Child of the Phoenix (91 page)

Eleyne managed a deep curtsey. ‘My child was safely delivered, your grace, and I am churched, but my husband has returned to London. I need to see him urgently and hoped to find him near you.’

Henry smiled coldly. ‘He has been here, but not, I think, today. If you and he are once more together, that pleases me.’ He leaned forward and looked into her face. ‘You are well, niece?’

‘Well enough, sire, thank you.’ She saw sympathy in his eyes. For what? The heartache and loneliness now that Alexander was dead? Henry had never condoned her love, never admitted he knew about it save in that one interview three years before.

She took a step forward, afraid that he was going to wave her away. ‘Robert has taken our little girl, and I’m afraid for her.’ She could not hold back the words. ‘You must help me to find her. Please.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘She doesn’t know him. He was drunk. He nearly killed her nurse …’ Oblivious of the people around her she caught his hand and sank to her knees. ‘Please help me. Please.’

Henry frowned down at her. ‘You are talking about his daughter.’

‘I am talking about a little girl who would not even recognise him.’

‘A common enough occurrence.’

‘What is not common, sire, is for a man to take away a child without so much as a nursemaid to take care of her.’

‘But why should he do such a thing?’ Henry looked puzzled. He had not tried to release his hand from her grip.

‘Because he knew it would hurt me. He has always enjoyed hurting me.’ She held his gaze until the king looked away uncomfortably.

‘Very well. I will send men to find him for you,’ he mumbled. ‘I will send to you when we have found her.’

The king watched as she made her way back down the hall. She had been so beautiful once, his niece, so spirited. Now it was as if her vital flame had dimmed. He had long ago stopped reproaching himself for marrying her to de Quincy to teach that old fox, her father, a lesson, but now his conscience pricked him again. He snapped to his secretary, ‘See that Robert de Quincy is found without delay and that his daughter is recovered and returned to her mother.’

But Robert de Quincy and Joanna were nowhere to be found.

XV
GODSTOW
July 1250

Isabella was sitting in the sun in the garden sewing when the nun came to fetch her to the abbess’s parlour. She was thin and pale and her eyes were dull with boredom. Her contrition and fear after the earthquake, like that of her companions, had lasted several months, but as the convent returned to normal and the end of the world did not come her piety faded.

She had begun to write letters again: to the king; to her de Braose relatives; to her nephews in Wales, long pathetic letters begging for her release. She hated the convent. Like the other rich ladies who lived there, for one reason or another out of society, she once again had servants to wait on her, her habits were of the richest silk, her food appetising and plentiful, with only the merest nod towards fasting, and she had the best wine with every meal. But she was still a prisoner. She could never leave the convent walls.

Abbess Flandrina had died two years before, to be succeeded by the tall, elegant Emma Bloet, a kind sincere woman who was deeply sympathetic to her unwilling charge, had Isabella but realised it. She entered the abbess’s parlour with a scowl. No doubt the abbess was about to administer further penance for yet another of her small transgressions.

It was only as she raised her eyes after kneeling to kiss her superior’s ring that she saw the tall young man in the livery of the King of England. Her heart turned over with excitement. At last the king had taken pity on her; he had seen the pointlessness of shutting her away. Dafydd was dead. She was not Welsh. At last he was going to free her.

She could feel herself expanding and glowing beneath the young man’s eyes like a wilted flower which has been put into water. ‘At last you have come to take me to court!’ Even her voice had sparkle in it as she turned to the young man, but it was the abbess who answered for him.

‘No, sister, he has not come to take you anywhere.’ Her tone was a mixture of exasperation and sympathy. ‘Sir John is here to make enquiries about the whereabouts of your sister-in-law Lady Chester’s child.’

Isabella didn’t understand. Her hope had been so high, the moment of excitement and relief so intense that the truth was incomprehensible.

‘Lady Chester’s child?’ she echoed blankly.

‘The child’s father has abducted her and it is believed he will have sequestered her somewhere in the country,’ Sir John volunteered awkwardly. He had seen the hunger in the eyes of the Princess of Aberffraw and he pitied her. She must have been pretty once, though now she was faded and her features were hard. ‘The king thought of you immediately, as Lady Chester’s sister-in-law.’

‘I told Sir John that you have no visitors,’ said the abbess, ‘and there is no possibility of the little girl being hidden here.’

‘No.’ Isabella’s voice was hard. ‘There is no possibility of her being hidden here.’

Three times she had written to Eleyne and not once had she received an answer. That all her recent letters had been brought by her chosen messenger – a lay sister from the convent farm – straight to the abbess, read and burned, never occurred to her. Her messenger always took her money and promised to send the letters on their way. She believed her, and she went on writing. Eleyne, like everyone else, was probably rejoicing in her captivity and her unhappiness, or so she believed.

She looked from under her lashes at Sir John, self-preservation overriding her bitterness. ‘I would help if I could. My sister, Eleyne, has always been very dear to me. Perhaps if you could take me to her …’

‘You know that is impossible, my dear,’ the abbess put in quietly. She had seen the melting look Isabella had thrown at the young knight. ‘All you can do is pray for the child, as all the sisters will do with all their hearts. Please tell the king, Sir John, that we cannot help your quest. I’m sorry.’

