Child of the Phoenix (101 page)

Again she smiled. She stepped towards the table. ‘I’m glad you like the silk. It shall be your shroud.’ From beneath the soft folds she produced a length of rope.

He paled. ‘You daren’t touch me – ’

‘No?’ She coiled it over her arm, stroking the twisted hemp.

It took them only a few moments to tie his hands behind him and drag him to the upright beam in the middle of the dusty floor. He was struggling violently, but they managed it at last, hobbling his legs and pushing a rag into his mouth to stop him shouting for his servants.

Rhonwen stood back calmly and surveyed him. ‘See how you like it, my lord, being tied and helpless. Does it give you pleasure when it is done to you?’ She saw the fear in his eyes.

‘What else did you do to her, my lord?’ she went on quietly. ‘Oh, she never told me. She never told anyone. She was too ashamed. But do you think I don’t know? Did you think you would get away with it? You are going to be very sorry that the infidel hordes did not get their hands on you, my lord, because what I am going to do to you is a thousand times worse than anything they have thought of.’

Without looking at John Keith, she held out her hand; her meaning was clear. He put the dirk into it. He was beginning to feel a little sick himself. This wasn’t what he had in mind. A knife in the ribs. A throat cut in a back alley. That was a man’s work, but this …

Carefully keeping his face impassive he stepped back and folded his arms. He had the feeling she didn’t need him any more.

By the time she had finished he had vomited in the corner, his ears ringing with Robert’s stifled screams, muffled at last to a dying gurgle as she forced his severed genitals into his mouth.

The silence that followed was as appalling as the noise had been. John Keith stared at her, the bile still rising in his gorge. He had seen many men die; he had killed a few himself, but never had he seen anyone kill with such slow and calculated hatred.

She was covered in blood, but her face was impassive as she wiped clean the dirk and held it out to him. ‘I shall change,’ she said calmly, ‘then we can ride north. Go down and fetch my saddlebag, and while you are there send his servants away. Tell them he is riding with us to Fotheringhay. By the time someone finds the body we shall be in Scotland. Well, go on, man. What are you waiting for?’

His hands were shaking. Sweet Christ but there had been true madness in her eyes! He nodded. What matter how it was done? Lord Fife had been obeyed.

‘John.’ Her voice was gentle now. ‘He hurt my lady very badly.’ It was all she offered by way of explanation.

II
FALKLAND CASTLE
9 February 1257

Eleyne looked up from the fodder accounts she was studying as Malcolm walked in, her mind still full of the price of oats and hay, beans and pease and horsebread. He stood for a moment with a strange expression on his face. She tried to read it. He was still a good-looking man, but more grizzled now and hardened. ‘What is it, what has happened?’

He did not answer. His gaze slid from her face to her belly; in its fourth month now, the pregnancy had just begun to show.

‘We have to ride to St Andrews.’

‘Why?’ She put down her pen, stretching cramped fingers.

‘I have to see the archdeacon.’

‘And do I need to come?’

‘I think you do.’

She walked to his side. ‘What has happened, Malcolm?’ She had never seen him like this – tense, excited, his muscles taut, like a man about to ride into battle.

He smiled at her. ‘Get ready, my love. We ride at once.’

‘Is it the bishop? Has he returned from exile?’ Bishop Gamelin, the government’s choice for Bishop of St Andrews, had fled abroad two years before.

He shook his head. ‘Our business is with the archdeacon.’

III

It was cold and stormy. The Castle of St Andrews, on its bleak promontory, rose dark in the early twilight. Below it, the sea crashed on the fingers of rock which stretched into it, crawling back in an uneasy lace of foam, then hurling itself again against the low hollow cliffs below the outer castle wall. Inside, the high stone created an oasis of quiet shelter out of the wind.

The archdeacon met them in the gatehouse. He bowed as Malcolm greeted him. ‘All is ready, my lord.’

‘Is it to be in the cathedral?’

‘Aye, my lord, all is arranged.’ He gave Eleyne a tight smile. ‘Would you like to rest first, my lady, after your long ride?’

‘Thank you, archdeacon, I shall rest later. First I want to know what is happening.’ Eleyne turned to her husband. ‘I think it is time you told me why we are here.’ She surveyed his face, her eyes steady.

The archdeacon shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Malcolm frowned. ‘We are to be married.’

‘Married?’ Eleyne was stunned, too astonished even to speak.

‘It appears I was misinformed when I was told originally that your husband had died,’ he went on gruffly. ‘Now I have absolute proof of his death. This marriage is to seal the bond between us without any possibility of doubt.’

Eleyne was silent for a moment. ‘When did he die?’ she asked at last. There was no sadness, only a cold curiosity and relief.

‘I believe he died in London,’ Malcolm replied. Cautiously he glanced at her face.

She met his gaze. ‘How did he die?’

‘Of a fever I understand, but whatever the reason, he is dead now without a doubt. We have come here to be absolved of any sin in our bigamous union, to marry again, to confirm that all is legal beyond question and to confirm that Colban is my legitimate heir. We ride to Edinburgh tomorrow, where I shall have a private audience with the king. He has agreed to sign a document to confirm the church’s blessing on the house of Fife and I shall have it sealed with the great seal as confirmation of Colban’s legitimacy.’

