As Eleyne entered the crowded, noisy hall of the llys, still swathed in her furs after the ride, Einion was the first person she saw, standing behind her father’s chair. She stopped in her tracks, shielded by the crowd of people around her. Behind her, Rhonwen too saw him and grew pale.
Einion spotted them at once, his eyes going unerringly to Rhonwen and then to the child at her side, and they saw him stoop and whisper into the prince’s ear.
‘No!’ Eleyne turned away, trying to fight her way back through the crowd. Her heart was thumping with terror and she felt sick.
‘You have to go on.’ Rhonwen caught her arm. ‘You have to greet your father. You have to give him Gruffydd’s letters and plead for your brother’s release.’
‘No.’
‘Yes,’ Rhonwen insisted. Now she was near him, her own fear of Einion had returned and she was torn between her protective love for Eleyne and her duty and obedience to the seer. ‘You are a princess, Eleyne! You are never afraid!’ she whispered harshly. ‘He’s just an old man! He can’t hurt you!’ She crossed her fingers, afraid that he would know what she had said, then remembered, comforted, that he was not all-seeing. There were things he did not know.
Eleyne was rooted to the spot with fear, but somehow Rhonwen’s words penetrated her terror. She clenched her fists, goaded by her nurse’s tone. He was just a tired old man. He was nothing like the wild-eyed wizard of her nightmares. Besides, her father was there. She forced herself to walk on, her eyes avoiding those of the bard.
It was only when she drew near the dais where her father sat that Eleyne saw her mother. Joan was seated on the far side of the roaring fire, dressed in a gown of scarlet, stitched with gold thread. Over her shoulders was her mantle trimmed with fox furs. At her side, deep in conversation with her, sat Sir William de Braose. Eleyne felt her heart jump with happiness and surprise at the sight of him, and relief that beneath her heavy cloak she was wearing one of the new gowns Senena and Rhonwen had made her during the long winter days. It was a deep moss green, heavily stitched and embroidered, showing her colouring to perfection and every bit as beautiful, in her own eyes, as her mother’s.
As she curtseyed to her father she glanced half defiantly at Einion. His expression was unreadable. He looked at her and then once more at the prince. ‘Your daughter has been away too long, sir. Aber has missed her.’
‘Indeed we have,’ Llywelyn agreed heartily. ‘Greet your mother, child, and take off your cloak. We are to have a recital.’ He indicated the harp standing near them.
Eleyne curtseyed dutifully to her mother and then more animatedly to Sir William. There was no sign of Isabella.
Sir William smiled. ‘So, do you want to ride Invictus again? I’ll toss you for it tomorrow. My imprisonment is over, but it seems that I can’t keep away!’ His smile deepened. ‘I have come back as a guest this time to make the final arrangements for Bella’s wedding, so we can ride together. With your mother’s permission.’
Eleyne’s pleasure and excitement were strangely dampened by his glance at Joan. There was more warmth there than he had shown her; more intimacy. She felt a sudden sense of loss as if she had been excluded from something private and special.
‘Eleyne, come here and sit by me.’ The prince indicated a stool near his feet, but his eyes were on his wife’s face and Eleyne, sympathetic, knew he felt the same as she. Instinctively she reached up and touched her father’s hand. Llywelyn smiled and pressed her shoulder gently. At least he would never have cause to doubt his daughter’s love and loyalty as he had begun, Christ forgive him, to doubt his wife’s. He turned and nodded to the bard.
XVI
ABER
Rhonwen woke suddenly, every sense alert and straining, holding her breath as her eyes peered wildly around the silent chamber. The night was completely dark. Outside the narrow windows the valley was blanketed with mist; there were no stars; no moonlight pierced the gloom.
The tall figure was standing in the deeper darkness of the shadowed corner near her bed. Arms folded, he stared down at her.
‘Where is the child?’
Rhonwen sat up slowly, holding the bedclothes tightly beneath her chin. ‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’ She was terrified.
He ignored her question. ‘Where is the child?’
