Child of the Phoenix (50 page)

Senena found her mouth had gone dry. How much had she heard? Against the noise of the storm and the crashing of the waves on the rocks below, surely she would not have heard anything. But then, who could tell what powers this woman had? Senena smiled nervously, ashamed of her own twofacedness: ‘Lady Rhonwen, you are welcome.’

‘Don’t lie to me, princess. I am as welcome as the raven at a wedding feast! A woman with blood on her hands is not going to be a favoured guest anywhere; I am well aware of that. But you have nothing to fear. Your husband saved my life and I have always been his friend.’

Rhonwen walked painfully across towards the fire, which smouldered fitfully as the wind blew down the chimney and threw sparks out across the floor. When Gruffydd’s henchman had cut the chains from her ankles his chisel had slipped from his frozen fingers and cut deep into her leg. The wound had festered and in spite of her ministrations had refused to heal.

She seated herself in Senena’s chair without invitation and leaned back, her eyes closed for a moment against another wave of throbbing heat which spread outward from the wound and mounted towards her knee. Gritting her teeth, she noted with grim amusement that Gruffydd’s fingers were crossed. ‘So. You want me out of here, no doubt.’

Gruffydd looked at the floor. ‘My father’s men will come soon. It is only a matter of time.’

‘But you would not betray me to them?’ She regarded him steadily.

‘Of course not. But you will never be safe as long as you stay in Wales. The
galanas
is powerful, its reach is long, you know that as well as I.’

‘And you don’t think my magic powers will protect me?’ She laughed grimly. ‘And you are right. For all the stories that I flew out of that cell disguised as an owl you know the truth. I have no magic powers. I have the temper of a wounded cat, that’s all.’ She paused reflectively.

‘But you summoned Einion from the dead,’ Senena put in. ‘The whole of Gwynedd talks of it.’

Rhonwen shook her head. ‘Einion came because he wanted to. Oh, there was magic there that night, and power. But the power did not come from me.’

‘Then where –?’ Senena whispered.

‘From Eleyne, of course.’ Rhonwen looked at her triumphantly. ‘Didn’t you realise? All the power comes from Eleyne!’

There was a long moment of silence. ‘I had heard that she has the Sight,’ Gruffydd said cautiously. ‘Is that what you mean?’

Rhonwen gave a mocking smile. ‘Oh she has more than the Sight, much more. And her destiny is written in the stars!’ She hugged herself as another spasm of pain shot up her leg. ‘She will show them! the Lord Llywelyn; Dafydd; that English minx, his wife. She will show them all. Where is she?’

Senena looked across at her husband. ‘Eleyne has returned to England. I believe they are at Fotheringhay.’

‘And she hasn’t sent for me, because Lord Chester hates me. I nearly killed him too, you know.’

‘I know,’ Gruffydd replied grimly. ‘You were a fool, my lady, if you will forgive me for saying so. You have made powerful enemies. But as to why Eleyne has sent you no message, it is because all the world thinks you are dead. The rumour at Aber was that the prince had you secretly killed, and I saw no reason to deny it. Only he knows that is not true, and he is too ill to tell anyone.’

‘She will know. Eleyne will know I am alive. She will have seen it in the fire.’ Rhonwen gazed at the fire as though seeking confirmation in the hissing coals.

Senena stepped forward and put a hesitant hand on Rhonwen’s shoulder. ‘What are you going to do? Where will you go?’

‘To Eleyne, of course. She needs me. As soon as my leg is better and the weather has cleared a little I shall beg a horse from you and go to her. You need not fear that I shall stay here a moment longer than necessary.’

‘But what of Lord Chester?’ Gruffydd enquired soberly. ‘He is not going to welcome you, my lady.’

‘He has never welcomed me.’ Painfully Rhonwen pulled herself to her feet. ‘I am no longer sure that Lord Chester is part of Eleyne’s destiny. I don’t think I need worry myself about him. I shall see to it that he does not get in our way. I cursed him at Einion’s grave and I curse him every night!’ She laughed out loud suddenly. ‘Oh no, Lord Chester will not bother me.’

XI
FOTHERINGHAY
April 1237

Carpets of snowdrops grew on the banks of the Nene beyond the walls of the castle at Fotheringhay. Slipping from her saddle, Eleyne began to pick some, keeping her back to her husband so he could not see her tears. He had waited until the end of the day’s hunting to tell her. They had been tired and content, nearly home, the horses walking steadily across the flat marshlands towards the castle when he had called her aside and dismounted on the river bank.

‘If it were up to him, Eleyne, of course he would want to see you,’ he said slowly. ‘He is not dead. It is some kind of seizure. He may well recover.’

‘He cannot move his hands; his speech is affected,’ she said.

She had not seen the angry look he had given her when she confessed that she knew her father was ill. Every further detail of knowledge she betrayed made him more horrified.

‘He may get better. There is no point in rushing off to Aber until we know how he is.’

‘He would want me with him. That is why I was shown his illness …’ She began to tremble violently beneath her cloak of warm furs.

‘No, my darling, he would not want you there.’ He sighed. That at least she hadn’t seen: her brother’s prohibition. ‘And neither would Dafydd. I’m sorry.’

