Child of the Phoenix (109 page)

‘Oh, my dear,’ she murmured. ‘Can’t you understand? I don’t want you any more. Please let me go.’

Outside Rhonwen pressed her ear to the thick wood of the door but she could hear nothing. Something had happened when Eleyne had gone to meet her lover. Something that involved the phoenix. But what?

III
February 1263

It was four months before Donald and Eleyne were able to meet again. This time it was at Macduff ’s Castle, on the southern edge of the kingdom of Fife. Malcolm seldom went there now. Named for their Macduff ancestors, like her little son, it was primitive and bare, dating back to the years when the first Mormaers of Fife held sway.

This time Rhonwen was with her and two of her ladies with two knights to escort them. All hand-picked by Rhonwen for their loyalty and their ability to keep a secret, or rather to ignore the handsome squire who appeared out of the darkness on his showy bay horse and slipped up the spiral staircase to where their lady waited. This time there was no phoenix; the jewel lay wrapped in its silk in the jewel casket at Falkland. Rhonwen had checked where it was, and she had left it. She would be there to watch over Eleyne in person, there would be no need of a talisman.

They had mulled wine and hot food, brought to the door by Hylde, one of her new, trusted maids. The mound of dried heather and bracken which would serve as their bed was covered by sheets and rugs and furs, and the fire was fed from a solid stack of logs. Eleyne had dressed in a silk gown; under it was a shift of the finest, almost transparent lawn. She wore Donald’s ring on her finger and her skin was anointed with rose-scented salve.

At the sight of her he stopped in the doorway and smiled.

‘You are the most beautiful woman in the world, did you know?’

She laughed. ‘If at my age I am even a little beautiful in your eyes, then I am content.’

‘I’ve brought you another gift.’ He closed the door behind him and slid the bolt across. Then he came to her side and went down on one knee. ‘See.’

She looked down at his closed fist. ‘You are spoiling me.’

‘Of course.’

‘What is it?’

‘Close your eyes and I’ll put it on you.’

She did as he asked, feeling his hands on her shoulders and the cold slither of a fine chain around her neck.

‘Now, look.’

She opened her eyes and squinted down at her breasts. Nestling between them, on the blue silk of her gown, was a pendant. It was shaped like a horse. Her moment of horror at the feel of the accustomed weight around her neck turned into a gasp of delight. ‘Donald! It’s lovely.’

‘I had it specially made.’ He looked gratified. ‘Now, let me have some wine. I hear we have hot food waiting and I’m starved.’ He sat down on the floor and inspected the tray of dishes which had been left near the hearth to keep warm. She smiled, her fingers stroking the jewel at her throat. He was, after all, a strong man, in his prime; he needed his food. What she hungered for was his body, but she could wait as long as she could feast her eyes on him while he ate.

It was some time later that he looked up and smiled. ‘You’ve been watching me.’

‘Of course.’

‘And you’ve hardly touched anything yourself.’

‘I have some wine.’

He laughed. ‘I like this place better than that fearful haunted tower.’ He refilled his goblet and leaned forward to fill hers. ‘It was all our imagination, wasn’t it? What happened then? It was just the storm and the shadows and the noise of the wind. We frightened ourselves.’

For a moment she was silent. Then she nodded slowly. ‘Yes, we frightened ourselves.’ She glanced over his shoulder towards the door and then at the window, shuttered against the night. It was raining tonight as well, and a southerly gale was hurling the waves against the rocks below the castle, but the fire was bright and the candles were lit and she had walked thrice in a circle around the room, sealing it against Alexander and as she had done it she had imagined that she felt sadness and his helpless rage.

She shivered slightly. ‘Shall we go to bed?’

Donald nodded, but he made no move towards the pile of rugs. He too had looked towards the window, and he reached again for the wine.

‘Shall I undress?’ She rose and felt behind her for the laces of her gown.

At last she saw his eyes gleaming with desire. He raised his goblet in a toast. ‘Undress there, in the firelight. I shall watch.’

