Child of the Phoenix (29 page)

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
November 1232

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.