Child of the Phoenix (38 page)

IV
DUNFERMLINE CASTLE
June 1233

The ferries and boats had carried them at last across the broad glittering waters of the River Forth, and in the distance they could see old King Malcolm’s castle of Dunfermline, with the abbey church silhouetted against the skyline.

Eleyne looked at John. His face was white with exhaustion, but his eyes were bright and excited, his fists hard on the ornate reins of his horse’s bridle as he gazed up at the huge floating banner above the castle keep: the ramping lion of Scotland on its field of gold.

They had ridden the eastern route, from York to Northallerton and Darlington, on to Durham and Newcastle and thence across the bridge over the Tweed at Berwick and into Scotland at last, growing more excited with every mile. Now the gates in the castle wall stood wide in welcome and as they rode towards them they could hear the heralds trumpeting their approach.

Eleyne was breathless with anticipation as they dismounted in the courtyard and made their way into the great hall where the King and Queen of Scots stood together, waiting to greet them. Eleyne’s eyes went sympathetically to her aunt, trying to see a likeness to her mother in the slim, delicate woman who stood, a little apart from her husband, dressed in a gown of black. Joanna’s face was drawn and pale, her figure painfully thin beneath her mantle. There was no likeness to her half-sister, Joan, save in the eyes, the brilliant Plantagenet eyes, startling in the gentle face – eyes which were fixed on her and which, Eleyne realised with a shock, were far from friendly.

She looked away hastily, her gaze going to the king, and she caught her breath in stunned shock. She knew him! His was the face she had seen a thousand times in her dreams. He was tall, as tall as John, with flaming gold hair and beard to match, and broad-shouldered beneath his mantle. John bowed to him and he stepped down off the dais and clapped his cousin on the shoulder.

‘So, you have brought your wife to meet us at last.’ Already he was holding out his hands to her. She took them hesitantly, knowing her own were trembling badly. Still overcome with shock and strangely breathless, she curtseyed low, her eyes on his face, dazzled by the golden splendour of the man. It was true. He was the man in her dreams, and he was the most attractive man she had ever seen.

‘Well, niece, how do you like Scotland?’ His voice was mellow as he raised her and kissed her cheek. ‘I hope you are going to cheer your aunt with your company. She’s been sad, these last weeks.’ He stared at her, open appreciation in his eyes, and she felt herself grow warm. Then his expression changed: ‘I know you.’ His voice was husky. ‘Sweet Virgin, but I know you from somewhere.’ Then he shook his head; the moment was gone.

‘Cousin,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘you didn’t tell me your countess was so beautiful. There won’t be a red-blooded man in the whole of Scotland who doesn’t fall in love with her!’ For a moment longer he gazed at her, a slight frown between his eyes, then he mounted the dais again, waving them to chairs and beckoning for wine to refresh them.

Eleyne sat down; she was still shaking. So, he had felt it too, but how was that possible?

The emotion was immediately followed by guilt. How could she be so disloyal to John? She glanced at her husband and saw that he had relaxed, melting, as she had under the king’s charm. Next to her the queen was silent, locked in her own misery, conscious that every man and woman in the great hall knew that the Earl of Chester was here as heir presumptive to the throne; that her failure to produce a child meant that, whatever reassurance she had been given that she would conceive again, they believed there would be no son now for Scotland’s king.

She looked at Eleyne, so young and fresh and eager, her eyes glowing, her cheeks slightly flushed as she gazed at Alexander. She, now, was Scotland’s hope, and Joanna could feel her resentment welling up like poison inside her. Feeling Joanna’s eyes upon her, Eleyne looked at her aunt. For a moment they stared at one another, then Eleyne smiled. Impulsively she jumped to her feet and knelt beside the queen’s chair, catching her hands in her own. ‘I was so sorry …’

The sympathy in Eleyne’s voice brought tears of self-pity to Joanna’s eyes. ‘You! Sorry?’ She rounded on the girl in her misery. ‘You should be pleased. You’ll be the one now to give Scotland an heir!’ Through her sobs her voice rang out loudly in the hall and there was a sudden silence around them.

The king frowned. ‘Joanna, lass – ’

‘It’s true! So why pretend?’ Forgetting where they were, forgetting the protocol due on such a public occasion, Joanna jumped to her feet. She pushed past Eleyne and nearly knocked her over in her haste as she ran across the dais. She did not pause even to curtsey before her husband as she fled from the shocked eyes around her.

Eleyne scrambled to her feet. ‘Oh please, wait …’ she called. She looked helplessly from John to the king. ‘Please, may I go after her? I didn’t mean to upset her.’ She was scarlet with embarrassment.

Alexander smiled. For an instant his eyes seemed to caress her. ‘Aye, go after her if you wish. See if you can comfort her. I surely can’t.’ He sighed and turned back to John.

A servant led her up to the queen’s bedchamber. Behind her Luned and three of her ladies ran to keep up as she hurried after the queen.

Joanna was lying sobbing on the high bed, surrounded by her attendants as Eleyne came in.

‘Please, your grace – please, Aunt Joanna, don’t be upset.’ Ignoring the other women, Eleyne ran to the bed and caught the queen’s hands. ‘You’ll have other babies. I’m sure you will. You mustn’t mind us coming here. For the country’s sake it must be known that there is a man at hand to take over should anything happen to the king, which God and the Blessed Virgin forbid.’ She crossed herself hastily. ‘But that is for show. King Alexander will live for many many years and you will have many children, I’m sure of it.’

The conviction in her voice reached through the queen’s misery and slowly her sobs died away: ‘Do you really believe that?’

Eleyne did not allow herself to hesitate: ‘I do believe it,’ she whispered.

