen and forest. The village outside its walls was small, augmented by a church and a nunnery of Cluniac sisters.

At Fotheringhay they kept considerable state, and the household had swiftly fallen into its routine. Lord Huntingdon was rich. He was important. His household was larger by far than even her father’s, but to Eleyne it all seemed strange and alien. Her only comfort besides the presence of Rhonwen and her companions was that her husband had still shown no inclination to order her into his bed. Her suite of rooms was far away from his.

She explored the castle at his suggestion, sometimes with her ladies, sometimes just with Luned or alone, finding her way to the stables and to the walls from where she could stare out across the country-side, watching the thick mist of the early morning lie like foaming milk across the river meadows, where willow and alder rose disembodied from the whiteness. She explored the towers and the living quarters, smiling shyly at the men and women she met as she toured kitchens, bakehouses, brewhouses and storerooms, the great keep on its mound and the chapel. She sewed and read and played quiet absent-minded games with Luned and from time to time she rode. There was no further news from Aber. She might have been in a different world.

John gave her what he considered enough time to settle in and to grow used to the place, then he sent for her. ‘In time you will oversee all my castles, but for now we’ll let things stay as they are. I have competent chatelaines who will continue to run the establishments while they are teaching you how it should be done, and you can continue your lessons and your reading, and of course you may ride whenever you wish.’ He walked across to the fire which smouldered sullenly in the hearth. He stared at it for a moment, trying to choose his next words with care. ‘While we are alone, Eleyne, there is something I wish to speak to you about.’ He frowned. ‘I have been told that you have bad dreams. Is anything special worrying you?’ He waited, hoping that she would trust him enough to reply.

She had gone pale. ‘Who told you I had bad dreams?’

‘One of your ladies mentioned it to my steward.’ He turned and smiled gently. ‘Secrets are hard to keep here, as I am sure they were at Aber.’

If he had hoped to comfort her, his words seemed to have the opposite effect. She stood as if paralysed, her eyes riveted on his face.

‘If it is to do with -’ He hesitated, at a loss how to put it. He had seen the way she shrank from his touch, sensed her physical fear of him as a man. ‘If it is to do with becoming my wife, Eleyne, there is nothing to fear.’ This was not the kind of thing a man discussed, but her helpless frailty touched him deeply. ‘We shall wait to be man and wife properly until you are ready.’ He smiled again, reassuringly.

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes on his, the relief at the implication of his words mixed with something else, something immediately veiled. ‘Not until I am ready, my lord?’ she repeated. ‘But Rhonwen said I must give myself to you whenever you require it, when you are well again.’ The view of the household, scarcely concealed, was that it was his uncertain health which kept their earl from his child bride’s bed.

He shook his head. ‘I am content to wait, Eleyne. We shall go to bed together when we both feel you are ready. Until then I shall not make that kind of demand on you.’ He sat down stiffly. How could he even contemplate taking this child, this baby with her flat, boyish figure, her face still with the unformed features of a child? He was no baby-snatcher; the women he found attractive were mature, intelligent; he fell in love with their minds before he allowed himself to touch their bodies. That he was unusual, if not unique, in this, he knew to be true, but he could not help it. He was not attracted by the animal, by the scent of musk, the voluptuous curves and reddened mouths of the court ladies with whom he mixed, and he had not for a long time lusted after one of the farm girls or serving maids.

He was dragged back from his thoughts by the sight of the woebegone small face before him. He had so few opportunities to speak to the child alone, away from the ever attentive Lady Rhonwen who, however much she might have insisted to Eleyne that she must give herself to her husband when required, had nevertheless seen to it with malevolent care that they had no time together alone.

‘Is there something else bothering you?’ His voice was gentle, coaxing, as it would have been to a small animal. ‘You can and should tell your husband everything, Eleyne. It is what he is there for.’ He said it quietly with a wry inward smile at the quizzical eyebrow a more experienced wife would raise at the comment. ‘Please. I should like to help you.’

She closed her eyes miserably, visibly struggling with herself.

‘Come here.’ He held out a hand to her and reluctantly she went to him. Resisting the urge to pull her on to his knee, he put his arm gently around her. ‘Tell me. Once you have told someone your nightmares will stop.’

Suddenly she couldn’t stop herself. Her voice punctuated by sobs, she told him everything: the visions, the dreams, the strange half-memories of the man with red hair, the meetings with Einion and that first harsh day of instruction in the smoke-filled hut where she had seen Sir William with the rope around his neck and not recognised him.

Christ and His Holy Mother! He could not bring himself to believe all he had heard. Eleyne had never tried to avoid attending mass with him every day in the castle chapel. She had never seemed, as far as he could tell, less than devout, and he had watched her carefully. Yet the child was a pagan, a witch, a sorceress and a seer! And still the words tumbled on. It was she who had caught Sir William in her mother’s bed, and who had told her father.

‘And why did you tell him, sweetheart? Why did you not keep it a secret?’ At last he had a glimmering of the source of her terrible guilt.

‘Because I hated him!’ She stamped her foot, her voice anguished. ‘He was my friend; he was Isabella’s father. He had let me ride Invictus.’ Huge wet tears were rolling down her cheeks and soaking into the soft gold velvet of her surcoat. ‘And I hated my mother. She stole him from me.’ She did not add that she had always hated her mother. That thought too brought anguish.

‘You hated them so much you wanted them to die?’ He was probing very gently.

‘Yes! No! I don’t know.’ Her voice was so husky it was almost a whisper. She rested her head desolately against his shoulder in a movement so trusting and so intimate he found himself unbearably moved.

‘Was anyone there with you when you saw them?’ He had to try very hard to keep his own voice steady.

‘Only Rhonwen.’

‘Ah, Rhonwen,’ he said drily. He paused. ‘And what did she say?’

Again the almost inaudible whisper. ‘She said it was treason.’

‘Which it was. A wife must not ever betray her husband, Eleyne. Your mother not only defiled her marriage bed, but did so with a man who had been her husband’s enemy and was subsequently his guest. She was guilty three times over.’

‘But I shouldn’t have told papa,’ she persisted.

‘If you hadn’t, someone else would have done so. And rightly. He had to know.’

‘Then why was he so angry with me?’ she cried. ‘Why did he send me away? Why did he blame me?’

The desolation in her voice was absolute. He tightened his arm around her, trying to comfort her, and noticed that she no longer shrank away from him. ‘It was just a reaction, sweetheart. He was hurt and angry and some of it rubbed off on you. It will pass.’

‘Will it?’ She eyed him doubtfully.

‘Of course it will. Prince Llywelyn is renowned for the love he bears his children.’

‘And the dreams? Will they stop now?’

‘I am sure they will.’ He tried to sound confident. Dear God, surely a child her age should be occupying herself with dolls, not this nightmare tangle of love and hate and death!

‘Have you had any strange dreams since?’ He tried to make the question sound casual. ‘Any more visions?’

‘No. No more visions.’

‘Your father’s seer was wrong to teach you those things, Eleyne. You know that, don’t you?’ He was feeling his way carefully. ‘They are absolutely contrary to the teachings of Holy Mother Church.’

She shrugged miserably. ‘Einion does not go to mass.’

‘No, I don’t suppose he does. But I thought your father was a good Christian, Eleyne.’

‘He is.’ She coloured defensively.

‘Then why does he allow this worship of ancient gods and spirits in his lands?’

‘I don’t think he knows.’

‘Who told Einion that you could see the future, Eleyne?’

‘Rhonwen.’ It was scarcely more than a whisper.

XIII

‘I should like you to return to Wales, madam.’ John’s lips were tight.

Rhonwen stared at him, her body growing cold. ‘Why, my lord? Have I displeased you in some way?’ Her eyes were challenging.

‘I consider you to be an unwholesome influence, Lady Rhonwen, on my wife.’ Humping his cloak higher on his shoulders, John paced up and down behind the long table. ‘You have deliberately introduced her to practices contrary to our Christian faith.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Heretical practices which I will not condone under my roof.’

‘No.’ Rhonwen refused to meet his eye. ‘That is not true.’

He swung to face her. ‘Are you saying that my wife is a liar?’

‘What did she say?’ Rhonwen looked at him defiantly. She was pleating her fingers into the rich blue silk of her skirt. She could feel the perspiration cold between her shoulder blades.

‘She said you encouraged her to go to this bard of her father’s, Einion Gweledydd, who -’ he stammered in his anger – ‘who initiated her in some way – ’

‘He was helping her, did she tell you that?’ Swiftly her courage returned. She leaned forward and put her hands flat on the table between them. ‘Did she tell you about her dreams? Did she tell you about the visions which possess her? Did she tell you how they tear her apart?’ She waited, her eyes on his.

‘She told me she saw the death of Sir William de Braose long before it happened,’ he said thoughtfully.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘She told you that?’

‘Yes, Lady Rhonwen.’ Looking up quickly, he saw her expression. ‘You look aghast. Did you not think she would confide in me, her husband? Perhaps you are not as indispensable to her as you hoped?’ His voice was harsh now. ‘She will have no more visions, Lady Rhonwen. I shall see to that. Please be ready to leave by the end of the week.’

‘No!’ The whispered denial was anguished.

He ignored it, and strode towards the door. ‘By the end of the week, madam,’ he repeated curtly.

She stood exactly where she was for several minutes after he had gone, staring round the empty room. From outside the deep embrasured windows she could hear the pure liquid trill of a blackbird. Behind it, in the distance, the call of the cuckoo echoed across the flat levels of the Nene. The room itself was silent. Her mouth had gone dry. She could feel a cold knot of fear in her stomach. This man had the power to tear her from Eleyne. He had the power to send her away.

Why had Eleyne betrayed her? Slowly, heavily, she went to the door.

Eleyne was nowhere to be found. With a snap of impatience Rhonwen made her way down the long winding stair which led from her solar into the great hall at the heart of the castle and then out into the courtyard.

Inevitably she was in the stables, watching a two-day-old colt staggering stiff-legged beside its dam as the pair were led out to the pasture.

Dressed in yet more new rich clothes, this time a kirtle of deep green over a saffron gown, the girl smiled at Rhonwen. Already she seemed older, more confident, more independent. Behind her Luned too was brilliantly dressed, and it was she who noticed the grim set of Rhonwen’s features and faded hastily into the background.

‘Why did you tell him?’ Rhonwen caught Eleyne’s arm. ‘Why?’

Nearby two stable boys turned to stare.

‘You broke your sacred oath!’ Her voice though quiet was vibrating with anger.

Eleyne flushed guiltily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you know.’ Rhonwen almost shook her.

‘I had to talk to someone…’

‘You had to talk to someone!’ Rhonwen echoed furiously. ‘Why not me? Why did you not talk to me?’

The child’s crimson cheeks drained of colour. ‘I don’t know why.’

‘Not only did you tell him – Lord Huntingdon – about the hanging, you told him about Einion; about the most secret things…’

‘I didn’t tell him everything.’ Eleyne turned to face her, wrenching her arm from Rhonwen’s grasp. ‘Anyway, I am supposed to tell him things. He is my husband!’ There was defiance in her voice now. ‘I am growing up, Rhonwen. I don’t have to do everything you say.’

Rhonwen stared. What had happened to her? Could it be that he had already claimed her for his wife; seduced her away and she, Rhonwen, had not even guessed? ‘I thought you loved me, Eleyne,’ she whispered.

‘I do -’ The child stared at her stiffly then, relenting, threw herself towards Rhonwen and gave her a hug. ‘I do love you. Of course I do.’

Rhonwen folded her arms around the girl’s slight body, overwhelmed by her feelings of love and protectiveness. ‘He is sending me away,’ she murmured into the white coif which covered Eleyne’s braided hair. As a married woman her hair was no longer permitted to tumble down her back. ‘He is sending me away.’

Eleyne pulled out of her arms and looked up at her. ‘I won’t let him send you away, Rhonwen,’ she said with astonishingly adult composure. ‘I promise. I won’t let John send you away.’ It was the first time she had used his Christian name out loud.

He listened, half amused, half irritated by Eleyne’s pleas, but he remained adamant. Rhonwen had to go. He had been shocked and outraged by Eleyne’s confessions, and the full weight of his anger, horror and distrust was directed at her nurse.

‘Please, my lord. Please!’ In her anguish Rhonwen sought him out and threw herself on her knees at his feet the evening before she was due to leave. ‘Let me stay! Eleyne can’t live without me. We’ve never been separated, never, since the day she was born. Please. For the child’s sake. You can’t do this to her. You can’t.’

‘It is for the child’s sake I am doing it, madam,’ John said gravely. ‘To bring her safely back to Christ. She has Luned and the others to keep her company and she has her husband. You will leave at dawn tomorrow, Lady Rhonwen, as arranged.’

XIV

Her eyes filled with tears, Eleyne turned from the gates and ran blindly across the courtyard, leaving her husband staring after her. After her anguished farewells, Rhonwen’s horse had turned north on to the road outside and she was already lost to sight among the trees. Behind her the gates closed. John smiled. For the first time in many weeks he at last felt safe, and the realisation shocked him. Had the woman’s influence been that malevolent? He was about to follow Eleyne when he stopped and shook his head. Give her some time alone, then he would speak to her.

Ignoring the men and women who stared after her Eleyne ran up the stairs and into the keep. Tears poured down her cheeks as she fled across the lower chamber and began to climb to the topmost storeys of the great tower. There were empty chambers there, places where nobody ever seemed to come, places where she could be alone and no one would see her grief.

Pushing open a door, she peered into a cold empty room. Ten years before it had been the bedchamber of Lord Albemarle who held the castle for a time while John, when he was a boy, still lived with his uncle at Chester. Now it was deserted, the bed frame dusty, the hangings long gone. John preferred to have his rooms above the newly built gatehouse. Hers were in the south tower behind the great hall, overlooking the river.

She walked into the silent room and crossed miserably to the window. It too faced south across the Nene. A ray of pale sunlight fell across the swept boards of the floor. In the opposite wall a low arched doorway led through to a small oratory in the thickness of the stone. The altar was still there; on it were half-burned candles and a carved alabaster crucifix. It was then that she smelt the incense. She frowned, puzzled. The smell was rich and exotic, pungent against the stale coldness of stone.

The woman was standing behind her in the shaft of sunlight, her black skirts rich and heavy, her veil silk, her pale, tired face strained as she stared towards the altar with an expression of resignation and sadness almost too great to bear. Eleyne stared back at her in shock, then a cloud crossed the sun. As the sunbeam faded the woman disappeared.

Terrified, Eleyne rubbed her eyes. She didn’t dare move. Her husband had forbidden her to have visions. They were evil. It was because of her visions he had sent Rhonwen away. And this woman, whoever she was, had not been flesh and blood. She backed away from the spot where the woman had stood, her eyes fixed on the empty space. Who was she? Why had she come? And why had she shown herself now? Eleyne went back into the chapel and reached a hand out to the altar. But the rich scent of incense had gone. The great echoing bedchamber once more smelt of stone and dust and disuse. She was alone.

Trying to control her fear, Eleyne fled to the spiral staircase and began to run down it. All she wanted was to go back to her own bright rooms and find Luned, who would be as miserable as she was without Rhonwen. She put the thought of the lady in black, whoever she was, as far out of her mind as possible. John must never find out that she was still seeing things. Never.

Gasping for breath, she paused at the top of the steps outside the keep and stared down into the courtyard. While she had been in the upper chamber a line of wagons and horses had ridden into the castle. She moved back slightly, out of sight, wondering who they belonged to. Then she noticed that John was already out there ready to greet his guests; she could see his fair hair blowing in the sunlight. She frowned, the lady in black forgotten. She had never seen her husband look so happy, and even as she watched he stepped forward and helped a woman down from one of the horses. She saw him take her in his arms and kiss her on the mouth. Eleyne was stunned. A shock of something very like jealousy shot through her. She had never seen John take a woman in his arms before, never seen him kiss one or look so animated. She stood on the steps, staring down at her husband, feeling the wind cold on her face, and became aware that it was blotchy and swollen with crying. She looked like a stupid, ugly child while this tall elegant fair-haired woman was beautiful.

She realised they were looking up at her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she began to walk down towards them, summoning as much dignity as she could: she was John’s wife. Whoever this woman was, she did not have that distinction.

They were smiling.

‘Eleyne, come here, my love,’ John called. He had time only to whisper to his companion that she had arrived in the nick of time and to ask what in the name of all the saints had kept her. ‘I want you to meet my most favourite person in the whole world,’ he went on, oblivious of the desolation in Eleyne’s face at his words – ‘my sister, Isabel.’

Isabel, married to the irascible Scots nobleman, Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, had received her brother’s letter at her manor of Writtle in Essex. It had begged her to come to Fotheringhay on her way back to Scotland and advise him on what to do about his wife. His brief summary of his problems had left her intrigued, amused and exasperated at the general helplessness of men when it came to matters of the emotions. Looking at Eleyne now, she saw a lonely and unhappy child. She had sensed as much as seen the moment of jealousy in the girl’s eyes as she had watched John kissing her – so the child felt something for him then – and now she saw the wistful longing which replaced it, almost as if Eleyne had sent her an unconscious appeal.

Isabel removed her gloves, then she held out her arms. As she kissed Eleyne on both cheeks, she glanced over the girl’s head towards her secret weapon, her son Robert. If Eleyne of Huntingdon were really a witch, a tomboy, a brilliant breakneck rider and an uncontrollable wanderer, twelve-year-old Robert could match her, fault for fault.

‘You’re crazy,’ John exploded later as his sister unfolded her plan. ‘I brought you here to try to inculcate some sense into her and to cheer her up, not bring her a playmate who will make her worse!’

Unabashed, Isabel reached for the glass of wine her brother had given her. For her he served nothing but the best in his richly enamelled, priceless Venetian glasses.

‘You told me you wanted to get rid of that awful hunted look,’ Isabel said firmly. ‘And you want to hear her laugh. Rob will make her laugh. I guarantee it.’

XV

Three days later young Robert Bruce was lying in wait for Eleyne in the stables.

‘I’m going riding with you,’ he said as soon as he spotted her. ‘Mama says you ride a great stallion.’

Eleyne felt her heart sink. She did not want this boy to ride Invictus. She did not even want him to see the horse. Dragging her feet, she walked towards Robert and gave him a determined brittle smile.

‘He’s cast a shoe,’ she lied. ‘If we ride we’ll ride Sable and Silver.’ The two mares were matched for height and speed, both well mannered and willing. She eyed her companion cautiously. She was two inches taller, but he was sturdier by far. They would probably be well matched in the saddle; but he would be heavier which would give her the advantage.

He caught her sizing him up and grinned. ‘Do you know why we’ve come here?’ he asked, his tone deceptively friendly.

Instinctively she knew she shouldn’t rise to the question, but, as instinctively, she knew she would have to ask it.

‘Why?’

He moved closer and lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I saw the letter Uncle John sent mama. It said the most terrible things about you!’

‘What things?’ Stung, Eleyne felt her face growing hot.

‘Dreadful things!’ Robert crowed. He stepped back, ready to run if necessary.

‘I don’t believe you. Anyway your mother wouldn’t have shown you John’s letter.’

‘She didn’t! I sneaked it out of her writing box!’

‘That’s dishonest -’ Eleyne’s temper was beginning to flare. She stared at the boy in disbelief. Apart from Luned and Isabella, she had never had a friend her own age, and certainly not one who had taunted her like this. She didn’t know what to do, and hesitated, torn between wanting to run away and wanting to know what the letter said.

‘I don’t suppose you can even read properly,’ she said scornfully.

The barb went home. ‘Of course I can,’ he retorted at once. ‘It said you were a strange, haunted child!’ He stuck out his tongue at her. ‘It said you saw ghosts in every shadow and that your nurse was a witch.’ He danced away a few steps, tempting her to chase him. ‘It said you were weird!’

‘I’m not!’ She was furious.

‘You are. You see ghosts.’

‘So what? Can’t you?’ She went on to the attack.

Her change of mood took him aback. He frowned, then reluctantly shook his head.

She sensed triumph: ‘You would be scared out of your mind if you saw one.’

‘I wouldn’t.’ It was his turn to be on the defensive.

‘You would.’

‘Wouldn’t!’

‘All right then. Prove it.’ Caution was thrown to the winds. ‘I’ll take you to a room where I saw a ghost.’

Robert hesitated for a fraction of a second, then he nodded. ‘Go on then.’

‘What about riding?’ Eleyne smiled, daring him to take the escape route. He shook his head firmly. ‘Later,’ he said.

Both had forgotten that she was Countess of Huntingdon and mistress of the castle. It was as two truant children that they dodged out of sight of the stables and raced across the courtyard towards the keep, sliding with the invisibility only children can manage across the lower chamber and up the dark stairs towards Lord Albemarle’s bedroom. At the top of the stairs they stopped, panting.

‘It was in here,’ Eleyne whispered. The sun was on the far side of the keep this time and the room was in shadow.

Robert peered past her. ‘What did it look like?’ he hissed.

She smiled. ‘Just a lady. A very beautiful lady in strange black clothes. She had lace here round her face,’ she gestured with her hands, ‘and a veil.’

‘Did she say anything?’

Eleyne shook her head.

‘She doesn’t sound very frightening,’ Robert scoffed.

Eleyne frowned. ‘She wasn’t frightening exactly,’ she said. It was hard to describe the feelings she experienced when she saw these figures who slipped through the fine gauze curtain which was time and then slipped away again. She surveyed the room, then tiptoed through the rounded stone arch. ‘Come on,’ she said quietly. ‘I was in the little chapel through here.’ She gestured towards the doorway in the far wall. ‘Then I looked back and saw her there, by the window.’

She crept into the oratory, Robert close at her heels. The tiny chapel was very dark. Both children held their breath as they stared round.

‘Can you smell anything strange?’ Eleyne whispered, her mouth very close to Robert’s ear.

He swallowed nervously and gave a cautious sniff. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Incense,’ she murmured. ‘When she came there was a smell of incense.’

Robert felt the hairs standing up on the back of his neck; he wished they had gone riding instead. ‘I can’t smell anything.’ His eyes swivelled round in his skull as he tried not to move his head. ‘There’s nothing here. Let’s go.’

‘No. Wait.’ Eleyne could smell it. The rich exotic fragrance drifted imperceptibly in the still air of the oratory. ‘She’s here,’ she breathed.

Robert stepped back and felt the rough stones of the wall cold through his tunic. His mouth had gone dry. Nervously, he turned his head so that he could see through the arch towards the window. There was nothing there. He frowned, staring harder, following her gaze, his hands wet with perspiration.

‘Can you see her?’ Eleyne asked softly. There was nothing there and the scent such as it was had gone. She glanced at him. He was shaking his head, his eyes screwed up with the effort of trying to see. His face was pasty.

‘It’s not the lady of Fotheringhay,’ she said very quietly. ‘Do you see? It’s huge. And ugly. So ugly!’

Robert’s face went whiter. He was pressing hard against the wall, wishing the stones would swallow him up.

‘I can’t see anything,’ he gulped. ‘I can’t see anything at all.’ He looked at her in mute appeal, then he stared. Her face had lit with suppressed laughter and she was giggling. ‘If you could see your face, Nephew Robert,’ she scolded.

‘There’s nothing there,’ he said slowly. The fear and awe on his face vanished. ‘There’s nothing there at all! You’ve been teasing me! Why you – ’

With a little shriek of laughter she dived past him. She raced across the empty bedchamber and pelted down the long spiral stairs, round and round and round, with Robert hot on her heels, bursting into the shadowy lower chamber just as John’s steward appeared at an inner doorway. He stared at Eleyne as she stopped in her tracks, noticing with amused approval the flushed face and rumpled veil. ‘Good day, my lady,’ he said with a bow. ‘His lordship was looking for you in the great hall.’ His gaze strayed to the boy behind her and he hid a smile. ‘It’s good to see you again, Master Robert.’

Robert grinned impudently: ‘And you, Master Steward.’ He turned to Eleyne and bowed in turn. ‘We mustn’t keep Uncle John waiting, Aunt Eleyne,’ he said severely. Then he winked. ‘I’ll race you!’

Eleyne hesitated for only a second, but already he was across the floor, scattering the scented woodruff which covered it, and out through the main door and out of sight.

XVI

The Earl and Countess of Huntingdon left the castle two months after Isabel and Robert had departed for Scotland. Eleyne had missed them enormously – after their ghost-hunting escapade they had become firm friends and he had kept the secret of her forbidden vision. Only the promise of another visit soon had consoled Eleyne as they rode away.

In her renewed loneliness she had turned to John more and more for company. She missed Rhonwen very much, but she also found it a relief not to have her constant supervision, and it was a pleasant surprise to find she no longer felt guilty enjoying her husband’s company when they set off on a tour of his estates.

The lands which comprised the Honour of Huntingdon were for the most part flat. They stretched for miles, bisected by the black, slow-moving Nene, from the fens where they flew their hawks to the great forests of central England.

Eleyne was ill at ease in the flatness of the landscape and, try as she might to please John, she could not pretend to like the cities they visited. She did not like Cambridge or Huntingdon or Northampton, as they journeyed slowly from castle to castle; and most of all she did not like London, where he kept a town house. Instinctively she distrusted the slow-speaking, cold, suspicious easterners and she longed for the mountains and the wild seas; she longed for the quick-tongued, nimble-footed, warm-hearted people of Gwynedd where tempers might be quick to flare, but where vivacity and warmth and hospitality were second nature to the people. Twice John promised her that they would make the long ride to Chester and that from there she could, if her father agreed, visit Aber, but twice she was disappointed as John succumbed to the debilitating bouts of fever which returned again and again to plague him.

It was as the next long summer’s heat settled over the flat lands of eastern England and they found themselves once more at Fotheringhay that he fell ill again and this time more seriously than before.

XVII

Rhonwen paused to move her basket of shopping from one arm to the other as she walked slowly back from the market to the house where she had found employment. Her new mistress was the wife of a wealthy wool merchant who had cheerfully given Rhonwen a place in the household as nurse to her brood of noisy children. Twice Rhonwen had despatched carefully worded messages to Luned to tell them where she was, but she had received no answer. She could not bring herself to return to Wales. She had to stay near Eleyne, and she had to find her way back.

Two men were leaning idly against the wall of the church on the corner of the street. One of them wore on his surcoat the arms of Huntingdon. Her mouth went dry. Had the earl found out where she was? Not that he had any jurisdiction over her here, she reminded herself sternly. She was a free citizen, honestly employed, within the city bounds.

She hesitated, then driven by her desperate need to have news of the earl’s household she approached the men.

They stared at her with casual insolence. ‘Well, my beauty. Can’t resist us, eh?’ The taller one had noticed her watching them.

‘Don’t be impertinent!’ Rhonwen drew herself up. ‘You are one of Lord Huntingdon’s men?’

The man nodded, then he winked. ‘But not for long the way things are going.’ He lounged back against the wall, picking one of his teeth with his forefinger. ‘The earl is near death. I’ve come to Northampton to fetch a physician.’

‘Near death?’ Rhonwen echoed, her eyes fixed with such intensity on his face he shrank back. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

He shrugged. ‘Fever,’ he said non-committally. ‘Who knows and who cares? It’s his steward who pays me.’ Reaching into his scrip he produced a silver penny and flicked it into the air. From the chink of coins between his fingers when he replaced it in the leather purse, there were plenty more.

‘And where is he? Are they back at Fotheringhay?’ Rhonwen asked.

He nodded. ‘So. What about helping me spend some money while I’m waiting -’ He stopped short. In a swirl of skirts, she had vanished into the crowds.

XVIII

John’s illness terrified Eleyne. It had begun without warning and she was devastated to see him so weak and helpless. Watching over him made her realise how fond she had grown of him, and she was very afraid that he would die. It had been her idea to send for the king’s physician while he was at Northampton.

She was sitting at John’s bedside, stroking his forehead, when Rhonwen found her. For a moment she stared incredulously at the woman, unable to move, then she hurled herself into Rhonwen’s arms. But if Rhonwen had hoped to sit with Eleyne and watch John of Chester die, she was disappointed. It was obvious that Eleyne would do anything to save her husband’s life; she wept and begged Rhonwen to help, and Rhonwen, unable to deny her beloved child, found herself setting aside her antagonism and resentment and, working harder than she had ever worked, she strove to keep him alive.

It was Rhonwen who made the decoctions of herbs which brought down John’s fever; Rhonwen who spent hours in the stillroom making up soothing syrups for his cough. The physician was away, the messenger reported when at last he returned to Fotheringhay, but as soon as he returned to Northampton would be brought to Lord Huntingdon’s bedside.

Eleyne was nervous John would find out Rhonwen was back. After that first visit to his sickroom when he was too delirious to recognise her, she was kept well away in the stillroom and in Eleyne’s rooms in the tower on the far side of the courtyard. Eleyne brought the medicines in her own hands and watched with fearful eager hope as, slowly, he seemed to grow better.

When at last the king’s physician arrived Rhonwen’s medicines were swept scornfully away. The stout, white-haired man, with his huge bushy eyebrows and long black gown, bent over the earl and reached for his pulse, but the earl was already on the mend.

XIX

The bedchamber was shady in the dusk. In the distance there was a rumble of thunder. Eleyne raised her hand and Luned stopped brushing her hair. There was no fire in the hearth and Eleyne had given orders for the lamps to be doused. Dearly though she loved her, it was a relief to be away from Rhonwen, who followed her everywhere when she was not with John. Rhonwen was with Marared, sitting in the bower where a travelling minstrel from Aquitaine was entertaining the ladies with songs and roundelays redolent of the hot fragrant south. Pleading a headache, Eleyne had left with Luned, seeking the cooler silence of her rooms overlooking the river. For once, Rhonwen had not followed her.

On the far side of the courtyard, above the gatehouse, John was tossing in his bed, still tended by the physician. Eleyne had visited him before supper, putting her hand a little shyly in his and feeling the dry papery skin like fire against her own, then the doctor had peremptorily sent her away.

She frowned at the recollection: there had to be some other way of helping John. She was sure that under Rhonwen’s care he had improved. For a long time that morning she had watched the physician carefully applying leeches to her husband’s frail body, attaching the creatures with meticulous care to his chest and arms and waiting until they dropped, gorged with his blood, into the silver dish waiting for them. John had smiled at her calmly and asked her to read to him for a while. She had done it gladly, but every now and then her eyes left the crabbed black manuscript of the vellum pages and strayed to his face. He was too pale. He did not have enough red blood. Surely it must be wrong to drain even more. She found herself longing again for her father’s court, with the wise men of the hills who attended it. Men like Einion, who might be a heretic and evil and wrong, as John so often told her, but it was he, so Rhonwen had said, who had taught her all she knew of healing, and that was much.

‘That’s enough,’ she said sharply as Luned resumed her brushing. She stood up restlessly and walked over to the window, stepping into the embrasure so she could see out of the deep recess towards the west. Over there, beneath the moonlight, many miles away, lay the giant sleeping peaks of Yr Wyddfa.

‘Go to bed, Luned.’ Her mind was made up. ‘Go to bed, I’m going down to the stables.’

It was months since she had done it; months since she had visited the horses in the dark. John had been adamant. The Countess of Huntingdon did not curl up in the straw like a stable boy – not now that she was a woman. She slept between silken sheets every night. The Countess of Huntingdon was not expected to seek out the shadows or explore the castle alone or gallop at the head of her men or disappear into the heaths when out hawking with her pretty merlin on her fist. She must be demure and ladylike and behave with propriety at all times.

‘My lady.’ The soft voice at her elbow stopped her as she reached the door into the courtyard.

‘Cenydd?’ She suspected he slept across her threshold once the castle was quiet at night.

‘Shall I call for torches, my lady?’ The big man was smiling down at her, his shoulders broad in his heavy leather jerkin. She became conscious of her hair, hanging loose down her back, free of the neat cap or head-dress she should be wearing.

‘No, no torches.’ She stepped out on to the wooden staircase which led down from the only door in the keep to the courtyard below.

‘You should not go out alone, lady.’ The gentle voice was persistent.

‘I am not alone if you are there!’ she retorted. Swishing her skirts in irritation, she ran down the staircase. At the bottom she stopped and turned. ‘You may come with me if you wish. If not, you may return to the great hall and pretend you haven’t seen me. I intend to ride Invictus.’

‘In the dark, princess?’

‘There is enough light. I do not want my husband to know about this, Cenydd. I do not wish to worry him. If you betray me I shall have you sent back to Gwynedd.’ Her imperious tone left him in no doubt that she meant it.

‘Very well, princess.’

She gave him a quick smile. ‘Just this once, Cenydd, before I die of suffocation.’ The charm had returned, and the small wheedling smile he could never resist – nor, he guessed, could any man. ‘Please.’

If the grooms were surprised at being asked to bridle the great stallion for their small mistress, they hid the fact. He was led out and Cenydd lifted Eleyne on to the high back of the horse. He hastily mounted his own fast gelding, afraid she would gallop off into the dusk, but she walked the stallion demurely towards the gatehouse, beneath the portcullis, and reined in, waiting for the postern in the main doors to be opened, before urging the animal on to the track outside. The storm was drifting closer, imperceptibly, a deeper blackness in the sky to the south-west, sliced now and then by zigzags of lightning. Invictus sidled uneasily and snapped bad-temperedly at the horse beside him.

‘If we take the road across the heath, we can gallop,’ Eleyne said at last. The huge flat distances, mysterious in the moonlight, depressed her, as did the vast unbroken canopy of the sky, this infinite eastern sky which rendered the land so insignificant and featureless.

‘What of the storm?’ Cenydd could smell the rain, sweet and cold, in the distance. Like the horses, he was ill at ease.

‘I want to ride in the storm.’

‘No, lady, think of your position. Think of your safety. Please come back.’ He knew she should not be there. If anything happened to her, he would be blamed. He sighed, loosening his sword in its sheath for the umpteenth time. Her wilfulness was Rhonwen’s fault. The child had never been disciplined and now she had a husband as weak-willed as the rest.

Invictus bared his teeth spitefully and Cenydd’s gelding sidestepped.

‘Come on. We can see well enough here.’ She was gathering her reins and the stallion was on his toes.

‘Why, princess?’

The forceful disapproval in his voice stopped her, fighting with the bit, holding the horse back on its haunches.

‘What do you mean?’ She raised her head defensively.

‘Why must you ride like this? A countess, a princess, should behave like a lady…’

Even in the moonlight he could see the colour darken her cheeks. ‘There are many kinds of lady, Cenydd. My husband has taught me that. I am the kind who rides like Rhiannon on her white horse, whom no man can catch.’ She pronounced the soft Welsh name wistfully.

Cenydd stared across at her. ‘Your husband told you this?’

She nodded emphatically.

She had been reading to him as he lay, his eyes closed, on the daybed they had arranged for him on the dais in the great hall. At first she had resented these hours at John’s side, longing to be out in the sun, longing to be riding. Seeing this, he had kept her with him for short periods only, lengthening them infinitesimally until, one day, when the rain teemed down outside, sluicing off the roofs and pouring in waterfalls from the stone gutters jutting out from the parapets of the keep, he drew her down near him and with a smile handed her a packet wrapped in a piece of linen.

‘A present.’

She looked at it with a sinking heart, knowing already from the feel that it was a book. Slowly she began to unfold the wrapping. To her delight the book was in Welsh, and as she turned the richly decorated pages she gasped in wonder.

‘I asked your father if he could send a book of Welsh stories to cheer you up, Eleyne, and he had this made especially for you. The stories are as old as time. His bards and storytellers have been collecting them and writing them down for many years, I gather.’ He waited, half amused, half anxious as she leafed through the pages spelling out the titles: The Dream of Maxen, the Countess of the Fountain, Peredur. She looked up at John, her eyes shining. ‘I know these stories – ’

‘Of course you do.’ He smiled. ‘And I want to know them too. Will you read them to me?’ He was watching her as he so often did, this strange child, the daughter of a Welsh prince, descendant perhaps of the ancient gods of the stories in the book she held. Maybe the stories would help him understand her better, and maybe they would help to relieve the homesickness which still robbed her cheeks of colour and filled him with such guilt whenever she came, trying so hard to hide her reluctance, to his side.

‘Even so, princess,’ Cenydd went on grudgingly, ‘I am sure he did not mean you to ride without escort like this. These heaths and fens are full of robbers and thieves and outlaws.’ He examined the still, moonlit landscape with its brooding shadows and the deeper pools of blackness beneath the trees, big enough to have hidden an army, and he shivered.

Eleyne laughed lightly. ‘If there are any robbers here, we can outride them. And I have you and your sword to protect me.’ Behind them a low rumble of thunder echoed around the horizon.

She waited for him in a patch of streaming moonlight, her hair wildly tangled on her shoulders, her blood singing with exhilaration, she and the horse tired at last. Then out of nowhere a bolt of lightning hissed out of the sky near them and exploded into the ground, making the stallion rear.

She had not seen the castle as she approached, but as she gentled the great horse she could see it clearly in the green eldritch light. The lightning vanished into blacker darkness leaving flames running along the walls, licking across the roofs, strung along the scaffolding poles like bright flags at a tourney. Dear God, the lightning must have struck the roof. Horrified, she watched, hearing the shouts and screams of the men and women trapped at high windows too narrow to let them push their way free. On the roof leads she saw a figure outlined by fire. As she watched, the man turned from the flames and climbing into the battlements hurled himself out into the smoke, his cry lost in the tumult below.

Dimly she was aware of Cenydd beside her now. ‘Look. Oh, Holy Mother! Oh, the poor people! Can’t we do something?’ But there was nothing they could do; nothing anyone could do. They were surrounded by the roar of the flame and the rolling smoke, white and grey against the blackness of the night, sewn with a million sparks.

Another flash of lightning showed the broad band of the river between them and the castle and the line of armed men who stood unmoving between the castle and the water which could have saved it. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see the banner of the man at their head, but the smoke rolled down to the river once more and she could see nothing.

The rain came, as though a giant bucket had been overturned in the heavens, soaking the ground, the horses and the two riders within seconds, reducing the visibility to no more than a few feet. Eleyne narrowed her eyes, desperately trying to see ahead, but her eyes refused to focus now, seeing only the cold silver needles which stung her face and hands.

She realised that Cenydd had dismounted and was standing at Invictus’s head, looking questioningly at her as he gripped the horse’s sharp bit. She had not flinched from the rain. She sat upright, unmoving, her eyes on the distance.

‘Are you all right, princess?’

She could barely make out his narrowed eyes, his hair plastered to his skin beneath his leather cap.

‘I… I don’t know.’ She felt strangely disorientated. ‘The castle… will they be all right? The rain will help put out the fire…’

Cenydd let go of the bridle long enough to cross himself fervently: ‘You saw a fire?’

She stared at him. ‘You must have seen it. There – ’

Behind them the heath was invisible behind the curtain of rain. Another lightning flash zigzagged across the sky.

‘There is no fire, my lady, and no castle,’ he said gently. ‘And there never has been. Not here.’

I

The nuptial mass had been all Isabella had dreamed it would be. The cathedral at Bangor, with its sturdy pillars and its high arched roof, glowed with sunlight as, the marriage completed, Prince Dafydd ap Llywelyn, heir to Gwynedd and Aberffraw and all North Wales, led his young bride to the high altar and knelt beside her there on a faldstool embroidered with silver and gold. Behind him stood his father, alone. In spite of a stream of desperate, contrite letters from Joan, begging his forgiveness, she was still imprisoned. She had not been permitted to attend the wedding of her lover’s daughter to her son.

Nearby, tight-lipped, stood Eva de Braose, her lovely face hidden by a black silk veil. Was she, she wondered, as she stared around the packed cathedral, the only person there to remember that her husband had been hanged by these people? She clenched her fists angrily as the voices of the choir soared aloft. Then a hand touched hers. Standing next to her, Gwladus, now married to Ralph Mortimer, remembered. She too had loved her dead husband’s dashing son. In sorrow the two women bowed their heads and prayed.

Isabella was not thinking of her father. She ran her hands quickly over the front of her richly embroidered gown, then folded them meekly in prayer. On her thick curtain of black hair, brushed loose almost to her waist, sat a golden coronet studded with pearls.

She stole a look at her handsome husband. He was tall, his red-gold hair gleaming in the stray beams of sun which slanted across the hills behind the cathedral and in through the stained-glass windows. The air curled and moved with the smoke of incense.

Dafydd smiled at her. He found his curvaceous young bride much to his taste. Her dark eyes and hair showed off a naturally white skin; she was small – not yet fourteen – but the breasts beneath her bodice were well grown and her hips beneath the slender lines of the gown and kirtle were provocatively curved.

He had thought long and hard about the problem of her father and at last had cautiously brought up the subject with the prince.

‘However right we were to hang him,’ he said, with a wary eye on his father’s face, ‘the child is bound to feel resentment. It’s only natural. Her mother does.’ He grimaced; he did not like the stone-faced Eva.

‘She must learn that the wages of sin are death,’ Llywelyn replied, his face grim.

‘I think she knows that,’ Dafydd said slowly. ‘But still it must be hard to bear. Can I…’ he hesitated, ‘can I tell her that it was Eleyne who discovered them together? It might be easier for her to come to terms with that idea, and if she can’t,’ he shrugged, ‘no doubt it will take less time to get over it. And as Eleyne has left Gwynedd it hardly matters anyway.’

Llywelyn examined his son’s face for a moment, surprised at the young man’s cynicism. ‘You mean you think Isabella needs a focus for her hate?’

‘Of course she does.’ Dafydd smiled. ‘And Eleyne has gone. What better way of handling it?’ He did not add that he had guessed that his father had done the same thing; only in his case he had shifted on to his daughter the blame of his wife. It was well known throughout the palace that Llywelyn had given orders for his wife’s imprisonment to be made less harsh; that he missed her intolerably – and that he had sent no messages or gifts to the Countess of Huntingdon save one book, grudgingly, at her husband’s request.

Isabella’s reaction to his frank discussion was all Dafydd had hoped. Several days before the wedding he had drawn her aside into one of the window embrasures in the newly built stone keep at Caernarfon Castle, out of earshot of their chaperones.

‘My dear, the shadow of your father is coming between us,’ he said slowly, taking her hand gently in his. A master of the chivalric art of courtship, he had already plied his betrothed daily with poems and flowers and little gifts of love: scented kerchiefs and ribbons. ‘I cannot bear that to be so.’ He glanced at her solemnly and was touched to see her eyes had filled with tears. ‘There is something you should know, Isabella.’ He lowered his voice even more, so she had to bend close to hear him and he could feel the soft brush of her breath on his brow, see the fine bloom of youth on her rounded cheeks. He felt a sudden rush of desire and had to close his eyes to keep his feelings under control. ‘I know she was your friend, but I have to tell you. It was Eleyne who betrayed your father. He trusted her; he loved her almost as a daughter, and yet she betrayed him.’

There was a long silence. ‘No? Not Elly?’ It was a plea.

‘I am sorry, Isabella. But you would have found out in the end.’

She had cried a little, discreetly, so the chaperones would not see and interrupt their tête-à-tête, then slowly she began to realise what he had said. Eleyne, her friend, had killed her father! Anger replaced the tears, and then fire-spitting fury. ‘How could she! I hate her! I’ll never forgive her!’ She had forgotten, as Dafydd had intended, that her father had not been alone in his sin. That Dafydd’s – and Eleyne’s – mother had been with him, and that they had both been in her bed.

The wedding feast dragged on for hours; course succeeded course, trenchers and plates were piled high with spiced food: sucking pig, swan, hare, pike, quail, partridge, stews, broths, mussels, trout, leek tarts, custards and honey cakes, and cask upon cask of Gascon wine, Welsh mead, ale and whisky were emptied, rolled away and replaced. Beside her husband Isabella was hot, tired and overexcited, and she had begun to feel sick. She stared around the hall uncomfortably, wondering if she should excuse herself again and run to the nearest range of chambers of ease, where she would have to brave a queue of jeering drunken men. It was that or the shame of being sick in the corner. She was still trying to make up her befuddled mind as she stared at the wheels of dripping candles when she found her husband beside her, helping her to her feet. ‘Go, sweetheart. Make ready for me.’ He pushed her gently towards a group of giggling ladies who seemed to be waiting for her. Swaying slightly, she stumbled towards them, only half conscious of the full-throated roar of approval from the prince’s young friends and the chorus of lewd comments from the lower tables.

In the bridal chamber it was quiet and cool after the roar of noise and the heat of the great hall. To the accompaniment of much gentle teasing, Isabella’s clothes were removed by her attendants, her face and body sponged with flower-water and anointed with sweet-smelling salves; her hair was brushed and then she was helped into the high bed, decorated all over with garlands and flowers.

Minutes later, as she caught the silk sheet to her breasts with a little shriek, the door flew open and Dafydd appeared, accompanied by a number of boisterous young men.

Hazily she watched as he tried half-heartedly to escape his friends; she saw him caught and watched, half amused, half afraid as they tore his clothes none too gently from his body. Then he too was naked. She gazed at him in awe. The lithe muscular body was the handsomest thing she had ever seen; and he sported a magnificent erection.

With a cheer the young men pushed him into bed beside her, during which manoeuvre she clutched tightly at the sheet, but they got a more-than-adequate view of the rounded charms of their new princess. Then reluctantly they fell to silence as the figure of the bishop appeared in the doorway, surveying the scene tolerantly. With a smile he walked into the room. ‘Pax vobiscum, my children.’ He walked across to the bed.

Isabella closed her eyes as the holy water touched her face and breasts and realised with a sickening wave of nausea that the room was spinning around her. She opened her eyes again, feeling her stomach lurch as, beside her in the bed, she felt with a shock the touch of her husband’s thigh against her own. It seemed a long time before the bishop left the chamber, and with him her maidens and ladies and the prince’s friends, but at last the door closed and they were alone.

With a swift, almost angry movement Dafydd brushed the flowers and ribbons from the bed and threw himself back on the pillows.

‘Sweet Christ! I thought they would never go.’

Reaching out an arm, he caught her shoulder and pulled her towards him. ‘My lovely Isabella – ’

With a groan she pulled away. ‘My lord,’ she started to cry, ‘I’m going to be sick!’ She threw herself from the bed and ran naked to the garderobe.

It was a long time before she returned white-faced and shivering to the chamber. Dafydd was sitting in the bed drinking and gave her a sympathetic grin. ‘Better?’

She nodded sheepishly, catching up a cloak and wrapping it around herself.

‘Here.’ He held out his silver goblet. ‘Rinse your mouth with this. You’ll feel better.’

She did as he bid, spitting ferociously into the ewer in the corner. Then she began to brush her hair.

‘That’ll teach you to mix your wine with mead!’ His teasing voice was just behind her. She jumped. His hands were on her shoulders, peeling away the cloak. ‘Come back to bed now and get warm.’ He was naked too and she found she was trembling with excitement as they went back to the bed and scrambled in.

She liked his kisses. And she liked his hands upon her breasts. She lay passively, feeling strangely guilty that she should so enjoy the sensations of her body. Her mother had told her with a certain grim satisfaction that it would hurt, but this, this was ecstasy and her Dafydd gentle and kind. She opened her eyes sleepily and reached up her lips for another kiss.

They made love three times that night; the first time it did hurt and there was blood, but skilfully he kept her excitement at fever pitch and the second time was better. The third, when she was sated and sleepy, heavy with contentment, was as the first rays of the sun crept across the strewn rose petals on the floor and played across their sprawled bodies. Isabella, the wife of Dafydd ap Llywelyn, was very, very happy.

II

The fever had deepened. Eleyne lay tossing uneasily on her bed. In her delirium she was walking in a valley filled with flowers. With her there was a man with red-gold hair, who took her hand and kissed it and smiled at her with eyes so full of love she found she was crying, her tears warm and wet on her cheeks. Then she woke up, and Rhonwen was sponging her face with rose water and the man had gone and left her alone and she cried again. She barely recognised her husband when he rose from his own sickbed to visit hers.

The castle was hushed, the household concerned for their small countess, of whom most of them were very fond. The pinched face and huge unhappy eyes when she had first arrived had touched many a heart, as had her rare smiles, her concern for others, her careful attention to learning how to oversee them, her occasional irrepressible laughter and her wild uncontrollable rides from which she would return tired but with her spirit refreshed, just such a ride as had, this time, laid her so low.

Working silently in the stillroom, Rhonwen pounded the dried herbs in her mortar, searching her memory for a formula which would break the fever. She had to be so careful. The earl still did not know she had returned; he did not know it was she who had provided the physic which had made him so much better before the king’s doctor had come. He did not know that Eleyne had thrown out the doctor’s medicines, quietly replacing them with Rhonwen’s; that Eleyne had smiled and nodded as the old man took the credit for the earl’s improved health. Now it was happening again, but with Luned and Marared now carrying the potions to the countess’s bedchamber. It was only at night when the castle slept that Rhonwen dared visit the child and smooth back her hair and bathe her wrists and temples with flower water.

She weighed the dried, powdered herbs carefully in her hand scale and poured boiling water over them. Their scent filled the small stillroom, already permeated with the smell of decades of dried herbs and flowers. As soon as the infusion was made she would take it to Eleyne herself. The bell for compline had rung from the nunnery beyond the walls a long time earlier. It would be safe to visit her charge.

Eleyne was asleep, her brow still damp with fever, her hair tangled on the pillow when Rhonwen tiptoed in. Beside her a single lamp burned. Ethil watched over her, dozing in the chair near her bed. She jumped to her feet as Rhonwen appeared. Rhonwen put her finger to her lips. Setting down the flask of liquid, she went to the bed and laid a cool hand on Eleyne’s forehead.

‘The fever is down, Lady Rhonwen,’ Ethil smiled. ‘The earl’s physician says she is getting better at last.’

Rhonwen sniffed. ‘If she is, it is none of his doing. See she gets this four times a day and give her nothing he prescribes. Nothing. Do you understand?’ She stroked Eleyne’s cheek gently. ‘There, cariad. You’ll soon be better -’ She broke off as the door behind them opened.

The Earl of Huntingdon stared at Rhonwen for several seconds without speaking, his eyes hard. Then he stepped into the room. ‘So my informant was right. You have sneaked back. What do you think you are doing here, madam?’ He moved towards the bed and looked down at his wife as she murmured restlessly in her sleep.

‘I am taking care of my child!’ Rhonwen took a step back. Her heart was pounding with fear. ‘Please, my lord, let me stay. You can’t send me away, not now, not while she’s ill.’ She dodged back towards Eleyne and stood protectively over her. ‘I’m the one who is curing her. Not your pompous old doctor. He knows nothing. Nothing!’ She grabbed Eleyne’s hand and clutched it to her. ‘Who do you think made you better? Who do you think saved your life? It was me!’

John shook his head. His face was dark with anger. ‘Enough! You disobeyed me, woman. I sent you away. I will not have you near my wife!’

‘You can’t make me go…’ Rhonwen clutched Eleyne’s hand more tightly.

‘Oh, indeed I can.’ John turned to Ethil. ‘Call the guard.’

Ethil hesitated. ‘Do as I say, woman!’ His voice hardened. ‘Call the guard. Now.’

Eleyne had awakened. She stared uncomprehendingly at the man and woman who stood over her arguing. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, her face flushed in the candlelight.

‘John -’ Her whisper was hoarse.

He looked at her and his face softened. ‘Hush, my darling. Go back to sleep.’ To Rhonwen he said, ‘I mean it, madam. My physicians are perfectly able to take care of my wife. She does not need your care. You are the reason she is ill! If you had brought her up properly she would not have had this need to ride at all hours of the night! But for you she would have forgotten these nightmares and visions which torment her.’ He swung around as two men-atarms appeared in the doorway. ‘Take this woman away. I want her off my lands by noon tomorrow.’ He glanced at Rhonwen. ‘Go back to Wales. You are not wanted here. If I see you near my wife again it will not go well for you.’

He watched, arms folded, as the two men advanced on Rhonwen. One of them took her arm and she spat at him, her eyes blazing. ‘I shall never forget this, John of Scotland,’ she hissed as she was pulled away from the bedside. ‘Never! One day you will die for this!’

III

‘So. Are you better at last?’ The familiar gentle face of her husband swam into focus as Eleyne awoke. She moved painfully on the bed beneath the silk sheet as he put his hand on her forehead. ‘The fever has finally broken.’

Beyond him the room was shadowy. The curtains of the bed were drawn back, the heavy bedcovers gone.

‘Have I been ill a long time?’ She stared round weakly.

‘Indeed you have. You were caught in the storm, do you remember? Cenydd brought you back wet through and before we knew it, it was me visiting you, instead of the other way round.’ After Rhonwen had gone the fever had worsened again and she had grown delirious. He himself had totally recovered. The long summer days and the prolonged rest ordered by the doctor had brought some colour to his cheeks. He was coughing less and, his appetite recovered, had put on weight. Each day he had been riding farther, determined, though he did not admit it even to himself, that when his wife recovered, he would no longer be put to shame in the saddle.

He eyed her slight frame, so painfully thin, with the newly appeared small breasts barely visible mounds beneath the sheet.

He had been frantic with worry as the fever had raged, watching in an agony of helplessness as Ethil and Marared nursed her, holding to her dry burning lips a succession of evil-tasting tinctures and decoctions of herbs which the physician had prescribed for her. And like them, he had listened to her delirious descriptions of the burning of the castle she had witnessed on her ride.

Cenydd, summoned to the earl, had reluctantly told him what had happened.

‘She was sitting on the horse, staring, staring into the darkness, and her eyes were all over the place, watching, watching something I couldn’t see. She was crying and complaining that the smoke was in her eyes and begging me to help. She said there were soldiers stopping the bucket men getting near the river…’ His voice trailed away. ‘But there was nothing there, nothing…’

John had rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. ‘Have you seen her do this before?’

Cenydd shook his head. ‘Luned knows about her visions, my lord,’ he said slowly. For the child’s sake it was better if it were all out in the open.

Luned was white-faced: ‘It was a fantasy. The storm; the lightning. What she saw was the lightning strike a tree – ’

‘She saw a castle burning, child! You and I have heard her describe it again and again in her illness. She saw men and she saw a river. This was no ordinary dream.’ He paced up and down the floor. ‘She was warning us. Warning us of some attack. But where? Here?’ He swung round and paced back towards the empty hearth. He was cursing himself roundly. He believed it! He, a man of education and sense, believed she was seeing the future and he was worried about it! He was as gullible as the lye-spattered women in the wash-houses beyond the walls. He turned back to Luned. ‘I don’t want anyone to hear about this,’ he said repressively. ‘No word, no word must get out, do you understand? If the servants heard her talk, it was her delirium speaking, that is all. And now, thank the Blessed Virgin, she is better and there will be no more talk of burning castles!’

Eleyne looked around the room. ‘Where’s Rhonwen?’ she asked.

John sat down on the bed and took her hands in his. ‘I’ve sent her back to Wales, my darling. I couldn’t let her stay. She’s all right. She’s gone back to her own people.’

He saw her eyes fill with tears and he cursed silently. ‘Luned and Marared and Ethil are still here to keep you company. And me.’ He smiled. ‘And Isabel is coming to stay and bringing young Robert. You have to get better soon so you can ride with him. You’ll enjoy that.’ He reached for the physic the doctor had left and helping her sit up held it to her lips. ‘And your sister Margaret has sent you a gift from Sussex. She wants you to go and see her when you’re better. She’s sent you a beautiful necklace of pearls.’

Eleyne had grown while she was ill. He was astonished to find her now, thin as a reed, up to his shoulder. Her head still ached sometimes, so he would read to her in the evenings if there were no travelling minstrels or storytellers or guests. And he would talk to her of the future.

‘Would you like to be a queen, little one?’

‘In Scotland?’

He nodded. Great-grandson of King David I of Scotland, John, the only son of the elder John of Huntingdon and Maud, heiress to the Earl of Chester, was heir presumptive to the as yet childless King Alexander II.

Her eyes shone. ‘What is Scotland like?’

‘Beautiful. It has mountains bigger even than your great Snowdon, and lochs, great lochs as deep as the sea. One day soon we’ll go there. Your mother’s sister, Joanna, is married to my cousin the king, so we are both near the throne.’ He saw her frown. ‘Your mother is well, Eleyne. Sad in her prison, but well. You must not go on blaming yourself for her imprisonment. It was she who sinned.’ He looked at her. ‘No more bad dreams, I hope?’

She shook her head. The man with the auburn hair was forgotten again, part of the whirling blackness of her fever.

‘And no more burning castles.’ He smiled. ‘I keep wondering whether to stand to a bucket chain in case.’ The violence of her descriptions was still in the forefront of his mind.

‘It wasn’t any of your castles,’ she said, anxious to reassure him.

‘Then where was it?’ he asked softly.

‘It was Sir William’s castle. At Hay.’

There was a long silence.

‘I understand Hubert de Burgh, the king’s justiciar, has custody of Hay Castle,’ he said at last. ‘It must have been the past you saw, sweetheart. Your grandfather, King John, burned Hay after he destroyed Sir William’s grandmother and grandfather twenty years ago.’

He saw her knuckles whiten.

‘It’s all over now. And best forgotten, Eleyne.’

‘I know.’ It was a whisper.

IV

The visitor did not realise the importance of the news he brought. He had been given fresh water to wash and food and wine in the great hall and then, as courtesy demanded, he repaid the hospitality with news of the country through which he had ridden. He had been in Hereford when he had heard of the sack of Hay Castle and the latest round of battles which raged in Wales.

‘I hear they were still rebuilding the castle from the last time when the attack came. The women tried to hide in the church with their children, but that was burned too. The whole place has been razed to the ground, so I heard.’

John stared at him. Beside him Eleyne was as white as a sheet.

‘Who has done such a thing?’ John put out his hand and rested it over his wife’s on the table.

‘The Prince of Aberffraw. Your father, my lady. He burned Hay Castle.’

Letters came some time later from Llywelyn to John. He had done it, he said, to reduce the de Burgh influence in the march, and to remind the King of England not to encroach too far into Wales.

‘That’s not true,’ Eleyne said huskily, the letter in her hand. ‘He burned Hay for revenge. Because Sir William loved it there.’ She took a deep unsteady breath, fighting back her tears. ‘Poor Isabella. I wonder how she is enjoying life at Aber.’

She had written three times to her friend; there had been no reply.

‘She’ll be fine.’ John tried to comfort her. ‘Your brother Dafydd is a good man. He’ll look after her.’

He did not mention the fire again and neither did she. She could not have saved Hay Castle from her father any more than she could have saved Sir William from the noose. She realised now, their destinies had been written in the stars. But how had she been allowed to see the future? And why?

V

The Earl and Countess of Huntingdon were summoned to Westminster within weeks of the burning of Hay Castle. John guessed that Llywelyn’s motive must be of great importance to the king, and he warned Eleyne that the king would ask her about it.

‘You won’t tell him that I saw it all?’ She looked at him anxiously.

‘Of course not. Do you think I want the whole world knowing that my wife has visions of the future?’

She sat down at the great oak table where he had been writing, and picked up one of his quills. ‘I do not do it on purpose.’

‘I know.’ Contrite, he squeezed her shoulder. ‘But we cannot – must not – let it happen again. It’s dangerous. And it makes you unhappy. The king will ask you about your father’s motives. All you have to say is that you don’t know. Tell him all your father’s letters are addressed to me.’ This was true.

King Henry III stood facing his niece, a quizzical smile on his face. ‘Your father is thumbing his nose at me again, I think, my lady.’

Eleyne felt her face colouring. ‘No, sire, that is not true.’

‘My wife feels sure that the burning of Hay, at least, was a personal grudge, your grace.’ John put a protective hand on her arm. ‘A last gesture against the de Braoses.’

‘Ah, the lustful Sir William who managed to win my half-sister’s heart.’ Henry smiled. ‘The man must have been either a fool or so mad for love it made him so.’ He looked around for approval for his joke.

At twenty-four Henry Plantagenet was an elegant, handsome young man with an artistic eye, amply demonstrated in his love of clothes and luxurious furnishings and in the extravagant plans he was drawing up for the rebuilding of Westminster Abbey. As yet unmarried, he was a pious, shrewd and sometimes obstinate man.

For a long moment he eyed Eleyne, then he turned away. She was still a child. Later, when she had more influence with her husband, would be the time to make use of her.

VI

The Huntingdons were at home in their house in the Strand, a sprawling new suburb between London and Westminster, when news came that the Prince of Aberffraw had finally taken pity on his erring wife and forgiven her. After two years of imprisonment she had at last been allowed to return to her husband’s side and was reinstated in his favour. Eleyne gave the messenger a silver penny, overjoyed with the news, and went to find her husband.

‘I can go home! If papa has forgiven her, he will have forgiven me, won’t he, my lord? Oh, please. Can I go home?’ Not once in the last two years had they gone to the west.

John looked at her in astonishment and took the letter. It was the first she had ever received from Aber, and it came from Rhonwen.

‘Home? To Gwynedd you mean?’

She nodded in excitement. ‘Please?’ Noticing his expression she stopped uncomfortably. ‘I know I am your wife, I know I must come back to you when I am fourteen, but until then I could go home to Rhonwen. Back to Wales. Back to see Isabella -’ Her voice died away. They stood looking at each other for a long moment, and slowly her face fell.

‘I am sorry, sweetheart.’ John shook his head. ‘You must stay with me. Your home is with me now.’

‘My home is in Gwynedd.’ It was almost a sob.

‘Not now, Eleyne. You are the Countess of Huntingdon. Wales is no longer your home. It never will be again.’

‘But it must be!’ Huge tears welled up in her eyes. ‘It will always be my home. I love Wales. I hate it here!’ The angry sweep of her arm encompassed not only the heavily oak-beamed room of the house with the endless rattle of carts and wagons outside and the hot, fetid smell of the crowded streets of London so close, but the whole of eastern England and her husband’s domains.

‘Then you must learn to like it, Eleyne.’ His voice was unusually stern. He had not realised she still expected to go back to her father. He had thought she was happy with him. The wild ride of the night of the storm had not been repeated, and even before it she had appeared content to spend more and more time at his side, learning the intricate, sometimes tedious task of running the huge and complex administration. ‘There is no question of going back.’

‘Not ever?’ The look she gave him was stricken.

He took a deep breath. ‘No doubt a visit can be arranged at some point. When we go back to Chester we can consider it if your father wishes it. But at the moment he has made no mention of it. Neither, if you read your letter carefully,’ he handed it back to her, ‘does the Lady Rhonwen.’

Luned stared at Eleyne. ‘We can’t go back? Ever?’

Eleyne shook her head, biting back her tears. The brightly painted room with its terracotta walls and ornate gilded plasterwork between the beams was cool and shady compared with the street beyond the high gates. The small-paned windows let in a strange greenish light which cast ripples and shadows across the floor. The bitter smell of dry strewn herbs rose and tickled her throat as she moved.

‘Then what?’ Luned sat down heavily on the edge of a coffer.

‘We go on as before. England is our home now.’ Eleyne’s voice was flat. ‘Or Scotland, one day perhaps.’ Scotland was a fairy tale; part of a dream of a queen with a golden crown. ‘But we can visit Aber only if papa asks us. Luned,’ she went and sat down next to her, taking her hand, ‘I am going to write to Rhonwen. And to Isabella. I’ll ask them to speak to papa. Bella would want me there. Aber won’t be much fun on her own. There were so many things we were going to do together; so many adventures I had planned. She’ll persuade them to let me come back, I know she will.’

The bleak reality of John’s glimpse of the future was pushed aside. She could not, would not, believe it possible that she would never live in North Wales again.

VII

This time Isabella wrote back. Eleyne stared at the letter in disbelief, frozen with horror, oblivious of her husband’s worried eyes on her. ‘What is it, Eleyne?’ The letter had been with his as usual courteous note from Llywelyn about march business.

Eleyne shook her head bleakly.

Leaning forward, John took the letter from her limp fingers and scanned the loose childish handwriting. Seconds later he had thrown it on the fire.

‘Forget her.’ His words were curt.

‘But she is – was – my friend.’ Eleyne was bewildered.

‘I fear you have been made a scapegoat, sweetheart. Your brother has, it seems, blamed you for her father’s death. You can see why they have done it. Life would be intolerable if she blamed your father. You are not there. It was the pragmatic answer.’

‘But she was my friend,’ Eleyne repeated. She could not believe such betrayal.

‘Obviously not.’ She had to learn the lesson now, hard though it was. ‘A true friend would have believed in you.’

‘I’ll never go back home now…’ The shock was wearing off and the full significance of the letter began to dawn. ‘If she blames me, everyone else will be doing the same. My mother – ’

John frowned. ‘That may well be so, sweetheart.’

She stood up slowly and walked over to the low window. Through the dim glass she could see the altercation between two wagoners just outside the gates below. The wheels of their vehicles had become locked in the narrow street and, strain as they might, the oxen pulling in opposite directions could not extricate them. The fracas ended only when one of the wheels was wrenched off and the wagon tipped its load of heavy sacks into the filthy road.

VIII

The visit to London ended. John took Eleyne once again on the progress around the Huntingdon estates. Away from the city her spirits rose a little. She was happy to be riding again and, in spite of herself, she was becoming increasingly interested in the complexities of running the great earldom. John encouraged her, enjoying the blossoming confidence, the shrewd native intelligence, the occasional wry humour. He also enjoyed talking to her of deeper things: persuading her to tell him the stories of the old gods of the Welsh hills and in return showing her the gentle meekness of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Often he took her alone with him into the chapels and churches on his estates, to listen to the singing of the liturgy or to see the beauty of the gold and silver, the alabaster, the glass; above all, to feel the peace to be found at the feet of the Mother of God. Eleyne had more or less forgotten Einion and now she found that she could put Rhonwen too at the back of her mind. Her nurse was safe and happy at Aber, and her husband must now become the centre of her life. She would see Rhonwen soon, of that she was certain.

She fought the dreams consciously, never gazing into the fire, never allowing the veil which separated past, present and future to slip. As time passed it seemed to grow easier. She recognised the sensations which sometimes threatened her: the sharpening of perception, the intensity of feeling, the strange blankness which announced the closeness of another world. When that happened, she would clutch at the beautiful carved beads and crucifix John had given her and which now always hung at her waist. The more fixed she became in the present, the more she found herself becoming fond of John. At twenty-eight he was a good-looking man – serious, conscientious, gentle with his young wife.

He never mentioned the time when they would be more than friends. Her courses had started at last, a full eighteen months after Luned had blossomed as a woman. When it happened, she had held her breath and waited, sure that John would know, sure he would now insist she come to his bed. But he gave no sign of knowing that her thin, skinny body had become a woman’s body. He treated her as he always had and never did anything to frighten her. As the months passed and she came more and more to rely on him and trust him, husband and wife grew more and more pleased with each other.

In March 1232 King Henry visited them at Fotheringhay and she helped to supervise the preparations for the vast number of men and women in his train. It was the first time she had really felt her role as countess and lady of the castle; the visit was a resounding success. It was all the more surprise therefore when, as the heat returned to the low-lying countryside, she fell ill again. When a summons came for John to attend Henry at Westminster, John was at his wits’ end how to help her. He did not dare to suggest that she return with him to the Strand.

Eleyne’s sister Margaret came to their rescue. ‘Send her to me,’ she said in her letter. ‘As I suggested before, the air of the Downs will help her regain her strength.’

John showed her the letter and smiled at the sudden animation in her eyes when she looked up at him. ‘Can I go?’

‘Of course you can go. Spend the summer with your sister, and then we will come back to Fotheringhay together in the autumn.’ He did not add out loud the thought which came into his head: And then, Eleyne mine, you must learn to be a real wife.

IX

Bramber lay massive and prosperous in the summer sun as Eleyne rode across the bridges which protected it on its hill in the arm of the River Adur. The great castle, sixty miles from London, dominated the Sussex countryside around it, looking down on the busy quays at which were moored several ships which had come in on the high afternoon tide. In the distance the soft heights of the Downs were lost in the hazy sunshine.

Eleyne threw herself into Margaret’s arms. After a hug of welcome, Margaret disentangled herself. Tall, flame-haired like Eleyne, and bubbling with infectious excitement, Margaret dragged Eleyne towards the keep. ‘Come and meet my John.’

John de Braose, at twenty-five a year his wife’s senior, was waiting at the head of the stairs. ‘Lady Huntingdon.’ Bowing, he kissed her hand formally, then he straightened and gave her a welcoming smile.

Eleyne’s heart almost stopped beating: the eyes, the angle of the head. He was so like his dead cousin, William, she found herself speechless with shock.

‘Eleyne?’ Margaret took her hand. ‘Are you all right? Come on. I want you to meet John’s mother, Mattie – Lady de Braose.’ She put Eleyne’s hand into that of the woman standing behind John. ‘Mother, this is my very important little sister!’

Matilda de Braose smiled. ‘My dear. I am so pleased you have come to stay with us.’ The face, framed by a snow-white wimple, was middle-aged, the eyes dark and vivid in the gentle face. Giving Eleyne a warm hug, she drew her arm through hers. ‘Come in and have some refreshments. Then you may sit and gossip with your sister as much as you like!’

‘She’s nice, your mother-in-law,’ Eleyne said shyly as Lady de Braose left them together. ‘I thought perhaps she would hate me.’

‘Hate you?’ Margaret stared at her.

‘Your husband’s cousin, Isabella, blames me for Sir William’s death.’ Eleyne stood miserably in front of her sister, pulling off her soft kid riding gloves.

Margaret looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Why?’

Eleyne stared in surprise. ‘Because it was me who found them in bed together.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘It was me who told papa.’

‘I see.’ Margaret bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘I cried when I heard papa had put mama in prison. She was always so just, so loyal to him. And so in love. It was hard to think of her as guilty of anything so terrible. It was William’s fault of course; he must have bewitched her in some way.’ She leaned forward and caught Eleyne’s hand. ‘William de Braose had few friends at Bramber, Eleyne, so you’ve nothing to worry about here. His father, Reginald, stole John’s inheritance. John and his mother have been fighting for years to have it restored. When the family were reinstated after John’s grandparents died, the king gave the de Braose lands back to John’s uncle, Bishop Giles, because John was still a minor and under the guardianship of Mattie’s father. But when the bishop died the king gave them to Reginald instead of John, who was the rightful heir. That was very wrong.’ She grimaced. ‘Anyway, enough of family talk for now. Come and meet my son, Will.’ She gave Eleyne another hug. ‘Oh, to think he’s nearly nine years old! It makes me feel such an old lady to have a son so old, and my baby sister grown up at last!’

Was she grown up? Eleyne sat that night in the room she had been given with her ladies in the great gatehouse keep, and gazed thoughtfully into the polished metal mirror which Luned had taken out of her casket.

That afternoon, John de Braose had cornered her as she left the great hall after dinner had been cleared away. He had looked at her with a grave smile. ‘I had no idea Margaret’s little sister would be so beautiful,’ he said softly. ‘How can Lord Huntingdon bear to part with you?’

She blushed. ‘My husband is waiting on the king at Westminster. He won’t miss me.’

‘No?’ His eyes on hers were warmly quizzical. ‘Then he is a fool. If you were my wife, I shouldn’t let you out of my sight.’ His arm around her shoulders was warm and strong. She swallowed nervously, unused to such blatant flirtation, half embarrassed, half excited by his attention.

Like his cousin, Sir William, he was a well-built man, strong, virile, exuding energy. Eleyne had a sudden vision of her mother’s lover crouched over her mother’s body and she closed her eyes, half dizzy with strange, conflicting emotions.

He felt her hesitate, felt the slight stagger as the memory hit her. ‘Are you all right?’ He removed his arm from her waist and took her elbow instead. She could feel the warmth and power of his fingers through the silk of her sleeve.

‘I’m all right. Where’s Margaret?’ Her voice sounded strange – breathless.

He smiled. ‘She’s close behind us with mama. Why, are you afraid to be alone with me?’ he teased and again she blushed.

‘Of course not…’

‘I can see I shall have to keep away from you, little sister.’ His voice was low and amused. ‘You have found your wings as a temptress and intend to practise on me.’

Her protest was cut off as he drew her arm through his and turned to wait for his wife and mother as they emerged from the hall.

Had he really thought her beautiful or had he been teasing her? She angled the mirror this way and that to get a better look at her face. It showed her a pair of large green eyes, fringed with dark lashes and broad upslanted eyebrows; a nose still upturned like a child’s but showing already the strong lines to come; the cheekbones emerging from their round baby bloom. Her neck was long; her throat beneath her veil white and narrow; her mouth generous, quirky – quick to laugh and quick to scowl. She frowned and watched the light die from her eyes. Behind her the shadowed room was dark; the distorted reflection did not reach that far; but she saw a flicker of movement in the shadows. Dropping the mirror, she turned. Only Luned was in the chamber, bending low over a coffer, stowing away some of Eleyne’s clothes. The corners of the room were empty.

That night as she lay in bed she thought about John de Braose, comparing him sleepily with her husband. This John was brash, confident, effortlessly attractive and flirtatious. He knew exactly how to charm, how to cajole. Her own John was so different. Quiet, serious, but kind. Sterner, but more gentle. And in his own way more handsome. Hugging herself secretly beneath the bedclothes, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to be kissed – properly kissed – by John de Braose, but immediately her eyes flew open and she shuddered as the memory of William and her mother flooded through her. She tried to push it away, pulling herself up against the pillows. As her eyes closed, she vowed that never, never would she do that with anyone.

In her dreams someone came to her however. Someone who took her in his arms and kissed her; someone who was a part of her; someone without whom, did she but realise it, she was lonely. His face did not belong to John of Scotland or to John or William de Braose, and in the morning she had forgotten that he was ever there.

X

Eleyne shivered. The small bower at the end of the herb garden had grown cold in spite of the sun. She glanced at the sky, but there were no clouds in the intense blue. In the distance a heat haze danced over the Downs. She dropped her work on the bench beside her and looked around. Margaret and Mattie were busy in the wardrobe going through the monthly accounts with the castle steward and Will was with his tutor, so she had made her sewing the excuse to sit in the sun. There had been no sign of John. Over the past weeks she had grown used to looking for him, flirting with him, testing the strange new excitement which caught at her stomach when he was near, strangely like the emotions she had felt when she had been with Sir William – and yet different: more intense, more frightening. She felt the warmth rise in her cheeks even here, alone in the garden, and firmly she pushed the thought away. He was her sister’s husband. She loved her sister and her sister’s son, with whom she played frequently, and she adored Mattie de Braose, who was kind and gentle and motherly to the lonely girl. For she was lonely and to her surprise it was for the strength and friendship she had grown to rely on from her own husband.

Thoughtfully, she gazed down at the piece of work on her knee. At first she had imagined they were all so content at Bramber, but now, as her stay lengthened, she was beginning to feel the undertones and tensions around her. Mattie, frustrated and bitter for her son; Will, spoiled and indulged, and Margaret and John, outwardly so devoted and yet, inwardly, in some way estranged. Margaret had confided a little to her – their disappointment that there had been no other children after Will; John’s dalliance with other women, a comment which had made Eleyne blush and hang her head. Seeing her, Margaret laughed and hugged her. ‘Take it as a compliment, Elly. He only shows interest in the most beautiful women.’ She paused and took her sister’s hand. ‘Are you happy with Lord Huntingdon? From what you tell me he seems a kind and sensitive man.’ The way she said the words spoke volumes about her own husband. Eleyne wondered if she were wrong about John de Braose. He appeared so attractive, so amusing.

‘But Margaret, you do love your John?’ Eleyne stared at her sister anxiously.

