Child of the Phoenix (81 page)

It was Annie who first saw the boats.

‘They’re coming!’ She ran inside the castle, waving her basket around her head, scattering snowdrops and coltsfoot, dog’s mercury and celandine. ‘There’s two boats coming over from Kinross, my lady. It will be the food and wine at last!’

‘Please God it is not my husband.’ Eleyne’s face was grim as she climbed painfully to the walls with the others and watched the slow progress of the boats across the sunlit water. Her burns were still raw, but her strength had returned and the baby seemed, miraculously, unharmed.

There were a dozen men in each boat besides the barrels and boxes which proclaimed themselves as supplies. She felt a new flutter of fear. ‘Those are not the usual boats.’

‘No, my lady.’ Andrew was shading his eyes against the glare off the water. For a long time he didn’t speak. When he did his voice was heavy with disbelief. ‘It is the king.’

Eleyne gasped. The shock of relief and joy shook her whole body. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye, madam, I’m sure. See for yourself. In the second boat. You can see his standard clearly now.’

She frowned into the sun, trying to focus her eyes, then she let out a low cry of dismay. ‘No, I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him to see me.’ She pulled the thick veil which was draped over her ruined hair half across her face. ‘I can’t – ’

Janet and Andrew watched as she ran towards the stairs.

‘She won’t see you, your grace.’ The old man greeted the king on his knees. His hands were shaking.

‘What do you mean, she won’t see me?’ The king glared at him. Donnet was at his side. ‘Of course she will see me.’ His mouth was dry with anticipation, his hands trembling.

Andrew glanced at his wife and shrugged. ‘A lot of things have happened here, sire – ’

‘I know. The Lady Rhonwen told Lord Fife.’

‘Lady Rhonwen is alive?’ The old man’s face broke into a great beam of pleasure.

‘She’s alive.’ The king pursed his lips. ‘I doubt if de Quincy will show his face in Scotland again, but if he does he will pay with his life for what he has done here. Lady Rhonwen is at Falkland. She is still very unwell I understand. Now, I wish to see Lady Chester.’

‘Sire.’ Janet pushed her husband aside. ‘You don’t understand. There was an accident. The night Lady Rhonwen was taken.’ She grimaced at her husband, who was plucking at her sleeve. ‘No, I won’t hush! He has to know. She was burned. Badly burned.’

‘Sweet Jesus! How, in God’s name?’

‘I don’t know, sire, she was alone. She must have fallen.’

‘It’s her damned obsession with fire!’ Alexander shook his head. Suddenly he was terribly afraid for her. ‘I should have guessed something like this would happen one day. Where is she?’

He sat on the bed and put his hand gently on her shoulder. Donnet had found her first, streaking up the stairs ahead of him, and was sitting ecstatically by the bed, his great head resting on her feet. ‘Speak to me, sweetheart, please.’

She shook her head mutely. ‘Go away.’ She was facing the wall, the heavy veil pulled down over her face. ‘Please.’ Her voice was muffled with tears.

‘No, I won’t go away.’ He took her shoulders and pulled her towards him. He could see nothing through the black swathes across her face but there was a long silence as he noticed her swollen figure.

‘You are carrying my child?’ Her veiled face was forgotten as he rested a hand on her stomach. ‘Oh, my darling, I didn’t know.’

She groped for his hand with her still-bandaged fingers.

He smiled. ‘He is kicking.’

‘He kicks a lot.’

He moved his hands up towards her face. Taking the edge of her veil, he lifted it and folded it back. She waited, frozen, to see revulsion in his face as his eyes travelled slowly over her features, but there was none. He brought a finger gently to her temple. ‘Poor darling, your lovely hair is gone, but it will grow again. See, already I can see down, here.’ His finger traced a line across her brow. ‘It was only the ends that were burned. It’s not so bad.’

‘And the scars?’ Her voice was husky.

‘The scars will heal.’

