Child of the Phoenix (89 page)

VII
ROXBURGH
April 1249

It was dark inside the small bedchamber, though the night was luminous. Eleyne stood at the window gazing at the huge pale moon. He would be here for only a few more days, then he was going once more to the Western Isles to try yet again to establish his authority amongst the warring barons.

This visit had not been a success. The king had been distracted in the short times he had been with her, and she wasn’t sure if he were coming now. For only the second time he had secreted her in the castle itself to be near him, but her presence there meant they had to be more careful. She fingered the phoenix longingly. Her hair was loose, as the king liked it, heavy on her shoulders, and beneath the silky green velvet of her mantle she was naked. She had stroked perfumes and soft oils on to her skin and she could smell the fragrance of rose and jasmine as she moved.

She leaned from the window of the tower and looked out across the moonlit countryside. The burgh was out of sight here, the country a kaleidoscope of silver shadow, the heavy cold of the dew lying like a silk scarf across trees and grass. This corner tower in the outer wall was a deserted place, used as a storeroom. She could not hear the noise of the courtyards and the stables. The silence was broken only by the calls of a pair of owls hunting across the river, and in the distance she heard the howl of a wolf.

She was asleep, huddled in the darkness, when he came at last. He did not have a candle or a lantern as he let himself in silently and bolted the door. There was no fire. The room was icy. He stood in the moonlight staring down at her, then as she stirred and turned towards him sleepily he took her in his arms.

He was still with her when she awoke at dawn, his head on her shoulder, his hand on her breast, sleeping deeply as the first rays of sunlight showed across the eastern hills. She watched him, taking in greedily every detail of his sleeping face, trying to memorise every inch of him, every hair, every pore, every golden eyelash as he turned sleepily and reached for her again.

It was a long time later that she was able to speak. ‘You’ll miss mass, I can hear the bell in the distance.’

‘I’ll hear mass before we ride, later.’

‘Must you go today?’ She clung to him.

‘You know I must, Eleyne.’ He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Then he put his hand to her lips. ‘You know I hate goodbyes.’ He reached to stroke a heavy breast, and at the last moment touched the pendant instead, gently, with his forefinger.

He dressed, but she made no move to put on her own clothes. When he was ready, he bent and dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head.

‘God go with you, my love,’ she whispered. Then he was gone.

VIII
FOTHERINGHAY

In her dream she looked down at Einion’s grave. Wild daffodils danced in the wind beneath the lichen-covered stone. When she put her hand on it it was very cold.

‘So where is Scotland’s son?’ she whispered out loud. ‘Where? All your predictions were lies.’ Her hands went sadly to the phoenix on the chain around her neck. Behind her from beyond the damp bitter-sweet woods and meadows, across the white-topped waves of the tide race, the south wind carried the fragrance of the mountain air. The vast silences of the lonely peaks, broken only by the cry of the eagle and the rush of waterfalls high on the rocky scree, reached out to her. He was there, near her. She saw Tam Lin’s ears flatten against his head. She saw Donnet’s hackles rise as a blackbird flew screaming from the thicket and she saw the whirl of dead leaves in the grassy ride.

Go back
. The voice was inside her head.
Go back to Scotland, go
back
.

The echoing silence of the woods was full of menace. The air as it touched her skin carried a hint of ice.

If you want to keep him go back – now
.

High in the
cwms
of Eryri the snows still lingered. Wolves prowled the valleys looking for lambs. The echoing cry of a chough from the high cliffs reverberated through the crystal silence.

Go back, go back
.

She stepped back, her hand going to the dog’s head for reassurance as the leaves settled. Then, thoughtfully, she turned away.

How could she go back, when Alexander himself had sent her away?

IX
KERRERA, ARGYLL
1 July 1249

Alexander lay on a pile of rugs, gazing up at the furled sails. His head throbbed and swam. The sky, brilliant blue behind the web of stays which held the mast, seemed to be moving, pulsing like a blood-filled heart.

He heard himself groan and felt at once the cool softness of a wet cloth on his forehead. He must force himself to his feet. He had to show himself to his men. Where were they? He groaned again, trying to lift his head, and then fell back. God’s bones! but he felt ill. What was the matter with him? Was it something he had eaten or something to do with the accursed pain in his head? He had never been ill in his life before. It wasn’t as though there had been any fighting. The visit had been peaceful; successful even. He closed his eyes, but the pain didn’t go away.