Margaret laughed. ‘Of course I love him,’ she said lightly. ‘And I’m lucky. Things could be so much worse. I have heard that Lord Huntingdon is often ill, Elly. Is that true?’

Eleyne nodded, unconscious of the wistfulness in her eyes as she thought of her husband. ‘It was me who was ill last time, but he’s ill a lot, though he was better when I left him.’

Margaret smiled. ‘Then let us pray to the sweet Virgin to preserve his health as I pray daily for my husband.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I have the king’s assurance that, if anything happened to John, which the Blessed Virgin and all the saints forbid,’ she shuddered, ‘he will not force me to marry someone I don’t like. You should do the same, Eleyne. If anything happened to your John you would not want Uncle Henry to choose you another husband against your wishes.’

Eleyne gasped. ‘But that would be a terrible thing to do. It would look as if I expected John to die.’

Margaret shrugged. ‘Men do die; if not of illness, then in battle, Eleyne, just as women die in childbed. It is God’s will. It is best to be prepared.’

Listlessly Eleyne picked up her needle once more and screwed up her eyes against the glare as she began inserting the tiny regular stitches into the soft blue silk. She loved this quiet place; from the vantage point of the hill on which Bramber Castle stood she could see the Downs and though they were nothing like the great mountain of Yr Wyddfa they were better than the flat lands which made up the bulk of her husband’s fief. And better still, to the south, beyond the busy quays and the broad tidal sweep of the Adur, lay the sea. She could smell the sharp saltiness of the mud now, as the low water narrowed the busy river to a trickle, leaving the ships and galleons at the wharf stranded until the next tide.

A shadow fell across her sewing. Again a cold breath had touched her skin, but the sky was still cloudless. For a moment she didn’t move, then she tucked the needle into her work and set it down again. Her heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast. There was someone here with her in the empty garden. She closed her eyes against the urgency of the emotions which were invading her: worry, anger, love and fear, yes, real fear.

‘What is it? Where are you? Who are you?’ She found she had spoken out loud. The answering silence quivered with tension.

Eleyne stared around. Near her the neatly clipped bushes of thyme and hyssop stirred slightly; the pale, fragrant leaves of costmary moved. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, frightened. ‘Who are you?’

The silence was intense; even the shouts and bustle from the bailey beyond the hedge had died away.

‘Please -’ Eleyne moved away from the bench, her hands shaking. ‘Please, what do you want from me?’

Again she was surrounded with silence.

‘What is it, Eleyne, my dear? Who are you talking to?’ With a rustle of rose-coloured skirts Matilda de Braose swept through the box hedge which sheltered the garden and stared round.

Eleyne looked at her white-faced. ‘I’m sorry. I thought… I thought there was someone here…’

Below them a wagon rolled over the high cobbles and the sound of the heavy wheels reverberated above the shouts of the drivers. The presence in the small garden had gone.

Mattie drew the girl back to the bench and sat down with her. She picked up Eleyne’s sewing and looked at it critically. ‘You’re a good little sempstress, Eleyne. This work is lovely.’ Putting it down carefully she took Eleyne’s hand. ‘Who did you think was here?’

Eleyne shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was just a feeling -’ She glanced shyly at the older woman, overwhelmed by the need to confide. ‘I get them sometimes.’

Mattie smiled, her gentle face framed by the crisp wimple. ‘Tell me about them.’

‘Sometimes pictures, like dreams…’ Eleyne looked down at her hands. ‘Like Sir William… I saw Sir William before…’ Her voice trailed away.

‘You have the Sight?’ Mattie made it sound quite ordinary. ‘I know many people in Wales have that gift. And you are your father’s seventh child, are you not? Margaret told me. That is a special blessing.’ She paused. ‘And did you see something just now?’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘No.’

‘What then?’ There was no impatience in the question. Mattie sensed Eleyne’s loneliness and uncertainty, and impulsively she put her arms around her.

‘I just felt there was someone here. Someone trying to speak to me.’ Nestling into her shoulder, Eleyne sighed. ‘And she is afraid – ’

‘She?’

‘Yes.’ Eleyne hesitated. ‘Yes, it was a woman.’

Mattie smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps you are right. I have sometimes thought… felt that there was someone in this garden. Another Matilda.’ She stood up. ‘My husband’s mother. She never liked Bramber much, but this was her favourite place here. She built this garden. I think from time to time she comes to watch over John. He was always her favourite grandchild. She loved him so much.’ Her eyes filled with tears as they often did when she thought about her adored mother-in-law, the woman whom her father, the Earl of Clare, had loved so devotedly for most of his life, the woman after whom she was named, the woman whom King John, this child’s grandfather, had so viciously murdered.

Eleyne stared at her. ‘Matilda? She is the lady… my lady who I saw at Hay Castle.’

‘You saw her?’ Mattie’s eyes widened.

Eleyne nodded. ‘I thought she liked me then. But not here, not now. She wants me to go.’

‘No, of course she doesn’t!’ Mattie closed her eyes against the superstitious shiver which ran across her shoulders. ‘Why should she want you to go? Silly goose, of course she doesn’t want you to go.’ She paused. ‘What did she look like when you saw her at Hay, my dear?’

‘She’s very tall, with dark red hair and grey-green eyes – ’

Mattie caught her breath.

‘I used to see her shadow, sometimes strongly, sometimes just fading away.’ She looked around the garden. ‘But not here, I didn’t see her here. I sort of felt her in my head. I don’t even know that it was her…’

She broke off as young Will ran into the garden.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I’ve finished my lessons. Now we can ride. We can, can’t we, grandmama? Eleyne said she would ride with me.’ He was tall for his eight years, with grey-green eyes and a shock of blond hair above a tanned face and a torn tunic. In only a few weeks, he had confided in Eleyne, he was to leave Bramber to serve as a page in the household of Sir Walter Clifford. He was reluctant to go; and Margaret was reluctant to let him. It was Mattie who had seen the danger; seen how he clung to his mother’s skirts, and had persuaded her son to insist.

‘Of course you can go, if Eleyne wants to.’ Mattie smiled. She stood up and shook out her skirts.

‘Oh yes I do!’ Her face clearing, Eleyne said eagerly, ‘Will has promised to take me to the sea.’

Watching them run together down the steps which led from the garden into the bailey Mattie frowned. The children were quite safe here. They would have an escort, and of course the devoted Cenydd would go with them, so why did she, too, feel a tremor of unease?

‘May I ride Invictus one day?’ The boy looked longingly at Eleyne on the great stallion as she arranged her skirts around her.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve already told you, he’s too big for you.’

‘He’s too big for you!’ the boy retorted, and turned to his own pony, shorter by some half-dozen hands.

‘I’m the only person who rides him now,’ Eleyne said and bit her lip. It was true. Since Sir William had been hanged no one else, save the groom, had ridden the great horse. She leaned forward in the high saddle and fondled his mane. ‘You’re mine, aren’t you, my love.’

They followed the curve of the broad river south, cut behind the port of Shoreham and rode west along the coast, from time to time riding down on to the beach where, with the tide still low, they could gallop on the firm sands. By the time they returned to Bramber they were exhausted, and the horses walked slowly through the warm evening sun.

In the inner bailey they dismounted. Will came round to Eleyne and patted Invictus’s head. ‘Please let me ride him, Eleyne. He’s tired now. He won’t mind.’

‘No.’ Eleyne stuck out her chin stubbornly. ‘No one rides him but me.’

‘Oh please,’ the boy wheedled. ‘Cenydd could lift me up. Just for a minute.’

‘No!’

The air had grown cold as the shadow of the gatehouse cut out the westering sun. Somewhere in her head Eleyne could feel it again. The warning; the fear. ‘No!’ she repeated. ‘No, you can’t ride him. Not ever. No one rides him but me.’

‘What’s this?’ Margaret and her husband had appeared from the great hall. The two figures stood watching the two children, amused at their bickering.

‘She won’t let me sit on her horse, papa!’ Will whined, his voice heavy with grief. ‘I only wanted to sit on him.’

‘No one rides him but me.’ Eleyne gritted her teeth.

John de Braose came down the steps and put his hand on the stallion’s bridle. ‘This, I take it, is William’s horse?’

‘He gave him to me,’ Eleyne repeated stubbornly. ‘Will is too small. He’d be thrown.’

‘I wouldn’t, papa. I’m a good rider.’ Will, sensing parental support, was pleading, his eyes shining.

‘You don’t think him good enough?’ John raised an eyebrow in Eleyne’s direction. As always, his eyes were flattering, challenging, teasing.

‘He’s good.’ She could feel her cheeks colouring. ‘But no one rides Invictus but me.’

John looked amused. ‘You have a very high opinion of yourself, young lady. You are beautiful and talented without a doubt,’ his hand strayed to her cheek and she felt a small shiver of pleasure at his touch, ‘but I think you will find others can ride him. Here, let me.’ Firmly he took the horse’s rein from her and beckoned one of his squires. ‘Give me a leg up; I’ll see how he goes. I can certainly ride any animal Cousin William could.’ He smiled grimly. Invictus side-stepped as he reached for the high pommel of the saddle. The horse’s ears went flat and he rolled his eyes.

‘No, please,’ Eleyne whispered, white-faced. ‘You mustn’t… you can’t…’ She could feel the fear all around her now. The air was full of anguish, bitterly cold and sharp; brittle, clear and yet shimmering as though reflected in water. As the squire humped John into the saddle, the horse let out a shriek of anger and bucked. ‘Brute!’ John’s smile vanished and he dug his feet deep into the stirrup cups and jerked on the reins. Below the swirl of his long cloak Eleyne saw the huge rowels of his spurs. ‘I’ll tell you one thing: he’s not safe for any child to ride -’ He broke off as the horse, surprised and infuriated by the heavy hand on the savage bit, ran backwards for several steps and then reared up, pawing the air. John clung to the saddle, then with a cry he slipped sideways and crashed to the stone cobbles beneath the massive hooves.

No one moved. John lay absolutely still. Beneath his head a red stain spread slowly over the cobbles.

‘John?’ Margaret let out a small cry of disbelief, then flung herself towards her husband’s still, crumpled body. ‘John? John!’

Behind her the stallion stood trembling, his eyes wild as he pawed the ground. Eleyne ran to him. She soothed his neck gently, but her eyes were on her brother-in-law’s inert body.

Margaret straightened. Still on her knees, her hands on her husband’s cloak, her face was distorted with grief and shock.

‘He’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘He’s DEAD!’

I

Rhonwen had seen the messengers ride in from the east and had recognised with excited relief the insignia of the Earl of Huntingdon on the surcoats of the escort. Breathlessly she waited outside the hall of the palace, her eyes fixed on the doorway. There had to be a letter for her this time. Eleyne would not, could not have forgotten her.

From within she could hear a low murmur of voices and once a higher, louder shout of laughter, like a wave breaking on the shore.

Princess Joan was inside with her ladies. Two days before, Prince Llywelyn had taken the boat with Dafydd to Caernarfon. They had left the women behind.

Rhonwen hesitated. Princess Joan’s displeasure and dislike were not things she relished; and the Princess of Aberffraw and Lady of Snowdon as she now liked to be called, following her husband’s example, had made it clear that these were all she could expect. The day she had returned to Aber, Rhonwen had been summoned to the princess in the chamber where Rhonwen had last seen her, peering over Eleyne’s head, three years before.

‘So, you have been dismissed by Lord Huntingdon.’ Joan’s eyes were hard.

‘No, highness.’ Rhonwen managed to keep her voice meek. ‘Lord Huntingdon has given me leave to return home for a visit.’

‘A visit,’ Joan repeated. ‘No, you are mistaken if you think you are to go back. Lord Huntingdon’s letter is quite clear. He does not wish you to attend his wife again. Ever.’ She paused. ‘When do you intend to visit your family, Lady Rhonwen?’ Her voice was silky.

‘As you know, highness, I have no family now.’ Rhonwen’s voice, though low, was steady. Cenydd was all the family she had who would acknowledge her and he was with Eleyne.

‘So, if I send you away from here, you will have nowhere to go?’

‘I shall write to Eleyne, highness. She will persuade Lord Huntingdon to take me back.’ Rhonwen managed a note of defiance.

‘I am sure she will.’ The smile on Joan’s face belied her words. ‘But I’m sure there will be no need for that. You may serve me, Lady Rhonwen, as long as -’ her eyes narrowed – ‘there is no suspicion of you ever, ever supporting my husband’s bastard and his cause. Is that clear?’

‘Quite clear, highness.’ Rhonwen looked away from the hard eyes.

‘She doesn’t know!’ It was Isabella who cornered her later. ‘The princess doesn’t know who betrayed her to her husband.’

Rhonwen stepped back in front of the small whirlwind who had entered the bower and slammed the door behind her. The two of them were alone.

‘You were with Eleyne! You could have stopped her! You could have saved my father!’

‘I could have done nothing!’ Rhonwen’s temper flared. ‘If I hadn’t found them, others would have. They were careless, flagrant; the whole court had seen them.’

‘That is not true! She seduced my father…’

‘No, lady, no.’ Rhonwen felt sudden pity for this woman who was no more than a child, only a year older than her own Eleyne. ‘Don’t be under any illusion. They seduced each other. They could no more have stayed apart than could two moths from a candle. If Eleyne had said nothing, others would have spoken. There were too many whispers already. But why talk of it now? The past cannot be undone. Your father is dead, God rest his unhappy soul, and Llywelyn has forgiven his wife. Let it rest, lady.’ She turned and picked up an armful of clean linen to return to the lavender-scented coffer.

‘I’ll never let it rest!’ Isabella’s eyes were blazing. ‘I loved my father and one day I’ll clear his name. I’ll prove she seduced him. And I’ll prove you and Eleyne trapped him deliberately – ’

‘Lady Isabella – ’

‘No, it’s true. Perhaps the princess was part of it. Perhaps she did it just to ensnare and betray him. After all,’ her voice dropped to a hiss, ‘what happened to her? Two years in comfortable exile then she is back at Llywelyn’s side as though nothing had happened. Dafydd says his father trusts her totally. He is using her as his adviser and negotiator as though nothing had happened. He has forced Ednyfed Fychen to accept her in her old role as ambassador. He is allowing her to negotiate with her brother the king as though nothing had happened. And my father is dead!’ The last sentence came out as an anguished sob.

Rhonwen was silent. For a brief moment she had glimpsed the lonely and frightened child inside the brash young woman, and remembered the urchin who, bare-legged, had climbed the scaffolding at Hay with Eleyne. Then the child was gone. Isabella straightened her shoulders.

‘Did Eleyne send you away?’

‘No.’ Rhonwen could not keep the pain from her voice.

‘But her husband did. And Princess Joan doesn’t want you. And neither do I.’ She paused. ‘I can have you dismissed if I want. I can have you sent into the mountains to starve.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Remember that, Lady Rhonwen, if I ever ask you to do anything for me.’ Fumbling with the door handle, she left the room.

After that Rhonwen did her best to remain out of sight, choosing to eat and sleep with some of Princess Joan’s less important ladies rather than run the risk of drawing attention to herself. And she had written. Several times she had written, enclosing her letter with those from Llywelyn to Lord Chester and Lord Huntingdon, and once she had paid for a messenger of her own from her meagre savings, directing him straight to Bramber and bidding him put the letter into Eleyne’s own hands. None of the letters had received an answer.

Disconsolately she followed the court from Aber to Llanfaes, to Cemaes in the far north of Anglesey, then down to Caernarfon and back to Aber. And now they had come over the water again to Rhosyr on the edge of the drifting sands.

Twice she had seen Einion and both times he had asked after Eleyne. Her news had not pleased him. Shaking his head he had sighed. ‘She needs me. Her gift will destroy her. This man, her husband, does he understand her?’

Rhonwen shrugged. ‘He is kind to her,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘He has not forced her. He is a good Christian.’ She said the last under her breath.

‘She is sworn to the goddess, Lady Rhonwen. Nothing and no one can change that. And nothing can change her destiny. When the time is right, she will return to us.’

Standing in the carved, ornate doorway to the hall, Rhonwen stared across the narrow strip of sea towards the wooded mainland. If there were a letter for her, would Joan tell her or would she throw it upon the fire as Lord Huntingdon presumably disposed of those she wrote to Eleyne?

‘Are you waiting for someone or merely eavesdropping as usual, Lady Rhonwen?’ Isabella’s light voice made her jump guiltily. Beyond her a gull, flying low over the silver water, let out a long yelping cry.

Her slim body clothed in madder silks, her black hair covered in a net of silk sewn with pearls, Isabella looked a picture of elegance.

Rhonwen forced herself to smile. ‘I was waiting to see if the messenger had brought me any letters – ’

‘Then why wait here? Why not come in and ask?’ Isabella flounced past her and, pushing the door wide, hurried up the shadowed aisle of the hall to drop a pretty curtsey before her mother-in-law.

‘The Lady Rhonwen is anxious to know if there is any news of Eleyne,’ she announced.

Following her slowly, Rhonwen too curtseyed before the princess. Her heart was beating painfully.

Joan looked up and frowned. ‘Indeed there is.’ Her voice was thin and strained as she stood up with a rustle of silks and put her arm around Isabella’s shoulder. ‘My dear, I am afraid I have some terrible, terrible news.’ Rhonwen went cold. Had something happened to Eleyne? Joan’s hands, she noticed, were shaking. ‘I have a letter from Bramber, from Lady Matilda de Braose. It is about your cousin, John. He has been killed. He was thrown by that wretched horse, the horse -’ Her voice broke and the tears began to run down her cheeks. ‘The horse your father gave to Eleyne!’

II

The chapel had been filled to overflowing for the requiem mass and the congregation had spilled out on to the hillside around the small square building with its squat Norman tower, built by the first William de Braose two hundred years before outside the walls of his castle.

Eleyne, swathed in black mourning veil like her sister and John’s mother, had sobbed uncontrollably throughout the service.

It was my fault. She repeated the words again and again. It was my fault. I could have stopped it. I could have seen what was going to happen.

But she hadn’t seen it and when the lady in the shadows had tried to warn her, she had not understood.

‘Oh, my dear.’ Mattie had taken her into her arms. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, you mustn’t. You did everything you could. You begged him not to ride the horse.’

It was Mattie who had countermanded Margaret’s hysterical command that the stallion be destroyed. ‘It could have happened at any time. John was a careless rider. He was too confident, too uncaring. He hurt the creature. Several people told me so.’

‘She tried to warn me. She tried to tell me to go away.’ Clinging to Mattie, Eleyne turned a tear-stained face to her. ‘She knew!’

‘So it seems.’ Mattie held her close. ‘My dear, we cannot change what is to be. We have to accept God’s will. It is He who decides these things, not us. One thing at least is sure. John is with his beloved grandmama now. I have seen so much death, my dear, so much sorrow, so much suffering in my life. There has to be a reason for it. God must have a reason.’ She steadied her voice with difficulty. ‘At least John did not suffer. He died instantly.’

She did not speak out loud the cry in her heart. Why? Why when he was young and strong and healthy? Why could he not have outlived her? She, who had borne so many deaths, so many sorrows. Could not God have spared this one more? Why had he sent Eleyne, grandchild of King John, to take away her son, as the child’s grandfather had taken away her husband?

Eleyne stood up restlessly and walked over to the window. For a long time she stood, staring into the courtyard below. ‘Thank you for saving Invictus,’ she said hesitantly.

‘There was nothing to be served by slaughtering the animal.’ Mattie swiftly regained control of herself.

‘What will Margaret do now?’ Her sister had refused to see Eleyne since the accident. Only Mattie and young Will, tearful and bewildered by the death of his father before his eyes, and not a little guilty that his noisy pleas to ride Invictus could have had such a dreadful outcome, had been allowed near the inconsolable widow.

‘She will stay here with me and Will. She has the king’s assurance that she will not be forced to remarry against her wishes.’ Not for the first time, Mattie found herself wondering if Margaret too, in this family of the royal line of Wales, had a touch of the second sight. Why else would she have insisted on such an assurance from the king only months before the accident which had left her a widow?

III

Recovering from his latest bout of fever, John lay in his sickbed looking pale and wan. Beside him his physician was preparing to let more blood. Eleyne eyed the man’s knives with a shudder. ‘Are you feeling better, my lord?’ Since their arrival at Fotheringhay after two months in London, her husband had lost his new-found robustness and sunk back into ill health. More and more, Eleyne found herself taking on the most onerous of his duties, and to her surprise found she was beginning to enjoy them. Young and inexperienced though she was, she found that the household, well trained and efficient, obeyed her and respected her decisions. That gave her a confidence which in turn inspired confidence.

‘I’ve had a letter from my uncle.’ John coughed slightly. ‘He too is ill, it seems. He has not been well since his return from France. He wants to see us at Chester.’

Eleyne felt a sharp lift of her spirits. ‘Can we go?’

‘As soon as I am well enough we must.’ He scowled as the physician laid a towel on the bed and sat down next to him. The opening of the vein was quick and easy, the gush of blood into the silver basin controlled. Eleyne, as always when she witnessed this sight, had to hide her horror. The doctors might insist that her husband’s excess of blood caused the imbalance in the humours of his body and led to his frequent fevers and his chronic cough, but she could not believe that draining his blood until he was weak and pale would help him.

When it was done, and the wound sealed, she took the physician’s place at his bedside. ‘Perhaps we could visit Aber? Rhonwen could help you, I know she could,’ she said cautiously.

John looked at her affectionately. Again she had grown while she had been away from him. She was turning into a beauty, this wife of his.

‘She is a healer,’ she went on reproachfully into the silence which followed her suggestion.

‘I will think about it.’ John frowned, easing his aching body on the bed. ‘Isabel and Robert are coming in the next few days, on their way to Scotland from Essex.’ He changed the subject adroitly. ‘I had a letter from her this morning. If I am not well enough, you must entertain them for me. Will you tell the household to prepare?’

She nodded calmly, no longer thrown into a panic at the thought of having to supervise such a visit on her own with the extra work it entailed for everyone in the castle, but looking forward to seeing her sister-in-law and nephew again, and to the entertainment and music and laughter in the evenings and the hunting during the day, which she adored.

The night before the Bruces were due to arrive she toured the castle, checking that all was prepared. She was unaware of the admiration her husband’s servants had for her as, quietly competent, she walked around the buildings, inspecting every detail, serenely assuming that things would run smoothly for John even if she weren’t there. They knew better. They knew that without the firm hand of their young countess the household would grow lazy and slipshod and even the chatelaine would find it hard to keep everything running.

Candle in hand, she hesitated near the chapel. There was no need to go in, yet something compelled her to push open the door. The only light came from the lamp in the sanctuary. She walked towards the altar. She was there, the woman who haunted Fotheringhay: a darker shadow in the blackness, her unhappiness tangible. With a sudden flash of insight, Eleyne knew that she and this woman were linked by blood. She frowned, half holding out her hand, but the shadow had gone. The chapel was empty.

She completed her tour of the castle and returned to the lord’s chamber where John, dressed in a loose tunic and swathed in a warm woollen mantle, lay propped on the bed. Outside the first autumnal gales were tearing the leaves from the trees, screaming in the castle chimneys, sending icy draughts through the building.

A servant was mulling some wine at the hearth, kneeling among the ashes.

‘Is all prepared?’ John looked up as Eleyne, wrapped in a warm cloak lined with squirrel furs, closed the door behind her and crossed the room to his bed.

She nodded, trying to shake off the sombre mood her experience in the chapel had induced. ‘The cooks have been baking all day for the feast. I think Isabel will be well pleased with her welcome.’ She kicked off her shoes and pulled herself up on to the bed, tucking her feet under her skirts. ‘It’s a wild night. I hope the weather improves before tomorrow or they won’t come.’

‘They’ll come.’ John leaned back and surveyed his wife fondly. Her face had lost its childish curves in the last few months; he could see the high cheekbones now, the soft breadth of her brow beneath the veil which covered her hair. His eye strayed from her slim white throat to the bodice of her gown where, in the flaring light of the branch of candles at the end of the bed, he saw the swell of her breasts all but hidden by the cloak. He felt a strange stirring inside him and, half shocked at his reaction, suppressed it sternly. She was still a child. But no. He counted surreptitiously on his fingers. She was fourteen years old. She was a woman.

‘Would you like some wine?’ She was leaning towards him, her hand lightly on his arm. He could smell the soft sweetness of her skin.

He opened his eyes and nodded and she beckoned the watching servant with the wine. ‘If you are tired, I’ll leave you to sleep.’ Briskly and with adult composure, she dismissed his attendants and they sat alone, their hands cupped around the goblets of hot spiced wine.

‘Not yet.’ He leaned forward and put a finger to her cheek. ‘Take off your veil, Eleyne. Let me see your hair.’ He never saw her except when she was formally dressed, her hair hidden by the veils and caps she wore. No longer did she ride so wildly that her hair fell loose, or if she did he was not there to see it.

She smiled, and put the goblet down. Then she unpinned the silk veil and let it slip from her braids.

‘Unfasten your hair.’ He sat forward, conscious of a strange tension between them.

Her eyes on his, she slowly unpinned her hair and with lazy fingers began to unplait it, letting it ripple past her shoulders. Her hair loose, she sat watching him, unaware of the slight challenge in her eyes. He put out his hand and caught a handful of it, pulling it gently towards him. ‘My lovely Eleyne,’ he murmured. He broke off at the sound of a horn, eerily distant on the wind. Across the room a log slipped and fell from the firedogs into the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks. Eleyne jerked away from him, the mood of the moment broken.

‘Eleyne, come here.’ There was a note of command in his voice she had never heard before, but she was distracted, slipping away from him, captured by the pull of the fire.

‘In a moment, my lord. There is something I must do.’ She slid out of his reach, and he watched helplessly as she ran to the fireplace and threw on another log. Her hair shone like copper in the light of the flames as it swung forward in a curtain hiding her face.

‘Eleyne!’

‘There is someone coming, my lord. You heard the watchman. There are messengers.’ She was staring down unblinkingly into the flames.

‘Messengers. How do you know?’ A shiver ran down his back as the silence lengthened.

‘It’s your uncle…’ she whispered.

He strained to hear her over the sound of the wind.

‘Your uncle is dead!’

John sat bolt upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Are you sure?’

The violence of his words made her jump. ‘I think so… I don’t know…’ Dragged from her reverie, she was confused and horrified that she had betrayed herself by telling him what she saw. But he did not reprimand her; he seemed to accept her premonition.

‘We’ll soon know.’ He stood up, clutching his cloak around his shoulders, and walked to the chair by the fireplace. When the knock came, he was sitting upright gazing fixedly across the room. Eleyne sat opposite him, still demurely wrapped in her mantle.

Imperceptibly John relaxed his shoulders against the hard, carved wood as the messenger formally relayed the news. Ranulf de Blundevill, Earl of Chester, had died at the royal palace at Wallingford on the Thames on the twenty-sixth of October.

John’s face was grey with exhaustion. ‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘at last it has happened.’

Eleyne stared at him, astonished by the feverish triumph in his eyes. ‘You’re glad he is dead?’

He shook his head in irritation. ‘Of course not! I shall order masses for the repose of his soul, but now – now I am Earl of Chester!’

Eleyne looked down at her hands. John had always been so passive; so gentle and accepting. The naked ambition flaring in his eyes frightened her. It excited her too.

She stole another look at him. It was his turn to stare into the fire, but his gaze was not dreamy. It was eager and full of determination.

IV

In less than a month John was well enough to ride with Eleyne to the castle at Northampton. There, on the twenty-first of November, King Henry III confirmed him in his earldom.

Two days later a messenger found Eleyne as she was sitting on the dais in the crowded hall, watching the antics of some travelling acrobats who were putting on their show for the king. As they tumbled in the deep floor covering of sweet woodruff and hay, she turned to find a man bowing before her. She frowned, not immediately recognising the emblem on his shoulder.

‘I have a letter for you, my lady, from Lady Clifford.’ The man bowed.

Eleyne frowned. ‘Lady Clifford?’ She beckoned Luned forward to give the man a farthing. ‘Do I know Lady Clifford?’

Hearing her comment, the king, who was sitting close to her, turned. ‘A surprise for you, Lady Chester.’ He gave her her new title with humorous formality. ‘You know her well. Away, man.’ He jerked his thumb at the messenger. ‘It seems to be a family trait, changing your name suddenly.’ He chuckled and turned back to the show.

With a puzzled glance at him, Eleyne broke the seal and began to read the letter, oblivious of the cheers around her as the entertainers reached the climax of their routine.

Dear Sister, I know you will be surprised to read this. Walter Clifford and I were married yesterday and today we leave for his lands in the march. We have known one another for many years; Walter’s wife died two years ago, so when John was killed he asked me to be his. How strange that I shall return to live so near to Hay which John always wanted to reclaim as his own. Please understand that I am very happy.

Your loving sister,

Margaret

At the end of the letter Margaret had written a postscript: Remember my advice. Ask Uncle Henry for his assurance that, should your husband die, you too can marry the man of your choice. M.

Eleyne looked up. The king’s eyes were on her face. ‘So. The grieving widow has told you her news?’

Eleyne bit her lip. ‘I didn’t know, I never guessed.’

Henry smiled. ‘She has been in love with Walter Clifford for three years at least, I hear. De Braose’s death must have been a blessing to her – ’

‘No!’ Eleyne couldn’t believe it. ‘She loved John. And what of Will? Who will take care of Will?’

‘The boy?’ The king sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. ‘I have yet to decide who has the wardship of him. But in the meantime his grandmother is to have his care at Bramber. His mother is too taken up with her new husband to want a child of the old…’

Eleyne had thought Margaret and John so in love; she had believed every bit of her sister’s anguished mourning, and yet only four months later she was remarried. Now she understood Margaret’s insistence that she be allowed to marry a man of her choice; the man had already been chosen!

John was waiting for her in their chamber, sitting in a chair by the fire, huddled in fur wraps. His hands were cupped around some pungent steaming brew. Eleyne stopped in the doorway and looked at him for a moment before she went into the room. He was pale again, and weakened by their ride through the cold November winds – too weak to stay up for supper and the entertainment in the great hall. Eleyne felt her heart sink. When she had seen that he and she were to share a chamber, sleeping together in the great curtained bed, she had felt a frisson of excitement. Those few moments at Fotheringhay when he had looked at her and touched her as if he were aware that the child was at last a woman had frightened her and yet exhilarated her. She was excited by a longing within her body, a longing which had not been assuaged. In the bustle of the next weeks he had not tried to see her alone again, but now that they were here, and his title confirmed, she had hoped that he would once more have time for her.

‘How are you feeling, my lord?’ She approached him and laid a timid hand on his arm.

He leaned back in the chair and smiled at her. ‘Much rested, I’m glad to say. How did you leave the king?’

She smiled. ‘In good humour. He hopes you will feel better tomorrow.’

‘I’m better now.’ He was watching her closely. ‘Becoming Earl of Chester seems to have done me nothing but good.’ There was no mistaking the message in his eyes as he pulled her towards him and put his arm around her waist. ‘Here, fill up my goblet and have some yourself. The spiced wine is excellent.’ With a gesture, he dismissed the attendants who hovered behind him. ‘Now, come here.’ He caught her hand and pulled her on to his knee. ‘Do you have a kiss for your husband, Eleyne?’

His kiss was firm and light and tasted of cinnamon and mace and ginger. Closing her eyes, she returned it shyly, astonished at the excitement which paralysed her lungs and sent prickles of anticipation up and down her spine. Strangely comfortable perching on his knees, she relaxed into his arms and nuzzled his neck fondly as he began to unfasten her braids, letting her hair fall loose. Then he was opening the neck of her gown, his fingers straying inside, seeking her breasts. Eleyne caught her breath and, misunderstanding, he frowned. ‘It is not too soon.’ His words were lost in her hair. ‘You are a woman now…’

‘I know, I know.’ Shyly she kissed his cheek then, unable to stop herself, his throat, and even his chest beneath the cool linen of his tunic, feeling her excitement rise with his. At last the moment had come; at last he was going to make her his. She gasped as his fingers tightened over her breast and eagerly she began to pull at the fastening on his tunic.

He paused as his wandering fingers dislodged the letter she had tucked into her bodice. ‘What’s this?’ His voice was teasing. ‘A love letter from one of your admirers?’

Eleyne smiled. ‘Of course, my lord, what else?’ she said coquettishly. ‘My beauty has not gone unnoticed, you know.’

He laughed, holding the letter up between finger and thumb. ‘What do I do if my wife receives love letters? Do I beat her? Do I challenge the writer to single combat? Or do I admire him for his good taste and condone his billets doux and poems?’

She was giggling now, her fingers gently playing with the curls of his hair. ‘It’s from my sister, Margaret,’ she whispered.

‘A likely tale.’ Shifting her more comfortably into the crook of his arm, he began to unfold the letter.

‘It is! She has remarried and goes back to live in the Welsh march.’ Her eyes strayed to the looped flamboyant writing on her sister’s letter, the shadows of the candelabra dancing on the crackling parchment. Suddenly, through the mists of contentment, Eleyne remembered her sister’s postscript. She tensed. ‘Please. May I have it?’ She put out her hand. But he held it out of her reach, bringing it into the light of the candles. ‘Surely you have no secrets from your husband.’ He was reading, a scowl between his eyes. There was a long silence when he had finished.

Then: ‘I’m sorry. I have a cramp.’ He tipped her from his lap without ceremony and stood up. Dropping the letter on to the chair, he walked over to the fire, and stood looking down into the flames. ‘So you expect me to die soon and leave you free to marry the man of your choice.’

‘No!’ She ran to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘No, it’s not like that. Margaret said – ’

‘Margaret!’ He spun to face her, throwing off her hand. ‘Margaret has some excellent advice for her little sister which you obviously discussed together – was it before John de Braose died or after? Perhaps it was a plan you both hatched to have him ride that accursed horse, to free your sister to marry her lover. Was that it?’ His face was white with anger. ‘Holy Virgin, but I’ve been mistaken in my estimation of you, my lady! Was I to ride it too? Was that the plan? It would be so much easier, wouldn’t it, for me to fall, sick and feeble as I am! Or perhaps you had decided not to bother with helping my demise along. After all, I’m likely to die soon anyway!’ His face was hard and angry, his lips white as he glared at her.

‘No.’ Eleyne was beside herself with anguish. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. You must believe me, please.’ He had pushed past her, making for the door. ‘Please listen, let me explain – ’

‘No explanations are needed.’ For a fraction of a second she saw the devastation in his eyes. ‘Do you have a lover, Eleyne? Is that it? Or is there someone you want to marry? Someone you prefer to me?’ He looked away. ‘Suffice to say, my dear, that in future I shall be on my guard.’

She stared at the door for a long time after he had slammed it shut, then she turned miserably towards the bed she had hoped to be sharing with him and threw herself on to his pillow, kneading her fingers deep into the silk-covered down.

V

Isabella was walking in the gardens of the llys, ignoring the wet, straggling grasses which caught at the hem of her gown. She lifted her face to the unseasonably warm sun and closed her eyes, feeling gratefully the gentle heat on her skin. A gaggle of ladies followed, the garden noisy with their chatter and laughter, but she was paying them no attention. The pain had returned: a low, nagging ache in her back, coupled with a strange tiredness which frightened her. She stopped, conscious of how wet her shoes were. Behind her the ladies stopped too, their conversation unabated.

Princess Joan was resting indoors. She often rested now and, from time to time, her hand went unobtrusively to her stomach, as if she too had a pain. Isabella wasn’t interested. All she cared about was her coming child. Was it all going to be this unpleasant? The nausea; the inability to keep any food down, save a warm milk pap and gentle syllabubs; the aching and the tiredness; the strange tenderness of her skin which made her hate it when Dafydd touched her, as he still did sometimes when he was there, laughing off her pleas that he leave her alone in her pregnancy. The women laughed too while they clucked around her; they cosseted her and gave her the food she asked for and held the basin when she vomited, but they still laughed and nodded their heads and said it was the same for everyone; it would pass; soon she would be better. She took a deep breath, trying to master the pain in her back, wishing she had not decided on this walk and had elected to retire to her bedchamber.

From her seat on the wall Rhonwen watched her sourly. Isabella was pasty-faced, bloated from the coming baby, though it was early yet for that; more likely it was her constant nibbling at sweetmeats. The girl looked unhealthy and discontented. Rhonwen hid a smile. For the first months of the marriage Dafydd had stayed close to his bride, petting her, stroking her under the chin, fondling her before the world, clearly delighted with her charms; but now, bored with her company perhaps or sated with bedding her, his duty done as her pregnancy had become obvious, he had left with his father for Caernarfon and Isabella had been left alone with the womenfolk. Rhonwen’s eyes narrowed. She had not forgiven Isabella that letter to Eleyne. She saw Isabella stop and put her hand to her back, discomfort plain on her face. Her ladies, too preoccupied with their chatter to notice their mistress’s distress, did not see as she leaned against the wall of the small windswept bower and tried to catch her breath.

Rhonwen stood up and approached her cautiously, half expecting to be dismissed, but Isabella did not seem to have noticed her.

‘Are you unwell, highness?’ Rhonwen saw the superstitious fear in Isabella’s eyes as she noticed her. So she had heard it too, the story that Einion and Rhonwen served the old gods. The man who had spread the tale had died, his boat caught in a squall of wind off Pen y Gogarth, and Llywelyn, shocked, had firmly suppressed the rumour, but the gossip had stuck fast. Rhonwen and Einion had known it would and, each for their own reason, it had pleased them both.

‘My back hurts.’ Isabella’s voice was peevish.

‘The child is lying awkwardly,’ Rhonwen said. ‘If you wish I can give you a salve which can be rubbed on your back to ease the ache. Princess Joan used such a mixture when she carried her children and it helped her greatly.’ She smiled at Isabella’s ladies who had paused some feet away. ‘One of your damsels can rub it in for you, or I will if you wish it.’

‘You did it for Princess Joan?’ Isabella pulled her cloak around her, emphasising her prominent stomach.

‘I did indeed.’ It wasn’t a lie. Once, when Joan’s handmaids had been busy elsewhere, Rhonwen had indeed stroked the scented ointment into the princess’s taut, agonised back only days before Eleyne was born.

‘Then you do it. They won’t know how.’ With a dismissive gesture to her ladies, Isabella turned towards the palace. ‘Fetch it now. I ache so much I can’t stand it another minute!’

‘Spoilt little madam!’ Rhonwen’s muttered comment was lost on the retreating back as Isabella, followed by her attendants, swept out of sight.

She had a pot of salve in her coffer. For a moment as she rummaged beneath her belongings, she debated whether to add some irritant to the mixture, pounding it into the soft sweet-smelling salve, but she thought better of it. If she was to help Eleyne, she had to win the trust of this plump spoiled princess who had once been Eleyne’s friend.

Assisted by her attendants Isabella had removed her gown and kirtle and been wrapped in a silk and velvet bed robe. She was sitting on the great bed eating sugared violets and marchpane flowers rolled in cinnamon when Rhonwen arrived with her jar of precious ointment. When her plump white body was stretched out at last on the bedcovers, discreetly covered by rugs, Rhonwen exposed the girl’s lower back and rounded bottom. She resisted the urge to give her patient a sharp slap on the backside and instead dug her hand deep into the jar of salve.

Isabella groaned with pleasure as Rhonwen’s strong hands began to knead her cramped muscles.

‘You’re too tense, child,’ Rhonwen murmured. ‘Relax. Try to sleep while I work. Then the baby will lie more easily.’

‘Why did Eleyne send you away?’ Her head cradled on her arms, Isabella did not see the tightening of Rhonwen’s face.

‘She didn’t send me. It was him – Lord Huntingdon. Now they’ll be going to Chester, they’ll summon me back.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ The muffled voice was just sufficiently short of incredulity not to be insolent.

‘Yes, I believe it.’ Rhonwen scooped more salve into her cupped fingers. Looking down at it, she felt the emptiness threatening to rise again and she fought it down. There had to be a way of going back, and if there wasn’t then she had to see that Eleyne came back to her. And this spoiled girl was the key.

‘No.’ Isabella looked mutinously at the floor. ‘I don’t want her here. She killed my father!’

‘No, princess. Your father killed himself.’ Rhonwen kept her voice even. ‘It is cruel to blame Eleyne, who loved you like a sister. Please, for her sake. Speak to your husband. Surely, now she is Countess of Chester, Prince Llywelyn would want to keep a dialogue between her husband and Gwynedd. And Dafydd bach can persuade him. He would do anything if you asked him to.’

Isabella was pouting. ‘I haven’t even seen Dafydd for two weeks.’ It was a sore point; even when he had visited Rhosyr, on the other side of the island a few days before, he had sent no message; the ladies in the palace near the harbour at Cemaes were feeling ignored.

‘It would give you an excuse to bring him to your side, princess.’ Rhonwen’s voice was low and confidential. ‘And impress him with your grasp of the political scene. Tell him you have heard Lord and Lady Chester have taken up residence at Chester Castle and you think it would be a tactful moment for the Prince of Aberffraw to write to his son-in-law and invite him to Aber. Tell him that it will enhance his position with his father and with the King of England if he can repair this rift.’

VI

The early winter was mild. The gales blew themselves out and late roses budded and came to bruised, torn flower. The roads remained in good condition, and so, at last, Eleyne came to Aber in the second week of December.

The last month had been bitterly unhappy. John had withdrawn from her completely. Since their quarrel over Margaret’s letter he had remained angry and cold, refusing to believe her tearful insistence that she had not intended to ask the king about remarriage. Perversely, his health had improved. He had put on weight and he rode and hunted regularly now, a more robust colour animating his face, but he had made no further attempt to touch her. Their reading too had stopped. He was too busy, he said, with the administration of the additional huge earldom of Chester.

When the prince’s letter had come, asking him and his wife to Aber for Yule, John had written back excusing himself, but Eleyne could go and welcome. She was ecstatic when he told her. She could go home; she could see Rhonwen; she could see her father. She closed off John’s rejection in one corner of her mind and concentrated on preparing for the journey to the place she still thought of as home. She did not think about her mother or Einion at all. Nothing must be allowed to spoil her return.

John spoke to her once, on the eve of her departure, at her request.

‘You are packed and ready?’ He looked up from his desk without a smile.

She nodded. ‘We leave at first light, my lord.’

‘Good. Carry my greetings to your father and mother.’

‘When shall I come back, my lord?’ The excitement she felt at returning home could not fill the strange gap his withdrawal had left. She longed to run to him, to touch him, to feel him hold her protectively in his arms.

‘I will summon you back when I want you, Eleyne. If I want you,’ he said slowly. He laid down his pen. ‘Do not return until you have heard from me. I’m not sure I still want you for a wife. I’m not sure at all. It is not too late to annul this marriage. It is not consummated in the eyes of God.’ He turned back to his letters and did not look up again. She turned slowly, fighting her tears, and walked from the room.

VII

Rhonwen was waiting for her in a guest chamber at Aber. Never again would the beloved nursery wing in the ty hir be hers. It was already being refurbished for Isabella’s coming child.

‘Cariad! but look at you! how you’ve grown.’ For a moment neither of them moved, then Eleyne flew across the room and into the other woman’s arms.

‘Of course I’ve grown, Rhonwen. I’m grown up now!’

‘You are indeed! A countess twice over, with a train of followers bigger than your father’s!’ Rhonwen held her away for a moment surveying her face. If he had taken Eleyne and made her his, she would know. She searched the girl’s eyes. There was something there, but not what she sought. Of that there was no sign. ‘You’ve been unhappy, cariad. I can see it in your eyes; see it in the thinness of you. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Eleyne turned from the sharp scrutiny. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. There is always so much to do at Chester, so many people to talk to.’ The dowager had helped, staying on at the castle at Eleyne’s frantic entreaty, but even so she had found herself busy at all hours, even when it was only the business of being entertained. Without John’s support it had been a nightmare of strain and tension. ‘My father, Rhonwen. When will I see him?’

‘Soon, cariad.’ Isabella had done her part; Dafydd had persuaded Llywelyn to issue the invitation, but that was as far as it had gone. ‘I have no wish to see your sister,’ he had said to his son firmly, and the day before Eleyne’s arrival he had left Aber with a large contingent of followers to ride south.

Joan was there however, and only an hour after Eleyne’s arrival she summoned her youngest daughter to her solar. Dry-mouthed, Eleyne stood before her, sharply conscious that she was now taller than her mother and far more richly dressed, for Joan was wearing a black gown and cloak – much to her husband’s irritation, her habitual dress since her return from exile. But her eyes were the same, fiercely critical, as she looked her daughter up and down.

‘So. You have become a beauty.’

Taken aback, Eleyne blushed. She still felt antagonistic towards her mother, but her fear had gone – and her respect. But for this woman and her betrayal of her husband, Aber would still be her home and she would still be sure of her father’s love. Her disappointment at not finding him at Aber had been intense.

‘Why have you come?’ The directness of Joan’s question shocked her.

‘My father invited us,’ Eleyne replied. She raised her head defiantly. ‘And I wanted to come. I have missed you all.’

‘Indeed?’ Her mother’s voice was dry. ‘But your husband has not come with you.’

‘He is too busy.’ Eleyne answered too quickly.

‘And you are not too busy,’ her mother echoed quietly. ‘You are not breeding yet, I see.’ Her eye skimmed critically down Eleyne’s slim figure. ‘Your friend Isabella is six months gone.’

‘Is she?’ Eleyne turned away, but not quickly enough to hide her unhappiness from her mother’s sharp eyes. Joan’s expression softened slightly. ‘You and your husband are content, Eleyne?’

‘Yes, mama.’

‘And he has made you his wife?’ She paused. ‘You do know what I mean?’

There was only the slightest hesitation, but it was enough. Joan frowned. Unexpectedly, and for the first time in the child’s life, she felt a wave of tenderness for this wayward, fey daughter of hers. Her own unhappiness and loneliness over the last three years had made her more thoughtful, more understanding. Her attitude to other people had, she realised, changed.

She had been dreading seeing Eleyne again, well aware that it was Eleyne who had seen her that fearful, fateful night, but now, with her daughter sitting on the stool near her, gazing unhappily into the fire, she could feel her loneliness and misery as a tangible cloak around her. She responded to it with an unlooked-for wave of sympathy.

‘Is it his illness?’ she asked, her voice more gentle.

Eleyne shrugged. ‘At first he said I was too young; then he was ill. Then, when I thought he wanted me at last… we quarrelled.’ Her eyes were fixed on the soft swathes of smoke drifting across the fire as the flame licked at the damp logs. The air smelt sweet and spicy from the gnarled, lichen-covered apple.

‘You must make up your quarrel.’ Joan picked up her embroidery frame and selected a new length of silk for her needle. ‘You have been lonely, I think.’

Eleyne nodded.

Joan squinted at the branch of candles, holding her needle up to the light. ‘It was the same for me when I first came here. I was English and a stranger in your father’s court. I was lonely and afraid.’

‘You?’ Eleyne turned to stare at her.

‘Why not?’ Her tone was defensive. ‘I was young – oh not as young as you – and just as vulnerable and without the loving family behind me which you had.’ She paused, unaware that her use of the past tense had brought tears to her daughter’s eyes. ‘I barely knew my father. He and my mother were together such a short time and yet here I was branded -’ her voice grew heavy with bitterness – ‘branded as the bastard daughter of King John. Not a princess, even though I had been declared legitimate, but the child of a woman of the night and a butcher!’

‘Was he really so evil?’ Eleyne’s voice was quiet. Her grandfather had died four years before she was born, but she too had grown up in the shadow of the hate his name still roused.

‘He did some bad things. He was a king,’ Joan went on after a long pause. ‘Kings and princes must sometimes be cruel if they are to rule effectively.’ There was another silence.

Was she thinking of her own imprisonment, Eleyne wondered, and she realised with a shock that she had stopped thinking of her mother with hostility. This, the first real conversation they had ever had, had revealed a vulnerable, sensitive woman beneath the tough, unsentimental exterior, and Eleyne warmed to her.

Her needle threaded at last, Joan put the silver thimble on her finger and began inserting minute stitches into the linen in her frame. ‘Why did he dismiss Rhonwen?’

The question dropped into the silence, then Eleyne shrugged. ‘He doesn’t like her.’

‘Will you take her back with you?’

Again Eleyne shrugged. ‘I love Rhonwen, but I don’t want to make him angry.’

‘Then leave her here. The woman plots and schemes like an alley cat. She will only complicate your life at Chester. You must learn one thing, Eleyne, and that is that there is no one you can rely on in this world but yourself. No one.’

VIII

Isabella could not hide her resentment and Eleyne felt it as soon as she walked into the room. The girl’s look was hard and full of enmity in the streaming light of the torches; her dark eyes were calculating. ‘So, you came back on your own.’

A gale had risen, screaming across the sea from the north-west, pounding the waves against the shore, rattling the window screens in the palace. Isabella clutched her wrap around her bulky body and sat in the chair nearest the hearth. Around her, her ladies, shivering too in the draughty hall, gathered as close as they could to the fire. Eleyne stood alone in the centre of the floor and felt the wave of hostility crest and topple towards her like one of the fat breakers on the beach below. Her heart sank. How could she have thought that she and Isabella could still be friends?

‘My husband was too busy to leave Chester at the moment,’ she said calmly.

‘I heard he couldn’t wait to get rid of you,’ Isabella retorted pertly. ‘Little princess icicle they call you, did you know? One of my ladies said the pages were betting long odds you would still be a virgin when you were twenty!’

Eleyne felt the colour mounting in her cheeks. Not all the sniggers from the listening women had been stifled; in fact, one or two had laughed out loud, their eyes brazen and mocking.

‘I don’t know what you mean!’ She raised her chin.

‘I mean, sister,’ Isabella emphasised the word sarcastically, ‘that if your husband had bedded you, you would have been with child long before this. Besides, it is well known you keep separate rooms!’

Eleyne thought she saw one or two of the women bow their heads, embarrassed by their mistress’s waspishness, and she was comforted by it. Her initial hurt was passing and she felt her own temper rising. She clenched her fists.

‘My private life is none of your business, Bella,’ she retorted. ‘But at least my husband and I live in the same town.’ She closed her mind firmly to the fact that now they did nothing of the sort. ‘My brother, I hear, has taken to putting the breadth of Gwynedd between you and him.’ She turned on her heel, and walked, head high, across the chamber, conscious every step of the way of the staring eyes following her.

‘Murderer!’

Eleyne stopped. For a moment she wondered if she had heard aright. Isabella’s whisper carried as clearly as would a shout across the body of the large room. She turned, her face white, her eyes hard.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said “murderer”,’ Isabella repeated defiantly. She eyed Eleyne warily. ‘Why not? It’s what you are. You killed my father.’

The silence was total in the solar. Only the shifting of the fire stirred the breath-held tension. Eleyne was perfectly calm. Her temper ran cold as ice. ‘Your father was a traitor. He seduced my mother and betrayed my father’s friendship,’ she said, her voice completely steady. ‘He betrayed you and he betrayed me without a thought. I didn’t sentence him to die, but it was the fate he deserved. My father,’ she paused, ‘had no choice but to send him to the death for which he had asked.’ Conscious of the eyes fixed on her back, she walked slowly from the room, aware of a strange calm dignity, of the certainty that she was right.

Surprised at her coolness, she paused outside the door and examined her feelings with detachment. It was as if she had walked through an archway which led directly from childhood to adulthood. It was a step from which there was no turning back: yesterday she would have run from the room, shaking with anger, to throw herself upon her bed, pounding the pillows with frustration and fury; today, when she regained her bedchamber it was at a thoughtful walk.

Through the strange osmosis by which news and gossip spread through the palace, Rhonwen had already heard of the altercation. She laughed wryly. ‘You touched a sensitive place there, cariad. The child was upset when Dafydd left her. She worships him you know, but now he’s got a baby on her he’s away.’

Eleyne sat down on the bed. ‘Why is she so cruel?’

‘You must try to understand how she feels.’ Rhonwen noticed her calmness and was uneasy. ‘She has to blame someone; and she’s always been jealous of you.’

‘I thought she was my friend.’ Wearily Eleyne drew her legs up beneath her skirts.

‘A fair-weather friend only,’ Rhonwen said gently. ‘And a dangerous enemy, cariad. You must watch your back when that young woman is around, indeed.’

It was hard to avoid anyone in the crowded palace over Christmas, confined as they were by the icy winds and the horizontal storms of sleet and soft snow which tore the last clinging dead leaves from the trees over the river, and brought the swirling brown waters down in spate. Eleyne kept as much as possible to her own rooms and to those of her mother, with whom she had several more quiet thoughtful talks.

Her father arrived late one night with an escort of ten men. Their torches spat and hissed in the wind; their fur cloaks were encrusted with frozen snow. Eleyne waited behind her mother, watching as Llywelyn tramped into the hall shouting greetings to his people. He did not see his youngest daughter until he was a few strides from her. For a moment father and daughter stared at each other in silence. Eleyne wanted to throw herself into his arms but she held back, her eyes on his face. He did not smile. A silence fell over the men and women around them. At last it was Joan who spoke. ‘Welcome, my husband. Do you see who is here to spend Christmas with us?’

Eleyne stepped forward and curtseyed low. ‘Papa,’ she said.

Her father put out his hand and took hers. ‘You are welcome here, daughter,’ he said quietly. But he did not hug her and within seconds he had turned away.

It was a week later, after the supper tables had been cleared and the prince had retired to a private room with Ednyfed Fychan, the archdeacon of St Asaph’s and several others among his closest companions and advisers, that the household, led by Princess Joan, settled themselves comfortably to hear a new harper from the land of Cornwall far to the south. Joan beckoned Eleyne to the seat next to her and Eleyne, with a look at Isabella who was scowling as usual, took the place with a smile, watching the grave young man before them lovingly tuning his instrument.

Her eyes wandered over the assembled company, men and women most of whom she had known all her life. There were some strangers, but they were seated in the body of the hall, their faces lost in the light and shadow of the wall sconces with their flaring smoky lights. All were quiet now, replete after their meal and eager to hear the new musician – all loving music, all appreciative, all critical of whatever offering was to come. Her gaze strayed back to the dais where the immediate family sat – all except her father – to Isabella, slumped in her chair, the bloated mound of her belly making it impossible for her to be comfortable. Even as Eleyne watched, she saw the young woman, who had ostentatiously turned her seat away from Eleyne, move awkwardly, obviously in some distress, her hand pressed against her side. Eleyne felt an overwhelming wave of sadness at the sight of her.

The first warm, enticing chords of the music drew her attention back to the performer and she was lost in the magic arpeggios of sound, her spine straight against the carved wooden chairback, her hands resting loosely on its arms, aware of the subtle change in the attention of the audience around her. The first notes had told them that this man was a master, equal to the best of their own harpers. Reassured, the audience sat back to enjoy the evening.

Isabella’s scream cut the music short in mid-sweep, and there was total horrified silence in the hall. Then it was repeated, echoing eerily in the smoky rafters as Isabella half slipped, half threw herself from her chair, clutching her belly.

It took five agonised hours for her to lose the baby, during which time no corner of the palace seemed free of her screams. Rhonwen, her pot of healing salve in her hands, ran at once to help, but Isabella took one look at her and screamed again.

‘Murderess! Sorceress! You did this. You! You did it for her. You hag! You witch!’ Words failed her and once more she clutched in agony at the bed rail above her head. Rhonwen stood staring at the suffering girl, then slipped without a word from the room.

She put the pot of salve on the coffer near Eleyne and regarded it sadly. ‘She is blaming me,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘She claims I did it for you.’

Eleyne grew cold. ‘For me?’ she echoed. They stared at each other in the shadowy room. The only sound was the moan of the wind. ‘Did you?’ Eleyne’s whisper was barely audible.

IX

The snow started in earnest that night: soft, thick, silent snow, whirling in from the north, smothering mountains and valleys alike in deep feathery drifts which, as the grey dawn came, turned from shadow-white to grey and then to blue. The water of the river slowed to a sluggish crawl, held back by icicles and frost-hard tree roots, and in the stables the water in the horses’ buckets was solid ice.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Rhonwen said quietly. Her breath was a cloud in the clean air. The horses too breathed dragon plumes in the silence. ‘What happened to Invictus?’

Eleyne sighed. ‘I left him at Chester. It would have been wrong to bring him back here. Lord Huntingdon will take care of him. He’s a valuable horse.’ The words sounded as though she had been trying to persuade herself. ‘How is Isabella?’ She hadn’t turned from the door on which she was leaning, watched from a distance by her father’s grooms.

‘She’ll live to bear more children, never fear.’ Rhonwen pursed her lips. ‘She’s strong, that one.’

Eleyne shook her head: ‘There will be no more children, not for Isabella.’

Rhonwen closed her eyes. ‘So. Then that is the will of the gods. You saw that in the fire, cariad?’

Eleyne shrugged. ‘No, there are some things I just know.’

‘And what do you see for yourself, girl? Or is it just for others you have the Sight?’

Eleyne rested her chin on her folded arms. ‘I have never seen anything for myself. Perhaps there is no future for me.’

‘You mustn’t talk like that.’

‘I’m sorry. I am not very cheerful today.’ Straightening, Eleyne looked at her directly and Rhonwen frowned, sensing yet again the new determination there, strengthened by the prince’s lingering coldness. ‘Where is Einion?’

‘There was some scandal. The prince heard it and suggested Einion leave his court for a while. If you want to see him I’m sure I can find him -’ Rhonwen looked doubtfully at the whirling whiteness in the courtyard.

‘No!’ Eleyne’s voice was sharp. ‘I don’t want to see him!’ She turned her back on the horses and pulled her cloak hood over her veil. ‘Come. I want to speak to Isabella.’

X

‘Keep away from me!’ Isabella huddled beneath her covers, her eyes huge in her white face. ‘You have bewitched me, all of us. You have the evil eye! First papa, then Cousin John, and now me! Everyone you go near dies!’ Her lip trembled and two huge tears welled up in her eyes.

‘That is not true.’ Eleyne had stopped near the doorway, conscious of the half-dozen pairs of eyes turned in her direction. At least two of Isabella’s ladies crossed themselves and one, she saw, made the sign against the devil. ‘I wish you no harm; I am your friend – ’

‘You are not my friend!’ Isabella’s voice was heavy with bitterness. ‘You’re jealous! Jealous of my marriage; jealous of my happiness; jealous of my baby -’ She started sobbing loudly and was immediately surrounded by her women. One stayed behind and said: ‘Please leave, Lady Chester. You see how upset the princess is.’

‘It’s not true.’ Eleyne was still staring at Isabella. ‘I’m not jealous. I wished her no harm – ’

‘Of course you didn’t. Please go, my lady, please.’ She ushered Eleyne to the door. ‘Let my princess sleep now. I am sure she will be calmer later.’

The corridor was dark, lit by a single rush lamp at the corner of the passage, and for a few minutes Eleyne was alone.

The figure was barely a shadow, a darker place on the darkness of the wall. She looked at it and it was gone.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked sharply. There was no reply. From Isabella’s bedchamber behind her, there was no sound. There was nothing to hear but the wind.

She made her way down the passage to the staircase and peered down. The steps vanished into darkness. ‘Who’s there?’ she called again, her voice steadier now. Almost without realising, she began to descend the stairs, her shoes silent on the wood, the only sound the soft swish of her skirts as they followed her, dragging a little down each steep step, catching now and then on a rough, splintered edge.

At the bottom she stopped again. The stairs ended in an inner hallway. To her right a curtained archway led into the great hall where the bulk of the household sat or sprawled, listening to a recitation by a poet from Powys. To her left a dark wooden passageway linked the hall with the other scattered buildings of the palace complex. Again without realising why, she turned down it. It was dark; from the far end she caught the unsteady flicker of light from the torch one of the watch had thrust into a sconce on the wall, perilously near the roof thatch. Beyond it a barred door led into the courtyard. There was no sign of the guard as she turned the corner. The whole of the building was silent, save for the wind which moaned in the roof timbers and howled in the doorways and passages before roaring on up the steep valley away from Aber.

She reached the door and looked around; there was still no sign of the watch. The passageway was empty. The kitchens beyond seemed deserted. The cooks, too, after scouring their pans and damping down the great cooking fires, had crept into the back of the hall to hear the poetry.

She turned to the door and, as if obeying some distant call, raised her hands to the bar which held it closed. It was heavy, cut from a plank of seasoned oak and slotted into two iron hoops, one on either side of the frame. She grasped the bar and pulled; it didn’t move. She frowned, her head slightly to one side as if still listening to a voice in the wind, which moved her skirts around her ankles and made the torch behind her hiss and smoke. Was there someone there? Someone calling her? She listened again and the small hairs on the back of her neck stirred.

At her second fierce tug the door bar came away from one of its slots, rattling back and then, the end too heavy for her to hold, falling with a crash from her hands. With a determined effort she eased the other end free, and jumped back as the whole bar fell to the ground. Immediately the door swung inwards, opened by the pressure of the wind, and the torch behind her went out. Eleyne stood quite still, feeling the wind tearing at her clothes, listening to the roar as the trees on the hillside bent and streamed before it, then cautiously she stepped over the bar and slipped into the snow-covered courtyard.

There were two men on guard at the river gate, huddling for shelter beneath the wooden stockade which guarded the lower end of the palace.

‘Open the gate!’ Eleyne heard the words whipped from her lips and torn spinning into the distance. Her veil dragged at her hair, fighting to be free under the hood of her cloak.

‘My lady?’ One of the men held up his dark lantern. ‘We have orders to allow no one in or out after dark.’ His shadowed, angular face was highlighted by the faint glimmer of the burning candle behind the polished horn screens. There was a naked sword in his other hand.

Eleyne drew herself up. ‘Those orders do not apply to me. Open the gate and close it behind me. I shall knock when I return.’

She saw the man glance uncertainly at his companion, saw the other nod, and saw the superstitious fear in the eyes of both. She didn’t care; she didn’t even know why she wanted to leave the palace so badly or where it was she was going in the deep, frozen snow. She waited as the gate was pulled back and walked through it, not glancing at the men as she passed. Then the gate was closed behind her and she was alone in the darkness.

She walked slowly, feeling the force of the wind trying to push her forward, her cloak flapping around her like a live thing. There was sleet in the wind out here – icy, hard in the blackness, stinging her cheeks, freezing her knuckles as she clutched her cloak, and somewhere in the distance she heard the howl of a wolf. She was on the slippery track, the road which bypassed the cluster of cottages around the church and mill, and had led up the river and across the mountains since before the Romans came; since the days of the old gods. She followed it easily in darkness made luminous by the snow.

Einion was waiting for her at the water’s edge where the trees made it dark again. For some reason she was not afraid. She could see nothing, her eyes slitted against the sleet, but she knew he was there. His cloak was blacker than the blackness around him, his beard a white blur. Beneath her cloak her fingers touched her crucifix for reassurance – the crucifix John had given her.

Standing beside Einion on the bank of the river, she could not see the water, save for the occasional glint of foam as it roared down towards the sea, but the ground beneath her feet vibrated with the strength of it.

‘You summoned me here?’ She spoke at last, her voice loud against the wind. Beneath the sharp cold of the sleet, she could smell the scents of the earth: the bitter incense of the leafmould soaked with melted snow beneath her feet, the cold green smell of fern and moss, the tang of wet rock.

‘It was you who wished to see me, princess.’

She could see his face now, his piercing eyes. Had she wished to see him? In those long days and nights when she had lain ill at Fotheringhay and the memory of her visions had spun in and out of her mind – had she wanted the reassurance of knowing how to control her dreams? When she walked so close to that other world – the world beyond the veil of the present – had she not wanted to know how to lift the veil and realised that Einion was her only key?

‘I do need your help,’ she said at last. ‘I saw things, but I couldn’t stop them happening…’

For a long time there was no reply, and she wondered if he had heard her over the roar of the trees and the water. At last he turned and held out his hands. She put her own into his without hesitation.

‘Your path no longer runs through the mountains of Eryri, princess,’ he said slowly. ‘Your destiny lies far away. The day you left Aber to go to your husband you changed, as the hare changes to a cat or the doe to a horse. You no longer tread the path I hoped for you. But that is the will of the goddess and she has given you her blessing. She will allow you to see what you need to see and she will help you to understand if that is her intention. It is her path you follow now.’

‘And where does my path lead? Can you see?’ She stared into his face. His eyes were barely visible in the darkness; she could see nothing of his expression.

Again the silence. She felt the energy flowing through his hands into hers, felt his eyes looking deep into her skull.

‘Your destiny lies in the far north,’ he said at last. ‘In the forests of Caledon, in the land of the Scots. It is there you will live the greater part of your life and there you will die.’

The ice-cold needles of sleet penetrated her cloak, soaking through her gown, making her shiver.

‘And my husband will be king?’ She whispered the question but he heard her.

‘I see you at the king’s side. I see you as the mother of a line of kings. You will be the life of a king and you will be the death of a king. The Sight will be yours and it will be denied you.’ He stopped, his words snatched away into the darkness, and she felt the strength of his hands die away. He released her fingers and turned from her. ‘Tomorrow I return to Mô n. I have asked your father’s leave to end my service with him. I wish to spend the last of my days alone, preparing myself for the next life.’

‘Then who will I turn to for a guide?’ She felt a wave of panic as she tried to grasp the things he had told her.

He smiled for the first time. ‘That I cannot see. But it will not be me. I shall be dead before the snows have melted on Yr Wyddfa in the spring.’

‘No!’ Her cry was anguished.

‘It is the will of the gods, child,’ he replied gently. ‘We cannot question their decisions. I have lived more than eighty summers in these hills. My business here is over. I waited only to speak to you and now that is done I shall rest in peace. Go now, back to your father’s hall.’

‘Will I see you again?’

‘I think not in this life.’ He smiled sadly. ‘My blessings on you, princess, and on all you love. Now go.’

She raised her hand, but he had turned away. Huddled in his cloak, the hood pulled up over his hair, he was part of the shadows, part of the night. In a moment he had gone.

‘Lord Einion?’ Her voice was sharp and frightened. The wind howled around the spot where he had stood and the river hurled itself down between the boulders. She was alone.

I

The ashes were glowing beneath her feet as she walked in the fire; in front of her, in the distance, she could see mountains, blue beneath the haze. A figure was waiting for her, beckoning. She moved on, slowly, floating just above the ground. He was calling her name and she could see him drawing away from her, holding out his arms, his red-gold hair gleaming in the flickering light. ‘Wait!’ She tried to call, but no sound came from her throat. ‘Wait…’ But he was growing smaller, shimmering behind the heat of the fire. She began to run; she had to reach him, to see his face. The heat hid him, separating them. She had to get through the fire. ‘Eleyne,’ he was calling more loudly now, ‘Eleyne.’

‘Eleyne!’

Prince Llywelyn looked infinitely weary. Humping his fur-trimmed gown higher on his shoulders, he sighed. ‘I cannot allow you to remain here, daughter. I am sorry.’ He stood at the window of the solar, gazing out into the whirling snow. Eleyne sat alone, her eyes on the fire.

‘You must see how difficult it is, with Isabella’s illness. I’m told her megrims will pass and with them these tantrums, but meanwhile -’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Dafydd will escort you to Chester. I am sure your husband will be pleased to have you back.’

She made no response, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the smouldering logs.

‘You and she will be friends again when she is with child once more,’ he went on uncomfortably. ‘This idea of hers, that it was your fault – no one believes it. It is no more than the raving of a mad woman, but then, women are like this sometimes, they tell me, when they have miscarried…’ His voice trailed away to silence.

Again she gave no sign of having heard him. He moved closer. ‘Eleyne, did you hear me?’ He suppressed the wave of irritation which swept over him. He had come to Aber seeking peace; instead he had found himself surrounded by squabbling women. His daughter-in-law’s petulant voice and her uncontrolled sobbing rang day and night in his hall. Dafydd, in an effort to buy himself some quiet, nagged him constantly to get rid of Eleyne, whilst Joan could barely conceal her impatience with this girl her son had married, this daughter of the man who had been her lover. She kept begging Llywelyn to send Isabella and Dafydd to Dolbadarn or Dolwyddelan and allow Eleyne to stay at Aber. The servants and household gossiped about his youngest daughter endlessly; as for Rhonwen, if there were magic and evil in this palace, Rhonwen was the centre of it.

Still Eleyne had not looked up; she gave no sign that she knew he was there. He scowled. Her eyes, clear as the silver-green dawn light on the sea, stared unblinkingly at the embers. She seemed to be a thousand miles away in her dreams.

‘Eleyne!’ His voice was sharp. ‘Eleyne, by the Holy Virgin, listen to me!’ He stepped towards her and, putting his hand on her shoulder, pulled her to face him.

Her eyes were blank.

A superstitious shudder of horror swept over him. She had gone, his little daughter, his Eleyne, his seventh child, and the beautiful face looking up at him blankly was that of a stranger – a stranger who had stepped out of those glowing ashes to speak to him from another world. ‘Eleyne, wake up!’ His voice was sharp with fear.

Abruptly she was jerked to her feet. The picture in the fire vanished and she found herself staring into her father’s furious green eyes.

‘What’s the matter? Can’t you hear me?’ The fear in his voice was raw.

‘I’m sorry.’ She tried to pull herself together, but her mind was far away, through the fire, seeking the man who had called her, the man to whom her soul clung.

‘Are your wits addled, girl? Have I been talking to you all this time and you have heard not a word?’ His moment of fear had made him doubly angry.

‘I didn’t hear you come in, papa. Forgive me – ’

‘Then listen now.’ He didn’t ask what she had been thinking about, where she had been. He thrust her away, ignoring his urge to take her into his arms as he used to do when she was little. ‘I said you have to go. And go now. Today. You are not wanted beneath this roof. Your place is with your husband.’

‘But, papa – ’

This was the first time he had spoken to her alone since his return, and the first time he had really spoken to her at all. She felt a strange chill; once more she was the frightened child whom her father had sent away three years before.

‘Why? Why must I go? What have I done? I don’t understand.’ She tried to read the bleak, shuttered face. ‘I can’t go, papa. The weather…’ She looked over to the narrow window behind him, the only one which was still unshuttered, where the snowflakes whirled crazily. Some had drifted on to the exposed sill and sat there unmelted in the cold. ‘No one could ride in this; please let me stay at least until the storm clears.’ She heard her voice rise unsteadily. ‘Please, papa?’

He stared at her coldly. ‘Dafydd will ride with you. There is no danger; the snow is not settling. You will leave as soon as you are packed. I am sorry, Eleyne. But you have to go. And take your woman with you.’

‘My woman?’ she echoed as the door crashed shut behind him.

Rhonwen.

II

They sheltered that night in the guesthouse of the abbey at Conwy and rode on at first light, their faces muffled against the cold, their gloves rigid with caked ice on the reins of their horses. The snow whirled around them, settling in deep drifts in the sheltered gullies, torn and blown on the screaming west wind which as yet held no hard edge of ice. Dafydd had made no attempt to talk to her, to explain, but Rhonwen had known.

‘It’s the English bitch Dafydd took to wife,’ she whispered as she threw Eleyne’s clothes into her coffers. ‘She spreads lies, like poison, round the llys; she screams and shouts and refuses to sleep until you’ve gone. She claims the child was lost because of you and that she won’t conceive again while you’re under the same roof.’ She glanced sideways at Eleyne. ‘Did you tell her what you told me? Did you tell her that there would be no other child, cariad?’

Eleyne frowned. ‘Of course not! I have told her nothing. I haven’t been near her. She wouldn’t see me.’

‘That’s as well then. If you’d told her, she would have screamed sorcery and had you locked away for a thousand years.’ Rhonwen closed the lid of the chest and began to fill the next. ‘You’re best back with your husband, cariad, and that’s the truth.’ She looked at Eleyne’s bleak face, and knew without being told what Eleyne was thinking: What if he won’t have me back? What if he doesn’t want me as his wife…?

III

The Earl of Chester’s face was uncompromisingly stern. ‘I did not send for you,’ he said.

Eleyne raised her chin a fraction. ‘I wanted to return.’ She had forgotten how handsome he was, this husband of hers. She felt excitement beneath her apprehension.

Above her head the carved vaulted roof of the great hall of Chester Castle was lost in the shadows; after the comparatively small palace at Aber, it was a shock to remember the power of this great castle which was now her home.

She was intensely aware that the crowds of men and women, ostensibly busy about their affairs or gathered around one or other of the fires at either end of the hall, were watching and, if they were close enough, listening to the conversation between husband and wife.

Dafydd had exchanged only the briefest greetings with Lord Chester and then turned back into the storm, anxious to return to Wales before the snow closed the passes and locked the roads. He had offered no explanation for his sister’s unheralded return. Rhonwen had slipped away into the depths of the castle without a word, terrified that the earl would send her back with Dafydd. Eleyne was left to greet her husband alone and unattended.

He looked stronger than she remembered him. Tall and good-looking, he was in the great hall surrounded by his friends and advisers when she was announced. They formed a laughing animated group which stood back in silence as she walked the length of the hall to the dais and stepped up to greet him. In the long weeks at Aber she had grown again; this time she was nearly as tall as he, and her eyes met his steadily for a moment before she dropped a deep curtsey before him, her heart thumping.

‘What made you decide to return?’ He dropped his voice so they could not be overheard.

‘My place is at your side, my lord.’

‘Did your lover reject you?’

Her steady gaze belied the tightening of her throat, the quickness of her breath. She clenched her fists. ‘I told you before, my lord. I have no lover. You are the only husband I want.’

‘Because, no doubt, you have now obtained the assurance from your uncle the king that you may marry whom you will when I die.’ His eyes were watchful, his voice harsh.

‘I have not seen the king; nor have I written to him, my lord.’ It was becoming an effort to keep her eyes steady on his, but somehow she managed it, willing him to believe her.

He folded his arms thoughtfully. ‘Your brother was in a great hurry to leave,’ he said abruptly.

‘The weather is bad, my lord. He didn’t want to bring me to Chester, but I insisted. I wanted to return before it got so bad I was forced to stay at Aber until the spring.’

‘I see.’ There was a flash of humour in his eyes. ‘And Aber was becoming untenable, was it? Or did your father send you packing?’ He broke off as a flood of scarlet washed her cheeks. ‘Aha! At last I have nailed the truth,’ he said softly. ‘You have been sent away a second time. What did you do on this occasion, wife?’

Eleyne tried to keep her voice under control. ‘It was not my father, it was Isabella…’ She was fighting her tears. Abruptly, she turned away from him and went to stand in front of the huge stone fireplace with its burning logs, holding out her hands to the blaze. Her gaze sought the depths of the glowing heat, but there was no message for her, and she stepped back as her eyes began to smart. There was a long silence in the hall, broken only by the spitting of the fires and the low murmur of voices from below the dais.

Then John was behind her, his hands on her shoulders. She felt herself grow tense.

‘Eleyne, may I present a kinsman to you.’ His voice was perceptibly more gentle. ‘Come, turn round. This is a cousin of my grandmother’s, Robert Fitzooth.’

Swallowing hard, she faced them and forced herself to smile. The young man was as tall as John and as good-looking, with an irrepressible twinkle in his eye. He swept a low bow.

‘Lady Chester. I have heard so much about you and I had abandoned hope of seeing you before I left. Greetings, madam, and welcome home.’

She found she was smiling at him, responding instantly to his warmth and charm, so unaffected and uncomplicated after her husband’s greeting. Almost without realising it, she allowed him to lift her heavy cloak from her shoulders and toss it over a bench, then he produced a cup of wine from a hovering page.

