Child of the Phoenix (71 page)

Her nights in Alexander’s arms were a haven, but never once did she dare to ask him what was to happen, and never once did he give her any sign. Together, in silence, they waited for news of her husband. Until it came, they could do nothing. And still she had not told him her secret.

VIII
John the Baptist’s Day, 29 August 1238

They were at Scone again. The hot muggy August days stretched out and thunder was never far away. The beautiful old palace of Scone lay in a heat haze. It was very silent in the king’s rooms where Eleyne lay in Alexander’s arms. They were both naked.

The knocking on the door was quick and urgent. Alexander sat up and frowned. His servants had orders that he was never to be disturbed when he was alone with Lady Chester.

The knocking was repeated, light, so as not to be heard far away, but insistent.

Pulling on his gown, he went to the door and unbolted it. A shadowy figure waited outside in the dark corridor. The king heard the whispered message and scowled.

‘I have to go, my love.’ He was dressing swiftly. ‘But wait here, I’ll be back soon.’ He knelt and put his hand on her breast as she lay sleepily where he had left her. ‘Lock the door behind me.’

She needed no second bidding. Her hands were shaking as she struck flint to steel and coaxed a spark into the fire laid in the hearth. It had not been lit for days and the kindling was dry as dust. She had no herbs to conjure up the scented smoke. This time she had to do it alone.

Kneeling before the flames, still naked, she waited impatiently for them to heat and steady, emptying her mind, seeking the pictures she knew would be there.

Outside footsteps approached up the stone-flagged passage. She held her breath; they came nearer – she heard the double beat of the heavy boot, heel and toe, and then the jarring metallic ring of the long spurs. They reached the door and paused, then they moved on. She closed her eyes with relief.

The future, her future, her destiny. Would she marry the king? Was the child she was now certain she was carrying going to be the heir to the throne of Scotland? She had to know.

Show me, show me the future
. She knelt closer to the fire, her hands outstretched.
I must know
. Her eyes were reddening; sore and dry from the heat. The sweat was pouring down between her breasts, and her fingertips tingled warningly. ‘Please show me,’ she begged out loud.

Were the flames condensing into a picture? She leaned closer, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, her bare knees on the sprinkling of broken twig and bark which lay in the hearth.

There, against the grey stones of the chimney, still cold and impervious to the new heat, was that a picture? ‘Einion, help me! Tell me what is to happen!’ She shook her head to clear her eyes. ‘Tell me my future.’

The flames crackled up merrily, devouring the dry sticks, licking at the log which lay ready to heat the room on the first cold night. Outside, the sunlight had turned coppery; thunder rolled around the Perthshire hills.

She did not hear Alexander’s soft leather-soled shoes. His knock was imperious. ‘Eleyne, open this door!’ For one long moment she remained where she was, kneeling before the empty flames, then she rose to her feet.

Alexander stared at her and slammed the door behind him. ‘Never,
never
open the door with no clothes on again. Supposing someone had seen … Eleyne, what is the matter? Why in the name of all that is holy have you lit a fire?’ He strode over and kicked at the logs, scattering them. Then he turned. ‘You were looking into the future?’

She was still standing by the door, her long hair curling down over her breasts, her hands and arms streaked with wood ash and soot. Her eyes were red.

‘Or were you summoning the dead?’ His face darkened angrily. ‘Is that it?’

She was frightened. ‘No, I was trying to see … to see the future … I needed to know,’ she finished in a whisper.

‘You needed to know. What pray did you need to know?’

‘What will happen.’ She looked at him in anguish. ‘It was prophesied by Einion Gweledydd that I should be the mother of a line of kings. I had to know,’ she rushed on. ‘I had to know when. We always thought he was speaking of my marriage to John.’ She took a deep agonised breath. ‘But that wasn’t to be. And now …’ Her voice faltered to a halt.

‘And now,’ he echoed.

She saw the vivid blaze of his eyes and suddenly she was reminded of John. How he had looked when she had told him the same thing. She put out her hand timidly and touched his arm. ‘Is Robert dead?’ she whispered.

He nodded.

‘You gave the order?’ she forced herself to ask.

‘I gave the order.’ He spoke heavily, staring down at the remains of the smouldering ashes. ‘God forgive me, I gave the order. I had to have you. Sweet Blessed Christ, I had to have you for my wife!’

Eleyne clenched her fists. Her breath was coming in tight, painful gasps. ‘I’m carrying your child, my lord.’ She hadn’t meant to say it like that – straight out.