‘You mean I am forbidden to go to him?’ She looked at him, stricken, the flowers clutched in her gloved hand. He could see the tears swimming in her eyes, clinging for a moment to her eyelashes, then she turned away. She walked slowly towards the river and stood for a moment on the muddy bank, then bringing the flowers up to her lips she tossed them high in the air and watched as they scattered across the dark slow-moving water.

John followed her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘He will always love you, Eleyne. It’s just that your mother’s death is still very much on his mind. Give him time.’

‘And what if there is no time?’ She swung and faced him. ‘What if he is dying? What if he is already dead?’

‘Then that is God’s will.’ The cold air caught his throat and he began to cough. Stepping back as he gasped for breath, he pressed his hand to his chest.

She stared as she saw the colour drain from his face except for two hectic patches which had appeared on his cheeks. ‘You should not have come out today,’ she said almost absently, ‘I didn’t know you were ill again.’

‘I’m not ill.’ He controlled the cough with a monumental effort. ‘It’s just the cold wind. Come on, let’s ride back now, it’s growing dark.’

Patches of mist were drifting up from the river across the marshes and into the meadows and woods as the light faded. They could see the castle in the gloom, a black silhouette against the lowering sky.

‘Here. Let me help you mount.’ For a moment he stood looking into her eyes. ‘You know that I love you, don’t you?’ He looked down, as abashed as a boy.

She stared at him for a moment, then she began to cry.

‘Eleyne.’ His arms were round her. ‘Eleyne, my darling.’ He could not feel her figure through the thick cloak, or touch her hair. Her cheeks were like ice, but her tears were hot as they ran into the collar of his cloak. He held her tightly, oblivious of the assembled attendants watching as their horses stamped impatiently in the cold. His lips sought hers as he pulled her into the shelter of his cloak.

They did not stay long in the hall that night. As soon as supper was finished they withdrew to their bedchamber and John called for the candles to be lit. Sitting at the fireside Eleyne watched the servant move from candle to candle, his taper wavering as he held the flame to each new wick, the shadows in the room drawing back into the corners. Beyond the shutters the night was still; a heavy white mist hung over the river, wrapping the castle in soft dripping silence. There was no sound from the great hall below. A travelling minstrel was entertaining the household with a succession of soft dreamy ballads and, the supper dishes cleared away and the cooking fires doused for the night, the whole castle had settled early into quietness. Lighting the last candle, the servant bowed and withdrew. John threw himself into his chair and thrust his feet out towards the fire. ‘Will you sing to me?’ He smiled at Eleyne and held out his hand.

She went to him and sat at his feet, her head resting against his knees. The loss of Rhonwen and her mother had been devastating, but through everything John had been with her. Even when she was angry with him he had given her strength, as he was giving her strength now, just by being there and by loving her. ‘I would rather hear one of your stories.’

Her tears were long dried. It had happened too often before: the rejection from Aber, the hurt, the sorrow. If her father were dead, she would have known. Probably every passing day without news meant that he was growing stronger. She reached for John’s hand and felt his grip at once, strong and reassuring. ‘You really want to hear one?’

He smiled down at her, and he nodded.

He made love to her with great tenderness that night and she fell asleep at last, secure in the circle of his arms. Outside the mist thickened. It swirled and licked against the heavy shutters and glistened on the castle walls. The men of the night watch strained their eyes from the gatehouse tower and the wall walks and, seeing nothing, turned gratefully back to their braziers.

John lay awake, staring at the hangings of the bed, seeing the glow of the banked-up fire reflected on the heavy beams of the ceiling. He had begun to sweat heavily and could feel his limbs beginning to shake. He eased his arm from beneath Eleyne’s shoulders and sat up, staring down at her. He could not see her face, but she gave a little moan as he moved, and snuggled closer against him. He smiled, his hand gently stroking her hair, and after a moment her breathing steadied again. John pushed his legs over the side of the bed and stood up; immediately the heat left his body and he began to shiver. He pulled his bed gown around his shoulders, went over to the fire and kicked at the turves which covered the logs. It burst into life at once. He could feel the sweat, ice-cold on his forehead; he could smell it, rank upon his body. Sitting down, he hugged his gown around him and rocked back and forth as the nausea began to build. He could hear the silence outside, a tangible wall, like the mist which drifted up from the River Nene. He shivered again and not for the first time he remembered Rhonwen’s curse.

XII
ERYRI
April 1237

The horse was lame. In the distance she heard again the liquid trill of a curlew. Her sodden cloak dragged at her shoulders as Rhonwen bent and felt the horse’s leg with stiff cold fingers. The mountains were swathed in mist, the ground a quagmire of mud and slush. Twice she had lost the packhorse trail and spent precious time hunting back and forth among the heather and bilberries until she found it again; now it was growing dark and she could see the pale flicker of corpse lights, the strange fairy lights which showed above the bog cotton in the twilight and made her mouth go dry with fear.

Senena had given her the horse and the money and the spare gown and shoes which were all wrapped in the bundle which hung from her saddle. She had wanted to stay, to remain in the shelter of the castle at Criccieth until her leg was better, until the weather had cleared; until the hunt for her had been called off, for Senena had warned her that Dafydd did not believe the devil had taken her. He believed she had escaped and the alarm had been raised across Gwynedd and beyond. But they wanted her gone, and she was afraid. If Dafydd’s men came to Criccieth, would Gruffydd hide her then? If she could reach Eleyne, she would be safe. Eleyne would help her and in return she could help Eleyne to her destiny.