Child of the Phoenix (107 page)

He had planned to be in and out of England within three days, but this woman with her starched wimple and foot-long carved crucifix at her belt had kept him outside the convent wall like a supplicant for that long already. He was wishing heartily that he had brought some Welsh footsoldiers with him. They would have walked all over this grey forbidding place and liberated every pretty nun in the place. He hid the smile which threatened to replace the scowl on his face and with a sigh tried again.

‘Holy mother, I beg you, allow me to see her. I was like a son to the princess. She would want to see me, I assure you.’ He was sure Isabella would forgive the lie. The second part of his statement would undoubtedly be true.

For the first time the abbess’s face softened. ‘You didn’t say you were close to her.’

‘Very close.’ He smiled winningly. He could hardly tell her how close or the wretched woman might guess she had the Prince of Wales in her parlour!

The abbess seemed to be making up her mind. ‘Under the circumstances, perhaps I can allow you to see her. Poor woman, she has had few enough visitors all these years. Perhaps your presence will ease her last hours.’

‘Her last hours?’ Llywelyn echoed. ‘What do you mean?’

The abbess frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I thought that was why you had come. Sister Isabella is dying.’

XXV

Isabella lay in the end bed in the infirmary, nearest the fire. The others were occupied by two frail old nuns who no longer had the strength to walk, and a novice whose agonising sore throat and fever did not prevent her from pulling herself up in bed to watch the tall young stranger follow the infirmarian down the room.

He sat on Isabella’s bed; dismissing his guide curtly, he took her hand. It was thin and brittle between his own.

‘Aunt Isabella? You have to get better. I’ve come to take you back to Wales.’ His whisper seemed loud in the silent room.

He thought she hadn’t heard him, but after a minute or two she opened her eyes.

‘Llywelyn
bach
?’ Her voice was very weak.

He grinned. ‘The same.’

‘You’d take me back to Aber?’

He squeezed her hand gently. ‘As soon as you are fit to travel.’

‘I was fit enough to travel last year.’ Her voice assumed some of its old tartness, ‘And the year before that and the year before that. Why did you not come then? Why did you not answer my letters?’

‘The time was not right.’ He met her gaze steadily.

‘The time was not right.’ She repeated the words softly. ‘And now the time is not right for me. It’s too late, Llywelyn
bach
, I’ll never go back to Aber now.’

‘Of course you will …’ His tone was bracing. ‘We’ll have you carried there in a litter.’

‘No. If you did that, it would be my corpse you carried home.’ She smiled and he saw the pain in her eyes. ‘And it’s not worth doing that. Liberating my poor bones would scarcely annoy Henry at all. That’s what you had in mind, didn’t you?’ She smiled again. ‘I thought so. We’d have made a pair, you and I, Llywelyn son of Gruffydd, if we’d had the chance to know each other. We’re both realists.’

She eased herself up painfully against the pillows. Her bedlinen was soft and clean, he noted, whereas the old nun in the next bed had sheets so coarse he could see the rough weave from where he sat.

‘I nearly got away, you know,’ she went on, ‘Eleyne agreed to take me.’ She snorted. ‘I pestered her with letters until I got to her conscience and she persuaded Henry. Then she died.’

‘Aunt Eleyne isn’t dead.’

Isabella ignored him. ‘There was a fire. No one told me, no one bothered. They forgot.’ Her voice was thin and bitter. ‘Then the abbess heard. Eleyne was killed. The poppy syrup they give me for the pain makes me confused, but I remember that. Eleyne was killed at Suckley.’

There was compassion in Llywelyn’s eyes as he leaned forward. ‘No. Henry chose to believe she was dead, but it isn’t true. She was taken to Scotland by Lord Fife.’

For a moment he wondered if she had heard what he said. Her eyes were closed, and it was several moments before she spoke again. ‘She’s alive?’ she asked weakly. ‘In Scotland?’

He nodded. ‘She and Lord Fife were married.’

‘I see.’ She turned her head away from him. ‘And do they have children?’

‘They have two sons.’

‘I see.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘Was she so much more beautiful than me, that men rushed to marry her and fight for her body and take care of her, while I was left to rot, childless and without love?’

Llywelyn cursed himself under his breath for telling her the truth. ‘She could not help herself, Aunt Isabella; and she could not help you. I suspect had she had the choice she would have wished to remain her own mistress as you have done. After all, to the English courts she is dead. Her dower, her lands, her two daughters by de Quincy – all were taken from her. As far as the English records are concerned, she died in 1253.’

Isabella’s eyes were wet with tears. ‘And as far as the English records are concerned, I shall probably never die. The death of a nun in an English convent does not merit an entry in the records. My dower has gone to the church. There are no children of my womb to mourn. No one will read what happened to Isabella de Braose, the widow of Dafydd ap Llywelyn.’

‘Of course they will.’ Llywelyn took her hands again, his voice cheerful. ‘When you die, full of years and with a dozen grandchildren, the world shall read about you in the chronicles. My bards will compose poems about you which each take a month to recite and your beauty will be sung to harps all over Wales.’