‘Are you sure?’ Words he had spoken before, to his wife, but this time he already knew the answer. The curves of her belly, the full breasts, the slight broadening of her hips: the signs which he had subconsciously noticed and enjoyed without realising their significance.

‘I’m sure.’ She spoke in a whisper.

‘Sweet Jesus! how long I’ve waited for this moment!’ He took her in his arms, her soft white body crushed against his robe. He threaded his fingers through her hair and gently pulled back her head, raising her lips to his.

‘You will marry me? You will have to marry me now.’ She arched her throat to his kisses, feeling herself growing weak, as always at his touch.

‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘I’ll have to marry you now.’

‘And Robert?’

‘Robert is dead, I told you.’

He was pulling at his clothes, pushing her down, his mouth on hers. She shut out the shiver of unease his tone had brought. She had always known that Robert would have to die to set her free.

She lay back beneath him, her lips against his, her mind spinning out of thought into animal sensation. If this was the will of the gods, if this was her destiny, who was she to feel guilt at the death of one man?

IX
LONDON
September 1238

The River Thames lapped greedily against the wall, small wavelets slapping at the stone, teasing the weed and rubbish which floated there. It was full high tide. The messenger drew Robert de Quincy into a dark corner in the angle of the Water Gate Tower and the wall and glanced over his shoulder before he put his mouth to Robert’s ear.

‘Your wife is with child by the King of Scots.’

Robert’s eyes widened. ‘Who told you?’

The stranger shrugged. ‘I was told to tell you. It was the king who tried to have you killed. They think you’re dead and that she is free to marry him.’

Robert put his hand to the throat of his new gown and shivered. ‘How do they know it’s the king’s child?’ he blustered. ‘It might be mine.’

‘Then you must claim it.’ The man eyed him insolently. ‘If you dare.’

Robert’s mouth was dry with fear, but a slow steady anger churned in his stomach. How dare she? They had made a cuckold of him before the world and now they wanted to dispose of him like so much rubbish. Well, she was not going to find it that easy. Not once he had told King Henry what was going on.

X

DUNFERMLINE CASTLE
October 1238

‘It won’t be for long, lass.’ Alexander’s hands were on her shoulders. ‘What is it?’

It was unlike her to cry, but the tears slipped down her face in spite of her efforts to check them. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ He was riding to the far west of his kingdom.

‘Neither do I, Eleyne,’ he said, growing impatient. ‘But it has to be; you know that as well as I do.’

Her belly was showing now. If she were careful, always draped in a full mantle, no one could see it, but her servants knew; Nesta knew, for she had had to let out the seams of Eleyne’s gowns. And she was sure some of the men and women of the court had guessed. But still Alexander had not acted. It was only three or four months before her baby was due; they had to be married soon.

She had stopped riding, terrified of harming the baby, her whole being tied up with the scrap of life who would one day wear a crown. She did not know that messengers had arrived from the court of King Henry, and that one of the messages they carried was that Robert de Quincy was alive.

XI
STRATA FLORIDA, WALES
19 October 1238

All the lords and princes of Wales were gathered at the command of Prince Llywelyn. Once more he wanted their assurances and their oaths of loyalty: for Dafydd.

Isabella sat watching as her husband’s attendants put the finishing touches to his clothes, tweaking, brushing, pulling at the folds of his cloak. She was shivering in spite of the lighted brazier which threw out a shimmering wall of heat from its glowing coals.

‘Is your father well enough to attend the meeting?’ She was growing agitated now that the day had finally arrived.

Dafydd nodded. He waved away his servants and turned to face her. ‘So, how do I look?’ He was wearing the
talaith
, the coronet which was the symbol of his rank.

‘Handsome.’ She smiled with some of her old coquettishness. ‘Every inch the greatest prince Wales has ever seen.’

‘No prince will ever be greater than my father, Isabella.’

‘You will.’ She stood up and moving towards him with a rustle of silks she stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. ‘You’ll see, Dafydd
bach
, after today you will rule all Wales.’

Outside the guesthouse the wind had risen, roaring through the trees in the valley beyond the abbey. The lonely hills were dark under the speeding clouds.

‘Not as long as Gruffydd holds so much of Gwynedd and Powys. Father means him to succeed Gwenwynwyn as leader in central Wales. If he does he’ll be a thorn in my flesh for the rest of my days.’

‘Then he mustn’t succeed.’ Isabella’s eyes narrowed. ‘Once the princes have sworn allegiance to you, my husband, he will have no friends. And your father will go back happily to his prayers at Aberconwy. The field will be yours.’