‘Watch then.’ She eased the laces through the eyelets which held them, and slipped the gown forward over her shoulders to the ground. His eyes widened when he saw the filmy shift beneath it. The fine stuff clung to her breasts, revealing the dark shadow of her nipples below. He ran his tongue across his lips and put down the goblet.

‘Come here.’ His voice was husky.

She obeyed him. They were within the circle. No one could harm them here. She stood before him as he ran his hands gently over her body. Nothing mattered here; not Alexander; not Malcolm; not the difference in their ages. Nothing mattered but that he was with her and she was his. Her hunger for him was physical, like a pain. She went to the makeshift bed and lay down on it, beckoning him to her side. He threw himself down next to her and slowly, sensuously, he began to push up her shift, running his hand up her leg from her ankle towards her thigh.

Five minutes later he pulled away and sat up. He was sweating. ‘Sweet Christ, I’m sorry! I just can’t get it out of my mind that any minute I’ll feel a hand on my shoulder!’ He put his face in his hands. ‘I know it was all my imagination! I know nothing happened, but I can’t get it out of my head!’ He got up, walked back to the fire and picked up his empty goblet. He reached for the wine. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute! Oh Christ, Nel, what must you think of me! you’ll think I’m a girl …’

‘Donald.’ Eleyne held out her arms. ‘Come back, you’re quite safe. He won’t come, I promise.’

‘I know he won’t come. He doesn’t exist.’ Donald threw back the wine and poured himself another cupful. ‘It’s just I can feel that ice-cold hand on my shoulder!’ He shuddered.

Eleyne stared at him. ‘He touched you before?’

‘Yes … no, I don’t know!’

She went to him and took the goblet out of his hand. ‘He can’t come near us, Donald. I’ve drawn a circle in the room, and he can’t cross it. We are safe.’

‘You’ve done what?’ His face was as white as her shift.

She looked at him anxiously. ‘I’ve drawn a circle.’

‘So you do believe he’s real?’ He stepped away from her.

‘I was afraid, I didn’t know what to believe.’

But he wasn’t listening. ‘You do! You believe in him. You think he’s real! You said you went on loving him after he was dead! Did you mean that? Is that what happened? Blessed Virgin! What did you let him do to you?’

‘Donald, please.’ Suddenly she was frightened. ‘Forget him – ’

‘How can I forget him? If he were a real man I could fight him. I could take you away and hide you from him. I could see him, for Christ’s sake! But this!’

Her hands had begun to shake. ‘There is no danger. There’s no one there. It’s you I love.’

For a moment he continued to stare at her, then he reached again for the wine. ‘Is it true you bore him a child?’

‘Yes.’ She did not dare tell him there had been two children, her two little boys.

Almost timidly she put her hand on his shoulder. He froze. ‘Does he lie with you, this ghost? Like some foul incubus?’

‘No!’

‘Oh yes, he does. I can see it in your eyes.’ His anger evaporated and there was nothing left but terrible hurt. ‘Oh, Nel, how can I compete with a king? I don’t know if he’s real, or if he’s just in your mind, or if he’s just in my mind, but I can’t compete with him. Every time I see you I shall imagine I see him at your shoulder. Every time I touch you I shall imagine he’s touching you too.’

He stooped and picking up his mantle he began to shrug it on.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice rose in panic. ‘Donald, you can’t leave me.’

‘I’m sorry, my love, I can’t stay.’ He looked at her with terrible sadness in his eyes. ‘You belong to King Alexander. Malcolm may not mind sharing you with him, but I can’t. I’m sorry.’

She was too shocked and frightened to speak as he turned towards the door. When he was halfway across the room he stopped and hesitated. He groped in his scrip and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. Without turning round, he tossed it on to the table, then he walked out.

It was his poem.

IV
August 1263

Rhonwen sat in the large chamber which had served as nursery, playroom and, while they were young enough, before their tutors came, as schoolroom to the two young Fifes. On the table before her were a dozen small piles of embroidery silks, all carefully graded by quality and colour. Her eyes weren’t as keen as they used to be. The long hours of needlework, the fine stitches, the poor light had all made her near-sighted. She peered at one of the tangled skeins and, sighing, put it down.