‘You lucky man,’ he called over his shoulder at the earl. ‘You never told me how beautiful she is; that the storm would pass and the snow melt and the sun come up inside the hall when she came home.’

Eleyne laughed, and saw that John too was smiling, watching the two of them, arms folded with the tolerance an adult might show two children at play. ‘She likes you, Robin,’ he commented with a wry laugh. ‘Lucky man. Make the most of it.’

After supper Robin organised games and dancing in the hall and led Eleyne into all the dances, leaving John in his chair by the fire. By bedtime Eleyne was exhausted.

Robin looked at her and laughed at his cousin. ‘You will curse me for leaving your bride too tired for your private sport. Forgive me, my lord.’

John gave a forced smile. ‘Eleyne has enjoyed herself. It’s good to see her happy.’ He stood up and, reaching across, took her hand. ‘Nevertheless, as you say, it is late. Time for us to retire.’

They walked side by side from the hall, between ranks of bowing men and women, conscious that as soon as they had gone the dancing would start again.

Beyond the hall, the castle was bitterly cold; the wind had veered at last into the north and with it came the stranglehold of ice on the snow. Feeling the bite of it in her bones as they climbed the broad winding stair to the lord’s bedchamber, Eleyne wondered briefly if Dafydd would reach home before the ice came. Dafydd and she had exchanged so few words on their ride to Chester; their mutual resentment was a physical barrier between them.

Above her, at the angle of the curving stair, John stopped and looked down at her. His smile had gone. ‘You find my kinsman Robin attractive, I think.’ His voice was flat.

She stopped too, raising her face to look up at him in the shadows, and her skin tingled with warning. ‘He is indeed an attractive man.’ She could hear the defiance in her voice.

‘More so, no doubt, than your husband.’

Eleyne smiled sadly. ‘No one should be more attractive than a husband to a wife, my lord,’ she said softly. For a fleeting instant the image of William de Braose rose before her.

‘No, they should not.’ His mouth snapped shut on the words and he continued to climb.

Eleyne followed him, holding her heavy skirts clear of the stone steps. ‘Are you at all pleased to see me, my lord?’ Her voice, tenta tive above the howl of the wind, barely reached him.

‘Of course.’ He did not stop.

At the head of the stairs the gallery divided. To the east, it led to a small chapel and the lord’s private apartments; to the north, it led around the great square of the keep to the apartments reserved for visitors of state. Eleyne paused, then taking a deep breath she turned after her husband.

At the door to his chamber he bowed to her courteously. ‘You may make this room your own, Eleyne. I have given orders that your coffers and your servants be sent here. I myself will sleep elsewhere.’ He looked at her, thoughtfully. ‘Just until you are recovered from your journey.’

‘And then, my lord?’ She did not realise that her eyes were pleading.

‘And then we shall see.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘I trust you did not bring the Lady Rhonwen back with you from Wales, Eleyne.’

Eleyne froze, her eyes on his, unable to look away.

‘You know how I mistrusted that woman,’ he went on. ‘She was bad for you, keeping you a child, leading you into evil ways…’ He paused, noticing her stricken expression. He said nothing, then slowly he sighed. He pushed open the chamber door and walked in.

Rhonwen was supervising the unpacking of Eleyne’s boxes, standing in the middle of the floor as some half-dozen maids scurried around her, depositing armloads of linen in carved and painted coffers and chests around the walls. The lights flickered in the draught of the open door and Rhonwen looked around. For a long moment she and Lord Chester surveyed one another, then quietly, somehow hopelessly, he laughed: ‘So that is the way of it.’

‘You never said she couldn’t return, my lord,’ Eleyne cried. ‘You never said she had to stay in Wales.’

‘Did I not?’ He looked at her coldly. ‘I had thought you would have understood my intentions.’

That night Eleyne tossed and turned alone in the great bed, listening to the wind howling in the chimneys, and by morning she had reached a decision. After hearing mass in their private chapel at her husband’s side, she waited until the household had broken their fast and then followed him to the side chamber where he was sitting at his desk. His face was pale, his hands stiff with cold as he reached for the first letter. His clerks hovered nearby waiting to begin work. One of them, his nose red and swollen, sneezed dismally into the crook of his arm and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

‘I should like to talk to you alone, my lord,’ she said boldly. Her back straight, her eyes steadily on his, she clasped her hands together to give her courage.

For a moment she thought he would refuse, then with a curt nod of his head he gestured the clerks towards the door. Bowing, they withdrew.

‘If you are wondering where Robin was at breakfast, he has left the castle,’ he commented curtly. ‘He too was afraid of being caught in the snow. He asked me to pass his farewells to you.’

‘I did not go downstairs to breakfast, my lord,’ Eleyne retorted. ‘Sir Robert’s whereabouts are of no interest to me.’ Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep and her head ached. She must not lose her temper; she must keep up her courage; she must remember what she had vowed to do. ‘I came to talk to you about Rhonwen. If it is your wish, I shall send her back to Wales. All I ask is that we give her a dowry to enable her to marry well. I love her as a mother. I should not like her thrown destitute upon the world.’

John looked at her closely. ‘Have you told her that this is what you intend?’ he asked shrewdly.

Eleyne hung her head, then once more straightened her shoulders. ‘Not yet, my lord,’ she said honestly. She smiled wearily. ‘I didn’t have the courage. But I shall do so at once if it is your wish.’ The pain in her eyes was obvious, in spite of the resolution in her voice.

He frowned. ‘You really love that woman, don’t you? Even knowing she is not a Christian.’

‘She will attend mass if I ask it of her, my lord,’ Eleyne said firmly. She took a deep breath. ‘I was a child when I came to you. I did not realise that the things I had been told by Einion were bad. He had offered to help me understand my dreams. For that I was grateful. But I know what I did was wrong. I am no priestess of the Welsh gods of ancient times. I am your wife and I am no longer a child. I have put Einion’s teachings behind me, and Rhonwen understands that. I saw Einion…’ She hesitated. To tell him was a risk; it was also perhaps the key to the future. ‘I saw him before I came back to Chester and he confirmed what I already knew in my heart. That my place is at your side. And that our future lies in Scotland.’

She saw the excitement flare in his eyes, and she felt an answering excitement inside herself.

‘In Scotland?’ he repeated. ‘He said that?’

‘Yes, my lord. He said that my place was with the King of Scotland and that I would live – and die – in that country.’

John stood up. He threw the letter which had been clutched in his hand on to the table and watched as it slowly refolded itself. ‘So. It is to happen. When?’ He rounded on her, his face alight with suppressed fire.

She shook her head. ‘He showed me no calendar, my lord.’ She smiled, her heart thumping with excitement.

‘And the future? Did he see children?’ The eagerness and fear in his voice made her blush as she replied: ‘He said I should be the mother of a line of kings.’

‘So!’ He smacked his hands together triumphantly. ‘I knew it! I felt it in my bones! And you -’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘You are to be the mother of my heir.’

She smiled. ‘So it would seem, my lord.’ She looked up at him as he pulled her closer and she could feel her breath coming in small gasps. It was working; working more surely than ever she would have dreamed possible. Let it be now, she thought incoherently as she reached up, seeking his lips with her own, now while he is excited and optimistic and strong. Let it be now.

As if reading her thoughts he murmured through his kisses, ‘Why don’t we retire to the bedchamber, my Eleyne? Dear God, you’ve been away too long and I have missed you.’ He held her away from him as if trying to reassure himself that she was indeed a grown woman now, eager in his arms. ‘You’re not afraid?’

Her heart was hammering wildly beneath her ribs. ‘Oh no, my lord, I am not afraid.’ She reached up again to kiss him, her lips tracing the angle of his jaw, finding the soft skin of his cheek beneath the rough neatness of his beard as he caught her hand and pulled her towards the door.

Outside the three clerks were waiting dutifully to be summoned back to their master’s office. They looked up as the door opened, but neither the earl nor the countess noticed them, even when one sneezed yet again as they walked past. Holding Eleyne by the wrist, John walked swiftly across the stone flags towards the staircase. Almost running to keep up with him, Eleyne was oblivious of the interested faces watching from the shadows as she followed him upwards, concentrating, as he was, only on what was to happen once they reached the privacy of the bedchamber. He flung back the door and stood still.

Rhonwen sat by the fire with two other women. They were gossiping softly in the intimate warmth of the hearth. The three faces turned in surprise as the door crashed against the wall.

‘Out!’ John jerked his thumb towards the door. The women rose and, dropping their spindles, scuttled past him. Rhonwen hesitated for a second as though she were about to speak. One glance at John’s face made her change her mind and she followed the others, closing the door behind her.

‘At last.’ John turned the key in the lock. Unclasping his mantle, he let it drop to the floor. ‘Wife -’ He pulled her to him and kissed her. She could feel the strength and power centred within him, so different from his habitual gentle reserve. Lifting her mouth to his, she felt herself grow dizzy with longing. He felt her excitement and smiled. ‘So, you are eager for your husband at last.’

‘You know I am,’ she whispered. She longed to tear off her clothes, to feel his hands crushing her breasts, to feel his skin against hers; to throw herself to the ground and roll on the floor naked before the fire. Her whole body sang with life. But then, dimly, in some recess of her mind, she heard a small voice of caution. She must not shock him with her eagerness; she must not let him think her wanton; she must let him lead.

Closing her eyes she pressed against him, feeling his arms tighten immediately around her. ‘Sweet Eleyne,’ he murmured, his lips against her ear, and now he was slowly, gently, feeling for the lacings of her gown. She stood still, trembling with anticipation as he undressed her, removing each garment slowly and carefully until even her shift had gone. For a long time he did nothing. He stood looking at her with an expression of wonder on his face. ‘I hadn’t dreamed you were so beautiful.’ His voice was hoarse. Not touching her body, he reached up to the braids wound around her head beneath her veil. Unpinning the fine fabric, he began carefully to unplait her hair until it hung in a rippled curtain around her breasts. ‘You are sure you’re not afraid?’ He had felt her trembling.

She shook her head, her eyes lowered, shy suddenly before the intensity of his gaze. ‘No, I’m not afraid.’

‘My love.’ His hand on her shoulder was featherlight. She scarcely felt it as it traced along her collar-bone and down towards her breast. But his gentle touch on her nipple sent a bolt of lightning knifing through her body. She gasped and he looked up, frowning. ‘I didn’t hurt you?’

‘No. No, my lord, you didn’t hurt me.’ Her words came in a rush.

‘I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Eleyne – ’

‘You won’t, my lord.’ Her voice dropped, instinctively low and seductive as she caught his face in her hands and brought it towards hers. ‘You won’t.’

He kissed her long and hard, then he drew her towards the bed. She followed him, her breathing quick and shallow, her pale skin flushed in the light of the fire.

His body was painfully thin, his skin as soft and white as a girl’s. To Eleyne it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Mesmerised by the intensity of his gaze and the light touch of his hands on her belly and flanks, she lay back on the bed, her hair spread loose on the silk sheets and pillows, unaware that as her arms drew him down towards her, her legs had parted as naturally and wantonly as any village girl’s with her man in the hay.

With a groan, he buried his face in her hair and she felt with a quick exultation his weight come down on her slim body.

There was very little pain. For the few short moments he was inside her, she felt her exhilaration rise as his sweat turned the skin of his shoulders slippery beneath her clinging fingers and she felt the thundering of his heart against hers. Then it was all over. Triumphantly he rolled away from her. He lay still, breathing heavily as he gazed up at the shadowy tester above their heads. The flickering lights from the fire slid back and forth across the damask till it glowed like a sea of living gems. He heaved himself up on one elbow and looked at her with a smile. ‘Are you happy, my love?’ On the damp sheet below her hips he had seen the small smears of blood. The servants would find them later, and draw their own conclusions. He smiled triumphantly and Eleyne smiled back at him. ‘I’m very happy.’

‘And now you are truly my wife.’ He pushed the hair back gently from her face and reached down to pull the covers over her. Tenderly he kissed her on the forehead, then he slipped from the bed. She watched as he pulled on his clothes. The long dark green tunic clasped at the waist with a leather belt, engraved with gold, then the heavy mantle, green too, though a lighter shade, dyed with mountain lichens, the embroidered border gleaming with gold and vermilion threads. His light gold hair, darkened with sweat, framed his face as he pushed his feet into his shoes.

He came back to the bed and sat down beside her, resting his hand for a moment on her breast. ‘Sweet Eleyne. Sleep now, my darling. We’ll talk later.’ He strode from the room.

Obscurely she felt a little disappointed. Her body still yearned for his; it felt alive, her skin so sensitive that the slight draught straying over the floor from the doorway touched her like the caress of a man. Never had she felt more alert. But he had gone.

IV

In their bedchamber at Dunfermline Castle the King and Queen of Scots were alone at last. Alexander II, a handsome, broad-shouldered man of thirty-six, stood gazing out of the narrow window towards the gleaming blue ribbon which was the River Forth. His flaming hair and beard, already streaked with grey, were glinting in a stray ray of sunlight which slipped through the window and glanced off the deep embrasure wall.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself to composure. ‘Are you sure, this time, my love?’ His voice was gentle, but Joanna could hear the uncertainty, the disbelief, above all, the hope.

‘I’m sure,’ she whispered. ‘I’m into the third month and all is well.’

‘So!’ He smiled exultantly. ‘At last there will be an heir for Scotland!’ He caught her to him. ‘Make sure it’s a boy, sweetheart. A boy to lead Scotland forward to greatness.’

‘Scotland is already great with you as her king.’ Joanna reached on tiptoe to kiss her husband’s cheek. She sighed and, wrapping her arms around herself, she danced an excited pirouette. The eldest daughter of King John of England, and the sister of England’s present king, half-sister to Eleyne’s mother, Joan of Gwynedd, Joanna had been married to Alexander since she was eleven years old and she worshipped her handsome husband. She would have done anything in the world for him; she would have died for him. The only thing she had seemed unable to do in their thirteen years of marriage was to produce a child. Month after month, year after year she had offered prayers to the Blessed Margaret, to St Bride, to the Blessed Virgin herself, but month after month her prayers had proved fruitless and she remained barren. Until now.

‘When shall we tell everyone?’ She ran to him again and caught his hand. ‘I should so like everyone to know.’

‘And I, sweetheart, and I.’ Seeing the joy and excitement in her face, his doubt vanished and he laughed out loud, suddenly aware of the enormous relief which had succeeded his initial caution. A son! An heir! At last Scotland would have the stability she needed, the stability which the succession of his first cousin, the Earl of Chester – English-born and so often ill – would so badly have compromised. He looked again at his wife’s slim body – no trace yet of a thickening at her waist – and at her radiant smile, and again he laughed out loud. Picking her up, he whirled her in the air until she shrieked with laughter, then he took her in his arms and kissed her.

V

As the ice melted and the first small field daffodils turned the sunlit corners of the meadows to palest yellow, Einion, his proud bones weary and aching, walked less and less often to the headland to gaze across the narrow strait towards Eryri and the distant invisible summit of Yr Wyddfa. The snow in the high passes lay thick and undisturbed, blue in the crevices and in the early shadow of the night. The air around him was scented with burning oak and apple from the small settlement of monks at Penmon and, to the west, from the clustered roofs of Llanfaes, but behind and over the smoke and salt of the sea he could smell the clean sweet air of the mountain and its snow.

He saw her less now: the child, the young woman, for whom he had spent the winter in prayer and supplication; the pictures were fading, the future misty and indistinct, but through the darkness had come one message, the message from the fire, the message which held her destiny. When he understood at last what it meant, he had wept. If she should fail to understand, if she should quail before the wishes of the gods… Once more he had to meet her, to warn her of what was to come. Then she must go forward alone.

His fingers an agony of rheumatic pain, he managed to clasp the quill and pen the letter to her, commanding her presence without delay in the name of the powers she acknowledged and worshipped as he did, at his retreat on the headland at Penmon. He addressed it formally to the Countess of Chester and entrusted it to a messenger summoned from the prince’s llys at Llanfaes.

Then he turned his pale, filmy eyes south towards the mountains once more and prayed the gods would grant him a reprieve, a few more weeks of life, to tell her what she had to know.

VI

‘We must travel!’ John’s eyes were burning with zeal. ‘Now I’m well again we shall visit all my northern estates. Then, all being well, we’ll go on to Scotland and I shall present you to the king and your aunt.’ He smiled. ‘It is time you became acquainted with our future kingdom.’

She nodded, pleased as always to see him active and busy with plans for the future. But part of her, a small, cautious part, watched in concern, noting the speed with which he rushed at things, as though afraid there would be no time to accomplish them all, noting the high colour of his skin and the brightness of his eyes. At night sometimes, as she lay beside him, listening to his deep breathing, she would put her hand gently for reassurance on the place where, beneath his ribs, she could feel the steady beating of his heart, as if to comfort herself that all was well with him.

It was the end of April when they set out from Chester for the east, riding at the head of a long line of attendants, knights, and men-at-arms, servants, wagons and carts. Seated on Invictus, his gilded harness newly sewn and accoutred, her saddle spread with a silken caparison, Eleyne glanced sideways at her husband with enormous pride. He rode upright and calmly beside her, astride a great black destrier which matched Invictus stride for stride. It was an old horse and steady, but it stepped out with style.

Their first stop was in South Yorkshire at an old manor house which lay in a soft fold of the moors beneath the peaks. It was a small place, barely housing a quarter of the big household, which had to find places to camp around the manor walls.

Tired after the long ride, Eleyne retired early to the solar. Their own bed had been set up, the hangings, embroidered with the Chester coat of arms, hung in place and their coffers were unpacked. Rhonwen had stayed at Chester. Never again, after that first night back from Aber, had John mentioned Rhonwen’s name, and Eleyne had steadfastly refused to contemplate sending her away. All she had done that first devastating day was to hug her and beg her to stay out of her husband’s sight. Then John had taken her to his bed and Rhonwen had been forgotten. She was fed and clothed and, as a senior lady-in-waiting and Eleyne’s nurse, had status and regular annual payment of clothes and candles. What more could she want?

Now, as Eleyne sat on a low stool before her mirror allowing Luned to brush out her hair, she caught her eye suddenly in the reflection. ‘I wish Rhonwen were here,’ she said slowly.

‘It’s as well she isn’t.’ The young woman dragged energetically at the thick hair with her comb. ‘She knows Lord Chester doesn’t want her near him. She preferred to stay behind. She said you did not need her now.’

Eleyne frowned. ‘But that’s not true. Of course I need her.’

Luned shook her head. ‘Not while you sleep in Lord Chester’s bed. That’s what Rhonwen said.’

Eleyne felt her face colouring. ‘My place is in his bed,’ she said sharply.

‘Of course.’ Luned smiled enigmatically. She, at sixteen, had grown into a comely young woman, possessed of a neat waist and high, firm breasts. Her glory was in her eyes. They were a deep seductive grey, fringed by the longest of black lashes, and every young man who saw them fell instantly in love with her. She was being courted by two squires and twice as many pages, and hardly a day went by without her finding small gifts and poems hidden beside her place at dinner or pushed shyly into her hand as she waited on Eleyne in the great hall.

‘Rhonwen says she will be there when you need her; when my lord falls ill, or when you are with child. Then you will remember her and ask for her. That is what she said.’ She moved behind Eleyne again and set to once more with the comb.

‘When I am with child?’ Caught by the words, Eleyne heard the echo of Rhonwen’s bitterness in them. ‘But I’m not, not yet.’ She caught a ringlet of her hair and twisted it round her finger.

‘Plenty of time for that,’ Luned commented tartly, ‘when my lord is stronger.’ So others too had noted the passing weeks and counted. ‘Rhonwen told me she can give you powders to put in his wine that will give him the strength to father children -’ She broke off as she caught sight of Eleyne’s face in the mirror.

Eleyne jumped to her feet. ‘How dare you! How dare she! What do you mean? There is nothing wrong with my husband! Nothing! He is strong and well. He is completely recovered.’

‘I’m sorry, my lady.’ Luned looked frightened by the unexpected burst of temper. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cross. And nor did Rhonwen. She only wanted to please you.’

‘Well, she hasn’t.’ Eleyne walked over to the fire and stared down at the smouldering log. The room was cold and damp. ‘And I wanted her here. I wanted to talk to her. I need her.’ For a moment she was a lonely child again.

It was dark outside and the wind was howling across the moors when John came at last to bed after spending some hours closeted with his chamberlain and the steward of the manor, arguing over the accounts of the previous year’s harvest. Climbing into bed beside Eleyne he reached out, as he so often did, to stroke her hair and touch her shoulder as though to reassure himself that she was really there. Then, as he so often did, he turned wearily away and fell into an exhausted sleep, leaving her staring into the darkness.

VII

The Welshman pulled his rough sheepskin cloak around him and peered furtively over his shoulder. It was some time since he had passed the coin to the servant and asked for the Lady Rhonwen. Behind him the sun had set into a bank of crimson cloud and the cold wind was rising, blowing steadily from the north. With the earl and countess away, the castle was strangely empty. The garrison remained; the administrative officers were still there, but the rest of the great household had moved on to progress around Lord Chester’s vast estates.

It was nearly dark before she came, muffled as he was against the cold. They stood in the shelter of the stable block and talked for a few minutes in hurried Welsh. A letter passed between them, then some coins, and the Welshman faded back into the night. At first light, when the gates opened, he would be gone on the journey back to Degannwy.

Rhonwen tucked the letter into her bodice and retraced her steps back to the women’s bower. There were fewer ladies there now; those who served the aged dowager and the chatelaine and two young women near to giving birth, that was all. It was comparatively easy to find a secluded corner and settle with her flickering candle to read the letter which Gruffydd had written to Eleyne.

Cautiously worded though it was, it was clear in its message. Gruffydd had had meetings with his father and at long last Llywelyn was talking of allowing his eldest son his freedom once again. There had even been a vague promise that Gruffydd would be given the Lleyn Peninsula and that he would be allowed to work again with Dafydd if he would recognise Dafydd as his father’s heir.

Rhonwen dropped the letter on to her lap and gazed unseeing at the heavy wooden shutter which had been pulled across the window. If only he had the sense to agree; to bide his time. She sighed and pulled from her gown her other letter. There had been two that day, both addressed to Eleyne. This one had been carried by a messenger in the livery of the Prince of Aberffraw. He had been reluctant to give it up to her; he had been paid and well paid to put his letter into the hands of the Countess of Chester and no other, but in the end he had relented. Did not everyone know that the Lady Rhonwen was the countess’s nurse, her friend, her confidante? She could be trusted to pass on the letter the quickest way possible.

Reading it again now, Rhonwen frowned. Einion’s hand had grown feeble; his writing shook and strayed across the roughly scraped parchment, but the urgency was clear. He wanted Eleyne to return to Mô n.

Rhonwen frowned again. Eleyne had summoned her to her chamber once when the earl had ridden out for the day. They had hugged one another as they had when Eleyne was a child.

‘I am his wife now, Rhonwen,’ Eleyne had whispered, her eyes shining, ‘really his wife.’ She caught Rhonwen’s hands. ‘Oh Rhonwen, I love him so much. Give me time. Please. He will grow to like you. I know he will.’ Rhonwen had suppressed the agonising pang of jealousy which Eleyne’s words had caused her, melting before the excited pleading eyes, and she had not, as she had never, been able to deny Eleyne what she wanted.

‘I’ll wait, cariad,’ she had said, hiding her sadness. ‘I’ll keep out of his way, and wait.’ Nevertheless she had been hurt by Eleyne’s attitude in those last few weeks before they left on their progress around the country. It was as if Eleyne had forgotten her existence. But Rhonwen had watched and waited and kept out of the earl’s way as she had promised. And when the time came for the household to leave Chester she had shaken her head and pleaded exhaustion and told Luned to wait on Eleyne with extra care.

She looked down at Einion’s letter again: it must be important. Einion would never summon Eleyne back unless he felt it was vital; Einion, to whom she had entrusted Eleyne as she would have trusted herself; a man she respected and honoured more even than she honoured the prince. To disobey him would be to disobey the wishes of the gods; to obey him would be to reclaim Eleyne from her husband; to travel with her once more to Gwynedd; to go home.

She walked slowly across the room, her skirts catching in the dried, dusty herbs strewn upon the ground, her eyes shining. These two letters gave her the power to summon Eleyne back, to bring her home. She stood for a long time before the fire, unaware of the eyes of the other women looking up from their spinning and sewing and watching her warily. Her temper had grown uncertain in the weeks since her return from Gwynedd, her arrogance more defensive. Her beautiful face was drawn now and thin, her eyes haunted, and she seemed unaware of the women around her.

What would Eleyne want her to do? Would she want to go back to Gwynedd and the convoluted politics of her brothers’ quarrels, and to Einion, or would she want to remain with her husband, a countess touring her estates? She pictured Eleyne’s face yet again: the shining eyes, the knowledge of something which Rhonwen would never know, and she heard again her voice: Oh Rhonwen, I love him so much, and she knew what she must do.

Slowly and deliberately she dropped the two letters on to the fire and watched them shrivel and blacken in the heart of the flames.

VIII

In his lonely hermit’s cell Einion sat staring deep into the flames, feeling the ice-cold draughts playing across his shoulders and down his spine. The pain in his bones distracted him from his meditation and he could think of nothing now but the cold wind which howled across the island and whipped the strait into white-topped breakers.

Leaning forward he reached for a log to throw on to the fire. He had seen the messenger in the flames that morning; seen him hand the letter to Rhonwen and he had smiled, reassured. Rhonwen would understand the urgency. She would see that Eleyne came back. Only a few more days and she would come; only a few more days…

He frowned. Suddenly, it hurt to breathe. The hut was full of smoke. The sound of the wind had risen to a scream. He stared at the fire, his hand pressed against his chest, trying to see. He was struggling to rise to his feet when the pain hit him: a grip like an iron bar across his heart, crushing him, blinding him with agony. He heard himself cry out loud, expelling his last breath as his lungs ceased to function; the deep blackness was enfolding him, numbing his mind as one last certainty flashed through it. Eleyne was not going to come after all. He would not, as he had always known in his heart he would not, see her again. Rhonwen had betrayed her gods. She had thrown the letter on the fire – he saw her do it in one flash of blinding clarity – and because of her Eleyne must face the future without his warnings.

As the blackness became total and the howl of the wind filled his ears, he staggered a few steps into the darkness and pitched full-length across the fire.

I

‘The Queen of Scots is with child!’

The messenger took a certain malicious joy in relaying the message to the stunned household of the Earl of Chester. ‘It is his grace’s command that all his subjects share in his joy and give thanks that his prayers have been answered at last. Your aunt, my lady,’ he went on, turning to Eleyne whose face had drained of colour, ‘sends you her especial greetings and hopes that you and your husband will travel north soon to visit her and the king.’

‘You told me I should be king one day!’ John rounded on Eleyne as soon as they were alone. ‘Holy Virgin, and I believed you! How could you tell me such lies?’

‘They weren’t lies,’ Eleyne cried, ‘I told you what was told to me.’ He was standing in the centre of the room, his hands clasped tightly, his knuckles white, visibly trying to control himself. ‘This means nothing.’ She ran to him and put her hands over his. ‘A baby not yet born -? So much could happen. Your succession might not be for many years – King Alexander is not an old man – ’

She had meant it as a reassurance, but his face darkened. ‘He is only eight years older than I. Eight years, Eleyne!’ John smiled at her sadly. ‘And he is a robust man, whereas I…’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘You are well now and stronger than you have ever been,’ she said firmly. ‘Besides, he is far more likely to die in battle before you, being a king! He has often led his men against the rebels in his kingdom, you told me so yourself.’

‘And I? If I should lead my men to battle, how do you think I’d fare, sweetheart?’ The humour returned to his eyes.

‘Your men would follow you to the ends of the earth.’ She was trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. ‘And you know it. Though I pray to the Blessed Virgin that your cousin leaves you a peaceful inheritance when the time comes. And now, you must send a letter congratulating him on his news and telling him that we shall visit him as soon as it is possible. I want to see this country where I shall be spending so much of my life with its king.’ Reaching up, she kissed him on the lips, and his face showed that the despair had left his eyes. Seconds later his arms were around her and his mouth came down hungrily on hers.

‘You have seen it again? Seen it in the fire?’ he asked. ‘You know what will happen, don’t you?’ He had forgotten that he had forbidden her to look into the fire; told her to close her eyes and pray if she feared the visions were close. The touch of her lips had awakened him. She could see the excitement in his eyes. Reaching up, he began to unfasten her mantle. ‘Tell me, Eleyne. Tell me what you saw.’ In his hurry he had torn the neck of her gown. Bending, he kissed her breasts. Her excitement rose with his, and she wanted to reassure him, to tell him what he so badly needed to hear, but she couldn’t. About the Sight she couldn’t lie.

‘I’ve seen nothing, my love, nothing,’ she breathed. ‘We must wait.’ She was naked now, her gown and kirtle around her knees, cradling his head to her breast as he caught hungrily at the nipple with his teeth. The pain sent the excitement knifing through her belly, and she found she was pulling at his hair, willing him to throw her down and mount her, there on the floor. But already his ardour was cooling; he glanced ruefully at the beauty of her pale body and reached for her gown. ‘Someone might come in – ’

‘Then bar the door, my lord.’ She smiled at him, her hunger in her eyes. ‘Quickly – ’

She pulled the cover from the bed and throwing it down on the floor before the fire, she knelt on it and began with shaking hands to unbraid her hair.

‘Eleyne -’ His voice was husky.

‘Bar the door, my lord.’ She heard the imperious tone in her voice with faint surprise and expected him to frown, but he obeyed her at once. Her fingers still busy with her hair, she knelt upright on the rug, conscious that her breasts beckoned him, conscious as he fumbled with the buckle of his girdle that this time he could not resist her.

When he had finished she lay a long time on her back, gazing at the vaulted stone arch of the ceiling. The sunlight slanted through the mullioned windows, striking the warm colours of the embroidered hangings on the wall, animating them into strange and wonderful life. She felt the chill of sweat drying on her skin. His, not hers: as always, her excitement had died and she was left cradling his head in her arms, her body tight with longing, unslaked and lonely.

Below them the manor house was quiet. Everyone was out about their chores, even the women taking advantage of the cold spring sunshine to gain a respite from the badly ventilated hall. In the lord’s solar the only sound was the sighing of the ashes as they cooled.

II

‘Sire, you must speak to the queen.’ The distraught official was hovering behind Alexander as he paced the great hall. ‘She is pleading for you, sire.’

‘No!’ Through clenched teeth Alexander repeated the word for the tenth time. ‘No! No! No! I do not wish to see her.’

‘But she blames herself, sire – ’

‘With good reason!’ The king swung to face him. ‘She was warned to rest. All the signs told her to rest. It was written in the stars themselves!’ He flung his hand towards the distant roof of the hall. ‘But she took no notice! She knew best! She had to ride with her hawk and now she’s lost the bairn. Oh yes, I blame her. And I do not wish to see her. Now get out of my sight!’

The man bowed unhappily and scurried towards the door at the west end of the hall, his face a picture of disapproval. Outside a cluster of women waited in agitation. One look was enough to tell them the king’s response and dejectedly they hurried away.

The queen’s rooms were full of the sound of her sobbing. It was three days since her miscarriage, but still she could not stop crying. She had not eaten or slept and cried constantly for her husband.

‘Hush, madam, please.’ The distraught lady at the bedside dabbed at her face with a cloth wrung out in rose water. ‘You’ll harm yourself. There will be other babies, you’ll see.’

Joanna spotted the women clustered by the door. She pulled herself up on the pillows, her face swollen and blotchy with tears. ‘Where is he? Is he coming?’

The Princess Margaret, the king’s youngest sister, came forward. She shrugged and shook her head. ‘Soon, my dear, soon. Alexander doesn’t wish to tire you…’

‘That’s because he blames me. He does, doesn’t he? It’s my fault! He knows it’s my fault!’ Her voice rose in a wail. ‘If I hadn’t gone riding; if I had stayed at home and rested…’

‘Hush, hush.’ Margaret took her hand and stroked it unhappily. ‘Don’t upset yourself so much. Rest now.’

‘No! I must see him, I must!’ Joanna’s voice rose in a hysterical scream. Pushing back the sheets, she threw her thin legs over the edge of the bed and staggered to her feet.

‘Your grace, please! Please, come back to bed -’ Her ladies clustered around her, frantically trying to push her back.

‘Where is he? Where is the king?’ Tears were streaming down her face.

‘Joanna, I don’t know where he is – please, please calm yourself -’ Margaret caught her arm. ‘You’ll do no good by trying to find him. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.’

‘But he won’t, he won’t.’ She pushed at the other woman so violently that Margaret staggered backwards as Joanna ran for the door, her long bed gown trailing behind her, her feet bare.

No one else tried to stop her but her ladies followed her down the long winding staircase as fast as they could. Instinctively, she knew where to find him. In the royal stables, waiting impatiently whilst his grooms threw saddle and bridle on his great stallion. There was a goblet of wine in his hand. He had been drinking heavily all morning, but he was far from drunk when he saw his wife running barefoot towards him across the high cobbles, her hair flying, her face streaked with tears.

The sight of her sliced through his anger and disappointment with ice-cold shock; for the first time he thought of her misery and pain.

He threw down the goblet, splashing the cobbles with the blood-red wine, and strode towards her. ‘Joanna! Joanna, lass.’ He scooped her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair. ‘It doesn’t matter, lass. There will be others. You’ll see, there will be others.’

Sobbing, she clung to him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It was all my fault…’

‘No, no, it was God’s will.’ He was carrying her back towards the door, neither of them seeing the men and women around them. He carried her inside and up the stairs, soothing her as if she were a small child who had had a nightmare, and gently he put her down on the bed. Then he sat beside her and took her hand. ‘All I want now is for you to get better quickly. Then,’ he smiled, ‘we’ll try again. Now, you must rest. I’ll call the physician to give you something to help you sleep.’ He pulled the covers over her tenderly and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. As he walked from the room his face was bleak.

Impassively his clerk took down the letter to the Earl of Chester informing him of the Queen of Scots’s miscarriage and commanding him to come to Scotland. It was time the heir presumptive to the throne became better acquainted with his future kingdom.

III

Rhonwen woke with a start and peered around in terror. The chamber outside the bed curtains was completely dark. The fire had died. She could hear nothing at all, but she was shaking and could feel the perspiration cold on her body. The covers of her bed were tangled. She lay still, rigid with fear. A gentle snore came from the fireside where two of the serving girls lay, curled up on pallets, huddled into tight cold humps beneath their rugs. Across the room her companions were invisible behind the curtains of their bed. The room was full of people, and yet it was totally silent. She thought about the rush lights in their box near the pricket and the flint and tinder near it, but she couldn’t move.

‘Einion?’ She breathed the name into the silence.

He knew. He knew she had burned his letter and he was displeased. More than displeased: she could feel his anger whipping around her in the dark. She clutched a pillow in front of her, her eyes wide, huddling back into the wall, feeling the stone against her shoulder blades beneath the heavy embroidered hangings.

‘I did it for her.’ Even as she mouthed the words, she knew it was no excuse. He had commanded Eleyne to return and she, Rhonwen, had intercepted that command. With a little sob, she clutched the amulet she wore at her throat, but what could an amulet do to protect her when the gods themselves were angry?

With a groan, one of the girls by the fire sat up, shaking with cold. She looked around in the darkness and then, feeling in front of her, found the cold cinders at the edge of the fire. It was her job to keep the fire in. She groped through the litter in the hearth, her fingers floury with ashes, feeling for warmth, feeling for the tiny spark which could ignite new kindling. She found it, burning her hand suddenly on a hidden ember, and scrabbling the rubbish of twigs and leaves from the hearth’s edge to it she blew gently on the fragment of bark, watching as it glowed, seeing the reassuring wisp of smoke as the tinder ignited. In minutes the fire leaped to life once more.

Through the crack in her curtain Rhonwen saw the flame. She stared into the shadows and took a deep breath: he had gone and with him the anger and despair. She rested her damp forehead on her knees, feeling her hair fall forward around her shoulders. Perhaps it had been no more than a warning; perhaps she could still send a message to Eleyne to return to Wales. She closed her burning eyes, cutting out the shadows where the servant girl, the fire made up and banked to her satisfaction, had once more settled to sleep.

The next morning Chester Castle was buzzing with the news. The Queen of Scots had miscarried her child and the earl and countess were leaving for Scotland immediately without returning to Chester. They would be gone until the autumn.

Rhonwen listened tight-lipped. She had lain late, missing mass as was her custom, and taking no food. She had drunk only a cup of watered wine brought by one of the servants. So, Eleyne was moving north with no message to her; no summons for her to join the household. Her head throbbed. She gathered up some embroidery, used always to having her hands employed, and wearily made her way to the women’s bower. Outside the spring sunshine was warm after the chill of the night. From the city beyond the castle walls she could hear the noise of the new day: shouts, yells, laughter, music, the rumble of iron-bound wheels on cobbles, the bellowing of cattle penned out beyond St John’s waiting to be brought to the market. The other women had taken their work outside; she was alone. She sat in the embrasure and allowed the thin sunlight to fall on the fabric on her knee; reaching for her needle, she began to thread a length of madder silk.

Take her the message. The words were so loud in her head she thought someone had spoken. Tell her … Slowly she put down her sewing. She could feel her heart thumping unsteadily beneath her ribs.

‘Who’s there?’ Her voice sounded thin and reedy in the silence.

There was no reply.

She thought of Eleyne, perhaps already on the long ride north. She would not return now; no summons however urgent would call her back to Gwynedd. She shivered. Einion’s message had boded ill: did he have a warning for Eleyne? A message from the gods? She closed her eyes.

Tell her … The words were fading now, indistinct inside her head. Perhaps they had not been there at all.

‘She won’t come back! She can’t come back!’ she cried out loud into the shadows. ‘Don’t you see? She has to go with him. She doesn’t belong to us any more.’

IV

The ferries and boats had carried them at last across the broad glittering waters of the River Forth, and in the distance they could see old King Malcolm’s castle of Dunfermline, with the abbey church silhouetted against the skyline.

Eleyne looked at John. His face was white with exhaustion, but his eyes were bright and excited, his fists hard on the ornate reins of his horse’s bridle as he gazed up at the huge floating banner above the castle keep: the ramping lion of Scotland on its field of gold.

They had ridden the eastern route, from York to Northallerton and Darlington, on to Durham and Newcastle and thence across the bridge over the Tweed at Berwick and into Scotland at last, growing more excited with every mile. Now the gates in the castle wall stood wide in welcome and as they rode towards them they could hear the heralds trumpeting their approach.

Eleyne was breathless with anticipation as they dismounted in the courtyard and made their way into the great hall where the King and Queen of Scots stood together, waiting to greet them. Eleyne’s eyes went sympathetically to her aunt, trying to see a likeness to her mother in the slim, delicate woman who stood, a little apart from her husband, dressed in a gown of black. Joanna’s face was drawn and pale, her figure painfully thin beneath her mantle. There was no likeness to her half-sister, Joan, save in the eyes, the brilliant Plantagenet eyes, startling in the gentle face – eyes which were fixed on her and which, Eleyne realised with a shock, were far from friendly.

She looked away hastily, her gaze going to the king, and she caught her breath in stunned shock. She knew him! His was the face she had seen a thousand times in her dreams. He was tall, as tall as John, with flaming gold hair and beard to match, and broad-shouldered beneath his mantle. John bowed to him and he stepped down off the dais and clapped his cousin on the shoulder.

‘So, you have brought your wife to meet us at last.’ Already he was holding out his hands to her. She took them hesitantly, knowing her own were trembling badly. Still overcome with shock and strangely breathless, she curtseyed low, her eyes on his face, dazzled by the golden splendour of the man. It was true. He was the man in her dreams, and he was the most attractive man she had ever seen.

‘Well, niece, how do you like Scotland?’ His voice was mellow as he raised her and kissed her cheek. ‘I hope you are going to cheer your aunt with your company. She’s been sad, these last weeks.’ He stared at her, open appreciation in his eyes, and she felt herself grow warm. Then his expression changed: ‘I know you.’ His voice was husky. ‘Sweet Virgin, but I know you from somewhere.’ Then he shook his head; the moment was gone.

‘Cousin,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘you didn’t tell me your countess was so beautiful. There won’t be a red-blooded man in the whole of Scotland who doesn’t fall in love with her!’ For a moment longer he gazed at her, a slight frown between his eyes, then he mounted the dais again, waving them to chairs and beckoning for wine to refresh them.

Eleyne sat down; she was still shaking. So, he had felt it too, but how was that possible?

The emotion was immediately followed by guilt. How could she be so disloyal to John? She glanced at her husband and saw that he had relaxed, melting, as she had under the king’s charm. Next to her the queen was silent, locked in her own misery, conscious that every man and woman in the great hall knew that the Earl of Chester was here as heir presumptive to the throne; that her failure to produce a child meant that, whatever reassurance she had been given that she would conceive again, they believed there would be no son now for Scotland’s king.

She looked at Eleyne, so young and fresh and eager, her eyes glowing, her cheeks slightly flushed as she gazed at Alexander. She, now, was Scotland’s hope, and Joanna could feel her resentment welling up like poison inside her. Feeling Joanna’s eyes upon her, Eleyne looked at her aunt. For a moment they stared at one another, then Eleyne smiled. Impulsively she jumped to her feet and knelt beside the queen’s chair, catching her hands in her own. ‘I was so sorry…’

The sympathy in Eleyne’s voice brought tears of self-pity to Joanna’s eyes. ‘You! Sorry?’ She rounded on the girl in her misery. ‘You should be pleased. You’ll be the one now to give Scotland an heir!’ Through her sobs her voice rang out loudly in the hall and there was a sudden silence around them.

The king frowned. ‘Joanna, lass – ’

‘It’s true! So why pretend?’ Forgetting where they were, forgetting the protocol due on such a public occasion, Joanna jumped to her feet. She pushed past Eleyne and nearly knocked her over in her haste as she ran across the dais. She did not pause even to curtsey before her husband as she fled from the shocked eyes around her.

Eleyne scrambled to her feet. ‘Oh please, wait…’ she called. She looked helplessly from John to the king. ‘Please, may I go after her? I didn’t mean to upset her.’ She was scarlet with embarrassment.

Alexander smiled. For an instant his eyes seemed to caress her. ‘Aye, go after her if you wish. See if you can comfort her. I surely can’t.’ He sighed and turned back to John.

A servant led her up to the queen’s bedchamber. Behind her Luned and three of her ladies ran to keep up as she hurried after the queen.

Joanna was lying sobbing on the high bed, surrounded by her attendants as Eleyne came in.

‘Please, your grace – please, Aunt Joanna, don’t be upset.’ Ignoring the other women, Eleyne ran to the bed and caught the queen’s hands. ‘You’ll have other babies. I’m sure you will. You mustn’t mind us coming here. For the country’s sake it must be known that there is a man at hand to take over should anything happen to the king, which God and the Blessed Virgin forbid.’ She crossed herself hastily. ‘But that is for show. King Alexander will live for many many years and you will have many children, I’m sure of it.’

The conviction in her voice reached through the queen’s misery and slowly her sobs died away: ‘Do you really believe that?’

Eleyne did not allow herself to hesitate: ‘I do believe it,’ she whispered.

Joanna forced a smile. She was still gripping Eleyne’s hand. ‘You’re such a child. How can you know?’

‘I know.’ Eleyne met the other woman’s eyes. It wasn’t true, there would be no more children, not if John were to be king. She hated to lie, but how could she tell the truth? She was torn with pity. This woman’s misery was nothing like Isabella’s; she could feel the raw edges of it cutting deep inside Joanna’s soul.

A rustle of movement from the women around the bed distracted her and Eleyne looked up. The king was standing beside her, his eyes on his wife’s. Staring unobserved into his face, Eleyne felt a pang of loneliness. The love and compassion in his gaze were total, the strength and power of his personality directed at his wife alone; it excluded her and she felt lost.

Joanna’s grip on her hand relaxed and she lay back on the silk pillows with an attempt at a smile: ‘My lord, I should not have run away just now.’

‘Indeed you shouldn’t.’ His face was stern again as he turned his gaze thoughtfully towards Eleyne. The girl’s vivacity and warmth had died visibly as he came in, but not because of him; she hadn’t known he was there. It was because of something she had said or thought, of that he was sure. She was staring down at her hands as they gripped those of his wife on the embroidered silk bedcovers, and he could feel the intense unhappiness which had swept over the girl, an unhappiness which equalled that of the woman at her side.

He had been about to give her a quick smile of reassurance and a command that she rejoin her husband, who had already been escorted with due ceremony over to the guesthouse of the abbey where he and Eleyne were to be lodged in a style and spaciousness which the crowded keep could not afford them. But now he hesitated, trying to see her face. She kept it turned from him, as if she knew he was trying to look at her.

‘Lady Eleyne -’ His voice was sharper than he intended, but it had the desired effect. She raised her eyes. What he saw there surprised him: the face was beautiful, the eyes large and clear and steady, but they were full of guilt.

He was suddenly doubly curious about his wife’s niece.

‘Come, we’ll leave your aunt to rest.’ He smiled and held out his arm, and after a moment she took it. In the broad passageway outside the chamber the king drew her towards one of the windows. Below them a deep glen dived, in a natural moat, into the woods beyond. Over the trees she could see, far away, the glittering water of the Forth.

‘You must forgive your aunt, Eleyne. Losing her baby has changed her; turned her mind.’ His deep voice was quiet. He was looking at her closely. ‘I am sure she will be herself again soon. Don’t let her upset you.’

Eleyne raised her eyes to his. ‘I wanted to be her friend – ’

There was a tense silence between them.

‘And so you will, you’ll see. Give her time, and in the meanwhile I want you to enjoy yourself. You will like Scotland.’ He paused. ‘Forgive me, my dear, but I feel I know you so well.’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘I’ve never been to Scotland before, sire. You must be thinking of someone else.’ But he wasn’t: somehow, somewhere, they had known each other before. She felt her face growing hot, and she tore her eyes away, looking beyond him to the crowd of courtiers and attendants who waited for them. Luned was there, giggling at the attentions of one of the handsome Scots squires.

‘Do you like to ride, my lady?’ The king had taken her arm again, and they walked towards the narrow staircase.

‘I do, your grace, very much.’ Eleyne seized with relief on the change of subject.

‘Good. Then we’ll hunt together, I think. And I have a court full of young gallants who will vie with their king for a chance to ride beside you. Robert Bruce, the Lord of Annandale, is here at court. His son, your nephew, is a friend of yours, I hear,’ and he smiled, his hand firm beneath her elbow.

The lofty guest chambers of the abbey guesthouse, rich in warm hangings of embroidered wools, were crowded with their own servants as Eleyne joined her husband to inspect their bedchamber. Her head was whirling with impressions. The castle on its crag swarmed with people: the king with his charm and gallantry; the queen, taut and resentful; the courtiers and a crowd of gossiping, whispering faces, some already, did she but know it, aligning themselves with John, planning to curry favour with the man who might one day be their king.

‘Did you comfort the queen?’ John moved to her side and took her hand. His face was pale and drawn.

Eleyne shrugged. ‘I wanted to comfort her, but…’

‘But you know she will have no more children…’ His voice had dropped to a whisper, but his eyes glittered. ‘Tell no one of your gifts, Eleyne, nor of Einion’s prophecy, no one at all. It is dangerous to know the future, especially in the courts of kings.’ He raised his hands to her veil.

Eleyne frowned. ‘We do not know that she won’t have children, my lord,’ she whispered unhappily, ‘only that they will not succeed to the throne. Maybe she will have babes to comfort her…’ She stopped, wondering whether it were better to lose a child one had never known or to lose a living baby once one had grown to know and love it, perhaps when it was a boy or a young man.

John shook his head, untroubled by such thoughts. ‘There will be no more children. We both know it, Eleyne. It is written.’ Hungrily, his mouth sought hers. The servants busied themselves around the room, and someone stirred the fire, releasing the sharp salt tang of burning driftwood.

‘Out.’ John did not take his eyes from hers as he gestured with his hand. The door opened and the servants melted through it. They were alone. This time he did not undress her. Pushing her skirts up to her waist, he almost threw her on to the bed and thrust into her repeatedly, his face set, his eyes remote. Eleyne felt a tremor of fear. It was as though he didn’t know she was there.

In seconds it was over and he had rolled away, panting. Between her thighs she could feel the warm seed trickling uselessly from her body on to the bedcovers, where it grew cold and died. She wanted to cry.

V

The Earl of Fife was beside her again, dark, handsome, his gelding matching Invictus stride for stride, the bright gilded leather of his horse’s trapping fluttering as they raced after the king. Somewhere to their left, far ahead, they could hear the huntsman’s horn and the baying of the deerhounds. The forest was brilliant with new green.

Malcolm Fife laughed exultantly. ‘They scent blood, lady. Come!’ He wheeled his horse and plunged into the wood. Without hesitation Eleyne followed, her long skirts, trailing from the saddle, catching in bushes and trees as the horses thundered on. Excitedly she kicked Invictus on, only half aware that the riders behind them, including Isabel Bruce and Lord Annandale and Robert, had not followed them but galloped straight up the main ride.

‘We’ll be up with the king in seconds!’ Malcolm called over his shoulder. He reined his horse over hard, plunging up an even narrower overgrown track. ‘Does your husband never hunt, my lady?’ he shouted.

‘Never!’ she called back. It wasn’t true, but Lord Fife’s mood had affected her; his high spirits, his daring. She didn’t want to think about John, sitting with his books in the dark rooms of the abbey guesthouse as he nursed a heavy summer cold. To do so made her feel guilty. She should be with him, not hunting with the king.

Gritting her teeth, she urged Invictus on, stung by the earl’s arrogant assumption that his horse would lead. On three occasions now he had challenged her: twice she had won and once his horse had been in at the kill at the king’s side as the huntsmen crowded round to cut the throat of the stag the dogs had brought down. Today, she had vowed she would be at Alexander’s side, she and she alone, above all his followers. With a shout to Invictus, she brought the loop of the rein down on his sweat-streaked rump and felt the surge of power as the stallion shot forward.

The ravine had opened before either of them saw it. Both horses stopped in their tracks, rearing, their hooves slipping in the crumbling earth.

‘God’s bones!’ Malcolm’s face had gone white as he clung to his plunging horse. ‘Are you all right?’

Eleyne nodded, aware that her legs were shaking violently as she peered down through the trees which clung to a deep cleft in the rocks, disappearing almost vertically below them. Somewhere in the distance they could hear the rush of water from the burn which coursed through the glen at the bottom.

Not giving herself time to think, Eleyne wheeled Invictus around. ‘This way! I can still hear the horn!’ But the other horse barred her way. There was no room to pass and the earl was dismounting. He was a stocky young man, fresh-faced and good-looking with a shock of dark unruly hair. ‘I think he’s lame. Hold a moment, my lady.’ Ducking beneath his mount’s head, he ran a hand down the horse’s foreleg.

Eleyne trembled with impatience: ‘We’ll lose the king – ’

‘Do we need the king?’ Before she knew what he was doing, he had straightened. His hands were on her waist and he had pulled her from her saddle. She did not react, too surprised to resist, then his hands were on her breasts.

Eleyne froze. ‘My lord – ’

Pulling her to him, he crushed her lips with his own, bending her backwards over his arm as he devoured her mouth, one hand greedily groping inside her gown. She struggled furiously, but his strength was enormous. She could feel herself losing her balance, feel the soft earth at the edge of the ravine crumble beneath her feet. Clawing at his face, she heard him swear as her gloved finger caught his eye. His grip slackened and she broke away from him, staggering towards Invictus, feeling the tightly braided coils of her hair slipping from beneath her head-dress. Pulling herself into the high saddle, she wheeled the horse and pushed him into a gallop back up the track the way they had come.

The king was standing among his followers staring down at a magnificent stag. He looked at her quizzically as she rode up: ‘I thought you vowed to be at the kill, my lady,’ he called, teasing. She saw him eyeing her torn gown and dishevelled hair.

‘It looks to me as though a little hunting has been done away from the main chase.’ His smile was forced. Beside him Lord Annandale frowned.

Eleyne felt her face going crimson. ‘One of your lords, your grace, seems to know little of the code of chivalry,’ she retorted. ‘He tried to dishonour me – and my husband…’

‘Oh come.’ The king walked across to her. ‘Hardly that, I’m sure. Most ladies take it as a compliment if a man shows them his admiration.’ He reached up and put his hand over hers. If he could feel them shaking he made no sign. His eyes became serious, holding hers. ‘Lord Fife is a hothead, lass, and he’s made no secret of his admiration for you,’ he said with quiet urgency. ‘It was he, I take it?’ He searched for the missing earl among the crowded courtiers. ‘The two have made him a little over-eager for a kiss, that’s all. Least said, the better, don’t you think?’ He was smiling, but she could hear the command in his voice.

‘But your grace – ’

‘Enough, Eleyne.’ His fingers tightened. He was holding both her hands over the pommel of the saddle, crushing them in his grip. ‘I’ll have a word with Lord Fife.’ His words could be heard by her alone. ‘I’ll tell him to flirt less and remind him you’re a married lady, for all you’re so fresh and young and enticing.’

Oh, he was the handsomest man she had ever seen, this King of the Scots, with his golden hair and beard and his fierce commanding eyes, but he frightened her! She felt the strength in the hand which so easily held hers imprisoned, sensed the power of his will as he looked up at her. Suddenly shy, she looked away, and at once he released her hands. ‘Enough,’ he said softly, ‘I don’t think any more need be said.’

She watched as he strode away, once more absorbed in the crowd of huntsmen and courtiers, noblemen and servants who surrounded him, heard the talk and laughter, saw the carcass of the stag being trussed and slung between poles, and she felt terribly alone.

VI

‘Did you enjoy the hunt?’ John asked wearily. His eyes were sore from reading and his head ached.

‘Not very much.’ Eleyne tossed her head. ‘I don’t think I like it here, my lord.’ Her pride was still stung by the king’s rebuke and her temper dangerously high.

John frowned. ‘You have not annoyed the king or his henchmen, Eleyne? You know how important it is for them to like me.’

‘Do you not think to ask if they might have annoyed me?’ she flung back at him.

John stood up, and threw down his pen. ‘What happened?’

‘The Earl of Fife forced me to kiss him; he tried to touch me, to force me – ’

‘Oh, surely not. The Earl of Fife is one of the most influential men in the kingdom – ’

‘And he tried to force your wife!’ she repeated. ‘When my father found another man in bed with my mother, he hanged him like a common thief!’

‘De Braose was your father’s enemy, when all is said and done, Eleyne. The cases are not the same. And Lord Fife was not in bed with you. He snatched a kiss, that’s all.’

‘And you don’t mind?’

‘Yes, I mind.’ He folded his arms beneath his cloak. ‘But I am not going to be foolish about it. No harm was done. He paid you a compliment. Just make sure you are not alone with him in future.’

‘And that is all you are going to say?’ She was almost speechless with indignation. Her cool, stern husband was not even ruffled by her news. ‘You are like the king. You think it a joke! The great Earl of Fife tried to kiss Lady Chester in the woods. Oh, she’s not dishonoured, she’s not even supposed to be angry! She is supposed to laugh it off and consider herself flattered!’

‘You told the king?’ John frowned. ‘Eleyne, I don’t want him to think you are going to cause trouble among his followers.’

‘Cause trouble!’ Eleyne was incensed. ‘Perhaps, my lord and husband, if you had been there, hunting with everyone else, it would not have happened! Perhaps if you were in the great hall more often after supper it would not happen – ’

‘That is enough!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘May I remind you that neither would it have happened if you had remained here with me! In future you will stay here, at my side, and behave like a dutiful wife. Then men will remember that is what you are.’

That night he slept with his back to her, a bed cloak wrapped around his thin shoulders against the damp and cold of the rain which had swept north across the Forth in the darkness and which seeped in through the very stones of the building. At dawn he began to cough again.

VII

The great castle of Edinburgh was black on its rain-soaked rock. Staring up at it, Rhonwen felt her heart clench with fear. Was this where Eleyne would spend the rest of her days? Her carefree, bright child a prisoner in this cold northern land. She huddled into her cloak and looked around intently. Her servants and horses were as tired as she was after the long ride north, and now they were disappointed. The court, they had been told, had been in Dunfermline across the broad River Forth for many weeks. They had farther yet to go.

It was already growing late. They had to find somewhere to sleep in Edinburgh and in the morning go on to find the Queen’s Ferry which, they had been told, would take them on their journey. They were fighting their way down the busy high street with its market crowds, and Rhonwen was mentally counting out the last of her precious hoard of silver coins. Were there enough left to buy bread and meat and sleep tonight in a clean bed with a minimum of others to share it? And then to pay for a guide and the ferry in the morning?

She watched wearily as one of her servants stopped a tall, thin-faced man with high cheekbones and dark hooded eyes, asking him for somewhere to stay. She saw the puzzled looks on both their faces as they struggled to understand one another’s tongues, then the Welshman turned, nodding. He waved ahead down the street. ‘We are to go out of the town by the Nether Bow Port and on through the canon’s burgh, then we’ll find a guesthouse at the Abbey of the Holy Rood on the edge of the forest,’ he called. ‘It’s not far to the ferry in the morning.’

Rhonwen kicked her horse on down the steep road through the thronging market crowds. Now that she was so close to Eleyne, she was beginning to feel nervous; what would Eleyne say when she saw her and when she heard, as she must, that Rhonwen had burned Einion’s letter with all its urgency, and – the fact which had terrified Rhonwen into starting her frantic journey north – that the old man was dead and with him the message which had been so important it needed Eleyne’s immediate return to Mô n?

VIII

That night Eleyne dreamed again about the king. She awoke, her husband’s implacable back turned towards her in the darkness, aware that her body was alive with longing, that her skin was warm and eager beneath the sheets, her nipples hard, her thighs flaccid and welcoming. It was the third time she had dreamed of Alexander in as many nights, and each time she had buried her face, hot with shame, in the pillows. What kind of wanton was she that she dreamed of her husband’s cousin – her aunt’s husband – in such brazen detail? She stroked her hand surreptitiously across her flat belly and up to her breasts, feeling them tense beneath her fingers. Outside she could hear the heavy summer rain pouring endlessly on to the lead roofs of the guesthouse and gurgling from the gutters. The rich smell of the earth, newly drenched, rose through the open windows and filled the room. Beyond the bed curtains she heard a movement from one of the truckle beds which lined the room, then a whisper and the creak of wood followed by a stifled giggle.

She turned over, staring towards the heavy tester over the bed. Beside her was John’s deep regular breathing. Cautiously she reached out and touched his back, running her fingers down the length of his spine. He moved slightly and groaned, then he slept again. Beyond the curtains the room had grown silent.

IX

‘Lady Chester!’

Sometimes the king addressed her formally; sometimes he called her Eleyne and sometimes he addressed her, as he addressed his wife, as ‘lass’. She never knew which was coming or, when she looked into his face, if he were serious or teasing.

‘We have a visitor who will interest you.’

Beside him on the dais Joanna was sitting near the smouldering fire, attended by Robert Bruce, Eleyne’s nephew, newly raised from page to squire in the queen’s household and celebrating the fact by sticking his tongue out at Eleyne when he thought no one else was looking. The queen’s face was pale and she had grown even thinner over the last few weeks, but her eyes were calm now, and no longer red with weeping. Robert alone was sometimes able to make her smile.

The visitor, as Eleyne made her way across the hall beside her husband, was a tall man, dressed in a black gown and mantle, his white hair and beard moving silver in the light of the flickering candles. He’s a bard, she thought, like Einion. Perhaps he’s a seer – and she was afraid.

She walked towards the dais at John’s side, aware that many eyes had followed her from the moment she entered the hall, aware that she was being gossiped about, her name linked with the Earl of Fife even though she had never been alone with him again or hunted since that fateful day. And even though she slept every night with her husband and seldom left his side at all, by his decree.

She raised her eyes and met those of the queen, who smiled at her. The two had become friends after a fashion during the long weeks of their stay, Joanna’s resentment tempered by Eleyne’s warmth and open friendliness, so different from the bitchy, manoeuvring ladies of the court. Reaching the dais, Eleyne curtseyed to the king and queen. Near them the tall man rose. He bowed. His eyes were clear quicksilver in his face; depthless, swift-moving, all-seeing.

‘This is Michael.’ The king too rose. ‘The greatest seer in all Scotland if not all Europe.’ He smiled gravely. ‘He comes to tell my fortune, is that not so, Sir Wizard?’

Joanna had sent for the man, desperate to know the future, but he had talked to her of the waning moon and the obscuration of the firmament and the alignment of the planets and told her nothing.

Eleyne could feel his power. Like Einion’s it came from him in waves, probing, all-seeing, frightening. She stood still, feeling it encircling her like a tangible web, testing her, questing into the corners of her mind. Her fear passed as quickly as it had come, and she met his eyes with something like relief. That he would find a way of talking to her, she was certain. Not now before the king and his court and her husband, but later, alone.

X

‘What did you see for the queen?’ She hardly dared meet his gaze. In the darkness of the deep glen the water flashed white against the stones. He had arranged their meeting as she had known he would, his servant guiding her to this remote corner within the span of the outer castle walls, whisking her past servants and guards as though he had thrown a cloak of invisibility about her shoulders.

‘What I see for the queen is between the gods and her, my daughter.’ The man was as slim as a reed in his cloak of black, upright, though he leaned on a staff.

‘She will have no more children.’ Eleyne hardly dared breathe the words out loud.

‘Yet there will be a son for Scotland.’ Michael smiled coldly. ‘You have power, madam, but it is untrained. That is dangerous.’ Eleyne looked away from him. Her heart was thumping with excitement, hearing only the first part of his statement. A son for Scotland – her son.

‘You must learn to guard the truth and ponder it, for it may not be the truth you seek. The gods are pleased to speak in riddles,’ he went on sententiously. ‘There is danger here in Scotland for you. Did your visions tell you that? Your eyes are full of golden diadems, but first comes death.’

Eleyne felt a cold shiver cross her flesh.

‘Death must always come before the throne passes from one man to another,’ she whispered. She had closed her mind to the fact that the death must be Alexander’s.

He smiled: ‘That much is true. I should like to teach you, lady; it is a long while since I had an apprentice.’

She laughed, relieved at the sudden lightening of the atmosphere, and for a moment she was almost tempted. To have the power – the Sight – to command, and the knowledge it would bring, would be wonderful. But it would also be terrifying, and regretfully she knew her initial reaction had been right. This was something she must turn her back on. ‘I’m afraid that road is not for me,’ she said sadly. ‘My place is with my husband. What pictures I see I must try to understand alone. If only they were clearer, if only they showed me more.’

‘The interpretation of dreams and visions takes study and prayer and fasting, too great a task for a glittering countess.’ His smile was malicious.

She was silent, indignation fighting with temptation as she recognised his challenge. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Then I must remain in ignorance and wait for the will of the gods to be made clear.’ She paused. ‘Will you answer one question for me?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Only one?’

She gave a nervous smile. ‘It’s about the king.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s as if I’ve known him all my life. Yet that’s not possible.’ She raised her eyes to his fathomless silver gaze. ‘Is it?’

He leaned thoughtfully on his staff, looking away from her. ‘It is possible,’ he said, ‘that you have known one another through all eternity.’

A strange shudder touched her spine. And did I love him? she wanted to ask. Did I love him through all eternity? But she didn’t dare. She too looked away, ashamed and frightened by her thoughts. ‘Why do we have dreams and visions,’ she burst out, ‘if we cannot change our destinies whatever we may see?’

He smiled: ‘That, my lady, is where you are wrong.’ He stared down at the burn which ran at their feet, listening to the gentle chatter of the water in the dark. ‘The gods send us warnings that we may heed them, if we poor mortals can but understand them.’

She swallowed. ‘William? I could have saved William?’

He shrugged. ‘I know nothing of a William. But destiny hangs heavy over you; I see it in the air around you; I hear it in the clash of swords; I see it in the stain of blood. I see it in time past and time to come.’ He looked at her again, but his eyes were unfocused, as if they did not see her. ‘I see you as the mother of a line of kings.’ It was what Einion had said.

‘And will I be a queen?’ Her question was breathless, almost inaudible against the sound of rushing water.

Michael was still for a long time. Then his eyes focused once more. Nearby an owl floated through the trees, a white ghost in the darkness. As it crossed the burn, it screeched once, a harsh defiance of the silence. Michael shook his head: ‘I see no more,’ he said at last.

Above them the trees were thick canopies in front of the stars.

XI

The hall was crowded with people. It stank of wine and roasted ox and sweat and floral toilet waters and perfume. As she threaded her way through the crowds, still wrapped in her cloak and deafened by the roar of music and laughter and shouting, Eleyne’s eyes were on the two men who sat side by side at the centre of the high table. The king and the earl were deep in conversation, seemingly oblivious of the noise around them. As she walked, a slim lone figure swathed in silk of rich scarlet, she saw Alexander lift his head. Their eyes met and she felt the strange shock of recognition shake her as it always did when they looked at one another. Beside him, John, her pale handsome husband, was suddenly like a stranger to her.

XII

Rhonwen stood very straight before the Earl and Countess of Chester, her hands clutched in the soft wet wool of her cloak, her hood, soaked with rain, pushed back on her shoulders. Some frowns, some smiles had greeted her as she threaded her way across the room. She saw them without registering that she had done so, and noted in some secret part of her mind who was still a friend, who an enemy.

Neither the earl nor the countess had smiled as Rhonwen curtseyed before them.

‘I have brought messages from Gwynedd, my lady.’

Eleyne stepped forward and taking Rhonwen’s hands kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m glad to see you.’ There was a note of defiance in her voice.

‘Are you, cariad?’ Rhonwen scanned her face. The child looked well; and yet there were shadows in her eyes. All was not as it should be with the Chesters. She looked over Eleyne’s shoulder at John of Chester. He had a half-smile on his face and, catching her eye, he raised an eyebrow.

‘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?

I

‘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

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 gently 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.’

John snorted. ‘We’ll be gone soon enough. They should be glad their town has been honoured with a royal wedding. Burgesses were ever tight-fisted. You -’ He beckoned a young minstrel who had paused near them, his instrument across his back. ‘Can you play us a lullaby to ready us for bed?’

The boy gave a slow rich chuckle. ‘Aye, my lord.’ He pulled the viol from his shoulders and squatting near the fire tweaked the instrument into tune. Then he began to play.

Eleyne closed her eyes. She had eaten and drunk and danced since dawn, or so it seemed, and she was tired. And she wanted to leave Scotland. She still dreamed of the king; she found herself watching him; her fingers longed to touch his springy golden hair. She spent hours on her knees in prayer begging forgiveness – of whom she was not quite sure – the Holy Virgin who was so pure in thought and body? Would she understand and help a mortal woman fight the sins in her heart? Or St Bride, who was her own goddess, the patron of her birthday, surely she would help? And the Blessed Queen Margaret, whom all Scotland revered as a saint and whose miracles were manifest. She too might intercede.

She must not let herself think about him, must control her dreams. She must leave Scotland; never see him again. She was doubly guilty because she loved her aunt, and Joanna had at last, she thought, come to love her. In spite of herself, she looked once more at the castle walls, their battlements lost in the dark. Desolation and loneliness hung over this place. However loud the music, however joyful the crowds, she could feel the sadness: sadness past and sadness to come. Beyond the encampment, beyond the ditches and palisades which surrounded the town, the black rolling hills stretched out into the dark.

The boy was playing more softly now – the music compelling and clear against the background noise which swelled around them. She leaned forward to hear better and, opening her eyes, found that she was staring into the fire.

IV

‘Why? Why must I stay here?’ Isabella glared at the slate-black skies and dark mountains all around her. Standing on its rock on the route from Caernarfon to the upper Conwy valley, Dolbadarn Castle, with its enormous stone keep and majestic hall, lay below high gorse and scree-covered ridges in the heart of the great mountains. It was a desolate place.

‘I want to be with your father’s court. There at least I have some fun.’ Sulkily she turned her back on the window. ‘Is it because Senena is there? Does she object to my Englishness?’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Dafydd sighed. ‘Gruffydd is in the Lleyn and Senena is with him. We are here at my father’s orders, Bella, you know that as well as I. There are matters here that need sorting out.’

‘I think we are here to keep us out of the way.’ She flounced across the room towards him. ‘And if you are too stupid to see it, I’m not! Your father has something up his sleeve, Dafydd, don’t you see? He’s up to something. And he doesn’t want you there. So it must be something to do with Gruffydd. How can he be so foolish as to trust him!’ In an anguish of frustration, she turned with a swirl of skirts and paced back to the window.

Dafydd smiled ruefully at her back. She was shrewd, his little wife, and as so often right in her assessment of the situation. Save in one respect. The plot Llywelyn and Gruffydd were hatching included him. It was Isabella and Isabella alone they wanted to exclude from Aber.

‘Sweetheart.’ He followed her to the window and put his hands on her shoulders. If it took a lie to allay her suspicions, then lie he must. ‘I can see I must let you in on a secret. It is Gruffydd and I who plan a meeting. I ride to Criccieth to see him tomorrow. I’ll be gone only two days. I want you to remain here so that it seems that I am still here. I’ll be back before you know it, then you and I shall ride together for Caernarfon to join the princess my mother.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. He had no intention of going to Criccieth. The family meeting with Eleyne was at Aber.

It never occurred to him that she would disobey him.

V

It was Eleyne’s first visit to Aber since Isabella’s miscarriage and her own ignominious return to Chester. Then it had been midwinter. Now the countryside was heavy with summer. The clouds hung low over the mountains and thunder rumbled around the hidden peaks of Eryri. Her party was small: this was a private visit by the Countess of Chester to her mother. Attended by Rhonwen and Luned and two ladies, only a dozen men-at-arms escorted them over the high, rough road from Conwy to Aber through the clinging mist and down towards the river.

Eleyne was silent as she rode, her head whirling with thoughts as she guided her mare over the rough track, all that was left of the broad Roman road which swung high here across the shoulder of the mountains. She had messages from King Alexander and John for her father; she had messages of goodwill, albeit stilted, from Joanna to her half-sister; and she was still thinking about the wedding with all its pageantry and state. Now that she was away from John – he was waiting for her at Chester – she found to her shame that she was thinking even more about Alexander, and guiltily again and again she tried to push all thoughts of him from her head.

‘We’ll be there before dusk.’ Rhonwen rode up beside her. She saw Eleyne’s troubled face. ‘What is it, cariad? Don’t you want to go home?’

Eleyne dragged her attention back to the present. ‘Of course I want to go home. I’ve missed Wales.’ Her voice trailed away. Lightning flickered on the horizon and there was an ominous rumble of thunder far away in the west.

‘Will you speak to Einion?’ Rhonwen’s voice was very quiet.

Eleyne frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ she said sharply. ‘Einion is dead!’

‘You can still speak to him, cariad. Here in Gwynedd.’ Rhonwen’s tone became urgent. ‘I can feel it. He wants you to contact him, to listen! Here, where his spirit is still strong.’

Eleyne’s eyes opened wide, and she shivered in spite of the oppressive heat. Out of habit, her hand went to her crucifix. Rhonwen saw the movement and scowled. ‘You cannot turn your back on the old gods, you belong to them,’ she said caustically. ‘They won’t let you go.’

‘Of course they will,’ Eleyne retorted. ‘I want nothing to do with Einion. Nothing! I don’t want to know what he wanted to tell me. Do you understand? I don’t want to know!’

VI

Llywelyn greeted his youngest daughter with a hug. ‘So, Eleyne, you are well, I see.’ Her sparkling eyes and radiant smile told him that much. He held her briefly, looking at her as though hoping for more, then he released her and she found herself hugging Gruffydd and, more restrainedly, Dafydd.

‘And my mother, is she not here?’

Gruffydd looked at his father and shrugged. ‘Your mother does not wish to be here if I am here, it seems. She prefers to wait at Caernarfon, and that is fine by me. What we talk of here does not need the presence of King Henry’s spies.’

‘That is enough, Gruffydd!’ Llywelyn said impatiently. ‘Your stepmother is true and loyal to us all. I’ll hear no word against her.’

There was a moment’s tense silence.

‘And Isabella?’ Eleyne asked at last. ‘Where is she?’

‘At Dolbadarn.’ Dafydd did not volunteer any more information and Eleyne did not ask for any. It was a relief to know Isabella would not be there.

It pleased Eleyne enormously to sit at the long polished oak table between her father and her elder brother, facing her younger brother and taking part in their discussions as an equal. She had been to Scotland and spoken to the king; she knew his views; she was spokeswoman too for her husband. The three Welshmen found her shrewd and well informed. She was no longer the baby of the family, the scapegoat and the trouble-maker. She was proving herself a skilled negotiator like her mother. Their talks went on for two days and Eleyne made careful mental notes of what she was to say to her husband and of the messages she had to take back to the King of Scots.

She had not realised she would have to see him again at once. She almost betrayed herself as the colour rose in her cheeks, but she calmed herself sternly and kept her eyes on the candles which burned in the centre of the table. Outside, the hot August night grew dark and the bats wheeled and swooped beneath the stars, their high-pitched cries reaching her ears in the long measured silences as Gruffydd and her father felt their way towards agreement.

She would have to ride north without John. For the Earl of Chester to meet the King of Scots again so soon would cause comment and speculation, but for his wife to visit her aunt, with whom she had become firm friends, would be regarded as natural.

Her heart began to beat fast again; she felt a frisson of panic. She did not want to see him; she could not cope with the guilt and fear her feelings aroused, but she knew she could not resist; indeed she could not refuse her father’s instructions that she should see Alexander.

Somewhere out beyond the walls she heard an owl hoot. Tylluan. The bringer of ill luck. She shivered.

VII

Isabella arrived when the midday sun was at its hottest. Dressed all in white, her raven hair covered by a jewel-studded net framed by a linen fillet with a golden coronet and a barbette beneath the chin, she slid from her horse in the courtyard of the palace and swept unannounced into the presence of her father-in-law. There was a long silence as she stared around the upper chamber, her eyes going immediately to Eleyne. Her face darkened. ‘So. I decide to return to Aber and I find this is where you are! I might have guessed you would be behind all this deceit. Dafydd has never lied to me before.’ She flicked her husband a look of contempt. Approaching the prince she curtseyed low, then she took a seat at the end of the table as far from the others as possible. ‘I am excluded from this conclave, am I?’

Llywelyn smiled at her, the intense irritation which the sight of her always provoked in him carefully concealed. ‘You are welcome, daughter-in-law, as always.’ He rose stiffly from his chair. ‘Our discussions were in any event over for the day. Your presence will serve to lighten what had become too serious an afternoon. Come.’

He put his hand out to Eleyne and, rising, she took it. Her immediate unease at seeing Isabella had lessened as she heard her father’s tone, although the thinly veiled irony had been totally lost on Isabella.

The prince led her towards the door. ‘I have a horse on which I should like your opinion, daughter.’

Gruffydd caught up with them at the foot of the stairs. He bowed to his father with a rueful grin. ‘I have left Dafydd coping with his wife.’ He raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘The gods help him, he is taking a tongue-lashing as meekly as a whipped pup!’

Llywelyn laughed. ‘I fear that lady is not the obedient wife he might have wished, for all her tender years. No more than you, I suspect, Eleyne.’ He smiled fondly at his daughter. ‘Heaven preserve us men from all your sex!’

