Child of the Phoenix (69 page)

Nesta was waiting for her in the bedchamber, a jug of hot, scented water standing on a trivet over the fire ready for her to wash. To her relief, there was no sign of Robert. She stepped out of the ruined gown as Nesta poured the water into a bowl.

‘Will you be able to mend it?’ As she bathed her face and neck, she saw the maid gather up the gown and fold it over her arm.

‘I expect so, my lady, I’ve never failed you yet. Your scarlet is waiting for you –’ Nesta broke off as the door opened and Robert walked in. He surveyed the scene as Eleyne straightened, the warm water running down her throat and arms, soaking into the low-necked shift, which was all she wore.

‘Out.’ He gestured at Nesta with a jerk of his head. Nesta curtseyed and scuttled past him, leaving them alone.

‘You disobeyed me and made me look a fool before the whole court,’ he said slowly.

Eleyne eyed him defiantly, still standing over the basin, her damp hair curling over her shoulders. ‘If you looked a fool, it was because you could not keep up,’ she said coldly. ‘If you had been at the front, you would have been at my side.’

He smiled. ‘Next time I shall ride the grey, then perhaps I shall be well enough mounted. And if I don’t like the animal, I shall have it knocked on the head.’ Her face went white. ‘Oh, I heard how you flung your arms around the horse’s neck. The whole court makes sport of your love of the creature.’ He sat down astride the chair which stood by the table, his arms folded over the high back.

‘Why do you wash in your shift?’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Such modesty seems odd in such a forward woman. Take it off.’

‘We are expected at the high table – ’

‘And we will be there. We don’t want to disappoint our host or his king, do we?’

She looked at him warily. ‘Then I should dress …’

‘Soon. First, take off your shift. Think of the horse, Eleyne, it would be sad, wouldn’t it, to kill such a beautiful animal?’

She knew what he would do. He would humiliate and degrade her, then he would beat her. Then with exaggerated politeness, he would help her to dress. It had happened too often. She knew it excited him to think he was her master, but not this time. She stepped back from the basin of cooling water and reached for the towel which Nesta had dropped on the bed.

‘If you touch that horse, I shall tell the king what you do to me,’ she said desperately, ‘and he will have you killed. Don’t think he hasn’t thought of it already –’ She saw his face blanch. ‘You are in his way. It’s only my pleading which has spared you so far.’ Her fear for the horse had given her strength. She stepped towards him and was pleased to see him flinch. ‘If anything happens to Tam Lin, anything at all, if he so much as gets a stone in his hoof, I shall know who to blame.’

‘The king wouldn’t dare to harm me, an envoy from England – ’

‘An envoy? I was Uncle Henry’s messenger, not you! You are no envoy.’

His eyes narrowed triumphantly. ‘That is where you are wrong: I carried the letters from King Henry, I have the official safe conducts to travel north, and I serve as one of Henry’s officials.’ He smiled at the expression on her face. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? And if I am killed by the King of Scots, or anyone else in Scotland, Henry will want to know why. And your Alexander’s precious peace will not be worth a farthing bannock! No, King Alexander can’t touch me, Eleyne. If he could he would have done it already.’ He folded his arms. ‘And you know it, sweetheart, or you would have crawled to him before now with your list of complaints. Do you want to be responsible for a war between England and Scotland? Do you want the whole world to know that the King of Scots commits incest with his niece? Do you know the penalty for incest, wife, if the church finds out?’

Eleyne’s mouth was dry, her defiance had crumbled into ashes. ‘I suggest that we get ready for the feast,’ she said tight-lipped, ‘this conversation gets us nowhere.’

‘It gets
you
nowhere.’ He pushed himself from the chair and before she could turn around his hands grasped her wrists. She fought frantically, but as always he was much the stronger. He bound her hands behind her back with her own girdle and forced her to her knees. Then he undressed. As always, her mute fury and the fear in her eyes excited him. By the time he was ready for her he was enormous.

