Child of the Phoenix

  ‘Einion,’ she called, her voice sharp with fear, ‘Einion, come to me.’ But the picture was dissolving; it had gone. She slumped on her heels with a scowl of frustration. In spite of all her careful preparations, she had failed. Her questions were still unanswered.

  The fire settled and her eyes flew open again. ‘Please,’ she knelt up, and held out her hands in supplication, ‘please come.’ There was another picture; she saw a horse, cantering proudly, its eyes huge and staring in the thunder, its saddle slippery with rain, its hooves sliding in the mud. The rider leaned forward, urging it on, the thunder of hoofbeats filled her ears, then the horse was screaming, its feet scrabbling for a foothold, and she saw the rider flying through the air. As fast as it had come, the picture was gone.

  She sat back on her heels again, trembling. Who was it? Who did she keep seeing, riding to what death? Not John, of that she was certain. The seat in the saddle was too sure, the shoulders too broad, but always the billowing cloak hid the face from her.

  ‘Oh please, show me his face,’ she whispered. ‘And show me Rhonwen. Tell me if she is truly dead, or if she is my father’s prisoner. Show me what has happened to her.’ She knelt forward for a third time, her head swimming from the fumes, straining her eyes into the heart of the flame. She saw the bed again. It was at Aber, and she could see the bedchamber clearly. ‘Papa!’ she whispered, ‘it’s papa.’ She rubbed her eyes, her heart pounding with fright. But there was nothing there. The pictures had gone.

  Dragging on her gown, Eleyne went back to the window and leaned out as far as the grilles would allow, letting the cold rain pour in on her face, battering her eyelids, soaking her hair. She was shivering violently. ‘Papa,’ she whispered to the night. ‘Papa.’ Behind her the fire burned low, but the pungent smell of herbs remained.

  High above, the cloud grew thin for a moment and shone with a pearlised glow where it veiled the cold spring moon. Then it thickened and the night was once again dark.

  IX

  NORTHAMPTON CASTLE

  John looked down at the letter in his hand. It was from his brother-in-law, Dafydd. The old prince had had a seizure and lay unconscious at Aber. He begged the Earl of Chester to inform King Henry and reaffirm his own loyalty to the king, and he also begged John not to tell Eleyne: Sadly, she will not be welcome here, unless, of course, father should die, in which case you would both be expected at his funeral.

  The words, formal and penned by a scribe, were cold and unfilial. He wondered how Gruffydd was feeling about the situation.

  King Henry was listening to a seemingly endless list of petitions when John approached him. The king signalled for the clerks to wave the patient crowds back.

  ‘So, my Lord Chester, have you come to rescue me from my duties?’ Henry gave a cold half-smile. As always he was richly dressed, today in a parti-coloured gown, stitched with gold, and a scarlet cloak with a border sewn with gems. Eleanor, his young wife of a year, was beside him on the dais. Only fourteen years old, her face was set with boredom.

  ‘Sad news, sire.’ John bowed. ‘I have a letter from Dafydd ap Llywelyn. He bids me tell you that his father is ill and may be dying.’

  Henry frowned. ‘That is black news indeed. North Wales has been well ruled by Llywelyn.’ He stood up with a sigh and threw the silken sweep of his mantle over his left shoulder. ‘I can’t say I am surprised though. I had been told that he lost the will to live when my half-sister died. May I see the letter?’ His sharp eyes had spotted the folded parchment still clutched in John’s hand.

  John handed it over reluctantly and watched as the king read it. Henry looked up at last. There was quizzical amusement in his eyes. ‘Your wife has been a thorn in Llywelyn’s flesh on more than one occasion if I remember right. Where is she? We have missed her here at Northampton.’

  ‘She is at Fotheringhay, sire.’

  ‘And will you be able to keep her there, do you think?’ Henry’s smile was almost mocking. The rumours of Eleyne’s wild rides had reached court.

  John felt a rush of heat to his face. ‘Oh, I shall keep her there, make no mistake, sire. Although it will break her heart that her father does not want her.’

  ‘It sounds as if Llywelyn is past knowing what he wants,’ Henry retorted. ‘We can both guess who is behind that remark by Dafydd ap Llywelyn. And it bodes ill for Llywelyn’s inheritance if the heir, good man though he is, is led by the nose by that she-cat he married. The de Braose family have always been trouble.’ He sighed and was about to beckon back his clerks. Then he paused. ‘Eleyne visited her aunt in Scotland again several times last year, I hear?’

