Child of the Phoenix (52 page)

‘I don’t know if I should …’

‘Of course you should. Go on, otherwise he will see. The rope is not yet free.’ She felt the blood flowing back into her wrists as the knots loosened.

‘You won’t do anything – ’

‘I have already told you that.’

In another moment she would be free. She eased her cramped body, feeling the brush of the girl’s long hair on her arms, smelling her unwashed skin.

‘Eh! What’s going on!’ Madoc’s shout was loud in the hut. With a terrified cry, Annest dropped the knife and jumped backwards almost into the fire.

‘You stupid bitch!’ Madoc staggered to his feet cursing. ‘What are you doing? Leave her alone! Do you want her to escape?’

As he lurched towards her Rhonwen grabbed with her bound hands for the knife Annest had dropped. She jerked herself up on to her knees as Madoc reached her and brought the knife up in one swift movement through his jerkin and under his ribs. He let out a howl of rage; his arms flailed and he staggered back as Annest cowered sobbing in the darkness.

‘Don’t come near me, you bastard son of a pig!’ Rhonwen breathed. She still had the knife, and the warm blood running down the blade told her it had found its target. ‘Don’t you ever come near me again.’ She held it, point out, towards him, marking him as he stumbled into the red-hot embers and fell on one knee near her. His hands were clutched to his middle and he had begun to breathe with harsh rasping sounds.

‘Bitch, bitch, bitch! Annest!
Annest, help me!
’ He had fallen to both knees now. Rhonwen sawed frantically through the last of the rope that held her feet, and somehow got the blade of the knife under the rope around her wrists. It was too blunt; without sawing it would do nothing. She was shaking so much she could hardly hold it. ‘Don’t drop it,’ she muttered between her teeth, ‘don’t drop it!’ Across the fire she could see faintly the huddled silhouette of the man. His curses were barely audible. Annest had not moved; sobbing hysterically, she was pressed against the wall on the far side of the cottage, clutching her cloak around her.

Gritting her teeth, Rhonwen sawed on as best she could, feeling first one then another strand of the rope loosen and snap. With one final frantic effort, it was done. The rope fell away and she was free. Grimly she forced her limbs to move, crouching, knife in hand, as she waited to see what Madoc was going to do.

His breath rasped in his throat as he hauled himself to his feet, feeling for the dagger at his belt. She saw its blade catch the light of a stray flame as he held it before him. ‘I’m going to get you, bitch! I’m going to deliver you to your family flayed and gutted!’

There was a wail of anguish from Annest. Neither gave her so much as a glance. Their eyes locked, they faced one another, knives before them. On the front of Madoc’s jerkin a slow stain, black in the dim firelight, was spreading downwards. He clutched his stomach and when he took his hand away it was wet with blood. ‘Bitch!’ he shouted again. ‘Bitch! I’m going to kill you for this!’ He coughed painfully.

Rhonwen was totally calm now, the knife handle alive in her hand. She caressed it, waiting. Everything depended on the next few moments. If she was ever to see Eleyne again, she had to win. Straightening a little, she took a step forward and saw the surprise in his eyes. She smiled as she saw that he was afraid. ‘The gods are with me, old man,’ she whispered, ‘you can’t kill me, you are already dead. See your lifeblood is leaking to the floor like so much rat’s piss.’

‘Annest!’ His voice was weaker now, piteous. ‘Annest, help me. Kill her– ’

Rhonwen side-stepped, her back against the wall. She could see Annest now. The girl had not moved.

‘She won’t help you, old man, she hates you. You have beaten her once too often,’ she said. ‘Look at the blood. Can’t you feel your life running away between your fingers? You leak like a sieve!’ She laughed softly.

He looked down and she heard him give a yelp of pain and fear. As if realising for the first time how badly he was hurt, he staggered and fell to his knees. ‘Die, old man, die!’ she said. There was something like elation in her voice. ‘See what happens to those who meddle with the will of the gods!’

‘No!’ Annest let out a scream. ‘No, you evil woman! He’s not going to die. He’s not.’ She hurled herself at Rhonwen, her fingers clawed. ‘Leave him alone, you witch!’

The two women grappled back and forth on the floor, then Annest fell back. With a little sigh, she collapsed at Rhonwen’s feet, the dagger in her heart.

Rhonwen narrowed her eyes. ‘Stupid child,’ she said quietly, ‘there was no need for you to die.’ She pulled the knife from the girl’s body with an effort and turned back to Madoc. ‘But there’s every need for your death, old man,’ she murmured, ‘you broke the rules of hospitality. And you defied the gods.’ She stepped towards him.

Madoc cringed, his strength almost gone, his hand still clutched to his belly, the other holding his dagger before him. He snarled like a cornered animal, lunging towards her with the weapon. She dodged back, almost losing her footing as a shaft of pain ran up her leg. Then she went at him again, slowly, holding his gaze, part of her uninvolved, astonished by her own lack of fear.