Her bruises, as he had promised, were all hidden as she walked at his side into the great hall and took her place at the king’s side. Her face was pale, but she managed a smile. On her right, Robert was wearing a gown of stiffly embroidered black silk. He was looking immensely pleased with himself as he raised his first goblet of wine. Before the meal was half over he lay sprawled across the table, his head amongst the dishes.

The king glanced past her and raised an eyebrow. ‘Your husband seems to have caroused too much. Shall I have him taken to your chamber?’

‘I think fresh air would do him more good,’ Eleyne retorted tartly. She had hardly spoken all evening.

Alexander beckoned attendants from the corner of the dais. ‘Take Sir Robert to the courtyard and leave him to sleep it off under the stars,’ he directed. When they had gone he turned back to her. ‘Did you not enjoy the hunt?’

‘I enjoyed it enormously.’ She wanted to throw herself into his arms; to cry, to beg him to help her, to show him her bruises and wait while he stormed outside to kill Robert with his own hands. But she had to be calm. She could not risk two countries going to war because her husband beat her, nor could she risk, ever, the chance of Alexander’s being excommunicated – or worse.

Alexander put his hand over hers. ‘I must talk to you later, alone. Your husband is too drunk to know or care what we do – ’

‘No!’ her cry was almost frightened, and she saw him frown. ‘No,’ she repeated more softly, ‘not here. Falkland is too public, there are too many eyes. Everyone will know – ’

‘I suspect everyone knows already, sweetheart,’ Alexander smiled, ‘but they indulge their old king by turning a blind eye.’

III

The castle was asleep when the king’s servant knocked softly on the stout door. He whispered to Nesta, and Nesta tiptoed to Eleyne’s bed. Eleyne was lying awake, trying to ease her painful body on the mattress. Outside the night was luminous, barely dark, though it was long after midnight and she had left the bed curtains undrawn.

‘The king wants you,’ Nesta whispered importantly. She put her candle down beside the bed, picked up Eleyne’s velvet bed gown and held it up. At last the king would see the poor lady’s bruises: he could hardly miss them this time. He had tipped her and tipped her well to act as a messenger between her mistress and himself since the beginning of their stay in Scotland, and she was happy to do her best to help Eleyne. Like all the Chester servants, she had a low opinion of Sir Robert.

Eleyne was tempted to send a message to say she wasn’t well, but her longing for him was too great. Wrapped in her gown, a candle in her hand, she followed the king’s servant on tiptoe to the state bedchamber, which was almost next to their own. A fire had been lit there, in spite of the warmth of the night, to take the chill off the stone of the room, and the king sat beside it in the light of a single candle. As the servant pulled the door shut, he rose and held out his hands. They did not speak. She clung to him, her face buried in his chest, and it was several minutes before he realised that she was crying.

‘Eleyne?’ He held her away from him and looked down at her face. In the shadowed candlelight he could hardly make out her features, but he felt the hot tears as he touched her cheek with his forefinger. ‘What is it, lass?’

She did not trust herself to speak, just wanting to feel his arms around her again, but he held her away firmly. ‘Tell me!’ His voice was sharper, full of anxiety.

‘I can’t, it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m with you.’

‘It does matter, Eleyne. I’ve never seen you cry.’ Abruptly he released her. He turned to the table and taking the candle he used it to light half a dozen more so that the shadows drew back and he could see her face more clearly. He swore softly and took her in his arms again. ‘Has that bastard de Quincy hurt you?’

She nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter, I’m used to it – ’

‘Used to it?’ His whisper became a roar. ‘By Christ I’ll make him sorry he was ever born! I’ll have his head on a spike on – ’

‘No, no! Please, you mustn’t! You can’t.’ She was sobbing openly now. ‘Don’t you see? He has threatened to tell King Henry of our affair; he has threatened to tell the church that we commit incest.’ Her voice broke and she flung herself down on her knees on the cushions he had thrown ready for their lovemaking in front of the hearth. ‘He says it would lead to war,’ she went on, ‘Uncle Henry would make it the excuse to invade Scotland. Oh my dear, don’t you see he’s right, we can do nothing.’ Knuckling her eyes, she rocked back and forth on her knees.