She smiled. ‘You are like your Uncle Dafydd, you have charm when you want. Are you married yet?’ He shook his head and she sighed. ‘You must marry, have children, ensure there are heirs to follow you.’ She patted his hand. ‘Your grandfather would have been so proud of you. Now, go home, forget me. I’ll be dead before you reach the Welsh border. Pay someone to say a requiem mass for me in Hay. I was so happy there when I was a child. Go.’ She pushed him away feebly. ‘Before the abbess guesses who you are.’

Reluctantly he stood up. ‘Is there anything you want?’

She shook her head. ‘Just tell the Countess of Fife that her curse worked better than she could ever have dreamed. My body has been eaten day by day by the crab she set growing in my womb with her evil eye and her vicious spells. As she cursed me, so I curse her. I pray that her famous fertility will be her downfall. I pray she will die in Scotland in as much agony as I die in, here in England, and I shall no doubt meet her again in hell!’

Her voice had risen and the other nuns stared at her in horror.

With a sob, the girl with the sore throat hauled herself out of bed and staggered to Isabella, pulling off the crucifix she wore around her neck. ‘Sister, for pity’s sake, for the love of the Blessed Virgin don’t say such things! That is mortal sin!’ She pressed Isabella’s fingers around the cross. ‘Please say you didn’t mean it.’

‘I meant it!’ Isabella summoned the last of her strength to sit up and hurl the cross from her. ‘I meant every word!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I
FIFE
Autumn 1262

T
he track was narrow and dangerous. Donald leaned low over his horse’s neck, peering into the heavy rain. It would soon be dark. He shrugged himself deeper into his sodden cloak. His latest poems and a gift – a pretty ring engraved with the words ‘love for eternity’ – were tucked deep inside his scrip. He shook the rain from his eyes and kicked his horse on; he must be nearly there.

A gust of wind bent the trees and roared on through the woods, leaving him even wetter than before, and in the distance he heard the howl of a wolf. Then he saw it at last, the lonely tower standing above the trees on its crag. From here it seemed formidable, an impregnable defence against the foe, but it had been long abandoned, the walls crumbling in places, the oak door hanging off on its hinges, a lonely forgotten outpost of the earldom of Fife. It was the perfect trysting place, according to Eleyne, where they could meet in absolute safety.

He guided his horse up the tortuous path, hearing its hooves strike rock at every step and, half blinded by the rain, dismounted at last by an old stone outbuilding; it was freshly roofed with thatch, just as she had described it. The shepherds used it in the summer but tonight it was going to serve as a stable. Pulling his horse’s rein over its ears, he led it inside. Her horse was already there. There was fodder enough for the two of them, and a spare rug to throw over his animal’s steaming flanks. He unsaddled swiftly, his hands shaking with anticipation and, wedging the door shut, he left the animals alone. Trust Eleyne to think of their comfort first. He suspected he would find that she was quite prepared to lie on the cold stone. Well, he had thought of that. He was wearing his thickest cloak, lined with fur. At the thought of lying anywhere with Eleyne, he felt his body tense with excitement.

They managed to meet so seldom, he and this beautiful woman who was his mistress, that when they were together the poignancy and rightness of their love seemed almost unbearable. He had never mentioned the king’s continued refusal to grant him knighthood – something he had buried deep within himself, unfaceable and unfaced – and neither had she. Their love was the most important thing in his life, and he had convinced himself that any sacrifice was worth making for it.

His saddlebags over his shoulder, he ran for the doorway. The lower chamber of the old tower was deserted, the floor a mess of rubble and weeds; a strong animal smell came from the darkness. He wrinkled his nose and peered round. The stair in the thickness of the wall was pitch dark.

‘Eleyne!’ he called softly. ‘Nel? Are you there?’

There was no reply.

Cautiously he set his foot on the lowest step. ‘Nel?’ His hand in front of him in the blackness, he began to mount, his feet crunching on the loose stones and mortar. Stumbling heavily on the stairs, he reached the upper chamber at last. Smaller than the one below, it too was empty.

‘Nel?’ He heard the anxiety in his voice. ‘Where are you?’

He almost ran across the dusty floor to the gaping darkness in the wall opposite, which revealed the entrance to another stair. Once more he peered up into the darkness. This spiral stair was narrow and extremely steep. He felt his way up carefully, one hand on the cold stone of the newel post, one feeling the steps before him. At the top he stopped, out of breath. The smallest chamber had lost part of its roof and the rain spattered on to the stone floor. It too was empty. He heard again the lonely howl of a wolf, the sound echoing in the wind.

‘Nel!’ He called sharply. There was real anxiety in his voice now and suddenly over the sound of the rain he heard a stifled giggle.

‘Nel?’ he repeated again, his heart leaping. So she was hiding. Dropping his saddlebags in the archway, he stepped out into the room and looked round. There was nowhere she could hide save the ruined archway which had once been the window. He tiptoed towards it. There she was, crouched against the loose rubble, only feet from the three-storey drop to the rocky ground. Seizing her wrist with a shout of triumph, he pulled her into his arms and covered her face with kisses.

‘You foolish woman! you might have slipped!’ He held her tightly, revelling in the feel of her warm flesh beneath the soft damp wool of her gown. He reached around to unfasten it, but she shook her head. Still laughing, she freed herself and pushed him away. ‘Let’s go down a floor. There’s firewood in the hearth – a hundred old jackdaws’ nests have fallen down the chimney – and there’s quite a bit of old dry bracken and I’ve left food and a rug down there.’ She was breathless too, as eager as he.