Child of the Phoenix (62 page)

Eleyne had gasped at the sight of Rhonwen. ‘What is Lady Rhonwen doing here? Why is she in chains?’

Stephen inclined his head. ‘Oh come, my lady, you are an intelligent woman. Surely I do not have to spell it out for you? Lady Rhonwen is wanted by the authorities on charges of murder, necromancy and poisoning. She is implicated too, I understand, in the charges against you. I would be doing everyone a service if I hanged her without further delay …’

Rhonwen caught her breath in terror and Stephen smiled more broadly. ‘Exactly. I
could
be persuaded to spare her life, but only after you have been through the marriage ceremony.’

Eleyne glared at him. ‘This is unspeakable – ’

‘It is your doing, my lady. Had you agreed to obey your king, I should have had no need to use such a lever. Make ready.’ He turned to one of the men-at-arms who produced a coil of rope. He proceeded to throw one end over one of the ceiling beams and the other he knotted into a noose. Deftly he slipped it over Rhonwen’s head.

Eleyne ran towards him, but the man pushed her back.

‘No! You can’t do this!’

‘I can, my lady.’ Stephen narrowed his eyes. ‘But I won’t, if you obey me. Go now and put on your wedding gown.’ His voice had lost its customary quietness and was harsh.

Rhonwen’s face was grey; she had not said a word.

Eleyne stared at her in despair, then slowly turned towards the bedchamber. ‘I shall expect to see that rope gone and the chains removed before I come back into this room.’

Stephen laughed mockingly. ‘I am afraid you expect in vain, madam. The rope will be removed after your vows are made and not before.’

The gown was cloth of silver. She had refused to allow it to be fitted so it hung loosely around her waist, but the effect was one of ethereal beauty as Eleyne walked across the inner court to the door of the chapel where the bishop was waiting to celebrate the marriage.

Her husband-to-be was also dressed in silver, with a scarlet-lined cloak over his mantle. He was indeed tall, taller than Eleyne, and very slim, his dark face austerely handsome beneath a heavy black beard, his eyes a clear nut-brown. He gazed at her for a long minute, his face cold.

‘Madam.’ He held out his hand. Eleyne inclined her head. Her hand, when she gave it to him, was ice-cold.

The vows took only a few minutes, then they processed into the chapel and stood side by side before the altar. Eleyne was numb. She had looked only once at her husband: his eyes had been alight with greed.

After the mass Eleyne stopped on the steps of the chapel. The procession which had formed behind them stopped too. She withdrew her hand from her husband’s arm and turned to Stephen Seagrave, who stood immediately behind the Earl and Countess of Lincoln.

‘Send Rhonwen to me. Now.’

Stephen bowed. ‘All in good time, my lady …’

‘Now,’ she repeated, her voice icy. ‘I do not move from here until she comes to me.’

Robert turned a speculative look on his new wife, but said nothing.

Stephen hesitated. He glanced at Lord Lincoln and raised an eyebrow. Receiving an imperceptible nod, he turned back to Eleyne. ‘Very well. It serves no purpose to detain her any longer. Fetch her.’ He snapped the order at one of the clerks standing near him.

The procession remained where it was in the freezing November wind. Eleyne was so cold she could barely feel her hands or feet, but still she did not move. Her head held high she stood without looking at her husband. Behind her, the chapel congregation waited, whispering among themselves.

When Rhonwen appeared, the chains had been removed. She was pale but smiling.

‘Now. Perhaps we can go in to the wedding feast?’ John de Lacy said, his voice pained.

Eleyne stepped away from her husband and kissed Rhonwen’s pale cheek. ‘Are you all right?’

Rhonwen nodded. ‘You saved my life,
cariad
.’

‘Yes.’ For a moment Eleyne looked at Rhonwen, her face bleak. Then she turned to her husband’s side.

* * *

The nuptial bed had been set up in the castle’s great guest chamber, and there at last Eleyne found herself alone with Robert de Quincy. He had drunk a great deal at the feast and his handsome face was flushed. He had insisted on watching as his wife’s gown was removed by Luned and Nesta, and as Rhonwen, tight-lipped, had brushed out her hair. Eleyne had kept on her shift and had pulled over it the velvet bed gown. Now she turned to him; he was still fully dressed.

‘Do you wish me to call your servants, sir?’

He smiled. ‘There is no need, you can undress me.’

She stared at him. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you, wife. You can be my servant.’ His voice was insolent. Stephen Seagrave’s advice had been clear enough: his arrogant young wife had to be mastered. And if in mastering her he indulged some of his favoured pleasures, so much the better. He would begin at once. He stuck his feet out in front of him as he lounged in the heavy carved chair. ‘Remove my shoes first.’

Eleyne hesitated and his face darkened. ‘You have just promised before God to obey me, woman. Remove my shoes.’

‘I am not your servant,’ she retorted hotly, her eyes flashing with indignation. She walked across to the door and pulled it open. ‘Call Sir Robert’s manservant,’ she said to the guard outside. Closing the door, she turned to him. ‘Do you know who I am?’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Yes, you are my wife.’

‘I am the Countess of Chester, sir, a title I shall keep until the day I die as you have none to give me.’

The door opened and a man peered around it. ‘You sent for me, Sir Robert?’

‘No,’ Robert leaned back in his chair, ‘I did not. My lady wife will wait on me. You may go, Edward, I shall not need you again tonight.’ He waited until the door closed, then he stood up. He walked across to Eleyne and stood in front of her, smiling.