Isabella found Eleyne later in the solar. The two young women looked at each other in silence. Eleyne had been about to dictate a letter to her sister Margaret to one of Llywelyn’s clerks. Waving the man away she stood up, unaccountably reassured to find she was taller by a head than Isabella.

‘I am pleased to see you, sister,’ she said cautiously.

‘Are you?’ Isabella put her hands on her hips. ‘I am surprised. No one else is. So, you are part of their secrets, are you? Important, beautiful, clever Eleyne. But where is your husband?’ Her voice had taken on the sing-song lilt of the mountains. ‘Can it be that he is ill again? Or don’t you bring him with you on these trips? You leave him at home with your horse. My father’s horse,’ she finished with a sneer.

Eleyne tried to interrupt her, but Isabella swept on. ‘They all hate you, you know. Whatever you are here for, it is only because you are useful. When you are away they forget about you completely. And they all say what a liar and a sneak you are.’

Eleyne took a deep breath. Her first reaction had been to throw herself at Isabella, pull off her fine head-dress and then pull out her hair for good measure, but that would be playing the girl at her own game; that would be childish and stupid. She forced herself to smile, knowing that by remaining calm she would infuriate Isabella more. ‘My, you sound just like the Isabella I played with at Hay. The Isabella who was ten years old. Does Dafydd mind that you never grew up?’ It was true, she realised. Isabella was still the spoiled little girl who had been her father’s favourite child; Dafydd spoiled her now, no doubt to keep the peace, and Isabella had never changed. The disappointment she felt at still being childless had embittered and frustrated her; it had not matured her.

‘Oh, I’ve grown up.’ Isabella’s eyes flashed. ‘I am not the one who is playing games, pretending to be a spy. Tell me, do you still climb trees and ride like a hoyden on men’s horses, or has your husband beaten it out of you?’

‘My husband has never beaten me.’ Eleyne raised an eyebrow, suddenly thoughtful. Was that it? Had Dafydd beaten the girl in an attempt to gain mastery over her? If so, it had not worked. She felt almost sorry for Isabella. ‘Yes, I still ride like a hoyden, and I’d climb trees if I needed to. Why not? One thing I have learned, Isabella, is that if you are one of the highest in the land, you set the fashion as to how a lady behaves, you don’t follow it. That is something you might remember if you wish to succeed as a princess of Gywnedd.’ She walked slowly to the door and pulled it open. It was the perfect exit.

Rhonwen had been listening in the passage outside. ‘You’ve made an enemy for life there, cariad,’ she said, shaking her head as they walked together towards the stairs. ‘If you were hoping to patch things up between you, I’d say you’ve put an end to that chance forever.’

‘There never was any chance, Rhonwen. We both know that.’ Eleyne sat on the bottom step of the staircase and buried her face in her hands wearily. She felt very sad. The scurrying servants stared in astonishment at the Countess of Chester sitting on the stairs, then skirted around her with carefully bland faces as Rhonwen stood looking down at the pale silk of the girl’s veil.

‘You should at least try to keep on speaking terms, Eleyne. Think of the mission you are engaged in. You may one day have to act between Dafydd bach and the king. What would happen if madam put her oar in and forbade you the llys?’

‘Dafydd would not let her.’

‘He’s well under her thumb, that one.’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘He may let her think so, but he’ll never let her make a fool of him again. He knows the whole world has watched her disobey him. If his wife does not obey his authority, why should the people of Wales?’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Dafydd’s ambition will see to it that he keeps Isabella in order, you’ll see.’

‘And if he can’t, there are other ways of putting an end to her nonsense.’ Rhonwen narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ll not let her cross you; and I’ll not let her endanger the chances of Gruffydd inheriting from his father.’ She smiled enigmatically. ‘It’s Gruffydd who favours the Scots alliance, you know. Henry has recognised Dafydd as his father’s heir, so Dafydd keeps his options with the king of the English open. The prince is a fool to trust Dafydd with his secrets.’

‘That’s not true, Rhonwen,’ Eleyne frowned. ‘Dafydd fights for Wales too.’

Rhonwen made a gesture of disgust. ‘Dafydd fights for himself. It is Gruffydd who fights for the truth. And Einion – still. You’d best remember that. Don’t forget which gods you serve for all your jewelled rosaries, and don’t forget whose side you are on with all your importance as a king’s messenger.’

Eleyne’s eyes flashed. ‘That is impudent, Rhonwen.’

‘Yes – and it is your nurse’s business to be impudent if you get above yourself and ignore your duty!’ Rhonwen’s colour had risen. ‘Never forget that, madam, however close to a throne you may be!’ She stormed across the hallway and slammed the door into the courtyard behind her.

Eleyne stood up thoughtfully. Rhonwen was presuming too much. Llywelyn’s decision to use her to carry the first message had given her an exaggerated idea of her own importance. Eleyne mentioned this to her father later, cautiously, not wanting him to be angry with Rhonwen, but worried. To her astonishment, Llywelyn threw back his head and laughed. ‘I used the Lady Rhonwen because I knew her passionate support of Gruffydd would bind her to our cause,’ he said, ‘but also because she is expendable.’

‘Expendable?’ Eleyne echoed the word softly. She had gone cold.

‘Of course. Had she betrayed us we could have denied all knowledge of whatever she claimed. No one would believe the ravings of a servant already suspected of heresy and of having procured the death of an unborn child. She could easily have been disposed of.’

‘You would have killed her?’ Eleyne was appalled. ‘You would have killed Rhonwen?’

‘I will kill anyone who betrays our cause, Eleyne, if it is necessary,’ he said sternly. ‘And you must remember your priorities in this. The woman was your nurse and you love her, but the affairs of princes and kings and of nations take precedence over all personal sentiment, particularly as she is a heretic. I thank Our Lady daily that you have not been contaminated by her heresy.’ He paused. ‘I was afraid once that she and Einion Gweledydd might try to suborn you for their unchristian ceremonies, but your mother persuaded me there was no danger. Now Einion is dead, that little pocket of belief in the old ways is dead with him, Christ be praised.’

He surveyed her shocked white face, then he smiled. ‘Now while I prepare letters for the King of Scots, which you will give him, and upon which you will be able to elaborate personally, I suggest you ride to Caernarfon to see your mother. She would enjoy a visit from you, if only for a day. Her health has not been good.’ He allowed himself a small scowl, and Eleyne saw a worry which he had so far concealed.

‘What is the matter?’ Her indignation over his cavalier and cynical dismissal of Rhonwen was eclipsed by a sudden new fear.

‘She is tired; she is no longer strong.’ There was a moment’s silence; both were thinking of her years of imprisonment and exile in the austere, cold convent. ‘She was happy last time you came when you and she became friends. It would be a kindness to visit her.’

‘She should be at Aber, papa, or Llanfaes. She loves it there, and Caernarfon is a cold bleak place to be if she is ill.’

‘She would not come here. Not while Gruffydd and Senena were here.’

‘But she could come now. Gruffydd goes back to the Lleyn tomorrow.’ Eleyne looked hard at her father. ‘You and she have not quarrelled, papa?’

He shook his head.

‘But she is angry that you and Gruffydd are close again?’

‘She is afraid I shall grow soft and change my mind about Dafydd’s succession. I have told her that there is no need to fear. I have made my decision: Dafydd is my heir. Gruffydd is not the son of my true wife, and even if he were entitled by Welsh law to share in the inheritance, he is too much of a hothead; he does not have the support of the country.’

‘Of course he doesn’t, because you have repeatedly forced your followers to swear allegiance to Dafydd. You have weaned all support from Gruffydd.’ Eleyne kept her voice carefully neutral.

‘And so it will remain.’ Llywelyn was growing irritable. ‘Enough! Go and tell your nurse to pack. Stay two nights with your mother and when you get back I shall have the letters ready. Then you can return to Chester before you ride north. Your husband is well?’ He had asked before, as a formality, but as he peered at her from beneath his bushy eyebrows she sensed a more genuine interest – and worry.

‘He is well, papa. The journey back from Scotland made him cough again, but he has recovered. I left him in the best of spirits.’

‘But still there is no babe?’

Eleyne looked away from her father’s probing eyes and shrugged. ‘God has not seen fit to send us a child yet.’

‘But you are his true wife? The marriage is consummated?’

She could feel the colour rising in her cheeks. She looked defiantly up at him: ‘Yes, papa, the marriage is consummated.’

VIII

Joan was in bed when Eleyne was shown into the bedchamber in the new-built stone keep at Caernarfon. She held out her hands to Eleyne with a smile. Her face was pale and drawn, but her eyes were alert and she sat forward on her pillows and drew Eleyne to sit on the bed beside her.

Eleyne felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this woman who was her mother and whom she still barely knew. ‘What is wrong, mama? Are you ill?’

Joan’s ladies had withdrawn to the other side of the room.

Joan shrugged. ‘I get a pain sometimes. It seems to drain my strength. But it is nearly gone. I shall be well enough to get up soon.’ She smiled. ‘Tell me your news. And tell me what your father and those sons of his have been plotting while I have been safely out of the way.’

Eleyne smiled. She kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Would you not rather hear about Joanna and her life in Scotland and the wedding of Princess Margaret?’

Joan frowned. ‘Joanna and I are not close. You know that. We are only half-sisters. She is unlikely to forget that I was not the child of her father’s queen.’ She sounded bitter.

‘But Uncle Henry declared you legitimate,’ Eleyne reminded her gently. ‘And Joanna speaks of you with much affection. She sends you her fondest greetings.’

‘I’m surprised she can remember me.’ Joan caught her breath as a spasm of pain wrenched at her stomach.

Eleyne jumped to her feet in distress. ‘Can I get you something to drink? Have you medicines? What do the physicians say, mama?’

Joan shook her head. ‘Nothing, nothing. It will pass. Don’t fret! Yes, tell me about the wedding.’ She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes. Her face was grey.

When she slept at last Eleyne slipped from the chamber and slowly descended the stairs to the great hall, but they spoke again that evening. Joan, her hair brushed and her face sponged by one of her waiting women, looked stronger. She smiled at Eleyne. ‘I wish you and I had been friends sooner,’ she whispered. ‘Eleyne, I should like to see Margaret and Gwladus and Gwenllian and Angharad. Write to your sisters, child. Tell them to come.’

‘Mama,’ Eleyne was afraid, ‘you’re not going to die?’

Joan smiled and shook her head. ‘No, of course not. I am just feeling silly and weak and sentimental. What better reason to ask one’s children to come and see one?’ She reached for Eleyne’s hand. ‘I wish I had not given you to Rhonwen. I stayed much closer to the other girls. She made us enemies, you know.’

‘Rhonwen would not do that.’ Eleyne was on her guard at once.

Joan nodded. ‘Oh yes, she was jealous because she had never given birth. She wanted you for her own. You were so much younger than the others, Eleyne.’ She paused. ‘Rhonwen wanted us to call you Bridget, you know, for the day you were born in the fire, but we named you after St Helena. She was a great ancestress of yours; a daughter of King Coel…’ She seemed to drift away for a few moments, then she opened her eyes again. ‘Someone told me that Ellen too was a goddess; a goddess of light.’ She was silent again. ‘Your father was afraid once that Rhonwen would contaminate you with her heathen ways. I told him she wouldn’t dare.’ She lay staring at the opposite wall. It was freshly plastered and painted with bright roses. ‘One of your father’s bards believed in the old ways. These mountains. They are full of such people… enemies of Christ. Your half-brother, Gruffydd, I sometimes think he is one of them.’ Her voice was growing weak.

Eleyne said nothing, her eyes fixed on her mother’s. Her fingers strayed once more to the beads at her girdle.

‘Eleyne!’ Her mother’s voice was suddenly sharp. ‘Are you paying attention? Remember, Rhonwen is evil. I am so glad she is no longer with you…’

Rhonwen was downstairs in the great hall listening with most of the household to a travelling harper who had ridden into the city the night before. ‘Rhonwen is not evil, mama. She loves me. She would do nothing to harm me,’ she said gently.

‘No? Perhaps not. But she would not hesitate to harm anyone else who crossed her path. Or yours.’ She gave a little half-smile. ‘It was she who told you to betray William and me to your father, wasn’t it?’ It was the first time she had ever made any reference to that night.

Eleyne bit her lip. ‘Mama, it was so long ago. It’s all forgotten now.’

‘Forgotten!’ Joan’s eyes blazed. ‘No, it’s not forgotten! I loved him, you know, though not the way I love your father.’ She subsided back on to the pillows and took Eleyne’s hand almost pleadingly. ‘It was something strange and new and forbidden. It was an excitement in a world where I had come to accept the fact that I was growing old. I was used to the flattery of courtiers, but William was different. He made me feel alive.’ She closed her eyes and Eleyne felt her fingers growing slack. ‘You were jealous, weren’t you, child? You didn’t want your old mother taking his attention from you and that monstrous horse. You didn’t understand. I wouldn’t have betrayed your father for the world. I loved him so much, but…’ Her words trailed to a stop.

In spite of herself, Eleyne saw again the picture of her mother and William naked on the bed. She trembled. But at the same time she had begun to understand. She groped for the right words. ‘You loved father, but he never gave you pleasure,’ she murmured.

Joan’s eyes flew open, and she studied Eleyne’s face. ‘You do understand,’ she said at last.

Eleyne nodded. ‘I think so.’ She smiled sadly.

‘So.’ Joan caught her hand again and squeezed it. ‘Is it the same for you? But your husband is kind? Llywelyn was always kind. And it is not as though you have ever loved anyone else.’

Eleyne shook her head violently. ‘I would never, never betray my husband.’ It sounded sanctimonious and she was immediately sorry she had said it. She had not meant it that way; she had been thinking about herself.

Joan gave a bitter laugh. ‘That is so easy to say. Perhaps you have not had the opportunity. Try to put yourself in my place. What would you have done if your lover had beckoned you one night and kissed you in the shadows beneath the moon? What if he beguiled you away from everyone else on a ride and you found yourself alone with him on a mossy bank covered in dog roses and violets?’ She began to sob.

‘Mama!’ Eleyne leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘Mama, don’t cry.’

IX

She had not wanted to return to Scotland so soon. She had not wanted to return to Chester. Her mother’s illness and her father’s worry frightened her. She wanted to wait until her sisters were there. She wanted them all to be together, but Llywelyn was adamant.

‘It is your duty, child, you must convey our messages. Your mother will have the other children. It is not as though she is going to die.’

Eleyne scanned his face, trying to see the truth. What she saw was his blind determination that what he said was the truth. And with that she had to be content.

She rode fast to Chester and spent three days with John, then she was on the road again, riding north with a small escort of chosen knights and just two ladies, Rhonwen and Luned. Ostensibly she was answering an urgent summons from her Aunt Joanna to come to her sickbed at Kinghorn. In reality she carried two letters sewn inside the bodice of her gown, one from her husband and one from her father.

Free of the burdensome escort of the huge household which had accompanied them on their last trip, Eleyne set a fast pace, feeling the power of the great stallion beneath her as they rode the long road north. The nearer they got to Scotland the more nervous she became. The thought of seeing Alexander obsessed her. She wanted to be near him; she longed to see his face, to hear his voice, but at the same time she was bitterly ashamed of the longing and consumed with guilt. Why did she feel this way? She loved her husband. John was kind and understanding and handsome; what more could she want? It was so much more than many women had. The king had never really noticed her in any special way; he teased her, he was off-handedly affectionate – she was after all his niece and the wife of his heir. Each time her thoughts reached this point she would try to blank them off. Every thought was mortal sin. Her soul was damned and yet she could not stop her dreams.

As they forded the glittering silver sands of the Solway and struck north through the forest of Ettrick and Teviotdale the weather worsened markedly. The wind rose, the clouds settled on the hills and the rain drove across the tracks soaking horses and riders alike. Huddled in her cloak on the wet, cold saddle, Eleyne shivered, her teeth chattering.

The Forth was rough, the wind whipping the water into sharp, white-topped waves as they embarked on the ferry at Dalmeny and set out from the shelter of the land, leaving the horses behind. The far shore was invisible in the murk. Chilled and uncomfortable in her wet clothes, Eleyne refused the shelter of the rough, open cabin and settled in the lee of its walls, staring out into the gloom. The sailors had raised an old patched sail to aid the oarsmen and the boat lurched forward alarmingly, creaming through the water, its rigging creaking and flapping as the steersman, his eyes narrowed, tried to edge downstream before the wind.

‘I’ll be glad when we’re there.’ Rhonwen, her eyes streaming from the cold, sat down beside her and pulled her hood forward over her face. ‘It’s only a short ride to the king’s manor at Kinghorn, the ferry-man assured me.’ She shuddered as the vessel shipped a shower of cold spray.

Eleyne rested her head in her arms, thinking yet again about the king. Her stomach was taut with anticipation.

‘What is it, cariad, are you sick?’ The solicitous voice would not allow her even that much privacy. Irritated, Eleyne shook her head. ‘I’m tired, Rhonwen, that’s all. Please, let me rest.’ She gasped as another douche of cold water cascaded over them. The bottom boards of the boat were running with water; her gown was soaked, her feet like blocks of ice.

Horses were waiting on the shore to take them along the well-beaten track which followed the coast to the east. After a while it plunged into the woods, sometimes staying down near the shore, sometimes climbing to the top of the low cliffs, but always following the curve of the coast, every now and then affording a view of the wind-lashed waters of the Forth.

The king’s royal manor lay near the port of Kinghorn at the foot of the low red cliffs, and Joanna was waiting for her visitor in the queen’s bower attended by her senior lady-in-waiting, Auda de Boellis and her valet, Hugh de Gurley. She greeted Eleyne with open arms: ‘See how ill I look! We must let the rumours fly around the kingdom that you visit me out of compassion and are summoned to my deathbed. Isn’t that the story we have concocted?’

Eleyne laughed, unable to resist the queen’s infectious good humour. The king was not there. The whole atmosphere at the manor told her that; the stables were half empty and it was the queen’s standard, not the king’s, which flew from the watchtower at the gate. Half disappointed, half relieved, she hugged her aunt in return. ‘You look so much better than when I last saw you, aunt.’

‘I am.’ Joanna caught her arm and pulled her towards the fire as her attendants withdrew. ‘I have my own news! I think I am with child again!’ Her excitement was vivid.

Eleyne stared at her in amazement, the king forgotten, John’s face suddenly before her. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Not sure, not yet. But more than a month has passed and I haven’t bled. Oh, Eleyne, dear Eleyne! I am sure my prayers are answered!’

‘The king must be pleased.’ Eleyne clenched her fists. Where was he?

‘I haven’t told him yet.’ Joanna’s face lost a little of its animation. ‘I haven’t dared. I have to be sure.’ She sank heavily into a chair. ‘If I am wrong he would be so disappointed.’

‘Where is he?’ Eleyne could not stop herself from asking.

Joanna smiled. ‘Of course. You are anxious to deliver your messages. He will join us tomorrow or the next day. We didn’t know how long it would take you to ride north -’ She smiled. ‘You have made as good speed as the royal messengers. Alexander thought you might ride more slowly. He did not wish to be here when you arrived. It was me you were coming to see in the world’s eyes. But we will send messages at once for him to come. He is only at Cupar.’

X

The king was in the small room off the great hall which he used for his private office when he summoned Eleyne the next afternoon. Closeted with her aunt, she had not even known he had arrived.

The chamberlain who had shown her into the room left them, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him. They were alone, save for the great hound which lay in front of the fire. She dropped a low curtsey.

The king had been standing by the window reading a letter in the dull, stormy light. He turned to her with a smile and threw the letter down on the table. The cluster of candles in the huge silver candelabra smoked in the draught. ‘So, Lady Chester.’ For a moment he did not move; he stared at her with a frown.

His silence unnerved her completely. ‘I have letters, your grace.’ Nervously she held the two letters out to him. The evening before she had unpicked them herself from her bodice, in the flickering candlelight before she went to bed. They had spent the night beneath her pillow.

‘How are you, Eleyne?’ He did not make a move to take the letters and she was left holding them out in front of her. Her hand dropped slowly back to her side.

‘I am well, uncle, thank you.’

‘And your husband?’

She looked down at the floor, praying he could not see how agitated she was. ‘He is well too. He sends his loyal greetings.’

Her hands were growing clammy. She swallowed and tried to smile.

‘Are you enjoying the role of royal messenger?’ He seated himself on the edge of the table, lounging now, his hands clasped around his knee. She could see that the heavy gold thread of the embroidery on the hem of his mantle was snagged and torn. The garment was damp and muddy from his ride.

‘Very much, sire.’

‘I suspected you would enjoy being a spy.’ He smiled. ‘Are you ready to go and worm secrets out of your Uncle Henry at the English court?’ His tone was humorous, but there was an underlying note of seriousness in the words. ‘I would appreciate a woman’s view of the world. I suspect your sex sees with a clearer eye sometimes than we poor men. We huff and we argue and we pick at the minutiae of our quarrels and we don’t always stand back and see the greater picture. Your mother was ever a great help to your father. She has always had her brother’s ear. Do you have it too?’

Eleyne hesitated. ‘I hardly know my uncle, your grace. We have met often since I was married, of course, but never spoken much. I think he likes me, but -’ she shrugged – ‘I have been just a lady of the court, or once or twice his hostess, no more.’

‘But he speaks freely in front of you?’

‘Only in so far as he speaks freely before anyone at his table or at his side. I have never been admitted to his discussions with his advisers.’

‘Nor with your husband?’

She shook her head.

Alexander frowned. ‘Then you must practise using a little more of your charm on him. Wheedle a little, I am sure you are good at wheedling.’ He smiled again, his eyes narrowing mischievously.

She could feel herself blushing. Without realising it she had begun to twist the letters in her hands.

He folded his arms. ‘You get on well with Joanna. I’m glad. She’s had a sad time.’

Eleyne searched his face for any sign that he had guessed Joanna’s news. ‘She seems much more cheerful,’ she said guardedly, ‘I am glad she is in such good health.’

‘Did she tell you she was breeding again?’

He went to stand before the fire, rubbing his hands together slowly. The dog thumped its tail a couple of times and lay still. ‘Aye, I can tell she did. It’s all in her head. The physicians have told me. She’s not with child and not likely to be.’ He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘So, lassie, unless things change radically, if anything happens to me, you will be the next Queen of Scots.’

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 touched 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

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 hundred 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.

XIV

Joan died at last on Candlemas Day. Her husband and all her children were at her bedside. Llywelyn, the tears running down his face, was holding his wife’s hand. She smiled as, one by one, they came to the bedside and kissed her. She was too weak to speak or move her head, but they could read the message of blessing and farewell in her eyes. One by one, the men and women in the room sank to their knees in prayer. When the end came, it was so gentle that it was several moments before Llywelyn realised that the hand in his had fallen limp and that she had left them.

The funeral was lavish. The sons-in-law arrived and joined Llywelyn in following Joan’s body as it was carried in state over the Lafan sands and ferried across the strait to Llanfaes. It lay there one more night in the prince’s hall before it was interred in a ceremony conducted by Bishop Hugh of St Asaphs in the new burying ground especially prepared to receive it nearby.

Rhonwen did not go to the requiem mass or to the interment. In the solar she waited alone for the mourners to return. The room was dark; it was early yet so she had ordered no candles, but the lowering sky was heavy with more wet snow and the sea was like black slate. She shivered: Einion was here again; the air was heavy with anger and reproach.

Each time she had come with Eleyne to Gwynedd she had felt him. And so had Eleyne, she was sure of it; but the girl refused to acknowledge him, refused to allow him in, clutching at her crucifix and backing away from the shadows, never letting him come near her, never letting him give her his message. And each time his frustration and despair had grown. And so had Rhonwen’s; she was racked with guilt.

The moment they had set foot on the island of Mô n, as part of the funeral cortège, the plan had come to her. The mourners would be back soon from the burial ground and the feast would start; the place would be full of people. She would force Eleyne to come with her, now while she was here on the island, his home and his body’s resting place. Rhonwen smiled grimly. With the Englishwoman dead at last, and Eleyne too exhausted by grief and the cumulative strain of the long months of her mother’s illness to know what she was doing or to argue, it would be easy to take her to Einion and do what must be done. Then and only then would her conscience be clear.

She pounced on Eleyne as the girl appeared in the doorway, her eyes red with tears. ‘Quickly, now, before you take off your cloak!’ Rhonwen was almost hysterically insistent. ‘There is something we have to do. It won’t take long! I have horses waiting. No one will know we’ve gone. You will be back before they’ve missed you. All you have to do is come to where Einion is buried. You owe him that much! The rest of the night, the rest of your life you can grieve for your mother! But tomorrow you will leave the island. You may never come back. You have to come with me now. You have to.’

Eleyne was too tired and depressed to do more than shake her head. Slowly and heavily she sat down on the bed and began to pull off her embroidered gloves. ‘Don’t be foolish, Rhonwen. My place is here. I’ve told you a dozen times, I don’t want to see Einion’s grave!’

Rhonwen stood over her. ‘Have you never wondered, cariad, what he wanted to tell you so badly?’ she hissed. ‘Your destiny lies in Scotland, yet you bear Lord Chester no children. Why?’ She leaned so near, Eleyne could feel her breath on her cheek. ‘Supposing Einion can tell you? Supposing he was going to tell you about the King of Scots!’ Her eyes glittered with triumph as she saw the start of guilt and the rush of colour to the girl’s cheeks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. You think I don’t see you count on your fingers every month in the hope that you have conceived. But nothing happens. Your milksop earl can’t father a child. He’s impotent! And Queen Joanna is barren!’ Rhonwen leaned even closer. ‘Ask Einion! Ask him what is to be. Now! With me!’ Her hand closed over Eleyne’s wrist.

Slowly, only half knowing what she was doing, Eleyne allowed Rhonwen to pull her to her feet. Still wearing her heavy furs, her hair and face swathed in a black veil, she followed Rhonwen to the side door in the wall. Behind them in the great timber hall the funeral feast was already in full swing. She had not been missed. People assumed she was prostrate with grief like her sisters Angharad and Margaret.

The doors to the hall had been pushed open to clear the smoky fetid air and the noise of the feast, subdued at first as always at funerals, had risen almost to the usual level, although there were no musicians. The only music the whole day had been the chanting of the monks and the slow dirge of the bards in the rain.

XV

Rhonwen had found the exact spot. Deep in the woods Einion lay in a grave marked by a slim upright stone. There was no carving on it, no name, no sigil – only a shadow of lichen which had been there long before the stone was raised. Who had found his body, sprawled across the dead ashes in his lonely cell, she did not know; nor who had buried him here, far from consecrated ground, blessed only by the rites of his own faith. All she knew was that he wanted Eleyne to come. Rhonwen dismounted before the grassy mound with its streaks of melting snow. The trees which interlaced their boughs above were stark against the cloud wrack. Behind the storm there was a full moon.

Eleyne did not move: her head was a whirling confusion of sorrow and exhaustion. Like her sisters, she had sat up for the last few nights at her mother’s bedside, and like them she had slept little since her mother’s death. The ride through the cold night had been numbing. It was farther than she had expected and as they rode deeper into the woods she grew more and more tense. Rhonwen was right. He was here beside them. He was in the trees, in the scattered, fleeting moonlight, in the howl of the wind.

And he wanted to speak of her destiny.

‘Get down, I’ll tether the horses.’ Rhonwen was at her stirrup, her hood blown back, her hair whipping around her face where it had been torn from her braids.

Eleyne did as she was bid. She stared at the grass mound and her mouth was dry with fear.

Rhonwen lit a fire in the small brazier which she had carried at her saddle bow and set it gently on the grave. She had a leather pouch at her girdle. In it, gathered the summer before for this specific purpose, were dried hemlock and poppy seed, dittander, mugwort, rowan and sallow bark. She handed it to Eleyne. ‘Scatter some on the flames,’ she instructed in a whisper. Eleyne put her hand into the pouch, feeling the crumbly brittle petals, smelling the bitter spicy aroma of the herbs. Taking a handful, she let them fall into the brazier. He was very close.

Rhonwen began a low keening chant, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the moan of the wind in the branches above their heads. Mesmerised by the sound, Eleyne dug her cold fingers once more into the pouch and scattered a new handful of herbs. The wind caught them and whirled them away into the shadows.

Rhonwen’s eyes were fixed on the snow at their feet, almost invisible as the moon disappeared behind the clouds. Imperceptibly her keening grew louder and throwing back her head she raised her arms, staring at the sky behind the trees.

‘Come!’ she screamed. ‘From beyond the grave, I command thee, come. My lady awaits you! Come!’

XVI

John was seated beside Margaret, toying half-heartedly with the food on his platter. Several times he had left the table to search for Eleyne, but had failed to find her. Then Cenydd was at his elbow. ‘May I speak to you, my lord?’ The man’s face was creased with worry.

John threw down his napkin, rose and followed Cenydd out of the hall.

‘It’s my fault, my lord.’ Cenydd was furious with himself. ‘They gave me the slip. Rhonwen must have planned it. But I know where they’ve gone. I think we should follow them.’ He half guessed what his cousin planned to do and his skin crawled at the thought.

John scanned his face thoughtfully, then nodded curtly. ‘Bring four men, as quick as you can.’

They left the men with their horses on the edge of the woods, cautiously following the hoofprints of Rhonwen’s and Eleyne’s mounts in the moonlight. At the edge of the clearing they stopped, hidden by the tangled undergrowth and the near darkness. The clear low notes of Rhonwen’s chant carried easily in the cold air.

‘What are they doing?’ John breathed. He could see the two women and between them the smoking vessel on the low mound of the grave.

‘It’s the burial place of the seer, Einion,’ Cenydd whispered back.

‘Sweet Christ!’ John crossed himself. He felt the hackles on his neck prickling with fear. His wife, her face almost lost in the shadows of her black hood, looked preoccupied, dazed, as she gazed at the red glow of the smoking brazier. Around it, the melting snow was full of crimson reflections.

The two men looked at each other and, abruptly, Cenydd drew his sword, the rasp of metal ugly against the moan of the wind. ‘We have to stop them,’ he said.

‘Eleyne!’ John pushed his way out of the undergrowth. ‘Don’t you see what that woman is doing?’ His voice was harsh with anger. ‘Stop her!’

Eleyne did not appear to hear him. John grabbed the sword from Cenydd’s hands and reversed it, holding it up to form a cross. ‘Be silent, woman!’ he thundered. His nerves were raw. ‘I forbid this. Eleyne – go. Go now. While you can! Run!’ Holding the sword before him, he stepped forward and stopped. The air around her was like ice: a tangible barrier between him and his wife.

‘Eleyne!’

She did not seem to hear him. She was standing completely still, gazing down.

John swore at Cenydd, who was standing as if paralysed behind him. ‘Grab Rhonwen, you fool. Grab her! Stop her mouth! Don’t you see what she is doing? She is summoning the dead!’

Cenydd stepped backwards, his eyes rolling. ‘Don’t touch her, my lord. Don’t go near her!’

Rhonwen whirled to face them, as though conscious of their presence for the first time, and they saw the glint of a knife in her hand. ‘He is here!’ she hissed. ‘Listen, Eleyne, listen! He is here. Listen to his message!’ She raised her hands again and there was a roar from the wind. It whirled into the treetops and rose to a scream, tearing the branches, shredding the clouds to reveal the cold distant moon.

Eleyne raised her head: ‘Einion…?’

In the shadows one of the guards had followed John and Cenydd. He peered petrified from his hiding place in the trees.

‘No!’ With a roar of anguish John launched himself at her. He tore the pouch from her hands and hurled it to the ground. ‘Einion is dead! He is dead, Eleyne! He has no message for you!’ He couldn’t make himself heard above the scream of the wind. ‘This woman’s mad, don’t you see? She is mad!’ He seized Eleyne’s wrist and dragged her away from the grave. ‘Cenydd, call the men!’

‘Let go of her!’ Rhonwen turned, light-footed as a cat, and positioned herself in his path, the knife still in her hand. ‘She is ours! Look!’ She was triumphant. ‘Look, John of Scotland. Look!’

In spite of himself, John followed her pointing finger. In the streaming moonlight he could see a tall wavering figure with long white hair and a dark robe, a staff in its hand, hovering in the shadows behind the grave.

Rigid with fear, he dropped Eleyne’s wrist and the sword wavered. In his hiding place amongst the trees the guard fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

‘Speak, Lord Einion!’ Rhonwen screamed. ‘See, I have brought her to you. Speak. Give her your message!’

‘No, you scheming hellcat, no!’ Cenydd recovered first and threw himself at Rhonwen. ‘You evil witch! You -!’ His hands grappled for the knife and they swayed back and forth together in the shadows.

John threw his arms around Eleyne. ‘Come away. For sweet Christ’s sake, come away!’

‘He’s gone.’ She was staring white-faced at the place where the spectre had been. As suddenly as it had come, the whirling wind had died and the night was silent save for the heavy breathing of the man and the woman as they grappled in the snow.

‘He was never there! It was a trick of the moonlight. He was never there, Eleyne!’ John dragged her towards the trees. ‘Come away, quickly, before – ’

He stopped and swung around as a bubbling scream rang out behind them. Slowly, Cenydd sank to his knees in the snow, his hands clasped to his stomach. The blood welling from between his fingers and from his mouth was black in the moonlight.

‘Guards!’ John’s voice rang out in the silence. ‘Guards!’ He pushed Eleyne aside and flung himself towards Cenydd.

Rhonwen’s eyes were wild. Her teeth bared in a grimace of hatred, she leapt at John, the knife still in her hand. For a moment they wrestled as he tried to dislodge the weapon from her grasp, but it was slippery with blood and his fingers lost their grip.

Behind them the guard had finally recovered his wits enough to scramble to his feet and run to John’s aid as his colleagues burst out of the darkness. As they threw themselves at Rhonwen she thrust the knife with all her remaining strength at John’s heart. The thick folds of his cloak deflected the blade and he felt it graze his arm, but it was over. As the men seized Rhonwen’s arms and pulled her back the knife flew harmlessly to the ground.

Panting, John knelt beside Cenydd’s body and felt below the ear for a pulse. He looked up. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

Rhonwen ceased struggling. She stood still between her captors, looking down at the earl as he knelt in the snow, and her face contorted with rage. ‘I curse you, John of Scotland!’ she screamed. ‘I curse you in the name of all the gods. May you roast in eternal hell for interfering here tonight!’

I

The cell had only one window, high under the roof. Through it Rhonwen could see the moon, high and lonely far beyond the cloud wrack which raced across it. They had put chains on her wrists and ankles and given her straw to lie in, like an animal. She could remember screaming – a long high-pitched scream, which went on and on, echoing inside her skull. Cenydd’s blood had dried on her gown. She could feel it, crusted and stiff in the darkness. Dimly she remembered the dagger in her hand. The blade had glinted, and in its reflection she had seen Einion’s anger and frustration, his desperation to speak.

Eleyne had screamed too. Why had she screamed? Was it when Lord Chester flung himself across the grave and tried to snatch the dagger? Had she tried to stab him too? She couldn’t remember. But she could remember the fury in Einion’s eyes before the guards had closed in on her and dragged her away.

Where was Eleyne? Why didn’t she come? And Cenydd. Where was Cenydd? She had always been fond of Cenydd.

She tried to settle herself more comfortably against the wall, linking her manacled wrists over her knees and hugging them for warmth. The cell was quite clean; it had been used as a storeroom over the winter, but the damp and chill of the earth floor struck through the straw and she felt a dull ache beginning to seep into her bones. Quietly, she began to cry.

II

‘Papa! Please let me see her!’ Eleyne was distraught. ‘Please. She did it for me!’

‘She killed your bodyguard, her own cousin, for you?’ Llywelyn stared at her. His anger and horror vibrated in the air around him. Lord Chester had told him what had happened. Sorcery. Necromancy. Murder. Sweet Jesus, Dew! His daughter was a necromancer!

Eleyne took a deep breath. ‘Lord Einion wrote to me before he died. He wanted to see me urgently, but Rhonwen burned the letter. When he died it preyed upon her conscience that I would never know his message.’ She caught his hand as she used to when she was a little girl. ‘Please, papa, I have lost my mother. Don’t take away my nurse. I love her.’ There were tears in her eyes.

‘The woman has committed murder, Eleyne. She must pay the price.’ Somehow he kept his voice steady. Eleyne must be kept out of this, and her involvement concealed.

Eleyne clung to him. ‘No, please, you can’t kill Rhonwen! You mustn’t.’ She was sobbing now. ‘She did it for me!’

‘She has killed a man, Eleyne, and by the laws of Wales she must pay the price,’ Llywelyn said heavily. By Our Lady, didn’t she realise the penalty for necromancy was death? Death for both of them! He had aged ten years in the few short days since his wife had died. His strong, lined face had grown puffy, his eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. Across the courtyard in the great wooden hall the funeral feast was still going on. When the prince had been called away, he had given no signal that it should cease.

‘Cenydd was my servant. She must pay the price to me,’ Eleyne said desperately. ‘I will see that she is punished, papa.’

‘Cenydd’s family will require more than that, Eleyne.’

‘Cenydd’s family is her family. They won’t want her life!’ She rushed on. ‘She didn’t mean to kill him. She loved Cenydd, he was her cousin. She trusted him.’

‘Your nurse, Eleyne, is a heretic,’ Llywelyn said. ‘She is in a state of the most mortal sin. As you are.’ He added the last words with terrible emphasis.

Eleyne froze. She looked at her father, then at her husband who was sitting in a chair near the fire. There was blood on his mantle.

‘Papa.’ Eleyne’s words were anguished. ‘You can’t punish us for summoning Einion – ’

‘It was the Lady Rhonwen who summoned him,’ Llywelyn said slowly. ‘Your husband and I have discussed your part in the ceremony, such as it was, and we have decided that you were there in complete ignorance of what she intended. She, as its instigator, must pay the full price. Your husband will deal with you as he sees fit.’ He folded his arms in his mantle. ‘She has caused nothing but trouble as long as I have known her,’ he said grimly. ‘And now she must be punished for her crimes. Your husband agrees.’

Eleyne looked from one man to the other; she was sick with horror. ‘John dislikes her because she loves me, don’t you understand?’

‘The woman has proved herself a common murderer.’ John’s voice was weary. ‘The penalty for that is death.’

‘No!’ She began to sob again, softly. ‘No, you can’t! You can’t put her to death. I won’t let you -’ She flung herself on her knees and clung to the skirt of her father’s gown.

Llywelyn put his hand gently on her head. He sighed. ‘We shall leave it for God to decide, Eleyne. Tomorrow she will stand trial before Him. If He deems her innocent she will go free. I can do no more for her.’

Eleyne’s eyes were round with horror as her hands fell from his gown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A trial before God. I have given orders that she must face the ordeal of the hot iron…’

‘No, papa, no!’ Eleyne was as white as a sheet. ‘Dear sweet Christ – ’

‘Sir,’ John put in quietly, ‘it is some twenty years since the Lateran Council forbade such trials to be conducted by the clergy in Christendom. You cannot mean to…’

Llywelyn swung round. ‘Don’t presume to question my decision, my lord! That woman has defiled my wife’s memory and led my daughter into mortal sin. Only God can judge her fairly for, as Blessed Christ is my witness, I can’t! She will face the ordeal tomorrow. If she is guilty, she will die!’

III

The Chesters had been given a small private room in one of the buildings which surrounded the courtyard. Rugs and furs were spread on the rough bed. Their light came from a tall candlestick which stood in the corner.

It was Luned alone who undressed Eleyne and wrapped her once more in her warm cloak against the cold.

‘Where is she?’ Eleyne whispered. John had gone out into the darkness.

‘They have chained her in a cell.’ Luned bit her lip, her huge eyes brimming with tears. ‘Is it true she must undergo trial by ordeal?’

Eleyne nodded, still numb with horror.

‘And did she… is it true she summoned Lord Einion from the dead?’ Luned crossed herself fervently.

Eleyne stared at her dully. ‘Who told you?’

‘One of the guards followed you into the forest and spied on you. It is being whispered in the hall.’ Luned shivered. ‘He says Einion rose up out of the grave, as tall as a tree, with flames coming from his hands -’ She broke off with a cry of fear as the door opened.

John ducked inside, stamping snow from his boots; the candles dipped and smoked as he pushed the door closed. ‘The wind is rising again.’ He unlaced his cloak at the throat and threw it down. ‘Go, girl. Return to your mistress at daybreak, she will need you then.’ He waited until Luned had slipped into the dark. ‘The trial will be held after terce.’

Eleyne bit her lip miserably. ‘Poor Rhonwen.’

‘She is guilty. She must pay the price.’ John put his arm around her. ‘You must resign yourself to that, sweetheart. You cannot save her. Only God can do that now.’

Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘She did it for me.’

‘Then she was very foolish. You have no need of magic or murder. Christ and Our Lady are all anyone needs for protection.’ He held her at arm’s length, his eyes full of compassion. ‘I know you love her, sweetheart. I have given in to you often enough on the subject of the Lady Rhonwen, but not this time.’ He pulled her to him again.

She gasped; the movement had pushed up the sleeve of his gown revealing an ugly, puckered wound across his forearm, the blood clotted into uneven scabs. ‘Did she do that?’

He nodded grimly. ‘You must forget her, Eleyne. She is evil.’ He paused. ‘You let her do it, Eleyne. You must take some blame. You helped her in her evil arts. You would not listen when I shouted to you to stop. Only Our Lady can guess the penance the priest will give you for your sins.’

Eleyne paled, her fear for Rhonwen eclipsed by fear for herself. She had never seen John so cold.

‘No.’ She backed away from him. ‘I can’t confess!’

‘You must, Eleyne, for the sake of your soul.’ His face very grave, he pushed her cloak back so that he could see her body and he touched her breast, running a finger from it up to her throat. Their breath was misty in the cold candlelight. ‘Tomorrow, before mass. And tonight I must chastise you.’

He took no pleasure in beating her. She had defied him and gone off to the forest alone, to practise sorcery and necromancy. She had risked her life, and indirectly risked his, for Rhonwen had nearly killed him. For her own sake, she had to be punished and punished severely.

IV

Rhonwen stared at the door in terror. They had told her what was to happen. The door ward and the priest, with his crucifix held before him, had been explicit in giving her the details of the ordeal before her. And they had told her that Eleyne could not save her.

Rhonwen looked at the door again, holding her breath. The moonlight had long gone from the window, but the sky was still dark. It could not yet be morning.

‘Who’s there?’ she whispered. She knelt up, restricted by the unwieldy chains, her eyes straining in the darkness.

It was probably rats or perhaps a yard dog, sniffing at the bolts and pausing to cock a leg outside the cell. There it was again – a soft scraping as the bolt was inched back a little further. Her heart began to beat very fast; she pressed back against the wall, her hands clasped before her, feeling the weight of the iron dragging on her wrists. Were they coming for her early? Were they going to strangle her here alone, and throw her body, unblessed by the gods, into the sea? The sweat poured down her back, in spite of the biting cold. Her skin was clammy, her whole body shaking with fear. She could hear the heavy wooden bar moving now, the soft animal squeak of the wood as the hasp was moved, the slight groan of the hinges as the pressure of the locks was eased.

Blessed Bride, be with me. Spittle ran down her chin as she began to gabble incoherently.

The door was opening. Still she could see nothing, for the darkness was as intense outside. The torch on the side of the building had gone out. Sobbing with fear, she scrambled to her feet, hampered by the chains around her ankles; she pressed harder against the wall, trying to back away from whatever was coming. She could see a little now: a torch on the far side of the courtyard still flared. It backlit the whirling sleet and outlined a figure standing in the doorway. There was no sound but the hiss of the wet snow against the wooden wall of the cell and the cry of the wind.

‘No, please.’ She had dug her nails into the palms of her hands and felt her fists slippery with her own blood. ‘No, please, please…’

She fought the chains frantically as the figure stepped inside. For a moment the silhouette blocked the doorway, then it came towards her. She was conscious of a strange thundering in her ears, then everything went black and she slumped to the floor.

V

The Countess of Chester had screamed only once when her husband had beaten her, then her cries were muffled in the furs on their bed. But they had known, the gossips, the spies, the listeners at keyholes. In the guest room across the courtyard, Isabella had heard the whispers of her maid and, still dry-eyed after the funeral, she laughed as she climbed into her husband’s bed.

Thin cracks of daylight showed around the shutters of the small window. Eleyne lay for several minutes, trying to make out the shadowy corners of the room. Her body was stiff and aching. Beside her, John lay asleep, his back towards her. She moved away from him and, teeth chattering, pulled a fur rug over her chilled shoulders. She lay still, feeling the warmth slowly coming back to her, then, rolling on to her stomach, she buried her face in her arms and began to sob.

John was awakened by the sound. Turning to her he pulled her to him. ‘My darling, never make me do that to you again.’ He held her gently, cradled on his chest, and kissed her wet eyelashes. ‘You had to be punished, for your own good.’ He shook his head. ‘Supposing we had not been there. You could be facing trial with her today. Sweet Jesus, Eleyne, I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’

Eleyne closed her eyes, her face buried in his shoulder. ‘Can’t we do something to save her?’ she whispered. Her voice was husky.

‘It’s out of our hands, Eleyne. She must stand judged by God.’

Eleyne pulled away from him and knelt up, suddenly rebellious. Her hair fell forward over her breasts: ‘Do you really believe it? That God will judge her by this ordeal?’

He was distracted by her nakedness in the dim light filtering around the room. ‘We must believe it.’

‘I asked if you believe it.’

He saw a red welt, a mark from his belt, curving up her thigh and across her buttock. The skin on either side was bruised.

‘Of course I believe it. I believe – we must all believe – what the church tells us.’

He reached forward and caught a handful of her hair, pulling it so that she overbalanced towards him. ‘Enough, Eleyne, forget her,’ he commanded. He pushed her back on to the bed and began to kiss her breasts, unaware of the misery and anger on her face.

It was several minutes before either of them noticed the shouting in the courtyard outside. John raised his head and listened, then with a groan he climbed to his feet and reached for his clothes.

‘What is it? Is it time?’ Eleyne sat up, trembling.

‘No. It is not time,’ John said grimly. He strode to the door. Unbarring it he pulled it open. Brilliant cold light flooded into the room. It had snowed hard in the night and the courtyard was clean and crisp, the surrounding roofs hung with icicles.

Eleyne gasped as the cold air hit her and pulling the rug over herself, she scrambled from the bed and ran to find her clothes, where Luned had left them, hanging cold and damp with condensation from a bracket on the wall.

VI

The door was still barred from the outside when the guards had opened the cell, and they had not left their posts all night, or so they claimed, but the cell was empty. Of Rhonwen and her chains, there was no sign. The straw lay flat and undisturbed, the bowl of water left for her to drink had frozen through. Not a drop had been spilled. There were no footprints in the heavy white carpet of snow leading to or from the cell.

The view of the men and women who peered nervously through the open door was that the devil had claimed his own. The men who had been heating their irons laid them aside to cool, half relieved, half disappointed, and the priest of St Mary’s was called in to sprinkle the cell with holy water.

‘Do you think she escaped?’ Eleyne had given thanks to Our Lady and then, to be on the safe side, to the ancient gods as well.

John shook his head. He was watching Luned plait his wife’s hair. ‘It’s my bet your father had her quietly strangled. That’s what I would have done in his shoes. Now, finish getting ready, it’s time for your confession. I want to leave for Chester after mass.’

VII

Isabella grimaced. She hated Lent. The diet of salt fish and bread left her feeling lethargic and turned her complexion pasty. Dafydd had not come near her for weeks, and she had amused herself by reorganising her father-in-law’s household at Aber. Now that she had put her mind to it, she found she rather enjoyed it. She especially enjoyed pensioning off Princess Joan’s ladies and despatching them to various local nunneries. She let it be known that she would welcome the services of some young, lively maidens from the families of Dafydd’s supporters, and she made it clear that Senena, her three sons and the new baby, were no longer welcome at the prince’s court. About Gruffydd she could do nothing. She smiled grimly: Dafydd would see to his brother in good time, if Gruffydd did not disgrace himself first with his father yet again. The man seemed incapable of holding his temper or his thoughts in check.

‘So, daughter-in-law, you run my home with great efficiency.’ Llywelyn smiled indulgently; he had begun to think he was mistaken in his assessment of the girl. She had steadied and grown into her responsibilities, and she had slimmed down, her face thinner and more becoming. She had always been pretty but now, as the poets of his court had not failed to notice, she was becoming beautiful. He was pleased. He missed his own daughters who had all returned to their homes and husbands, and as Dafydd took over more and more the running of affairs in the principality he enjoyed sitting by the fire and being waited on by the pretty, lively ladies of his daughter-in-law’s household.

He missed Joan. Oh, how he missed Joan. More and more now he thought about death. His own robust frame had shrunk; his will for life had gone. With Dafydd there to take his place, it was time to turn his thoughts to God.

He sighed as he sat by the fire in the solar he had appropriated as his private office. How he longed for the spring; winter had been too long. It had left him trapped between his sons. They were quarrelling again – Dafydd the reasonable, the systematic, his choice for heir, and Gruffydd the romantic hothead, fighting with his neighbours, fighting with his brother and his brothers-in-law. Gruffydd drove him to despair, but he loved his eldest son. He could see a lot of his younger ambitious self in Gruffydd, and he adored his four grandsons. Owain, serious, quiet, much like his mother; Llywelyn, the boisterous, clever, outgoing one; Rhodri, already a dreamy, musical child; and now the baby, Dafydd, named, Llywelyn suspected, as a half-hearted gesture of appeasement to his brother. It was time he saw them again; perhaps in a day or two he would feel well enough to ride.

He rose and walked stiffly to the desk where a pile of letters awaited him. One, he could see at once, bore the great seal of Chester. He frowned. Yet again Eleyne had disrupted his life; she had disrupted the court and Joan’s funeral and tainted the memory of that sacred occasion.

He had decided to found a Franciscan friary over Joan’s grave. The brothers would pray in perpetuity for her soul, sanctify and wipe away the desecration of that night. Even the thought of it made him angry. How could she? How could Eleyne have contemplated visiting another grave; how could she have allowed that woman to perform who knew what ceremonies over it to raise the dead? Agitated, he drummed his fingers on the table. Eleyne had not known what was going on, of course.

Did he really believe that? Lord Chester had assured him that his daughter was innocent of any complicity, and yet…

Now they would never know. Rhonwen had disappeared unpunished, claimed, so his courtiers whispered, by the devil she worshipped. He could feel the frustrated anger rising in him yet again, the throbbing inside his head. He turned sharply to the page who was waiting in the corner of the room: ‘Bring me a drink, boy, chwisgi! Then call a clerk.’ He put his hand to his eyes and leaned on the table. He must not let himself get so angry, it always gave him an infernal headache. He must stay calm and get on with the letters. He reached out towards the first. His hand wavered slightly, finding difficulty in locating its target, and his sleeve caught the inkwell. Perplexed, he watched the stream of black ink run, slow and viscous, across the table. The room was spinning now, the pain in his head unbearable. With a sharp cry, he put his hand to his temple, then he collapsed across the table, his hands clawing at the inky wood. The page found him lying on the floor, the ink dripping slowly on to his face.

VIII

The flames were burning more clearly now, licking the back of the chimney, embracing the logs, devouring the dry twigs as Eleyne fed them slowly into the blaze. A log cracked loudly and she glanced over her shoulder, nervous that someone might have heard. The door was closed and she had turned the key in the lock. She was alone. The candles had long since burned down and the room was dark. She threw on the last stick and knelt for a while, holding her bed gown tightly around her shoulders, listening to the sound of the rain pouring outside. John had ridden with most of the officers of his household to Northampton to see the king. It had been her choice to remain at Fotheringhay, her wish that now, at last, she should be alone, and he had left her, believing that she was unwell, hoping that she might at last be pregnant.

She had collected the herbs from the stillroom over the past few weeks, hiding them in a small coffer, to which she alone had the key. Luned thought it contained letters. It was the night of the full moon – the most propitious time for what she had in mind. No moon would pierce the clouds tonight, but she could feel the power of it, up there, above the rain; feel its magic, its pull.

It had taken a while to pluck up the courage to do it, but her guilt at Rhonwen’s death (if indeed she was dead at all) and her increasing anger with John had festered. She missed Cenydd’s quiet presence and she was very sad about his death, but it had after all been John’s fault! If he and Cenydd hadn’t spied on them, none of it would have happened.

Something had changed between her and John. Perhaps it had changed before, when she was riding to and fro between Scotland and Wales, but she was no longer a child in any sense. She felt herself his equal now, and her independence had begun to assert itself. The night he had beaten her, he had awakened a sense of rebellion, and with her rebellion had returned her longing to ride alone. Now there was no faithful Cenydd to follow her.

She rose to her feet and let the bed gown slip to the floor. Away from the fire the room was cold and she felt the gooseflesh stir on her skin as she unlocked the coffer and took out a small silver dish and spoon and the packages of herbs. She mixed them carefully in the dish, then took it to the window, where earlier she had opened the shutters. Standing by the sill, she offered the mixture to the sky, feeling spots of icy rain on her cold skin, then, not giving herself time to think, she threw the mixture on the fire. Thick pungent smoke filled the hearth and spilled into the room, and she found herself spluttering and coughing as she knelt waiting for it to clear. At last she could look deep into the flame and with her voice low but determined, she called Einion to come to her.

The flames shrank and hissed and she heard the wind moan in the stairwell outside her door. The draught rattled the hinges and lifted the tapestries from the wall and she realised that there was a picture in the fire. She leaned forward, straining her eyes, feeling the heat searing her eyelids: there was a figure lying on a bed, and around it other figures, indistinct, fading. Who was it? Einion had died alone. Surely it was not John? Dear God, it could not be John.

‘Einion,’ she called, her voice sharp with fear, ‘Einion, come to me.’ But the picture was dissolving; it had gone. She slumped on her heels with a scowl of frustration. In spite of all her careful preparations, she had failed. Her questions were still unanswered.

The fire settled and her eyes flew open again. ‘Please,’ she knelt up, and held out her hands in supplication, ‘please come.’ There was another picture; she saw a horse, cantering proudly, its eyes huge and staring in the thunder, its saddle slippery with rain, its hooves sliding in the mud. The rider leaned forward, urging it on, the thunder of hoofbeats filled her ears, then the horse was screaming, its feet scrabbling for a foothold, and she saw the rider flying through the air. As fast as it had come, the picture was gone.

She sat back on her heels again, trembling. Who was it? Who did she keep seeing, riding to what death? Not John, of that she was certain. The seat in the saddle was too sure, the shoulders too broad, but always the billowing cloak hid the face from her.

‘Oh please, show me his face,’ she whispered. ‘And show me Rhonwen. Tell me if she is truly dead, or if she is my father’s prisoner. Show me what has happened to her.’ She knelt forward for a third time, her head swimming from the fumes, straining her eyes into the heart of the flame. She saw the bed again. It was at Aber, and she could see the bedchamber clearly. ‘Papa!’ she whispered, ‘it’s papa.’ She rubbed her eyes, her heart pounding with fright. But there was nothing there. The pictures had gone.

Dragging on her gown, Eleyne went back to the window and leaned out as far as the grilles would allow, letting the cold rain pour in on her face, battering her eyelids, soaking her hair. She was shivering violently. ‘Papa,’ she whispered to the night. ‘Papa.’ Behind her the fire burned low, but the pungent smell of herbs remained.

High above, the cloud grew thin for a moment and shone with a pearlised glow where it veiled the cold spring moon. Then it thickened and the night was once again dark.

IX

John looked down at the letter in his hand. It was from his brother-in-law, Dafydd. The old prince had had a seizure and lay unconscious at Aber. He begged the Earl of Chester to inform King Henry and reaffirm his own loyalty to the king, and he also begged John not to tell Eleyne: Sadly, she will not be welcome here, unless, of course, father should die, in which case you would both be expected at his funeral.

The words, formal and penned by a scribe, were cold and unfilial. He wondered how Gruffydd was feeling about the situation.

King Henry was listening to a seemingly endless list of petitions when John approached him. The king signalled for the clerks to wave the patient crowds back.

‘So, my Lord Chester, have you come to rescue me from my duties?’ Henry gave a cold half-smile. As always he was richly dressed, today in a parti-coloured gown, stitched with gold, and a scarlet cloak with a border sewn with gems. Eleanor, his young wife of a year, was beside him on the dais. Only fourteen years old, her face was set with boredom.

‘Sad news, sire.’ John bowed. ‘I have a letter from Dafydd ap Llywelyn. He bids me tell you that his father is ill and may be dying.’

Henry frowned. ‘That is black news indeed. North Wales has been well ruled by Llywelyn.’ He stood up with a sigh and threw the silken sweep of his mantle over his left shoulder. ‘I can’t say I am surprised though. I had been told that he lost the will to live when my half-sister died. May I see the letter?’ His sharp eyes had spotted the folded parchment still clutched in John’s hand.

John handed it over reluctantly and watched as the king read it. Henry looked up at last. There was quizzical amusement in his eyes. ‘Your wife has been a thorn in Llywelyn’s flesh on more than one occasion if I remember right. Where is she? We have missed her here at Northampton.’

‘She is at Fotheringhay, sire.’

‘And will you be able to keep her there, do you think?’ Henry’s smile was almost mocking. The rumours of Eleyne’s wild rides had reached court.

John felt a rush of heat to his face. ‘Oh, I shall keep her there, make no mistake, sire. Although it will break her heart that her father does not want her.’

‘It sounds as if Llywelyn is past knowing what he wants,’ Henry retorted. ‘We can both guess who is behind that remark by Dafydd ap Llywelyn. And it bodes ill for Llywelyn’s inheritance if the heir, good man though he is, is led by the nose by that she-cat he married. The de Braose family have always been trouble.’ He sighed and was about to beckon back his clerks. Then he paused. ‘Eleyne visited her aunt in Scotland again several times last year, I hear?’

John tensed. ‘Your sister, the Queen of Scots, was unwell, sire. She seems to have taken a great liking to her niece.’

‘As you have to the idea of a kingdom of your own, no doubt.’ Henry smiled coldly. ‘Just so long as you remember where your first loyalty lies, as Earl of Chester and, even if the time should come, as King of Scots.’

John bowed slightly; the gesture allowed him to avoid the king’s eye. He murmured something which could have been taken for agreement and was much relieved to see that it had been taken for one of farewell by the men waiting to catch the king’s attention. With another bow John turned away. He did not like the turn the conversation had taken. It was time to return to Fotheringhay to break the news of her father’s illness to Eleyne.

X

‘I will not have that woman under this roof!’ Senena faced her husband, her eyes blazing.

Gruffydd glared at her. ‘God’s bones, woman! I won’t be spoken to like that. If I say she stays, she stays!’

Beyond the narrow windows of the keep of Criccieth Castle the sea crashed against the cliffs, the rollers creaming in from the southwest, piling into the bay and hiding the sands in clouds of spume. Rain streamed before the wind and the red lion flag high above the newly built keep stood out stiffly, pointing towards Eryri and the grey mass of cloud which hid the mountains.

‘Oh no!’ Senena shook her head. ‘I obey you in most things, my lord and husband, but in this never!’ She swept away from him, her woollen gown bulky around a figure still thickened from bearing her last baby. She was a tall woman, as tall as her husband, and when roused, as now, her temper was as formidable as his. ‘You get her out of here! Get her right out of Gwynedd; out of Wales, you hear me?’

Gruffydd sat down and put his elbows on his knees. He glared at her, supporting his chin on linked fingers. ‘And what do you suggest I do with her?’

‘Send her away! Send her back to your sister. That’s where she wants to be.’

Gruffydd frowned. ‘She can’t go to Eleyne. Lord Chester would arrest her. She can’t go to her family; they have never recognised her anyway, and they have sworn the bloody vengeance of the galanas on her for killing Cenydd.’

Senena shuddered. ‘An eye for an eye; a life for a life. It is just. Why did you have her brought here?’

‘For Einion’s sake; she served him faithfully.’

Senena shook her head. ‘That is where you are wrong. It is Eleyne she serves. Whatever she did that night, she did it in her own twisted mind for Eleyne, and Eleyne alone.’

Gruffydd raised an eyebrow. ‘I should have thought such loyalty was to be commended.’

‘Maybe,’ Senena said, ‘but not when she is living beneath our roof and Eleyne is hundreds of miles away. Her loyalty is too violent and too partisan! I want her out!’

Gruffydd rubbed his face in his hands. ‘And who is to tell her this, pray?’

‘You.’ Senena snapped her mouth shut on the word like a trap.

‘And what if she curses us as she cursed John of Chester?’

Senena was silent. She could feel the throb of the wind against the stone walls, for all their thickness. Far away, above the howl of it, she heard the yelping cry of a gull. She shivered. There was an omen there, she was sure. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Then we will spit on her curse and throw her into the sea.’

Gruffydd paled: ‘Blessed Bride! Are you mad, woman?’ He stood up. ‘I forbid you to say a word to her. I shall tell her myself.’ He swung around as the door behind him opened. ‘Did I send for anyone?’ He stopped in mid-sentence. Rhonwen stood in the doorway, wrapped in a thick plaid cloak, her hair covered by a heavy white veil in the manner of the Welsh mountain women. Her face was pale and drawn.

Senena found her mouth had gone dry. How much had she heard? Against the noise of the storm and the crashing of the waves on the rocks below, surely she would not have heard anything. But then, who could tell what powers this woman had? Senena smiled nervously, ashamed of her own twofacedness: ‘Lady Rhonwen, you are welcome.’

‘Don’t lie to me, princess. I am as welcome as the raven at a wedding feast! A woman with blood on her hands is not going to be a favoured guest anywhere; I am well aware of that. But you have nothing to fear. Your husband saved my life and I have always been his friend.’

Rhonwen walked painfully across towards the fire, which smouldered fitfully as the wind blew down the chimney and threw sparks out across the floor. When Gruffydd’s henchman had cut the chains from her ankles his chisel had slipped from his frozen fingers and cut deep into her leg. The wound had festered and in spite of her ministrations had refused to heal.

She seated herself in Senena’s chair without invitation and leaned back, her eyes closed for a moment against another wave of throbbing heat which spread outward from the wound and mounted towards her knee. Gritting her teeth, she noted with grim amusement that Gruffydd’s fingers were crossed. ‘So. You want me out of here, no doubt.’

Gruffydd looked at the floor. ‘My father’s men will come soon. It is only a matter of time.’

‘But you would not betray me to them?’ She regarded him steadily.

‘Of course not. But you will never be safe as long as you stay in Wales. The galanas is powerful, its reach is long, you know that as well as I.’

‘And you don’t think my magic powers will protect me?’ She laughed grimly. ‘And you are right. For all the stories that I flew out of that cell disguised as an owl you know the truth. I have no magic powers. I have the temper of a wounded cat, that’s all.’ She paused reflectively.

‘But you summoned Einion from the dead,’ Senena put in. ‘The whole of Gwynedd talks of it.’

Rhonwen shook her head. ‘Einion came because he wanted to. Oh, there was magic there that night, and power. But the power did not come from me.’

‘Then where -?’ Senena whispered.

‘From Eleyne, of course.’ Rhonwen looked at her triumphantly. ‘Didn’t you realise? All the power comes from Eleyne!’

There was a long moment of silence. ‘I had heard that she has the Sight,’ Gruffydd said cautiously. ‘Is that what you mean?’

Rhonwen gave a mocking smile. ‘Oh she has more than the Sight, much more. And her destiny is written in the stars!’ She hugged herself as another spasm of pain shot up her leg. ‘She will show them! the Lord Llywelyn; Dafydd; that English minx, his wife. She will show them all. Where is she?’

Senena looked across at her husband. ‘Eleyne has returned to England. I believe they are at Fotheringhay.’

‘And she hasn’t sent for me, because Lord Chester hates me. I nearly killed him too, you know.’

‘I know,’ Gruffydd replied grimly. ‘You were a fool, my lady, if you will forgive me for saying so. You have made powerful enemies. But as to why Eleyne has sent you no message, it is because all the world thinks you are dead. The rumour at Aber was that the prince had you secretly killed, and I saw no reason to deny it. Only he knows that is not true, and he is too ill to tell anyone.’

‘She will know. Eleyne will know I am alive. She will have seen it in the fire.’ Rhonwen gazed at the fire as though seeking confirmation in the hissing coals.

Senena stepped forward and put a hesitant hand on Rhonwen’s shoulder. ‘What are you going to do? Where will you go?’

‘To Eleyne, of course. She needs me. As soon as my leg is better and the weather has cleared a little I shall beg a horse from you and go to her. You need not fear that I shall stay here a moment longer than necessary.’

‘But what of Lord Chester?’ Gruffydd enquired soberly. ‘He is not going to welcome you, my lady.’

‘He has never welcomed me.’ Painfully Rhonwen pulled herself to her feet. ‘I am no longer sure that Lord Chester is part of Eleyne’s destiny. I don’t think I need worry myself about him. I shall see to it that he does not get in our way. I cursed him at Einion’s grave and I curse him every night!’ She laughed out loud suddenly. ‘Oh no, Lord Chester will not bother me.’

XI

Carpets of snowdrops grew on the banks of the Nene beyond the walls of the castle at Fotheringhay. Slipping from her saddle, Eleyne began to pick some, keeping her back to her husband so he could not see her tears. He had waited until the end of the day’s hunting to tell her. They had been tired and content, nearly home, the horses walking steadily across the flat marshlands towards the castle when he had called her aside and dismounted on the river bank.

‘If it were up to him, Eleyne, of course he would want to see you,’ he said slowly. ‘He is not dead. It is some kind of seizure. He may well recover.’

‘He cannot move his hands; his speech is affected,’ she said.

She had not seen the angry look he had given her when she confessed that she knew her father was ill. Every further detail of knowledge she betrayed made him more horrified.

‘He may get better. There is no point in rushing off to Aber until we know how he is.’

‘He would want me with him. That is why I was shown his illness…’ She began to tremble violently beneath her cloak of warm furs.

‘No, my darling, he would not want you there.’ He sighed. That at least she hadn’t seen: her brother’s prohibition. ‘And neither would Dafydd. I’m sorry.’

‘You mean I am forbidden to go to him?’ She looked at him, stricken, the flowers clutched in her gloved hand. He could see the tears swimming in her eyes, clinging for a moment to her eyelashes, then she turned away. She walked slowly towards the river and stood for a moment on the muddy bank, then bringing the flowers up to her lips she tossed them high in the air and watched as they scattered across the dark slow-moving water.

John followed her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘He will always love you, Eleyne. It’s just that your mother’s death is still very much on his mind. Give him time.’

‘And what if there is no time?’ She swung and faced him. ‘What if he is dying? What if he is already dead?’

‘Then that is God’s will.’ The cold air caught his throat and he began to cough. Stepping back as he gasped for breath, he pressed his hand to his chest.

She stared as she saw the colour drain from his face except for two hectic patches which had appeared on his cheeks. ‘You should not have come out today,’ she said almost absently, ‘I didn’t know you were ill again.’

‘I’m not ill.’ He controlled the cough with a monumental effort. ‘It’s just the cold wind. Come on, let’s ride back now, it’s growing dark.’

Patches of mist were drifting up from the river across the marshes and into the meadows and woods as the light faded. They could see the castle in the gloom, a black silhouette against the lowering sky.

‘Here. Let me help you mount.’ For a moment he stood looking into her eyes. ‘You know that I love you, don’t you?’ He looked down, as abashed as a boy.

She stared at him for a moment, then she began to cry.

‘Eleyne.’ His arms were round her. ‘Eleyne, my darling.’ He could not feel her figure through the thick cloak, or touch her hair. Her cheeks were like ice, but her tears were hot as they ran into the collar of his cloak. He held her tightly, oblivious of the assembled attendants watching as their horses stamped impatiently in the cold. His lips sought hers as he pulled her into the shelter of his cloak.

They did not stay long in the hall that night. As soon as supper was finished they withdrew to their bedchamber and John called for the candles to be lit. Sitting at the fireside Eleyne watched the servant move from candle to candle, his taper wavering as he held the flame to each new wick, the shadows in the room drawing back into the corners. Beyond the shutters the night was still; a heavy white mist hung over the river, wrapping the castle in soft dripping silence. There was no sound from the great hall below. A travelling minstrel was entertaining the household with a succession of soft dreamy ballads and, the supper dishes cleared away and the cooking fires doused for the night, the whole castle had settled early into quietness. Lighting the last candle, the servant bowed and withdrew. John threw himself into his chair and thrust his feet out towards the fire. ‘Will you sing to me?’ He smiled at Eleyne and held out his hand.

She went to him and sat at his feet, her head resting against his knees. The loss of Rhonwen and her mother had been devastating, but through everything John had been with her. Even when she was angry with him he had given her strength, as he was giving her strength now, just by being there and by loving her. ‘I would rather hear one of your stories.’

Her tears were long dried. It had happened too often before: the rejection from Aber, the hurt, the sorrow. If her father were dead, she would have known. Probably every passing day without news meant that he was growing stronger. She reached for John’s hand and felt his grip at once, strong and reassuring. ‘You really want to hear one?’

He smiled down at her, and he nodded.

He made love to her with great tenderness that night and she fell asleep at last, secure in the circle of his arms. Outside the mist thickened. It swirled and licked against the heavy shutters and glistened on the castle walls. The men of the night watch strained their eyes from the gatehouse tower and the wall walks and, seeing nothing, turned gratefully back to their braziers.

John lay awake, staring at the hangings of the bed, seeing the glow of the banked-up fire reflected on the heavy beams of the ceiling. He had begun to sweat heavily and could feel his limbs beginning to shake. He eased his arm from beneath Eleyne’s shoulders and sat up, staring down at her. He could not see her face, but she gave a little moan as he moved, and snuggled closer against him. He smiled, his hand gently stroking her hair, and after a moment her breathing steadied again. John pushed his legs over the side of the bed and stood up; immediately the heat left his body and he began to shiver. He pulled his bed gown around his shoulders, went over to the fire and kicked at the turves which covered the logs. It burst into life at once. He could feel the sweat, ice-cold on his forehead; he could smell it, rank upon his body. Sitting down, he hugged his gown around him and rocked back and forth as the nausea began to build. He could hear the silence outside, a tangible wall, like the mist which drifted up from the River Nene. He shivered again and not for the first time he remembered Rhonwen’s curse.

XII

The horse was lame. In the distance she heard again the liquid trill of a curlew. Her sodden cloak dragged at her shoulders as Rhonwen bent and felt the horse’s leg with stiff cold fingers. The mountains were swathed in mist, the ground a quagmire of mud and slush. Twice she had lost the packhorse trail and spent precious time hunting back and forth among the heather and bilberries until she found it again; now it was growing dark and she could see the pale flicker of corpse lights, the strange fairy lights which showed above the bog cotton in the twilight and made her mouth go dry with fear.

Senena had given her the horse and the money and the spare gown and shoes which were all wrapped in the bundle which hung from her saddle. She had wanted to stay, to remain in the shelter of the castle at Criccieth until her leg was better, until the weather had cleared; until the hunt for her had been called off, for Senena had warned her that Dafydd did not believe the devil had taken her. He believed she had escaped and the alarm had been raised across Gwynedd and beyond. But they wanted her gone, and she was afraid. If Dafydd’s men came to Criccieth, would Gruffydd hide her then? If she could reach Eleyne, she would be safe. Eleyne would help her and in return she could help Eleyne to her destiny.

Rhonwen straightened her back and surveyed the wet fog which surrounded her. The horse could go no further tonight, and she had to find shelter. She strained her eyes, trying to make out the shapes of trees and rocks in the gloom, trying to listen for the sound of a stream nearby, but the mist blanketed everything.

The old man’s dog found her. She heard the bark and stared round, her heart thumping, trying to place the sound. Then she heard the slithering footstep on the loose scree. Nimble in his flat-soled, soft skin shoes, a sheepskin around his shoulders, he was within a few feet of her before she saw him. ‘Greetings, mistress, have you lost the road?’ He was small and wizened, and his eyes darted inquisitively over her horse, lingering on the bundle, then returning to her.

‘My horse is lame.’ She forced her voice to be strong. ‘Is there somewhere near here where I can stay?’

He laughed – a croaky, wheezy sound which was not entirely pleasant. ‘You are welcome to my house, mistress, if you wish. It is but a short way from here. I can see to your horse, my wife will give you food and you are welcome to share our bed.’ He put his hand on the horse’s bridle. ‘You have come a good way up from the track. It’s a good thing I found you, the mountain is treacherous to those who don’t know it.’

She limped after him as he led her horse back down the steep hillside. It seemed a long time before they stopped, but at last she saw a small dwelling materialise out of the fog. At the old man’s shout a square of light appeared as someone pushed back the covering which hung across the doorway. He gestured her inside. ‘Go, warm yourself. I shall see to your horse.’

Unhooking the bundle from her saddle, Rhonwen turned with relief towards the light and ducked inside the small cottage. It was blessedly warm, with a bright fire burning in the centre of the single room. Beyond the low partition which formed the wall at the left-hand end a cow and several sheep huddled together in the darkness. The old man’s wife, Rhonwen saw as she shyly motioned Rhonwen to the piled bracken which served as bed, seat and table, was scarcely more than a child. As the girl dipped water from her cauldron for her guest to wash her hands and face, Rhonwen caught a glimpse of the pale hair beneath the coarse white veil.

‘You are injured, mistress?’ The child’s sharp eyes had spotted the limp. Rhonwen sat down, pushing her bundle behind her as a back support, and with a groan kicked off her sodden shoes. The girl knelt before her. With gentle fingers she folded back Rhonwen’s wet, muddy skirt and stared at the linen which covered the wound. Fresh blood and pus mingled with the dirt on the bandage.

The heat was beginning to make Rhonwen feel drowsy. She watched as the girl fetched a bowl of fresh water and clean rags, and saw her put a thick green ointment on the wound before she rebandaged it. Gratefully she accepted a bowl of mead to drink. When the man returned, she was nearly asleep.

‘I have seen to your horse,’ he said. ‘It’s next door with the other animals. I’ve moved the stone in its hoof, and the bruising will be better by tomorrow.’ He sat down beside her and accepted a bowl of mead from his wife. In the cooking pot over the fire something bubbled gently with an appetising smell, and he sniffed hungrily.

‘Where are you bound?’ He eyed Rhonwen curiously and she stiffened at his uncouth manners. No host should ask where his guest was going, or how long they wished to stay. She forced herself to smile: ‘I ride to Chester.’

‘Chester?’ He stared at her blankly. ‘That’s a long way.’ His eyes had strayed from Rhonwen’s face to the bundle against which she was lying. ‘Especially for a lady such as yourself, alone.’

Rhonwen’s attention sharpened. ‘I became separated from my companions,’ she said quietly. ‘They cannot be far away. Once this accursed mist lifts they will find me.’

‘Indeed. I am glad to hear it. It’s dangerous to ride these roads alone. There are all manners of thieves and outlaws in the mountains. It is no place for an unescorted lady.’ He watched as his wife ladled the contents of the cooking pot into three wooden bowls. She reached into the crock for some coarse bread and, breaking it into pieces, gave Rhonwen her share.

‘My name is Annest,’ she said shyly. ‘And my man is Madoc.’

‘I am Rhonwen.’ The words were out before she could stop them, but her host gave no sign that the name meant anything to him. He was too busy pushing the stew from his bowl into his mouth. Rhonwen tasted hers. There was a heavy flavour of leek, and some kind of game bird – the grease floated on the thin stock in great shining gobbets – and it was very hot. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to eat it eagerly, feeling the warmth run through her veins.