Joanna forced a smile. She was still gripping Eleyne’s hand. ‘You’re such a child. How can you know?’

‘I know.’ Eleyne met the other woman’s eyes. It wasn’t true, there would be no more children, not if John were to be king. She hated to lie, but how could she tell the truth? She was torn with pity. This woman’s misery was nothing like Isabella’s; she could feel the raw edges of it cutting deep inside Joanna’s soul.

A rustle of movement from the women around the bed distracted her and Eleyne looked up. The king was standing beside her, his eyes on his wife’s. Staring unobserved into his face, Eleyne felt a pang of loneliness. The love and compassion in his gaze were total, the strength and power of his personality directed at his wife alone; it excluded her and she felt lost.

Joanna’s grip on her hand relaxed and she lay back on the silk pillows with an attempt at a smile: ‘My lord, I should not have run away just now.’

‘Indeed you shouldn’t.’ His face was stern again as he turned his gaze thoughtfully towards Eleyne. The girl’s vivacity and warmth had died visibly as he came in, but not because of him; she hadn’t known he was there. It was because of something she had said or thought, of that he was sure. She was staring down at her hands as they gripped those of his wife on the embroidered silk bedcovers, and he could feel the intense unhappiness which had swept over the girl, an unhappiness which equalled that of the woman at her side.

He had been about to give her a quick smile of reassurance and a command that she rejoin her husband, who had already been escorted with due ceremony over to the guesthouse of the abbey where he and Eleyne were to be lodged in a style and spaciousness which the crowded keep could not afford them. But now he hesitated, trying to see her face. She kept it turned from him, as if she knew he was trying to look at her.

‘Lady Eleyne –’ His voice was sharper than he intended, but it had the desired effect. She raised her eyes. What he saw there surprised him: the face was beautiful, the eyes large and clear and steady, but they were full of guilt.

He was suddenly doubly curious about his wife’s niece.

‘Come, we’ll leave your aunt to rest.’ He smiled and held out his arm, and after a moment she took it. In the broad passageway outside the chamber the king drew her towards one of the windows. Below them a deep glen dived, in a natural moat, into the woods beyond. Over the trees she could see, far away, the glittering water of the Forth.

‘You must forgive your aunt, Eleyne. Losing her baby has changed her; turned her mind.’ His deep voice was quiet. He was looking at her closely. ‘I am sure she will be herself again soon. Don’t let her upset you.’

Eleyne raised her eyes to his. ‘I wanted to be her friend – ’

There was a tense silence between them.

‘And so you will, you’ll see. Give her time, and in the meanwhile I want you to enjoy yourself. You will like Scotland.’ He paused. ‘Forgive me, my dear, but I feel I know you so well.’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘I’ve never been to Scotland before, sire. You must be thinking of someone else.’ But he wasn’t: somehow, somewhere, they had known each other before. She felt her face growing hot, and she tore her eyes away, looking beyond him to the crowd of courtiers and attendants who waited for them. Luned was there, giggling at the attentions of one of the handsome Scots squires.

‘Do you like to ride, my lady?’ The king had taken her arm again, and they walked towards the narrow staircase.

‘I do, your grace, very much.’ Eleyne seized with relief on the change of subject.

‘Good. Then we’ll hunt together, I think. And I have a court full of young gallants who will vie with their king for a chance to ride beside you. Robert Bruce, the Lord of Annandale, is here at court. His son, your nephew, is a friend of yours, I hear,’ and he smiled, his hand firm beneath her elbow.

The lofty guest chambers of the abbey guesthouse, rich in warm hangings of embroidered wools, were crowded with their own servants as Eleyne joined her husband to inspect their bedchamber. Her head was whirling with impressions. The castle on its crag swarmed with people: the king with his charm and gallantry; the queen, taut and resentful; the courtiers and a crowd of gossiping, whispering faces, some already, did she but know it, aligning themselves with John, planning to curry favour with the man who might one day be their king.

‘Did you comfort the queen?’ John moved to her side and took her hand. His face was pale and drawn.

Eleyne shrugged. ‘I wanted to comfort her, but …’

‘But you know she will have no more children …’ His voice had dropped to a whisper, but his eyes glittered. ‘Tell no one of your gifts, Eleyne, nor of Einion’s prophecy, no one at all. It is dangerous to know the future, especially in the courts of kings.’ He raised his hands to her veil.

Eleyne frowned. ‘We do not know that she won’t have children, my lord,’ she whispered unhappily, ‘only that they will not succeed to the throne. Maybe she will have babes to comfort her …’ She stopped, wondering whether it were better to lose a child one had never known or to lose a living baby once one had grown to know and love it, perhaps when it was a boy or a young man.

John shook his head, untroubled by such thoughts. ‘There will be no more children. We both know it, Eleyne. It is written.’ Hungrily, his mouth sought hers. The servants busied themselves around the room, and someone stirred the fire, releasing the sharp salt tang of burning driftwood.

‘Out.’ John did not take his eyes from hers as he gestured with his hand. The door opened and the servants melted through it. They were alone. This time he did not undress her. Pushing her skirts up to her waist, he almost threw her on to the bed and thrust into her repeatedly, his face set, his eyes remote. Eleyne felt a tremor of fear. It was as though he didn’t know she was there.

In seconds it was over and he had rolled away, panting. Between her thighs she could feel the warm seed trickling uselessly from her body on to the bedcovers, where it grew cold and died. She wanted to cry.

V
July 1233

The Earl of Fife was beside her again, dark, handsome, his gelding matching Invictus stride for stride, the bright gilded leather of his horse’s trapping fluttering as they raced after the king. Somewhere to their left, far ahead, they could hear the huntsman’s horn and the baying of the deerhounds. The forest was brilliant with new green.