‘Sire.’ He could hear the voice near him, urgently trying to attract his attention. ‘Sire? Can you hear me?’

Of course he could hear. Couldn’t the fool see that he could hear? He tried to open his eyes, but he was too tired to make the effort.

‘Sire.’ The voice came again, insistent, annoying, not letting him sleep.

‘Sire, we are going to take you ashore to the island of Kerrera.’

The king turned his head restlessly. Don’t bother. He thought he had said it out loud. But it was he who had given the orders earlier; he had told them to take him ashore. He had insisted, before this wretched illness had taken hold so badly, while he was still strong enough to speak. Kneeling at his side, the two senior captains of his fleet looked at one another grimly. One summoned the litter they had made from a sail.

For two days he lay ill on the island of Kerrera in Oban Bay. On the third his fever lessened and he opened his eyes.

‘Eleyne?’ He could see her clearly, sitting in the window, her hair glinting in the sunlight. He smiled. How cross she had been when he teased her about the silver streaks in the glossy chestnut. He was glad she had come back to Scotland. He always missed her so much when she went away; it was as though a limb were missing from his body.

‘Eleyne?’ He tried again, but she didn’t seem to hear him. She was gazing out of the window towards the west. He could see the sunset behind her, the flaming sky throwing her into silhouette, as if her hair were on fire. Daughter of the phoenix, child of the fire. Why didn’t she come to him? Why did she not press her lips to his? He wanted her. He needed her. He tried to stretch out his hand.

A priest knelt near him, his lips moving silently in prayer. His attendants and companions stood looking down at their king, their faces tense. The leech they had fetched from the mainland shook his head again. The king would die with the sun; he knew the signs. There was nothing he or anyone could do.

Alexander frowned a little as he tried to keep her in focus. The sunset was fading; she was less distinct now. She must look after his son; she must keep watch over the boy, for Scotland’s sake. Why didn’t she come to him? He wanted so much to touch her. Perhaps he should go to her.

He gathered the last of his strength with a supreme effort of will-power, concentrating every ounce of determination on keeping her in sight. He had to stay with her. Wherever she went, he would go with her into the darkness or into the light beyond.

As the sun set and the room sank into darkness the king sat up, astonished to find it was so easy. He rose and turned for a moment to look at the bed on which he had been lying and he frowned. His body still lay there, hunched against the fever. Around it he could see his friends staring down in disbelief.

‘He’s dead, my lords.’ He heard the words of the leech as from a great distance but already he had moved away. Somewhere out there in the dark behind the setting sun he had to find Eleyne.

X
FOTHERINGHAY. 
8 July 1249

Eleyne woke suddenly, listening. As the sound of the watchman’s horn died into reverberations in the silence, she heard the beating of her heart very loud in her ears. The bedchamber was in darkness and she was alone. Her household here was small; her ladies slept elsewhere in the keep: Rhonwen, in her own chamber, with her own servants, on the north side near the nursery; Nesta, next door.

She slipped from the bed, pulled on her shift and ran to the window. Moonlight glittered on the great loop of the River Nene. Beyond it fields and marshes and woods merged into a flat chessboard of silver and black. Somewhere towards the convent she could hear two owls calling as they hunted across the cut hay meadows and closer at hand the tiny calls of bats, pinpricks of sound in the night.

Still numb with sleep it was a moment before she realised that her throat was tight with fear, her whole body cold with dread. She leaned on the sill, looking out into the moonlight, and felt the chill of the night air touching her face. Her hands were shaking.

‘Alexander.’

She whispered his name, but there was no answer in the dark. She opened the small coffer on the table where she kept her jewellery and took out the enamelled phoenix. The fine chain was broken. She had meant to summon a goldsmith from Northampton, but somehow it had slipped her mind. She held it for a moment in her hands, gazing at it in the darkness. Even without candles it seemed to gleam, the ruby eyes reflecting a starlight which had not penetrated the room. She felt the tears starting in her eyes. She kissed it sadly and put it back in the coffer. She shivered.

Alexander.

His name would not go away. There was something wrong. He needed her.

Snatching up a silk shawl she threw it around her shoulders over her shift. The castle was silent; they kept early hours unless they had guests. Her last visitor, Isabel Bruce, had left for Scotland three weeks before. Still barefoot she ran down the stairs, Donnet at her heels, and crossed the lower chamber. Some dozen people were asleep there, wrapped in their cloaks around the gently ticking embers of the great fire. None of them seemed to have heard the horn.