They ate in silence, the small room lit only by the fire. Beyond the wall, she heard the animals moving about; caught the heavy smell of dung. Twice Madoc leaned forward to refill her bowl of mead and twice she found she had drained it. She put down her bowl and, the last of her bread eaten, lay back against her bundle.

The fire had died when she awoke, and the room had become very cold. Her head was aching violently. Her eyes still half shut, she groped for her cloak. It had dried by the fire and she pulled it over her, thankful for its heavy folds. She was almost asleep again when she heard someone whispering. She tensed, straining her ears, aware that her hosts were no longer by the fire with her. In the darkness she had not noticed that they were gone, but now she missed the staccato snoring of the drunken Madoc and the snuffling whimpers of his wife. They were outside, and she realised that the cold draught which had awakened her had come from the loosely flapping sacking across the doorway. They appeared to be arguing about something in hushed tight whispers. Again she strained her ears, but she could not make out what they were saying. Fully awake and every nerve tense, she edged herself into a sitting position, feeling for her precious bundle and pushing it behind her. Something was wrong. She had mistrusted Madoc from the first moment she set eyes on him; she should have obeyed her instincts. If only she had a knife. She had asked Senena for a weapon and the stupid woman had laughed: ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ she had said. She had given Rhonwen money, clothes and shoes, but no weapon.

There was a sound in the doorway and she held her breath. She heard the slither and drag of the bracken as the two figures crept back inside. It was pitch black, then a small flicker of light showed as Madoc squatted before the fire and pushed aside the turf covering. He paused, silhouetted against the faint glow, then turned towards her. She had half expected him to be holding a knife, but in his hand was a coil of rope.

Her heart thudding with fear, she had almost sat upright when her face was enveloped in a suffocating blackness. Annest, creeping around behind her, had dropped a length of sacking over her head. In seconds she felt the rope looped around her flailing hands, and moments later her ankles were bound as well. Only then was the sack removed. She had been left lying on her side, her ankles pulled up to her wrists so that she was trussed like a fowl ready for the spit.

Madoc kicked at the fire with a chuckle and sat down opposite her, his face illuminated by the flames. ‘So, my fine lady. When I spoke of outlaws in the mountains, little did I realise that I was entertaining one of them under my roof.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘See what she has in that bag she’s been guarding so carefully, cariad!’ he instructed his wife, who knelt trembling near the door. Annest glanced at Rhonwen in terror and shook her head.

‘Go on, woman, she can’t hurt you!’ Madoc reached for his jug of mead and poured out the last measure. Shaking the jug regretfully upside down, he tossed it over his shoulder into the shadows. ‘She’s going to make us rich, this lady. The prince has offered a reward for her capture, and the family of Cenydd ap Maredudd want her dead or alive.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Maybe they will pay even more than the prince, who knows?’

In spite of herself, Rhonwen groaned. Her wrists and ankles hurt savagely and the wound in her leg was sending a knifing pain up to her knee. ‘Please. Let me at least sit up.’ She despised herself for the whimper in her voice.

Madoc ignored her. His eyes were on the bundle which Annest had pulled into the firelight.

‘Go on. Open it.’

She did so and dragged out the spare gown – a soft rich red wool – a fine linen chemise, the pair of leather shoes and the small bag of coins. Taking the purse into her hand, Annest tossed it up and down on her palm. Madoc’s eyes glinted at the sound of the coins.

‘Empty it!’ he hissed. She fumbled with the thongs which bound the mouth of the bag and with an exclamation of impatience he reached into his belt and tossed her his dagger. ‘Cut it, you stupid bitch! Cut it.’

The girl’s hands were shaking as she inserted the blade beneath the leather thong and snicked it. A small pile of shining coins spilled on to the bakestone. Welsh silver pennies with the cross of the Rhuddlan mint lay gleaming in the light of the fire. Madoc licked his lips. ‘So. You carry a fortune with you, Lady Rhonwen. To buy your way across Wales, no doubt.’ He hiccuped morosely. ‘Did you not realise that your name has been cried from every market, from every pulpit, from every mouth, from every passing eagle?’ He snatched a new flagon of mead from his wife, who had produced it from the back of the room without being asked. Drawing the stopper with his teeth, he tipped the bottle and drank deeply, wiping the sticky residue from his lips with the back of his hand before he lay back on his elbow and stared reflectively at the coins. ‘Beautiful,’ he said dreamily, ‘beautiful.’

‘What are you going to do with me?’ Rhonwen asked at last. She was still trying to ease her position.

Madoc stared at her, bleary-eyed. ‘I haven’t decided. Maybe I’ll let them haggle over you like a mare at the horse sales!’ He gave a contented smile and belched. ‘Perhaps we should fatten you up a bit, eh? Get a better price for you that way. In foal!’ He let his eye run insolently over her body.

Rhonwen felt herself shudder with loathing. The hatred she felt for this man was greater than anything she had felt in her life. She could feel it burning through her like fire; like vitriol, corroding her veins. She was almost surprised not to see the ropes which bound her falling away from her limbs, smoking. Her dazedness had gone, and her brain was working as clearly and keenly as a honed knife. He was not going to kill her, that much was clear. She had time to work out how to escape. She eased herself again, feeling a new ache in her back from the awkward curled position in which she lay. She tried to ease her wrists apart, but he had tied the ropes cruelly tight. She heard a quiet chuckle from across the fire, and saw that he was watching her. ‘Trussed like a fowl, you are, my beauty, you’ll not escape,’ he said smugly. He lifted the flagon again, and she watched his Adam’s apple jumping up and down as he swallowed, the shadows from the fire playing across his weathered skin. Behind her Annest sat down quietly and pulled her cloak around her, shivering. She had not touched a drop of the drink.

The fire had burned low again before the jug was at last empty and Madoc lay snoring on the bracken, his mouth open. Rhonwen saw the dagger back in his belt. The bag of coins, carefully gathered again, lay beneath his hand.

‘Annest!’ She could not see the girl from where she lay. ‘Annest, are you there?’

She heard a rustle in the bracken, but there was no answer. ‘Annest, please, my leg hurts so much. Could you not loosen the ropes a little?’ Again there was no answer, but she could hear the silence of the girl holding her breath. ‘Please. You helped me; you bathed my feet and gave me hospitality; you tended my wound. All I am asking is that you loosen the rope around my ankles. He would never know.’ The pain in her voice was real.

Annest sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes. She said nothing.

‘Please, Annest.’

‘I don’t dare,’ the girl whispered.

Rhonwen gave a small smile – Annest had answered; her will was weakening.

‘Please help me, Annest, I am in such pain.’

There was another slight rustle as Annest crawled towards her. In the dying firelight it was almost dark, but Rhonwen could see the girl’s long flaxen hair hanging forward over the shoulders of her gown.

‘If I loosen the ropes, you won’t do anything?’

‘No, of course I won’t do anything.’ Rhonwen bit her lip as another wave of agony swept up her leg.

Annest touched Rhonwen’s ankles. The rope was very tight, strapping her wrists to her feet, pulling her head almost down to her knees. Her flesh was so bruised and numb she could barely feel Annest’s cold fingers groping their way around the knots.

‘I can’t undo them, they’re too tight.’

‘Then cut them. Please, Annest, in the name of pity.’ Suddenly she was sobbing.

‘Oh please, don’t cry. You’ll wake Madoc,’ Annest said unhappily. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Cut the ropes around my ankles. I can’t escape if my hands are still tied; and anyway I can’t walk with my injured leg, you know that.’ Madoc snorted and shifted his position on the far side of the bakestone. They held their breath. Almost at once his snores began again, softer now, muffled by his arm.

‘He’ll see. In the morning, he’ll see I’ve helped you. He’ll beat me.’

‘He won’t see if we burn the cut ropes, and he won’t remember what he did after all that drink anyway. Oh, please.’ Rhonwen closed her eyes as another wave of pain hit her. ‘Have you got a knife?’

Annest nodded, reached into her girdle and pulled out a small knife. With a glance across the embers at her sleeping husband, she began to saw at Rhonwen’s bonds. It took what seemed like an age to cut through the bands around her ankles. The knife was blunt and the rope had tightened deep into her flesh, but at last it gave and with a groan Rhonwen was able to straighten a little. ‘Here, again, cut this one too.’ Her lower lip bled with the effort not to cry out in pain.

‘I don’t know if I should…’

‘Of course you should. Go on, otherwise he will see. The rope is not yet free.’ She felt the blood flowing back into her wrists as the knots loosened.

‘You won’t do anything – ’

‘I have already told you that.’

In another moment she would be free. She eased her cramped body, feeling the brush of the girl’s long hair on her arms, smelling her unwashed skin.

‘Eh! What’s going on!’ Madoc’s shout was loud in the hut. With a terrified cry, Annest dropped the knife and jumped backwards almost into the fire.

‘You stupid bitch!’ Madoc staggered to his feet cursing. ‘What are you doing? Leave her alone! Do you want her to escape?’

As he lurched towards her Rhonwen grabbed with her bound hands for the knife Annest had dropped. She jerked herself up on to her knees as Madoc reached her and brought the knife up in one swift movement through his jerkin and under his ribs. He let out a howl of rage; his arms flailed and he staggered back as Annest cowered sobbing in the darkness.

‘Don’t come near me, you bastard son of a pig!’ Rhonwen breathed. She still had the knife, and the warm blood running down the blade told her it had found its target. ‘Don’t you ever come near me again.’ She held it, point out, towards him, marking him as he stumbled into the red-hot embers and fell on one knee near her. His hands were clutched to his middle and he had begun to breathe with harsh rasping sounds.

‘Bitch, bitch, bitch! Annest! Annest, help me!’ He had fallen to both knees now. Rhonwen sawed frantically through the last of the rope that held her feet, and somehow got the blade of the knife under the rope around her wrists. It was too blunt; without sawing it would do nothing. She was shaking so much she could hardly hold it. ‘Don’t drop it,’ she muttered between her teeth, ‘don’t drop it!’ Across the fire she could see faintly the huddled silhouette of the man. His curses were barely audible. Annest had not moved; sobbing hysterically, she was pressed against the wall on the far side of the cottage, clutching her cloak around her.

Gritting her teeth, Rhonwen sawed on as best she could, feeling first one then another strand of the rope loosen and snap. With one final frantic effort, it was done. The rope fell away and she was free. Grimly she forced her limbs to move, crouching, knife in hand, as she waited to see what Madoc was going to do.

His breath rasped in his throat as he hauled himself to his feet, feeling for the dagger at his belt. She saw its blade catch the light of a stray flame as he held it before him. ‘I’m going to get you, bitch! I’m going to deliver you to your family flayed and gutted!’

There was a wail of anguish from Annest. Neither gave her so much as a glance. Their eyes locked, they faced one another, knives before them. On the front of Madoc’s jerkin a slow stain, black in the dim firelight, was spreading downwards. He clutched his stomach and when he took his hand away it was wet with blood. ‘Bitch!’ he shouted again. ‘Bitch! I’m going to kill you for this!’ He coughed painfully.

Rhonwen was totally calm now, the knife handle alive in her hand. She caressed it, waiting. Everything depended on the next few moments. If she was ever to see Eleyne again, she had to win. Straightening a little, she took a step forward and saw the surprise in his eyes. She smiled as she saw that he was afraid. ‘The gods are with me, old man,’ she whispered, ‘you can’t kill me, you are already dead. See your lifeblood is leaking to the floor like so much rat’s piss.’

‘Annest!’ His voice was weaker now, piteous. ‘Annest, help me. Kill her- ’

Rhonwen side-stepped, her back against the wall. She could see Annest now. The girl had not moved.

‘She won’t help you, old man, she hates you. You have beaten her once too often,’ she said. ‘Look at the blood. Can’t you feel your life running away between your fingers? You leak like a sieve!’ She laughed softly.

He looked down and she heard him give a yelp of pain and fear. As if realising for the first time how badly he was hurt, he staggered and fell to his knees. ‘Die, old man, die!’ she said. There was something like elation in her voice. ‘See what happens to those who meddle with the will of the gods!’

‘No!’ Annest let out a scream. ‘No, you evil woman! He’s not going to die. He’s not.’ She hurled herself at Rhonwen, her fingers clawed. ‘Leave him alone, you witch!’

The two women grappled back and forth on the floor, then Annest fell back. With a little sigh, she collapsed at Rhonwen’s feet, the dagger in her heart.

Rhonwen narrowed her eyes. ‘Stupid child,’ she said quietly, ‘there was no need for you to die.’ She pulled the knife from the girl’s body with an effort and turned back to Madoc. ‘But there’s every need for your death, old man,’ she murmured, ‘you broke the rules of hospitality. And you defied the gods.’ She stepped towards him.

Madoc cringed, his strength almost gone, his hand still clutched to his belly, the other holding his dagger before him. He snarled like a cornered animal, lunging towards her with the weapon. She dodged back, almost losing her footing as a shaft of pain ran up her leg. Then she went at him again, slowly, holding his gaze, part of her uninvolved, astonished by her own lack of fear.

It was over in a moment. Her movement was too quick for him. He never saw the blade flash. He felt only for a moment the searing pain in his throat, then all went black.

For a long time Rhonwen stood without moving, then at last she dropped the dagger and walked to the doorway of the house. The mist had cleared, and in the east, over the rim of the mountains, the sky had lightened a little. The air was fresh and cold and blessedly clean. Somewhere nearby she could hear running water where she would be able to wash away the blood. She must purify herself with water, and the house with fire. Then she would go to Eleyne.

I

‘Your father is well again!’ John, followed by his hurrying train of attendants, carried the letter through to the still-room where Eleyne was supervising two of her women as they checked her supplies of herbs and medicines.

He thrust the letter into her hand with a smile. His face had grown thinner again and he looked very weary. He began to cough and she saw his hand pressed against his chest.

The letter was from her father’s steward. ‘The prince is much restored, the Lord be thanked. He can speak again and has regained the use of all his limbs. We give thanks every hour that he has been spared and is once again in full control in Gwynedd. He has given part of western Gwynedd to his son, Gruffydd, together with a part of Powys, and trusts his elder son more each day.’

‘Happy now?’ He was amused at the radiance which had illuminated her face.

‘Very happy.’ She ran to him and threw her arms impulsively around his neck. ‘Oh, I am so pleased!’

‘And now we can move on without you constantly worrying about him?’

‘We can go tomorrow if you wish.’ She twirled around ecstatically, much to the enjoyment of their attendants.

The long round was due to begin again: the circuit of their estates, the attendances at court, a visit within a couple of months to Scotland. It would be a busy year.

At their manor house at Suckley John was taken ill again. As the soft greenness of spring settled over the border countryside and daffodils clouded the riverside fields, he retired to bed, coughing and racked with fever. Eleyne summoned the physician and sent Luned to search the coffers for the tinctures and elixirs they had brought from Fotheringhay. Then she sat beside him, holding his hand. ‘You must get better soon, there is so much for us to do.’

He nodded. His breath was shallow and harsh, his skin flushed and damp.

She drew her legs up beneath her skirts and snuggled close to him. ‘There is something I want to tell you.’

It was too soon to know, too soon even to hope, but for the first time her courses were late and that morning she had awakened feeling sick and heavy. As Luned bathed her forehead they had looked at one another and smiled with hidden excitement. Looking at John, she had felt a sudden panicky terror that he might not get well, that he looked too weary, too grey, and she had known that she must not keep her secret excitement from him. She had to give him hope; to give him the will to live.

‘I think I may be going to have a child.’ She saw the sudden leap of joy in his eyes.

‘Are you sure?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s too soon to be sure, but I have a feeling I’m right.’

‘Oh, Eleyne, my darling.’ He raised himself on his elbow and drew her to him. ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. It’s been so long. I wondered…’

‘You wondered if, like poor Aunt Joanna, I couldn’t have a baby.’ She felt a stab of pain as the thought of Alexander rose unbidden in her mind and as always she pushed it away. ‘Rhonwen said it was because I was too young. All I had to do was wait.’ Her voice faded at the mention of Rhonwen’s name; she still missed her, still thought about her, even though a small guilty part of her was relieved to be rid of her prying and her hostility to John. But, however much she disliked him, Rhonwen would have given Eleyne medicines for John at the first sign of his illness if she had begged her to do so, and her medicines, unlike those of the doctors who followed him everywhere he went, had always worked. She glanced up at him, and was pleased to see how bright and animated his eyes had become. The physician entered and bowed. As Eleyne kissed John and wriggled reluctantly away from him off the bed she saw the doctor reach for her husband’s pulse. She did not notice the man’s worried look when he saw the Earl of Chester’s glowing skin and fevered eyes.

II

Her head wrapped in a white shawl, Rhonwen stayed long enough in the precincts of the castle to find out what she needed to know. The earl and countess were still at Fotheringhay. She had two animals now, her own and a packmule which she had found with the beasts in the byre end of Madoc’s house. She had methodically ransacked the hafod, taken what few possessions they had which were of value – a cooking pot, Annest’s Sunday shoes, their few pennies buried beneath the bakestone, and an extra woollen shawl. Then she had turned the animals loose and set fire to the cottage. There was little that would burn; the turf roof was wet, the walls were stone, but she needed to burn it to cleanse it and to be rid of the bodies. By the time full light had come she had been on the road long enough to put a distance between her and whoever might come to the lonely dwelling on the hill. It had taken four more agonising days to reach Chester, and now she faced another long ride across the middle of England, but her days of skulking in the mountains were over. No one would be looking for her once she was clear of the border march. She had two animals and before she left the city she would have found herself a servant and escort. No one would see her as a woman travelling alone again. And this time she was armed.

III

‘For the love of the Blessed Virgin, Eleyne, you must not ride!’

John was out of bed within three days. Beyond the walls of the manor house a soft sun coaxed the full leaves to unfurl on the hedges. The buds on the blackthorn were like clusters of tiny seed pearls, catkins hung gold on the hedgerows and the first feathered leaves burst out on the willow trees by the brook. Her hand on Invictus’s bridle she turned to him, astonished. ‘Why? I’m perfectly well.’ It was he who looked unwell, leaning on his servant’s arm, his face ashen.

‘Please, Eleyne, don’t do it.’ Pushing the man away, he stood upright with an effort. ‘I forbid it.’

She felt the familiar rebellion surging through her body, almost choking her with humiliation and rage. It had been a long time since she had felt like this; for weeks they had been friends, lovers. She trusted and respected him. She worried and fretted ceaselessly when he was ill. But when he was ill she was in charge, she ran the household, she did as she pleased and rode when she liked. Her hand tightened on the stallion’s bridle. The groom was watching her, and she saw the shadow of mocking amusement in his eyes. He admired her, she knew, but he enjoyed seeing her discomfited. She bit her lips in fury and reluctantly released the bridle. ‘You take him, Hal. Give him a gallop and then bring him back. I may use him to fly my bird later.’

Head high she took John’s arm. ‘Leave us,’ she commanded as the servant fell in step behind them, ‘we’ll walk in the garden.’

There was a lovely garden at the west end of the manor house, near the moat. Bulbs were already pushing up through the grass and the walls were hung with newly budding sweet-briar and ivy.

As soon as they were alone she dropped his arm and turned to him, her eyes flashing. ‘Why? Why do you humiliate me in front of the servants? Why shouldn’t I ride?’

‘Surely I don’t have to tell you that, after what happened to the Queen of Scots.’

‘The Queen of Scots’s physicians had warned her not to ride. She had threatened to miscarry. It’s not the same for me. I don’t even know for sure that I am with child!’

‘Of course you are.’ He reached across and took her hand. ‘Don’t be angry, sweetheart, I’m concerned for you.’

‘Then please don’t stop me riding. If I’m worried about my health I will take care, I promise you.’ She gave him a winning smile. ‘It’s you we must take care of, my husband. You look so tired. Did the physician say you could get up?’

He hunched his cloak on to his shoulders. ‘The man is a fool. He bleeds me constantly and leaves me weak as a woman. I do better to get up and walk about. And your medicines have always been better than his.’ He gave a sheepish grin. ‘Perhaps that’s why I want you with me. Pure selfishness.’

Her temper was receding. ‘Those medicines were Rhonwen’s. I do wish she were here, she knew so much of remedies and charms to make people well.’ She paused. ‘John? What is it? Why do you look like that?’

He had dropped her hand and turned away. ‘Rhonwen had no love for me, Eleyne. Sometimes, I think…’ His voice tailed away and he bent over a rosebush, examining the soft red buds of the leaves.

‘You think what?’

‘She cursed me, that night, over Einion’s grave. She cursed me.’

‘And you think her curse has made you ill again?’

‘I did wonder.’

‘But she loved me, and she would never harm anyone I loved.’ She caught his arm and hugged him close to her. ‘You must not believe that she would or could hurt you. She was beside herself that night; she didn’t know what she was doing.’

‘Oh, she knew.’ He was silent for a moment, then he began to cough.

‘No. Please don’t say that.’ Eleyne walked away from him across the long damp grass, with its drift of golden buttercups. ‘Do you think she is dead?’

‘Yes.’ His reply was terse.

‘You think my father had her killed.’

‘I think someone did.’

‘One of my mother’s ladies wrote to me. She said Dafydd has had her declared an outlaw and offered a reward for her capture.’

‘That had to be done, otherwise they would have been admitting that she was dead. Forget her, Eleyne. She has gone. We’ll never see her again.’

She frowned. ‘But she hasn’t gone, she haunts you. You told Father Peter at Fotheringhay, didn’t you? What did he say?’

‘He sprinkled holy water and swung the incense and muttered prayers. Then when he thought I wasn’t looking he made the sign against the evil eye and touched an amulet around his neck beneath his crucifix. The man is a superstitious fool.’ He grinned. ‘But I am no better. I’m afraid of her.’

A week later he was stronger and, the rents at Suckley collected, the household set off again. Eleyne rode a gentle old mare next to her husband, Luned on her other side, a huge heavily cushioned wagon close behind in case she should need to rest. She didn’t. That morning the blood had come, flooding between her legs, washing away all her hopes, and she had cried. She had not yet dared to tell John. He looked so much better, so much stronger, so proud as he rode beside her. She straightened her back to ease the nagging pain which dragged between her hips. She wanted Invictus, she wanted to gallop and gallop and gallop until the cold wind and the sunlight had washed her mind clean and empty as her womb, but the horse was at the back of the train somewhere, led by his groom.

John would understand. He would be disappointed, but not angry. She glanced across at him, wanting to speak, wanting to tell him, but her courage failed. It had to be when they were alone, in case she cried again.

IV

Rhonwen reached Fotheringhay two days after the Feast of the Annunciation. They received her there with honour, if with a few sideways looks and much crossing of fingers, and it was with fresh horses and the addition to her small train of a lady’s maid from the village that she set out once more after the Chesters, retracing her steps towards the Welsh borders.

V

John took Eleyne in his arms and kissed her. Outside the window a blackbird was carolling from the branch of an ash tree, and the joyous song poured on and on, liquid and golden in the twilight.

‘It doesn’t matter, little love,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t mind, there will be other times, many other times. We will have a dozen children at least! That is your fortune, remember? Your future. You told me: it’s written in the stars.’

She snuggled up to him, comforted at last. He was quite better now, and they had ridden out that morning after the hounds in pursuit of hare. The day had been glorious and they had returned exhausted. They had eaten well and retired to bed, where they made love until they had fallen at last into a deep sleep. It had been still dark when John had awoken her, his hand questing beneath the sheets for her body, greedily seeking every part of her. When they had made love again, they lay and talked until the first tentative notes of the dawn chorus made its way between the heavy curtains of the bed.

VI

Rhonwen caught up with them when they were almost back at Chester, on Eleyne’s name day. She halted her horses at the smithy in the village and wearily asked the way to the manor house.

‘Is the countess there?’ she asked the smith as he came out into the sunlight, blinking after the darkness of the forge.

‘Oh, aye, she’s there, God bless her.’ The smith grinned and rubbed his hands down the front of his leather apron. ‘I went up there nobbut three days ago to shoe that great stallion of hers.’

Rhonwen closed her eyes with relief. ‘And the earl? He is here too?’

‘Oh, aye. He’s here. They’re staying here awhile, so I heard.’ The man ran a professional eye over her mounts. ‘You’ll have come a long way.’

Rhonwen gave a grim smile. ‘Indeed I have. Here.’ She reached into her scrip and found the last halfpenny of her hoard. She tossed it to him. ‘Take this for your trouble, my friend.’ She hauled on her horse’s reins and set off in the direction he had pointed, her servants trailing in her wake. The smith watched until she was out of sight, then he stared down at the half coin. He bit it tentatively: it was good. The woman must have been mad.

She rode into an orchard, pink with apple blossom, and dismounted beneath the trees. ‘Go and find Luned, Lady Chester’s maiden. Tell her to come to me here. Speak to no one else, do you hear,’ she directed the serving girl who had dismounted beside her. ‘Hurry.’ Now that she was so close she could not wait to see Eleyne again, but she had to be careful. What if Lord Chester arrested her? What if he sent her back to Gwynedd to face trial? For her sake, as well as Eleyne’s, Lord Chester would have to be dealt with. Leaving the horses to the manservant, she walked slowly across the orchard and leaned on the lichen-covered gate. At last she had found her child.

The sun had travelled across the orchard and settled into the mist behind the wood before anyone came. It was Luned. She ran across the dew-wet grass and threw herself into Rhonwen’s arms. ‘We never thought we’d see you again. They told us you were dead!’ They clung together for a long time, then Rhonwen pushed her away.

‘How is Eleyne? I long to see her.’

‘She’s well.’ Luned clutched her hand. ‘She’s very well, she and the earl are happy.’

‘She is happy, thinking I am dead?’ Rhonwen could not keep the shock from her voice.

‘No, no, of course not. She misses you terribly. We all did. But she had no way of finding out what had happened.’

‘She had a way.’ Rhonwen’s voice was tight.

Luned let go of Rhonwen’s hand and leaned on the gate beside her. ‘She stares into the fire sometimes and I can see in her face that she is seeing things. But the earl doesn’t like it. He beat her, you know, after what happened. And he has forbidden her to look into the flames. The servants had begun to whisper. The priest of Fotheringhay spoke very strongly to the earl about her and my lady had to do penance.’

Rhonwen stared at her, cold with horror. So, he had beaten her and he had tried to forbid her the Sight – for that he would pay. She forced herself to speak calmly. ‘She will not have stopped looking into the flames. She can never stop doing that. She can pretend… to him. But she won’t stop, she can’t. She did not do the penance?’

‘She did and she goes to mass every day with the earl. She is very devout.’ Luned frowned. Could she so soon have forgotten Rhonwen’s intransigence; her intolerance.

‘And where is she now? I expected her to come.’ Rhonwen’s voice was hard.

‘I couldn’t tell her; she was with him. You can’t come up to the manor house, Rhonwen. The earl would have you taken by his men. I have heard him talk about you. He never liked you, and now I think he is afraid of you too.’

‘Afraid?’ Rhonwen raised an eyebrow.

‘You cursed him. He blamed you when his cough came back and he was ill.’

Rhonwen leaned her back against the gate, staring at the shadowy branches of the apple trees. It was growing dark. She gave a bitter laugh. ‘He has reason to be afraid.’

‘What will you do?’ Luned peered at her cautiously.

‘I don’t know. I have nowhere to go. No money.’

‘I can give you money.’ Luned slipped her hand through the slit in her gown and groped for the purse she carried at her waist. ‘Here, and I can get you more. But you mustn’t stay near here, it’s not safe.’ She paused. ‘I suppose you could go to the abbey at Vale Royale. No one would dream that you would go there. Stay in the guesthouse and keep your face covered. I will contact you as soon as I can, but don’t let anyone know who you are. You would never be safe if the earl found out you were alive. I’ll tell Eleyne you are here as soon as I can, tonight if I get the chance.’

‘If you get the chance? Don’t you see her every night?’

Luned smiled. ‘Sometimes they send the attendants away. The earl undresses her himself. They are very much in love.’

Rhonwen flinched as though she had been struck. ‘That’s not true! She loves someone else. Oh, she’s a clever one, my little Eleyne. She would never betray herself, but I know it. The earl has her under some kind of spell.’ She smiled coldly. ‘But I can always break it. Sweet goddess, how she must have longed for me to help her!’

Luned looked at her doubtfully. ‘Are you sure? She seems so happy to me.’

‘I’m sure.’ Rhonwen straightened wearily. ‘So, tell me where this abbey is. I will wait there for a message from you. I hope it’s not too far, I’m aching all over after riding three times around England looking for you!’

‘It isn’t far. You’ll get there before dark, and they will treat you with great hospitality as long as -’ She hesitated. ‘Don’t offend them, Rhonwen. Don’t let them see you don’t believe as they do. Word will get round so fast.’

‘Do you take me for a fool!’ Rhonwen snapped. ‘Of course I won’t offend them. They won’t get me to their masses and their prayers, but I shall be polite and pay my dues. What more can they possibly expect?’

VII

‘Robin!’ Eleyne recognised the tall visitor in spite of the all-enveloping cloak in which he was muffled. ‘So, you have come to see us after all.’

‘My lady.’ Robert Fitzooth stooped to kiss her. ‘How could I not come to welcome you back to Chester? How are you? And how is my cousin?’

Eleyne took his hand and led him to the chairs on the dais. ‘He is well. He is with our steward at the moment, but he will join us soon. I will send a messenger telling him you’ve come. He’ll be pleased to see you. Luned, ask the servants to bring us some wine.’

Luned beckoned a page forward. It was nearly midday and still she hadn’t found a moment alone with Eleyne to tell her about Rhonwen, and, she realised as she supervised the jug of wine and the goblets on the tray carried by a nervous new maid from the village, she was reluctant to do so. She loved Rhonwen as Eleyne did; they had been brought up by her together after all, but Rhonwen had changed. She had grown bitter and possessive, and her presence had became a threat.

‘Luned? Luned, the wine!’ Eleyne’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts. Eleyne left her guest and crossed to the table where Luned was standing. ‘What is it? Is anything the matter?’ She smiled fondly at her, troubled by the girl’s unhappy expression.

Luned glanced across at Sir Robert, who was talking to one of his companions. ‘I have been trying to speak to you, my lady,’ she whispered urgently, ‘but there is always someone there.’

‘What do you mean? You only had to say…’

‘It had to be alone, in private.’ Luned’s voice was anguished.

Eleyne looked at her hard, then she turned. ‘Robin, will you forgive me? A crisis is at hand. Drink some wine and warm yourself by the fire and I shall return at once.’

Gathering her skirts, she swept out of the hall in front of Luned and into the bright sunshine. ‘Here, in the arbour. We won’t be overheard. What is it?’

‘Rhonwen is here.’

Eleyne stared at her. ‘Rhonwen! She’s alive? Where? Where is she?’

‘I sent her to Vale Royale. It wasn’t safe for her to stay nearer. I didn’t think you’d want her here.’

Eleyne closed her eyes, stunned by the news. ‘You’re right. Dear God, I never thought to see her alive again! Is she all right? Is she well? What happened to her? Where has she been?’

Luned laughed. ‘I’m sure she’ll tell you herself.’

‘I must go to her.’ Surprised at the reluctance which vied with her relief that Rhonwen was alive, Eleyne went on, ‘Go now, and order them to saddle my new mare. We’ll say I couldn’t wait to try her out. Come with me and bring two men as escort. I’ll explain to Robin.’

In a whirl of skirts, she ran back to the house. Shaking her head, Luned turned towards the stables.

VIII

The abbot was waiting for her in his lodging, a stone building set apart from the other monastic buildings. It was cold in the room, but Eleyne found herself waved towards one of two comfortable chairs standing on either side of a spacious but empty hearth. ‘May I give you some wine?’ The abbot was preparing to serve it himself.

She nodded, gratefully. ‘My lord abbot, I came to seek a friend who I hoped had lodged in your guesthouse last night.’

He frowned. ‘I thought perhaps that was it.’ He handed her a brimming goblet with a bow. ‘I am afraid I had to ask your friend to leave.’

Eleyne froze. The abbot, a small, thin man with a kind, careworn face, his fringe of hair silver above watery grey eyes, seated himself opposite her. He had taken no wine himself.

‘I am sorry, my lady, if this causes you grief, but the woman who came here last night was an outlaw, wanted by the king’s men. She is a heretic and a murderess. I could not allow her to spend a night beneath my roof. I should have told my guest master to arrest her, but -’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Perhaps I did wrong, but I felt compelled merely to send her on her way. She had sought Christian hospitality, and was given food and water to wash in. I could not send her to the gallows after that.’

Eleyne licked her lips, which had gone dry. ‘What made you think she was an outlaw, my lord abbot?’

The abbot sighed. ‘I was at Chester when word went round of what she did. I am sorry, Lady Chester, but everyone knew your lady, Rhonwen. She was too vivid, too striking for men not to remember her. When my guest master came to me and said he was worried because a guest under our roof had said she would not hear mass, I came to speak to her, thinking I could offer her some advice or reassurance. Then I recognised her and sent her on her way. I kept her servants here, and gave them absolution this morning, then I dismissed them with a small payment which will enable them to move on until they find new employment.’

‘And Rhonwen. Where did she go?’ Eleyne asked at last. The wine was untouched in the goblet in her hand.

‘She went into the forest. What else could she do?’

‘And you think that a Christian action? To send an unprotected, gently born woman into the forest to live amongst outlaws and thieves and murderers?’ Eleyne stood up. A little of the wine slopped on to her skirt but she didn’t notice. ‘My lord abbot, I think you have done her a great wrong.’

‘You think she was innocent?’ The abbot had risen as well.

‘She killed a man, but it was in self-defence. She had no option.’

The abbot raised an eyebrow. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but that is not the way I heard the story. However, it is not for me to judge. I sent her on her way and she has gone with her horse and her life. No doubt the earl can find her; he has but to put the word around and offer a reward and every cutpurse in the country will search for her.’ He paused, his face full of compassion. ‘I understand she was your nurse, my lady, and I realise you must have loved her, but don’t be misled by her. That lady is a danger to everyone around her. She is evil. I recognised it in every part of my body and soul.’

Eleyne put the goblet down untouched and turned towards the door. ‘As you said, my lord abbot, she was my nurse and she loves me, she said. ‘And I love her.’

IX

John was sitting playing chess with Robin when Eleyne walked at last into the great hall. Both men rose.

‘Where have you been?’ John asked. ‘It’s late. You missed both dinner and supper.’

She pulled off her gloves and threw them down next to the chessboard. ‘I am well aware of that,’ she said sharply. She was hungry and tired and disappointed. ‘I rode to the abbey. The abbot delayed me there and then on the way back through the forest we took the wrong track.’

‘Then what you need is some wine and some delicious titbits to tempt your appetite, my lady.’ Robin pulled forward his own heavy chair. ‘Here, sit by the fire. Don’t bully her, John. Your lady is not to be upset!’ He grinned at his cousin impudently. ‘She can tell us about her adventures when she is rested and not before.’ He lifted Eleyne’s cloak from her shoulders and guided her to the chair.

Eleyne saw that John was watching her closely, but his worry was only for her safety, she was sure of that. He had not guessed about Rhonwen. How could he? Unless Rhonwen came to the house he would never know that she was nearby. But would she come to the house? Eleyne remembered Luned and looked for her, but there was no sign of her in the crowded hall; Luned, who had comforted her on the return ride with the words: ‘She knows where you are. She’ll find you… somehow.’

In spite of herself, Eleyne began to enjoy the evening. Robin had brought her wine, serving her on one knee with a clean napkin over his arm. Then he had brought her a silver platter, full of dainty pieces of food, somehow reheated, although, she was sure, the great oven fires must long ago have been damped and the kitchens swept clean.

Secure in her love, John no longer found himself racked with jealousy as his cousin flirted and laughed with Eleyne. He was glad that the pain which had shown around her eyes when she walked in had gone. Whatever had been worrying her had been forgotten. He relaxed and found himself laughing, responding to the young man’s charm and humour, wishing, not for the first time, that he had a son like Robin. Eleyne laughed and opened her mouth as Robin poked a piece of pastry at her. John sighed and pushed the thought away, beckoning the musicians who had been waiting hopefully at the foot of the dais.

The noise lessened as men and women found themselves seats on the forms ranged around the edge of the hall, or on their spread cloaks on the rush-strewn floor. The dogs settled before the fire and with an expectant hush the eyes of everyone present turned to the musicians as they began to tune up. The leader of the troop bowed to Eleyne.

‘My Lady Chester. What would you like us to play? A love song perhaps?’ He raised his eyebrow suggestively.

‘Yes.’ Eleyne smiled. ‘A love song, please.’ She held out her hand to John. He came and stood behind her, taking her fingers and pressing them to his lips. Robin watched them for a moment, then with a little shrug he stood back and, offering John his chair, he went and squatted on his haunches by the fire.

They sat a long time that evening, contentedly listening to the music. Eleyne was too tired to move from her chair. She leaned sideways until her head was on John’s shoulder, feeling his warmth through his mantle. Robin sat by the fire, his arms wrapped around his legs, his chin sunk thoughtfully on his knees, his eyes shut. The great hall was silent save for the occasional snore, quickly hushed, from a man-at-arms asleep in the corner. The night was cold and clear; the stars seemed very far away.

X

Near the door a kitchen maid was lying beside one of the pantry-men. He had spread his cloak over them both and his hands were busy under her skirt. She lay still, trying not to giggle, feeling the excitement mounting, knowing that soon they would creep away into the stables. Opening her eyes sleepily, she saw that the door was close by. No one would notice if they crept outside. She turned to the man at her side and firmly removed his hand from between her legs. He scowled, then understood. He stood up and, picking up the cloak, took her hand. They tiptoed along the edge of the hall, stepping over other somnolent bodies, and made their way towards the door.

The courtyard was very cold. Their breath showed in clouds of white as, unable to wait, he pulled her to him and thrust his hands inside her gown, fumbling at her breasts.

‘Not here. The countess would send me off if she found out. In the stables – it’s warmer,’ she breathed. Capturing his hand, she began to lead him across the courtyard, but almost at once she stopped.

‘What is it?’ It was his turn to pull her.

‘I don’t know, look.’ She found she was holding her breath.

‘Where?’ There had been fear in her voice, and he found he was no longer feeling quite so lusty.

The white figure was standing in the shadows near the angle of the wall and the western range of buildings. It was indistinct, a wraith in the mist which seemed to surround it. It began to move, gliding towards the door of the great hall.

‘Blessed Virgin!’ the man gasped. He stood paralysed, unable to turn or run. Beside him the girl seemed to have stopped breathing.

They watched the figure as it moved away from them towards the corner of the hall. There it stopped, seemingly unable to decide whether or not to go in, then it turned and glided away again. Seconds later it had disappeared into the darkness.

XI

Luned pulled the pins one by one from Eleyne’s hair and reached for the comb. ‘Is he no better, my lady?’ she asked sympathetically as Eleyne closed her eyes wearily.

‘Perhaps a little, I don’t know. The physician says so, but he was still feverish.’

She had just returned from the small side chamber where John lay tossing and turning on the narrow bed erected there for him. He was coughing violently, his body convulsed with the force of the spasms which swept over him.

She looked at Luned, her eyes clear in the candlelight. ‘He told me he had seen Rhonwen’s ghost.’

Luned bit her lip. ‘The whole manor is in turmoil about it. Four people have seen her now. What shall we do?’

‘Why doesn’t she stay away!’ Pushing aside the comb, Eleyne walked over to the fire and stared down into it. ‘We go into the forest and she is nowhere to be found; then she comes here and haunts us!’

‘You don’t think -’ Luned hesitated. ‘You don’t think it really is a ghost? If something had happened to her in the forest, something awful, wouldn’t she come to try and find you?’ The girl had gone pale.

‘Nonsense, she is as alive as you or I.’

‘Then why does she wear white? Why does she move so quietly? Why can no one get near her?’

‘Because they are scared of her.’ Eleyne came back to the stool and sat down again. ‘And please God no one does get near her.’

‘You haven’t told the earl or Sir Robin that she’s alive?’

Eleyne shook her head. She picked up the comb and began to pull it through her hair.

‘Are you going to?’

‘No. I want to see Rhonwen, I want to speak to her and give her money. Then I want her to go away.’

Luned nodded. There was something she had to say, something she could put off no longer. It had been gnawing at her day and night.

‘My lady, when I spoke to her she told me… she told me that she thought you loved someone other than the earl.’

There was a moment’s total silence. Throwing the comb down Eleyne stood up. ‘That is a lie! How dare she! It’s not true. I have never loved anyone but John, never. And I am faithful to him. I always have been. How could you -’ she glared at Luned – ‘how could you, of all people, even repeat such a scandalous suggestion?’

‘Because I heard it being whispered in the hall tonight,’ Luned replied softly. ‘That is why. And I wondered where the rumour could have come from.’

There was another long silence. Eleyne closed her eyes. ‘It’s not true,’ she whispered at last, ‘you must stop it.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘It would hurt John so much and it’s unfounded. Totally unfounded.’

She brought food to John herself, sitting by his bed and holding the bowls of fragrant stews and possets and his favourite doucettes, sweet pastry tarts filled with cream and eggs and sugar, but his appetite was small and he was losing weight before her eyes. The Feast of the Trinity came and went. The weather turned unseasonably wet and cold and they listened to the wind wuthering up the valley from the south-west, tearing the leaves from the trees. Robin ran the earldom with Eleyne’s help, dealing with the important matters as they came in, sorting out a few problems each day to take to John’s bedside. Of Rhonwen there had been no word or sign for two weeks and Eleyne had stopped riding into the forest, her mind too preoccupied with what was happening at the manor.

Then at last John began to improve. His fever left him and he lay back on the pillows, his eyes clear. Eleyne, white with exhaustion, went to sit with him and he took her hand. ‘My darling, you look so tired. I’m sorry, each time it’s more of a burden on you.’

She kissed his forehead gently. ‘As long as you are well now.’

‘I am well. I thought that woman’s curse had killed me for sure this time.’ He gave a wry grimace. ‘In the sun, with the candles gone and the birds singing outside, I find it hard to believe in her malice, but at night, when the fever had me in its grip I thought I saw her every time I closed my eyes.’

‘What woman?’ Her mouth was dry.

‘Your beloved Rhonwen. Did you not hear that her ghost was seen?’

Eleyne looked down at her hands. ‘Yes, I had heard.’

‘And you didn’t want to think that she was dead.’ His voice was gentle. ‘I do know how much you loved her, Eleyne. You were too young to realise that she was evil, my darling. It was not your fault that you loved her. I am only thankful that she has gone.’ He heaved himself up higher on the pillows. ‘Where is Robin?’

‘He is closeted with your clerks, wrestling with affairs of state.’ She smiled. ‘Poor Robin. He has grown quite thin and pale these last few days. We are lucky he was here while you were so ill. He acts… he acts as though his interests were the same as yours.’

‘You mean as if he were my heir?’ John scowled. ‘Would that he were. It would take a load from my mind. As it is my nieces and my sisters are heirs to the estates should anything happen to me. As to the titles, I don’t know. Perhaps Robin has as good a claim as any, at least to Huntingdon.’ Preoccupied with his own bitterness, he did not notice her face. Then he looked up and saw the tears in her eyes. ‘Sweetheart, forgive me, that was cruel. It is not your fault that we have no children yet. There is still time, plenty of time.’ He pulled her to him. ‘You will give me six fine sons and six beautiful daughters and between them they will rule the world.’ He ruffled her hair gently. ‘You’ll see.’

XII

‘She will be in the old charcoal burner’s hut near the Chester road,’ the messenger had said. ‘Come at midday and come alone.’

‘You can’t go alone,’ Luned said firmly. ‘I will go with you and wait near at hand with a couple of men-at-arms.’

Eleyne was torn between longing and irritation that after causing so much rumour and anguish Rhonwen should openly and arrogantly send this message now, as John was getting better. She had hoped that Rhonwen had gone away.

The forest was sweet with summer, the leaves heavy on the trees, the rides carpeted with late bluebells. As she rode towards the charcoal burner’s hut and dismounted near the remains of one of his fires, she peered warily around. There was no sign of anyone in the clearing; the hut was ruined and deserted. Tying the horse to the branch of a tree she walked across and peered in. Rhonwen was waiting inside. She was thin and pale and her clothes were torn and ragged. Her shoes had fallen almost to pieces, and she was wearing a heavy white woollen cloak.

At the sight of her, Eleyne’s irritation fell away. They clung together for a long time, then sat side by side on a fallen log in the clearing while Rhonwen told her story.

‘So it was Gruffydd who helped you,’ Eleyne said at last. ‘I’m glad, I should have guessed. But now. Where will you go?’ She looked at Rhonwen steadily. ‘You cannot return to my service and you cannot go back to Wales.’

‘I can.’ Rhonwen’s eyes were feverish with triumph. ‘I can go anywhere with a king’s pardon. You can get it for me. The King of England is your uncle, and he will give you anything you ask for.’ Rhonwen caught her hands; her grip was very strong. ‘Surely I do not have to beg this from you? With the king’s pardon even the Prince of North Wales can do nothing against me. I will be safe.’

For a moment Eleyne had almost caught her optimism, but then she shook her head. ‘John would never let me go to the king for that. You made him very angry, Rhonwen.’ She did not add that he was afraid.

‘Pah!’ Rhonwen spat on the ground. ‘I don’t give that for your English earl! Besides, I heard he was dying.’ Her eyes grew still on Eleyne’s face. ‘You love a king, cariad, remember that. Your future is in Scotland with him, not with your milksop earl.’

Eleyne was too shocked to speak immediately: ‘So, it was you who started these evil rumours!’ Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘How dare you! And you are wrong. What you are saying is wicked, evil! It is John I love. John!’ The forest was silent as the two women faced each other, save for the distant ringing call of a blackbird hidden in the thicket.

‘So.’ Rhonwen raised an eyebrow. ‘You really believe that? Oh, how he’s got you tamed! I can see the jesses around your ankles.’ She stood up restlessly. ‘He’s not man enough to have got you with child yet, I see.’

Eleyne coloured violently. ‘That’s a vicious thing to say… and not true. I was pregnant, I think. Only I lost it before it was real, and that was my fault. I love John. He is kind and good and caring, and he is my man. I want no other.’ She too stood up. ‘I want no more of this gossip. I understand why you are bitter and unhappy but it’s all your fault. How could you kill Cenydd? He was a good man. I thought you loved him.’

‘I did love him, after a fashion.’ Rhonwen was defiant. ‘I did not mean to kill him. He was useful.’ She grimaced. ‘I had never killed a man before. Now I have killed three people.’

Eleyne closed her eyes. The unease she had felt from the first moment Rhonwen had begun to speak deepened into horror. She looked at Rhonwen for some sign of sorrow or remorse. She saw neither.

‘You are in a state of mortal sin,’ she whispered.

‘Sin?’ Rhonwen gave a bitter laugh. ‘Maybe. For Cenydd I shall have to pay, one day. For the other two, no. They were robbers, nobodies. Cutting Madoc’s throat was no harder than wringing the neck of a chicken. I’ll not burn in your Christian priests’ hell for them.’

‘Oh, Rhonwen.’ Eleyne was despairing.

‘You’re shocked. Now our roles are reversed, cariad. Suddenly you’re the dutiful lady and I’m the rebel, in my stolen monk’s cloak and my threadbare shoes.’ She stood very close to Eleyne. ‘I was like a mother to you, you will not forsake me now. You will find a way to go to the king and obtain my pardon. Your English earl does not have to know.’

‘Of course he has to know. I won’t deceive him.’

Rhonwen narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you saying you won’t help me?’

‘Of course not! I will help you in every way I can.’

‘As long as you don’t have to go to the king.’

‘I will try to persuade John – ’

‘No, cariad, your earl will not lift a finger for me. He would have me arrested, so I would have to disappear into the forest forever. You would never see me again.’

Eleyne frowned, but not with the fear Rhonwen had hoped to see. She had changed, had learned to live without her. ‘You’ll never find me,’ she repeated, ‘never.’

‘Then how will I reach you?’

‘You won’t. When you have the pardon I will reach you. The people of the greenwood have their methods.’ The mocking smile deepened. ‘But don’t leave it too long, cariad. I need that pardon.’

XIII

Robin threw back his head and laughed. ‘So, your nurse is a forest outlaw, with a string of murders behind her! Does this explain why my lady countess is such a spirited rebel?’

‘It’s not funny, Robin. I have to find a way to help her.’ Eleyne had reined in her horse beside him, a pretty merlin on her wrist.

‘You have offered her money?’

‘Of course.’

His eyes were shrewd in the bright spring sunlight. Their attendants had drawn back and they could talk alone. ‘Am I right in thinking you don’t necessarily want her back?’

‘She frightened me.’ Eleyne sighed. ‘But I want what is best for her. And I want what is best for my husband.’

‘He loathes her of course. He has spoken to me about her. You know he thinks she is dead. It might be best if he went on thinking that.’ He wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. ‘Of course, you could always do both. Promise her you will speak to the king when you see him, on condition that she goes as far away as possible, and in the meantime give her enough money to live comfortably in London or Winchester or somewhere far away, under an assumed name.’

Eleyne stroked the soft russet breast feathers of the bird on her wrist as it settled trustingly against her. ‘It might work.’

‘It will work, if you are firm enough. Then you can forget her. John wants to go back to Chester. She won’t dare follow you there.’ He gazed up at the trees, their leaves dappled by the sunlight against a sky of purest sapphire. ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘I almost envy her her life in the forest. At this time of year it must be glorious to acknowledge no master, to lie where you please, to eat the king’s deer till you are too fat to move.’

‘I don’t think so. She is afraid, and the nights must be cold and wet and lonely.’

‘Don’t you believe it. She will have found herself a man by now.’ He gathered up his reins. ‘Come on, we have a long way to go.’

XIV

‘So you are going to send me away.’ Rhonwen clutched the bag of coins Eleyne had pressed into her hand.

‘Only until I can see the king and speak to him about you. You can’t come back with me, you must see that.’

‘Oh yes, I see that.’ Rhonwen’s voice was bitter. ‘You dare not upset your husband. You dare not ask him a favour or beg for your old nurse.’

‘It’s not that I don’t dare, Rhonwen.’ Eleyne tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. ‘It’s that there is no point. He will not relent, and I do not wish to have him upset. He has not been well.’

‘Again.’ Rhonwen threw the money on the ground beside her. ‘So you will not be leaving after all?’

‘We are, we leave at first light. That is why I wanted to see you, to say goodbye and to promise that I will do my best. There is enough money here to last you a long time. It will buy you a roof and food and a servant wherever you want to go. When you have found somewhere to live, write to me with your address. You must choose another name, a name only you and I will know.’

Rhonwen looked down at the heavy bundle of coins near her feet. ‘What name shall I choose, cariad?’ she asked with an enigmatic smile.

Eleyne breathed a sigh of relief. ‘We shall call you Susanna. And you shall be a poet and a scholar, writing to me of matters of deep philosophy and wit. From time to time, when we are at the court in Westminster or Winchester or wherever it is that you are living, I shall call on you privately and buy your books for enormous sums of gold.’

‘So you don’t envisage the king giving me a pardon very soon,’ Rhonwen said drily.

‘I will try.’ Eleyne kissed her. ‘I promise.’

‘But still the earl stands between me and my freedom.’ Rhonwen hesitated, then almost sadly she put her hand into her scrip and pulled out a small linen pouch. ‘To show I am more forgiving than he, I have gathered some herbs in the forest for him, to stop his weakness returning. Infuse these and make him drink them.’

Eleyne took the pouch and clutched Rhonwen’s hand with a sudden rush of gratitude. ‘I have missed you so much while he has been ill. It was always your medicines which helped him. Thank you.’

Rhonwen raised an eyebrow.

‘So, you have missed me? I was beginning to wonder whether I should do better to forget you. No, don’t swear your undying love. I know you love me, but you have grown up now. You have changed, moved on. You don’t want your nurse with you any more. You are mistress of vast estates. Your husband is a great nobleman. Why should you want your nurse?’ She stooped and scooped up the bundle of money. ‘I shall write to you, cariad, and I shall be there when you need me, have no fear of that.’

XV

Eleyne put the bundle of herbs in a small coffer beside her bed. The household was packed and ready to leave. At first light the long train of horses and wagons would wind its way the last dozen or so miles to Chester.

She smiled at John, already undressed and wrapped in a heavy bed gown, who was sprawled in a chair near the fire. His face was pale and strained, his cough still bad, but he insisted that he was well enough to travel. He longed for the space and comforts of Chester Castle. This small manor house, at first so beautiful and quiet, had become cramped, and it lacked privacy, save in this small bedchamber above the hall. He watched as Eleyne’s maids undressed her and brushed her hair, then he gestured them away. ‘Come and sit by me.’

She knelt beside him, her head on his knee, and felt his hand gentle on her hair. It was a long time since they had made love.

‘Are you happy to be moving on? It has been a hard few weeks for you, here.’

She smiled up at him. ‘Robin has helped me; I was sad when he left today.’

John nodded. ‘I trust you’ve not grown too fond of him.’

Eleyne smiled again. ‘No, I’ve not grown too fond.’ She thought suddenly of the rumours Luned had said were still rife in the hall: that she was unfaithful to the earl. Some of those rumours linked her name with Robin’s for want of another. She reached for his hand. ‘Shall we go to bed, my love? We have a tiring day tomorrow.’

‘So eager for your husband? Why not? Call the boy to make up the fire.’

They made love tenderly, gently, as if each were afraid that the other might break, then John lay back exhausted on the pillows. Suddenly he began to cough. For a few minutes she lay listening to him, then she slipped from the bed and, lighting a taper from the fire, she brought a candle to the bedside. ‘John, are you all right?’ He was coughing convulsively, his whole body racked with the force of the spasms, and a trickle of blood had appeared on his chin. ‘Shall I fetch the physician?’

He shook his head violently. ‘A drink,’ he gasped, ‘just get me a drink.’

She ran to the coffer on the far side of the room where a jug of wine had been left with two goblets. With shaking hands she poured a cupful. She managed to raise him and hold the drink to his lips while he swallowed a little, then he lay back. He was pouring with sweat. ‘Stupid,’ he whispered, ‘must have got some dust in my throat.’

She smiled, setting down the wine. ‘Rest now, I’ll bring you some medicine to soothe your cough.’

Luned came at once when she called, stoked up the fire and fetched a small cooking pan while Eleyne sorted the herbs from Rhonwen’s pouch. There was wild thyme there, from the sunny hilltops beyond the forest, and cowslips and valerian root, leaves of agrimony and flowers of hawthorn and wormwood and powdered bark of alder. She smelt them, running them through her fingers. There were other things there too, bitter, dark leaves she did not recognise, leaves from the thick forest which Rhonwen now called home. She tipped the whole mixture into the boiling water and drew it off the fire to infuse, sniffing the thick earthy smell which came from the brew. John was dozing now, his breathing laboured, the sweat standing on his forehead.

Luned came over to the bed. ‘Shall I fetch the doctor?’ she whispered.

Eleyne shook her head. ‘Let him sleep. When he wakes I’ll give him Rhonwen’s medicine. It always soothes him.’

She lay down beside him, listening to his laboured breathing. Once or twice she slept, jerking awake at his slightest movement as he shifted uneasily on the pillows.

Dawn came and with it the earl’s chamberlain. He looked at the sleeping man and shook his head. ‘Shall I tell the household we won’t leave today?’ he asked. Eleyne nodded. Servants came and went, tiptoeing about the room as they built the fire and replaced the candles, and at last the physician came with his knives.

Eleyne stood between him and his patient. ‘You are not going to let his blood, he is too weak.’

‘My lady.’ The man clicked his tongue with irritation. ‘It is the only thing which will save him; I have to do it.’

‘No. Let him sleep. He will be stronger when he is rested.’

‘My lady – ’

‘No! Leave us. I won’t have him bled.’

The man scowled. ‘Then be it on your own head, lady, if he dies.’ He turned and swept out of the room.

Behind her John stirred. ‘Well done, my love,’ he whispered, ‘a victory indeed.’

She sat down beside him and took his hand. ‘How are you?’

‘Tired.’ He tried to smile. ‘So very tired. Fetch me some wine, and I should like to see the priest.’

She leaned across to the coffer where the herbal brew, cool now and strained through a piece of muslin, waited in a glazed bowl. The liquid was green as a cat’s eye. She raised John’s head gently and held the bowl to his lips. ‘Not wine, my love, medicine, that is what you need.’

He scowled. ‘And as foul tasting as any of your concoctions, no doubt.’

‘No doubt, but they do you good. Drink it.’

He swallowed it with difficulty and then lay back, his eyes closed. ‘The priest, Eleyne. Please call him.’

She sent Luned and the priest came, shuffling into the room, the viaticum in his hands. He had done this so often before for the earl, he scarcely took notice as he listened to the confession and gave him absolution. His prayers said, the priest gave his blessing and withdrew to the hearth, where he sat down while Eleyne resumed her place at John’s side.

For a long time there was silence and she thought he was asleep, then he opened his eyes. ‘Eleyne, did you ever get your letter from the king?’ He paused, trying to catch his breath. ‘Like your sister, Margaret. Saying you could choose your next husband.’

‘No!’ She caught his hand. ‘You know I didn’t. I never want another husband.’

He grimaced. ‘I think you may find you have to, my love. No, listen.’ He held up his hand and rested his finger against her lips. ‘If… if anything happens to me, I want you to promise me something. I want you to go to Alexander.’ He coughed and she saw him wince with pain. ‘He will take care of you and see you have your rights. Promise me.’

Alexander.

Eleyne shook her head miserably. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you. You are going to get better and tomorrow or the next day we are going to ride to Chester.’

‘I don’t think so.’ His whisper was so faint she could hardly hear it. ‘Promise me, Eleyne. Don’t go to King Henry. I know him, I know what he -’ He coughed again, clutching at her hand with surprising strength as the paroxysms grew stronger.

He never finished the sentence. The blood was brilliant arterial blood, spewing out over the bedcovers, soaking her gown as he began to choke.

It was all over very quickly, but still she sat cradling his head in her arms. Behind her the room filled with people. Luned tried to lead her away, but she would not move. Afternoon came: the sun shone directly into the room through the narrow windows which looked out over the trees. A strange silence hung over the manor house, and the village beyond it, where the news had quickly spread. Messengers had set off to Chester, to Scotland and to the king, despatched by the earl’s chamberlain.

In the bedchamber the silence was broken by the physician. He pushed his way in and stood looking down at the bed. ‘This is your fault, my lady. You killed him,’ he said grimly. ‘You sent me away and gave him potions of which I knew nothing. For all I know they were poisoned – ’

Eleyne stared at him. She was numb; as cold as the body she still held in her arms. ‘No, I loved him.’

The man scowled. He seized the cup on the coffer beside the bed and sniffed at what remained of the medicine. ‘Atropine! There is dwale in this and henbane. The earl has been poisoned!’

Eleyne shook her head.

‘My lady, do you dare to question my knowledge? But of course you do. You have questioned it often. And now we know why.’ He turned to the crowd in the room, who were listening in horror. ‘This potion is poisoned. Your countess is a murderess!’

I

The halfpenny Rhonwen gave to the boy from the village had come from Eleyne’s purse. He had run on bare, silent feet up the forest ride as the bells at the abbey had begun to toll. ‘So,’ she breathed, ‘she is free.’ She watched as the boy disappeared once more into the forest, then stooped and gathered up her belongings, slinging them on the saddle of her horse. It wasn’t a long ride to the manor and this time she would have nothing to fear, with her enemy gone and Eleyne in charge.

The manor was in turmoil. Carts and wagons which had been packed ready for the early start had been abandoned; mules and horses were standing in rows while servants and men-at-arms milled round aimlessly, spilling in and out of the great hall in a constantly moving tide of humanity.

Sir Robin, overtaken by a fast-riding horseman, had arrived back just before her, and run at once to the bedchamber where Eleyne still watched over the body. The room was almost empty now. The body of the earl had been laid on the bed, washed and dressed in a velvet mantle, a crucifix between his folded fingers. Candles burned at his head and feet, and Eleyne, her bloodstained bed gown gone, a black velvet wrap around her thin body, knelt at his side. The priest still stood near the bed, murmuring prayers, whilst the chamberlain faced Robin near the door, talking to him in an agitated undertone.

Rhonwen stood in the doorway, looking around as the servant bowed and left her, then she stepped inside and called Eleyne’s name.

Eleyne rose to her feet. ‘You! It was you. You gave me the herbs! You killed him!’

Rhonwen met her gaze steadily. ‘How can you think such a thing, cariad?’

‘They have accused me of murder!’ Eleyne’s voice was shaking. ‘The doctor says there were poisons in the plants you gave me for him – ’

‘If I had put poison in the mixture, would I have come here?’ Rhonwen replied slowly. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Would I have come to your side? Who accuses you of this? The doctor, you say? The same man who has nearly killed the earl a hundred times with his leeches and his knives?’

The chamberlain cleared his throat. ‘I have already made it clear there is no question of murder,’ he mumbled. ‘It is an outrageous suggestion! The earl has been ill for many years. We all knew that it was merely a matter of time. He has weakened with each attack. It has been the countess who has kept him alive so long with her love and her care.’

‘And with my medicines!’ Rhonwen flashed. ‘If the physician was so sure of poison, why did he not give the earl mithridate to counteract it? I suggest it is the physician who should be accused of hastening the earl’s death by treating him with sulphur and vitriol and saltpetre!’

‘Rhonwen.’ Eleyne, her face grey with exhaustion, took a step towards her. ‘Rhonwen, please…’

‘It’s all right, cariad.’ Rhonwen took her hands. ‘You are distraught. That’s why I came as soon as I heard what had happened. I knew I had to be with you, regardless of the danger.’

The chamberlain frowned. ‘I am sure that under the circumstances – ’

‘Under the circumstances Rhonwen is staying with me. I need her.’ Eleyne still hadn’t cried. Her whole being was numb with shock. When they had finally prised her away from John and laid him back on the pillow, she had looked at him for the first time since he had died. He wasn’t there; he had gone; it was as though she were looking at a stranger.

Luned had washed her hands and face and helped her to change out of the bloodstained gown, then she had led Eleyne back to John’s side where she knelt beside him, her mind a blank. She had not whispered any prayers for his soul. She had not whispered to him of love or sadness or even anger that he had gone so suddenly from her. He had gone – there was no sense in speaking to an empty shell. She was oblivious of the coming and goings in the room behind her; she had not noticed Robin or his urgent conversation with the chamberlain. She had noticed nothing until Rhonwen came.

The funeral was to be at Chester. The long cortège wound its way slowly to St Werburgh’s Abbey and there John of Scotland, Earl of Chester and Huntingdon, was laid to rest near the high altar.

Gruffydd came to the funeral and announced afterwards that he was taking Eleyne back to Aber.

‘No!’ Rhonwen had cornered her in her bedchamber in Chester Castle, her eyes narrowed with anger. ‘No! Don’t you see? You have to go to Scotland. You told me yourself that the earl said you were to go to King Alexander.’

‘I can’t.’ Eleyne rounded on her. ‘I can’t. It would be wrong.’ She wouldn’t, couldn’t think about Alexander now.

‘It would be wrong?’

‘I owe it to John’s memory. I can’t go to Alexander! It would look as if – ’

‘It would look as if you were obeying your late husband’s last wish,’ Rhonwen said tartly.

‘Rhonwen, don’t be angry.’ Eleyne sat down, her pale face framed by the severe white of the wimple she wore. ‘I know you can’t go with me; I know I need you, but I need to see my father more. Gruffydd says he is still not well and he spends more and more time with the monks in prayer as though he knows he hasn’t much time left. He wants to see me; I have to see him, and I want to go to Aber. Later I will go to Scotland, but not yet.’

II

Isabella was seated on the dais, attended by a bevy of pretty girls. She had grown very plump once again in the months since Joan’s death.

‘Of course, you know why papa wanted you back at Aber.’

‘Papa?’ Eleyne stared at her, raising her eyebrow at her sister-in-law’s proprietary use of the word.

Isabella smiled. ‘He asked me to call him that, as he has no daughters left at home. He wants you here so he can marry you off to someone else. Gwynedd needs allies, but I doubt if he will find you such a good match as the Earl of Chester. I wonder how you will cope with being the wife of a mere lordling!’

Eleyne flinched as if she had been struck as the pain of her loss hit her yet again, but determinedly she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think papa means to find me a husband. Besides,’ she was aware of the listening women around them, but unable to keep her hope to herself any longer, ‘I think I might be expecting a child. John’s heir. My duty would be to bring him up and help him until he was old enough to inherit the earldom.’ Six weeks had passed now, since she had last bled. Surely that could mean only one thing?

Isabella laughed. ‘You don’t look pregnant,’ she said unkindly. ‘Well, well. Lucky you!’ This time the tone was openly caustic. ‘But it won’t save you from the marriage market.’

‘Oh, indeed it will,’ Eleyne said firmly. ‘Believe me, papa will not marry me to anyone against my wishes, and nor will King Henry. I am quite sure about that. I never want to marry again!’

Isabella let out a peal of laughter. ‘Eleyne! I’m twenty! And you’re a year younger than me! You’ll have to marry. Won’t she, papa?’

Unnoticed by Eleyne, the prince had entered the hall and walked slowly towards the dais. He leaned heavily on a stick, but apart from that he seemed to have regained his former vigour.

‘Won’t she what?’ With a groan Llywelyn lowered himself into his chair. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’ He held out his hand to Eleyne.

‘Marry, she’ll have to remarry.’

He frowned. ‘In due course, perhaps. There is no hurry to decide. I am sure the king will allow Eleyne to do as she wishes. She is a rich and powerful young woman now. Her dower lands will be immense.’ He smiled at her fondly. ‘But before all else we must get some colour back into her cheeks and comfort her sorrow. I know what it is like to be lonely and there is no healer but time.’ He squeezed her hand again.

‘Or another man,’ Isabella murmured, not quite inaudibly.

Llywelyn smiled into his beard as Eleyne gritted her teeth. ‘Take no notice, child,’ he said softly. ‘Madame is as sharp-tongued as ever, as my son knows to his cost. And if you’re with child,’ he peered at her thoughtfully, ‘she’ll never forgive you.’

‘I think I am.’ She smiled, unable to restrain the temptation to place her hands protectively, just for a second, on her still-flat belly. A baby for John – an heir. How much he had longed for it and now he would never see it. Her eyes filled with tears, in spite of her vow never to give way to them in public, and she turned her back to Isabella. ‘I think I might go and rest, papa, if you will excuse me. I am so tired.’

‘Of course.’ Llywelyn rose to his feet stiffly. ‘Rest as much as you can, child.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and gently drew her into the crook of his arm. ‘I am glad you’ve come home.’ He led her away from the others towards the door at the far end of the hall. ‘Your nurse, the Lady Rhonwen,’ he said awkwardly, ‘she came between us so often. I must tell you that it is almost certain that she is dead, and I am glad of it.’ As he felt her stiffen, he pulled her closer: ‘I don’t know what happened to her, but had she remained in custody she would surely have paid the severest of penalties for what she did on the night of your mother’s funeral.’ He paused as they reached the door, staring out across the courtyard. ‘She was evil, Eleyne, a servant of the devil. I like to think that I am growing more devout in my old age, and I pray more than I used to. Perhaps that has made me see what I should have seen from the start. She was a bad influence on you. She came between you and your mother. She is better dead.’ He had not looked at her.

Eleyne had closed her eyes. Rhonwen had stayed at Chester with the dowager and her ladies. Her fists clenched in the folds of her black skirts, she said nothing. What was there to say?

III

Over the next two weeks Eleyne had little time for grieving. Day after day a string of messengers came to see her with condolences from the kings of England and Scotland and all the nobles of the land. Bailiffs and clerks came endlessly too as the vast inheritance of Chester and Huntingdon was surveyed, ready to be split amongst its heirs, and as Eleyne’s dower lands were apportioned.

One of them, the king’s clerk, Peter de Mungumery, stayed at Aber before setting off to Fotheringhay. There he was to list and value all the vast possessions of the Honour of Huntingdon in Northampton, Rutland, Bedford, Huntingdonshire and Middlesex, for if there were no direct heir, the earl’s three surviving sisters, Maud, who had never married, Isabel Bruce, the Lady of Annandale, and Ada, Lady de Hastings, together with Christian and Dervorguilla, the two daughters of John’s eldest sister, Margaret, Lady of Galloway, who had died the preceding year in Scotland, would inherit these vast estates. Already a legal battle had begun as Alexander of Scotland claimed seisin over the lands of the earldom of Huntingdon and Robert Fitzooth claimed the title.

If there was no direct heir… Peter was waiting to find out if there was a child. As each day passed, Eleyne prayed, her only comfort that maybe she would bear John’s child.

It was not to be. The symptoms her body had shown and over which she had watched so hopefully were not those of pregnancy. As the long July days slid by and her body rested, recovering from the shock of John’s death, her courses resumed naturally and she was forced to acknowledge that there would be no direct heir to the earldom of Chester. To have to make such a private moment so public, knowing that so many, from the king to the least servant of the earldom, were waiting and watching to see what happened, was humiliating enough, but the moment was made more devastating by Isabella’s obvious pleasure at her distress.

King Henry’s messenger had spent a long time closeted with Llywelyn, and Eleyne, used by now to such visitors, waited in the arbour at Aber for a summons to their presence, expecting more interminable, impersonal discussions of rents and tenancies and dower lands.

She was sitting on the turf bank, idly picking daisies as she watched her ladies playing with the baby of one of Isabella’s women, when she saw her father and his visitor walking towards her beneath the trees. She could see at once that something was wrong: Llywelyn’s face was grey with fatigue and his mouth was tight.

She rose to her feet, her throat constricting with fear, dimly aware that the ladies around her had scooped up the baby and withdrawn to the far side of the garden. Llywelyn stopped in front of her. ‘King Henry has commanded you to return to Chester,’ he said without preamble. ‘This gentleman is here to escort you.’

‘But why?’ Eleyne stared from her father to the stranger and back. The visitor bowed. He was a tall thin man, dressed as she was in black, a colour which drained any semblance of animation from his face and left it looking cadaverous.

‘Permit me to introduce myself, my lady. I am Stephen of Seagrave, former Justiciar of England, one of his grace’s officers. King Henry has ordered that I take charge of you and escort you back to Chester and that you be kept in honourable and fitting state there until certain enquiries have been completed concerning accusations made against you, that you procured your husband’s death by use of foul poisons.’

‘Those were lies!’ Eleyne exploded. ‘Terrible, cruel lies!’

Stephen gave a shrug. ‘I am sure that will be quickly established. Whatever the case the king wishes you to be held there until he decides what is best to do with you.’

‘To do with me?’ Eleyne echoed.

Stephen bowed. ‘Those were his grace’s words.’

‘He means to give you in marriage to one of his supporters,’ Llywelyn put in heavily.

‘No!’ Eleyne stared at him. ‘No, he can’t! I don’t want to remarry – ’

‘I am sorry, my lady, it is the king’s command,’ Stephen said crisply. She saw the glint of metal beneath his mantle and realised that he wore full mail under his robe. ‘His grace waited in case you were enceinte with the earl’s heir, but it has proved not to be so and it is his grace’s wish to make provision for you. You are young, and if I may say so very beautiful. It would be a crime if you were not to remarry.’

‘And you are very rich and the king wants to secure the support of someone or other at his court, no doubt,’ Llywelyn added, his voice weary. ‘Would that I could spare you this, Eleyne, but there are reasons why I must agree to the king’s wishes.’

Eleyne tightened her lips. She was angry as she had never been angry in her life before. ‘You mean it is convenient for you – or perhaps for Dafydd! That’s it, isn’t it? It would be good for Dafydd if you were seen to be supporting King Henry at the moment. And no doubt Isabella has had her say!’

‘No, my darling, Isabella doesn’t even know…’

‘But Dafydd does.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Dafydd advised you to agree without argument…’

‘Yes, he did, but -’ Llywelyn’s temper was rising too.

‘And Gruffydd, does he know what’s going on? Does he know what’s planned for me?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Llywelyn frowned, anger beginning to colour his face. ‘Gruffydd is, as you know, in Powys. Eleyne, please allow your brother and me to know what is best for you.’

‘Best? I have just lost the best husband in the world, a man I loved and respected, a man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I do not wish to remarry.’

‘Your marriage to Lord Chester was arranged, Eleyne. May I remind you that you were married to him when you were but a small child. Your next marriage has every chance of being as happy. Lord Chester would have been the first to understand. He would not have expected you to remain alone.’

No, he told me to go to Scotland. She did not say it out loud, but his words returned to her. Don’t go to King Henry. The last words he had uttered on this earth. He had foreseen this and had tried to save her from it. She closed her eyes, trying to steady the mounting anger which was surging through her. ‘What of King Alexander in all this? Does he not have a say in the remarriage of his heir’s widow?’

Llywelyn frowned. ‘King Alexander has already proclaimed your husband’s nephew, young Robert Bruce, the eldest male descendant of King David of Scotland after himself, as heir presumptive until he has a son of his own. And the King of England is negotiating to buy the lands of Huntingdon back from Lord Chester’s sisters so that the Scottish connection with the earldom of Huntingdon will finally be brought to an end,’ he added. ‘I understand Sir Robin Fitzooth has put in a claim for the earldom for want of a closer heir. King Alexander will have no interest in what happens to you, my darling. He will agree that King Henry’s decision is the best.’

Eleyne stared at him. ‘He will agree?’ she echoed. ‘He is to be consulted, then?’ A surge of hope flowed through her.

‘He will be informed as a matter of courtesy,’ Stephen put in. ‘King Alexander has been in negotiations with King Henry for some time over peace talks beween the two countries. I doubt if he would wish to jeopardise the progress that has been made by interfering in any decisions King Henry may make about you.’ His hard green eyes glittered with satisfaction. He had seen this wayward girl at court and he had heard of her reputation. It gave him much satisfaction to be part of the process that was going to trim her wings. He even had a rough idea of who the king would give her to. His hooded eyelids veiled his expression as he smiled at her.

‘We can leave for Chester whenever you are ready, my lady,’ he said with unctuous humility. ‘His grace has ordered that the Chester estates be administered by three royal servants for the time being: Henry of Audley, Hugh Despenser and myself. I am now appointed Justice of the County of Chester. I have to return at once to my duties, but I realise you will have farewells to make and that your servants will need to make ready for the journey. Would two days hence be satisfactory?’

‘Two days?’ Eleyne was aghast.

‘Three, if you prefer. I am at your service, as is his grace’s escort.’ Stephen smiled again. The king himself had warned him of Eleyne’s propensity for taking off on horseback and riding wildly around the countryside. That was something she would not do once she was in his care. He eyed her tall slim figure critically. She was undoubtedly the most dangerous type of woman: a temptress, designed to lead men astray and put their souls in jeopardy. He shuddered elegantly beneath his black gown and turned away from her.

IV

‘No!’ Eleyne lay on the bed, face down, pounding the pillow with her fists. ‘I won’t go with him, papa can’t make me!’ Her fury had jolted her out of her deep depression.

‘Ssssh!’ Luned glanced over her shoulder into the quiet darkness of the room. ‘What can you do?’ She was upset too.

Eleyne sat up. ‘Suppose they found me guilty of trying to murder John?’ She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘It’s not possible, no one would believe that, no one.’

