Child of the Phoenix (96 page)

King Henry looked at the letter for a long time before he looked up at Roger de Quincy. ‘When did this happen?’

‘St John’s Eve. The place was completely destroyed, no one was left, no one. They seem to have been after the horses. The animals in that stud were worth a fortune.’ Roger took a deep breath. He had seen it. He had ridden west at once when he received the report and arrived within a few hours. The burned house was still smouldering, the butchered men and women, even children, still unburied, as were the few horses they had left – killed in the stable yard.

‘And my niece?’ Henry’s voice was muffled.

‘She must have died too, sire. And her children with her. There was no sign of them. And many –’ Roger paused and cleared his throat – ‘many of the bodies were unrecognisable.’

‘Sweet Christ’s bones! Has any attempt been made to catch the murdering thieves?’

‘Everything possible is being done, sire. There are so many outlaws in the forests up there. Who knows, maybe it was that rascal Robin Fitzooth, Robin Hood, some are calling him now, who – outlaw though he’s become for this thieving ways – claims to be the Earl of Huntingdon. He rides somewhere in that area, I’ve heard, and he’d have reason to know of her wealth and be jealous of it.’

Henry picked up the parchment again. ‘You will have to write to your brother and tell him of his wife’s death, and his children.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s time he came home.’

‘Indeed, sire, I shall send for him at once. There was a report that he’d been killed, but I’m glad to say it proved unfounded. He has been at Acre for the last few months, and I’m sure he will be pleased to be allowed back.’ Roger tightened his lips. ‘Poor Eleyne, she didn’t have a happy life.’

‘Indeed not, with your brother.’ Henry threw down the parchment and reached for the book of hours which lay as usual on his desk. ‘I shall order masses to be said for her soul.’ He sighed. ‘And I shall begin to settle her affairs. Her dower lands are rich. They are very valuable.’

V
FALKLAND CASTLE, FIFE
27 June 1253

The priest was very drunk. He gabbled the words over them, blessed them perfunctorily and passed out on the floor. Malcolm laughed. ‘So, my lady, how does it feel to be wife of the Earl of Fife and Thane of Falkland? Is it not good to be back in Scotland?’ The ring he had put on her finger was a heavy cabochon ruby. It clung tightly, like a manacle, above her knuckle.

‘This marriage is not valid,’ she flashed at him. ‘No one will ever recognise it.’

‘Indeed they will.’ He took her hand and threaded it through his arm. ‘And I shall have the king’s blessing on our union before the week is out.’

The castle had been prepared for her. The great hall and their bedchamber were decorated with garlands of flowers. He had ordered servants, and bales of fabric were waiting to make her gowns and mantles and cloaks. An ivory comb and mirror and three brooches of chased gold and enamel waited in a cedarwood coffer by her bed. Malcolm, his ambition fulfilled at last, was as pleased as a dog with two tails.

‘I’ll not stay with you.’ Now that her exhaustion was easing and the first dull shock of what had happened had passed, her anger was growing. Though she still had no memory of what had happened that night; however hard she tried, she could fill in no details in her own mind amidst the fear and confusion and smoke. But how dare this man come and pluck her like a fruit from the bough just because he wanted her? This marriage was not even a political decision by a king; this was one man’s greed and lust. ‘I swear before God, I will not stay here with you.’

Behind them the chapel of Falkland Castle was ablaze with candles. The priest lay snoring in stentorian tones across his own threshold, his feet stuck out on the cobbles of the yard, his head within the sanctuary of his church.

Malcolm laughed. ‘Don’t make me lock you up, sweetheart. You would hate it, and so would I.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Here you shall have horses, your own and more – as many as you want,’ he promised recklessly, ‘and freedom, anything your heart desires, and a man to satisfy you. Fight me and I shall have to make you my prisoner. You would have no horses, sweetheart, and only bread and water until you learned obedience.’ He looked at her soberly. ‘Henry would have married you to someone else in the end, you know that as well as I. Come on, admit it. I can make you happy. You’ll soon forget your bairns. They’ll be safe in England. We’ll have more children. Sons, plenty of sons.’ His arm encircled her waist. ‘I
will
make you happy, sweetheart.’

She bit back a retort. Arguing with him was not going to get her anywhere. To escape, she would have to be subtle; subtle and very careful.

He slept with his arm across her breasts, the weight of his thigh across her legs, the heat of his body intolerable against her skin, but at least his lovemaking was straightforward, gentle in comparison to Robert. In a strange, half-shy way he wanted to give her pleasure, and his anxiety to please her warred strangely with his exultant triumph of ownership. She lay awake for a long time looking up into the shadows of the bedchamber after he had fallen asleep at last, her hair entwined in his fists, his prisoner as absolutely as if he had tied her, as Robert had so often done, to the bed.

Alexander!

In the silence she thought she had cried the name out loud. But no one came. The only sound was from the wind in the chimney of the room.

They had a visitor the following day. Marie de Couci was radiant in silks sewn with pearls as she was shown into the great hall, followed by a train of attendants.

‘So, I was right, the beautiful Lady Chester is here. Is it true? Have you made her your wife?’

‘Indeed I have. News travels fast, madam.’

