Child of the Phoenix (83 page)

He sighed. He used to be a fighter, but the mood had gone. There was so much against him: his father’s wishes, Dafydd’s success, and now the combination of Dafydd and Henry of England. His fate seemed inescapable.

He sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on the broad sill. He had never really thought about escape. Everyone knew it was impossible to escape from the Tower unless one had friends and money, and even then it wasn’t easy. Yet now, looking down into the inner ward far below, a plan began slowly to form. Once down there it would not be hard to hide in those dense black shadows until daylight came; then, when the heavy gates opened to admit the supply carts from the city, he only had to find an empty one ready to leave, climb in, lost in the milling crowds, and crouch under some empty sacks. He doubted if the security was tight. What had Londoners to fear? Certainly not one fat, middle-aged Welshman who had lodged in the Tower for two and a half years without making the slightest attempt to escape. Eleyne was right. Why hadn’t he done it years ago?

He leaned further into the window. The problem was reaching the ground. The doors were locked and there were guards at every cross landing on the main stairs in the great keep. He had seen them when he had been summoned to King Henry’s apartments on the floor below his. He had not considered the window until Eleyne’s remark about there being no bars; her challenge. He inched forward and peered down. It was a long way down from the great double stone lancets, but as a youth he would have thought nothing of shinning down a rope from a window higher than this!

Perhaps, after all, all bets were on. He smiled to himself. Why delay? St David’s Day was perfect. What better day to set off on his journey home?

‘Ion. Emrys. Owain. A word.’ He turned towards the chess players.

There were plenty of sheets to knot together. The three men leaned out in turn and made the calculation, then they compared notes. They were within two sheets of one another in their guesses. They would wait until the darkest hour of the night, just before the guard changed, when the sentries were cold and tired and huddled around their braziers. Then they would go.

Ion cast a wary eye up at the brightness of the moon. ‘By then it will be around the side of the keep and this window will be in deep shadow.’ He grinned. They were all excited now, Gruffydd’s mood deeply infectious.

They piled pillows in the prince’s bed and covered them with blankets, then did the same for the other beds. The guards seldom checked on their prisoners, and breakfast was always brought late in the knowledge that a long night’s drinking was not conducive to early rising. But they could afford to take no chances. The longer start they had on their pursuers the better.

‘I’ll go first.’ Ion slapped the prince on the shoulder. ‘It’s time.’ They had enlisted the help of one of their most loyal servants. He would release the sheets after the last man and go back to a sodden boozy sleep. The jug of wine on the table was still full, and he had been promised it all.

The shadow had come round to the window. Ion climbed on to the inner sill and looked down. It took some manoeuvring, but at last he managed to kneel backwards on the sill and shuffled back, his hands firmly gripped on the sheets knotted around the stone mullion. He vanished from view, letting himself down hand over hand, his legs braced against the wall. In two agonising, endless minutes he reached the ground. He grinned up from the darkness and Gruffydd saw the pale blur of the man’s upturned face. Then Ion ran for the deeper shadows.

‘Me next.’ Gruffydd’s heart was pounding very fast.

‘Good luck, my friend. God speed.’ Emrys clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Good luck, father.’ Owain grinned at him and shook his hand, then he gave him a hug. ‘See you down there.’

They watched in breathless silence as Gruffydd hauled himself into the deep embrasure and edged his way towards the window, feet first. The gap was narrow and he felt it catch his hips. He wriggled hard, sweat breaking out all over him. Why had he let himself get so fat? He pushed again. Sweet Christ! He couldn’t do it. He would not fit. ‘Push!’ he gasped. ‘Push me.’

Emrys braced his hands against his prince’s shoulders and pushed hard, but Gruffydd did not budge. Desperately he wriggled back inside, his face covered in sweat, heavy with disappointment. Then Owain grabbed his arm. ‘Upstairs, on to the roof! The door isn’t locked, I’ve been up there! We can put the rope around the battlements.’ Already he was scrabbling with the knots which had pulled tight under Ion’s weight.

Gruffydd’s mouth was dry with fear and anger. He watched as Emrys pulled up the long rope of sheets, wondering what Ion was thinking as he stared up at the window. ‘Come on, man,’ Emrys urged, ‘we’ll have you down there in no time!’

‘Wait! Another sheet,’ Owain cried. ‘The rope won’t be long enough from the battlements.’

Gruffydd took a deep breath. ‘Lucky you remembered that, boy,’ he said with false joviality, slapping his son on the back.

The rooftop was silent, the leads ice-cold. Above London the night was frosted with a myriad stars. All three gazed upwards, then Emrys took the rope and began to knot it around one of the great stone merlons. He worked fast, his fingers tying the sheet again and again until he was sure the rope was secure. Then he leaned out through the embrasure. Christ, but it was high! He studied the shadows of the inner ward, listening intently, then at last he let the coils of the makeshift rope fall into the darkness. He made a thumbs-up sign to Gruffydd.

From somewhere in the dark Gruffydd heard the deep barking roar of a lion from the menagerie. It was a lonely, primeval sound and he shuddered. He climbed on to the embrasure and peered over, then he turned his back to the void and began to edge backwards on his knees, his hands gripping the knotted sheets. He could see nothing behind him, and he had no way of knowing if any of the guards were standing in the courtyard waiting for him. He had to trust to luck. He wriggled a little further, feeling his legs dangling disconcertingly into space, and he tried not to think of the drop as he pushed grimly on. The stones at the sides of the embrasure caught at him, grazing his hips. He wriggled harder.

And then he was through. His centre of gravity moved sharply outwards and for a moment he was hanging by his elbows. He closed his grip more firmly on the sheets and pushed himself over the edge. There was a sharp tearing sound and his heart stopped beating, but the sheets held and slowly hand over hand he began to edge his way down. The tendons in his shoulders cracked and the joints in his hands ached. Sharp sweat dripped into his eyes. There was another slight give in the makeshift rope and again his heart jumped frantically! Sweet Christ, he had nearly let go in fright.