She stood beside Isabella at the parlour window and watched as Sir John’s squire led his master’s horse to the door. Both young men mounted and rode away without a backward glance. Looking covertly at Isabella, the abbess sighed. On this occasion, she would turn a blind eye to the woman’s tears.

XVI
GRACECHURCH STREET
August 1250

Eleyne stooped over the tall pitcher and scooped some of the cool water into her palms. She splashed it over her face gratefully, aware that long nights of crying had reddened her eyes and engraved black circles beneath them. There was still no word of Joanna. A thick fetid heat had settled over London and there was plague in the city, but still she stayed. The court had long gone, as had most of the nobility. The great houses were closed.

She stooped again, ready to sink her hands up to the wrists in the cool river water when she stopped and frowned, staring into the shadowy depths of the jug. For a moment she thought she had seen a face in the water. Not her own reflection – her red-gold hair flattened by the head-dress she had discarded on the bed – but a smaller, darker head. A child’s head. Not daring to believe her eyes, she tried to peer through the shadows, seeing the movement of the water as it lapped the rough glaze. She was there: Joanna, her arms outstretched, calling silently and behind her – Eleyne concentrated, terrified the vision would break – a castle. A castle surrounded by water.

She swung round so suddenly that she swept the pitcher off the coffer and it broke on the floor, soaking the dusty woodruff which covered the boards. The sound brought Rhonwen running. ‘What is it,
cariad
? What have you done?’

‘Joanna! She is in Scotland. He has taken her to Loch Leven!’ Eleyne was feverish with excitement. ‘What fools we were not to think of it! Order the horses quickly.’

‘Thank all the gods that she’s all right.’ Rhonwen did not question how Eleyne knew or remind her of her vow never to set foot in Scotland again.

XVII
LOCH LEVEN

It was dusk when the four riders arrived at last on the shores of the loch and stared across the dark, still water towards the castle on its island. Eleyne had left Hawisa and her wetnurse in London with Luned and her three children and she and Rhonwen had ridden north at breakneck speed attended by two of her knights, Sir Thomas Bohun and Sir David Paris. There had been no time to think about the past.

‘How will we get there, lady?’ Sir Thomas leaned forward in his saddle and slapped his horse’s sweating neck. ‘Are there boats?’

‘You should ask Lord Fife to help us,’ Rhonwen put in quietly. ‘He would do anything for you.’ She shivered. This place held nothing but unhappy memories.

Dismounting, Sir Thomas led his exhausted horse to the water’s edge and let it drink, watching the water dribble from its soft lips. ‘Is Lord Fife close?’ He stood, squinting at the island.

‘There must be a boat. If we ride towards Kinross, we’ll find something.’ Now that she was so close Eleyne could not tolerate the thought of another delay. The castle’s walls seemed very remote. There was no sign of life on the island as far as she could see and the water was deserted save for sleeping gulls.

Sir David had ridden a little way away from them, pushing his horse breasthigh into the reeds. ‘There’s a boat of sorts here,’ he called softly. ‘Pulled up out of the water.’

A flat-bottomed punt, the paddles still in it, was hidden carefully in the reeds. Eleyne caught her breath with excitement. ‘We three will go. Rhonwen, you stay with the horses.’ She squeezed the woman’s hand, well aware of the horror she must feel at the thought of setting sail in the dark on the water which had so nearly drowned her. ‘If we have not returned by dawn ride to Falkland Castle and find the Earl of Fife. Tell him everything and bring him to look for us.’

Rhonwen watched as the boat drew slowly away. It was hard to see, but the drip of water from the paddles as the two young men propelled it away from the shore sounded loud in the silence. She stood there for a long time. To David and Thomas it was all a great adventure, but she had seen the expression on Eleyne’s face; the fear, the strain, the terrible weight of sorrow which coming back here had reawakened. One day soon – very soon – Sir Robert de Quincy was going to pay for his cruelty with his life.

The bushes were thick near the gateway to the castle and the track was overgrown. Peering cautiously out of the shadows Thomas cursed as the moon floated serenely free of the clouds and flooded the island with silver light. A slight mist had begun to drift across the water. It lapped the shore and floated hesitantly towards the walls.

‘You have to demand entry,’ Eleyne whispered. ‘Hammer on the gates. You are friends of Lord Fife’s. They will let you two in.’

‘And you?’ David looked at her doubtfully.

‘See who is here. If Robert is here, you must find Joanna and bring her to me. If he is not, you can let me in.’ She touched each gently on the shoulder. There was no doubt in her mind that Joanna was in the castle.

She held her breath as they moved stealthily back towards the landing stage. Once there, they stepped brazenly into the moonlight and walked arm-in-arm up the track to the castle gate. Thomas hammered on it with the hilt of his sword and they both began to shout.

For a long time she thought no one was there, then at last she saw a small figure appear on the battlements. He was carrying a horn lantern.