Child of the Phoenix (106 page)

She summoned Adam at last. ‘You have ways of calling back the spirits of the dead?’ She could not ask Rhonwen and she mistrusted the fire. She did not want to find Einion at her side instead of her lover.

‘There are ways, my lady, but as you know there are better methods to seek the future. Easier, safer methods.’

‘I do not wish to know the future.’

‘May I ask what other reason there could be for consulting the spirits?’

‘That is my business.’ She met his gaze steadily. ‘All I need to know from you is the method you recommend.’

‘I can teach you that, lady.’ He folded his arms. ‘And also the spells you will need if you seek vengeance and retribution on those who have harmed you.’

‘I do not intend to make spells, Master Adam.’

‘No?’ his smile was cynical.

‘No.’

For a moment he watched her, then he turned away. ‘Very well, I will tell you what you must do.’

The hardest part was getting out of the castle. Men had died before for letting the countess leave. But in the end she managed it, wearing the cloak of one of the nursemaids while Malcolm was with the king at Kinross. She guided her horse along the path which led up into the wooded lower slopes of the Lomond and within minutes was out of sight of the watchmen’s fires. It was a hot airless night but as she dismounted and tethered her horse she found she was shivering. Old Lyulf was at her heels as she climbed from the track, following the natural contour of the hill in the starlight. No one would follow her here. It was well known that the hills were haunted, magic places. She glanced down at the dog and feeling her eyes on him he nuzzled her hand and whined.

She needed the fire after all, it seemed. She set it with the ease of long practice, piling dried twigs and leaves within the circle of stones, striking the flint and steel to the birchbark kindling and throwing on the herbs and berries from the pouch Adam had given her. Then she took the phoenix into her hands.

Lyulf growled uneasily deep in his throat, and Eleyne stopped, listening to the silence of the hills. A slight breeze touched her skin, and the night was full of the scent of wild thyme. Somewhere in the distance her horse whickered softly.

‘Alexander? My lord?’ The words were barely a whisper. The pendant was clutched between her fingers. ‘Why are you still angry with me? He’s gone, gone back to Mar.’

The wind moaned in the trees in the small glen behind her and she knew she was no longer alone.

‘Alexander,’ she whispered again. ‘Where are you?’

She woke beside the cold ashes of the fire as dawn broke across the plain behind her. Her hair was unbound, otherwise there was no trace of her ghostly lover. It might all have been a dream.

XXII
EDINBURGH CASTLE
December 1259

‘Donald of Mar is here.’

Rhonwen confronted Eleyne in the small bedchamber the Fifes had been allocated in the great tower of the castle, where they were summoned by the king the following winter. Outside, the wind howled across the Nor Loch, battering against the wooden window shutters and rattling the heavy doors as though they were made of thin board.

Eleyne tensed. She had seen Lord Mar in the great hall with the king, but there had been no sign of Donald and, after an initial moment of wistful longing, she had put the young man firmly out of her head.

She turned away to hunt in her coffer for an enamelled necklace which would go with her gown the next day. Her heart was beating fast. Donald of Mar was here, in Edinburgh, beneath the same roof. She took a deep breath; she must not think about him, she must not even look at him in the great hall. Her fingers went automatically to the phoenix pendant at her throat. Hardly realising what she was doing, she slipped the chain over her head, put the pendant into the jewel casket and closed the lid.

In front of the fire Ancret and two of her pups, Raoulet and Sabina – old Lyulf had died in his sleep the previous spring – were stretched out on the carpet of warm heather. Already the beds for Rhonwen and Eleyne’s two maids were pulled out and heaped with blankets. The curtains around the great bed had been pulled back and the feather mattress put in place. Malcolm was with the king and his lords in the great hall; he had shown no inclination to go to bed yet.

‘I trust you are not going to allow him to pester you again,’ Rhonwen said as she helped Eleyne off with her mantle and folded it over her arm.

‘I have no reason to think he will pester me at all,’ Eleyne returned sharply. ‘I had no idea he was here. It’s two years since I saw him.’

‘Oh, he’s here. And he was watching you. He was watching you all the time.’

‘Then he is a fool.’ Eleyne turned so that Rhonwen could unlace her gown. She could not believe that he had been in the hall and she had not seen him.

‘You’d tell me,
cariad
, if you wanted him chased away,’ Rhonwen said softly.

‘I’d tell you,’ Eleyne answered in a whisper.

She was already in bed, the curtains closed, when the tap at the door brought Rhonwen to her feet in the firelight. The other two women, curled tightly in their truckle beds, were fast asleep.

Rhonwen opened the door cautiously. Donald of Mar stood in the passage outside, a flickering torch in his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I thought – ’

‘You thought this was the Countess of Fife’s room.’ Rhonwen spoke in a harsh whisper. ‘She doesn’t want to see you. She wants nothing to do with you. Do you understand?’ She was almost sorry for the young man, his expression in the unsteady light was so crestfallen. ‘Now go. Go, before Lord Fife comes up and finds you here.’

‘Lord Fife is busy with my father and Sir Alan Durward. They will be talking for hours …’ Donald peered past Rhonwen towards the bed, and his face lit up. ‘My lady!’