Swallowing, Rhonwen could not stop herself looking across at the corner of the room where Eleyne’s bed was invisible in the darkness. Without going near it, she could sense that only Luned lay there, fast asleep.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know where she is. She often wanders around at night.’
‘Find her. The lessons must continue.’
Rhonwen swallowed. ‘She’s afraid. Could you not leave it until she is older? Please …’
‘It will be too late when she is older. Find her. I shall wait by the alders as before.’
Rhonwen closed her eyes. ‘Please –’ Her plea met with silence.
He had vanished. Climbing out of bed, she groped with shaking hands for the candle on the coffer near the door and thrust it into the fire. The light sent the shadows leaping and cavorting up the walls, running up the bed hangings and across the ceiling, racing across the floor and towards the door. The room was empty. She pulled open the door. The short spiral stair leading down into the darkness was deserted. The rush light in its holder at the first curved angle of the wall burned with a steady flame. No one’s passing had caused it to flicker.
Closing the door, she went back to the bed and sat down, shivering. Had it been a dream or had Einion slipped through the walls, his body a wraith without substance as he sought the child? She glanced at Eleyne’s bed again. Where was she and what was she doing?
XVII
Eleyne was in the stables. A small slim figure, wrapped in a thick dark cloak, she had slipped past the grooms unnoticed, ducking into Invictus’s stall. He whickered a greeting, nuzzling her hands for titbits, and she gave him the crusts of wastel bread saved especially from the kitchens. She settled at his feet in the deep hay. Einion would not find her here.
She too had woken suddenly, aware of the questing mind of the bard seeking hers. She had sat up in the darkness, hearing the steady breathing of Luned and Rhonwen, feeling the warm solid weight of Luned’s sleeping form in the bed with her. Hugging her knees miserably, she tried to blank off her mind, fighting him, shaking her head, pressing her hands against her ears, then she snatched her clothes, threw them on and tiptoed out of the room. In the stables, she knew instinctively, she would be safe.
‘Well, well, what have we here!’ The voice, loud, attractive, pulled her unwillingly out of sleep. ‘Do you claim the ride because you were here first, little princess?’ Sir William de Braose stepped into the stallion’s stall and stood looking down at her, amused. The early morning sun blazed into the courtyard.
Eleyne stretched her cramped legs and yawned as the great horse lowered his head and nuzzled her hair, blowing companionably in her ear. She kissed his soft nose and then climbed sheepishly to her feet. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. I often come to see the horses when I am –’ She stopped. She had been about to say ‘frightened’ but that would never do. In daylight, with the palace bustling with activity, she would not admit even to herself her fear of Einion. ‘When I can’t sleep. I love it out here at night.’ She smiled at him shyly. That at least was true. She never found the darkness frightening. The cool still magic time of night when everyone else was asleep and the halls and castles were silent, patrolled only by the night guard, was very special to her.
‘So, are you ready for our ride?’ As one of the grooms hefted in the heavy wooden saddle, Sir William stood back and put his arm around her shoulders companionably. He glanced down at the glowing, tangled red-gold hair and again found himself wishing he could have had a son with half her spirit.
Eleyne’s eyes were shining. ‘Are we going to toss for who rides Invictus?’ She could not disguise the wistful longing in her voice.
He
shook his head with a smile. ‘No, there’s a horse of your father’s I’m keen to try.’ He had decided the night before there must be no risk of disappointing her. ‘You may take Invictus.’
It was as they mounted in the courtyard that the Princess Joan appeared, in a flurry of silks and furs, with two of her women attendants.
‘I have decided to go with you, Sir William,’ she called. She gestured at a groom to fetch her horse. ‘I want to see this daughter of mine ride. I had no idea she was such a fine horsewoman!’
Eleyne looked at her in dismay. Her mother, beautiful, charming, her lovely eyes fixed on Sir William’s face, had not once glanced at her. Already Eleyne knew the ride was spoiled, and she became conscious suddenly of her old, torn gown, snatched on anyhow in the dark, and stuck through with stems of hay from her night in the stable. Her mother’s gown was new: a flattering gold, stitched with crimson silk.