It was over in a moment. Her movement was too quick for him. He never saw the blade flash. He felt only for a moment the searing pain in his throat, then all went black.

For a long time Rhonwen stood without moving, then at last she dropped the dagger and walked to the doorway of the house. The mist had cleared, and in the east, over the rim of the mountains, the sky had lightened a little. The air was fresh and cold and blessedly clean. Somewhere nearby she could hear running water where she would be able to wash away the blood. She must purify herself with water, and the house with fire. Then she would go to Eleyne.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
FOTHERINGHAY CASTLE
April 1237

‘Y
our father is well again!’ John, followed by his hurrying train of attendants, carried the letter through to the still-room where Eleyne was supervising two of her women as they checked her supplies of herbs and medicines.

He thrust the letter into her hand with a smile. His face had grown thinner again and he looked very weary. He began to cough and she saw his hand pressed against his chest.

The letter was from her father’s steward. ‘The prince is much restored, the Lord be thanked. He can speak again and has regained the use of all his limbs. We give thanks every hour that he has been spared and is once again in full control in Gwynedd. He has given part of western Gwynedd to his son, Gruffydd, together with a part of Powys, and trusts his elder son more each day.’

‘Happy now?’ He was amused at the radiance which had illuminated her face.

‘Very happy.’ She ran to him and threw her arms impulsively around his neck. ‘Oh, I am so pleased!’

‘And now we can move on without you constantly worrying about him?’

‘We can go tomorrow if you wish.’ She twirled around ecstatically, much to the enjoyment of their attendants.

The long round was due to begin again: the circuit of their estates, the attendances at court, a visit within a couple of months to Scotland. It would be a busy year.

At their manor house at Suckley John was taken ill again. As the soft greenness of spring settled over the border countryside and daffodils clouded the riverside fields, he retired to bed, coughing and racked with fever. Eleyne summoned the physician and sent Luned to search the coffers for the tinctures and elixirs they had brought from Fotheringhay. Then she sat beside him, holding his hand. ‘You must get better soon, there is so much for us to do.’

He nodded. His breath was shallow and harsh, his skin flushed and damp.

She drew her legs up beneath her skirts and snuggled close to him. ‘There is something I want to tell you.’

It was too soon to know, too soon even to hope, but for the first time her courses were late and that morning she had awakened feeling sick and heavy. As Luned bathed her forehead they had looked at one another and smiled with hidden excitement. Looking at John, she had felt a sudden panicky terror that he might not get well, that he looked too weary, too grey, and she had known that she must not keep her secret excitement from him. She had to give him hope; to give him the will to live.

‘I think I may be going to have a child.’ She saw the sudden leap of joy in his eyes.

‘Are you sure?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s too soon to be sure, but I have a feeling I’m right.’

‘Oh, Eleyne, my darling.’ He raised himself on his elbow and drew her to him. ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. It’s been so long. I wondered …’

‘You wondered if, like poor Aunt Joanna, I couldn’t have a baby.’ She felt a stab of pain as the thought of Alexander rose unbidden in her mind and as always she pushed it away. ‘Rhonwen said it was because I was too young. All I had to do was wait.’ Her voice faded at the mention of Rhonwen’s name; she still missed her, still thought about her, even though a small guilty part of her was relieved to be rid of her prying and her hostility to John. But, however much she disliked him, Rhonwen would have given Eleyne medicines for John at the first sign of his illness if she had begged her to do so, and her medicines, unlike those of the doctors who followed him everywhere he went, had always worked. She glanced up at him, and was pleased to see how bright and animated his eyes had become. The physician entered and bowed. As Eleyne kissed John and wriggled reluctantly away from him off the bed she saw the doctor reach for her husband’s pulse. She did not notice the man’s worried look when he saw the Earl of Chester’s glowing skin and fevered eyes.

II
CHESTER CASTLE
May

Her head wrapped in a white shawl, Rhonwen stayed long enough in the precincts of the castle to find out what she needed to know. The earl and countess were still at Fotheringhay. She had two animals now, her own and a packmule which she had found with the beasts in the byre end of Madoc’s house. She had methodically ransacked the
hafod
, taken what few possessions they had which were of value – a cooking pot, Annest’s Sunday shoes, their few pennies buried beneath the bakestone, and an extra woollen shawl. Then she had turned the animals loose and set fire to the cottage. There was little that would burn; the turf roof was wet, the walls were stone, but she needed to burn it to cleanse it and to be rid of the bodies. By the time full light had come she had been on the road long enough to put a distance between her and whoever might come to the lonely dwelling on the hill. It had taken four more agonising days to reach Chester, and now she faced another long ride across the middle of England, but her days of skulking in the mountains were over. No one would be looking for her once she was clear of the border march. She had two animals and before she left the city she would have found herself a servant and escort. No one would see her as a woman travelling alone again. And this time she was armed.