Child of the Phoenix (93 page)

‘I am sorry to see my brother here in such a state, your grace. I hoped it wasn’t true when I was told that he had followed his wife and child to Roxburgh. I have instructions from King Henry that he and Lady Chester are to return south. If either of them disobeys the order, the child, Joanna de Quincy, will be made a royal ward.’

There was a stunned silence in the hall. The queen frowned. ‘King Henry has no jurisdiction here.’

‘Indeed not, madam, but my brother and his wife are King Henry’s subjects.’ Roger’s voice was firm.

‘They are my son’s subjects too,’ she said uncertainly.

‘I think you must allow them to go, your grace.’ Roger gave her the practised smile of a courtier. ‘Scotland does not want to antagonise Henry over so minor a matter. I shall escort them south myself.’

It was obvious that the queen respected him; in his role as constable Roger de Quincy was one of her closest advisers. But she had not realised until today how much she hated this woman; to see her quail before her drunken oaf of a husband would have given her enormous satisfaction. But she did not dare anger Henry of England. ‘Very well.’ She made up her mind at last. ‘Take them.’

XXI

For two days on the long slow ride Robert did not speak to her. He rode apart at the back of the group of horsemen, ignoring his brother, casting baleful looks at Rhonwen, who threw murderous glances back, and from time to time reaching into the bag which hung at his saddle bow for a stoppered jug of wine, which he hung from his forefinger and tipped to his mouth with his arm.

The third night they spent in the guesthouse of a lonely abbey on the Yorkshire moors, wrapped in their cloaks in the single small room beneath the vaulted stone roof. Outside the men of the escort slept with the horses.

Eleyne lay, her head cushioned on her saddlebags, looking up at the shadowy ceiling, listening to the sounds of the men around her. Robert snored loudly, a wineskin lying empty beside him. Beyond him his brother slept enveloped in his cloak. Joanna had cuddled up to Rhonwen who, so far, had kept well out of Robert’s way. Eleyne stirred uncomfortably. The floor was hard and the dying fire left the room cold and damp in spite of the huddled sleepers.

Slowly she sat up. Cautiously, so as not to disturb any of the others, she felt in her saddlebag. There, at the bottom, wrapped in a silk kerchief, was the phoenix pendant. She had hidden it there, afraid that Robert would see it around her neck. She took it out and stared at it, watching the way even the dying fire reflected in the dark glitter of the eyes. She looked at it for a long time, then slipped the chain around her neck and tucked the jewel inside the bodice of her gown so that it nestled between her breasts. It always brought her closer to him.

Hugging her knees, she gazed out of the open door. The soaring roof of the abbey was black against the stars and she could smell the cool sweetness of the night above the staleness of the bodies around her. Quietly she rose and tiptoed to the door. The man on guard stirred and nodded in silent recognition. The grass was ice-cold, wet with dew as she walked through it away from the guesthouse towards the great looming shadow of the abbey grange. Behind her Joanna slept securely in the curve of Rhonwen’s arm. She was safe now, but what would happen when they reached the king? What would he do, confronted with both de Quincys?

Roger had already told his brother sharply to sober up before they reached the king and Robert had smiled and nodded that he would do it. By the time they walked into Henry’s presence his barber would have trimmed his beard and hair, he would be washed and scented with oils and pomades and wearing one of the new gowns he had no doubt ordered already to be waiting for him when he returned to London. He would look the picture of reliable and loyal manhood.

There was only one way to be rid of him now that she could see. She had to leave Fotheringhay, run back to Wales with the children and hide in the mountains. He would never find her there. She would lose everything: her income, her property, her status, but she would be free and never again would she have to suffer the endless nightmares thinking about what Robert was going to do to her, or what, in a drunken frenzy, he might do to his own daughters. She closed her eyes, breathing in the sweet night air.

In the doorway to the guesthouse Robert watched his wife as she moved steadily away from him into the darkness. His arms were folded and he was swaying slightly. Pushing himself away from the doorpost he walked around the side of the building and relieved himself against the wall, then he turned to follow her.

He made no effort to walk quietly but she didn’t hear him as he trod unsteadily through the long grasses, feeling them cold and wet at the hem of his mantle. Deep in thought, she wandered more and more slowly, seeing, not the velvet Yorkshire sky, but the ice-covered peaks of Yr Wyddfa, where she would live with Owain’s and Llywelyn’s help in one of the mountain castles her father had built and where her daughters could grow up free and unafraid.