Luned scowled. ‘You don’t think… what I mean is… Rhonwen had no reason to love Lord Chester,’ she finished in a whisper.

‘No, she wouldn’t.’ Eleyne put her knuckles to her eyes. ‘She couldn’t. I won’t believe it. There was no poison. It was that stupid, jealous doctor and his fear his incompetence would be exposed. I must see Uncle Henry myself. If I speak to him, I can make him understand. I can make him see how foolish this is. He can’t do this to me, he can’t. He allowed Margaret to choose her own husband. He must allow me to do the same. If I must remarry, at least I can get his promise that I can choose who it is.’

‘And you think that black crow will allow you near the king?’ Luned asked quietly. She had seen the expression on Stephen’s face as he watched Eleyne.

‘Of course he will if I order him to.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Luned shook her head. ‘He has his orders, and he is the type who can see neither to left nor right of the path he has been shown. And he hates women.’

Eleyne frowned. ‘Yes, he does. And he’s afraid of them. So, if I go, I must go without his permission.’ She drew her legs up beneath her gown and hugged her knees, her face thoughtful.

Luned suppressed a smile. She recognised that expression. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said softly.

Eleyne smiled. ‘I wish I had Invictus here.’

‘I’m glad you haven’t, I’d never be able to keep up with you, but there are plenty of fast horses in your father’s stables. When shall we go?’

‘I suppose it ought to be as soon as possible.’

‘Tonight, you mean?’ Luned looked towards the door.

‘Tonight.’ For the first time in many days Eleyne’s face lightened. ‘Now! That will be a shock for the black crow. Can you pack us each a bundle while I find us some money?’ She scrambled off the bed and ran to a small coffer on the table. In it was a pile of silver which she had brought with her from Chester to distribute as rewards and pensions to those amongst her father’s servants and her own who had served John. Gathering the pennies into a leather pouch, she tucked it securely into her bundle and reached for her cloak. The candles had burned down less than half an inch since the idea of flight had come to her.

Extinguishing all the candles but one, Luned picked up her belongings and pulled open the door. The hallway was empty. At the far end the staircase led downwards out of sight. They could see the faint shadow where a torch in the main entrance to the building flickered in the draught.

Her finger to her lips, Eleyne led the way on tiptoe, her bundle under her arm beneath her cloak. Cautiously she began to descend, holding her breath as the steps creaked, her ears straining in the silence. The llys had long since gone to bed, the fires damped, most of the lights extinguished. At the last turn of the stair she peered around. The guard at the doorway was asleep. Even as she watched, she saw him shift his position, smack his lips and settle back, his neck bent down on his shoulder as he sank against the wall as though it were a soft pillow.

She smiled at Luned. They both knew him, he was one of her father’s oldest men-at-arms, retired to this, one of the least onerous posts within the palace.

They were past him in seconds, the warm summer air flowing in through the opened door stirring his hair a little but not disturbing his sleep. Then they were running across the courtyard. There was no chance of taking a horse from the stable; too many boys slept there in the straw, to say nothing of the couples who found privacy in the fragrant darkness. Instead they made their way to the gatehouse. The guards there were alert, but they had had no orders to forbid the prince’s daughter to go out into the night and they let them pass. Eleyne had after all done this before.

She frowned as she thought again of Einion and his mysterious summons to her from the darkness; it seemed so long ago. And what had he told her? Her skin prickled with fear and excitement and she stopped so suddenly that Luned nearly bumped into her. Einion had said that she would become the ancestress of kings. That her future lay in Scotland. Of course! She would be a fool to ride to Henry, she would go north and seek out Alexander as John had told her.

The horses were grazing at the far side of the meadow, where the river broadened and flowed more slowly over the flat lands towards the sea. They were ghostly shapes beneath the stars, fetlock deep in soft white mist.

‘How will we catch them?’ Luned breathed, awed by their ethereal beauty.

‘I’ll do it.’ Eleyne slid her bundle to the ground. She reached for the two plaited girdles she had brought to act as halters, realising that the harness rooms would be too securely locked to reach without waking someone; these would have to do. Gathering her skirts, she climbed lightly over the gate and began to walk across the dew-soaked grass. Luned watched her, a slight figure, no more than a shadow in the starlight, moving silently through the mist.

One horse spotted her and then the others. They raised their heads, ears pricked, and watched as she drew near. Luned heard a whicker in the darkness and she smiled; they would not be able to resist her. What horse ever could? Sure enough, in seconds they were gathering around her, nuzzling her hands as she selected two and slipped the girdles around their necks. Like a virgin capturing unicorns, Luned thought. They were coming now, a horse on each side of her, the others behind, inquisitive, light-footed, manes and tails flowing.

Swiftly Luned strung their two bundles together to go across her horse’s withers. She pulled open the gate as Eleyne led their mounts through, and shut it to stop the rest of the animals following.

Her slim wrists moving deftly in the darkness, Eleyne knotted headcollars for the horses and helped Luned to mount from the gate, then she jumped astride her own, a light-footed silver mare, part of the starlight itself.

‘We’ll take the mountain road,’ she called, ‘and then we’ll make for Scotland.’

Suddenly she laughed out loud.

V

Rhonwen stared out across the rooftops of Chester and sighed. The embroidery on which she had been working lay on the table behind her, the silks and needles and shears all jumbled in a heap. Her head was splitting.

The old Countess of Chester looked up. ‘They will find her, my dear. She cannot have got far, you know.’ She glanced almost reproachfully at the door of the solar and frowned; behind it stood one of the king’s guards.

Returning to Chester without Eleyne, Stephen had put the whole castle on alert and more or less imprisoned those of the earl’s and countess’s personal household who remained. The castle flew the king’s standard now, and the day-to-day administration was in the hands of Stephen and his two colleagues. John de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, had been made constable of the castle.

It had not taken them long to find that Rhonwen was Eleyne’s particular confidante, and even less time to assimilate the interesting information that she was a wanted murderess and a heretic. But they were biding their time. She could not go anywhere. All the women were imprisoned, and she might in some way hold a clue to Eleyne’s destination.

Stephen had sent riders in every direction when Eleyne’s flight had been discovered and had guards patrolling all the roads south. He knew the way her mind was working. She would try to reach her uncle and beg him to change his mind. He had expected to catch up with her within hours, but to his fury she and her companion had completely disappeared, and with her two of the prince’s best horses.

‘Sit down, my dear.’ Countess Clemence’s voice was surprisingly firm. ‘Don’t let that boorish man see that you are upset. He will be here in a minute.’ She pushed Rhonwen’s embroidery towards her. ‘You do know where she’s gone, don’t you?’ she asked quietly.

Rhonwen shrugged. ‘I can guess.’

‘Is it Scotland?’ The dowager smiled. ‘I know dear John was always so in love with the place. I cannot believe he didn’t infect her with his own longing. And Alexander would shield her against Henry’s ridiculous schemes.’

Rhonwen glanced warily around the table. The other women were listening, and any one of them might betray Eleyne.

‘I don’t know, my lady, I really don’t. There are so many people who would take her in. People right here in Chester. He will never find her once she is among friends.’

‘She is indeed much loved.’ Clemence nodded. ‘Poor child, she must have been so disappointed to find she was not going to have John’s child. That was a cruel trick of fate.’

‘Indeed.’ Rhonwen nodded meekly. ‘I was very sad when I heard the news.’ Eleyne would reach Scotland – and then she would send for her friends.

VI

It was only when daylight came that they realised the magnitude of their task. They had to ride to Scotland, a journey which would take them many days, avoiding the main roads, avoiding towns and villages. They had no saddles or bridles for the horses, no escort, no food. They did have money, but when they stopped to use it they might be recognised. Eleyne was under no illusions. Stephen would not take her disappearance lightly. They would have had only a few hours’ start, if that, and already the king’s escort, which was to take her back to Chester, would be scouring the country for her. It was Luned, wrapped in her dark cloak, who went to lonely homestead doors and bought bread and cheese; it was Luned who, pretending she had lost her own, brought extra cloaks for them at different places along the way to protect them against the cold hard ground at night. But it was a long time before they dared to try and obtain bridles for the horses.

‘We have to try and we must hire a man to escort us,’ Eleyne commented as they rode off the path yet again and waited in the shelter of some trees as a wagon rumbled past. ‘Like this, we attract too much attention.’

‘You should have picked a less showy horse,’ Luned commented wryly. The delicate mare with her silver mane and tail had attracted many covetous stares over the past three days, as had the sight of two unescorted women riding bareback.

‘The next town we reach, you will go and buy us bridles,’ Eleyne said firmly.

‘And that will not attract attention? Me, alone, going to the harness-maker and buying two bridles?’ Luned’s voice was tart. ‘I thought we had decided that we couldn’t risk it.’

‘Not if you say they are a gift for your sweetheart,’ Eleyne said. ‘Of course, you will have to buy rather fancy ones if they are a gift, but it will be worth it, and I have the money. It must be safe to stop now. We have been riding for days and we can’t be far from the Scottish border. The last man you spoke to said we would reach Kendal soon. Let’s stop there and buy some food and two bridles.’

The route so far had been relatively easy and flat, following the road due north almost the whole way from Chester, which they had bypassed at a safe distance, but now they could see mountains to the east and north and the tracks had begun to climb. It was still early morning when Eleyne led the way off the road once more, and already it was blisteringly hot. The sun, high overhead, shone from a cloudless sky, and with relief they rode into the shade of a copse and dismounted.

‘Rest a little, then we’ll go on.’ Eleyne sat down wearily on a fallen tree, the mare’s plaited rein slack in her hand. The horse lowered her head and began to graze on the thick rich grass.

Luned glanced at her with a wave of sympathy as she tethered her own mount to a birch tree nearby. ‘You’re exhausted. Let me go into Kendal alone. It would be safer in the long run anyway. We can’t risk you being recognised now we’ve come so far.’ She saw Eleyne hesitate and, sensing victory, she went on quickly, ‘I’ll rest, then I’ll beg a ride on one of the wagons we’ve seen on the road. I can’t ride into the town without a bridle anyway – they’ll think I’ve stolen the horse. I’ll be safe on my own; no one is looking for me.’

Eleyne had to acknowledge that. She could not take the risk of being found this side of the Scottish border. If King Henry’s men were following them, they would stop at every guesthouse, monastery and inn; at every castle – at every place the two might have stopped. Luned pulled their bundles from her horse and threw them on the ground. Eleyne was determined and more courageous than anyone she had ever known, but the strain of the past few weeks was beginning to tell. Luned had seen the exhaustion on her face. She cried softly in the night; Luned had heard her and now, in the daylight, though her eyes were bright and there was excitement in them, she was almost too tired to stand.

Eleyne nodded and sighed. ‘You’re right, it would be safer. Take some money and buy bridles from two different saddlers, so they do not grow suspicious. Then we can buy saddles one at a time later.’

‘You won’t have enough money for saddles, my lady.’ Luned had looked into the money bag. ‘They are expensive and we should keep as much money as we can – we may need it.’

‘It’s not that far to Scotland,’ Eleyne countered. All her life she had been wealthy and it had never crossed her mind that she might one day find herself without money – that without the small, steadily dwindling pile of coins they would find themselves destitute.

‘It will be five or six days’ ride to Edinburgh at least, and each night we have to find somewhere to stay, unless you intend to continue sleeping in the forest like an outlaw,’ Luned said firmly. ‘We don’t need saddles.’

Eleyne sighed. ‘I don’t know that we dare show ourselves even in Scotland until we reach Alexander,’ she said. She kicked off her shoes and pushed her feet into the grass.

‘But once we get to him, we’ll be safe.’

‘Of course.’ Eleyne smiled. She was staring into the distance, where the green shade of the trees hazed into a blur. Crossly, she rubbed her eyes and turned to Luned. ‘Go on, if you’ve rested enough. It looks as though it must be market day. There are a lot of people on the road.’

She watched Luned thread her way back through the trees and descend the rocky slope, where she disappeared from view. Within minutes she had found herself a ride with a plump woman who was driving a wagon. A few minutes later she wished that she hadn’t: the wagon, attended by clouds of bluebottles, was laden with stinking half-cured hides.

Eleyne led both horses deeper into the shade and tethered them securely, then she stowed their bundles beneath a clump of elder, before wandering into the copse. Behind it a meadow, spangled with wild flowers and bisected by a narrow, tumbling beck, separated the copse from a larger, more dense area of forest which filled the valley and rose up the side of the hill before the mountains shook themselves clear of the trees and rose high in the sunlight. She walked down towards the water and sat on the grass to wash the dust of the road from her hands and feet. The water was ice-cold and refreshing and she drank long and gratefully from it. She was hungry, but they had eaten the last of their provisions that morning, and she would have to wait to eat until Luned returned, which might not be until dusk. Still barefoot, she wandered along the bank to where the trees came down to the water’s edge. There, in the dappled sunlight, she found some wild strawberries. Lying back in the long grass and staring up through the leaves of a graceful birch tree, she began to eat them.

She must have dozed, for when she next looked up the sun had moved several degrees towards the west and the shadows had lengthened. She wondered what had wakened her, then she saw a squirrel sitting above her washing its face with its paws. It tensed, chittering at her in fury, then disappeared.

She sat up. With the squirrel gone, the woods were unnaturally silent. She frowned, every sense alert – she was not alone, she was being watched. She scanned the hazel break on the far side of the beck, then as casually as she could, she looked behind her. The wood was darker than she remembered, the trees closer together. The afternoon was very still and even the cheerful ripple of the water at her feet seemed quieter, more distant. She cursed herself for wandering away from their horses and their bundles, where her only weapon – a small knife – was hidden. The feeling of being watched became stronger and she felt the hairs on her neck prickling. The shadow of the trees had crept nearer. Now it had reached the grass where the skirt of her black gown lay spread around her. The fabric dulled, like a dark flame extinguished.

Had they been followed after all? Were Stephen’s men in the wood even now, watching her? She rose to her knees, keeping her movements as natural as possible, then she dusted the dried grasses from her skirt and stood up. The feeling was overpowering now; she wanted to turn and run, but she forced herself to retrace her steps casually, feeling eyes on her from somewhere in the dark trees across the stream, expecting every moment to feel an arrow in her back.

Nothing happened; the silence pressed around her. The world was holding its breath with her.

At last she regained the trees and slid into the shadows, thankful, not for the first time, for her black gown. She stopped by an ancient oak, its trunk swollen and gnarled, broad enough to hide a dozen men. Slipping behind it, she peered back the way she had come, her hands on the rough bark, taking comfort from it. She could hear her heart beating in her ears. The woodland seemed deserted. Nothing moved, but she could feel it again: a presence in the hazy green distance. A presence that was not human.

‘Einion?’ she breathed. She felt the perspiration icy between her shoulder blades. She strained her eyes into the dappled shadows. This new unseen threat was even more frightening than the thought of King Henry’s men hidden in the trees.

How could Einion be here, so far from Wales? Why had he followed her? She could feel him around her, his frustration beating against the barriers of silence which separated him from her; she could sense his raw emotion, tearing at her, crying to be heard.

‘What is it?’ she cried, her voice husky with fear. ‘What is it? Tell me.’ But only the silence of the hot afternoon answered her. She rested her forehead against the tree; it was warm, reassuring, solid.

The fire, look in the fire.

Were the words in her head, or had she heard them? She swallowed, trying to calm herself.

The fire, look in the fire.

It was a long time since she had tried to see pictures in the fire; the last time she had seen her father’s sickbed. The fire had not told her that he would recover or that John would die. There had been no clue that she would have so short a time with her husband; no clue that he would leave no heir. Everything Einion had told her had been wrong. She would never be the mother of kings. Was that what he wanted to tell her – that he had made a mistake?

‘I know you were wrong!’ she called. ‘You were wrong about Scotland. John is dead!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘He’s dead! He will never be Scotland’s king – ’

Look in the fire…

‘I can’t see anything in the fire. I don’t understand.’

Look in the fire…

She stared around in despair, her hands shaking. Her breath was coming in painful snatches, deep within her chest, knowing she would have to do it. She could not argue with this strange voice which filled the silence of the woods, because she wanted to know what it was he so desperately wanted to tell her.

Almost sleep-walking, she made her way back to the clearing where she had left the horses. They were dozing, hip-slack in the heat, their heads low, their eyes closed, not bothering to look up as she crossed the grass towards them. Kneeling, she pulled the bundles from the bush, and inside Luned’s she found the flint and steel. She took them to the far side of the clearing and scraped a hollow in a patch of dusty soil. She collected flakes of birch bark and dry leaves and some brittle summer-dried moss and lichen. Piling them up, she began to strike the flint. It was several minutes before she managed a spark. Her hands were shaking and her fingers were all thumbs, but at last she had a wisp of smoke and minutes later a small flame. Throwing down the flint, she cupped her hands and blew gently.

It took some time to get the fire she wanted, a small steady glow, fed by lumps of rotten timber and made smoky with fragrant leaves. I’m mad, she thought, quite mad. What am I doing? Lighting a fire on the orders of a ghost! She prayed that the wisp of smoke would not be seen from the road, and it was a long time before she saw any pictures in the glowing embers. Her eyes were sore from the smoke, her head was heavy, and she was too conscious of the brooding presence waiting. Then slowly they came, flickering, indistinct: horses, galloping through the smoke. She could see a sword glinting in a rider’s hand, a banner flogging in the wind, its device indistinct. Frowning, she leaned forward. ‘Show me,’ she whispered, ‘show me! I am watching…’ She reached forward with her hand into the fire as if trying to part the smoke, watching, strangely detached, as the small blue flames licked at her fingers. She felt no pain. The flames nudged at her hand, companionable, friendly, and at last, through them, she saw his face: the thin, ravaged flesh, the white hair, wild as smoke, the skeletal hand raised towards her as he began to speak. She strained to hear, her mind reaching across the smoke, groping for understanding.

Behind her Luned had walked into the clearing, a heavy sack in her hand. Eleyne was kneeling beside a small fire, her hands in the embers, her eyes open, unseeing, fixed on some object Luned could not see. Luned threw herself forward. ‘Stop it!’ she screamed, and dragged Eleyne back from the fire. ‘What are you doing? Are you mad? Sweet Virgin! Look, look at your hand! You are burning!’

Eleyne’s face was blank – she didn’t know where she was and she didn’t recognise the woman pulling at her arm. Then the mist cleared from her eyes and she became aware of the agonising pain. Stunned, she looked at her fingers; the flesh of one hand was red and shiny, stained with soot.

‘Put it in the stream. Quickly, it will cool it. Come on!’ Luned pulled at her angrily. ‘What were you thinking of, putting your hand in the fire?’ Scolding and cajoling, she pulled Eleyne across the meadow and forced her to kneel at the water’s edge, plunging the burned hand into the ice-cold water. Eleyne cried out with pain and struggled to pull free, but Luned, with gritted teeth, held her wrist firmly, pushing the blistered fingers deeper into the beck. ‘Keep it there. You have to take the fire out of the flesh. Rhonwen showed me when I was little and fell into the embers in the nursery in the ty hir at Aber.’

Eleyne’s teeth had begun to chatter, as much with shock as with the sharpness of the mountain water. ‘For pity’s sake, that’s enough.’

‘No, not until the heat has gone.’ Luned touched one of the burns cautiously with her fingertip. ‘I can still feel the fire. Leave it until it’s cold. What were you doing?’ Kneeling at Eleyne’s side, Luned looked at her curiously: ‘You didn’t light the fire for heat, and there was nothing to cook.’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

Eleyne watched her fingers trailing in the water amongst the green soft fronds of the river weed as Luned released her wrist and sat back on the bank.

‘You were looking in the fire for your future?’

‘Perhaps.’ She could not tell Luned of the wraith amongst the trees, the agony of a man who had died with a message unspoken, of the future which swirled and battered against her brain in a series of untold riddles.

‘And did you see anything?’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘The pictures were starting to come as you pulled me from the fire.’

‘Just as well I did. You would have thrown yourself on the flames if I had been any later.’

Eleyne sat back at last, holding her hand before her. ‘The redness is quite gone.’ She looked at Luned, ‘You came back sooner than I had thought.’

‘I have the bridles and I have some food. And I have news.’ Grimly, Luned turned back her skirt and tore a strip off the bottom of her shift to bind Eleyne’s hand. ‘The king’s messengers have been in Kendal. They have guessed you are trying to reach Scotland and they are asking for you by name everywhere. They have our descriptions and those of the horses we ride. I wasn’t recognised on my own and without a horse, but we are going to find it very difficult from now on.’

Eleyne bit her lip and looked across the meadow towards the wood. The trees were empty now, Einion had gone. The shadows where the westering sun had sunk behind the hill at the end of the valley threw long black lines on the ground, but they were empty of menace. Shivering, she sat on the bank, looking glumly at her bandaged hand. ‘We’ll have to ride at night then.’

‘And keep away from towns and villages. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’ Luned smiled. ‘Shall we eat, then we can set off. At least the horses are rested. We can ride as long as the moon is high and sleep at moonset.’

They could not ride so fast in the darkness; the horses picked their way cautiously up the steep tracks and both young women were acutely aware of the cavernous black shadows behind trees and rocks as the path grew wilder and more steep. The night was cold and crystal clear. Every sound from the horses’ hooves, every jingle of the new bridles was magnified a thousand times and seemed to echo from the rocks behind them.

The moon dropped away into the west. For a while they continued in the starlight, then as dawn began to break they saw a huddled village in the valley below them. ‘We daren’t go down,’ Eleyne whispered, reining in her mare with her good hand. ‘We have followed the most direct road. They will look for us there.’ She peered into the shadows, looking for shelter, but high on the pass there were few trees. In the east behind the mountains the sky was paling to green. ‘We’ll have to ride well away from the track.’ She led the way up a small glen and into the shadow of a group of tall pine trees, where she dismounted. ‘There is grazing here, and water. I don’t think we’ll be seen from the main road – ’ She broke off. ‘What is it?’

Luned had cocked her head, listening, her hand over her horse’s nose to stop him calling. ‘Horses, behind us,’ she whispered.

They held their breath, pressing back into the darkness as the sound of hooves grew louder – there seemed to be a considerable number of horses riding purposefully up the road beneath them. Then they heard a sharp command ringing up the valley and the horses drew to a halt.

‘We’ve been followed,’ Eleyne breathed, her heart thudding with fear.

‘But how? I wasn’t recognised.’

‘You must have been. Come on.’ Eleyne began to lead her mare further up the defile, picking her way over the rocky ground, praying there was a way out at the top of the small valley. If there wasn’t, they were trapped.

Behind them the horses hadn’t moved, but a new sound reached their ears: the excited yelp of a hound.

Eleyne bit her lip. ‘They have dogs. We’ll never get away now.’ She looked at the rocky cliff above them. ‘Unless -’ she put her hand on the rock. It was icy, black in the pre-dawn twilight. ‘Leave the horses,’ she whispered, ‘leave everything. Climb.’

Luned stared at her. ‘I can’t.’

‘You’ll have to, there is nothing else for it. The dogs are following the horses. They will not know where we have gone.’

She gave the grey mare a regretful kiss on her silky nose and turned soundlessly to the cliff.

Her hand hurt intolerably. It had ached and burned all night, and as she used her fingers to hitch her skirts into her girdle the pain became worse. Gritting her teeth, she set her foot on a small ledge and pulled herself clear of the track. Luned followed her. The rock was slippery with dew and very cold. Clinging to it, Eleyne looked down and saw them. Three men on foot, following two dogs. They were almost below them.

She forced herself to look up and saw an overhang above her – there was no way up, nothing to be done but to cling to the rock face and pray that the men would not see them. She held her breath, waiting, aware of Luned hanging motionless beside her.

In the clear dawn air they could hear every word of the men below as they drew closer.

‘I’ll be glad when I’m back in a warm bed,’ one called, ‘with a hot-blooded wench to heat my feet.’ The retort of a second was lost in a shout of laughter.

The men were casual, unarmed as far as Eleyne could see, confident as they came upon the two horses.

‘Here they are.’ The words were clear and ringing. ‘The dogs will soon find the women. There’s no way out of this valley. Then we can get back to our beds.’

For a brief moment men and dogs were lost to view in the brush at the foot of the cliff, then Eleyne saw them emerge immediately below them. The dogs were barking wildly; all three men looked up.

‘So, our flyaway birds have roosted on the cliff!’ With a shout of laughter the leading man stood, hands on hips, and stared at them. ‘Come down.’

Eleyne clung to the rock more tightly and closed her eyes, paralysed with fear. Seconds later, there was a sharp ping as an arrow hit the rock a few feet to her left.

‘Come down, Lady Chester, or the next will be through your maid’s back.’ The banter had left the man’s voice.

‘All right.’ Eleyne’s voice was hoarse. ‘All right, we’ll come down.’

By the time she reached the bottom of the cliff, she was shaking like a leaf and her burned fingers were bleeding through the bandage. Unable to stand, she sank to the ground helplessly as Luned jumped the last few feet and landed beside her.

The man looked concerned. ‘Bring the horses up here; I don’t think her ladyship can walk.’ He stepped over to her.

‘Leave her.’ Luned pushed him away. ‘Let me see her hand.’

He stood back as Luned unwrapped the dirty bandage and pulled it gently away from Eleyne’s blistered and bleeding fingers. ‘I’ll have to bandage it again,’ she said softly, ‘does it hurt very much?’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘We’ll ride back to Kendal immediately,’ the man said, ‘and find a physician to dress it for you before we go back.’

‘Go back?’ Eleyne looked at him wearily.

‘To Chester. The king has ordered that you be taken back there the moment we find you.’ He gave a half bow. ‘I understand his grace does not think it an appropriate time for you to be visiting Scotland.’

The two horses were led up to them.

‘Allow me, my lady, I’ll help you into the saddle, then we’ll rejoin the escort on the track below.’

VII

Eleyne slept in the earl’s bedchamber and was given all the state of the Countess of Chester. But she was a prisoner. John de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, had made that quite clear. She was not to ride or to visit the town; she couldn’t receive envoys or messengers unless he was present, and she could not write to her father or to her aunt or uncle in Scotland. Her vision faded and she did not have the heart to summon it again. Whatever destiny had in store for her, it would come without her aid.

Rhonwen anointed her hand with salves which softened and healed the burned skin, and scolded her alternately for running away and for getting caught. ‘That has put you in the wrong, cariad. Now they are on their guard. They expect you to try again.’ She tied the cool buttered silk bandage tighter and settled Eleyne’s arm into the scarf knotted around her neck as a sling. ‘You should have bided your time. You should have waited for King Alexander to ask for you to be sent to him.’

‘He hasn’t asked – ’

‘He has. Countess Clemence told me. He has written to King Henry in the strongest possible terms and demanded that, as the widow of the heir to Scotland, you be allowed to return there. King Henry has refused.’

‘Of course.’ Eleyne walked sadly to the window of the solar and looked down across the walls into the busy street. ‘He has already selected my husband, it seems, but he does not deign to tell me his name.’

She turned with a flash of impatience. ‘Dear sweet Christ! for two pins I would throw a rope of sheets across the battlements and slide down! How dare he do this to me! I am one of the highest-born ladies in the land, I am a princess of Wales and of Scotland, and he treats me like a brood bitch to be mated at his command!’

‘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

‘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 did.’ 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 around 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.

Eleyne stepped away from her husband and kissed Rhonwen’s pale cheek. ‘Are you all right?’

Rhonwen nodded. ‘You saved my life, cariad.’

‘Yes.’ For a moment Eleyne looked at Rhonwen, her face bleak. Then she turned to her husband’s side.

The nuptial bed had been set up in the castle’s great guest chamber, and there at last Eleyne found herself alone with Robert de Quincy. He had drunk a great deal at the feast and his handsome face was flushed. He had insisted on watching as his wife’s gown was removed by Luned and Nesta, and as Rhonwen, tight-lipped, had brushed out her hair. Eleyne had kept on her shift and had pulled over it the velvet bed gown. Now she turned to him; he was still fully dressed.

‘Do you wish me to call your servants, sir?’

He smiled. ‘There is no need, you can undress me.’

She stared at him. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you, wife. You can be my servant.’ His voice was insolent. Stephen Seagrave’s advice had been clear enough: his arrogant young wife had to be mastered. And if in mastering her he indulged some of his favoured pleasures, so much the better. He would begin at once. He stuck his feet out in front of him as he lounged in the heavy carved chair. ‘Remove my shoes first.’

Eleyne hesitated and his face darkened. ‘You have just promised before God to obey me, woman. Remove my shoes.’

‘I am not your servant,’ she retorted hotly, her eyes flashing with indignation. She walked across to the door and pulled it open. ‘Call Sir Robert’s manservant,’ she said to the guard outside. Closing the door, she turned to him. ‘Do you know who I am?’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Yes, you are my wife.’

‘I am the Countess of Chester, sir, a title I shall keep until the day I die as you have none to give me.’

The door opened and a man peered around it. ‘You sent for me, Sir Robert?’

‘No,’ Robert leaned back in his chair, ‘I did not. My lady wife will wait on me. You may go, Edward, I shall not need you again tonight.’ He waited until the door closed, then he stood up. He walked across to Eleyne and stood in front of her, smiling.

She did not see the blow coming. His hand moved so fast she had no time to dodge and his open palm caught her full across the face. He smiled again. ‘It seems a pity that the whole castle will see from your bruises that I have had to chastise my wife so soon.’ He folded his arms as she regained her balance. ‘I understand that woman you summoned after the wedding service is a common murderer,’ he went on, his voice very quiet. ‘Master Seagrave tells me that if I have difficulty in ensuring your obedience I should give the woman up to the hangman.’

Eleyne gasped and a look of triumph crossed his face. ‘My shoes, madam,’ he commanded again. He did not sit down and, almost blind with rage, she was forced to go down on her knees to remove his shoes and then his hose. She lifted the heavy mantle from his shoulders and hung it, at his instructions, on the peg on the wall, then she unfastened his gown, hanging the heavy girdle beside the mantle. His chest was covered in black hair and his shoulders were very broad. She felt a catch of panic as he stood before her dressed only in his linen drawers, then – deliberately and slowly – he raised his hand and unfastened the ties that held them up, allowing them to fall.

‘Now you, wife,’ he said. ‘Take off that hideous shift. Let us see what I have got for my side of the bargain.’

Fists clenched, she tried not to look at him as he stood so blatantly before her. There was complete silence in the room, then he laughed. ‘Perhaps I should call my manservant to undress you, Lady Chester,’ he said quietly.

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Somehow she steadied her hands so she could untie the ribbon which fastened her bed gown and let it fall to the ground, then, almost defiantly, she pulled open the neck of her shift and allowed it too to slide from her shoulders. She did not look at him. She felt his hands running over her body; she was completely cold. She allowed him to lead her to the bed and she lay down when he commanded it, and allowed him to force her legs apart without protest. It was as if a screen separated her from her body.

It hurt; it hurt very badly and she bit back her tears, turning her head away on the pillow so that he would not see her face, but it was soon over and he withdrew, leaving her feeling strangely inviolate. He might do what he wished with her body, but he could not reach her.

When he lay at last, snoring loudly, sprawled across the bed, she crawled away and pulled on her bed gown. Then she went to the fire. She was completely numb.

The fire had died almost to nothing – the ashes were white and the log which still burned was sour and smoky with its last heat. Stooping wearily to the pile of wood in the basket, she threw some on. For a moment nothing happened, then the flames began to flicker into life.

A horseman was galloping fast towards her, one hand on the reins, one held out towards her. She heard him call her name.

‘Who are you?’

She breathed the words out loud, leaning closer to the fire. Her hair fell across her shoulders.

He was coming closer now and she could almost see his face. He was smiling. ‘Wait for me,’ he called. ‘Wait for me, my love.’ She could hear the thunder of his horse’s hooves, see the swirl of its caparison, and suddenly she recognised him.

‘What in the name of the Blessed Virgin do you think you are doing?’ The hand on her shoulder was so heavy she lost her balance and sprawled forward in the hearth. Her husband stood over her, naked, his face white with fury in the firelight. ‘Who were you talking to? Who?’ She tried to dodge his kick but it struck her thigh and she winced. ‘What were you doing?’

She looked up at him through the dishevelled curtain of her hair and saw fear in his eyes behind the anger.

She laughed. ‘What do you think I was doing?’ she whispered. ‘I was looking into the flames to see the future. Scrying. Seeing the outcome of my marriage.’

He licked his lips nervously. ‘And what did you see?’ In spite of himself, he had to ask.

‘I saw death,’ she answered slowly and she saw him blanch.

It was untrue. She had seen Alexander of Scotland.

I

At dawn Eleyne crept from the bed and went to the stables. The grooms stared at the bruises on her face and were embarrassed as they brought out one of the palfreys for her to ride. She gave Invictus titbits, kissed his nose and left him behind. She knew already she could never let Robert know how much she loved the horse.

She did not see her husband again until supper, when she sat beside him at the high table, sharing his dish as she had shared John’s. He appeared to be in high good humour.

‘So you rode out without me?’ He dabbled his fingers in the silver basin of rose water the page held for him and reached for the napkin. ‘Why was that?’ His voice was innocently quiet, his face bland, pleasantly interested.

‘You were asleep,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ She waved the page away and signalled for the meal to begin.

He smiled, holding out his goblet for wine. ‘In future you will remain in bed until I give you permission to rise. Then we will ride together.’

‘If you wish.’ She felt her temper flare, but she forced herself to smile back at him. She was not going to defy him before the whole household and give him the chance to rebuke her publicly.

She ate little and drank less, watching silently as he called again and again for wine. The other men at the high table were watching, their expressions inscrutable as they saw Robert’s hand waver on the stem of the goblet and tip a few drops of wine on to the table.

‘We have musicians with us from Provence,’ John de Lacy said at last. ‘Shall I ask them to play?’

Robert rose unsteadily to his feet, stared around and then smiled. ‘My wife and I are going to bed,’ he announced, shaping his words with care. ‘You may ask the devil to play for you, if you wish!’ He caught Eleyne’s wrist and pulled her to her feet. ‘Madam.’

Eleyne was calm, conscious that every eye in the crowded great hall was on her. As they walked between the tables to the door at the far end of the hall, a total silence descended on the assembled household.

The bedchamber was dark, the fire banked and warm. Robert released her wrist and walked to the centre of the room. ‘Why is there only one candle?’ He sounded peevish.

‘They did not expect us so soon from supper.’ Eleyne went to the table and touched the candle to the others in the candelabra. As each flame caught and flared, the room grew brighter, though the vaulted ceiling stayed dark. Outside it was bitterly cold; the wind was sighing in the battlements.

‘Boy!’ Robert bellowed for the servant who had followed them from the hall. ‘More lights. I want to see what I am doing!’ He threw himself down on the chair by the fire and watched as the boy moved round the room, lighting branch after branch of candles. On the far side of the chamber, the bed loomed dark beneath its hangings.

‘Enough. Now fetch a bucket of water.’ Robert sounded completely sober.

‘Water?’ Eleyne echoed.

‘Water,’ he repeated, and he laughed.

‘Why do you want water?’ A small unacknowledged knot of fear tightened in her stomach.

‘You will see.’ He folded his arms.

It was a long time before the boy reappeared, panting, with a large bucket of water. He put it on the floor with relief, slopping some over his shoes. From the door and down the stairs a wet trail showed the way he had come with his burden from the well.

Robert smiled; he did not seem to have grown impatient with the long wait. ‘Throw it on the fire.’

‘Sir Robert?’ The boy stared at him.

‘You heard me. Throw it on the fire.’ Robert stood up and the boy hastily picked up the heavy pail. Staggering slightly, he carried it to the hearth and tipped the water over the fire, which hissed and died in clouds of steam. Immediately the room began to grow chill.

Robert nodded grim approval. ‘Now leave us.’

The boy ran for the door, the pail banging against his knees.

‘Why did you put out the fire?’ Eleyne kept her voice steady with difficulty. She could feel her anger and fear mounting.

He folded his arms. ‘I’ve done it for your sake, wife. We don’t want you staring into the future too often, do we? Particularly if what you see frightens you.’

He began to unfasten his cloak. ‘Now, you may remove my shoes, if you please.’

She moved away from him. ‘No, I am not your servant.’

‘Oh, but you are, if I say so.’ He let his cloak fall to the floor. ‘Think of the Lady Rhonwen, my dear, with the rope around her neck.’ He moved so swiftly she did not have time to dodge. ‘I think you have to learn a little about obedience. I think your grand titles have gone to your head! Now, undress me.’

She side-stepped. ‘No. You are a knight, sir. You should be undressed by a man, by your squire. Surely it demeans you to be undressed by a woman.’ She could not keep the scorn out of her voice.

‘Not if that woman is a princess,’ he sneered. ‘Are you going to do as I say?’

‘No.’ Even the danger to Rhonwen was forgotten. ‘I shall go to my uncle the king. I shall show him what you have done to me.’ She fingered her cheek. ‘He will protect me.’

Just for a moment he hesitated, then he shook his head. ‘You will have to reach him first, my dear. Oh, I want you to see the king; I want you to see that I am given office at court, but first we are going to have to ensure that you have learned to be a good wife.’ His voice dropped menacingly. ‘Perhaps in future we should see that your bruises are not quite so obvious.’ As he lunged, she ducked away, dodging him, hearing his breath rasping in his throat as he spun around to follow her. She threw herself at the heavy door, her fingers scrabbling for the latch. She found it and pulled it half open but he was right behind her and, slamming it shut with his fist, he shot the bolt across. As he gripped her arm and swung her to face him, she caught the full blast of his wine-sodden breath and realised just how drunk he was.

She kicked at him but he ignored her, cursing as he dragged her across the room towards the bed. She fought him but he was too strong for her. He had no difficulty holding her with one hand as he ripped down the ornate woven cord which held back the bed hangings, letting the heavy curtains fall around the end of the bed. He pulled the cord tightly around her flailing wrists and pushed her face down on to the bed, binding the rope again and again around the oak bedpost, pinioning her securely.

He was panting as he stood back to survey his handiwork. Her veil had been torn off in the struggle, and her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders. Looking at her as she lay helpless before him, he smiled again then carefully he drew his dagger. His smile deepened as he heard her frightened intake of breath at the sight of the gleaming blade. He tested it with his thumb, enjoying her fear, then methodically, with exaggerated care, he began to cut off her clothes, reducing gown and mantle and shift to a tangle of brilliant rags.

Satisfied that she was naked, he left her and went to the coffer by the wall. He had obviously put the slender birch whip there during the day in anticipation of this moment. He took it out and flexed it, the smile still frozen on his face. ‘Your bruises will be where even the king will not see them, princess mine,’ he said softly.

She was helpless. All she could do was bite her lips, so as not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out as he hit her again and again. When at last he stopped, she lay slumped across the mattress only half conscious that he was untying her.

‘Are you still going to tell the king?’ His mouth was close to her ear; she felt his hot stinking breath on her face. ‘If you do, I shall give you Rhonwen’s head to take to him as a present.’

Pushing himself away from the bed, he began to remove his own clothes. She raised her face, her hair in her eyes, her face burning in spite of the bitter cold of the room. Her whole body ached, the welts across her thighs and buttocks stung, and she felt the stickiness of the blood from the worst of the wounds, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had defeated her. She dragged herself to her feet as he removed the last of his garments.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ He was smiling again, naked now as she was, his hands on his hips, his member massively erect. ‘Get back on that bed.’

She found the courage to shake her head. ‘No.’ Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. ‘No, I will not sleep with you. Get out.’ It was not a plea; it was a command.

His face darkened and he stepped forward, meaning to catch her wrist, but she was too quick for him. Her fingers clawed, she dragged them down his face, seeing with satisfaction three ribs of black oozing blood open down his cheek. He let out an explosive curse and grabbed her, throwing her to the floor, then he reached with both hands for her hair. She screamed with pain as he pulled her on to her knees and held her for a moment, her head forced back, before he made her take his red, engorged penis in her mouth. Retching, she clawed at him, blind with fury and disgust, but she could not free herself until, satisfied at last, he pushed her away.

As he threw himself on to the bed, laughing, she crawled to the garderobe and vomited again and again down the latrine hole into the darkness, her naked body ice-cold and sheened with sweat. She knelt there for a long time, her forehead resting on the rim of the cold wooden seat before she found the strength to stand. Her hands still numb from the ropes, she pulled off the wedding ring her husband had given her the day before. She cupped it in her palm, feeling the weight of it for a moment, then let it fall four storeys into the fetid ditch below.

She was shaking uncontrollably as she walked back into the bedchamber. Robert was snoring. She pulled the torn curtain from its hook and wrapped it around her shoulders, then she turned away, fighting back a new wave of nausea. She had time to take only a few steps towards the bolted door before she collapsed on to the stone floor.

II

When she awoke, she was so bruised and stiff she could hardly move. The bed was empty; the fire had been made up, and Luned was bending over her.

‘Where is he?’ As Eleyne sat up a wave of dizziness swept over her.

Luned was tight-lipped. ‘I’ve sent for hot water and salves.’

The smears of blood on the curtain were evidence enough of what had happened. Silently Luned helped Eleyne to wash and anoint her bruises and cuts, then she dressed her in a shift of softest silk before putting on her gown.

‘I put the whip on the fire,’ she said as she brushed Eleyne’s hair.

‘Good.’ Their eyes met. ‘Did you see him this morning?’

For the first time Luned smiled. ‘Everyone saw him. He will carry those scars on his face for a very long time.’

III

‘You have to go, don’t you see?’ Eleyne shook Rhonwen’s arm. ‘As long as you are here he has a hold over me. He can make me do anything he wants. I can’t fight him while you are here.’

‘The man is an animal!’ Rhonwen spat at her. ‘He can’t be allowed to live! I can get rid of him for you. I can see to it that he dies – ’

Eleyne turned away. ‘No, that is not the answer.’ She pushed away the thought of John dying in her arms; of the empty goblet of dark green, earth-smelling infusion which he had drunk. She could never again allow that suspicion to rise to the surface of her mind.

‘Then what shall I do? I have to help you…’ Rhonwen’s eyes were narrow with hate.

‘You have to go while I work out how to deal with the situation.’ It was too painful to sit down. She leaned against the table, conscious that her sleeves, long as they were, failed to hide the rope marks on one of her hands.

Rhonwen frowned. ‘How can you deal with him? He can always resort to violence. That is the only language men understand, and before it we are powerless.’

‘I will think of something,’ Eleyne said grimly. ‘But you must go, don’t you see?’

Rhonwen sighed. ‘Where?’

‘As we planned before. I can give you money -’ Eleyne paused, realising that even that was no longer certain. ‘You must go where no one knows you and you can live under an assumed name. I know it will be hard, but you will be safe. I shall obtain a pardon for you somehow, I promise. One thing I know already: my husband longs to have a position in court. Secretly I think he delights in being married to the king’s niece, but he will have to take me to the king if he wants preferment.’

Countess Clemence helped her. She had swiftly formed a shrewd opinion of the young man who stood now at Eleyne’s side. He was obviously shallow, greedy and vicious and nothing Eleyne told her disabused her of this view. She nodded at once at Eleyne’s whispered, heavily censored tale, and said, ‘I shall give Rhonwen and Luned money. They can go to London, where I have houses. It is unthinkable that you should be threatened like this.’ She frowned, ‘Be careful, child. He is a spiteful young man.’

‘I’ll be careful.’ Eleyne took Clemence’s hands in hers. ‘You have been like a mother to me. I shall miss you so much when we leave Chester.’

Clemence smiled sadly. ‘And you have been the daughter I never had. You will always be in my prayers. I don’t know what will happen to the earldom of Chester now. I know your husband hopes he will get it through his marriage to you.’ She snorted derisively. ‘John de Lacy thinks he will be given it too, but I think the king will make the lack of a direct heir the excuse to take the earldom into his own hands. I shall have to move on of course. I’ll not stay under this roof with the king’s men in charge. I shall go to my own dower lands, and offer a home there to Lady Rhonwen and to your little Luned if they wish it. But in the meantime they will be safe in London.’

IV

The night after Rhonwen had left Eleyne countermanded her husband’s order about the fire.

‘Leave it,’ she ordered as the servant staggered in with the water to douse the flames. ‘We will keep a fire tonight.’

Robert frowned. ‘I said it should be put out.’

‘Not tonight.’ She spoke so forcefully that he hesitated and she seized the advantage. ‘You may go, take the bucket away. Sir Robert has changed his mind about sleeping in a cold room.’ She smiled at the boy, waiting to hear Robert’s shout of fury, but it didn’t come. He waited until the door had closed.

‘You will be sorry you did that,’ he said softly. ‘I do not expect my wife to defy me.’ Three parallel scratches flared angrily on his cheek.

Eleyne had been waiting for this moment, her fear eclipsed by her fury. ‘If you wish to sleep in the cold, sir, I suggest you go out to the stable. If you wish to sleep with me, you will behave as a knight and a gentleman. If not, the king shall hear of it. I have already written to him telling him that I am coming to see him. And do not think, sir, that I would be afraid to show the king my backside as evidence of your treatment to me. I will show him every inch of my body if I have to.’ The words echoed in the silence.

Robert looked uncertain. ‘Are you challenging me?’

‘I am telling you how this marriage will be conducted in future.’

‘A future without your nurse presumably.’ His eyes glittered.

She nodded. ‘A future free of your threats. Rhonwen has gone, so has Luned. There is no one here now that I care that much for – ’ She snapped her fingers beneath his nose. ‘If you wish to be a husband to me, sir, it will be on my terms if you hope for a career in the king’s service.’

He could of course lock her up and keep her from the king; he could, by law and custom, do anything he liked with her, except actually kill her, but she was fairly sure he wouldn’t. He wanted the king’s favour, and she was his only route to it.

V

When the time came to leave Chester the baggage train was shorter than anything Eleyne was used to. It included her horses, her belongings, her dower plate and bedding, the wedding gifts she had received including two silver basins and a jewelled chaplet from the Queen of Scotland and a tapestry from Arras from her uncle the king. There were only a few servants: Robert announced on the last day that he could afford no more. It was hardly an escort fit for the Countess of Chester.

At least to begin with they were to live at Fotheringhay. Eleyne took comfort from the familiar surroundings, which had seen so much of her marriage to John, but it was small compensation for the misery of her new life. She was trapped. Her dreams had come to nothing. Einion’s predictions were so much dust, blown and vanished on the wind. To keep herself sane, she allowed a tenuous thread of hope to remain deep inside her, that Alexander would hear of her plight and find the means to rescue her and declare her marriage invalid – but reality was too pressing and too unhappy to allow her time for dreams.

Robert had not mentioned the missing wedding ring. He had taken note of her threats and ceased his overt tormenting of her, often drinking himself insensible in the hall and sleeping there amongst his companions. But when he was sober enough to come to her room, he took every opportunity to assert his will, and in bed, where she had no choice but to obey him, he hurt her viciously and frequently, never enough to leave a mark, but enough to make her dread each day’s end. There was little to distract him save hunting: there was no earldom now, no great estates to administer. Eleyne’s dower lands were still the subject of royal enquiry; even the manor and castle of Fotheringhay might be taken from her, though now she had letters confirming that she could for the time being consider Fotheringhay, Nassington and Baddow as part of her inheritance to give her and Robert an income to live. Robert instructed bailiffs in her name to visit them and raise money.

When the chance came at last to ride to London, they both – for their own reasons – seized it with alacrity. The court was at Westminster and Robert’s brother, Lord Winchester, had suggested that they join him in the south as the February ice began to give way to the long-hoped-for thaw.

They were guests in a stone-built house in one of the new fashionable suburbs of London south of the River Thames at Southwark and there a letter came for Eleyne. She took it with a glance at her husband, hoping he had not seen it, but he had spotted it at once. The seal was blurred. She could not immediately recognise it.

‘A letter, madam,’ he said with the smooth smile which she had come to loathe. ‘Please, allow me to see it.’

‘It is addressed to me, sir,’ Eleyne retorted, her voice tight with anger. She saw the raised eyebrows of her husband’s family around them and forced herself to smile. ‘Come, you cannot ask to see my billets-doux. What would my lovers think!’

The message was from Rhonwen, she was sure of it. Dear God, how could the woman have been so foolish as to send it openly here? It was three months since Rhonwen and Luned had ridden out of Chester Castle into the icy winter’s night. They had not been heard of since.

Robert laughed heavily. ‘If that is a billet-doux, sweetheart, all the more reason for your husband to see it. I wish to know who your secret admirers are.’ Stepping forward he snatched the letter from her hand. She saw his brother’s frown of disapproval. The Earl of Winchester seemed to have little time, normally, for his youngest brother and she suspected that their invitation now was due solely to his curiosity about his new sister-in-law.

She glanced at Robert as he broke open the seal on the letter and watched his face nervously as he read the contents. It was several moments before he looked up. Far from registering fury he looked pleased.

‘This is from your aunt, the Queen of Scots. She has arrived in London and wishes you to call upon her.’

‘Aunt Joanna?’ Eleyne was quite unprepared for the jolt of shock and excitement which swept through her. ‘And the King of Scots? He is not in London?’ She realised it was impossible even as she said it. Her heart had started beating very fast. Terrified he might see the longing in her eyes she looked down at the floor.

‘Of course not.’ He tossed the letter on to the table. ‘The queen has been visiting the shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury, it seems. She is on her way back to Scotland.’

‘Then I shall go to her.’ Eleyne could not hide the happiness in her eyes. ‘It is a long time since I saw Aunt Joanna, and she was so ill then. I shall go today.’

‘You will go when I can spare you,’ Robert said heavily. ‘And then I shall go with you.’

Eleyne stared at him, her heart sinking. ‘But, has she asked to see you too?’

‘You do not go alone.’ Robert scooped the letter off the table and walked deliberately across the small room to drop it on the fire. Eleyne had not had the chance to see it at all.

Lord Winchester frowned. ‘You cannot go to see her grace of Scotland, Robert, if she has invited Eleyne for a private family visit. I have heard that the queen’s health is still not good. She will not wish to receive you.’

‘Then Eleyne must wait until she does.’ Robert scowled. ‘She will in any case be busy with me at court. We are to call upon her uncle tomorrow.’ He had ordered himself a complete set of new clothes at Eleyne’s expense: an embroidered, long-sleeved tunic over which would go a rich tabard. With these would go new stockings, cross-gartered in scarlet, and soft shoes buckled in silver. Over the whole outfit he planned to throw a new mantle, lined with miniver. His wife, he had decided without consulting her, would wear her silver gown, something she had not worn since their wedding day, and with it the ornate head-dress that the Queen of Scots had sent her as a wedding gift.

He himself had given her a cloak lined with sables paid for by her rents. It pleased him that it would contrast nicely with his own.

Eleyne did not argue. It did not matter to her what she wore; what mattered was that she should manage to catch the king’s ear alone and she was afraid this was almost certain to be impossible. She wanted the king to know what he had done in marrying her to Robert de Quincy and she had to try to obtain the pardon for Rhonwen.

There had been no word from the latter, no clue as to where she and Luned might be staying, and there was nowhere she could send to find out. She did not trust any of the servants now, nor seek to make special friends of them. They all liked her, of that she was fairly certain, but it would not be fair to expose any of them to her husband’s vindictive wrath. She had seen him flog a page boy for dropping a basin of water which splashed across his master’s shoes. The child had nearly died. If anyone defied Robert de Quincy it could only be his wife, and she defied him, she knew, at her peril.

The Norman Abbey of Westminster with at its east end the new Lady Chapel which housed the shrine of St Edward the Confessor lay bathed in sunshine next morning as the Countess of Chester and her husband made their way to the Palace of Westminster and into the presence of the king. With him was his young queen, Eleanor, and beside her sat the Queen of Scots and Margaret, Countess of Pembroke.

‘So, niece, how do you like your new husband?’ Henry called out jovially as she appeared. He reached across for the queen’s hand. Eleyne, curtseying before him, did not answer. Her face was bleak. ‘It is good to see you again, my uncle.’

He frowned with a glance over her shoulder at Robert who had bowed before him with an elaborate flourish. Then he went on. ‘As you see, your Aunt Joanna is here. And the Princess Margaret. They especially asked to be here when I told them you were coming this morning.’ He smiled across at his sister and then at the woman with whom he had once been so in love.

Joanna looked very pale and tired. Her eyes were full of unhappiness as she smiled at Eleyne. ‘I hope you will come and visit me at my lodgings in the Tower, Eleyne. I return to Scotland soon and I would like to talk.’

‘I should like that too, your grace,’ Eleyned smiled. ‘If I can persuade my husband to allow me out of his sight.’ She softened the words with a smile but there was no mistaking the harsh note in her voice.

Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘I am sure he will allow you to visit whoever you wish, Eleyne.’ Not for the first time he felt a twinge of conscience about the way he had hustled his niece into this marriage. He had comforted himself that Robert was a handsome young blade and must be a damn sight better husband than the constantly sick Earl of Chester had ever been, but seeing them together he knew in his heart that was not the case. Robert’s obsequious smile did not extend to his eyes, and however smart he looked – the king took a minute to examine the cut of his clothes with a professional eye – he could not hide the unpleasant arrogance of his demeanour, nor the possessive way he now took his wife’s arm. Henry’s gaze lingered on the place where Robert’s fingers crushed the silk of her sleeve.

‘I shall require you to wait on me here, Sir Robert,’ he said firmly. ‘And you will allow Eleyne time to visit her aunt whenever she wishes.’

The gratitude in her eyes did not make him feel any more comfortable.

VI

‘Why did you marry him?’ Joanna was reclining in her bed, her ladies banished to the far side of the room so she and Eleyne could talk privately.

‘I had no choice.’ Eleyne outlined what had happened, as her aunt’s eyes rounded in horror.

‘Alexander knew nothing of this, I am sure of it. When he met Henry at York, they spoke of you, he told me so. He told me Henry said you had agreed to the marriage and were pleased with it.’ Joanna lay back and closed her eyes. ‘It made him angry that you should be married to someone without title. He said you must have fallen desperately in love with the young man and the king was granting your whim.’

Eleyne stared at her in horror. ‘How could anyone think that I would choose to marry Robert?’ she cried. ‘I hate him!’

Joanna bit her lip. ‘I can see you do. Poor, sweet Eleyne. My brother is a fool. Had it been a dynastic marriage no one could have queried what he ordered. But to marry you to a nobody -’ She shuddered.

‘It was to insult my father.’ Eleyne wrapped her arms around herself, cold in spite of the huge fire which burned in the grate. ‘I can think of no other reason for him to act so quickly and so cruelly. It made papa so angry.’ She shook her head. ‘And yet the king allowed my sister, Margaret, to marry the man she loved.’

‘I remember,’ Joanna said, ‘but she obtained a release from him in writing. You told me.’ She glanced at Eleyne thoughtfully. ‘Do you love someone then, someone you could have married?’

Eleyne could feel the heat in her cheeks. ‘No, there is no one I could have married.’

‘I see.’ It was several seconds before Joanna went on. ‘That must make it a little less hard to bear.’

‘No, it doesn’t. I have to spend the rest of my life with that man; I have to obey him. I have to carry his children!’

It was a thoughtless remark. She knew it as soon as she had said it. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot.’

Joanna said, ‘I went to the shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury and I have visited the shrine of St Edward at Westminster. I have prayed that they will intercede, as I have prayed to our own Blessed Margaret and to St Bride. I have lit enough candles to bring daylight into the great hall at Westminster Palace!’ She smiled wanly. ‘One of them will hear me.’

‘Of course they will.’ Eleyne took her hands and squeezed them gently. ‘You are but young still, so much younger than mama when she had me.’

‘I am twenty-eight. By the time she was my age your mother already had four children.’ Joanna lay back listlessly.

Eleyne smiled ruefully. ‘I understand a little. I prayed so hard that I would have John’s baby, but it was not to be.’

They sat in silence and, taking a cue from their obvious sadness, Joanna’s lady-in-waiting, Auda, moved towards them with her lute and began softly to play.

VII

‘So, did you remember your obedience to me?’ Robert was standing with his back to the fire, his arms folded across his chest. The servants had left them for the night.

Eleyne was combing out her hair, making the task last as long as she could. ‘I tried not to remember you at all,’ she said tartly. ‘The Queen of Scots and I talked of family matters.’

‘And you did not complain to her that I abuse you?’

‘What would be the use of complaining?’ Eleyne swung round to face him. ‘The queen could do nothing. It is her brother, the King of England, who will act if I ask him.’

‘But you won’t ask him.’ Robert’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Will you?’

She held his gaze. ‘He is responsible for marrying me to you,’ she said softly, almost unaware of the thread of menace in her voice. ‘And he is sorry for it.’

He raised an eyebrow, stung. ‘What do you mean, sorry?’

‘He regrets it already. He has wasted a valuable asset.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘But a woman is a reusable commodity. Widowed once, she can be widowed again.’

He went white. ‘What are you saying?’

She stared into her mirror, ‘I am saying nothing, my husband,’ she said slowly, ‘except that I could wish for greater happiness in my marriage.’

A petulant frown appeared on his face. ‘How can we be happy? You are always fighting me!’

‘Because you force me to do things I do not wish to do.’

He glowered at her. ‘That is a husband’s right.’

‘I don’t want a husband who enforces his rights. I want a husband who earns them. I want a husband who is considerate. I want a husband who is gentle. I want a husband who is a perfect knight!’

She looked into the mirror to gauge his reaction. Such a speech could earn her a beating or worse, but she saw that he was thoughtful. Her oblique threat had struck home, as had the intriguing idea that he might be the perfect knight! Then his expression closed and she knew the moment had passed. There would be no change in Robert.

VIII

The Queen of Scots’s maid had been gone a long time. When she returned to Rhonwen, she was breathless and her flushed cheeks betrayed that she had wasted several minutes in the narrow stone passage, kissing a handsome squire.

‘Her grace will see you now, my lady,’ she gasped, straightening her cap. She was enjoying her stay in the royal apartments of the great Tower of London.

Rhonwen gravely followed the girl back up the long staircase and from there she was escorted by Hugh de Gurley, the queen’s valet, into the east-facing bedchamber where Joanna lay propped on a heap of soft pillows.

Joanna acknowledged her curtsey with a wave of her hand. ‘Have you brought a message from Lady Eleyne?’

‘I have not seen Lady Eleyne for many months, your grace.’ Rhonwen was holding a box containing gifts: honey and sweetmeats and pastries to tempt the ailing queen’s appetite. ‘Her husband threatened my life. He used his threats as a lever to force her to obey him. It was a situation which could not continue. I have been living in London in a dower house belonging to the old Countess of Chester.’ Rhonwen was studying her carefully, noting with professional interest the pale skin, the dark rings beneath the queen’s eyes, her languid movements. ‘It is only until Eleyne can reach the king and obtain a free pardon for me.’

‘Oh yes, the death of the Prince of Gwynedd’s bard.’ Joanna lay back. ‘We heard about that. I expect Eleyne will petition my brother while she is here.’

‘She is here then?’ Rhonwen smiled. ‘I had heard rumours but I wasn’t sure. That was why I begged an audience, knowing she would come to see you if she were in London.’

The queen smiled. ‘She and Sir Robert are in Southwark, across the river, staying with the Earl of Winchester. He is our constable of Scotland and will be escorting me home soon.’

Rhonwen shook her head. ‘I sent messages to Fotheringhay to tell her where I was, but I doubt they ever reached her.’

Joanna nodded. ‘She told me something of the marriage. It is not a happy one.’ She sat forward suddenly, her eyes alight at the thought of intrigue. ‘My lady, if you wish to meet Eleyne safely, then you must come here. The king has told Sir Robert to allow her to visit me alone – Sir Robert seems afraid to allow her anywhere without him in constant attendance. Poor Eleyne, she can’t even ride that fearsome great horse of hers. But here at the Tower she can be away from him for a few hours at least.’

Rhonwen smiled. ‘That is a kind offer, your grace, and one I accept most gratefully. I’ve missed Eleyne so much.’

The thought of outwitting Robert de Quincy pleased Joanna enormously and distracted her a little from her lassitude and unhappiness. She reached for the box which Rhonwen had put on the bed, pulling at the pale green ribbons which fastened it.

Rhonwen watched, amused. The woman was a fool, but for the time being she was useful. So for just a while longer her existence could be tolerated.

IX

Their reunion was a happy one. They clung together for a long time before Joanna’s amused gaze, then at the same moment they held each other at arm’s length. It was scarcely three months since they had been parted, but it had seemed like forever.

Rhonwen was smartly dressed in a new gown with fine linen gloves which she had tossed on to the table. Countess Clemence had employed her officially as housekeeper to one of her houses in the city and, after the initial shock of settling into the cut and thrust of city life, Rhonwen had begun to enjoy herself running the rambling old building in Chester Court off Gracechurch Street. Away from the protocol of life in the prince’s household in Wales, or that of the countess at Chester, she was undisputed head of the house, with freedom to run it as she wished. She did it well and with energy; the only thing which had spoiled her enjoyment was the thought of what might be happening to Eleyne.

‘And Luned? How is she?’ Eleyne was sitting opposite her, near the fire, beside the queen.

Rhonwen frowned. ‘Married.’

‘Married? To whom? When? Where is she?’

‘To a London silk merchant; last month; she is living in Milk Street. I told her she should seek your permission, but she would have none of it. She told me she would like mine, but if I didn’t give it she would go ahead anyway. She was determined to be married before Shrovetide. She wouldn’t wait. They were married on Valentine’s Eve. He is a wealthy young man, good-looking in his way, I suppose, and besotted with her. What could I say?’

Eleyne smiled. ‘Is she happy?’

Rhonwen nodded. ‘Oh yes.’

‘Then I’m pleased for her. Tell her she has my blessing. I’d like to see her.’

‘Tell her to come to us here,’ Joanna put in. ‘If she is married to a silk merchant, perhaps we can buy some of her husband’s wares.’

X

They met three more times, the last with Luned there, dressed now in clothes finer than those Eleyne wore. Robert, handling the money due to her from her dower, used much of it for his own wardrobe. His wife, he announced, had enough clothes already and, seething with anger, Eleyne had to abide by his decision. She saved her finer gowns for audiences with the king and the Queen of Scots. The rest of the time she had to wear gowns and mantles which were darned.

This last meeting did not go well. Joanna, attended as usual by Auda and the faithful Hugh de Gurley, was sick and fretful and had decided to move on.

‘I am going home,’ she said, dipping into the new box of sweetmeats Rhonwen had brought her. ‘Back to Alexander.’ Her eyes strayed to Luned who, as she directed the boys who had accompanied her, laden with rolls of silk, showed as yet no sign of the pregnancy she had excitedly and confidently announced to them all. ‘Some of this silk can make me new gowns to please him at the Easter celebrations at Dunfermline.’

‘These are the latest designs, your grace.’ Luned smiled with professional pride. ‘Straight from the looms of some of our best weavers, and you will find none better. Even the Queen of England has not seen them yet.’

Eleyne touched the silk gently and found herself smiling at the irony which had just dawned on her. She would not be able to afford Luned’s wares.

The queen bought four dozen ells of silk and at once she presented two dress lengths to Eleyne. ‘A gift from your uncle and me,’ she said.

Eleyne examined the stuff in delight, fingering its featherlight texture. Joanna had given her one of green, spun with madder thread, and one of scarlet samite.

Rhonwen joined her to admire them. ‘I’ll take them and turn them into gowns for you, cariad,’ she said softly. ‘If you take them home, your husband will probably insist on having them made into tunics for himself.’

Eleyne hid a smile; the same thought had occurred to her. ‘Would you, Rhonwen? No one makes gowns like you.’

Rhonwen nodded, pleased. ‘I have two first-rate dressmakers in Milk Street. They will sew to my direction, and they embroider as well as I do. Come to me in three days and you can have a fitting.’

‘I’ll find a way of getting there,’ Eleyne agreed. ‘In this case the truth will do: I am to visit a dressmaker. Once the gowns are made he cannot unstitch them!’ She hugged Joanna. ‘You are so kind. When will I see you again?’

Joanna thought for a moment. ‘Come to us in Scotland. Your husband was often at Alexander’s court with his brother; persuade him to come again. Lord Winchester holds many lands in Scotland, and I am sure there are reasons why you could come north.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘I know Alexander would love to see you.’

There was a short silence. Eleyne could feel her cheeks colouring and quickly she turned away to watch the silk boys refolding the lengths of fabric and wrapping them. ‘Then I shall come,’ she said at last, her mouth dry, ‘of course I shall.’

XI

‘So, you want a pardon for this murderess.’ Henry sat back on his chair of state and belched reflectively. ‘She must mean a great deal to you.’

The Earl of Winchester and his brother had left the hall to view some new horses of the king’s. She had hung back and begged her uncle to listen to her plea.

‘She was put in charge of me by my mother, sire. She has looked after me since I was born. She killed poor Cenydd in self-defence – in my defence.’

Henry frowned. ‘I am not sure that is the story I heard.’

‘Then you were not told the truth, sire. Had you been fully informed, you would already have pardoned her,’ Eleyne pleaded. ‘I need her, your grace. I do not have many friends or servants in Robert de Quincy’s household.’

She held his gaze and saw him shift uncomfortably in his chair. He had ordered the marriage of several lords at court to foreigners from his wife’s entourage, and that action too had earned him nothing but hatred and anger. He set his mouth in a stubborn line. ‘You are not complaining of my choice of a husband for you, I hope.’

‘Of course not, sire.’ Her face was as stubborn as his. ‘But I am sure that you will allow me the company of the Lady Rhonwen in the life you have chosen for me.’

‘I suppose it would be all right, if it will make you happy. Very well. I can’t believe the woman is a danger to anyone else. Come next week and I shall have a pardon drawn up.’

‘Could you not do it now, my uncle?’

He shook his head testily. ‘No, I could not. Now go, go with your husband before I change my mind!’

XII

Robert made no difficulty three days later when she announced that she was going out. He had been summoned to the court with Lord Winchester to attend the king and was anxious to leave at once.

The house in Chester Court was just off Gracechurch Street. It stood end on to the narrow, dark alley, but behind the high gates it was large and rambling. Fully occupied only once or twice a year in the past when Countess Clemence had visited London, it had remained empty for several years now as her increasing age prevented her from travelling. Rhonwen ran it with a well-trained, obedient staff and lived in more state than Eleyne had enjoyed on her last visit to Fotheringhay.

The gowns were hanging in a large airy bedchamber which looked out on a small central garden with gravelled walks and formal rose beds. The two dressmakers were waiting, and Rhonwen was smiling. Eleyne had told her the news of the pardon and she could not contain the elation which had swept through her.

The fittings took only a short time. Rhonwen had remembered Eleyne’s measurements with complete accuracy, but she scowled at the amount of weight Eleyne had lost. ‘You are like a starving waif, cariad.’ She took Eleyne’s hand gently. ‘You are not ill?’

‘No, of course not. I’m never ill, you know that.’

‘Then you are still unhappy?’

‘Of course I am unhappy! What do you expect? Oh, he doesn’t beat me any more; he doesn’t force me to do anything I don’t want.’ She gave Rhonwen a rueful grimace. ‘But that is because he has no lever to use against me now; and besides, he wants me to help advance him with the king. He would do anything for that.’

‘But you would rather be in Scotland.’ Rhonwen said the words so quietly that the dressmakers could not hear them.

‘Rhonwen, I have told you – ’

‘Tschk! I know what you told me, but you are no longer married to that milksop earl! He is gone. Your heart is free to go where it wishes.’

‘It does not wish to go anywhere, Rhonwen.’

‘I think it does, cariad. And I think you will soon have your heart’s desire.’

XIII

Four days later Eleyne presented herself before the king wearing one of her new gowns. When Robert had seen it, he had gone white with anger.

‘Where did you get the money for that? Sweet Christ’s bones, do you think you still live in the style of your former life? You will bankrupt me, madam.’

Eleyne refrained from mentioning that her husband’s mantle was also new, the third she had seen since they had arrived in London, and that the money for it came from her coffers.

‘It was a gift, sir,’ she said with a cold smile, ‘from the Queen of Scots.’

‘Indeed. In that case I suppose we must be thankful for her generosity.’ He scowled with bad grace and was still scowling when they arrived at the Palace of Westminster.

This time he could not speak to the king alone, and she was acutely conscious of Robert at her shoulder when she asked her question. ‘The matter we spoke of last week, your grace. Do you have it for me?’

Henry looked at her, his expression puzzled. ‘What matter, niece?’

‘The pardon, sire.’

‘The pardon?’ He rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Ah, yes, the pardon. I have had no chance to think about it, ask me again next week.’

‘But your grace – ’

‘Next week!’ He squinted up at her. ‘I have not decided yet whether I am going to grant the woman a pardon at all. I have to make enquiries…’

Eleyne was speechless for a few seconds. ‘But you promised – ’

‘I did not promise anything, Lady Chester.’ He emphasised the formal address. ‘I shall think about it. Next week.’

Out of the corner of her eye Eleyne saw that Robert was frowning, his mouth tight with anger. ‘But, my lord king, uncle, please listen – ’

‘Leave us!’ Henry snapped so loudly that men and women below the dais fell silent and stared up at the group of figures around the king’s high seat. He turned to a messenger who had just come in. ‘Well, what is it, man?’

Eleyne was dismissed. She drew breath, stunned by his betrayal, but the gasped message of the man who had dropped to his knees in front of the king stopped her short as she turned away.

‘It is the Queen of Scots, sire. She is dying!’

Henry rose. ‘What did you say?’

‘Your sister is dying, sire! She was to have left for Scotland today, but she was taken ill in the night. This morning she went into a convulsion and now she lies near to death.’

‘No.’ Eleyne’s whispered protest went unheard.

The king looked at the messenger as if he could not understand what the man was saying. ‘My sister?’ he repeated under his breath, ‘Near to death? But how? She was well. She came to bid me farewell only two days ago. She was to take messages from me to the King of Scots. I gave her gifts -’ He shook his head, trying to absorb what the man had said. ‘Are there physicians with her?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘And don’t they know what is wrong? Can’t they help her, for Sweet Christ’s sake!’

‘They say she is beyond help, your grace. Only divine intervention can save her now.’ The messenger crossed himself, and the king and those around him followed suit.

‘I must go to her.’ Eleyne was one of the first to recover from the shock. ‘Please, uncle, let me go to her now.’

He nodded vaguely. ‘And I. The queen and I shall go to her bedside. Poor Joanna – ’

At a run Eleyne threaded her way down through the crowded hall to the door, leaving Robert standing at the king’s side.

The huge courtyard was milling with people and there was no sign of the de Quincy horses. She saw two knights riding in through the main gateway, both mounted on high-stepping horses, fresh from their stables. Gathering her new scarlet skirts above the mud, she ran towards them.

‘Please, sirs, will one of you lend me your horse and the other ride with me to the Tower? It is a matter of life and death.’ Her hand was already on the bridle of the horse nearest to her.

The man gaped at her, then his face broke into a grin. He didn’t know this vision in scarlet, but the huge green eyes and beautiful face were enough. ‘Of course, my lady. For you, anything!’ He slid from the horse and handed her up into the high saddle. ‘Escort the lady wherever she wants to go, Edmund,’ he called to his companion. ‘If she wants to ride to furthest Cathay itself, take her there with my blessing!’ He swept a low bow.

Eleyne touched her hand to her lips, automatically reacting to his handsome good humour, but already she was kicking the horse out past the king’s guard towards the bridge over the Tyburn away from Westminster, towards the City of London. Edmund cantered at her side. ‘Sir Edmund de Merton, at your service, my lady,’ he called. ‘May I ask what quest we ride on so frantically?’

‘The Queen of Scots is dying,’ Eleyne cried. ‘She is my aunt and I love her.’

Sir Edmund kicked his horse to keep up with her, but she had drawn away from him, urging her mount through the traffic of wagons and carts which thronged the road. He found it hard to keep up, but when at last they reached the Tower he was still at her side. Eleyne threw herself from the horse. ‘Thank you.’ The smile she turned on Edmund as she flung the reins of the borrowed animal at him was so full of sadness that he stood still, stunned. Then she was gone.

Joanna lay in the darkened room, surrounded by her servants. She was completely still, seeming barely able to breathe beneath the velvet bedcoverings. The men and women around her stood back as Eleyne approached the bed on tiptoe and took Joanna’s hand. It was cold.

‘She cannot hear you, my lady,’ Auda whispered through her tears as Eleyne breathed Joanna’s name. ‘She is sinking fast.’

‘But how? Why? How can she be dying?’

An old man in the black robe and carrying the staff of a physician stepped forward.

‘The queen has been ill often, my lady. She has a fever in her womb. It was that condition that deprived her of children and it was to cure it that she made her pilgrimage to Canterbury. It seems,’ he crossed himself, ‘that it was too late even for St Thomas’s intervention.’

‘But she was better, she told me she was better.’

‘She told you what she hoped, my lady. She could not accept the truth.’

Joanna died as the early dusk fell across the city beyond the high walls of the great castle. The king, her brother, Queen Eleanor and Eleyne were at her bedside, with her entire household ranged behind them. Most were crying softly, but Joanna knew nothing of it. Her life slipped away so gently that for a while no one realised she had gone.

On the table beside the bed stood a small empty box. The length of green silk which had tied it lay beside it, in a dust of sugared crumbs.

XIV

‘You deceived me!’ Robert lifted his hand again and struck her across the face. He had come to her room soon after their return from Joanna’s deathbed. ‘Running to the king and begging for a pardon for that woman! How dare you defy me! Do you wish to make me a laughing stock?’ He raised his hand again.

Eleyne faced him, her eyes blazing. ‘Rhonwen is my servant. My nurse. If I chose to speak to the king about her it is none of your business.’

She broke off as with a sharp slap his hand connected once again with her cheekbone. ‘I will not have her in my house,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘May I remind you that the houses we live in are none of them yours, sir.’ She moved out of range, her back ramrod stiff. If he hit her again, she knew she would hit back. ‘This house is your brother’s. Fotheringhay is part of my dower. You married me with nothing but a wagonload of goods and four servants. The church, even the king, may give you nominal rule over me, husband, but God sees what you do. He judges!’ She put the length of the oak table between them. ‘You abuse your power over me, you squander my dower and now you dare to question my dealings with my uncle, the king. The king you hope to serve!’ She leaned forward, her fists on the table. ‘I have only to say to the king that you are unfit for royal service and he will send you to the farthest ends of his kingdom.’

Robert paled, but he managed a thin smile. ‘If he does, you will come with me, wife.’

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure. I love the wild places, remember? The forests and the mountains are my home. The gods of those places protect me.’ To her great satisfaction, his face grew whiter still. ‘If we are tied together for eternity in hell, husband, it is I who will thrive,’ she went on relentlessly. ‘I love the fire and I love the ice! Wherever hell is it will be my home and your downfall!’

Outside the door Nesta and two serving boys stood, their ears to the thick oak panelling. Nesta held her breath, waiting for his retort. None came. Robert tried to shrug nonchalantly as he threw himself down in a carved chair.

‘I wonder if the king knows he married me to a she-devil,’ he commented at last.

‘Oh, he knows.’ Eleyne pressed her advantage home. Her hands were shaking and she kept them on the table to steady them. Her eyes were emerald green in the candlelight. ‘And he hears every time you strike me, every time you squander my inheritance, every time you abuse my servants, and he waits.’

