Child of the Phoenix (36 page)

‘I’m sorry, my lady.’ Luned looked frightened by the unexpected burst of temper. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cross. And nor did Rhonwen. She only wanted to please you.’

‘Well, she hasn’t.’ Eleyne walked over to the fire and stared down at the smouldering log. The room was cold and damp. ‘And I wanted her here. I wanted to talk to her. I need her.’ For a moment she was a lonely child again.

It was dark outside and the wind was howling across the moors when John came at last to bed after spending some hours closeted with his chamberlain and the steward of the manor, arguing over the accounts of the previous year’s harvest. Climbing into bed beside Eleyne he reached out, as he so often did, to stroke her hair and touch her shoulder as though to reassure himself that she was really there. Then, as he so often did, he turned wearily away and fell into an exhausted sleep, leaving her staring into the darkness.

VII
CHESTER CASTLE
April 1233

The Welshman pulled his rough sheepskin cloak around him and peered furtively over his shoulder. It was some time since he had passed the coin to the servant and asked for the Lady Rhonwen. Behind him the sun had set into a bank of crimson cloud and the cold wind was rising, blowing steadily from the north. With the earl and countess away, the castle was strangely empty. The garrison remained; the administrative officers were still there, but the rest of the great household had moved on to progress around Lord Chester’s vast estates.

It was nearly dark before she came, muffled as he was against the cold. They stood in the shelter of the stable block and talked for a few minutes in hurried Welsh. A letter passed between them, then some coins, and the Welshman faded back into the night. At first light, when the gates opened, he would be gone on the journey back to Degannwy.

Rhonwen tucked the letter into her bodice and retraced her steps back to the women’s bower. There were fewer ladies there now; those who served the aged dowager and the chatelaine and two young women near to giving birth, that was all. It was comparatively easy to find a secluded corner and settle with her flickering candle to read the letter which Gruffydd had written to Eleyne.

Cautiously worded though it was, it was clear in its message. Gruffydd had had meetings with his father and at long last Llywelyn was talking of allowing his eldest son his freedom once again. There had even been a vague promise that Gruffydd would be given the Lleyn Peninsula and that he would be allowed to work again with Dafydd if he would recognise Dafydd as his father’s heir.

Rhonwen dropped the letter on to her lap and gazed unseeing at the heavy wooden shutter which had been pulled across the window. If only he had the sense to agree; to bide his time. She sighed and pulled from her gown her other letter. There had been two that day, both addressed to Eleyne. This one had been carried by a messenger in the livery of the Prince of Aberffraw. He had been reluctant to give it up to her; he had been paid and well paid to put his letter into the hands of the Countess of Chester and no other, but in the end he had relented. Did not everyone know that the Lady Rhonwen was the countess’s nurse, her friend, her confidante? She could be trusted to pass on the letter the quickest way possible.

Reading it again now, Rhonwen frowned. Einion’s hand had grown feeble; his writing shook and strayed across the roughly scraped parchment, but the urgency was clear. He wanted Eleyne to return to Mô n.

Rhonwen frowned again. Eleyne had summoned her to her chamber once when the earl had ridden out for the day. They had hugged one another as they had when Eleyne was a child.

‘I am his wife now, Rhonwen,’ Eleyne had whispered, her eyes shining, ‘really his wife.’ She caught Rhonwen’s hands. ‘Oh Rhonwen, I love him so much. Give me time. Please. He will grow to like you. I know he will.’ Rhonwen had suppressed the agonising pang of jealousy which Eleyne’s words had caused her, melting before the excited pleading eyes, and she had not, as she had never, been able to deny Eleyne what she wanted.

‘I’ll wait,
cariad
,’ she had said, hiding her sadness. ‘I’ll keep out of his way, and wait.’ Nevertheless she had been hurt by Eleyne’s attitude in those last few weeks before they left on their progress around the country. It was as if Eleyne had forgotten her existence. But Rhonwen had watched and waited and kept out of the earl’s way as she had promised. And when the time came for the household to leave Chester she had shaken her head and pleaded exhaustion and told Luned to wait on Eleyne with extra care.

She looked down at Einion’s letter again: it must be important. Einion would never summon Eleyne back unless he felt it was vital; Einion, to whom she had entrusted Eleyne as she would have trusted herself; a man she respected and honoured more even than she honoured the prince. To disobey him would be to disobey the wishes of the gods; to obey him would be to reclaim Eleyne from her husband; to travel with her once more to Gwynedd; to go home.

