Child of the Phoenix (84 page)

‘It’s all your own fault!’ Robert de Quincy was seething with anger. ‘It suited us both, the way things were, and now we are both exiled.’ He was watching the long baggage train ride into the courtyard at Fotheringhay from the steps to the door in the keep. ‘And I am appointed your jailer! By the king this time.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘What irony. You must appreciate the humour of the situation. To have brought all this on yourself was quite some feat, was it not?’ His mood changed. ‘It will be pleasant, sweetheart, will it not, to play house again together at last?’

‘I hardly think so, for either of us,’ she retorted. She would not wait even a day. Tam Lin was still fresh; they had ridden barely ten miles on the last leg of the journey. As soon as Robert was nodding over the last of their midday meal, drugged with wine, she would ride north alone.

Rhonwen had stayed in London at her insistence, as had Hal. There was no one here to whom she could reveal her plan. She would ride alone and fast and pray that Alexander would welcome her. Ducking into the keep out of the wind, she stood in the cold, dark chamber on the first floor. Someone had lit a fire but it still smouldered sullenly, smoke curling from the damp logs and being sucked sideways across the floor. The floor coverings were stale and no furniture had yet been set up. It was not a welcoming place.

She shivered, then glanced around. One friend at least was still here, in the shadows: the lady who had haunted Loch Leven Castle – the lady with whom, by some strange alchemy, she shared her blood.

‘Grim, isn’t it?’ Robert was at her shoulder. ‘We shall be hard put to keep ourselves amused.’ He took her arm and she felt the familiar cruel grip of his fingers with a shudder. ‘You are to be guarded, sweetheart, did the king tell you? In case you should inexplicably feel the urge to run away. Not that Alexander wants you any more. Did Henry tell you that too? The King of Scots has refused leave for you to travel north again. He has lost interest in you. But you knew that, didn’t you? And if your behaviour gives me any cause for worry, I have the king’s permission to lock you up.’ He paused. ‘And chastise you as I think fit. And no Scot, noble or baseborn, king or peasant, is going to stop me.’

VII
FOTHERINGHAY
Easter 1245

Within four months she was pregnant and on Easter Day the following year she went into labour. Robert stood by the bed as pain after pain tore through her straining body. He was smiling.

‘At least this time I know it’s mine. My son.’ He was completely sober. He watched with detached interest as Eleyne’s women scuttled around her preparing the room. The carpenter had brought a crib up to the bedchamber that morning, beautifully carved and polished, furnished with small sheets and blankets, and the new swaddling bands hung by the fire to warm.

Alice Goodwife stood beside Eleyne, her hand firmly pressed to her mistress’s distended stomach. ‘He’ll come soon now, my lady. I can feel your muscles all tightened and ready. Girl, fetch a cloth for my lady’s face!’ Alice did not stop her expert gropings as one of the servants wiped Eleyne’s forehead. Eleyne groaned. Neither of her two previous births had prepared her for this pain. Both had been quick, the babies small. She moaned, throwing herself away from the midwife’s probing fingers, hunching her knees towards her stomach. Then she sat up.

‘I must walk about. I can’t stand this any more. Help me up.’ The sweat was pouring down her face.

‘Best lie still, my lady.’ Alice pushed her back on the pillows with surprising strength.

‘I can’t lie still! For pity’s sake. An animal walks – ’

‘And you are no animal, my lady. Do you think our Blessed Virgin made such a fuss when she bore her sweet babe?’ The woman leaned close, her eyes narrowed; her breath stank of onions. ‘For the sake of the baby now, you be still.’

‘No.’ Eleyne pushed her away. ‘I have to walk. I have to.’ She kicked off the blankets and tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Her shift was soaked in blood.

‘Lie still, Eleyne.’ Robert’s voice was harsh above the sound of her laboured breathing and the agitated tones of the women. ‘Or I shall have you tied to the bed. I won’t have my son harmed.’

Eleyne closed her eyes, aware that Alice’s expression had not changed. ‘Take no notice, my lady,’ Alice said softly, ‘but lie still, please.’

‘So your son can be saved, but not your wife!’ Eleyne cried, through clenched teeth.

‘I’m sure there will be no need for choice.’ Robert folded his arms and turned to Alice. ‘How much longer?’ He affected a yawn. Outside it was growing dark.

‘As long as God wills,’ Alice retorted. ‘Women are born to travail. The babe will come when it’s ready and not before.’

‘I reckon it needs turning.’ The old woman who had been tending the fire joined her by the bed. ‘I’ve seen births like this before. The babe is feet first, you mark. He’ll have to be turned.’

Eleyne bit her lip as another spasm tore through her body and she tasted salt blood on her tongue as she realised that she was too tired to argue. Her body was exhausted. She felt the pain carry and lift her as though it were a wave and leave her in soft darkness. Then the next contraction dragged her back to screaming wakefulness. ‘For God’s sake do something!’ She clutched at Alice’s hands. She threw her head back, fighting the pain. As she did so she caught sight of Robert, lounging against the wall, his arms folded. Several times he had left the room and gone away to eat and drink and rest, but he had always returned. ‘Go away!’ she screamed. ‘Go away! Get out of here. Get out!’

‘Not until I’ve seen my son born.’ His voice was calm, but she did not hear him. She had thrown herself back against the pillows, grabbing at the twisted sheet which had been tied to the bedpost for her to pull. Alice put a cloth soaked in coriander in Eleyne’s hand and encouraged her to put it to her face. ‘Breathe it in, my lady, breathe in the fumes. They’ll make it easier.’