‘He won’t dare to harm me. He needs my brother – ’

‘And he is afraid that your brother’s allegiance may go to Alexander of Scotland.’ Eleyne hid the wave of grief which threatened to make her voice waver. ‘Which it may. Do you think marrying you to me has had any effect on Roger’s allegiance either way? Give your brother more credit than that.’

‘Ssh!’ Robert looked helplessly towards the door.

‘I won’t ssh! Not now, and not when I next see the king. Not if you persist in your foul treatment.’ Eleyne left the table and walked towards him. In her scarlet gown, over which she had thrown a black mantle as a symbol of mourning for her aunt, she looked very determined and very beautiful. She stopped near him. ‘And don’t think you can stop me seeing the king. He will ask for me if I do not go to the palace.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘If you want to succeed at court, husband,’ she went on without pausing, ‘you have to keep me content, or I swear I will bring you down.’

‘And if I keep you content?’ His eyes narrowed, and there was a sarcastic edge to his voice.

‘Then maybe you will find your fortune at King Henry’s court.’

XV

The body of the Queen of Scotland was taken to the abbey at Tarrant, to which she had bequeathed it in her will, and there laid to rest with great ceremony beneath a marble tomb made in haste by Master Elias of Derham at Salisbury. Two days after her death two prisoners were released for the sake of her soul, by her brother, King Henry. On 13 March sixteen silk cloths of Arras were delivered to offer with the body of the king’s beloved sister, together with silk and gold clothes worth thirty-five shillings each. Wax candles were to burn before her tomb forever. Her husband, the King of Scotland, did not come south for the funeral.

XVI

‘The king still has not given me the pardon!’ Eleyne, swathed in her sable mantle, had fought her way out of the gale and was standing in the hall of Rhonwen’s house. ‘I have asked him a dozen times, but he claims he is too grief-stricken by Joanna’s death to conduct any but the most urgent business!’ She threw down her cloak and walked over to the fire. ‘It makes me so angry. He has but to tell a clerk to write it and affix his seal. It would take him no more time than it takes to draw breath.’

Rhonwen stood near the hearth, her hands pushed into the sleeves of her mantle.

‘And you, cariad? Are you too grief-stricken by Joanna’s death to do anything?’

‘I am upset, of course I am. You know how fond I was of her…’

‘But not so fond as you are of her husband. Why deny it? Your aunt is dead. He is no longer your uncle. There are no blood ties now to make your love a sin.’

Eleyne was shocked. ‘You shouldn’t say such things. Suppose someone heard you?’

‘There is no one to hear, nothing but the wind rattling in the hangings. Your destiny lies in Scotland. Remember Einion’s words. Your future does not lie with that spoiled brat who is your husband; it lies with kings.’

Eleyne stared down at the fire. There was no denying the tight knot of excitement in her stomach. ‘If I could go to him…’

Rhonwen asked, ‘Who better to take the king’s condolences to his brother-in-law?’

‘But Robert would come with me.’

‘You would need him there, cariad, to avoid a scandal. Once there he can be distracted – or disposed of.’

Unbidden the image of a trailing length of green ribbon came to Eleyne’s mind, the ribbon at the bedside of the dying queen. After it flashed the image of the earth-green medicine which had stood beside John’s bed as he too died. Her eyes on Rhonwen’s, she tried to read the woman’s mind. Was she capable of such cold-blooded murder? She was deeply afraid as she stared at her nurse’s face. Rhonwen met her gaze and held it steadily. Her expression was impenetrable but there was a pitilessness there which repelled Eleyne. But it wasn’t true, Rhonwen would never do such a thing; she couldn’t. A picture of Cenydd floated into her mind; quickly, she suppressed it. That had been a terrible accident; they had struggled in the heat of the moment. It was not calculated, it could never have been calculated. Even to think it was a vicious calumny and a projection of her own secret wish for Robert’s death.

She watched as Rhonwen took the chair opposite her, arranging her skirts with meticulous care. The moment had passed.

‘I won’t be able to come with you, cariad. If asking for a pardon causes trouble between you and the king, it is better forgotten for now. I am content now I know how you are. Leave me here. Seek the king’s permission to ride north. Go to Alexander. I will come if you need me.’

XVII

It was so easy in the end. The king agreed that Eleyne should be the official carrier of his condolences; and Robert was to go with her. They set off into the teeth of a violent March gale, a party of some two dozen riders and ten sumpter horses, splashing through the mud, forcing their way against rain and sleet on the long ride north.

Alexander was in Edinburgh. He received Robert and Eleyne on a grey afternoon when snow still whipped through the air, clinging to their eyelashes and freezing their gloves to the reins of their horses. Edinburgh Castle, high on its rock, was cold and draughty, the huge blazing fire in the great hall roaring towards the darkness of the sky far above. The king, a black cloak over his embroidered tunic, rose from the table where he had been poring over a pile of letters with a group of his advisers.

Eleyne stopped so suddenly that the servant behind nearly bumped into her, and she realised that her heart was thumping fast as she watched him walk to the edge of the dais.

‘Lady Chester, Sir Robert, greetings.’ His tone was formal.

Beside her, Robert had stopped too, taking his lead from her. She forced herself to walk on towards Alexander, her head high, her eyes on his. At the edge of the dais she curtseyed low. ‘We bring you the King of England’s greetings and condolences, sire. He was – we were with your queen when she died…’ Her voice trailed away and there were tears in her eyes.

Alexander stepped from the dais, took her hand and raised her to her feet. ‘I’m glad you were there. She always loved you, lass. It was good of you to make the long ride north.’ He smiled at Robert and bowed. ‘And you, Sir Robert.’ He looked at him, perhaps a moment longer than was necessary, then he turned his attention back to Eleyne. ‘Come, sit by the fire and take some refreshment. Tomorrow we ride to Dunfermline to prepare for the Easter celebrations, and there I can make you welcome in more style.’

XVIII

It was two days after Easter before she saw the king alone, five days and nights of tormented, sleepless anguish as she tried to hide her hopes and fears from her husband and even from herself. Alexander was in his office at Dunfermline with three of his clerks when he sent for her. As she curtseyed to him, her heart thudded with fear and excitement. She took the proffered chair and he ordered the three men from the room.

On his desk a small coffer lay open, and she could see that it contained jewellery. He leaned against the desk, his arms folded.

‘Joanna made her will twelve days before she died. She wanted you to have something to remember her by. I have chosen some rings and chains which I thought you might like.’

She had dreamed so often of being alone with him, but now she could think of nothing to say. She was drowning in his presence, aching for his touch, yet this small casket of jewels stood between them like a stone wall. They represented Joanna and guilt.

She bit her lip. ‘Thank you, sire, that would please me very much.’

‘Come here and look at them.’ He had not moved from the desk.

She moved numbly towards him. The coffer was in the middle of the desk; to reach it she had to lean past him.

‘Do you wish me to choose something, sire?’

‘They are all yours. Here, let me try some of them on.’ He pulled out a ring of garnets and sea pearls and held it out. She gave him her hand, holding her breath as he placed it on her finger. His touch burned her skin like fire.

‘Are you happy with your new husband?’ he asked quietly, his concentration entirely on her hand.

‘No.’ She did not elaborate.

‘You married him against your will?’

‘Yes.’

‘I cannot believe the fiery Lady Chester allowed such a thing to happen.’ His lips twitched into a quizzical smile.

‘I had no choice, I was forced. By the King of England’s order.’ She looked into his face, unaware of the transparency of her expression. It was all there for him to read – hope, fear, love, longing, frustration and the blind resolution that he should see none of them. ‘They told me that you agreed.’

‘I was not consulted. Henry told me he had arranged a suitable match for you and that you were pleased with it. We were at York – ’

‘And you did not wish to jeopardise the treaty with England.’ Her voice heavy, she pulled her hand from his. ‘And women’s lives are of so little importance.’

‘That is not true, Eleyne. You had enormous wealth, it was important that you marry – ’

‘Why? To give my wealth away? To allow a thriftless callow nobody to run through it, spending a fortune on tabards and herygouds and embroidered garnaches to decorate his person while his wife wears darned gowns, cuts the number of courses at meals by half and can find no money to pay her servants!’ The colour had risen in her cheeks. ‘I shall have to ask you to tell my husband, sire, that you have given me these jewels or he will take them from me to pawn or sell. He would have taken the material Aunt Joanna gave me for new gowns had I not sneaked it away to be made up before he could lay his hands on it.’

Alexander stared at her. ‘I am sorry, his brother is made of finer stuff.’ He walked across to the window; unglazed and unshuttered in spite of the cold, it looked south across the Forth, which gleamed brilliant blue in the icy sunshine. In the far distance was the grey of the Pentland hills, and towards the east the humped shoulder of Arthur’s Seat, brooding next to the black silhouette which was his great rock-bound castle at Edinburgh. When he turned, he had control of his anger.

‘Come, see what else I have for you. Joanna would want you to look at them.’ He cursed himself for speaking her name, but knowing he had to. ‘I shall speak to your husband. He will not take anything from you again.’ There was an underlying note in his voice which made her look up, startled. What she saw in his face brought the colour flooding to her cheeks.

‘Your grace -’ Her voice was breathless. Without realising it, she had taken a step towards him.

For a long time he looked at her in silence without moving, then at last he reached towards her and pulled her into his arms. His mouth was hungry as it found hers, his grip fierce, imprisoning her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to breathe; she wanted to cease to exist and find herself in eternity. She wanted to melt into him as the cold winter snow melts in the blazing heat of a summer sun. She could feel her body quivering with longing, her hips pressing shamefully against his, her breasts aching for the touch of his hands. She did not think of John or of Joanna. She did not think of Robert. This man was her whole world, her whole existence, her destiny.

Still he had not spoken, nor did she want him to. She did not want words to come between them.

Almost without realising it she was pulling at the fastenings of her gown, offering him her throat, her breasts, gasping as he reached greedily for her nipples. Then he was wrenching her garments from her shoulders, stripping them down, so that she was naked as he bore her to the floor, dragging at his own gown so that flesh met flesh without impediment.

She clung to him, pulling him on top of her, wrapping her legs around his hips, feeling him thrusting inside her with a force which was as agonising as it was exquisite.

When her pent-up excitement was released in a long animal howl of triumph, the king put his hand across her mouth. He smiled down at her, his eyes silver slits. ‘You’ll bring every guard in the castle to us if you scream,’ he said softly, his voice husky with passion. He dropped his mouth to her breast and she felt her breathing quicken again.

‘What if someone comes in?’ she gasped. She could not have pushed him away if she had wanted to. Her whole being had fused with his, cleaving to him as though it had found a part of itself.

‘No one will come in,’ he said softly. Easing his weight slightly, he rested on his elbows, staring down into her face. Then he knelt up, sitting astride her, keeping her imprisoned between his thighs, his gown rumpled around his hips. He groped above his head on the table and brought his hand down laden with jewels from Joanna’s casket. As Eleyne gasped at their coldness, he festooned her naked body with golden chains and precious stones, nestling a circlet of pale river pearls in the silken hair which covered her most secret place.

‘Sweet Virgin, lass, but I have wanted you for so long,’ he murmured at last. He stroked her face. ‘Since I first laid eyes on you.’

‘And I you.’ She gave a languid smile. Her body seemed to be cushioned on air; she was floating on contentment. ‘Have we done wrong?’ She felt no hint of conscience or shame.

‘How could it be wrong?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘My wife is dead, and so is the husband you loved.’ He paused. ‘Your present husband – ’

‘Means nothing.’ For the first time her voice was sharp. ‘I was meant to be yours. Even John…’ she hesitated, then went on, ‘even John told me to come to you.’

‘Had you been free now, I could have made you my queen.’ He stroked her belly almost absent-mindedly, resting his finger thoughtfully on the trinket he had pushed into her navel. ‘Queen Eleyne. You would give me sons, lass, wouldn’t you? Bonny, strong, healthy sons.’ He leaned down and kissed her lips fiercely.

‘I would give you anything.’ She smiled up from beneath her lids. Everything was what she meant, everything.

Neither of them reacted immediately to the knock on the door, then abruptly the king rose. ‘Wait,’ he shouted as he adjusted his gown, pulling the heavy folds straight. Eleyne lay still at his feet, half smiling as the firelight played across her body. The king laughed. ‘Up you get, lass, or I’ll be asking my clerks to step across you to write my letters.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Would they enjoy that, do you think?’

‘No doubt, but I would not.’ He stooped, picked up her gown and tossed it over her. ‘Hurry, there is much to be done and you are distracting me shamefully.’ His voice was stern but his eyes, she checked quickly, were still laughing. She scrambled to her feet and pulled her clothes on, dropping the jewels one by one back into the casket. Her body was languid; contented. For the first time in her life she felt complete.

XIX

Robert found the casket of jewels that same afternoon, concealed in one of her coffers. He picked it up and opened it, pawing over the gems. Then he turned to her. ‘Where did you get these?’ His face was sharp with suspicion.

‘They were bequeathed to me by my aunt.’ She took the box from his hand and put it down on the table next to her mirror.

‘So many?’

‘She loved me and she had no children of her own.’ She was hugging the memory of the king’s lovemaking to her, conscious of the feel and smell of him still on her body.

Robert, suspicious, sensed the change in her. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘From the king.’ She met his gaze with wide-open challenging eyes. ‘And in case you are thinking of selling any of them they are all listed and recorded.’

‘Part of the Scottish inheritance, no doubt,’ he said softly. His gaze sharpened. ‘Your gown is torn.’

‘Is it?’ Without thinking she put her hand to her throat.

He smiled. ‘Your lover perhaps? Too eager, was he?’ He was not serious. He was taunting her as usual; even so she felt her colour rise.

‘You talk nonsense.’ She turned from him, but he caught her arm.

‘I may talk nonsense, wife, but you will take heed of what I say,’ he said quietly. ‘I think you should change your gown before supper, then perhaps you can wear some of your newly won finery.’

‘I will change when Nesta comes up.’ She stepped away warily.

‘You will change now.’ Without fully realising it, he could smell the sex on her; it excited him and he felt himself growing hard. She was beautiful and proud, not bothering to hide the disdain she felt, so her subjugation would be all the more enjoyable. He wanted her on her knees, taking him in her mouth, her fury and humiliation burning in her eyes. And here he could force her to do it – she was far away from King Henry; her threats to tell him would mean nothing. She was in his power and he could do what he liked with her.

He turned the heavy iron key in the lock.

I

‘We are going to Falkland.’ Robert stood in front of his wife, hands on hips. ‘As the guests of the Earl of Fife.’

‘No.’ Eleyne shook her head. ‘That’s not possible; the king would not allow it.’

‘Because he is so fond of your company?’ His voice dropped, heavy with sarcasm. ‘Do you think I don’t know what is going on? Do you think anyone in the castle doesn’t know? You behave like a strumpet, you flaunt yourself when you’re near him – ’

‘That’s not true!’ Her moment of panic had vanished. In its place came the cloak of frozen dislike which cocooned her whenever her husband came near her. ‘How can you say such a thing when my aunt is scarcely cold in her grave?’

‘Exactly, your aunt. I am sure the king, your uncle,’ he emphasised the word carefully, ‘will give us leave to go to Falkland.’

‘I think you must go.’ Alexander put his hand gently to her face. ‘He is right, people are noticing. How could they not when I follow you around like an adoring puppy, fawning in your lap?’ The firelight played softly over their skin, softening and blurring the shadows over the curves and angles of their bodies as they lay in one another’s arms on a pile of furs before the fire. ‘Besides, I neglect my kingdom shamefully.’

‘But I can’t leave you…’

‘You must, just for a while.’ He raised himself on his elbow and pulled her face towards his, kissing her fiercely. ‘Do you think I want you to leave me? Do you think I can bear the thought of you in your husband’s bed when you should be in mine?’

He ran his hands down her body, tasting, devouring her flesh as she lay quivering beneath him, her thighs parting slackly at the command of his questing fingers. It was several minutes before she could speak again.

‘You could send him back to England – ’

‘Aye,’ he smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll do that. Send him on his way and volunteer to take care of you myself.’

‘Then I needn’t go to Falkland?’ She arched her back, throwing back her head so her hair trailed across the furs in a gesture of abandoned sensuality. ‘I needn’t see Lord Fife again?’

The king raised his head, his eyes narrowed. ‘You are not still afraid of Lord Fife?’

She could not explain the strange dread she felt whenever the man came near her. ‘Not as long as I have your protection.’

‘Sweet Eleyne, you have my protection – and he knows it. And,’ his voice became stern, ‘while you are at Falkland you will have your husband’s as well.’

II

Falkland Castle stood on the central plain of Fife in the shadow of the Lomond Hills. The great fortress of the Earls of Fife boasted a vast circular tower, a hall, a chapel and numerous other buildings within its high curtain wall.

It was three days before the Earl of Fife managed to find Eleyne alone on her way back from the stables, where she had been looking at his horses.

‘So, my lady, I think you have been avoiding me.’

‘Lord Fife.’ Eleyne looked round swiftly. Her ladies had moved on out of earshot, chattering amongst themselves.

‘I have not congratulated you on your new husband.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Or should I perhaps commiserate?’

She straightened her shoulders haughtily: ‘I don’t understand you, sir.’

‘Don’t you? Well, remember, if you need a man, a young man – ’ he paused for a fraction of a second, allowing the weight of innuendo to fall on the penultimate word – ‘to champion you in any way, I am at your service.’

Her eyes sparkled with anger. ‘If I need a champion, Lord Fife, I already have one to serve me.’ She tried to keep her dislike of him from her voice.

He bowed. ‘Then I shall bide my time. You may yet call upon me one of these days. Meanwhile, you will be pleased to know that the king will be my guest for the first hunt of the season on Midsummer’s Day. We have some fine harts here in the forest of Falkland.’

He had not come near her but she felt his eyes moving over her body, devouring her greedily, touching her with all the intimacy and hunger of a lover. Neither of them moved then, with a bow, he left her staring after him, her heart heavy with foreboding.

For the hunt on Midsummer’s Day, Eleyne wore her gown of silver samite and a mantle of dark green silk, her hair bound beneath a veil of finest gauze. She was to ride a milk-white palfrey, caparisoned in blue and silver, a present from Lord Fife. She had not wanted to accept it, much as she loved the horse on sight; but Robert had insisted. Ever greedy, he had calculated the horse’s value – at least forty pounds, he reckoned – and he had accepted for her.

As she curtseyed before the king, she was conscious of a hundred pairs of eyes watching her from the crowds who mingled around them at the start of the day. Alexander touched her hand and smiled gravely. They had gathered to breakfast beneath the trees at the edge of the forest. As soon as the huntsmen had located the first stag they would be off, the king with his nobles at the head of the field. Eleyne intended to be at the front with them. As the king moved off, young Robert Bruce approached Eleyne, his grey eyes full of mischief. He bowed low. ‘Mama sends you greetings and best wishes from Lochmaben, Aunt Eleyne.’ He emphasised the title gravely. ‘She misses her visits to you at Fotheringhay.’

Eleyne had torn her eyes from the king with difficulty, but Robert’s charm was irresistible. ‘You must stop calling me Aunt Eleyne,’ she scolded, ‘I’m younger than you, Rob!’

‘Rubbish! You’re a hundred years older!’ Robert bowed again, his eyes teasing. ‘Unless of course you can prove you’re not by being in at the kill.’

John’s handsome nephew had been named by King Alexander as heir presumptive now John was dead, and was frequently to be found at court near the king. The realisation that Robert and his sons might be the future of Scotland had given Eleyne a pang of misery when she first realised the significance of Robert’s new status, but that had not changed her liking for him.

She laughed. ‘I’ll be there, nephew,’ she said, ‘have no fear on that score!’

A fine linen tablecloth had been spread on the ground for breakfast and, as they all followed the king’s example and sat down around it, Eleyne was conscious of her husband at her side. He was sitting so close that he was crushing her gown. She pulled at it, irritated, and heard the fabric rip slightly in her hand. The king was talking to his neighbour on the other side and didn’t notice; nor did Lord Fife who was standing on the far side of the cloth, frowning slightly as he checked the preparations for the hunt.

Seeing her restlessness, Robert moved closer to Eleyne. ‘We ride together,’ he said quietly. ‘At the back of the field.’

She was furious. ‘Why?’

‘Because I say so. I have no desire to ride with the king.’

‘Well, I have. I am never at the back of the field, never.’ Again she tried to rise, but he was pinning her down. ‘You can’t make me ride at the back. Everyone would think there was something wrong with me.’

‘Something wrong, because you choose to stay with your husband?’ he mocked. ‘I think you will find that the ladies of the court,’ he paused significantly, ‘will be rather pleased to see you playing the obedient wife, for once.’ He reached forward for some wine.

Eleyne waited, impotent, as one by one the members of the party rose and went to find their horses. She gazed longingly at the white palfrey which was standing with Robert’s beneath the trees at the edge of the clearing.

When at last the king rose, he turned to her and smiled. ‘Are you accepting any wagers this time, my lady? On who will be first at the gralloch?’

‘My wife is going to follow at the rear of the hunt today, sire.’ Robert stood up and pulled Eleyne to her feet. He kept a firm hold on her arm.

The king was concerned. ‘You are not ill…’

‘No, she is not ill, merely content to ride with me.’ Robert met the king’s eye, then he looked down. Alexander raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She stared after him in disbelief. Surely he wouldn’t leave her without another word?

It was Lord Fife who intervened. He stepped across the cloth, pulling on his gloves; it was obvious that he had heard the exchange. He gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘I trust you like your horse, Lady Chester?’ he said loudly. ‘He is one of the best in my stable, and I beg leave to ride with you as you test his paces. I am sure Sir Robert won’t object – a host’s privilege.’

Eleyne pulled her arm from her husband. ‘Thank you, my lord, I accept your offer gladly.’ She shot a venomous look at Robert and stepped away from him. Any escort was better than her husband, and Lord Fife would, at least, keep up with the best.

‘You like him?’ As they trotted side by side up the grassy ride, Malcolm of Fife looked across at her horse. The gelding was a high-stepping, showy horse, with flowing mane and tail. He carried his head proudly, as if aware of the beauty of the woman on his back, aware too that she would be more than a match for him if he chose to show his paces. ‘I called him Tam Lin.’

She was intrigued in spite of her antipathy to the man. ‘That’s a strange name.’

Fife’s handsome face lit out of its usual sulky expression. ‘After the elfin knight, who rode a milk-white steed. But you must call him whatever you wish.’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘Tam Lin it shall be.’ The huntsman’s horn rang through the trees. ‘They’ve found the stag. Now we shall see how this horse can run.’

They had killed four times by evening and riders and horses were tired as they rode back into the courtyard of Falkland Castle. Eleyne was riding between the king and the earl, ecstatically happy; it had been a wonderful day. Lord Fife had remained at her side, but they had been close to the king for much of the time and both men had flirted with her – complimenting her, teasing her, giving her all their attention. She had not seen her husband for several hours. Dismounting, she gave Tam Lin a hug, then she turned to the king who was watching her, amused.

‘Do you always kiss your horses with such passion, lass?’ he asked humorously.

‘If I like them.’ Throwing her veil back, she stretched her arms above her head to ease her stiffness, a gesture of sensual abandonment which occasioned a few raised eyebrows among the court ladies dismounting near them. They had missed no detail of Lady Chester’s day; seen every look and smile the king and the earl had thrown her. ‘I love my beautiful Tam Lin,’ she went on. ‘Lord Fife gave him to me. Aren’t you jealous that I should get such lovely gifts?’

‘Indeed I am, I shall have to watch my Lord Fife, I can see.’ The earl was talking to the huntsmen and for a moment the king’s voice grew serious. ‘Can it be that you have got over your dislike of the man? Perhaps I should ask him to visit some far outpost of my kingdom while you are in Scotland.’

‘He could take my husband with him,’ Eleyne agreed.

People were crowding around them; someone slapped the king on the back. The huntsmen were carrying in the carcasses; Eleyne was separated from Alexander and turned happily towards the castle. There would be feasting in the hall that night, but first she wanted to change her gown. There were tears where Robert had sat on it, and others where she had galloped through the trees, veil and skirts flying, in pursuit of the king. She had been beside him at the first kill.

Nesta was waiting for her in the bedchamber, a jug of hot, scented water standing on a trivet over the fire ready for her to wash. To her relief, there was no sign of Robert. She stepped out of the ruined gown as Nesta poured the water into a bowl.

‘Will you be able to mend it?’ As she bathed her face and neck, she saw the maid gather up the gown and fold it over her arm.

‘I expect so, my lady, I’ve never failed you yet. Your scarlet is waiting for you -’ Nesta broke off as the door opened and Robert walked in. He surveyed the scene as Eleyne straightened, the warm water running down her throat and arms, soaking into the low-necked shift, which was all she wore.

‘Out.’ He gestured at Nesta with a jerk of his head. Nesta curtseyed and scuttled past him, leaving them alone.

‘You disobeyed me and made me look a fool before the whole court,’ he said slowly.

Eleyne eyed him defiantly, still standing over the basin, her damp hair curling over her shoulders. ‘If you looked a fool, it was because you could not keep up,’ she said coldly. ‘If you had been at the front, you would have been at my side.’

He smiled. ‘Next time I shall ride the grey, then perhaps I shall be well enough mounted. And if I don’t like the animal, I shall have it knocked on the head.’ Her face went white. ‘Oh, I heard how you flung your arms around the horse’s neck. The whole court makes sport of your love of the creature.’ He sat down astride the chair which stood by the table, his arms folded over the high back.

‘Why do you wash in your shift?’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Such modesty seems odd in such a forward woman. Take it off.’

‘We are expected at the high table – ’

‘And we will be there. We don’t want to disappoint our host or his king, do we?’

She looked at him warily. ‘Then I should dress…’

‘Soon. First, take off your shift. Think of the horse, Eleyne, it would be sad, wouldn’t it, to kill such a beautiful animal?’

She knew what he would do. He would humiliate and degrade her, then he would beat her. Then with exaggerated politeness, he would help her to dress. It had happened too often. She knew it excited him to think he was her master, but not this time. She stepped back from the basin of cooling water and reached for the towel which Nesta had dropped on the bed.

‘If you touch that horse, I shall tell the king what you do to me,’ she said desperately, ‘and he will have you killed. Don’t think he hasn’t thought of it already -’ She saw his face blanch. ‘You are in his way. It’s only my pleading which has spared you so far.’ Her fear for the horse had given her strength. She stepped towards him and was pleased to see him flinch. ‘If anything happens to Tam Lin, anything at all, if he so much as gets a stone in his hoof, I shall know who to blame.’

‘The king wouldn’t dare to harm me, an envoy from England – ’

‘An envoy? I was Uncle Henry’s messenger, not you! You are no envoy.’

His eyes narrowed triumphantly. ‘That is where you are wrong: I carried the letters from King Henry, I have the official safe conducts to travel north, and I serve as one of Henry’s officials.’ He smiled at the expression on her face. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? And if I am killed by the King of Scots, or anyone else in Scotland, Henry will want to know why. And your Alexander’s precious peace will not be worth a farthing bannock! No, King Alexander can’t touch me, Eleyne. If he could he would have done it already.’ He folded his arms. ‘And you know it, sweetheart, or you would have crawled to him before now with your list of complaints. Do you want to be responsible for a war between England and Scotland? Do you want the whole world to know that the King of Scots commits incest with his niece? Do you know the penalty for incest, wife, if the church finds out?’

Eleyne’s mouth was dry, her defiance had crumbled into ashes. ‘I suggest that we get ready for the feast,’ she said tight-lipped, ‘this conversation gets us nowhere.’

‘It gets you nowhere.’ He pushed himself from the chair and before she could turn around his hands grasped her wrists. She fought frantically, but as always he was much the stronger. He bound her hands behind her back with her own girdle and forced her to her knees. Then he undressed. As always, her mute fury and the fear in her eyes excited him. By the time he was ready for her he was enormous.

Her bruises, as he had promised, were all hidden as she walked at his side into the great hall and took her place at the king’s side. Her face was pale, but she managed a smile. On her right, Robert was wearing a gown of stiffly embroidered black silk. He was looking immensely pleased with himself as he raised his first goblet of wine. Before the meal was half over he lay sprawled across the table, his head amongst the dishes.

The king glanced past her and raised an eyebrow. ‘Your husband seems to have caroused too much. Shall I have him taken to your chamber?’

‘I think fresh air would do him more good,’ Eleyne retorted tartly. She had hardly spoken all evening.

Alexander beckoned attendants from the corner of the dais. ‘Take Sir Robert to the courtyard and leave him to sleep it off under the stars,’ he directed. When they had gone he turned back to her. ‘Did you not enjoy the hunt?’

‘I enjoyed it enormously.’ She wanted to throw herself into his arms; to cry, to beg him to help her, to show him her bruises and wait while he stormed outside to kill Robert with his own hands. But she had to be calm. She could not risk two countries going to war because her husband beat her, nor could she risk, ever, the chance of Alexander’s being excommunicated – or worse.

Alexander put his hand over hers. ‘I must talk to you later, alone. Your husband is too drunk to know or care what we do – ’

‘No!’ her cry was almost frightened, and she saw him frown. ‘No,’ she repeated more softly, ‘not here. Falkland is too public, there are too many eyes. Everyone will know – ’

‘I suspect everyone knows already, sweetheart,’ Alexander smiled, ‘but they indulge their old king by turning a blind eye.’

III

The castle was asleep when the king’s servant knocked softly on the stout door. He whispered to Nesta, and Nesta tiptoed to Eleyne’s bed. Eleyne was lying awake, trying to ease her painful body on the mattress. Outside the night was luminous, barely dark, though it was long after midnight and she had left the bed curtains undrawn.

‘The king wants you,’ Nesta whispered importantly. She put her candle down beside the bed, picked up Eleyne’s velvet bed gown and held it up. At last the king would see the poor lady’s bruises: he could hardly miss them this time. He had tipped her and tipped her well to act as a messenger between her mistress and himself since the beginning of their stay in Scotland, and she was happy to do her best to help Eleyne. Like all the Chester servants, she had a low opinion of Sir Robert.

Eleyne was tempted to send a message to say she wasn’t well, but her longing for him was too great. Wrapped in her gown, a candle in her hand, she followed the king’s servant on tiptoe to the state bedchamber, which was almost next to their own. A fire had been lit there, in spite of the warmth of the night, to take the chill off the stone of the room, and the king sat beside it in the light of a single candle. As the servant pulled the door shut, he rose and held out his hands. They did not speak. She clung to him, her face buried in his chest, and it was several minutes before he realised that she was crying.

‘Eleyne?’ He held her away from him and looked down at her face. In the shadowed candlelight he could hardly make out her features, but he felt the hot tears as he touched her cheek with his forefinger. ‘What is it, lass?’

She did not trust herself to speak, just wanting to feel his arms around her again, but he held her away firmly. ‘Tell me!’ His voice was sharper, full of anxiety.

‘I can’t, it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m with you.’

‘It does matter, Eleyne. I’ve never seen you cry.’ Abruptly he released her. He turned to the table and taking the candle he used it to light half a dozen more so that the shadows drew back and he could see her face more clearly. He swore softly and took her in his arms again. ‘Has that bastard de Quincy hurt you?’

She nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter, I’m used to it – ’

‘Used to it?’ His whisper became a roar. ‘By Christ I’ll make him sorry he was ever born! I’ll have his head on a spike on – ’

‘No, no! Please, you mustn’t! You can’t.’ She was sobbing openly now. ‘Don’t you see? He has threatened to tell King Henry of our affair; he has threatened to tell the church that we commit incest.’ Her voice broke and she flung herself down on her knees on the cushions he had thrown ready for their lovemaking in front of the hearth. ‘He says it would lead to war,’ she went on, ‘Uncle Henry would make it the excuse to invade Scotland. Oh my dear, don’t you see he’s right, we can do nothing.’ Knuckling her eyes, she rocked back and forth on her knees.

‘He overestimates his importance,’ the king said succinctly.

‘I know, but at the same time he’s right. Henry could make it an excuse to cause all kinds of unpleasantness. Oh, please, don’t you see…’

Alexander stared down at her, his fury tightly in check. All his instincts told him Robert de Quincy had to die, but she was right. Above all, the king was a statesman and Scotland must come first, even before this beautiful wild creature whom he loved, as he had at last acknowledged to himself, almost to distraction.

He knelt beside her and pulled her against him, gentling her sobs, then slowly he kissed her on the lips. She responded, unable to resist the longing which his kisses kindled, allowing him to pull off her bed gown. She heard him catch his breath as he saw the bruises on her buttocks and she felt his fingers tighten on her shoulders until she cried out with pain.

‘It doesn’t matter, love,’ she whispered. ‘Nothing matters as long as I still have you.’ She put her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards her. ‘If harm came to Scotland because of me, you would grow to hate me. I could not bear that to happen. Leave it, my love.’ Her tongue was in his ear, fluttering down his jaw line, dipping, seeking the small erect nipples hidden in the golden chest hair where she was pressing her face as his gown fell open.

The firelight made a golden halo of his hair. Smiling up at him, she lay back on the cushions, pulling him with her, holding his head in her hands, bringing it down to her breasts, wanting to lose her pain and fear and humiliation in the golden, worshipping body of the king. She gasped as his lips caught at her nipple, teasing it, sucking, and her body arched towards his from the soft pile of cushions.

She flung her head sideways, staring at the fire, unseeing, turning inwards, feeling only the growing rush of pleasure as it built towards its crescendo and final explosion.

The horseman in the flames was riding fast, his cloak streaming in the wind, the lightning flashing in the flaming logs which framed the picture, the banner above his head a roaring, ramping lion. He was riding too fast, not able to see the rough track beneath the horse’s feet, unable to steady the animal, not caring, urging it faster, faster still, laughing exultantly into the rain…

‘Eleyne, what’s the matter?’ The king’s voice was sharp. Just as her body seemed ready to crest into a climax, she had become still, withdrawn, almost as though she no longer knew he was there. He felt the heat leaving her skin beneath his hands. Around them the room had grown cold. ‘Eleyne!’ He knelt up, cupping her face in his hands. ‘What is it? Where are you?’ Fear knifed through him.

She stared at him blankly as he knelt over her, her mind still with the galloping horseman, then she glanced back at the fire. But he had gone. The flames had died, leaving a red, glowing bed of ash as the logs collapsed into cinders.

Alexander followed her gaze, the hairs stirring on the back of his neck. ‘You saw something in the fire?’ he asked sharply.

She nodded, shaking violently. ‘Don’t be angry.’

‘Why should I be angry?’ He sat up and pulled one of the rugs around her shoulders before reaching for his own gown.

‘What did you see?’

‘A man. Riding.’

‘Who?’

She shrugged. ‘I never see his face.’

‘You’ve seen him before?’ He felt her fear.

She nodded miserably. ‘Several times. And I’ve seen other things.’ Suddenly she didn’t want to have any secrets from him. ‘I saw Hay Castle when it burned; I saw my father’s illness. Once when I was a child I saw the massacre of the Druids on Môn.’ She stopped abruptly. There was someone in the room with them. The temperature had dropped so sharply she could see Alexander’s breath as a cloud in the air between them. Two of the candle flames paled and smoked and went out, leaving a trail of acrid blue smoke.

She saw the king look round as he felt it too. His face was white. Silently he rose and reached for his mantle. From its folds he produced a dagger and pulled it from its sheath. But the shadowy bedchamber was empty.

‘Einion -’ She had whispered without realising it, searching the shadows, her fingers clamped into the rug she was holding around her shoulders. Her part in Scotland’s future, if she still had a part in Scotland’s future, had been Einion’s secret and Einion’s vision. He had seen her at a king’s side; he had seen her as the mother of a line of kings. Unconsciously she put her hand to her stomach beneath the thick folds of the rug.

‘What is it?’ Alexander’s whisper was harsh. He had backed towards the wall, lightly hefting the dagger from hand to hand, his eyes everywhere, his whole body poised for attack.

Eleyne shook her head. ‘It’s nothing, it will pass…’

‘Nothing! There was someone here – ’

‘Yes, my lord, and he has gone.’ Eleyne smiled wanly. She was still trembling.

‘You spoke a name.’

‘Einion. He was my father’s bard. It was he who taught me to look in the fire.’

‘Sweet Christ!’ Alexander peered around the room again. The remaining candles had steadied, and the strange unnatural cold, the cold of the grave, had lifted. Still holding the dagger in his right hand, he pulled his mantle over his shoulders, then he bent and threw a couple of pine logs on the fire.

‘So. My Eleyne is a seer.’ His voice was carefully neutral. ‘And protected by the spirits of the dead.’ Behind him the logs spat blue sparks up the chimney.

‘No, it’s not like that. He wants to tell me something – ’

‘He wants to tell you something!’ Alexander sheathed the dagger in his belt and threw it back on the stool. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘He doesn’t choose his moment with any tact, this bard of yours, does he?’

Eleyne gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sorry.’ She leaned past him towards the rugs and pulled another around her shoulders. ‘Do you hate me now?’

‘Why should I hate you?’ He was recovering rapidly. ‘There are seers in Scotland, it’s a gift of our people as it is of yours. You met Michael.’ He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘But you’re afraid.’

‘I can’t control the visions and I can’t understand them. This one,’ she flung her arm in the direction of the fire, ‘it’s a warning, I know it’s a warning. But of what? Who is he? Who is it I keep seeing? That’s why Einion came. He wants to help me understand.’ There were tears in her voice.

He pulled her against him. ‘Perhaps it was me you saw?’

The lion flag; the billowing streaming standard. Was it the standard of the king? Perhaps. But the shoulders of the man in the cloak, the angle of his head – she did not recognise him. ‘I would know if it were you, my love,’ she whispered. ‘I am sure I would know if it were you.’

IV

It was still early when the king summoned Robert de Quincy to his bedchamber the next morning. The ashes of the fire had grown cold many hours before, and the candles had burned down into pools of wax. There was no trace of the strange coldness which had permeated the room. The two narrow windows let in broad slashes of early sunlight which spilled across the floor and lit the far walls.

Robert’s head was pounding and his tongue felt like old leather as he stood before the king. He had drunk so much the night before, his mind was a blank. He looked at the king warily, wondering why he had been summoned, but Alexander’s face gave nothing away as he stood with his back to the empty hearth. He had seen to it that they were alone. The young man’s face was the colour of cold lard, but his eyes, small, brown and intense, were confidently insolent.

Alexander flexed the joints of his hands together, then he smiled. And for the first time Robert felt a quiver of uncertainty.

‘You are a messenger of the King of England,’ Alexander said at last.

Robert nodded, watching the king’s face cautiously, but Alexander’s expression remained unreadable.

‘I have messages for my brother-in-law of England,’ the king went on, ‘which I should like you to deliver without delay. You will ride south this morning.’

‘But, sire – ’

‘You will leave your household here, Sir Robert, to allow you to make best speed, and you will – you must – reach Westminster by the feast of Peter and Paul. I know I can rely on you.’ He had given him four days to reach London.

Robert narrowed his eyes, wishing his brain was thinking more clearly. His wife… she was behind this. She and her kingly lover wanted him out of the way.

‘Eleyne must go with me, sire – ’

‘No, Sir Robert.’ The king folded his arms. ‘Your wife would be safer here. No harm will come to her while you are away.’ Something in the way he said those words made Robert’s hair stir uneasily on his scalp. So. The bitch had told him, and no doubt shown him her bruises. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Last night, before he had drunk all those jars of Gascon wine, what had he done to her? He shuffled his feet. No more than usual, no doubt.

‘You need me here, your grace,’ he said slowly, allowing a slight undertone of menace to enter his voice. ‘Eleyne cannot stay here alone.’

‘She’ll be safe here,’ the king repeated.

‘She won’t be safe from scandal. And the condemnation of the church.’ Robert forced his lips into a leer. ‘You, as a king and a widower, may be beyond the reach of either, but she isn’t.’

Alexander clenched his fists. ‘There will be no scandal, Sir Robert.’ He paused. ‘There would be even less chance, of course, if your wife were a widow, but I am sure it will never come to that.’ He held Robert’s eye and saw the young man flinch. ‘And do not be misled into believing that your death would cause an incident of any importance,’ he went on relentlessly. ‘The King of England needs peace with Scotland as much as Scotland needs peace with him. The death of an unimportant messenger on some lonely moor at the hands of a few footpads would not even occasion an exchange of letters.’ The king took a step forward. ‘I shall not expect replies to my letters from King Henry. Do I make myself clear?’

V

Lord Fife was waiting for him as he walked towards the great hall, the king’s pouch of letters dangling from his hand.

Fear and anger were still vying for priority when he found himself confronted by his host and drawn into a private corner. ‘Is he sending you away?’ Lord Fife wasted no time on formalities.

Robert raised his chin slightly. ‘He has an urgent message for the King of England. I am the only one who can be trusted with it – ’

Fife laughed. ‘And he has got his way. You will be in England and Eleyne will be in Scotland – alone.’

Robert glowered. ‘What is that to you?’

Lord Fife shrugged. ‘Nothing, but I dislike seeing our sovereign make a fool of himself. He must be detached from her somehow. Why not order her to remain here at Falkland? I’ll look after her if you give the word.’

‘Against the king’s wish?’ Robert could not keep the scorn out of his voice. ‘You think he would quietly ride off and leave her, even if you dared to defy him?’

‘Oh, I would dare.’ The expression in the earl’s eyes was formidable and Robert felt a moment of unease. He scrutinised the other man’s face, trying to read his meaning.

‘You are going to do it anyway,’ he said at last, astonished at the ease with which he could read the man’s mind. ‘You are going to keep Eleyne here, and tell the king she’s gone with me. That’s it, isn’t it? You want her for yourself!’

The earl smiled grimly. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to anger my king, Sir Robert. Believe me, I would do nothing to anger my king.’

Lord Fife was waiting in the stables when Eleyne went to Tam Lin. She did not see him until it was too late. As she entered the stall and began to make a fuss of the horse, the shadow of his stocky figure fell across her.

‘So, my lady, my gift still pleases you.’ The earl smiled. He was very close to her and she could not back away because of the wooden partition in the stall.

‘He pleases me enormously, my lord.’ She turned to face him, her hand still caressing the horse’s soft muzzle. The wonderful feeling of release she had experienced as Robert rode away with his escort of two companions was still with her, but she eyed Malcolm uneasily. ‘I’m very grateful.’

‘How grateful?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Your affair with the king can’t go on, my lady,’ he said gruffly. ‘You must know that. Already it is being talked about. The king has to marry again. He has to get an heir…’

Eleyne had gone cold. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she retorted. ‘What I do is none of your business. Nor is anything the king may choose to do!’

‘Oh but it is.’ Malcolm’s voice was silky. ‘I am the most senior earl of the kingdom, and the king listens to my advice. It will be my honour and my duty one day perhaps to crown Alexander’s son. Don’t demean yourself, Eleyne, you are worth too much. Come away with me – ’

She stared at him in fury. ‘How can you suggest such a thing? Never!’ She ducked under Tam Lin’s head so that the horse was between them.

‘Aunt Eleyne?’ The voice from the end of the stalls made Malcolm swing round with an exclamation of anger. Young Robert Bruce was standing there, hands on hips, a quizzical smile on his face.

‘Rob!’ In relief Eleyne moved towards him. ‘Lord Fife was just looking at Tam Lin again.’ Flustered, she clutched her nephew’s arm.

He grinned. ‘His grace the king is asking for you, Aunt Eleyne. I think he plans to ride out with his hawks.’ He bowed gravely to the earl.

Malcolm glared at the young man, then he smiled. If there were no royal son, young Robert Bruce might one day be his king. Better keep him sweet. He could wait for Eleyne of Chester.

VI

Robert de Quincy slowed his horse and looked across at his companions. They had been riding hard at his insistence and the horses were blown. As the road climbed high over the Pentlands and dived down into the Ettrick Forest, they drew rein.

Robert reached for the wineskin at his saddle bow and raised it to his lips. ‘We’ll be at the border by nightfall.’ He passed the wine to James Comyn. ‘Then we’ll stop and think this through.’

‘Think what through, my friend?’ James asked ‘You have to get the king’s letters to Westminster fast. There’s nothing to think about there.’

‘No?’ Robert reached for the sealed letter pouch and felt it thoughtfully. ‘Alexander wants me out of Scotland, and these are his excuse. I doubt if they are important. I’m tempted to turn back.’

‘Then you’re a fool, man.’ James handed back the wineskin and gathered up his reins. ‘And I for one don’t intend to be there if you do!’

The road dipped from the moorland into thick woods and the air grew oppressively still. Robert reached for the wine again, allowing his horse to pick its way after its companions, the reins lying loose on its neck.

The men were waiting for them in the shadows of a thorn thicket, their drawn swords gleaming in the stray rays of sunlight. James Comyn did not stand a chance – before he could draw his weapon the sword had entered his stomach beneath the ribcage and he had slumped to the forest floor. John Gilchrist fared little better. He drew his sword and had time to flail it wildly around his head with a cry of ‘footpads’ before he too fell from the saddle. The two riderless horses thundered away up the grassy ride.

Robert, terrified, hurled the wineskin in the direction of the robbers and lashed his horse’s sides. The animal bolted back the way it had come and within minutes he was lost in the forest.

It was a long time before he brought the fear-crazed horse to a halt. He listened intently: the silence of the broad forest rides and the narrow deer trods was total. There was no sound of pursuit. Whoever had lain in wait had been content with his two companions, at least for now. Sober and scared, Robert looked up for the sun and turned his weary animal once more towards the south.

VII

The news that the bodies of James Comyn and John Gilchrist had been found, robbed and mutilated, in the Forest of Ettrick hit the country with a wave of shock. As did the news that there was no sign of Robert de Quincy, who had been with them. The king received the news in silence, then gave orders that the robbers be found and dealt with. Holding up a king’s messenger was a serious offence. But the robbers were not found and there was no news of Robert.

They spied on her the whole time: the women of the court, the servants, the king’s advisers, even his friends. Each time she went to his chamber she felt their eyes upon her from every doorway and window squint; each time he summoned her to his private rooms she sensed ears at the keyhole, and heard the chain of gossip as it flew around the castles of the king.

She walked proudly, ignoring it, her eyes deliberately ahead, but she was deeply troubled. She wanted Robert dead – in the depths of her soul she wanted him dead. But to wish him dead was a sin. How could her happiness with Alexander be based on that? She did not let herself wonder whether Alexander had arranged the murder. If he had it was as great a sin for him. She prayed, but her prayers always ended with one petition. ‘Please, sweet Blessed Virgin, Blessed Bride, let Robert de Quincy be dead.’ If Robert were dead, she would be free to marry again and her husband would be a king. The matter was now urgent, for she had begun to suspect as the weeks passed that she was pregnant.

She was never completely alone; her servants were always with her. They slept in her chamber at night, they followed her by day; when she was summoned to the king, it was by one of his attendants. And now more than ever she needed to be alone. She wanted the chance to see into her future. She could not bear the suspense; could no longer tolerate her position. She had to know. Was the destiny Einion had predicted hers at last? Was she to be the next Queen of Scots, in spite of the opposition to her? For there was opposition. It wasn’t only the Earl of Fife who did not want her to be queen. The Earl of Mar, the Earl of Buchan, the Earl of Dunbar, and of course the Constable of Scotland, Robert’s brother, Roger de Quincy, were all adamant that when the king remarried – and for Scotland’s sake that had to be soon – it could not be to the Countess of Chester. Too much doubt and jealousy and scandal clung to her now, and how could the king marry a woman whose husband might still be alive?

Her nights in Alexander’s arms were a haven, but never once did she dare to ask him what was to happen, and never once did he give her any sign. Together, in silence, they waited for news of her husband. Until it came, they could do nothing. And still she had not told him her secret.

VIII

They were at Scone again. The hot muggy August days stretched out and thunder was never far away. The beautiful old palace of Scone lay in a heat haze. It was very silent in the king’s rooms where Eleyne lay in Alexander’s arms. They were both naked.

The knocking on the door was quick and urgent. Alexander sat up and frowned. His servants had orders that he was never to be disturbed when he was alone with Lady Chester.

The knocking was repeated, light, so as not to be heard far away, but insistent.

Pulling on his gown, he went to the door and unbolted it. A shadowy figure waited outside in the dark corridor. The king heard the whispered message and scowled.

‘I have to go, my love.’ He was dressing swiftly. ‘But wait here, I’ll be back soon.’ He knelt and put his hand on her breast as she lay sleepily where he had left her. ‘Lock the door behind me.’

She needed no second bidding. Her hands were shaking as she struck flint to steel and coaxed a spark into the fire laid in the hearth. It had not been lit for days and the kindling was dry as dust. She had no herbs to conjure up the scented smoke. This time she had to do it alone.

Kneeling before the flames, still naked, she waited impatiently for them to heat and steady, emptying her mind, seeking the pictures she knew would be there.

Outside footsteps approached up the stone-flagged passage. She held her breath; they came nearer – she heard the double beat of the heavy boot, heel and toe, and then the jarring metallic ring of the long spurs. They reached the door and paused, then they moved on. She closed her eyes with relief.

The future, her future, her destiny. Would she marry the king? Was the child she was now certain she was carrying going to be the heir to the throne of Scotland? She had to know.

Show me, show me the future. She knelt closer to the fire, her hands outstretched. I must know. Her eyes were reddening; sore and dry from the heat. The sweat was pouring down between her breasts, and her fingertips tingled warningly. ‘Please show me,’ she begged out loud.

Were the flames condensing into a picture? She leaned closer, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, her bare knees on the sprinkling of broken twig and bark which lay in the hearth.

There, against the grey stones of the chimney, still cold and impervious to the new heat, was that a picture? ‘Einion, help me! Tell me what is to happen!’ She shook her head to clear her eyes. ‘Tell me my future.’

The flames crackled up merrily, devouring the dry sticks, licking at the log which lay ready to heat the room on the first cold night. Outside, the sunlight had turned coppery; thunder rolled around the Perthshire hills.

She did not hear Alexander’s soft leather-soled shoes. His knock was imperious. ‘Eleyne, open this door!’ For one long moment she remained where she was, kneeling before the empty flames, then she rose to her feet.

Alexander stared at her and slammed the door behind him. ‘Never, never open the door with no clothes on again. Supposing someone had seen… Eleyne, what is the matter? Why in the name of all that is holy have you lit a fire?’ He strode over and kicked at the logs, scattering them. Then he turned. ‘You were looking into the future?’

She was still standing by the door, her long hair curling down over her breasts, her hands and arms streaked with wood ash and soot. Her eyes were red.

‘Or were you summoning the dead?’ His face darkened angrily. ‘Is that it?’

She was frightened. ‘No, I was trying to see… to see the future… I needed to know,’ she finished in a whisper.

‘You needed to know. What pray did you need to know?’

‘What will happen.’ She looked at him in anguish. ‘It was prophesied by Einion Gweledydd that I should be the mother of a line of kings. I had to know,’ she rushed on. ‘I had to know when. We always thought he was speaking of my marriage to John.’ She took a deep agonised breath. ‘But that wasn’t to be. And now…’ Her voice faltered to a halt.

‘And now,’ he echoed.

She saw the vivid blaze of his eyes and suddenly she was reminded of John. How he had looked when she had told him the same thing. She put out her hand timidly and touched his arm. ‘Is Robert dead?’ she whispered.

He nodded.

‘You gave the order?’ she forced herself to ask.

‘I gave the order.’ He spoke heavily, staring down at the remains of the smouldering ashes. ‘God forgive me, I gave the order. I had to have you. Sweet Blessed Christ, I had to have you for my wife!’

Eleyne clenched her fists. Her breath was coming in tight, painful gasps. ‘I’m carrying your child, my lord.’ She hadn’t meant to say it like that – straight out.

‘Are you sure?’ Words he had spoken before, to his wife, but this time he already knew the answer. The curves of her belly, the full breasts, the slight broadening of her hips: the signs which he had subconsciously noticed and enjoyed without realising their significance.

‘I’m sure.’ She spoke in a whisper.

‘Sweet Jesus! how long I’ve waited for this moment!’ He took her in his arms, her soft white body crushed against his robe. He threaded his fingers through her hair and gently pulled back her head, raising her lips to his.

‘You will marry me? You will have to marry me now.’ She arched her throat to his kisses, feeling herself growing weak, as always at his touch.

‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘I’ll have to marry you now.’

‘And Robert?’

‘Robert is dead, I told you.’

He was pulling at his clothes, pushing her down, his mouth on hers. She shut out the shiver of unease his tone had brought. She had always known that Robert would have to die to set her free.

She lay back beneath him, her lips against his, her mind spinning out of thought into animal sensation. If this was the will of the gods, if this was her destiny, who was she to feel guilt at the death of one man?

IX

The River Thames lapped greedily against the wall, small wavelets slapping at the stone, teasing the weed and rubbish which floated there. It was full high tide. The messenger drew Robert de Quincy into a dark corner in the angle of the Water Gate Tower and the wall and glanced over his shoulder before he put his mouth to Robert’s ear.

‘Your wife is with child by the King of Scots.’

Robert’s eyes widened. ‘Who told you?’

The stranger shrugged. ‘I was told to tell you. It was the king who tried to have you killed. They think you’re dead and that she is free to marry him.’

Robert put his hand to the throat of his new gown and shivered. ‘How do they know it’s the king’s child?’ he blustered. ‘It might be mine.’

‘Then you must claim it.’ The man eyed him insolently. ‘If you dare.’

Robert’s mouth was dry with fear, but a slow steady anger churned in his stomach. How dare she? They had made a cuckold of him before the world and now they wanted to dispose of him like so much rubbish. Well, she was not going to find it that easy. Not once he had told King Henry what was going on.

X

‘It won’t be for long, lass.’ Alexander’s hands were on her shoulders. ‘What is it?’

It was unlike her to cry, but the tears slipped down her face in spite of her efforts to check them. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ He was riding to the far west of his kingdom.

‘Neither do I, Eleyne,’ he said, growing impatient. ‘But it has to be; you know that as well as I do.’

Her belly was showing now. If she were careful, always draped in a full mantle, no one could see it, but her servants knew; Nesta knew, for she had had to let out the seams of Eleyne’s gowns. And she was sure some of the men and women of the court had guessed. But still Alexander had not acted. It was only three or four months before her baby was due; they had to be married soon.

She had stopped riding, terrified of harming the baby, her whole being tied up with the scrap of life who would one day wear a crown. She did not know that messengers had arrived from the court of King Henry, and that one of the messages they carried was that Robert de Quincy was alive.

XI

All the lords and princes of Wales were gathered at the command of Prince Llywelyn. Once more he wanted their assurances and their oaths of loyalty: for Dafydd.

Isabella sat watching as her husband’s attendants put the finishing touches to his clothes, tweaking, brushing, pulling at the folds of his cloak. She was shivering in spite of the lighted brazier which threw out a shimmering wall of heat from its glowing coals.

‘Is your father well enough to attend the meeting?’ She was growing agitated now that the day had finally arrived.

Dafydd nodded. He waved away his servants and turned to face her. ‘So, how do I look?’ He was wearing the talaith, the coronet which was the symbol of his rank.

‘Handsome.’ She smiled with some of her old coquettishness. ‘Every inch the greatest prince Wales has ever seen.’

‘No prince will ever be greater than my father, Isabella.’

‘You will.’ She stood up and moving towards him with a rustle of silks she stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. ‘You’ll see, Dafydd bach, after today you will rule all Wales.’

Outside the guesthouse the wind had risen, roaring through the trees in the valley beyond the abbey. The lonely hills were dark under the speeding clouds.

‘Not as long as Gruffydd holds so much of Gwynedd and Powys. Father means him to succeed Gwenwynwyn as leader in central Wales. If he does he’ll be a thorn in my flesh for the rest of my days.’

‘Then he mustn’t succeed.’ Isabella’s eyes narrowed. ‘Once the princes have sworn allegiance to you, my husband, he will have no friends. And your father will go back happily to his prayers at Aberconwy. The field will be yours.’

‘My thoughts exactly! Though I must move carefully. Remove his lands little by little, isolate him. With my allies and my sisters’ husbands with their lands… Angharad and Maelgwyn Fychan, Gwladus and Ralph Mortimer, Gwenllian and William de Lacy, Margaret and Walter Clifford. It’s a formidable list.’ He paused. ‘It’s a pity that Chester is now so irrevocably in Henry’s hands. With the earl as our ally we were far more secure.’

Isabella frowned. ‘Where is the Countess of Chester now, do we know?’

Dafydd smiled. The minx was showing her claws again. He could tell by the tone of her voice. She knew very well where Eleyne was. He shook his head at her gravely. ‘She is, I hope, working on strengthening the prospects of a Welsh alliance with Scotland.’

Isabella laughed shrilly. ‘Is that what it’s called? That is not what Robert de Quincy called it when he came to see papa.’

If Robert de Quincy had hoped for sympathy from Eleyne’s father when he came to Aber the month before, he had been sadly disappointed. Llywelyn, on his way back to Aberconwy, where he spent more and more of his time in prayer, had been curt to the point of rudeness to his unwanted and unloved son-in-law, pointing out that a wife was a man’s own business and if he could not control Eleyne he should perhaps look to his own character for the reason.

The news of Eleyne’s attachment to the King of Scots had pleased Dafydd enormously; her marriage to him would be the best and biggest insult to Henry anyone at Aber could conceive. He had said as much to his father.

‘If that young man should meet with an accident on his way out of Wales, we would be doing the whole world a favour!’ he had said succinctly as Robert de Quincy left Aber.

Llywelyn had frowned, groping with shaking hand for the crucifix he wore around his neck. ‘Murder is not the answer, my son, though I’m tempted, sorely tempted. The alliance with the royal house of Scotland would be good for Wales, very good.’ He smiled with a glint in his eye, quite like his old self. Then he sighed. ‘But I don’t wish to die with that wretched young man’s death on my conscience. Or on yours -’ he added hastily.

Both men had thought for a moment with regret about Gruffydd. He would not have hesitated. But Gruffydd wasn’t there.

XII

William, Earl of Mar, was sitting near King Alexander. He glanced at his companions with a scowl. They had wished this on him after long discreet discussions by the fireside, and now they had turned to talk among themselves, leaving him alone with his king.

Alexander lay back in his chair and sighed. ‘So, William, another two days and we can ride back to Roxburgh.’

‘I hope so, sir.’ What kind of fool was he to try this? How could he even begin?

Someone cleared their throat in the room behind him. William took the hint.

‘I hear Sir Robert de Quincy is bragging at Henry’s court that he is to be a father, sire.’ He kept his eyes on his hands, watching the fire glint on the stone in his ring. ‘He claims his wife was cohabiting with him when the child was conceived and claims to know when it will be born.’

He risked a glance at the king’s face, and wished he hadn’t. The pain was raw.

‘Sir Robert is also claiming that you tried to have him killed, sire,’ he said softly. ‘Even if he released her -’ he paused – ‘or if he died, there would always be doubt. Even with a papal dispensation, as the widower of her aunt,’ he ploughed on manfully, ‘you cannot marry her. Scotland would be torn apart.’

‘I know.’

For a moment William did not believe what he had heard. The king’s strangled whisper had been so soft.

The other three men watching covertly from the shadows saw their king put his face in his hands. ‘How will I tell her, William?’

Lord Mar bit his lip. ‘I am sure she will understand,’ he said hopefully. Privately, he doubted it. The beautiful Lady Chester had a fiery spirit which did not, as far as he could see, tolerate any contradiction of her wishes.

The king’s wry smile seemed to imply that he felt the same.

‘You could just stay away,’ William said, ‘until she is brought to bed.’

Alexander shook his head. ‘That would be cruel, and it would be cowardly.’ He straightened. ‘So, William, tell me: whom do my lords think I should marry? Do you have a list of your daughters ready? Or must I marry a foreign princess?’ He stood up abruptly. ‘I love her, William.’ It was a cry of anguish.

‘She is a very beautiful woman, sire.’ William stood too. ‘I am sure she will continue to -’ Embarrassed, he groped for words.

‘To be my paramour?’ Alexander laughed bitterly. ‘But she deserves better than that, William. Far better.’

XIII

Eleyne was sewing with her ladies in the solar above the hall. The gales had grown worse, uprooting trees, tearing roofs from buildings, screaming banshee-like in the chimneys, hurling the rain against the narrow windows. It was hard to sew by the flickering candlelight and the women were talking idly around the table, only now and then inserting stitches into their work. Eleyne had had a letter from Alexander that morning; he was still delayed in the far west. It would be another week at least before he could come to her.

She knew of the rumour that Robert was alive, but she had no way of finding out the truth. As the weeks passed, she had grown more miserable and uncertain. She did not eat; she did not sleep. On the one hand, his survival meant that Alexander had not after all been guilty of murder. On the other, it meant she was not free. Had Alexander petitioned the pope for an annulment of her marriage? Was he even now awaiting word from Rome?

She sighed, moving uncomfortably in her chair as the baby kicked beneath her ribs. Why was the king taking so long? Couldn’t he see that time was running out? They had to be married before the baby was born; surely that was more important than yet another squabble among his quarrelsome subjects. He had people to do that for him, he did not have to be there in person. The needle slipped in her hands and she gave an exclamation of pain and annoyance as a spot of blood appeared on her finger.

The noise of the wind disguised the sound of feet. When the door burst open, the women looked up in amazement. Robert de Quincy had a drawn sword in his hand. Behind him were several armed men who wore the insignia of the Earl of Fife.

‘So this is where you are, sweetheart.’ He peered around the room as the shadows leapt from the wildly flickering candles. One of the ladies gave a scream; the rest stared at him, too afraid to move.

‘Come, we are leaving, King Henry wants us in London.’

Eleyne rose to her feet. Her face was white and strained, her heart thudded sickly in her throat. ‘I am not going with you. Our marriage is over.’

‘Our marriage isn’t over.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘My dear, it has hardly begun. Fetch her cloak.’ His eyes had flicked over the cowering women and settled on Nesta. ‘We ride south tonight.’

Nesta licked her lips nervously. ‘My lady is in no condition to ride, Sir Robert,’ she said cautiously, amazed at her own courage.

‘No condition?’ Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘Nothing stops my wife from riding, surely.’ He had to raise his voice against the sound of the wind. ‘Not even the fact that she is carrying my child.’

‘This is not your child.’ Eleyne’s hand went protectively to her stomach. ‘And you know it. I am carrying the king’s son.’

‘You are carrying my son, madam,’ Robert’s voice was harsh, ‘and he will be born under my roof. We ride south tonight.’

‘No.’ She backed away from him. ‘The king – ’

‘The king is a hundred miles away. You and I will be in England before he even hears that you have gone. You are my wife, any child you bear is my child, and I insist it is born in England. Fetch her cloak.’ The last words were shouted at Nesta as Robert strode towards Eleyne and grabbed her wrist. He was wearing armour beneath his mantle and cloak, his sword still in his right hand.

‘Guards!’ Eleyne screamed, ‘where are the guards?’ She tried to pull away from him.

‘The guards are elsewhere, and they have no orders to keep me from my wife.’ He had his arm around her shoulders now. ‘I advise you to come with me without any fuss, sweetheart, if you don’t want to hurt yourself and my son.’

Nesta, white-faced, scuttled away to fetch Eleyne’s thick cloak. ‘I’ll come too.’ She put it gently around Eleyne’s shoulders, but Robert pushed her away. ‘She needs no servants. Out of my way, woman.’ He was sweating as he turned for the door, dragging Eleyne with him.

She kicked out at him and tried desperately to pull free, but she knew he was too strong for her.

‘Call for help,’ she screamed over her shoulder. ‘Tell the king, for sweet pity’s sake, tell the king – ’

With a curt nod, Robert pushed Eleyne towards one of his men and the man swept her off her feet. In seconds she was being carried towards the door.

Robert turned back into the room, where the women cowered. ‘No one is to call for help,’ he said softly, ‘no one at all.’ He raised the sword and very gently put the tip against Nesta’s throat. She moaned with fear, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling. ‘If they do, I shall pull the necks of every woman in this room, for the squawking hens you are.’ He gave a small flick of the sword and a speck of blood appeared on the white fabric of Nesta’s wimple. She moaned again, half fainting with terror, and he gave a humourless bark of laughter as he withdrew the sword. Following the other men outside, he pulled the door closed and locked it, and on the way across the lower floor of the keep he tossed the key into the well.

He took Eleyne on his horse in front of him and kicked it forward through the gates. On either side his men carried flaring torches to light the road as they turned south at a gallop.

The wind was mercifully behind them, but within seconds the riders were soaked through. Eleyne was shaking with cold and fright and anger, but her only thought was for the baby as the horses thundered along the track. Robert’s mailclad arm was viciously tight. She could scarcely breathe. At one point the horses plunged across a broad river and she felt the icy water dragging at her skirts, her cloak drenched afresh by the spray from the horse’s hooves, then they were on the road again.

It was growing light before they reached their destination. The horses walked in single file through a gate in a high curtain wall and halted in a courtyard before a small tower. Robert dismounted and lifted her down. ‘We’ll rest here for a few hours.’ He took her arm and turned towards the door, where an old man was standing, waiting for them.

‘Where is this place?’ Eleyne could hear the sound of distant waves crashing against the rocks, and she could smell the sharp green smell of the sea. She took a step forward and winced with pain. Her feet were numb and she was stiff and aching in every muscle.

‘A friendly castle.’ Robert grinned. ‘One where your lover will not find you.’ Taking her arm he pulled her towards the door.

The man who was waiting there was a complete stranger to her. He bowed before them. ‘My wife and her servant have prepared a room for your lady, sir. She will be comfortable there.’

‘Thank you.’ Still holding her arm, Robert followed the man indoors. A turnpike stair twisted up in the thickness of the wall on the eastern side of the chamber and in single file they followed him up it.

The bedchamber was at the top of the tower. A fire had been lit and a bed prepared. Too tired to think of anything but sleep, Eleyne scarcely allowed the woman to remove her wet clothes before she collapsed into the bed and felt the bedcovers being heaped over her. The chatelaine chuckled quietly to herself as she wrapped hot stones in cloths and packed them around Eleyne’s feet. Within minutes Eleyne was asleep, her arms crossed protectively across her belly.

It was late morning when she awoke but the room was still dark. It was full of the sound of the sea. Robert was standing by the bed. ‘We have to ride on. Mistress Gillespie has dry clothes for you and food.’

Now that she was rested, Eleyne’s resolve had returned. ‘I am riding nowhere. Do you want me to lose this child?’

Robert’s eyes narrowed in the light of the candle he held. ‘My child?’ he said quietly. ‘No, I don’t want you to lose it. I want it to be born at home. At Fotheringhay. We’ll ride slowly once we are out of Scotland, I shall get some kind of conveyance for you if it is easier. We should be at Berwick tomorrow.’

‘I am not going.’ She could feel waves of panic rising inside her and desperately she fought them down. ‘You can’t do this. The king will kill you – ’

Robert smiled humourlessly. ‘I don’t think so. Don’t you think he would have married you by now if he were going to? Sweet Eleyne, the king is not going to marry you. And I’ll tell you why. He knows this child isn’t his.’

‘It is.’ Her cry was full of anguish.

Robert put down the candle and sat on the bed beside her. ‘Poor Eleyne. So ambitious. Not content with being Countess of Chester, she wants to be Queen of the Scots. Well, sweetheart, it isn’t going to happen, you are my wife and my wife you are going to stay. And all your children…’ he put his hand heavily on her stomach, ‘are going to be mine. Is that clear?’ He sat looking at her for a long moment, then he stood up. When he left the chamber she heard the bolt shoot home on the door behind him.

Dragging herself out of bed she went to the window and pulled the shutter open. The wind had dropped, but it was still ice-cold in her face as she leaned out across the broad wet sill and peered through the narrow lancets. The tower was built high in the woods above the sea. She could see the waves crashing on to the shore in the distance, sending up clouds of spray. On the horizon a multitude of small islands stood out of the mist. There was no escape that way. Turning from the window she surveyed the round room. It was sparsely furnished. Two coffers and a bed were all the comforts it afforded. The two archways with curtains across them revealed the garderobe and a small oratory in the thickness of the massive wall. She stood for a moment before the crucifix which stood on the altar. The narrow windows above it had small yellowish panes of glass set in a leaded frame. It was very dark.

The prayers she had thought to make would not come. Instead, she found herself concentrating on the dull ache in her spine. With a groan she braced her hands against the small of her back in the time-honoured gesture of the heavily pregnant woman and went to sit on the bed.

She ate the food she was brought and put on the clothes. She knew enough about Robert to be certain that he would have no compunction about forcing her if he had to and that he would enjoy doing it. She refused to give him that satisfaction. Her only chance of escape was to use her head. Mistress Gillespie had refused to speak to her, shaking her head sternly when questioned as to where they were, but Eleyne guessed they were somewhere in Fife. The men who had ridden with Robert wore the Earl of Fife’s blazon on their surcoats. But why should Malcolm of Fife help Robert? He wouldn’t want to make an enemy of his king, and besides, he still seemed to want her himself.

She was no wiser when Robert came upstairs to collect her. He eyed her clothes, smoky but dry from the fire, and nodded. ‘I’m glad you’ve decided to be sensible. The horses are ready.’

Even now she could probably outride him, given a decent horse. It was the only chance of escape. Gritting her teeth against the nagging ache in her back, she followed him down the narrow spiral stair.

‘I’ll ride my own horse!’ She saw with alarm that he intended her to sit behind him.

‘I think not. It’s safer for the baby if you are with me. Besides, we are not going far.’

It was barely half a mile down to the small harbour where a boat was waiting, jerking at its mooring rope on the choppy water.

Eleyne stared at it in horror. ‘I’m not going in that.’

She saw her hopes of escape receding fast and she could feel her panic growing.

‘Indeed you are, sweetheart. The ferryman is going to take us across the Forth. I have fresh horses waiting on the far side.’ Throwing his leg over the pommel of the saddle, he slid to the ground and pulled her after him. Two of Lord Fife’s men were going with them and she was lifted into the bucking boat. ‘No!’ Desperately she tried to rise, but already Robert was beside her. ‘Sit quietly or you’ll fall overboard,’ he shouted against the wind and she found herself sitting helplessly in the shelter of his arm as the sail was raised and the boat drew away from the jetty, hurtling before the sharp north-easterly wind towards the south.

They made landfall on a deserted sandy coast where two horsemen were waiting with spare mounts in the shelter of a pine wood. The ferryman ran the boat up on to the sand and Eleyne was lifted out. She was wet through from the spray and chilled to the bone, and her back ached worse than ever. She had never been seasick in her life, but Robert had spent most of the journey leaning over the side and he was still green as he staggered up the beach.

Eleyne paused to catch her breath, feeling her shoes sink into the soft sand. ‘I can’t go any further.’

Robert stopped. He felt like death and his legs would hardly support him. However much he knew they must ride south quickly and put as much distance between themselves and the King of Scots as possible, all he wanted at this particular moment was to lie down and die. ‘I’ll ask the men with the horses if there is somewhere we can rest,’ he said. It was obvious to Eleyne that he could not face going any further himself, but he still sounded grudging.

They were taken to a small cottage on the edge of a fishing village nearby. The horses were led away and Robert shown to a shed full of hay where he could sleep, while a cheerful young woman, barefoot, her skirts kilted up to her knees, shyly led Eleyne inside. The whole place smelt strongly of fish, but the bed was a pile of dried heather and bracken, spread with sheepskins, and to Eleyne it was the most comfortable place on earth. She sank into it, too tired even to feel the young woman removing her shoes and pulling her wet cloak from her shoulders.

She woke much later with terrifying suddenness as a vicious pain knifed across her back and cramped her womb. Night must have fallen while she was asleep. The fire was damped and she could see in its faint glow the figure of her hostess dozing on the far side of the hearth. The pain came again and she heard herself cry out.

The young woman awoke with a start and scrambled to her feet. ‘My lady? Are you all right?’

Eleyne lay still, shaking. She could feel the chill of perspiration drying on her face. ‘My baby,’ she gasped, ‘I think it’s coming.’

The woman deftly pulled aside the turves which were heaped over the fire. She found some twigs from the pile of driftwood in the corner and fed them to it. By the time it was blazing, she had lit one of her precious tallow candles and set it on the iron pricket on the chest in the corner. Then she turned to Eleyne and laid a comforting hand on her head.

Eleyne groaned again. She knelt up on the bed, rocking back and forth, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

‘What are we going to do?’ she cried. ‘You must get help.’ Alexander, where was Alexander?

The woman’s frightened shout brought Robert into the cottage, then, a shawl thrown over her head, she ran into the night to fetch her neighbour.

Robert stared at Eleyne, his face white and drawn in the smoky light; he did not dare to go right into the room. There was a strange smile on his face. At the sight of him standing in the doorway something snapped inside Eleyne.

‘This is your fault,’ she screamed. ‘If I lose this baby it is your fault! And I shall kill you myself, if Alexander doesn’t do it first, so help me, I will!’ The tears were streaming down her face. She was aware suddenly of water, warm and salty, pouring between her legs, soaking into the sheepskin on which she was kneeling.

Robert didn’t move. He took in with dispassionate disgust every detail of the dishevelled woman kneeling on the bed in her stained gown, with her huge belly and her wild eyes and her hair deep red in the smoking tallow light.

The fisherman’s wife reappeared almost at once with an older woman behind her and in seconds Robert had been banished from the cottage. He stood outside, wrapped in his cloak, looking across the shore to the black waters beyond. Somewhere out there, this woman’s husband and his colleagues were in their little boats, fishing the dark, storm-bound waters, or even now fighting their way back towards the land. His mind worked furiously as the wind pushed his hair back from his cold forehead, his fear of pursuit eclipsed by his anger that once again she had outwitted him. The child was going to be born in Scotland after all.

Eleyne screamed once, just as the sun was rising in a blaze of stormy crimson out of the eastern clouds. Then the eerie silence descended once more on the cottage. It was a long time before the fisherman’s wife appeared at Robert’s side. When he didn’t turn she touched his elbow timidly.

‘The babe is born, my lord,’ she whispered. ‘It’s too small to live. I’m sorry. Do you want to see it?’

‘What is it?’ His voice was expressionless.

‘A boy.’

‘A boy.’ He repeated the words slowly, then he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want to see it.’ He walked away from the cottage towards the water.

Eleyne was propped against a pile of sacks – there were no pillows in the house – the child wrapped in a bloody piece of torn shift in her arms. He was so tiny, this little mite, her dream of Scotland’s future, his features perfect, too early for pudgy baby fat, his hair a glorious red-gold, his minute fingers curled on themselves like sculptured wax. His eyes fluttered slightly behind transparent lids and his mouth parted a little for the breast he would never have the strength to take.

Tears pouring down her face Eleyne kissed his little face and held him to her as he died.

The old woman who had delivered him had baptised him Alexander at her request.

I

As soon as she was well enough to travel, Robert took her back across the water to Aberdour. He carried her upstairs to the chamber in the tower and left her there, in the care of Mistress Gillespie. Then he sent for Nesta and her ladies.

Eleyne had not spoken since the baby died. There had been no anger, no rage, just a terrible silent grief. It had been many hours before they had been able to take the baby from her. She rocked the little body in her arms, her lips against his soft hair, and she wept as though her heart would break. When at last the two women had managed to take him and wrap him in a piece of clean woollen cloth – the only shroud that could be found for the son of the king – she had lost so much blood that she was too weak to stand. Neither she nor Robert was present at the burial in the churchyard on the shore.