Behind her two young women were threading the loom. The pattern of the woollen warp was complicated and repetitive and involved much serious counting as they knotted the loom weights into place. The finished length of cloth would make a fine plaid: the broad warm multi-coloured strip of cloth the men and women of Fife wrapped around themselves against the vicious east wind which whipped across the forest from the bitter North Sea. If it turned out fine enough and warm enough, she would give it to Eleyne. She smiled fondly, then frowned.

She had known at once that the affair with Donald of Mar was over. Eleyne had hidden her devastation well. Outwardly her life continued as before, the life of a country woman above all else, less concerned with the goings-on at court, where her husband spent most of his time, and more passionately involved with her horses and the new stud farm she was building. Her aching heart was invisible to all, Rhonwen suspected, except herself. She had pondered what to do about it, once or twice going to the casket where the phoenix lay and gazing thoughtfully at it. Her cautious enquiries revealed that Donald had disappeared back to Mar. Her mistress’s pride would not tolerate a man brought back unwillingly. And did she want him back? Rhonwen watched and waited.

One morning as she sat with Eleyne, working on the tiny gold knots which were to decorate the neck of one of Macduff ’s tunics, Rhonwen found herself contemplating yet again the younger woman’s preoccupied face. Eleyne’s fingers were inky like a child’s; she had been copying lists of horses into the great ledger she had begun, listing every foal bred at Falkland since her arrival, but she had written nothing for some minutes. The ink was drying on her quill as she stared into space, the expression on her face transparent. With a frisson of shock, Rhonwen found herself reading it with ease. Eleyne of Fife had a new lover! The glow on her skin, the excitement in her eyes, combined with the dreamy expression, could only mean one thing – a man.

The embroidery dropped unnoticed on Rhonwen’s knee as all her senses sharpened. It wasn’t possible! Not without her knowledge! And it certainly wasn’t Donald of Mar. Her curiosity was aroused.

She watched for days, surreptitiously and with great caution. The obvious place for the meetings was the stables. In the old days she had often wondered if Eleyne hadn’t found comfort with that pleasant young man who had been her master of horse at Suckley. He had died for her, that young man; there were perhaps many who would do the same.

The marshal of the horse in the Falkland stables was Thomas of Cupar, a man in his mid-sixties, who had been shiningly and aggressively bald for more than forty years. He was a brilliant, dedicated horseman, and undoubtedly he and Eleyne respected and liked each other enormously – but lovers? No. Rhonwen was sure not. Stealthily, she tracked Eleyne around the castle and found her the same with all the men she spoke to. She had a way with men, as she had had since she was a child. From the most senior of the household to the most junior of the pages, she spoke with gracious dignity, combined with an almost invisible flirtation of the eyes which told them that, though their countess appreciated them as men and found them attractive, they must not overstep the mark.

Her eyes alight with wry amusement, Eleyne refused to be drawn by Rhonwen’s casual attempts to trick her into giving herself away. She still loved Rhonwen, the older woman was sure of that, but she confided in her less and less. There was a reservation there which hurt and saddened her and Rhonwen guessed why. She had been away too much; she had left Eleyne when Eleyne had needed her most, and when she had returned the habit of keeping her own counsels was established. That Eleyne had ever resented her prying and manipulation over their long years together never entered her head. Nor had she noticed that sometimes it was Eleyne who watched her, as though she too were trying to resolve a problem which would not go away.

Rhonwen sucked in her cheeks and doggedly pursued her quest. There was someone. She saw the signs again and again, but only when Eleyne was alone and thought herself unobserved; and she never saw her single out any particular man for so much as an extra smile.

So. It must be at night. He must somehow go to her at night right here in the castle under everyone’s noses. It was so convenient, her strange habit of wanting to sleep by herself when her husband was away; so easy when her servants were used to leaving her alone; no fear of interruption, no possibility of discovery; no guards save at the main entrance to the Great Tower.