When she turned and saw him, only feet away from her, his hands on his hips and a disarmingly pleasant smile on his face, it was too late to run.

‘At last.’ He spoke slowly and distinctly. ‘Some privacy. I don’t like taking my wife before an audience.’ He put his hand around her wrist. ‘I find it inhibiting. It spoils the fun.’

She broke his grip. ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Why not? You are my wife. Before God and the law you belong to me.’

‘No.’ She backed away, keeping just out of reach. ‘I belong to no one, no one at all.’

‘Now that your Scots king has abandoned you.’ He lunged and managed to catch her cloak. She pulled away, but she was off balance and he had sobered during the walk through the icy grass. This time he pulled her into his arms and sought her mouth with his own. ‘We need to tie your hands to make you obedient, don’t we?’ he murmured as he sucked at her face, his lips wet and hot, his breath stinking of stale wine. ‘Remind my beautiful wife who is her master. I have something. I have a rope especially for you, to keep you still. So we can enjoy ourselves.’

He held her with one hand and fumbled at his girdle as she kicked and struggled with grim fury. Her nails connected with his face, then he was pulling a loop of cord around her wrist, drawing it tight, forcing her arm behind her, groping for her other hand.

The swirl of ice-cold wind in the stillness of the night sent them both reeling. Robert staggered off balance, staring into the darkness; there was something there, something between him and Eleyne. A figure. He screamed and lashed out at it, but he missed. His fist passed straight through it; there was nothing there but the shadows from the starlight. He was stunned, then recovering himself he lunged after her, catching the rope which trailed from her wrist and giving it a vicious tug. It was the accursed drink which had fuddled his wits and made him imagine things.

‘Robert!’

Roger de Quincy’s voice was shockingly loud against the sound of his brother’s laboured breathing. So was the smack of bone on flesh as his fist caught Robert full in the face. Robert crumpled and lay still.

Eleyne was too shocked to move, then she looked up and stared round. Roger de Quincy’s arrival had rescued her. But before that, in the icy darkness. Her mind grappled with the implications of what she had seen. Who or what had attacked her husband out of the shadows? Whatever it was, it had saved her.

Her brother-in-law’s gentle hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him shakily as he unknotted the cord from her wrist.

Roger’s mouth had set in a hard line. ‘I’m sorry, I gave the king my word that in future Robert would behave as a knight should.’

Gathering her cloak round her Eleyne groped for the phoenix. She stared down at her husband’s crumpled form. ‘If only you could.’ Her voice was husky with shock.

Roger smiled. His sister-in-law’s beauty and dignity touched him every time he saw her, but on this occasion there was something there he had never seen before, something wild and untouchable as she gazed past him into the night. It reminded him of an untrained falcon.

‘He will live as a knight, madam,’ he assured her. ‘Men all over Christendom are taking the cross in response to the King of France’s call. King Henry has decided that your husband will be one of those who goes to the Holy Land.’

Her green eyes were huge in her pale face. ‘The Holy Land?’ she echoed.

He nodded. ‘Your husband will not bother you or your family again for a very long time, my dear. He is to ride to Jerusalem.’

Behind them, on the lonely moors, the wind warmed a little and the air was suddenly clear.

BOOK FOUR

1253–1270

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
SUCKLEY MANOR
June 1253

T
he soft morning air was still sparkling with dew as Eleyne drew the colt gently to a walk and smiled across at her companion. ‘He’ll do. You can start training him tomorrow.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure to ride him, my lady.’ Narrowing his eyes in the sunlight, Michael watched the two great wolfhounds gambolling at the colt’s heels. The animal was used to the dogs; he had known them since he was foaled. She was never without her dogs; they followed her everywhere, as did her two little girls.

Sliding from his horse, he ducked under its head to help her dismount, but as always she beat him to it, slipping off as gracefully as a dancer, laughing at the crestfallen face of her marshal of horses.

Since her husband had sailed for France at the beginning of his trip to the Holy Land Eleyne had moved her base from Fotheringhay to this dower house in the Malvern Hills which her father had given to her on her marriage to John. Behind them the old manor house which she now called home sprawled in the early sunshine, its soft peach-coloured stone walls nestling between the orchards, parks and fields of the home farm. She ran the place like a kingdom. The manor farms, the stud, the outlying tenants all spoke of prosperity and peace.