Hearing the muffled whispers at the door, Eleyne had pushed back the bed curtains. Her hair loose, her shoulders bare beneath the cloak she had pulled around her, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. ‘Donald.’ Her voice was husky. Suddenly her heart was thudding under her ribs. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Eleyne! My lady!’ Pushing past Rhonwen he threw himself at Eleyne’s feet and kissed her hand. ‘Oh sweet lady, it’s been so long. I’ve missed you so much.’

Eleyne looked across at the two sleeping women and then at Rhonwen. ‘Watch the door!’ she commanded in a low voice. She took Donald’s hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘Over here, in the window embrasure. We must talk.’

Rhonwen had extracted the small dagger she still wore at her belt beneath her cloak. ‘I can call for help, my lady.’

‘Don’t be such a fool!’ Eleyne cried impatiently. ‘Can’t you see I want this! If you love me, help us. Keep watch and don’t say a word!’

Leaving Rhonwen staring, her mouth slightly open, she pulled Donald towards the window, where a heavy curtain divided the chilly embrasure from the room. In the ice cold beyond the curtain they stood staring at each other in the darkness. Tentatively Donald put out his hands, ‘My sweet love.’

Her hands met his and he pulled her gently towards him. All her resolutions had vanished at the sight of his face. Malcolm was forgotten; her dreams of Alexander were forgotten; the last two years were forgotten. He had grown if anything more handsome. Nothing mattered but that she should feel his lips on hers. Desperately she shook her head. ‘Donald, this is mad.’

‘I can’t help it. I need you so much. And you want me, don’t deny it.’ After a moment’s hesitation his hands slid gently inside her cloak. She caught her breath but did not push him away. Almost reluctantly she raised her face and felt his lips on hers. This was not the airy kiss of a phantom lover. This was the real kiss of a passionate man. The shock of her own reaction shook her.

‘We mustn’t do this,’ she breathed as she returned his kiss.

‘I think we must,’ he replied, his own doubts forgotten, as were his protestations that he wanted to worship her from afar. For the last two years he had dreamed of Eleyne of Fife and in his dreams she had been his absolutely. Throwing caution away his hands were suddenly more demanding, pushing back her cloak. ‘You want this as much as I, don’t pretend you don’t.’ She could hear his smile in the darkness.

‘Donald –’ Her whisper was almost a groan. Her knees were growing weak. He was right. She did want him. Desperately. She could not resist him as he dropped his cloak on the cramped stone floor between the window seats and pulled her down.

By the door Rhonwen stood, arms folded, staring at the heavy curtain, the knife still in her hand. So Malcolm of Fife had lied – her lady loved Donald of Mar and the husband and ghost lover were no longer needed. Sitting down, she held out her hands to the warmth of the hearth.

Eleyne lay still at last, her body sated with the young man who lay asleep, his thighs slack between hers, his head heavy on her breast. She felt no guilt, no shame. She was unutterably content, but she knew she had to wake him. The floor was agonisingly hard beneath the cloak and besides, Malcolm might return at any moment. But she could not bear to end it. She raised her hand to touch his tumbled curls.

Opening her eyes she was looking up towards the stone arch above their heads when something caught her eye: a darker shadow in the darkness. She narrowed her eyes, straining to see better; it was almost as if someone was sitting on the edge of the seat, watching.

The grief and anger, when they hit her, were like tangible weights, filling the embrasure, encompassing her and Donald like a miasma.

Alexander!
Her lips framed the words, though no sound came.
I’m
sorry, oh, my dear, I’m so sorry
.

XXIII

Malcolm regarded Rhonwen coldly. ‘I expected you to deal with the situation.’

‘What situation, my lord?’ She met his gaze blankly.

‘Donald of Mar.’ He hissed the name softly. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘I believe Lord Mar’s son is here as part of his father’s entourage,’ Rhonwen replied. ‘If you feel he should not remain, perhaps you should speak to the grand chamberlain, his father, yourself.’ With a small curtsey, she left Malcolm glaring furiously after her.

XXIV
GODSTOW
January 1260

Emma Bloet, Abbess of Godstow, stared at the tall red-haired young man who confronted her. He and his two companions wore dark cloaks over their mail and she could see no identifying arms stitched to their surcoats, but his arrogance betrayed his breeding. She drew herself up.

‘I am sorry. Nobody can see the Princess of Aberffraw.’ Her tone implied clearly that she found his use of the title distasteful.

‘Why not?’ Eyeing her with a distrust and dislike which matched her own, Llywelyn was beginning to regret coming to Godstow. To rescue his uncle’s widow from the clutches of King Henry and incarceration in a convent of old women had seemed a good idea at the time. It would tweak Henry’s nose when the King of England, embroiled in his barons’ demands for reform, could ill afford any more problems on his doorstep. And having Isabella de Braose back in Wales would serve his purpose well now, provided he kept her away from Aber. But his boyish romantic plan – light relief from his quarrel with Owain and his new-found pre-eminence as Prince of Wales, a title he had used only in the last year or two – seemed to have misfired.