Sir William leaped off his bay stallion and bowed to Joan. ‘She’s worth watching, your highness,’ he said with a humorous glance across at the scowling child. ‘And we shall both be honoured to have you with us.’
The two gazed at each other and Eleyne felt a shaft of jealousy knife through her. It was a reflex action to kick Invictus forward in a great bound and turn him for the gates. She did not look back. She knew the guards would follow her. So, in their own time, no doubt, would her mother and Sir William. Except that now Sir William would have no more eyes for her. He would, she knew, ride beside her mother.
‘What’s the matter, little princess?’
As they stopped to take breakfast after two hours’ riding, Sir William walked across to Eleyne and sat beside her on the ground. Behind them the woods were pale green with new, reluctant leaves of birch and alder.
She stared down into the cup of ale which she had been given. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’
‘Nothing?’ He smiled. ‘You didn’t want your mother to come, did you?’ He was watching her closely.
‘She spoils everything.’ Eleyne frowned. ‘We have to go slowly because of her.’
‘She loves you very much, you know.’ Sir William was not aware that his expression softened as he glanced across at Joan, seated decorously on a fallen log between her ladies, a white napkin on her knees.
‘She doesn’t love me at all.’ Eleyne was practical and unsentimental. ‘And she’s not interested in how I ride. She wanted an excuse to be with you.’ She scowled.
Sir William did not deny it. ‘I’ll have a race with you, after you’ve drunk your ale,’ he whispered. ‘I bet you five silver pennies Invictus can’t beat your father’s new stallion.’
Eleyne looked up, her eyes sparkling. ‘Of course he can.’
Sir William rose to his feet. ‘We’ll see.’
She won the race easily and, flushed and out of breath, claimed her prize. Then, contentedly, she agreed to lead the way back to Aber, steadying the prancing, excited horse with gentle hands – too preoccupied to think about Sir William and her mother riding side by side once more.
XVIII
The palace was silent. In the hearth the banked-up fire ticked and settled gently into the deep bed of ashes. Rhonwen leaned closer to her sewing and sighed. Her head ached and her eyes refused to focus on the tiny intricate stitches she was inserting into the green velvet gown she had promised to finish for Eleyne. She was well aware why Eleyne wanted the new gown so badly. The child wanted to impress de Braose. She smiled grimly. Well, let her try. At least it would take her mind off Einion.
Eleyne lay huddled beneath her blankets next to Luned, deeply and dreamlessly asleep. Excited by his race, Invictus had given her an exhausting, exhilarating ride and Sir William, when they had returned, gave her an affectionate hug and rumpled her hair, beneath the seemingly approving eyes of her mother, and promised her another ride tomorrow. Happy, excited and tired, she had not given Einion a thought. Nor Rhonwen. She had not noticed the cold stare Rhonwen threw at the hated de Braose, or the icy politeness with which she greeted Princess Joan.
Wearily Rhonwen put down her sewing, climbed to her feet and pulled her cloak around her. There had been no sign of Einion at Aber that evening, either in the great hall or in the outer courts and gardens. It would be safe to leave the sleeping children for a while. Folding the heavy velvet into her basket, she picked it up. She tiptoed down the stairs and beckoned one of the guards from the outer door. ‘I have to go to Princess Joan’s bower. Wait outside the Lady Eleyne’s chamber until I return. Let no one in. No one, do you understand?’
She took a deep breath. Had Einion come to the chamber up the stairs and through the door, or had he floated, ghostlike, through the window? She shuddered.
Pulling her cloak around her she threaded her way towards Princess Joan’s apartments in the tower at the west end of the ty hir. They were small, sumptuously appointed rooms hung with tapestries and furnished with richly carved and painted furniture. As she had suspected, there was no sign of Princess Joan. There were only two women in the ladies’ bower, huddled over the fire, talking softly, and they greeted Rhonwen with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Lady Rhonwen!’ Marared, the daughter of Madoc, jumped to her feet, agitated. ‘Princess Joan gave specific orders.’