Easter came and went and Robert returned to England alone. He simply rode away one day and left her at Aberdour. He felt no desire to take her with him, he felt no desire for her at all. He felt only increasing fear at what Alexander would do when he found out what had happened. It was several days before she wondered if he were coming back; two more before she realised she was no longer a prisoner. It was six days before Alexander came.

He sat down on the bed and took her hands. For a long time neither of them spoke, then at last she looked at him. His face was grey with pain.

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘Malcolm of Fife told me.’

‘It was his men who helped Robert kidnap me.’

The king frowned. ‘He says he told Robert he could use this place. He didn’t know you were here.’

‘Didn’t you look for me?’

‘Of course I looked for you!’ For the first time his voice betrayed emotion. ‘Holy Virgin! I nearly died when I found you had gone. I scoured the kingdom, but no one even knew in which direction he had taken you!’

‘Why did you leave it so long before you came back to me?’ She was leaning against the pillows, wrapped in a linen shift with a woollen cloak around her shoulders. She had grown very thin. ‘We could have been married. You could have had a son.’ Her voice broke, but there were no tears. There were no tears left.

‘You will have other children, Eleyne. You are very young.’

You. Not we.

‘You aren’t going to marry me. You never intended to marry me.’ It was a whisper.

‘You are already married, Eleyne. If you hadn’t had a husband… if you had been mine from the start.’ He paused. ‘We don’t even know for sure that the child was mine.’ His voice was gentle but firm.

She closed her eyes. Outside the wind was moaning again, stirring the waves as they whispered on the rocks below. There was a smell of snow in the air. ‘He was yours. He looked like you. He had your colour hair.’ Her voice wavered and she clenched her fists.

At last he spoke. ‘Eleyne, we cannot go on seeing each other. You know that, don’t you? There must be no more scandal. The wellbeing of Scotland must come before all else, even before our happiness. If I had been anyone but a king, anyone at all, no one would have kept you from me. No one.’

‘You are going to send me back to Robert?’ Her voice was toneless, and she did not look at him. There was going to be no punishment for her husband; no retribution for the murder of her baby.

‘You never left him,’ Alexander said gently. ‘You are his. That is God’s will.’

‘God’s will,’ she echoed. ‘No, that is not God’s will.’ Her voice rose. ‘It was God’s will that I bear you a child, that I be the mother of a line of kings! That was written in the stars. If you don’t marry me, you are defying God’s will!’

He shook his head. ‘No, lass, I’m sorry.’

‘You are not sending me away?’ It was as though she had only just realised what he was saying. ‘I can’t live without you. For pity’s sake!’ She threw herself from the bed and into his arms, sobbing wildly.

He closed his arms around her and held her for a long time in silence, listening to the gentle sigh of the sea in the distance. ‘I shall always love you, lass, always,’ was all he said at last. Reluctantly he pushed her away from him and turned towards the door.

She did not move. Ten minutes later, when Nesta put her head into the room, she was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall.

II

The king was once more at Dunfermline. She rode Tam Lin slowly into the great courtyard below Malcolm’s Tower, well again physically, although she was still pale and very thin. She dismounted, unaware that her brilliant hair was the only touch of colour about her; her cloak of white furs, her white face, her milky horse, they all seemed fairylike against the light scattering of April snow; more than one man crossed himself as he saw her.

She was not expected and had no escort save for the faithful Nesta and Master Gillespie who had ridden with her, and no one sprang to welcome the Countess of Chester and escort her with ceremony into the king’s presence. She looked around ruefully and smiled at Nesta. ‘Is this how those who fall from favour are welcomed?’

Nesta bit her lip. She was afraid.

Eleyne walked towards the door. The guards stood to attention, their eyes carefully impersonal, and let her pass, as did the chamberlain who had been summoned to the hall. The king was with Lord Fife and Lord Mar in his private room, and they were attended by two of the king’s clerks.

He looked around as she appeared and she saw the sudden frown between his eyes. There was no message of hope there, no chance then that he would change his mind.

She walked towards him, very straight in her white cloak, and curtseyed deeply.

‘Sire.’

He took her hand and raised her to her feet. ‘Lady Chester.’

He waited courteously for her to speak and she was conscious of Malcolm of Fife’s eyes on her face. His expression was unreadable.

The king was not going to make it easy for her.

‘I have come to take my leave, sire.’ Her voice sounded loud in the silence of the room. Five pairs of eyes watched her covertly as she stood before him. She felt as if she were naked.

‘You are returning to Fotheringhay?’ His voice was husky.

‘No, I won’t go back there.’

‘Then where?’ He hated her quiet pride more than he had hated her pleading. It reminded him that she was of royal blood, a princess, and because of that he could not treat her as a common whore and drag her to his bed to assuage his lust and his terrible guilt. Suddenly he could stand it no longer. He snapped his fingers at his companions. ‘Leave us, I will speak to Lady Chester alone.’

She did not let herself hope. She had not seen any change of heart in his eyes.

‘You should not have come here,’ he said as soon as the door closed behind the last servant. ‘You are not making it easy for either of us.’

‘I did not come here to make it easy.’ She clenched her fists, fighting her need to run to him, forcing herself to remain where she was. ‘Have you decided whom you’re going to marry?’ Her voice was hard.

He sighed. ‘Don’t torment yourself, lass.’

‘Have you?’ Her eyes flashed dangerously. ‘Tell me. You owe me that much. Or do I have to wait to hear it from the gossips?’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘I am to marry a lady from France. Marie, the daughter of Baron de Couci. We will marry later in the spring.’

‘I see.’ It was the ghost of a whisper. ‘And then you will forget me.’

‘I shall never forget you, Eleyne.’ The agony in his voice was intense. ‘Sweet Jesus, I shall never forget you. How could I? You are a part of me!’ There was a long silence, then he was suddenly brisk. ‘You have the gifts I gave you? I want you to keep them. They will give you…’ he groped for the word, ‘security.’

Her lips tightened. She wanted to throw his gifts at his feet, but she couldn’t. He was right. They were all that stood between her and poverty unless she went back to Robert.

The king was finding it very difficult not to touch her. He wanted her so badly his loins ached. His heart ached. He had only to smile; to hold out his arms. But he owed her more than that, his beautiful Welsh princess. If she could not be his queen, he would not insult her by asking her to be his mistress. There was only one thing he could do for her now.

‘I shall give you letters for your father, Eleyne. If you would, deliver them for me, to Wales. As a royal messenger you will have an escort and my safe conduct to protect you, and it will give you a reason to go home.’

She gave a wistful smile. So she was to hide her hurt pride and her broken heart in Gwynedd. But at least Robert would not come to find her there, even if he heard where she had gone.

Alexander stepped forward and kissed her once, on the forehead, then he left her.

In the morning he had two letters for her, one for Llywelyn and one for Dafydd. Under his arm there was a small squirming wolfhound pup, which he put in her hands. ‘I know it won’t fill the gap in your heart, lass,’ he said softly, ‘nothing can do that, but he’ll serve you with his life. He’s the same line as old Gelert; Joanna’s father gave one pup to your father, one to us.’

Her arms closed around the dog; she felt its tongue, rough and eager, on her nose. Then she turned away, so he could not see her tears.

III

Llywelyn settled her in the manor at Llanfaes, where she did not need to see Isabella too often, but nevertheless Isabella came. She was smiling. Her pretty face had lost its puffiness again, her hair was wreathed in a coronet of twisted gold.

As she was shown into the hall, Eleyne felt her stomach clench warningly, but she rose and stretched out her hand with a smile. Isabella dimpled and sat down next to her with a rustle of silks. It was unseasonably hot outside, but it was cool in the hall.

‘Did you know that Dafydd has had to send Gruffydd and Owain back to Criccieth?’ Isabella asked at once.

Eleyne nodded. Llywelyn, tired and ill, had retired permanently at last to the Abbey of Aberconwy and donned the cowl of the monks to spend his last days in prayer, leaving Dafydd in full control of all his lands. She had been told of the trick by which Dafydd had immediately captured his brother, luring him into a trap with his eldest son and making them both prisoners. He did not mean to brook any opposition in his final bid to become Llywelyn’s only heir. Already Eleyne was planning a visit to her father on Gruffydd’s behalf.

Isabella smiled. Obviously this was not the purpose of her visit. Her next words revealed what it was. ‘Dafydd has had letters from Scotland.’ Her voice rose a little as she faced her sister-in-law under the curious gaze of their attendants. ‘I thought I should be the one to tell you.’

Eleyne already knew what Isabella was going to say; it had come to her in her dreams. Alexander was married. Another woman was his queen. She clenched her fists, tired of always having to show a brave face, tired of the pain, tired of the pleasure others seemed to take in her unhappiness, yet unable to fend off this new wave of grief.

‘You know, don’t you?’

She realised that she had risen from her chair and that Isabella was standing behind her. ‘Your lover has married – a baron’s daughter, from France.’

‘I know.’ Eleyne managed to keep her voice steady.

‘What will you do?’ The spite in Isabella’s tone had softened; in its place there was genuine curiosity.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘I don’t know that either.’

‘You have to go back to him.’

‘No, I’ll never go back to him, never.’

IV

It was easy to be alone at Llanfaes. Dafydd and Isabella had spared her few servants, but she had not wanted more. Her body needed rest to heal. Her soul needed silence. She often walked alone and the servants respected her orders not to be disturbed. It was easy to extend that order to the long rides through the soft Anglesey countryside, with its rich corn fields and its woods, accompanied only by the pup. Alexander’s gift had become inseparable from her. She had called him Donnet. It meant ’given’.

There was something that she had to do: she had to summon Einion.

It was hard to find where he was buried. Rhonwen had led her there in the dark and so much had happened since that terrible night; a lifetime of happenings which had left them, for the time being at least, far apart. Rhonwen was still safe in London.

She began at the hermit’s cell which Einion had made his own. The roof had fallen in and weeds had grown through the floor. Tethering Tam Lin in the clearing and telling Donnet to stay with him, she walked slowly towards the collapsing stone walls and stared around.

In the distance a curlew called, a lonely cry which echoed in her ears. Her skin prickled with fear, but she forced herself to move on, stepping across the threshold and pushing her way through a tangle of nettles and willow herb to the centre of the hut.

His few possessions were still there on the rudimentary shelf. So great was the respect in which he had been held that no one had touched them. The little boxes of herbs and spices lay tumbled in a heap, the boxes swollen with damp and mildewed. Some of them had fallen to pieces and their contents had long disintegrated or rotted away. His books, his knives, the little cauldron he had used to infuse his herbs – they had been buried with him.

She looked around warily, but there was no feel of him. She was alone. Picking up one of the rotting boxes she sniffed it curiously. It smelt of the damp forest floor in autumn. There was no clue to what it had held, no clue to what Rhonwen had used to summon his spirit.

The sun beat down on the top of her head beneath her veil and she could feel her temples starting to throb. She stood for a while in the clearing. Beneath the trees she felt better. Taking the horse’s rein, she began to walk slowly into the trees with Donnet at her heels. The track was indistinct now, overgrown, but she remembered it from that single afternoon so many years before when Einion had led her into the forest and taught her about the birds.

His grave lay beneath an oak tree some yards off the track. She recognised it by the stone. She dismounted and tied Tam to a tree, then she called Donnet and put her hand on his head. ‘Stay close,’ she whispered, and the dog whined.

She had no herbs, no flint to light a fire. If he wanted to speak, he must come on her terms. He was the one who had lied.

‘Why?’ she called out loud. ‘Why did you tell me I should be a queen?’

Nearby she heard a wren singing in the undergrowth. The wind stirred the trees and Donnet growled quietly in his throat.

‘That was what you wanted me to know, wasn’t it? That you were wrong? That I had no destiny in Scotland?’ Her voice rang amongst the trees and further up the ride a hare stood up on its back legs before it bolted into the shadows. ‘Well, now I know! Your gods were wrong, Lord Einion. They had no great plan for me! How they must have laughed when they saw me with my dreams!’

But, as her voice echoed in the silence, she knew there was no one there to hear.

V

Eleyne went to see her father three days later.

She did not speak of Alexander, what was the point?

‘You cannot let Dafydd lock up his brother like this!’ She sat close beside him, knowing his eyes had grown weak. ‘Please, papa, you are still the prince!’ Her hand strayed to the head of the puppy at her side.

He shook his head. ‘You must speak to Dafydd, Eleyne. He rules Gwynedd now.’

‘And unjustly,’ she said heatedly.

He smiled. ‘Are you still as hotheaded as ever, child? No, he does not rule unjustly. He was the right choice.’

She went to Dafydd, risking Isabella’s acid tongue, and she went to Criccieth to see Gruffydd and Senena, but she could do nothing. Dafydd was adamant.

Gruffydd was a close prisoner in his castle on the Lleyn Peninsula. She could come and go by Dafydd’s order, with her white horse and her growing, adolescent hound, but her favourite elder brother could not go with her, and when the old prince died the following year Gruffydd was not allowed to leave the castle to attend his father’s funeral at Aberconwy.

Eleyne went with Dafydd and Isabella and her sisters and their husbands, and it seemed as though the whole of Wales was weeping. She had loved him and he was gone. She went back to Llanfaes, but she knew it would not be for long. She had seen Isabella’s face as they stood for the requiem mass.

VI

‘The scheming bitch has persuaded King Henry to attack us!’ Isabella shouted. ‘She has begged him to free Gruffydd! So much for her claims to be a patriot!’ Her anger hid real fear, and her quarrel with Eleyne was for the moment forgotten. The news brought by the exhausted, dust-covered messenger had reduced her to panic.

Senena, it appeared, had left Criccieth secretly and ridden to Shrewsbury to meet the king.

The old prince had hardly grown cold in his grave before Wales had erupted into dispute. Quarrels, dissatisfaction and jealousies which no one had dared to voice whilst Llywelyn was alive had been whipped into life. Dafydd’s peaceful succession had disintegrated into chaos, and Henry as his overlord had summoned him to Shrewsbury to explain the situation. Furious, Dafydd had no choice but to agree to abide by the King of England’s arbitration; but when the appointed date arrived he did not go. Instead he had assembled his armies.

Far to the east, beyond the mountains, Henry, leaving his wife and year-old son Edward behind in the castle, left Shrewsbury for Rhuddlan, encouraged by Senena’s message, marching purposefully towards the heartland of North Wales. In front of him Dafydd, without allies and without friends, moved steadily back. At Degannwy he delayed to pull down the castle, so that Henry could not use it as a base, then he retreated into the heat haze which hung over the mountains.

‘Sweet Christ! I cannot fight him!’ He ran his fingers through his hair, looking from his wife to his sister and back. He had invited Eleyne to join them at Aber for safety, not really believing that Henry would invade Wales. ‘Even the weather is against me. He marched his army across the marshes as though they were hard ground! Nothing seems to delay him! He’ll be at the Conwy any moment.’

‘Go and negotiate,’ Isabella pleaded. ‘What else can you do? Do a deal with him. He doesn’t want to fight you. He’s making a point, that’s all. He wants you to recognise him as your overlord and submit, then he’ll help you put down the revolts against you. He’ll help you deal with Gruffydd and Senena. For God’s sake, Dafydd, you have to do it. Do you want him here at Aber?’

‘She’s right, Dafydd.’ Eleyne felt sorry for her brother. His allies had deserted out of jealousy, because Llywelyn had left him too strong and they were afraid. ‘Negotiate now before it’s too late.’

‘What you mean is surrender,’ Dafydd said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘It’s that or lose Gwynedd,’ Eleyne murmured at last.

It was the advice Ednyfed Fychan, his father’s chief adviser, who was now his own, had given him too.

The night before Dafydd left Aber he called Eleyne to him in the small room which had been his father’s study. ‘There is something you should know. Isabella has written to your husband and told him you are here.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ It was as though every part of Eleyne had turned to ice.

‘I’m afraid it’s true, and I’m sorry. I’m only surprised she left it so long.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘She’s very loyal to me, Elly. I think, all things considered, it might be better if you left Gwynedd.’

Eleyne closed her eyes. Would Isabella never allow her any peace?

Dafydd gave her an escort of four men and two women to accompany her and Nesta away from Wales. He did not ask her where she was going and she did not volunteer the information. He kissed her gravely under Isabella’s watchful eye and gave her a little money. ‘Yours, under papa’s will,’ he said quietly. She blessed that money. It would give her something to live on for the immediate future without having to sell any more of Joanna’s jewels.

VII

Her men wore no insignia and, as she drew near the old Countess of Chester’s town house in Gracechurch Street with Donnet at her horse’s heels, she pulled her veil across her face. She wanted no one to recognise her.

The house was quiet, but there were servants to open the heavy gates and lead away the horses. Eleyne followed the old woman who had greeted her and found herself in a shadowy parlour on the first floor of the house, where she was left alone.

It was a long time before Rhonwen came. She stood in the doorway without a word, then ran to Eleyne and folded her in her arms, tears pouring down her face. ‘I’ve missed you so much, cariad, and I’ve been so afraid for you. Where have you been?’

Eleyne was crying too. ‘I’ve been at Llanfaes. I was with papa when he died, and Dafydd let me stay on. I couldn’t send for you, not to Gwynedd, you know that.’

‘I had thought you were still in Scotland.’ Rhonwen shook her head. ‘Have you seen your husband?’

‘Isabella told him that I had left Scotland, and he now knows that I no longer have Alexander’s protection.’ Eleyne found she could say it calmly, as if she did not care. ‘Isabella told him I was in Wales. That’s why I had to leave. That’s why I came here. I had nowhere else to go.’

Rhonwen sighed. ‘Your husband does not care for war, so the king left him here in London! He has been to this house a dozen times, swearing that he’ll hang me if he finds me.’

‘Then why are you still here?’ Eleyne was shocked.

‘I like it here. I’ve become a city dweller.’ Rhonwen smiled. ‘I like being my own mistress; old Lady Chester is a fine employer. She leaves me to run her house as I see fit. Robert de Quincy isn’t going to chase me away from here.’ She folded her arms. ‘Perhaps he’s ridden to Wales to find you. If he has, you’ll be safe here for now; I shall look after you. Don’t worry, cariad, we’ll think of something. That bastard is not going to find you, I swear it!’

VIII

As the months passed Eleyne hated London more and more. Rhonwen’s anger and sympathy when she found out at last about Eleyne’s dead child from Nesta strained her patience to the limit. And as time went on and there was still no sign of Robert, her fear of him was beginning to give way to anger and impatience.

‘Fotheringhay is my home, it’s part of my dower, and I should be allowed to live there. I’ll go and see the king now he is back at Westminster and ask him to forbid Robert to come near me.’

Rhonwen raised an eyebrow. ‘And you think he will agree?’

Eleyne sighed, pacing the floor like a caged animal. ‘I don’t know, but I can’t stay in hiding for the rest of my life, it would drive me insane! Besides, Robert will find me in the end.’

They both knew that if he found her he would take her back by force.

IX

King Henry granted her an audience almost at once. He was in jovial mood.

‘So, niece, how are you? I’m glad your brother decided to come to heel and that ridiculous business in Wales is over. You know he is coming here to London?’

Eleyne hid her surprise. She gazed at her uncle in some dislike. ‘I didn’t know, no.’ A survey of the great hall at Westminster had reassured her that neither of the de Quincy brothers was in attendance on the king.

He smiled. ‘Indeed he is, and I have brought Gruffydd and the Lady Senena to London as my guests at the Tower.’

Eleyne was almost speechless with horror. She had known nothing of this. ‘Your prisoners?’

‘My guests.’ He gave her a hard look. ‘I am glad to see you here at last. You’ve been too long in mourning for your father. We have missed you at court.’ There was a pause. ‘Your husband has been lost without you. He will be very glad to hear of your return.’

‘Your grace -’ She tried to interrupt, but he held up his hand. ‘He has told me how much he has missed you, and how much he looked forward to having you once again at his side. Wales is too far from Westminster, Eleyne, and so…’ his eyes were gimlets, boring into her skull, ‘is Scotland. Your place is at your husband’s side. Here, at court.’

The conversation was not going as she had planned. In panic she tried to speak, but he went on ruthlessly.

‘I remember…’ he smiled without warmth, ‘that you asked me to draw up a pardon for a woman of your household. The Lady Rhonwen, was it not?’ She stiffened with suspicion. ‘Your husband has spoken to me about the case and pleaded her cause. I think, Eleyne, it will be possible to give her that pardon.’ He smiled again. ‘Once you are back in Sir Robert’s bed, where you belong.’

It was all so neat. Robert had baited his trap and waited, and she had walked straight into it. She dropped her head in bleak despair as she left the king’s presence chamber. Robert had grown clever, she had to give him that. Clever and devious and patient. All he had had to do was wait and she had come as meekly as a lamb to the slaughter. She could not disobey the king’s direct command.

X

‘I will return to your hall, and to your fireside.’ She confronted her husband in the panelled solar in the Earl of Winchester’s house. They were alone for the first time since he had left her at Aberdour more than two years before. ‘But I will not sleep in your bed.’

‘Then you can sleep on the floor.’ His tone was mild, though his face was hard.

‘Willingly.’ The silence which followed her retort was broken by the rattle of wheels on the cobbles outside the window.

‘Hardly the spirit to earn a pardon for your viperous nurse.’ Robert curled his lip.

‘Before the world I shall be your wife again. Is that not enough to appease your vanity?’ She took a step towards him and involuntarily he shrank back. She had grown very thin, her face almost austere in its gravity, and there was a coldness about her which repelled him. He had been looking forward to taking her back, looking forward to the excitement her anger and disdain always raised in him; above all, he had been looking forward to dominating her, but now, looking into those chilling eyes, he felt his confidence waver.

‘Do you want your pardon or not?’ he asked sulkily. His voice was still arrogant, but he had turned away from her. Pulling his dagger from the ornate sheath at his belt, he began to pare his nails with exaggerated casualness.

‘Yes, I want the pardon.’

He wasn’t sure if it was resignation which flattened her voice or hatred. Either way it gave him no pleasure.

‘Then I shall go to the king and get it for you.’ He sheathed his dagger and stood up. ‘I shall stay with you in Gracechurch Street as long as the court sits at Westminster. I am sure Countess Clemence will not object. Then we can ride to Fotheringhay.’

XI

The summer had been one of soaring temperatures and devastating drought. The corn shrivelled in the fields and throughout the land men and women searched the skies for some sign of rain. Autumn brought no relief.

Eleyne watched anxiously over her horses, to which she gave more and more of her time, seeing the grazing disappearing and knowing there was little hay for the winter. When Robert wasn’t pursuing the succession of obsessive legal battles he had undertaken to consolidate Eleyne’s claim to her dower lands, he had taken to drinking outside, carrying his wine to the shade of the woods where two local girls amused him in the time-honoured way. He did not sleep in Eleyne’s bed.

They had left Rhonwen in London with her pardon. Tacitly the two women had agreed that for the present this was best. If Eleyne needed her, Rhonwen would come, and Eleyne found that she had parted from Rhonwen with something like relief. Fond though she was of her nurse, there was something about Rhonwen which made her more and more uneasy; a cold core to the woman’s soul even when she smiled.

Her sleeves rolled up, her head shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat, Eleyne was with the farrier examining a wound on the hock of one of her mares when Robert found her. Donnet, as always, was nearby, asleep in the shade. Robert stood watching her, displeased by the sight of her tanned arms and roughened hands, then he remembered why he was there. He felt in his pouch for the letter.

She watched him cautiously as he approached. He had been drinking heavily already, although it was not yet noon, but his hand was perfectly steady as he unfolded the crackling parchment.

‘A letter, sweetheart, from my brother in Scotland.’

She took off her hat and rubbed her arm across her forehead. It left a small dusty streak which for some reason pleased him greatly. ‘He thought we would like to know: the Queen of Scots is safely delivered of a son at Roxburgh.’

She was completely unprepared. He saw the pain and shock in her eyes as though he had dealt her a physical blow. At last he had penetrated her defences. He refolded the letter. It would be so easy to turn the knife in the wound, to watch her wriggle and suffer like a lizard skewered on a dagger. ‘I think we should go north, don’t you? To pay our respects to the little prince,’ he went on. ‘Roger says the king has commanded your attendance on him. I expect he wants to show off his son to you.’

XII

She could no more keep away than she could stop breathing. However much pain she knew it would cause her, she had to go to Alexander if he had summoned her. To be near him, to be in the same room, even with his wife and her child, was something she could not resist. She knew Robert believed it would be a punishment for her; she knew he would watch and enjoy every moment of her suffering but still she had to go.

The drought still held, but in the cooler north there was more grass in the meadows, and the trees, already turning golden and russet in the sun, were not so jaded. They found lodgings in Roxburgh, near the castle wall. Rhonwen, summoned by urgent messenger to Eleyne’s side, was with them and it was she who helped Eleyne change into her most beautiful gown. It was of deep blue silk, trimmed with silver, held in at her too-thin waist by a heavy girdle stitched with chased silver ornaments.

They presented themselves at the castle at noon on the day after their arrival, and Robert gave their names to the official who was overseeing the crowds of petitioners waiting in the courtyard. They were ushered in at once. The king and queen were seated on a dais at the far end of the hall. Eleyne forced herself to walk beside Robert, her head high, her step firm, conscious of the whispers as she drew near the king and curtseyed. He had risen as they appeared and for a moment her eyes met his. He did not, after all, look pleased to see her.

‘You haven’t met Lady Chester, the widow of my cousin John,’ he said at last to his wife. ‘And Sir Robert de Quincy, her husband.’

Queen Marie was sitting back in her carved chair, her wrists hanging loosely on the armrests, her dark eyes watchful. Her face was heavy and olive-skinned, her hair black, looped around her ears in an elaborate style which emphasised the breadth of her chin. Eleyne realised at once that the queen knew exactly who she was.

Robert smiled at the queen. ‘Madam, we have come to offer our congratulations on the birth of your son. This is a wonderful event for Scotland.’

‘Indeed it is.’ The queen’s voice was heavy and without humour. ‘Something for which Scotland has waited a long time. It was kind of you both to come and convey your good wishes. I understand you are on your way to stay with your brother, Sir Robert?’

‘Indeed, madam.’ Robert bowed.

Eleyne glanced up at Alexander; his eyes were on her face.

‘Then we shall not detain you.’ The queen had not looked at Eleyne. She held out her hand to Robert and he kissed it.

Alexander narrowed his eyes. She looked ill; unhappy; her face was thin to the point of gauntness, but she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And his wife was publicly snubbing her.

‘It would be churlish to allow you to move on so soon after your arrival, Lady Chester,’ he said, forcing the words from a throat tight with emotion. ‘I should like you and your husband to stay at the castle. The Constable of Scotland is commanded to wait on me here. You do not need to travel further to see him.’

A small sigh passed around the spectators in the body of the hall and the queen’s colour heightened.

So did Eleyne’s. She met Alexander’s gaze and gave a hesitant smile. It was a small enough triumph, but it was better than nothing.

As Countess of Chester, she sat next to the king at the high table. It was a long time before the level of conversation had reached such a volume that he could turn to her and speak without their being overheard. On her other side, Robert had already drunk more than enough to lull him into a stupor over the heavy spiced food.

‘Why did you come?’ he asked.

‘You sent for us.’ She kept her voice steady.

‘No, lass, I wouldn’t have done that to you.’

She sighed. ‘I should have guessed.’

‘Are you content with him now?’ Alexander’s hand, his fingers clenched around his knife, lay near hers on the table.

‘How could I be content!’ Her eyes were fixed on the dish of stewed capons in front of her. There was no bitterness in her voice. ‘I know it was the only way, and I’m glad for you. You have your son at last.’

‘Aye.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Alexander. He’s a beautiful bairn. You shall see him presently.’ He did not notice the pain in her eyes as she thought of that other little Alexander buried in an unmarked grave on the cold windy shore of the Firth of Forth.

She and Robert shared a bed that night in the gatehouse tower of the castle, overlooking the River Tweed. He did not touch her. He was drunkenly asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Silently she cried herself to sleep, aware of Rhonwen and Nesta in their beds beyond the curtains and Donnet on the floor at the foot of the bed.

The baby was plump and healthy and screamed lustily as the wetnurse picked him up and put him in Eleyne’s arms. He was warm and heavy, his eyes a deep blue as he gazed up at her, his small mouth puckered into a brief toothless smile as his cries stopped. Her heart lurched with pain as her arms tightened around the child – Alexander’s child, the child who should have been hers – and her eyes filled with hot tears.

‘I want you to be his godmother,’ Alexander said in the short silence as his son and heir paused to refill his lungs.

It was his way of saying he understood.

She sniffed, burying her face in the tightly swaddled shawl. When she looked up, she had recovered enough to give him a small smile. ‘And the queen? Does she want that too?’ She hugged the baby more tightly.

‘Indeed she does.’ He caught her eye and winked. ‘It’s Marie’s greatest wish.’

She looked away, unable to bear him so close to her, wanting to reach out to him, wanting him to reach out to her, but the nurses were impatient. The king’s servant was hovering, trying to catch his attention; across the room some ladies were waiting for the queen. A dozen pairs of eyes were on her and she had the feeling that each one of them could read her mind.

‘Eleyne.’ His anguished whisper was so quiet, she wondered if she had imagined it.

Ducking her head to kiss the baby’s small nose she allowed herself to glance up. What she read in his eyes made her catch her breath.

It was as if they were alone in the world, she and the king and the small child in her arms. Then it was over. The baby began to cry again. Clucking, the wetnurse hurried forward to take him, the voices of others in the room intruded again and the king was surrounded by his attendants.

She didn’t mind. He would find a way – somehow.

XIII

It was three days before he did. Rhonwen had arranged it.

Swathed in heavy cloaks, the two women slipped from the postern gate and into the teaming burgh outside the walls. Rhonwen led her down a narrow wynd and into a small court. An outside staircase led up above the baker’s shop and Eleyne followed her into a small room, full of the scent of new bread. Outside the high narrow window the River Tweed ran low and slow down the centre of its stony bed. It was full of rubbish, tossed from the town.

‘Lock the door after me,’ Rhonwen whispered. ‘Open to no one unless they knock six times like this.’ She rapped with her knuckle on the frame of the window. ‘There’s wine and pasties here in the basket, if loving makes you both hungry.’ She winked. ‘The bed’s not over-clean, but if it’s fit for a king it’s good enough for you!’ Chuckling, she punched the coverlet and they wrinkled their noses as a cloud of dust flew up. Rhonwen stared round the room once more and then she let herself silently out of the door.

Eleyne walked to the window: a thick unpleasant smell of mud and rubbish wafted from the river, and the room was airless and very hot. She longed to throw off her clothes but she did not dare. Not yet, not until she knew what he wanted from her. Rhonwen had been so sure, but was it possible after all that had come between them that he still loved her?

She paced up and down. In the distance the bells from Kelso Abbey called the monks to nones. Her skirts stirred small eddies of dust from the bare boards and she heard voices from the shop downstairs as the women of the town brought their dough to the baker’s great oven. A dog barked endlessly, tied to the door across the narrow street; wheels rattled on the cobbles of the main road towards the castle.

Shouts and the sound of splashing took her back to the rear window, and she stood watching as three small boys stripped and leaped laughing in the river, drenching one another with the near-stagnant water. She stood for a long time watching them, then she went and sat on the bed, lying back, her arm across her eyes. She must have dozed, for when she went back to the window some time later the sun had moved behind the houses and the boys had long since disappeared. Downstairs the shop was silent now, and even the street noises had died away.

He’s not coming.

Her mouth was dry, her stomach was no longer tense with anticipation. A heavy resignation began to swamp her. She lifted the cloth from Rhonwen’s basket and peered inside. The wine would be welcome and at the sight of the food her stomach gave a growl of hunger.

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed with a cup of wine in one hand and a pasty in the other when she heard footsteps in the wynd outside. They stopped. She held her breath, listening. She heard someone on the wooden staircase, mounting two at a time. Her knuckles whitened on the cup as she saw the doorlatch jiggle up and down. Outside someone swore under their breath. There was a pause, then a quick rapping on the doorframe.

One two three four five six.

Alexander had come at last. Setting down her cup so quickly she spilled some of the wine, she scrambled to her feet and brushing crumbs of pastry from her gown she ran to the door and fumbled with shaking hands for the bolt.

He was wrapped, as she had been, in a heavy homespun cloak, a hood over his red-gold hair. He slammed the door shut behind him with his foot in the same movement as he pulled her into his arms.

‘Eleyne, sweet Eleyne, did you think I’d never come? Dear God, lass, but I’ve missed you!’ He pulled her to him so hard she gasped for breath. ‘My Eleyne, what have I done? You should have been Alex’s mother! You should have been my queen! Sweet Christ, how could I have been so stupid? When you are away from me, it’s as though a piece of me is missing!’ His face was in her hair. ‘I don’t think I can ever let you go again.’ He held her at arm’s length, his eyes on hers. ‘How can our destinies keep us apart like this?’ It was a cry of anguish.

She clung to him. ‘You are a king. Your destiny is not yours to direct,’ she said bleakly. She looked up, her eyes on his, shaken by the passion and anger in his words. Why, if he felt like this, had he turned his back on her? Why had he married Marie?

Reading her thoughts with ease he groaned. ‘You are right. My destiny must be ordered by my duty, by my country. If I had married you it would have brought disaster, and yet I know now that I can’t live without you!’ He was rocking her back and forth in his arms. ‘Oh, what are we to do, lass?’

‘Make love,’ she whispered gently. ‘If our love was made by the gods, it doesn’t need the blessing of church or man.’

For a single breathless moment they were drowning in each other’s eyes, then his lips were on hers, then on her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, and his hands were already busy with the laces at the back of her gown. He continued to kiss her as he undressed her until he was holding her naked in his arms.

‘Aren’t you going to undress?’ She freed her hands from his embrace long enough to unfasten the golden brooch at his shoulder.

‘In a minute. I want to see you first.’ He stood back, his eyes caressing her body with such love she could feel the touch of his gaze on her skin, stroking, inflaming her, and she found herself breathing heavily and deeply as if he were already inside her.

‘Unbraid your hair, lass.’ His voice was husky. At last he was pulling off his tunic. She undid it with shaking hands and shook her head so the tangled curls flew in a cloud around her face.

He smiled. ‘You’re too thin. Why don’t you finish your pasty?’ He had noticed the remnants of her meal lying on the napkin on the bed.

‘I couldn’t eat anything now.’

‘Later then.’ He stepped towards her.

It was much later. It was dark when they sat up and ate and drank together in the bright starlight which filtered through the open window.

Eleyne giggled, leaning against his shoulder. ‘I’m covered in crumbs.’

‘I’ll lick up every one. Here, my love, have some more wine.’ The jug clicked against her cup and she felt the velvety wetness splash on her breast.

‘Do we have to go?’

‘You know we do. And separately.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll both have been missed. I hope the Lady Rhonwen has a story to tell your husband as to where you are.’

‘She will.’ Eleyne didn’t want to know what Rhonwen told Robert; she didn’t care as long as she was in Alexander’s arms. ‘Can we come here again?’ she whispered.

‘I’m sure we can.’ His voice was grim. ‘Somehow.’

It was nearly dawn when he dressed at last and let himself quietly from the room. ‘Don’t come to the castle until the main gate is open,’ he commanded, ‘then come in with the first townspeople. You won’t be noticed in the crowds.’ And he was gone.

XIV

They met three more times in the room above the bakehouse before Alexander and his court prepared to ride north to Stirling. No one appeared to have noticed their rendezvous and, that first night, the only occasion when Eleyne was absent all night, Robert had been drunk and insensible in the great hall of the castle. Each day she dreaded the row there would be when Robert said they had to go back, but he seemed content to wait for his brother.

There was no sign of Roger.

XV

Two weeks after their arrival at Stirling Rhonwen hustled Eleyne once more into her heavy cloak.

‘Hurry. It’s not so easy to get out unobserved here. I have a note from the king that you are to meet him at the house of the knifegrinder at the foot of Castle Hill. Sir Robert has ridden out with his brother, I saw them leave myself and the queen is, as always, with the child. There should be no trouble.’ She tweaked Eleyne’s cloak into place. ‘You are happy, cariad?’

Eleyne nodded. ‘I love him so much, I can’t live without him.’

‘Even though you can never be his queen?’

‘Even though.’ Eleyne smiled. ‘Einion was wrong. We must accept that; or the gods have changed their minds.’

‘You haven’t seen the future again?’

‘No.’ Eleyne gave a crestfallen Donnet the order that he must once again stay behind. ‘I don’t want to see the future, Rhonwen. I want the present, that’s all, with Robert out of my bed and the king in it. Is that so very terrible?’

For a moment neither woman spoke, then slowly Rhonwen shook her head. ‘All that is important for me, cariad, is that you are happy.’

The narrow street was deserted as they made their way over the rough cobbles, searching the housefronts for the sign of the knifegrinder. They found it, set back in the shadows of the castle wall itself. A covered wagon pulled by two oxen was drawn up outside. The beasts, their heads buried in nosebags, dozed in the heat. The shopfront was closed and shuttered, and there was total silence in the house behind it. Rhonwen led the way down the side of the building. The evil-smelling close was dark, but Eleyne didn’t notice. She was too tied up with her own inner excitement. Her skin was tingling with anticipation, her stomach a fluttering hollow of longing. At the back of the close a small door stood half open.

‘This way,’ Rhonwen whispered. ‘Keep your head covered in case we meet someone.’ She pushed the door cautiously and led the way inside. A narrow inner stair led to an upper room where the closed shutters allowed only a dim light to filter through. It was enough to reveal four figures, swathed in black cloaks, waiting in the shadows.

Rhonwen whirled. ‘Run!’ she screamed, but it was too late. Another man had appeared at the bottom of the stairs behind Eleyne. There was a dirk in his hand.

‘Good afternoon, sweetheart.’ Stepping forward as he threw off his cloak, Robert bowed. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this is one tender meeting his grace the king is not going to attend.’ He smiled. ‘But so that you don’t feel slighted, the queen has honoured us with her presence instead.’ He bowed at the figure standing to his left and she took a step forward, pushing back her hood.

‘Lady Chester,’ Marie smiled with a gracious nod. ‘I wanted to come myself, to be sure.’

‘To be sure?’ Eleyne echoed.

‘To be sure the rumour was true: that you would stoop to being my husband’s whore.’ She smiled again. ‘It was I who wrote the note and sealed it with his seal. Take your wife away, Sir Robert. We do not wish to see her at court again.’ The queen stood back, holding her skirts fastidiously off the dusty floor.

‘No.’ Eleyne took a step backwards down the stairs, but the man behind her had his foot on the bottom step, the dirk upright in his hand.

‘No,’ Eleyne repeated as Robert came towards her. She took another step away from him, straight into the arms of the man with the knife. He grabbed her from behind and as she screamed she felt his hand, rough and stinking of the oxen he had been tending, clamp over her mouth. It took only moments for them to tie her in her cloak, to push a gag of rags into her mouth and pull the hood down over her face, then she was carried unceremoniously down the stairs, through the front shop and thrown heavily into the wagon. A whip whistled, the wagon lurched into motion and, with much creaking and groaning, began to swing slowly down the steep hill towards the centre of the town.

Faint with fear and anger and half stifled by the gag and the hood of her cloak which they had pulled right down over her face, Eleyne found herself rolling helplessly from side to side in the bottom of the wagon. Her arms, pinioned to her sides, could not steady her and her ankles were strapped with a thong of hide. Her elbow struck something hard and she almost blacked out with pain. After that she was too dazed to know what was happening. She did not know if Rhonwen was with her. The only sounds were the creak and groan of the swaying vehicle and the occasional crack of the carter’s whip.

She lost all track of time. She didn’t know if it was minutes or hours before the sound of galloping horses blotted out the plodding gait of the oxen and they lurched to a stop. Robert leaped into the wagon and pulling her into a sitting position against the side, pushed back her hood and removed her gag. She noticed, dazedly, that he was for once completely sober. Rhonwen lay beside her, her trussed body inert.

‘Rhonwen?’ Eleyne forced her dry mouth to form the words. ‘Is she all right?’ She felt sick and dizzy and afraid, but above all she was angry. Furious with herself for being so easily tricked and furious with Robert.

Robert prodded Rhonwen viciously with his toe.

‘Move her gag, she can’t breathe.’

‘Good.’ Making no attempt to help Rhonwen, Robert perched on the backboard of the wagon, glaring at his wife. ‘Comfortable, sweetheart?’

‘You can see I’m not.’ She kept the anger out of her voice as she tried to shift into an easier position. Her arms were numb and her ankles had swollen painfully. She was desperately hot inside the heavy cloak. Her eyes kept returning to the still body on the straw-covered floor near her. ‘Where are you taking us?’

‘To stay with a friend. Somewhere the king will never find you.’

‘Aren’t you going to kill me?’

The defiance and scorn in her voice made him scowl, but he laughed harshly. ‘You are no use to me dead, wife. I would lose your income, wouldn’t I? But I don’t intend to be the laughing stock of Scotland, be sure of that. From now on you will be an obedient and faithful wife and you will never see your beloved Alexander again.’

I

‘You are going to London?’ Isabella asked Dafydd, her eyes round with astonishment. ‘But why?’

‘It is the king’s command.’ Dafydd kicked angrily at a stool near him and it rocked sideways and fell to the floor. ‘He wants to consolidate the agreement we reached at Rhuddlan last August.’

‘Where you let him take Gruffydd as a prisoner to London.’ Isabella raised her eyebrow tartly. ‘Are you now going to beg for his release?’

‘I am not. Nevertheless, I don’t like Gruffydd being there. It isn’t right. Our quarrel is our own, it’s not Henry of England’s business.’

‘Then you should not have surrendered to him, should you?’ She could not resist the dig even though she saw the angry colour flood into her husband’s face.

‘I had no choice. You yourself urged it, if you remember, and my friends had deserted me.’

‘You had been too soft with them. It would not have happened to your father.’ She flounced over to the window. ‘I shall come to London with you. It will be wonderful to visit the big city.’

II

The court was all she had dreamed: noisy, rich, crowded, colourful, constantly exciting and full of gossip. And one of the first pieces of gossip she heard was about the strange disappearance of the Countess of Chester.

She heard it from Isabel Bruce, Eleyne’s sister-in-law, and Lady Winchester, both of whom had recently ridden south from Stirling.

Lady Winchester swept Isabella into her circle with a generous charm only partially motivated by curiosity as to what the little de Braose was like. She had always liked Eleyne and she detested her brother-in-law, Robert de Quincy.

Her real concern for Eleyne was mixed with lively speculation. ‘You know they say she is Alexander’s mistress!’

‘That was when she hoped to marry him.’ Isabella had quickly realised that she had acquired a certain notoriety as the missing countess’s sister-in-law.

Lady Winchester smiled. ‘But they resumed their affair after Eleyne returned to Scotland. Didn’t you know? Isabel Bruce told me she and the king could not keep their eyes off one another!’

‘Then perhaps he has spirited her away to a love nest in the distant mountains.’ Isabella’s crisp sarcasm could not quite hide a wistful note.

‘I don’t think so.’ Lady Winchester was thoughtful. ‘I hear the king is seriously worried about her, though he tries to hide it. My brother-in-law, Robert, told him she was safe at Fotheringhay, but she isn’t there! And if she had intended to go there, why did she not take her dog? She adores that creature. Nothing would induce her to be separated from it.’

The three women looked at one another in silence.

‘Do you think something terrible has happened to her?’ Lady Winchester whispered at last.

III

Alexander threw the letter down on the table in front of him with an exclamation of impatience. ‘Does the man really think I’d believe this!’

At his feet Donnet stirred and pricked his ears, his eyes reproachfully on the king’s face. He had accepted grudgingly that this man was for some strange reason his new master, but he still pined every second of the day for Eleyne.

Queen Marie glanced at the letter, eyebrow raised. ‘Sir Robert has written again?’

‘From Fotheringhay. He tells me his wife is well. He tells me she no longer wants the dog.’ He thumped the table with both fists. ‘Sweet Christ, does he think I’m a fool?’ He swung round on his wife. ‘You know more about this than you’d care to admit, madam. Do you think I don’t know?’ His eyes blazed. ‘If anything has happened to her – ’

‘I’m sure it hasn’t.’ Marie’s voice was irritatingly patronising. ‘Husband, can you not accept that the woman grew bored with you? She’s a whore. She likes a frequent change of lover. It adds piquancy, no doubt, to her jaded appetites.’ She smiled, as aware of the furious clenching of her husband’s knuckles and of her own immunity from his fury as she was of the search parties he had sent to quarter the length and breadth of his kingdom. She stood up.

‘Please. Throw that dog out into the yard where it belongs. It smells.’ She gathered her embroidered mantle around her and swept haughtily from the room.

IV

King Henry had been at prayer in his private chapel when Dafydd and Isabella arrived for their final audience at the king’s apartments in the Tower.

‘You have visited your brother?’ Henry threw himself into his high-backed chair and gestured them to smaller seats near him.

‘We have indeed, your grace,’ Dafydd replied. He was glum. Gruffydd had been bitter and scornful and Senena’s tongue had been at its most vitriolic when he and Isabella had been ushered into the spacious chamber, one of the three Gruffydd and his wife had been allocated in their honourable, not to say comfortable, imprisonment.

‘The Lady Senena constantly reproaches me for not honouring some agreement she thinks I made to place Gruffydd in your shoes.’ Henry leaned back, his eyes half lidded. ‘I should imagine it is to your advantage to have Gruffydd out of your way.’

Dafydd gave a slight bow. ‘I do not like to see any Welshman in an English prison, sire,’ he said firmly.

‘Quite.’ Henry beamed at him. ‘And Welsh women? I should be more than happy for you to take the Lady Senena with you when you leave London.’

Dafydd hid a smile. ‘That is for the lady herself to decide, sire. At the moment she is resolved to stay with her husband. I think she feels she is of more use here, where she hopes to be able to persuade you to release him.’

‘I see.’ Henry’s face was impassive as he rose to his feet and, walking across to the window, stood looking down into the courtyard below. Two ravens were squabbling over a pile of rubbish in the corner, tearing at the carcass of some dead animal. ‘She is content not to see her youngest children for so long?’

‘They are well looked after at Criccieth, sir.’

Henry scratched at part of the glass’s leaded frame with his finger-nail. ‘I have been thinking about the question of the succession,’ he went on after a short pause during which Dafydd and Isabella watched him in silence. ‘Your succession.’ He looked first at Dafydd and then at Isabella. ‘You are still childless, I understand.’ His tone was impersonal.

Colour flooded Isabella’s face. ‘We hope all the time for a baby, sire – ’

‘I am sure you do.’ Henry brushed aside her anguished interruption smoothly. ‘And I am sure you will soon be blessed, but until then I am not happy, as I am sure you are not happy, with the idea of your half-brother or his children succeeding to any of the principalities of North Wales.’

When Dafydd spoke at last, his voice was heavy with suspicion. ‘What are you saying, sire?’

‘I have drawn up an agreement.’ The king gestured to the table where a document lay next to the inkwell and pens. ‘I think it would be advisable as an interim measure for you to appoint me as your heir.’

‘No!’ Dafydd smashed his fist on the table, making the quills jump.

‘No?’ Henry repeated mildly. ‘I think you will find, if you think about it,’ he paused, ‘that it is an excellent suggestion.’

V

‘Now see what you have done!’ Dafydd had scarcely waited until the door of their room was shut before he turned on Isabella. ‘If we had children…’

‘It’s not my fault that we have no children.’ Isabella’s voice rose hysterically. ‘You know I can have children. Did I not prove it to you? Did you not see the baby I gave you – ’

‘That was not a baby, Isabella! Whatever it was,’ he shuddered, ‘it was dead.’ He crossed himself. ‘And you have not quickened since.’

‘And you know why!’ She leaned forward, her eyes glittering. ‘Because your sister cursed me.’

‘No, Isabella -’ It was a long time since she had brought up that particular grievance.

‘Yes! She cursed me. She made me barren, she and that servant of the devil who was her nurse.’ Little flecks of spittle appeared at the corner of her lips and Dafydd regarded them with fascinated distaste. ‘If you want an heir, Dafydd ap Llywelyn,’ she rushed on not giving him time to speak, ‘you find your sister and make her lift her curse! Until you do that, I will never have a baby, and when you die, Gwynedd will be handed on a plate to your Uncle Henry or little Prince Edward, with your signature to speed its going! And God help you, husband, when the people of Wales find out what you have done.’

She walked past him to a stool and sat down, then she burst into tears.

Dafydd frowned uncomfortably. ‘If I make Eleyne lift this curse, if it exists – ’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ She lifted her head, her eyes glittering with tears.

‘No, no, of course not.’ He frowned with irritation. ‘For the love of the Virgin, Isabella, why didn’t you say all this when Eleyne was at Llanfaes? If you really believe it, why wait until now when she is in Scotland?’

‘Because now it is urgent. And she isn’t in Scotland. Robert de Quincy says she’s at Fotheringhay.’

‘Then we’ll go back that way.’ Dafydd gave an inward sigh of relief.

‘And if she isn’t there?’ Isabella dabbed her eyes. She had not passed on to Dafydd the gossip that his sister was missing.

‘If she isn’t there,’ Dafydd replied in exasperation, ‘I shall find her.’

VI

Days of heavy ceaseless rain and cold gusty winds had turned the small bedchamber into a damp, dismal prison.

Huddled over the fire, Rhonwen turned to the window, where Eleyne was staring out across the black waters of the loch. ‘For pity’s sake, put up the shutters, cariad. What is there to see out there, anyway? Let’s at least keep out the cold.’

The side of her face was still swollen from the massive bruise she had sustained when one of Robert’s henchmen had hit her with a wooden club three months before. It had been a full day before she had regained consciousness when they had reached their destination.

The two women had been transferred from the oxcart to a light, horse-drawn wagon and for the last few miles they had been thrown across two sumpter horses like so much baggage. When the horses came to a halt at the edge of this great wild loch, they had been thrown into the bottom of a boat and rowed across the water to the lonely castle on its island.

Stiff, bruised and frightened, still thinking that Rhonwen was dead, Eleyne was dragged to the castle’s bedchamber and Robert allowed his frustrated anger its full rein. When he left the castle at last in the stern of the rowing boat which had brought them, his wife lay insensible across the bed.

The castle had a garrison of three and as many servants. Eleyne and Rhonwen were allowed wherever they liked on the small island. Where was there for them to go? There were no boats. Supplies came every few weeks from the shore; the rest of the time they were cut off from the world. Slowly Eleyne nursed Rhonwen back to health, and slowly she too recovered from her bruises, learning from Rhonwen how to find healing herbs on the tiny island and how to make them into potions and medicines she had never dreamed existed.

In her loneliness Eleyne found an unexpected companion on the silent island. A woman in a black gown and stiff lace ruff was often there, standing in the shadows. Eleyne caught sight of her as she walked alone through the twilight by the high barmkin wall and she stopped, staring. ‘You?’ She rubbed her eyes. It was the woman she had seen at Fotheringhay: the black, shadowy apparition who haunted the upper floors of the keep in faraway Northamptonshire. Yet how could that be? The two women looked at each other, silent, both locked in their own misery. Eleyne saw recognition in the other’s eyes, then darkness fell, the shadows grew black and the woman disappeared. Eleyne could feel her heart thudding uncertainly beneath her ribs. She stepped forward, peering into the darkness. ‘Where are you?’ she called softly. ‘Who are you? Why do you come to haunt me?’ She knew already there would be no answer. The woman was from another world.

It was a long time before Eleyne realised she was pregnant.

‘It’s the king’s child?’ Rhonwen kissed her gently and took her hand.

‘Of course it’s the king’s child. Robert hasn’t – hadn’t -’ she changed the word with a shudder – ‘been near me in months.’ She was standing looking across the black waters towards the low hills which divided her from Alexander.

‘Then perhaps the prophecy was true after all,’ Rhonwen whispered under her breath. ‘Perhaps that child, in your belly, will one day be a king.’

When Robert came back, her pregnancy was already showing. Outside, the winter gales roared across the loch, churning the shallow water to waves, hurling spume against the walls of the keep. He threw off his cloak in the tower room below her bedchamber and turned to look at her, his dark hair sleek with rain. The expression on his face turned first to thoughtful calculation and then to cold anger as his eye travelled slowly down her figure.

‘Your lover’s child, I take it – not mine, certainly.’

Eleyne pulled her cloak around her defensively. The chamber was cold in spite of the fire which burned in the hearth.

‘The king’s child.’ She raised her chin. ‘And this time you will not dare to lay a hand on me.’

‘No?’ He spoke with deceptive mildness.

She swallowed. The baby kicked her sharply and she brought her arms involuntarily around herself to protect it. ‘He knows,’ she said desperately. ‘He knows about the baby. If anything happens – ’

‘He doesn’t know,’ Robert smiled. ‘He believes you to be safely at Fotheringhay, whence you were summoned by your uncle. Your other uncle.’ He looked around the room. Rhonwen was seated unobtrusively in the shadows, and the other two women squatted near the fire, their eyes on the couple in the centre of the shadowy room. Of the lady who haunted the shadows there was no sign. There were no candles alight, though indoors it was nearly dark. Outside the February afternoon was as colourless as the leaden water of the loch.

‘What a merry household!’ Robert shouted suddenly. ‘I come back to see my wife and all I see is gloom. Wine! Fetch me some wine! And lights and food. God’s bones, what kind of welcome is this?’

No one moved. Robert scowled. In three paces he was beside Rhonwen. He grabbed her arm and, swinging her to her feet, flung her towards the door. ‘You heard me, woman! Wine!’

‘There is very little wine, Robert, and candles are short. So is the firewood.’ Eleyne’s voice was weary. ‘The storms have been so bad the boat has not been able to get here.’

‘I got here!’ His eyes blazed angrily.

‘Then you should have brought supplies with you.’ Eleyne moved away from him to Rhonwen’s chair and sat down. ‘You are not welcome here, Robert.’

‘So I gather,’ he said. ‘And you will be glad to hear that I don’t intend to stay long. Not long at all.’

He stayed barely two days and during that time he did not touch her; instead he finished the last cask of wine in the cellar. He was very drunk when he summoned Eleyne from her bedchamber.

‘I’m going back to England.’ His words were slurred, his eyes bleary. ‘I am going back to England,’ he repeated carefully, ‘and I am leaving you here to rot. You and your bastard.’ He slumped against the wall, his legs braced in front of him. ‘It’s a very easy place to forget, Loch Leven Castle.’ He pronounced the words with enormous care. ‘Very easy.’ He gave a sudden high-pitched giggle. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if I forgot you forever.’

‘I hope you do.’ Eleyne’s voice was cold.

‘You want to be forgotten?’

‘By you, yes.’

Robert giggled again. ‘And by the king, oh yes, by the king. I went to see him at Roxburgh on my way here. I sent him your greetings and told him you were well and happy. You are well and happy, aren’t you, sweetheart?’ He pushed himself away from the wall and gave a small hiccup. ‘Though I can’t imagine how you can stand being cooped up here with that woman.’ He made an obscene gesture at Rhonwen. ‘In fact, I think I shall do you one last kindness. I shall relieve you of her company.’

‘That is not necessary, Robert.’ Eleyne’s voice was steady, though her stomach had turned over with fear. Sensing it, the baby kicked feebly beneath her ribs and she flinched.

‘Oh, but it is.’ He lunged towards Rhonwen and caught her wrist. ‘Peter!’ he shouted. ‘Peter! Some rubbish to dispose of on the way to the shore.’

‘No!’ Eleyne screamed. ‘No, you can’t.’ She clawed at his arm desperately, but he pushed her away.

‘Yes, sweet wife. Take her.’ He pushed Rhonwen towards his manservant, who had appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Put her in a sack and take her to the boat.’

‘No!’ Both women were screaming now. Rhonwen was kicking frantically as the tall young man dragged her from the room. Sobbing, Eleyne ran towards the stairs after him, but Robert caught her. He slapped her face. ‘Do you want to risk your precious royal bastard?’ he shouted. ‘Leave her!’

‘Why? Why are you doing this? For pity’s sake, Robert.’

‘For pity’s sake,’ he echoed, high-pitched. ‘Think about it, my dear, just think what you have done to me and think well. Perhaps this is your real punishment.’ He ran down the stairs and out of sight.

Eleyne followed him, but at the narrow door in the undercroft she was stopped by the old castellan. ‘Please, Andrew – ’

‘I’m sorry, my lady, there’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing any of us can do.’ He braced his arm across the doorway. Behind him the small courtyard was already empty, and she could hear nothing but the plaintive murmuring cry of overwintering geese echoing from the bleak shores beyond the loch.

That night she called for a fire in her room. Andrew piled the kindling high, though there was little left on the island, and lit it with a sidelong look at the countess. She was rocking herself back and forth, her arms around her belly, her tears long dry, but her face so drawn in misery that even his unsentimental old heart was touched. He had liked the Lady Rhonwen – for all her tart tongue, she had been fair with him.

‘Shall I ask my wife to come and sit with you, my lady?’ he ventured when the fire was drawing to his satisfaction. His Janet was a kind soul whose views on Sir Robert had been so outspoken he’d had to slap her face for fear she would be overheard by de Quincy or one of his men. It was Sir Robert, after all, who was paying them to look after the countess and keep her on the island, and paying him more than he had ever dreamed of.

Eleyne shook her head dumbly.

‘I’ll leave you then, my lady.’ He didn’t like the look of her at all, but what could he do? He was now the senior member left in the household. Household! He snorted to himself as with a bow he shuffled towards the door. There was him and Janet, Annie, the cook, and three men to mind the walls.

Eleyne sat a long time without moving after he had gone, then slowly she stood up. The fire had settled to a friendly blaze, smoking from the damp in the wood. The night beyond the narrow window was starless, the waters of the loch black and forbidding, as she stood staring out. She felt empty and afraid and lonely as the slow tears began once more to slip from beneath her lids. Of her ghostly companion in imprisonment there was no sign.

For a long time she stayed there, feeling that just by looking at the water she still had some link left with the woman she had loved. At last, frozen and stiff, she turned from the window and went to the fire. She bent awkwardly to throw on another log and caught her breath. There was a picture in the flame. Falling to her knees in the dusty ashes at the edge of the small hearth, her heart thumping with fear, she stared into the heart of the fire.

He was there, the horseman, filling her head, filling the scene in the fire, riding away from her to who knew what fate. But who was he and what had he to do with her? Still she did not know.

Alexander, where are you? Come to me, please.

The position she was kneeling in was uncomfortable. Her back ached and the baby kicked resentfully beneath her ribs. Please. She was talking to the fire as though it were alive and slowly she reached out towards the flames. This time, as they began to lick playfully towards her fingertips, there was no one to pull her back.

VII

De Quincy’s men had bound Rhonwen with a single rope around her body, pinioning her arms before pulling the big flour sack over her head and tying its neck around her ankles. Half fainting with fear, and choking from the flour dust still clinging to the hessian, Rhonwen felt herself lifted by the two men and hauled roughly over the ground. Twice she was knocked against something, then at last she was dropped, doubled up, on the bottom boards of the boat.

Frantically she struggled inside the sack as the men walked back up to the castle from the small landing stage, their voices growing fainter, then from the silence she guessed that she was for the time being alone. All she could hear was the gentle lapping of the water and the beating of her own heart. The rope around her body had been carelessly tied; almost at once she felt it loosen as she fought against the stifling folds of sacking, but the rope around her ankles was tight, knotting the neck of the sack. She flailed out with her arms and, humping over, tried to reach her feet, tearing her fingers on the rough material. She was concentrating so hard that she didn’t hear the men returning. The sudden dip and buck of the boat as one by one they jumped aboard, and a sharp agonising blow in the breast as someone kicked out at the sack, was the first she knew of their return.

‘Sweet Bride, preserve me,’ she whispered desperately as she heard the unmistakable sound of Robert’s drunken laughter close to her head. ‘Sweet lady, help me.’

She could not hear what they were saying. The boat had steadied now and she could feel it travelling through the water, the cold black water which she could sense close beneath her body, on the other side of the thin planking. Panic gripped her and she began to shake all over. Any moment they would stop rowing.

‘Sweet lady, save me, please.’ She was tearing at the inside of the sack now, not caring if they saw her; moments later another vicious kick told her that they had. It was a while before she realised the boat had lost its swinging momentum through the water. There was another low laugh and she felt hands groping for the corners of the sack.

She screamed again and again as they struggled to move her towards the edge of the boat, rocking it wildly on the black water, then she felt the sharp gunwale beneath her ribs; she hung across it for a long moment before her captors, with a shout of triumph, lifted her feet in the air and tipped her head first over the side.

The sack floated around her, filled as it was with air, then it began to sink and Rhonwen felt the ice-cold blackness closing over her head.

VIII

As Eleyne’s screams echoed down the staircase, Andrew dropped the flagon of small beer he had been carrying to the table and raced towards the sound, panting heavily as he climbed the spiral stair in the thickness of the wall.

When he reached the room, he was so appalled he could not move. She had sprawled forward into the ashes and flames were running around her head.

‘Blessed Jesu!’ He hurled himself across the room and tearing a rug from the bed threw it over her, pummelling out the flames.

‘Janet!’ He pulled Eleyne back on to the floor and shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Janet! For Blessed Christ’s sake, woman, get yourself up here quickly!’

He could hear his wife panting as she hurried up the stairs, hampered by her heavy bulk.

‘What is it? Is it the bairn?’ She arrived, gasping for breath, her face glazed with perspiration.

‘My lady’s had a fall. Help me, woman, she’s too heavy for me.’ He was pulling ineffectually at Eleyne’s arms. ‘Let’s get her on the bed.’

‘Is she dead?’ Janet hadn’t moved from the doorway.

‘Of course she isn’t dead! Stop havering and help me, or she soon will be!’

Between them they pulled Eleyne on to the bed and Andrew cautiously peeled back the blanket he had thrown over her.

‘Oh sweet Virgin, look at those burns!’ His wife stared down in anguish. ‘Oh poor lady!’

‘Get something to put on them – quickly.’

‘Buttermilk, I’ll get some buttermilk.’ The woman scurried back towards the stairs as, gently, her husband began to pull away the burned remnants of Eleyne’s veil and hair. They still had not seen her hands.

IX

As Rhonwen fought the enveloping wet sackcloth, her fingers became entangled in the loosened seam at the side of the sack. Her lungs were bursting; red stars shot through her head and exploded in her brain. Her struggles were growing weaker. Any second she was going to have to take a breath, to inhale the soft black water which would fill her lungs and seep into her arteries and draw her to itself forever. With one last desperate effort she tore at the seam and felt it part. She pushed her arm through the gaping hole in the clinging wet hessian and then her head. The water was thick with reeds. Her fingers grasped them but they slid away, slippery and tough as wet leather. Then, as her bursting lungs drew in that final lethal breath of water, her fingers broke the surface and clawing towards the stars locked on to a half-submerged tree stump.

X

‘Her lovely hair; oh Andrew, her lovely hair.’ Janet was soothing the buttermilk over Eleyne’s face and head with a pad of soft lambswool.

‘Aye.’ His face was grim; the woman would be terribly scarred. ‘Is the bairn all right?’

Janet shrugged. Wiping her fingers on her apron she put her hand on Eleyne’s stomach. ‘I can feel it moving, but who knows… I wish Lady Rhonwen were here.’ Her eyes were round with fear. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ Her soft plump face, reddened and weathered by the winter winds, was crumpled with misery and she started crying.

‘You’re doing fine, woman, just fine.’ He sounded more confident than he felt. Slowly, wearily, he picked up the remnants of Eleyne’s burned head-dress and the charred scraps of her hair. After wondering what to do with them, he dropped them with a shrug on to the fire, which hissed and shrivelled them into ash.

Janet worked slowly over the woman lying unconscious on the bed – her face, parts of her scalp, her hands and forearms and shoulder. Painstakingly, she smeared on the cooling buttermilk, tearing away the burned fabric of Eleyne’s clothes, binding her hands with strips of cloth she had torn from her own shift. ‘It’s not all her hair, the Lord be praised,’ she murmured to her husband as she worked. ‘It’s just the one side here, but her face – oh, the poor, poor lass.’ She blinked away her tears.

‘Just pray she doesn’t wake up yet awhile.’ He turned away to hide his own emotion. ‘It’s maybe she won’t want to go on living after this.’

XI

Her hands were like claws, clamped on to the wet trunk, her body humped over the body of the tree, her face hanging inches from the water. Her last convulsive heave before she lost consciousness had half dragged her into a position where her head hung down, her mouth open. The loch water drained out of her, leaving her suspended like a bag of old rags. It was raining hard. She could feel the cold sweeping down her neck. Perhaps it was that new, colder cold which had awakened her.

It was just growing light. With a tremendous effort, Rhonwen raised her head and looked around. As far as she could see, water surrounded her. She could see the luminous glow of it in the receding darkness, smell its cold dankness, see the bright trails in the distance where the sunrise was beginning to send pale gold across the Lomond Hills. Cautiously she heaved herself up higher on the log and felt it roll slightly under her weight. She lay still, her eyes closed, her heart banging with fear. She could not feel her feet; the rope still bound them and the hideous wet sacking clung around her waist, turning her into a travesty of a mermaid.

Too tired to move, she lay there a long time, watching it grow light, too cold now to feel cold, letting herself drift into unconsciousness as the first crimson sun path across the water rippled towards her trailing feet.

XII

Eleyne lay staring at the ceiling as the girl rebound the bandages around her hands. She was a small thin young woman, scarcely more than a child, her clothes ragged, her unkempt hair loose around her thin intense face.

‘Who are you?’ Eleyne could barely whisper; her blistered lips were very sore.

‘Annie, my lady, I am the cook here.’ She seemed well aware of the ironic grandeur of the title she claimed and amused at her self-mockery.

‘And where, Annie, did you learn to care for people with such kindness?’

Annie shrugged. ‘I used to go with the boat sometimes to St Serf ’s Island and watch the infirmarian at the priory there. He taught me which herbs to use. When the prior found out, I was forbidden to go there again. But I remembered what he showed me.’

‘That’s lucky for me.’ Eleyne paused. ‘Is my face very bad?’ There were no mirrors in the castle and she was too ill to bend over a bowl of water looking for her reflection.

‘Aye, it is now, but it will get better.’ Finishing at last, Annie straightened and tucked the sheet back around her patient. ‘I’ve bathed all the burns with lavender and put on flaxseed poultices; most of them will heal cleanly without a mark. Luckily your scalp wasn’t burned. The ash on your face saved you.’ She frowned. ‘But you have to eat to get better, my lady, and for the baby. Shall I bring you something now, before you sleep?’

Eleyne shook her head. She lifted her hand towards the girl as if to detain her, and then let it fall, flinching at the pain.

‘Rhonwen -’ she whispered.

Annie looked at the floor and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, my lady – ’

‘Robert took her?’

Annie nodded. Everyone in the castle had watched the struggling, heaving sack being carried down to the boat, knowing they could do nothing to help against de Quincy’s thugs.

‘She’s dead then.’ Eleyne’s voice was despairing.

‘We don’t know for sure.’

‘We do. He wanted her dead for so long.’ Eleyne turned her face away as the tears began to ooze from beneath her swollen eyelids.

XIII

When Rhonwen next awoke it was full daylight. She lifted her head and looked around. In front of her the water was green with reeds and water plants and about fifty yards away she could see the shoreline rising towards some trees. Cautiously she pulled herself higher on the log. It twisted beneath her but she could see now that it was firmly held by a tangle of branches. If she could just free her feet…

It took a long time. The rope was sodden and matted into the sacking and her feet had swollen at the ankles but in the end she managed to unknot it and kicked away the sack. She lay for a long time after that trying to regain her strength and pluck up the courage to relinquish her hold on the tree stump which had saved her life. Finally, she forced herself to let go by sheer will-power. She flopped into the icy water and floundered her way across the reed bed with its clinging mud bottom towards the shore. It seemed to take forever and she could feel her last reserves of strength draining away as she fought her way forward, but at last the ground was firmer under her feet and the water began to shallow and finally she was crawling up the beach into the shelter of some low bushes, where she collapsed into unconsciousness once more.

The rain woke her. The sun had vanished and the sky was heavy. A cold wind was blowing from the north. She could see Loch Leven Castle, low on its island in the distance. Eleyne was there, and for the time being she was safe, but for how long? Wearily Rhonwen pulled herself into a sitting position and began to rub her feet. She had to reach the king.

When the Earl of Fife’s steward found her she was wandering in wider and wider circles, staggering slightly as though she were drunk. At first he was going to ride past her, but something made him slow his horse and turn it off the road. It was several seconds before he recognised, in the mud-stained woman with her trailing hair and bare bleeding feet, the nurse of the Countess of Chester. He reined in and slid from the saddle.

He lifted her behind him on the sturdy palfrey and turned towards Falkland Castle. Three times she swayed and nearly fell; after that he tied her to his waist with his leather girdle and made better speed, feeling her head flopping weakly against his shoulder blades. At Falkland she was put to bed and fed a bread-and-milk pap and at last she was allowed to sleep. She could not remember now who she was or what had happened.

The fever burned for four days then at last she awoke clear-headed. Minutes later the earl himself had been summoned to her bedside.

He listened to her story, incredulity and anger vying for predominance in his face, and when at last she had finished he frowned. ‘You are welcome to stay at Falkland as long as you wish, Lady Rhonwen. In fact you can make it your home if you can no longer serve Lady Chester for fear of her husband, but I don’t know what I can do for her. If her husband wishes to keep her at Loch Leven – ’

‘It’s your castle – ’

‘But not in use at the moment. He asked me some time ago if he could use it as a hunting lodge.’

‘Did he tell you what he would be hunting?’ Rhonwen’s eyes blazed with something of their old spirit. ‘How can you let such a man live, never mind abuse his wife as he does?’ She was trembling with rage. ‘I thought you felt something for her yourself, my lord. The horse you gave her was a lover’s gift, surely!’

His face flooded with angry colour. ‘She wants none of me, Lady Rhonwen. She is besotted with the king.’

‘Then you must love her from afar.’ Rhonwen forced herself to smile, aware that she had to use her wits to overcome his hurt pride. ‘And you must show her your devotion in your actions. To tell the king of her plight would gain you great favour with him and my lady would see how much you love her.’

She watched his face carefully. Malcolm was a bluff soldier, a good-looking man of few words; tough, fair, no courtier, but she could see that this idea of himself as a chivalric lover pleased him. She prayed under her breath. If he would not help her, she had to find the king without delay and she doubted if she had the strength to stand, let alone ride across Scotland. She waited several seconds more, then: ‘If you love her, my lord, you cannot stand by and watch her suffer like this. That place is a vile prison.’

He nodded soberly. ‘Very well. I shall ride to the king today and tell him where she is.’

XIV

It was several days before Eleyne was able to rise. She was still in great pain, but each day she was stronger and calmer. The supply boat had still not appeared, and supplies in the castle were very low indeed, but they could manage with what they had. There was no wine, but the well water was fresh and the cow in milk; they had hens and there were plenty of squabs in the dovecote. Annie had concocted healing broths from plants she had found in the small wood outside the castle walls and with calm amusement she had seen her reputation as a healer spread. She was now allowed to treat Andrew for his gout and his wife for her headaches and her troublesome teeth.

It was Annie who first saw the boats.

‘They’re coming!’ She ran inside the castle, waving her basket around her head, scattering snowdrops and coltsfoot, dog’s mercury and celandine. ‘There’s two boats coming over from Kinross, my lady. It will be the food and wine at last!’

‘Please God it is not my husband.’ Eleyne’s face was grim as she climbed painfully to the walls with the others and watched the slow progress of the boats across the sunlit water. Her burns were still raw, but her strength had returned and the baby seemed, miraculously, unharmed.

There were a dozen men in each boat besides the barrels and boxes which proclaimed themselves as supplies. She felt a new flutter of fear. ‘Those are not the usual boats.’

‘No, my lady.’ Andrew was shading his eyes against the glare off the water. For a long time he didn’t speak. When he did his voice was heavy with disbelief. ‘It is the king.’

Eleyne gasped. The shock of relief and joy shook her whole body. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye, madam, I’m sure. See for yourself. In the second boat. You can see his standard clearly now.’

She frowned into the sun, trying to focus her eyes, then she let out a low cry of dismay. ‘No, I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him to see me.’ She pulled the thick veil which was draped over her ruined hair half across her face. ‘I can’t – ’

Janet and Andrew watched as she ran towards the stairs.

‘She won’t see you, your grace.’ The old man greeted the king on his knees. His hands were shaking.

‘What do you mean, she won’t see me?’ The king glared at him. Donnet was at his side. ‘Of course she will see me.’ His mouth was dry with anticipation, his hands trembling.

Andrew glanced at his wife and shrugged. ‘A lot of things have happened here, sire – ’

‘I know. The Lady Rhonwen told Lord Fife.’

‘Lady Rhonwen is alive?’ The old man’s face broke into a great beam of pleasure.

‘She’s alive.’ The king pursed his lips. ‘I doubt if de Quincy will show his face in Scotland again, but if he does he will pay with his life for what he has done here. Lady Rhonwen is at Falkland. She is still very unwell I understand. Now, I wish to see Lady Chester.’

‘Sire.’ Janet pushed her husband aside. ‘You don’t understand. There was an accident. The night Lady Rhonwen was taken.’ She grimaced at her husband, who was plucking at her sleeve. ‘No, I won’t hush! He has to know. She was burned. Badly burned.’

‘Sweet Jesus! How, in God’s name?’

‘I don’t know, sire, she was alone. She must have fallen.’

‘It’s her damned obsession with fire!’ Alexander shook his head. Suddenly he was terribly afraid for her. ‘I should have guessed something like this would happen one day. Where is she?’

He sat on the bed and put his hand gently on her shoulder. Donnet had found her first, streaking up the stairs ahead of him, and was sitting ecstatically by the bed, his great head resting on her feet. ‘Speak to me, sweetheart, please.’

She shook her head mutely. ‘Go away.’ She was facing the wall, the heavy veil pulled down over her face. ‘Please.’ Her voice was muffled with tears.

‘No, I won’t go away.’ He took her shoulders and pulled her towards him. He could see nothing through the black swathes across her face but there was a long silence as he noticed her swollen figure.

‘You are carrying my child?’ Her veiled face was forgotten as he rested a hand on her stomach. ‘Oh, my darling, I didn’t know.’

She groped for his hand with her still-bandaged fingers.

He smiled. ‘He is kicking.’

‘He kicks a lot.’

He moved his hands up towards her face. Taking the edge of her veil, he lifted it and folded it back. She waited, frozen, to see revulsion in his face as his eyes travelled slowly over her features, but there was none. He brought a finger gently to her temple. ‘Poor darling, your lovely hair is gone, but it will grow again. See, already I can see down, here.’ His finger traced a line across her brow. ‘It was only the ends that were burned. It’s not so bad.’

‘And the scars?’ Her voice was husky.

‘The scars will heal.’

‘I can’t see them, I have no mirror.’ She looked at him pleadingly.

‘Then I shall be your mirror.’ He smiled. ‘See, they don’t upset me at all, except that they hurt you.’ He put his hand over hers and saw her flinch. ‘Was it the pictures again? Our baby’s future in the flames?’

She shrugged. ‘It was the man on the horse. Not you. Someone else. I wanted to touch him, to make him turn so I could see his face.’ She pulled the veil back over her head. ‘I wanted to see if it was my son.’ The tears began to trickle down her cheeks again.

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.