She walked slowly across the room, her skirts catching in the dried, dusty herbs strewn upon the ground, her eyes shining. These two letters gave her the power to summon Eleyne back, to bring her home. She stood for a long time before the fire, unaware of the eyes of the other women looking up from their spinning and sewing and watching her warily. Her temper had grown uncertain in the weeks since her return from Gwynedd, her arrogance more defensive. Her beautiful face was drawn now and thin, her eyes haunted, and she seemed unaware of the women around her.

What would Eleyne want her to do? Would she want to go back to Gwynedd and the convoluted politics of her brothers’ quarrels, and to Einion, or would she want to remain with her husband, a countess touring her estates? She pictured Eleyne’s face yet again: the shining eyes, the knowledge of something which Rhonwen would never know, and she heard again her voice:
Oh Rhonwen, I
love him so much
, and she knew what she must do.

Slowly and deliberately she dropped the two letters on to the fire and watched them shrivel and blacken in the heart of the flames.

VIII
PENMON, ANGLESEY
April

In his lonely hermit’s cell Einion sat staring deep into the flames, feeling the ice-cold draughts playing across his shoulders and down his spine. The pain in his bones distracted him from his meditation and he could think of nothing now but the cold wind which howled across the island and whipped the strait into white-topped breakers.

Leaning forward he reached for a log to throw on to the fire. He had seen the messenger in the flames that morning; seen him hand the letter to Rhonwen and he had smiled, reassured. Rhonwen would understand the urgency. She would see that Eleyne came back. Only a few more days and she would come; only a few more days …

He frowned. Suddenly, it hurt to breathe. The hut was full of smoke. The sound of the wind had risen to a scream. He stared at the fire, his hand pressed against his chest, trying to see. He was struggling to rise to his feet when the pain hit him: a grip like an iron bar across his heart, crushing him, blinding him with agony. He heard himself cry out loud, expelling his last breath as his lungs ceased to function; the deep blackness was enfolding him, numbing his mind as one last certainty flashed through it. Eleyne was not going to come after all. He would not, as he had always known in his heart he would not, see her again. Rhonwen had betrayed her gods. She had thrown the letter on the fire – he saw her do it in one flash of blinding clarity – and because of her Eleyne must face the future without his warnings.

As the blackness became total and the howl of the wind filled his ears, he staggered a few steps into the darkness and pitched full-length across the fire.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
YORKSHIRE
April 1233

‘T
he Queen of Scots is with child!’

The messenger took a certain malicious joy in relaying the message to the stunned household of the Earl of Chester. ‘It is his grace’s command that all his subjects share in his joy and give thanks that his prayers have been answered at last. Your aunt, my lady,’ he went on, turning to Eleyne whose face had drained of colour, ‘sends you her especial greetings and hopes that you and your husband will travel north soon to visit her and the king.’

‘You told me I should be king one day!’ John rounded on Eleyne as soon as they were alone. ‘Holy Virgin, and I believed you! How could you tell me such lies?’

‘They weren’t lies,’ Eleyne cried, ‘I told you what was told to me.’ He was standing in the centre of the room, his hands clasped tightly, his knuckles white, visibly trying to control himself. ‘This means nothing.’ She ran to him and put her hands over his. ‘A baby not yet born –? So much could happen. Your succession might not be for many years – King Alexander is not an old man – ’

She had meant it as a reassurance, but his face darkened. ‘He is only eight years older than I. Eight years, Eleyne!’ John smiled at her sadly. ‘And he is a robust man, whereas I …’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘You are well now and stronger than you have ever been,’ she said firmly. ‘Besides, he is far more likely to die in battle before you, being a king! He has often led his men against the rebels in his kingdom, you told me so yourself.’

‘And I? If I should lead my men to battle, how do you think I’d fare, sweetheart?’ The humour returned to his eyes.

‘Your men would follow you to the ends of the earth.’ She was trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. ‘And you know it. Though I pray to the Blessed Virgin that your cousin leaves you a peaceful inheritance when the time comes. And now, you must send a letter congratulating him on his news and telling him that we shall visit him as soon as it is possible. I want to see this country where I shall be spending so much of my life with its king.’ Reaching up, she kissed him on the lips, and his face showed that the despair had left his eyes. Seconds later his arms were around her and his mouth came down hungrily on hers.