Rhonwen frowned. ‘Orders that I should not be admitted?’ She found herself a joint stool and setting it in front of the fire sat down firmly and produced her basket. ‘Be that as it may, I’ve promised little Eleyne this gown would be finished for the feast tomorrow and I need some more pairs of hands,’ she said firmly. ‘All I want is a little help. I’ll not stay long.’
Marared glanced unhappily at her companion, Ethil, who had not moved from her own seat, her toes in the hearth.
Ethil shrugged. ‘She just gave orders that she shouldn’t be disturbed. And we can all guess why that is. Rhonwen can turn a blind eye as well as we can!’ she commented tartly.
Marared knew of Rhonwen’s antipathy towards Princess Joan, but she had already given in. ‘I think we should all go through to the solar. The fire there is still hot and I can mull some wine,’ she coaxed.
Ethil looked up, about to suggest that Marared bring the wine to her where she sat, but something in her companion’s face changed her mind. She stood up. ‘Good idea. Come, Lady Rhonwen, we’ll be more private in the solar. I should hate our talking to disturb the princess. I don’t want another tongue-lashing tonight!’ They glanced at the door to the princess’s chamber in the far wall – firmly closed. Rhonwen followed their gaze. ‘I thought the princess would still be in the hall flirting with Sir William,’ she said acidly. ‘She didn’t look to me as though she intended to go to bed early.’
There was a horrified silence. She looked from one to the other, then back at the door, and her eyes narrowed. For the first time she noticed the heavy cloak lying across a stool. ‘So,’ she whispered, ‘she went to bed early after all. But not alone.’
Ethil seized her arm. ‘For the love of the Sweet Blessed Virgin don’t say anything! The prince would kill us all!’ She dragged Rhonwen towards the small solar. ‘Please, Lady Rhonwen, come through here. We’ll do your sewing for you, and we’ll have some wine. And you must forget whatever it is you are thinking!’
‘How long has this been going on?’ Rhonwen allowed herself to be pushed into the best seat and accepted some wine as Marared closed the door.
Ethil shrugged. ‘It started when he was here before. When he was a prisoner. I don’t think the prince ever suspected.’ She closed her eyes miserably. ‘When he went away I was so relieved, but then he came back …’
‘So.’ Rhonwen smiled. She bent to take the folded gown out of her basket and handed it to Ethil. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘your secret is safe with me.’
XIX
Eleyne sat up, staring into the darkness, her heart thumping with fear. Was he there again, his mind seeking hers, trying to lure her from her bed and down to the river? But no, the room was empty. She could hear t
he wind moaning in the roof timbers, swaying the trees in the valley below the palace. She shivered. Luned was fast asleep, burrowed like a small animal into the soft sheets. There was no sound from the other bed.
‘Rhonwen?’ she whispered.
She knew already that Rhonwen was not there and neither was the nearly finished gown which had been hung from a bracket near her bed so she could see it as she went to sleep.
Slipping silently from the bed, she pulled her fur-trimmed bed gown over her bare shoulders and padded over to the fire. The room was cold. She bent and pulled the turf off the banked coals and reached for a log. The fire hissed and a blue flame ran across the wood. She flinched, then, unable to look away, stared down into it.
She could see the gallows; see the crowds standing around its foot. The people were excited, rowdy, in the mood to be entertained; as she watched, unable to tear her eyes away, she saw them surge forward, shouting. He was there in their midst, surrounded by guards, his short tunic open at the neck, and already he wore the noose. She could see the rope against the softness of his skin, see the artery in his throat beating, throbbing with life. He half turned towards her and she strained forward, trying to see his face, but the crowds seethed round him cutting off her view.
‘Wait! please wait!’ she cried out loud. ‘Oh, please …’
Behind her the door opened and the guard peered into the door.
‘Dew!’ He hurled himself across the floor as Eleyne sprawled forward into the fireplace, clawing at the burning logs. She was crying.
‘Please, come back! I can’t see you! Please!’
She let out a scream as the man grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. Behind them, Luned sat up in bed, frightened.
‘What are you doing, princess?’
The man-at-arms half shook her, slapping in panic at her bed gown, which was covered in ash. ‘Dew! You nearly set yourself on fire! Did you drop something?’