‘He overestimates his importance,’ the king said succinctly.

‘I know, but at the same time he’s right. Henry could make it an excuse to cause all kinds of unpleasantness. Oh, please, don’t you see …’

Alexander stared down at her, his fury tightly in check. All his instincts told him Robert de Quincy had to die, but she was right. Above all, the king was a statesman and Scotland must come first, even before this beautiful wild creature whom he loved, as he had at last acknowledged to himself, almost to distraction.

He knelt beside her and pulled her against him, gentling her sobs, then slowly he kissed her on the lips. She responded, unable to resist the longing which his kisses kindled, allowing him to pull off her bed gown. She heard him catch his breath as he saw the bruises on her buttocks and she felt his fingers tighten on her shoulders until she cried out with pain.

‘It doesn’t matter, love,’ she whispered. ‘Nothing matters as long as I still have you.’ She put her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards her. ‘If harm came to Scotland because of me, you would grow to hate me. I could not bear that to happen. Leave it, my love.’ Her tongue was in his ear, fluttering down his jaw line, dipping, seeking the small erect nipples hidden in the golden chest hair where she was pressing her face as his gown fell open.

The firelight made a golden halo of his hair. Smiling up at him, she lay back on the cushions, pulling him with her, holding his head in her hands, bringing it down to her breasts, wanting to lose her pain and fear and humiliation in the golden, worshipping body of the king. She gasped as his lips caught at her nipple, teasing it, sucking, and her body arched towards his from the soft pile of cushions.

She flung her head sideways, staring at the fire, unseeing, turning inwards, feeling only the growing rush of pleasure as it built towards its crescendo and final explosion.

The horseman in the flames was riding fast, his cloak streaming in the
wind, the lightning flashing in the flaming logs which framed the picture,
the banner above his head a roaring, ramping lion. He was riding too fast,
not able to see the rough track beneath the horse’s feet, unable to steady
the animal, not caring, urging it faster, faster still, laughing exultantly
into the rain
…

‘Eleyne, what’s the matter?’ The king’s voice was sharp. Just as her body seemed ready to crest into a climax, she had become still, withdrawn, almost as though she no longer knew he was there. He felt the heat leaving her skin beneath his hands. Around them the room had grown cold. ‘Eleyne!’ He knelt up, cupping her face in his hands. ‘What is it? Where are you?’ Fear knifed through him.

She stared at him blankly as he knelt over her, her mind still with the galloping horseman, then she glanced back at the fire. But he had gone. The flames had died, leaving a red, glowing bed of ash as the logs collapsed into cinders.

Alexander followed her gaze, the hairs stirring on the back of his neck. ‘You saw something in the fire?’ he asked sharply.

She nodded, shaking violently. ‘Don’t be angry.’

‘Why should I be angry?’ He sat up and pulled one of the rugs around her shoulders before reaching for his own gown.

‘What did you see?’

‘A man. Riding.’

‘Who?’

She shrugged. ‘I never see his face.’

‘You’ve seen him before?’ He felt her fear.

She nodded miserably. ‘Several times. And I’ve seen other things.’ Suddenly she didn’t want to have any secrets from him. ‘I saw Hay Castle when it burned; I saw my father’s illness. Once when I was a child I saw the massacre of the Druids on Môn.’ She stopped abruptly. There was someone in the room with them. The temperature had dropped so sharply she could see Alexander’s breath as a cloud in the air between them. Two of the candle flames paled and smoked and went out, leaving a trail of acrid blue smoke.

She saw the king look round as he felt it too. His face was white. Silently he rose and reached for his mantle. From its folds he produced a dagger and pulled it from its sheath. But the shadowy bedchamber was empty.

‘Einion –’ She had whispered without realising it, searching the shadows, her fingers clamped into the rug she was holding around her shoulders. Her part in Scotland’s future, if she still had a part in Scotland’s future, had been Einion’s secret and Einion’s vision. He had seen her at a king’s side; he had seen her as the mother of a line of kings. Unconsciously she put her hand to her stomach beneath the thick folds of the rug.