She did not see the blow coming. His hand moved so fast she had no time to dodge and his open palm caught her full across the face. He smiled again. ‘It seems a pity that the whole castle will see from your bruises that I have had to chastise my wife so soon.’ He folded his arms as she regained her balance. ‘I understand that woman you summoned after the wedding service is a common murderer,’ he went on, his voice very quiet. ‘Master Seagrave tells me that if I have difficulty in ensuring your obedience I should give the woman up to the hangman.’

Eleyne gasped and a look of triumph crossed his face. ‘My shoes, madam,’ he commanded again. He did not sit down and, almost blind with rage, she was forced to go down on her knees to remove his shoes and then his hose. She lifted the heavy mantle from his shoulders and hung it, at his instructions, on the peg on the wall, then she unfastened his gown, hanging the heavy girdle beside the mantle. His chest was covered in black hair and his shoulders were very broad. She felt a catch of panic as he stood before her dressed only in his linen drawers, then – deliberately and slowly – he raised his hand and unfastened the ties that held them up, allowing them to fall.

‘Now you, wife,’ he said. ‘Take off that hideous shift. Let us see what I have got for my side of the bargain.’

Fists clenched, she tried not to look at him as he stood so blatantly before her. There was complete silence in the room, then he laughed. ‘Perhaps I should call my manservant to undress you, Lady Chester,’ he said quietly.

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Somehow she steadied her hands so she could untie the ribbon which fastened her bed gown and let it fall to the ground, then, almost defiantly, she pulled open the neck of her shift and allowed it too to slide from her shoulders. She did not look at him. She felt his hands running over her body; she was completely cold. She allowed him to lead her to the bed and she lay down when he commanded it, and allowed him to force her legs apart without protest. It was as if a screen separated her from her body.

It hurt; it hurt very badly and she bit back her tears, turning her head away on the pillow so that he would not see her face, but it was soon over and he withdrew, leaving her feeling strangely inviolate. He might do what he wished with her body, but he could not reach her.

When he lay at last, snoring loudly, sprawled across the bed, she crawled away and pulled on her bed gown. Then she went to the fire. She was completely numb.

The fire had died almost to nothing – the ashes were white and the log which still burned was sour and smoky with its last heat. Stooping wearily to the pile of wood in the basket, she threw some on. For a moment nothing happened, then the flames began to flicker into life.

A horseman was galloping fast towards her, one hand on the reins, one held out towards her. She heard him call her name.

‘Who are you?’

She breathed the words out loud, leaning closer to the fire. Her hair fell across her shoulders.

He was coming closer now and she could almost see his face. He was smiling. ‘Wait for me,’ he called. ‘Wait for me, my love.’ She could hear the thunder of his horse’s hooves, see the swirl of its caparison, and suddenly she recognised him.

‘What in the name of the Blessed Virgin do you think you are doing?’ The hand on her shoulder was so heavy she lost her balance and sprawled forward in the hearth. Her husband stood over her, naked, his face white with fury in the firelight. ‘Who were you talking to? Who?’ She tried to dodge his kick but it struck her thigh and she winced. ‘What were you doing?’

She looked up at him through the dishevelled curtain of her hair and saw fear in his eyes behind the anger.

She laughed. ‘What do you think I was doing?’ she whispered. ‘I was looking into the flames to see the future. Scrying. Seeing the outcome of my marriage.’

He licked his lips nervously. ‘And what did you see?’ In spite of himself, he had to ask.

‘I saw death,’ she answered slowly and she saw him blanch.

It was untrue. She had seen Alexander of Scotland.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I

A
t dawn Eleyne crept from the bed and went to the stables. The grooms stared at the bruises on her face and were embarrassed as they brought out one of the palfreys for her to ride. She gave Invictus titbits, kissed his nose and left him behind. She knew already she could never let Robert know how much she loved the horse.

She did not see her husband again until supper, when she sat beside him at the high table, sharing his dish as she had shared John’s. He appeared to be in high good humour.

‘So you rode out without me?’ He dabbled his fingers in the silver basin of rose water the page held for him and reached for the napkin. ‘Why was that?’ His voice was innocently quiet, his face bland, pleasantly interested.

‘You were asleep,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ She waved the page away and signalled for the meal to begin.

He smiled, holding out his goblet for wine. ‘In future you will remain in bed until I give you permission to rise. Then we will ride together.’

‘If you wish.’ She felt her temper flare, but she forced herself to smile back at him. She was not going to defy him before the whole household and give him the chance to rebuke her publicly.

She ate little and drank less, watching silently as he called again and again for wine. The other men at the high table were watching, their expressions inscrutable as they saw Robert’s hand waver on the stem of the goblet and tip a few drops of wine on to the table.

‘We have musicians with us from Provence,’ John de Lacy said at last. ‘Shall I ask them to play?’

Robert rose unsteadily to his feet, stared around and then smiled. ‘My wife and I are going to bed,’ he announced, shaping his words with care. ‘You may ask the devil to play for you, if you wish!’ He caught Eleyne’s wrist and pulled her to her feet. ‘Madam.’

Eleyne was calm, conscious that every eye in the crowded great hall was on her. As they walked between the tables to the door at the far end of the hall, a total silence descended on the assembled household.

The bedchamber was dark, the fire banked and warm. Robert released her wrist and walked to the centre of the room. ‘Why is there only one candle?’ He sounded peevish.

‘They did not expect us so soon from supper.’ Eleyne went to the table and touched the candle to the others in the candelabra. As each flame caught and flared, the room grew brighter, though the vaulted ceiling stayed dark. Outside it was bitterly cold; the wind was sighing in the battlements.