Above him in the darkness the reef knot joining the second and third sheet strained and looped, and the ends began to pull free.

Not far, now, not far
. Doggedly he let himself down, hand over hand. He saw the great bulk of the keep above him against the stars, the black spaces which were the windows like gaping mouths in the white-washed stone. He could not see the rope, but he felt it slip again and the sweat on his shoulders sheened over with ice.

Sweet Jesus, hold on. Please let it hold on
. He was trying to hurry now, fumbling with his legs, but his muscles were weak and his whole body was screaming with protest at his weight.

When the sheets parted, he was still thirty feet from the ground.

V
GRACECHURCH STREET

Eleyne watched with increasing impatience as the grooms and servants loaded the last boxes into the wagons. It had taken all night to make the preparations, to pack, to load the wagons and saddle the horses. She had stifled the urge to jump on a horse and gallop northwards alone, to feel the wind sweeping her hair back from her face, the pull and thrust of the horse’s powerful leg muscles beneath her, carrying her on, but she waited. She stood as Rhonwen pinned her cloak around her shoulders and watched as Tam Lin was led towards her, his neck proudly arched, his caparison fluttering in the cold March wind. Now that they were setting off, she was afraid.

Hal Longshaft, her steward, stepped forward. ‘We’re ready, my lady.’ He was smiling. The whole household had caught her excitement.

‘Thank you, Hal.’ She took the horse’s rein.

She was already mounted when the troop of royal horsemen swept around the corner and down the narrow street, their hooves loud above the low rumble of early morning traffic.

The riders wheeled into the gates which had been opened wide for the departure of Eleyne’s household. The officer in charge dragged his horse to a rearing halt before her and saluted with a drawn sword.

‘Lady Chester. I have a warrant for your arrest!’

Eleyne stared at him in horror. ‘By whose order?’ she demanded numbly. She had gone cold all over. She was very conscious of Hal Longshaft and Rhonwen standing protectively near her. Tam Lin scraped impatiently at the ground with a foreleg and shook his head. Hal put his hand on the horse’s bridle and gentled him.

‘By order of the king.’

‘And what am I charged with?’

‘With aiding and abetting the attempted escape of a prisoner from his grace’s fortress of the Tower.’ The man stepped forward.

‘Gruffydd?’ She whispered his name under her breath.

If he heard the name he gave no sign. ‘You are to accompany me now to the Tower, my lady. Command your servants to return to the house. You will not be leaving London today.’

Stunned, she turned to her steward. ‘You must see to it, Hal,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘My ladies will accompany me,’ she said to the officer, keeping her voice as firm as she could. She gestured to Rhonwen and Nesta to mount and then she kicked Tam Lin forward. To keep up with her, the man had to leap for his horse.

As they rode through the walls into the inner ward of the Tower there were knots of people everywhere, whispering: soldiers, servants and townspeople. Eleyne felt their eyes watching her, sensed they were whispering about her and suddenly she was filled with dread.

King Henry was waiting in the royal apartments in the White Tower.

‘So!’ He swung to face her as soon as she appeared. ‘Are you satisfied now? You always were a trouble-maker! I should have known you wouldn’t change! I should have remembered your capacity for creating mayhem.’ He swung round the table towards her in a swirl of scarlet and gold, and his attendants cringed back against the walls. ‘Well, madam, you have meddled for the last time!’ He thrust his head forward in a characteristic gesture of fury. ‘I listened to Alexander of Scotland when he begged me to allow you to live alone; I kept your husband by me at his request and kept him out of your way as he asked. But no more!’

Eleyne stared at him, trying to come to terms with what he was saying, but Henry swept on. ‘That is over! I am going to send you back to de Quincy and he can have the governance of you from now on. You will learn in future to live in obedience to him as the church and the law require. I wash my hands of you. I do Alexander no more favours! I should imprison you for what you have done!’

Eleyne could feel her hands shaking. Her mind was spinning in confusion.

‘I don’t understand. Where is Gruffydd? I want to see him. Whatever he did it was not of my doing. How could I have helped him? What have I done?’

‘What have you done?’ he spluttered.

‘Your grace.’ A priest who had been seated on a bench at the back of the room stood up and stepped forward. ‘Lady Chester has obviously not heard what has happened.’

For a moment Henry was taken aback, but his fury was unchecked. ‘Then I shall have to tell her! Your brother, niece, is dead!’

‘Dead! My brother?’ Eleyne stared at him, her face white.

‘Your brother, Gruffydd, my lady. The prince was killed last night.’

‘Killed?’ She was ashen.

‘Killed,’ Henry repeated. ‘You talked him into trying to escape when you visited him yesterday, didn’t you? For three years he has been content to live as our guest here in the Tower. You visit him and that same night he tries to climb from the roof and, Sweet Lady! I lose my hostage and now your other brother will no doubt stir up the whole of Wales again!’ He thumped the table with both hands.

Eleyne was trying to hold back her tears. ‘Where is he?’ The king was right. It was her fault. Gruffydd’s death was all her fault.

‘He lies in St John’s Chapel, my lady.’ The priest looked at her stricken face with some sympathy. ‘I am sure his grace will allow you to see him to say goodbye.’

Henry nodded grimly. ‘Say your farewells to him, then you will return to Fotheringhay with your husband. I have told him to keep you there. It will not be possible for you to go to Scotland again, nor will you ride to Wales.’ He folded his arms, his malice a clear expression of his fury. ‘And I do not wish to see you or your husband at court again.’

VI
FOTHERINGHAY
March 1244