Child of the Phoenix (48 page)

John ducked inside, stamping snow from his boots; the candles dipped and smoked as he pushed the door closed. ‘The wind is rising again.’ He unlaced his cloak at the throat and threw it down. ‘Go, girl. Return to your mistress at daybreak, she will need you then.’ He waited until Luned had slipped into the dark. ‘The trial will be held after terce.’

Eleyne bit her lip miserably. ‘Poor Rhonwen.’

‘She is guilty. She must pay the price.’ John put his arm around her. ‘You must resign yourself to that, sweetheart. You cannot save her. Only God can do that now.’

Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘She did it for me.’

‘Then she was very foolish. You have no need of magic or murder. Christ and Our Lady are all anyone needs for protection.’ He held her at arm’s length, his eyes full of compassion. ‘I know you love her, sweetheart. I have given in to you often enough on the subject of the Lady Rhonwen, but not this time.’ He pulled her to him again.

She gasped; the movement had pushed up the sleeve of his gown revealing an ugly, puckered wound across his forearm, the blood clotted into uneven scabs. ‘Did she do that?’

He nodded grimly. ‘You must forget her, Eleyne. She is evil.’ He paused. ‘You let her do it, Eleyne. You must take some blame. You helped her in her evil arts. You would not listen when I shouted to you to stop. Only Our Lady can guess the penance the priest will give you for your sins.’

Eleyne paled, her fear for Rhonwen eclipsed by fear for herself. She had never seen John so cold.

‘No.’ She backed away from him. ‘I can’t confess!’

‘You must, Eleyne, for the sake of your soul.’ His face very grave, he pushed her cloak back so that he could see her body and he touched her breast, running a finger from it up to her throat. Their breath was misty in the cold candlelight. ‘Tomorrow, before mass. And tonight I must chastise you.’

He took no pleasure in beating her. She had defied him and gone off to the forest alone, to practise sorcery and necromancy. She had risked her life, and indirectly risked his, for Rhonwen had nearly killed him. For her own sake, she had to be punished and punished severely.

IV

Rhonwen stared at the door in terror. They had told her what was to happen. The door ward and the priest, with his crucifix held before him, had been explicit in giving her the details of the ordeal before her. And they had told her that Eleyne could not save her.

Rhonwen looked at the door again, holding her breath. The moonlight had long gone from the window, but the sky was still dark. It could not yet be morning.

‘Who’s there?’ she whispered. She knelt up, restricted by the unwieldy chains, her eyes straining in the darkness.

It was probably rats or perhaps a yard dog, sniffing at the bolts and pausing to cock a leg outside the cell. There it was again – a soft scraping as the bolt was inched back a little further. Her heart began to beat very fast; she pressed back against the wall, her hands clasped before her, feeling the weight of the iron dragging on her wrists. Were they coming for her early? Were they going to strangle her here alone, and throw her body, unblessed by the gods, into the sea? The sweat poured down her back, in spite of the biting cold. Her skin was clammy, her whole body shaking with fear. She could hear the heavy wooden bar moving now, the soft animal squeak of the wood as the hasp was moved, the slight groan of the hinges as the pressure of the locks was eased.

Blessed Bride, be with me
. Spittle ran down her chin as she began to gabble incoherently.

The door was opening. Still she could see nothing, for the darkness was as intense outside. The torch on the side of the building had gone out. Sobbing with fear, she scrambled to her feet, hampered by the chains around her ankles; she pressed harder against the wall, trying to back away from whatever was coming. She could see a little now: a torch on the far side of the courtyard still flared. It backlit the whirling sleet and outlined a figure standing in the doorway. There was no sound but the hiss of the wet snow against the wooden wall of the cell and the cry of the wind.

‘No, please.’ She had dug her nails into the palms of her hands and felt her fists slippery with her own blood. ‘No, please, please …’

She fought the chains frantically as the figure stepped inside. For a moment the silhouette blocked the doorway, then it came towards her. She was conscious of a strange thundering in her ears, then everything went black and she slumped to the floor.

V

The Countess of Chester had screamed only once when her husband had beaten her, then her cries were muffled in the furs on their bed. But they had known, the gossips, the spies, the listeners at keyholes. In the guest room across the courtyard, Isabella had heard the whispers of her maid and, still dry-eyed after the funeral, she laughed as she climbed into her husband’s bed.

Thin cracks of daylight showed around the shutters of the small window. Eleyne lay for several minutes, trying to make out the shadowy corners of the room. Her body was stiff and aching. Beside her, John lay asleep, his back towards her. She moved away from him and, teeth chattering, pulled a fur rug over her chilled shoulders. She lay still, feeling the warmth slowly coming back to her, then, rolling on to her stomach, she buried her face in her arms and began to sob.

John was awakened by the sound. Turning to her he pulled her to him. ‘My darling, never make me do that to you again.’ He held her gently, cradled on his chest, and kissed her wet eyelashes. ‘You had to be punished, for your own good.’ He shook his head. ‘Supposing we had not been there. You could be facing trial with her today. Sweet Jesus, Eleyne, I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’

Eleyne closed her eyes, her face buried in his shoulder. ‘Can’t we do something to save her?’ she whispered. Her voice was husky.

‘It’s out of our hands, Eleyne. She must stand judged by God.’

Eleyne pulled away from him and knelt up, suddenly rebellious. Her hair fell forward over her breasts: ‘Do you really believe it? That God will judge her by this ordeal?’

He was distracted by her nakedness in the dim light filtering around the room. ‘We must believe it.’

‘I asked if you believe it.’

He saw a red welt, a mark from his belt, curving up her thigh and across her buttock. The skin on either side was bruised.

‘Of course I believe it. I believe – we must all believe – what the church tells us.’