‘If the child’s legs are across the way to freedom, it will never come and they will both die.’ The old woman shook her head gloomily. ‘I’ve turned babies before, my lady, you’d do best to let me see.’ Elbowing Alice aside at last she pulled back the sheets and began to feel with surprising gentleness beneath Eleyne’s bloodstained shift. ‘No,’ tis a normal birth, Blessed Mother be praised. I can feel the head. It won’t be long now.’ She wiped her fingers fastidiously on the corner of the sheet and looked down at Eleyne as she lay in an exhausted doze. ‘This child will live, my dear, and grow tall and healthy.’ She put her hand on Eleyne’s forehead. ‘A few more pushes, my lady, and she will be born.’

‘She?’ Eleyne’s eyes flickered open.

The woman gave a fruity chuckle. ‘I’d lay money on it,’ she said.

Twenty minutes later the baby was born. Robert stepped forward. ‘My son!’ he said exultantly.

‘Your daughter, sir.’ Alice held the naked child aloft, the pulsating cord still dangling from its belly.

Robert’s face darkened. ‘But I wanted a son!’ He stepped back in disgust.

‘We get what God sends us!’ Alice handed the baby to the old woman.

Eleyne lying exhausted on the bed turned her head slowly towards him. ‘It takes a man to father a son,’ she whispered hoarsely.

‘And you think I am not a man?’ Robert’s voice was dangerously low. He stepped forward threateningly. ‘You contrived this. To spite me! You with your spells and your foresight. Well, you will be sorry, my lady, very sorry.’ He looked as though he would hit her.

Alice stepped between him and the bed. ‘My lady must sleep now, sir. You can see how tired she is …’ She folded her arms in a gesture so adamant that Robert stopped, then turned on his heel.

Eleyne did not want the child. She turned her head away and closed her eyes and Alice beckoned forward the wetnurse who had been waiting.

The old woman who had stood watching as they cleaned Eleyne’s torn and aching body and changed the stinking sheets sat down on the bed. ‘I told you. She will live.’

‘The others died.’ Tears slid down Eleyne’s cheeks. ‘My two little boys. I watched them die in my arms.’ She had wanted them; prayed for them; planned for them. And all for nothing.

‘Look, my lady.’ The old woman took the swaddled baby from the nurse. ‘See, it’s you she wants, bless her. See her tiny face. She’ll be a beauty, this child of yours.’

‘If she lives.’ Eleyne’s eyes were closed.

‘She will live.’ The woman’s voice was so forceful that everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and stared.

Eleyne opened her eyes and the woman thrust the baby at her, folding Eleyne’s limp arms around her. ‘She is your child, my lady, yours,’ she whispered. ‘What does the father matter? She is of your blood, your body. It’s your love she wants.’

Almost unwillingly, Eleyne found herself looking down at the swaddled bundle in her arms. The fuzz of hair on the baby’s head was dark, the eyes, which looked directly and unblinkingly into hers, a deep midnight blue. Involuntarily, her arms tightened and, without knowing she had done it, she bent to nuzzle the small soft head.

Three days later as she slept, with the baby beside her in its carved cradle, Robert rode out of the castle and took the road south. He had waited only for the baptism. His daughter had been named Joanna.

VIII
ROXBURGH CASTLE

Marie de Couci waited until her husband’s chancellor had left the room, followed by the clerks and servants of the chancellery. Alexander looked up at her and waited. He was weary after an afternoon of intense discussion; he wanted food and wine and relaxation. His wife’s expression was smug, and he felt his heart sink. Why did she take such an unholy pleasure in bad news? No doubt it was bad news.

‘So, my dear, you have something to tell me.’

Marie looked at the floor, her expression veiled. ‘My lord, if I don’t tell you, someone else will. You have to know.’ The triumphant glance she threw him was so swift he all but missed it. ‘Lady Chester has been brought to bed of a daughter.’ She paused. ‘By her husband.’

Alexander had long ago schooled his expression to give nothing away. She would never have the satisfaction of knowing how the news hurt him.

IX
ABER
February 1246

Isabella looked for a long time staring at the letter before her then slowly she stood up and walking to the fire she dropped it on to the flames. So, Eleyne’s child continued to thrive. She had had reports over the last ten months from one of Eleyne’s servants, since that first tentative note after the baby’s birth. Each time she had cried, always secretly, always bitterly, for her own barren womb. And her tears this time had been more anguished than ever as Dafydd had drawn up the details of the succession with Ednyfed Fychan, who had been his father’s most trusted adviser and now was Dafydd’s. It was unthinkable that Henry of England should remain Dafydd’s heir. The line must after all revert, now Gruffydd was dead, to Gruffydd’s eldest son, Owain, released from the Tower the previous August; Owain who had three younger brothers behind him, all robust and healthy. What hurt Isabella so much was the way they all assumed now that there would be no direct heir; no son for Dafydd. She stamped her foot petulantly and sighed.

The death of Gruffydd had removed any need for restraint on Dafydd’s part. At first, although he had expected it, Henry did not take the renewed rebellion seriously, but news had reached them now that he had resolved on a major campaign in Wales. Soon the war would resume in earnest. Isabella frowned at the snow which whirled thickly down. It was the first day of Lent.