‘I see.’ Eleyne’s voice was bleak. ‘So, for the last four years I have been your whore.’

‘No, my lady, no.’ The archdeacon stepped forward. ‘You married in good faith in the belief you were a widow. This must be the substance of your confession. God and Our Blessed Lady will look kindly on your sin. You will be absolved.’

‘By you?’ She drew herself up and turned to Malcolm. ‘You kidnapped me, you raped me and you forced me into marriage. But it is my sin we come here to absolve.’ Her voice was heavy. ‘And I suppose mine will be the penance as well.’

The two men glanced at each other. ‘Lord Fife was not already married, my lady,’ the archdeacon said uncomfortably.

‘No.’ Eleyne resisted the urge to put her hand protectively over the gentle swelling of her stomach.

‘Your penance will not be arduous, my lady,’ the archdeacon went on, ‘Lord Fife has assured me of your innocence and the chaste nature of your love.’ He looked at the ground.

‘Let’s get on with it!’ Malcolm was growing restless. ‘I want it done as soon as possible.’ He turned to the door.

The storm was increasing. In the great cathedral the candles flickered and streamed, spattering wax across the floor tiles as they let themselves in by the passdoor set into the huge oak doors at the west end. The archdeacon led the way to a side chapel, the sound of his sandals lost in the echoes as the monks in the choir sang vespers.

Eleyne stood, the rain dripping off her cloak, gazing at the altar as more candles were lit. The chapel was dedicated to St Margaret. Seven years before Scotland’s blessed queen had been elevated at last to full sainthood and chapels dedicated to her all over the country.

For Colban’s sake, and for the sake of her unborn child, she would go through with this ceremony; she would confess to a sin which was none of her making; she would marry Malcolm to secure their legitimacy and she would if necessary go down on her knees before her godson and beg his connivance for Colban’s sake.

As she knelt before the archdeacon and received his gabbled absolution and accepted with bowed head the penance he imposed, she felt no awe and no relief. The storm that crashed over their heads and threw the sea against the rocks showed the displeasure of the gods; no meek Virgin, no saintly queen, could absolve fate for depriving her of her king, the man she loved. Had Robert de Quincy died nine years before she could have been Alexander’s queen.

IV
June 1257

Macduff, Eleyne’s second son by the Earl of Fife, was born on a soft, balmy day full of the sweetness of flowers. She gazed at the child in her arms and smiled at this small scrap, destined, if Adam was to be believed, for a career as a soldier and a glorious death in battle in the fullness of his years. She pulled open the neck of her shift and put the small questing mouth to her breast, feeling at once the eager tug which brought the strange cramps to her womb. The wetnurse had been ready these last two weeks, with her own child at her heavy breast. She frowned; if the countess decided to feed the baby herself, she would not be paid and her other children would starve.

Adam would tell her no more about Macduff ’s future, and about Colban he had spoken little. As he cast the boy’s horoscope, he saw no long life or happiness. He saw a line blighted and doomed; he saw storms and lightning and blood. Closing his books and setting aside his charts and tables, he concentrated instead on Eleyne. It was her future which fascinated him. As Einion had done before him, he saw the promise of a destiny far beyond the small kingdom of Fife.

He taught her all he knew. She was quick to understand the science of astrology; she was adept at divination; she already knew more than he of herbs and their powers. But there were areas where she would not go. One of them was the fire.

‘But it’s your natural element, my lady. It’s where the pictures come,’ he argued. ‘I can show you how to see the future in water, or in the flights of birds, or in your dreams, but in the fire you will see your destiny written.’ She was adamant however. She did not feel able to face the fire. She shielded her dreams from him deliberately. He could read nothing of them. Once or twice he had tried to probe, delicately trying to read her soul, but she had flinched as though he had touched raw flesh and he drew back.

She was still not sure whether they were dreams or whether Alexander came to her in reality. Sometimes he came as she lay in bed beside her sleeping husband, but more often it was when she slept alone, as the beam of moonlight crept across the floor and slid between the curtains of the bed, or the early dawn light, cold and grey as the sea, touched her face. It was then she felt his lips on hers, his hands on her breasts and, lying sleepy and acquiescent, she would feel her thighs part at his command.

V
DUNFERMLINE
September 1257

King Alexander III had had enough of politics for that morning. The touchy, raw-tempered lords of his court were like so much kindling on a fire-swept moor: one spark and they would be at one another’s throats again. But agreement was close between the opposing parties in the government at last, and Lord Menteith and Lord Mar, for one faction, stood on one side of him, with Durward on his other side, as the Earl of Fife led his wife up the hall.

Alex greeted Eleyne with alacrity. ‘Aunt Eleyne, I want you to see my new horse.’ He grinned at her conspiratorially. ‘You know more about horses than any of my advisers.’

Eleyne laughed. ‘I am flattered you should think so, sire.’