‘I can’t see them, I have no mirror.’ She looked at him pleadingly.

‘Then I shall be your mirror.’ He smiled. ‘See, they don’t upset me at all, except that they hurt you.’ He put his hand over hers and saw her flinch. ‘Was it the pictures again? Our baby’s future in the flames?’

She shrugged. ‘It was the man on the horse. Not you. Someone else. I wanted to touch him, to make him turn so I could see his face.’ She pulled the veil back over her head. ‘I wanted to see if it was my son.’ The tears began to trickle down her cheeks again.

He stood up and walked to the window. ‘Does de Quincy know it isn’t his?’

‘Yes.’

There was a long silence. ‘How long did he intend to leave you here?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps forever.’

The king stayed four days and they were happy days. They walked around the island, they lay together on the bed and he kissed her belly and her breasts and, again, her poor sore face and hands. But when it was time to go he left her there. ‘The castle is in my custody now. You shall have food and wine and servants and guards to keep you safe from de Quincy and his men.’ He paused. ‘It is safer for you here, Eleyne.’

An image of the queen arose unacknowledged between them and she nodded. ‘I don’t want to leave, not now. Not until the baby is born and my face is better.’

To allay her fears, he had sent for a Venetian glass mirror and she spent hours staring at her face, tiptoeing with her fingers around the scars. She wept and Annie had scolded her. ‘They’ll go, I promise. See the ointment I’ve made? It softens the skin and soothes it. It will get better.’

XV

Lord Fife brought Rhonwen back three days after the king left. He brought Eleyne gifts too: lengths of rich silk; ivory combs for her hair as it grew back and a small book of hours. He kissed her hands and left.

Eight weeks later her baby was born. Rhonwen, Janet and Annie attended her and her labour was quick and easy. A priest, brought over from Kinross, baptised the baby John.

He lived only seven hours.

BOOK THREE

1244–1250

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
LONDON
1244

T
he house in Gracechurch Street was very dark. Outside, the sky was black; thunder echoed across the narrow court and the rain poured down, splashing into the puddles and racing down the central gutter carrying a tide of rubbish with it. Though it was noon, the house was lit by candles.

Robert de Quincy was standing by the table. In his hand was a document which bore the seal of the King of England.

Eleyne, standing by the fireplace, was staring at it, but she had made no move to take it.

Robert laid it on the table. ‘There you are. As I promised. The king’s permission to visit your brother Gruffydd in the Tower.’

‘Thank you.’

Her hair had grown back with silver streaks amongst the red-gold, even though she was only twenty-six years old, but her curls were as rampant as ever. Her face was still beautiful; there were scars on her forehead partially concealed by her head-dress, another at the corner of her mouth; one hand was badly marked with tight shiny red scars across the back of her knuckles.

This was only the second time he had seen her in three years. King Henry had made it clear Robert was not to go to Fotheringhay; he had not asked what Henry knew or where the pressure came from to leave Eleyne alone. For a long time he had gone in terror of his life, then, slowly, the fear had receded and he had stopped gazing over his shoulder, expecting a dirk in his back. He had come now to the dowager Countess of Chester’s town house by invitation, to deliver the king’s letter, and at least until he had actually confronted Eleyne at last he had regained something of his old swagger. Now, looking at her cold face, he was not quite so confident.

‘Are you well?’ He smiled tentatively.

‘Yes.’

‘I’d better leave.’ He had come as a messenger, to test the water, thinking to win her favour by arranging for her to see Gruffydd. Her face was not encouraging, as she walked over to the table and picked up the document.

‘Eleyne – ’

‘Please go now.’ Her voice was colourless. She folded her arms, holding the letter across her chest tightly, like a shield.

He shrugged and walking towards the door he opened it, then he hesitated. He turned. ‘Greet your brother from me.’

She made no response. For a long time after he had gone she did not move.

II
THE TOWER OF LONDON
March 1244