The queen’s smile broadened. Walking past Malcolm she sat down on the best chair in the hall and arranged her skirts carefully around her. ‘Your wooing was a little rough, I hear,’ she said lightly. She had addressed no word directly to Eleyne.

Malcolm moved towards her uneasily. ‘Madam, I – ’

‘And did you really kill everyone in the house?’ she went on relentlessly. ‘Every single person? How you must have lusted after her, Malcolm, my friend!’ She eyed Eleyne with cold appraisal. ‘She obviously knows how to attract men.’ She stretched out a foot and eyed the toe of her shoe. It was stitched with silver thread. ‘They think she’s dead, you know. Or did you plan that too?’

Malcolm said nothing, but Eleyne moved forward. At the queen’s words, her heart had stopped beating. ‘What do you mean, he killed everyone in the house?’ Her voice was icy as she stepped on to the dais. Her eyes were so large they seemed like great hollow shadows in her skull. ‘What do you mean?’

The queen shrank back in her chair. ‘My dear, I am only repeating what I heard. You were there. You must know what happened.’

The two women looked at each other, then Eleyne turned to Malcolm. ‘How many people did you kill?’ she asked. Her voice sounded thin and high in her ears.

‘I killed no one.’

‘But your men did. My children. They killed my children –’ Her voice rose sharply, the fear which had been lurking at the back of her mind suddenly unspeakably close and real.

‘No.’ He cut in sharply. ‘I never saw your children.’

‘Do you think I believe that?’ Her voice was shaking now. ‘Joanna, Hawisa. Rhonwen. What did you do to them?’

‘I told you, I saw none of them.’ He was growing irritated. ‘I have no idea what happened to them and I couldn’t care less. They belong to the past. Forget them. You are here now. With me.’

‘You think I could stay with the man who murdered my babies?’ The pictures were returning. Flashes of violent, blood-soaked terror. Nesta, gentle, faithful Nesta, a sword through her belly, her eyes huge with agonised pleading. Michael, his dark blue gown scarlet from the gaping hole in his chest as he collapsed at her feet.

‘You will do as you are told!’ Malcolm’s patience snapped. ‘And you will remember that her grace is our guest at Falkland.’ He moved towards Eleyne threateningly.

‘Murderer!’ Eleyne screamed. ‘Her grace’s son will release me from this pretence of a marriage!’ She had begun to tremble violently as she backed away from him, her memories spinning in her mind, a blackened, bloody nightmare.

The queen settled back to enjoy herself. ‘I don’t think so, my dear. Alexander was very pleased to hear of Malcolm’s marriage, very pleased. He has already given it his blessing.’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘He would never do that. And nor will the King of England, my uncle, when he hears what has happened.’

She was wrong.

VI
WESTMINSTER
July

‘What do you mean, she’s alive?’ Henry thundered at the Earl of Winchester. ‘How can she still be alive?’

Roger de Quincy took another few paces around the table. ‘She is alive and well. My steward has seen her with his own eyes. Word is in Scotland that she has run off with her lover! The whole thing was arranged. He came and burned the place to make it look as though she were dead and carried her off.’ He struck his fists together in fury. ‘She fooled me, the scheming Jezebel! She fooled us all. I believed her when she told us Robert mistreated her. We all believed her.’ The expansive sweep of his hand included the king, who flinched slightly. ‘She was just making sure that we got rid of Robert for her; God’s bones, but I was an idiot!’

‘And who is her latest lover, pray?’ After an initial moment of disbelief, Henry was recovering from the shock of Lord Winchester’s statement.

‘Lord Fife. He has taken her back to Scotland. He is even pretending she is his wife.’

Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘So, she still sees herself as a Scots whore, no matter who the man.’ His anger had been slow in surfacing. ‘So be it, I’ll not raise another finger to help that woman, or save her reputation. I did enough when I sent Sir Robert to the Holy Land and played right into her hands. All right. She wants to be dead to her English friends and family, let her stay that way. As far as England is concerned, my niece died in that fire. Her lands and property are confiscated. They will be redistributed amongst the Chester heirs. See that the enquiries post mortem are set in train. Are her children alive then? For that at least we might be grateful.’

Roger shook his head grimly. ‘My informers say they are not in Scotland. It looks as though they died. I cannot believe she meant that to happen, that she could be such an unnatural mother, but they were Robert’s children …’ His voice trailed away and he sighed. ‘And Robert?’ Roger asked at last. ‘What do I tell my brother?’

The king sat down and beckoned his clerks. On the desk was Eleyne’s letter about Isabella. In his sorrow over Eleyne’s death he had been about to carry out her last wish and order that Isabella be released from her captivity at Godstow. He stared at the letter as if he had never seen it before, then tossed it to the nearest secretary. ‘Destroy this,’ he said curtly. ‘I never wish to hear Isabella de Braose’s name again.’ He turned back to Roger. ‘Tell your brother that his wife is dead,’ he said succinctly. ‘Otherwise he will probably kill her himself and imperil his immortal soul.’

VII
DUNFERMLINE CASTLE

Eleyne looked at the twelve-year-old king, so agonisingly like his father, and her throat tightened. ‘You have to help me. You have to tell Lord Fife to let me go home.’ Her voice was shaking and she was painfully aware of the queen and Lord Fife standing immediately behind her. They had all ridden to Dunfermline that same afternoon.