He reached forward and caught a handful of her hair, pulling it so that she overbalanced towards him. ‘Enough, Eleyne, forget her,’ he commanded. He pushed her back on to the bed and began to kiss her breasts, unaware of the misery and anger on her face.

It was several minutes before either of them noticed the shouting in the courtyard outside. John raised his head and listened, then with a groan he climbed to his feet and reached for his clothes.

‘What is it? Is it time?’ Eleyne sat up, trembling.

‘No. It is not time,’ John said grimly. He strode to the door. Unbarring it he pulled it open. Brilliant cold light flooded into the room. It had snowed hard in the night and the courtyard was clean and crisp, the surrounding roofs hung with icicles.

Eleyne gasped as the cold air hit her and pulling the rug over herself, she scrambled from the bed and ran to find her clothes, where Luned had left them, hanging cold and damp with condensation from a bracket on the wall.

VI

The door was still barred from the outside when the guards had opened the cell, and they had not left their posts all night, or so they claimed, but the cell was empty. Of Rhonwen and her chains, there was no sign. The straw lay flat and undisturbed, the bowl of water left for her to drink had frozen through. Not a drop had been spilled. There were no footprints in the heavy white carpet of snow leading to or from the cell.

The view of the men and women who peered nervously through the open door was that the devil had claimed his own. The men who had been heating their irons laid them aside to cool, half relieved, half disappointed, and the priest of St Mary’s was called in to sprinkle the cell with holy water.

‘Do you think she escaped?’ Eleyne had given thanks to Our Lady and then, to be on the safe side, to the ancient gods as well.

John shook his head. He was watching Luned plait his wife’s hair. ‘It’s my bet your father had her quietly strangled. That’s what I would have done in his shoes. Now, finish getting ready, it’s time for your confession. I want to leave for Chester after mass.’

VII
ABER
March 1237

Isabella grimaced. She hated Lent. The diet of salt fish and bread left her feeling lethargic and turned her complexion pasty. Dafydd had not come near her for weeks, and she had amused herself by reorganising her father-in-law’s household at Aber. Now that she had put her mind to it, she found she rather enjoyed it. She especially enjoyed pensioning off Princess Joan’s ladies and despatching them to various local nunneries. She let it be known that she would welcome the services of some young, lively maidens from the families of Dafydd’s supporters, and she made it clear that Senena, her three sons and the new baby, were no longer welcome at the prince’s court. About Gruffydd she could do nothing. She smiled grimly: Dafydd would see to his brother in good time, if Gruffydd did not disgrace himself first with his father yet again. The man seemed incapable of holding his temper or his thoughts in check.

‘So, daughter-in-law, you run my home with great efficiency.’ Llywelyn smiled indulgently; he had begun to think he was mistaken in his assessment of the girl. She had steadied and grown into her responsibilities, and she had slimmed down, her face thinner and more becoming. She had always been pretty but now, as the poets of his court had not failed to notice, she was becoming beautiful. He was pleased. He missed his own daughters who had all returned to their homes and husbands, and as Dafydd took over more and more the running of affairs in the principality he enjoyed sitting by the fire and being waited on by the pretty, lively ladies of his daughter-in-law’s household.

He missed Joan. Oh, how he missed Joan. More and more now he thought about death. His own robust frame had shrunk; his will for life had gone. With Dafydd there to take his place, it was time to turn his thoughts to God.

He sighed as he sat by the fire in the solar he had appropriated as his private office. How he longed for the spring; winter had been too long. It had left him trapped between his sons. They were quarrelling again – Dafydd the reasonable, the systematic, his choice for heir, and Gruffydd the romantic hothead, fighting with his neighbours, fighting with his brother and his brothers-in-law. Gruffydd drove him to despair, but he loved his eldest son. He could see a lot of his younger ambitious self in Gruffydd, and he adored his four grandsons. Owain, serious, quiet, much like his mother; Llywelyn, the boisterous, clever, outgoing one; Rhodri, already a dreamy, musical child; and now the baby, Dafydd, named, Llywelyn suspected, as a half-hearted gesture of appeasement to his brother. It was time he saw them again; perhaps in a day or two he would feel well enough to ride.

He rose and walked stiffly to the desk where a pile of letters awaited him. One, he could see at once, bore the great seal of Chester. He frowned. Yet again Eleyne had disrupted his life; she had disrupted the court and Joan’s funeral and tainted the memory of that sacred occasion.

He had decided to found a Franciscan friary over Joan’s grave. The brothers would pray in perpetuity for her soul, sanctify and wipe away the desecration of that night. Even the thought of it made him angry. How could she? How could Eleyne have contemplated visiting another grave; how could she have allowed that woman to perform who knew what ceremonies over it to raise the dead? Agitated, he drummed his fingers on the table. Eleyne had not known what was going on, of course.

Did he really believe that? Lord Chester had assured him that his daughter was innocent of any complicity, and yet…

Now they would never know. Rhonwen had disappeared unpunished, claimed, so his courtiers whispered, by the devil she worshipped. He could feel the frustrated anger rising in him yet again, the throbbing inside his head. He turned sharply to the page who was waiting in the corner of the room: ‘Bring me a drink, boy,
chwisgi!
Then call a clerk.’ He put his hand to his eyes and leaned on the table. He must not let himself get so angry, it always gave him an infernal headache. He must stay calm and get on with the letters. He reached out towards the first. His hand wavered slightly, finding difficulty in locating its target, and his sleeve caught the inkwell. Perplexed, he watched the stream of black ink run, slow and viscous, across the table. The room was spinning now, the pain in his head unbearable. With a sharp cry, he put his hand to his temple, then he collapsed across the table, his hands clawing at the inky wood. The page found him lying on the floor, the ink dripping slowly on to his face.