  John tensed. ‘Your sister, the Queen of Scots, was unwell, sire. She seems to have taken a great liking to her niece.’

  ‘As you have to the idea of a kingdom of your own, no doubt.’ Henry smiled coldly. ‘Just so long as you remember where your first loyalty lies, as Earl of Chester and, even if the time should come, as King of Scots.’

  John bowed slightly; the gesture allowed him to avoid the king’s eye. He murmured something which could have been taken for agreement and was much relieved to see that it had been taken for one of farewell by the men waiting to catch the king’s attention. With another bow John turned away. He did not like the turn the conversation had taken. It was time to return to Fotheringhay to break the news of her father’s illness to Eleyne.

  X

  CRICCIETH CASTLE April 1237

  ‘I will not have that woman under this roof!’ Senena faced her husband, her eyes blazing.

  Gruffydd glared at her. ‘God’s bones, woman! I won’t be spoken to like that. If I say she stays, she stays!’

  Beyond the narrow windows of the keep of Criccieth Castle the sea crashed against the cliffs, the rollers creaming in from the southwest, piling into the bay and hiding the sands in clouds of spume. Rain streamed before the wind and the red lion flag high above the newly built keep stood out stiffly, pointing towards Eryri and the grey mass of cloud which hid the mountains.

  ‘Oh no!’ Senena shook her head. ‘I obey you in most things, my lord and husband, but in this never!’ She swept away from him, her woollen gown bulky around a figure still thickened from bearing her last baby. She was a tall woman, as tall as her husband, and when roused, as now, her temper was as formidable as his. ‘You get her out of here! Get her right out of Gwynedd; out of Wales, you hear me?’

  Gruffydd sat down and put his elbows on his knees. He glared at her, supporting his chin on linked fingers. ‘And what do you suggest I do with her?’

  ‘Send her away! Send her back to your sister. That’s where she wants to be.’

  Gruffydd frowned. ‘She can’t go to Eleyne. Lord Chester would arrest her. She can’t go to her family; they have never recognised her anyway, and they have sworn the bloody vengeance of the galanas on her for killing Cenydd.’

  Senena shuddered. ‘An eye for an eye; a life for a life. It is just. Why did you have her brought here?’

  ‘For Einion’s sake; she served him faithfully.’

  Senena shook her head. ‘That is where you are wrong. It is Eleyne she serves. Whatever she did that night, she did it in her own twisted mind for Eleyne, and Eleyne alone.’

  Gruffydd raised an eyebrow. ‘I should have thought such loyalty was to be commended.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Senena said, ‘but not when she is living beneath our roof and Eleyne is hundreds of miles away. Her loyalty is too violent and too partisan! I want her out!’

  Gruffydd rubbed his face in his hands. ‘And who is to tell her this, pray?’

  ‘You.’ Senena snapped her mouth shut on the word like a trap.

  ‘And what if she curses us as she cursed John of Chester?’

  Senena was silent. She could feel the throb of the wind against the stone walls, for all their thickness. Far away, above the howl of it, she heard the yelping cry of a gull. She shivered. There was an omen there, she was sure. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Then we will spit on her curse and th
row her into the sea.’

  Gruffydd paled: ‘Blessed Bride! Are you mad, woman?’ He stood up. ‘I forbid you to say a word to her. I shall tell her myself.’ He swung around as the door behind him opened. ‘Did I send for anyone?’ He stopped in mid-sentence. Rhonwen stood in the doorway, wrapped in a thick plaid cloak, her hair covered by a heavy white veil in the manner of the Welsh mountain women. Her face was pale and drawn.

  Senena found her mouth had gone dry. How much had she heard? Against the noise of the storm and the crashing of the waves on the rocks below, surely she would not have heard anything. But then, who could tell what powers this woman had? Senena smiled nervously, ashamed of her own twofacedness: ‘Lady Rhonwen, you are welcome.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, princess. I am as welcome as the raven at a wedding feast! A woman with blood on her hands is not going to be a favoured guest anywhere; I am well aware of that. But you have nothing to fear. Your husband saved my life and I have always been his friend.’

  Rhonwen walked painfully across towards the fire, which smouldered fitfully as the wind blew down the chimney and threw sparks out across the floor. When Gruffydd’s henchman had cut the chains from her ankles his chisel had slipped from his frozen fingers and cut deep into her leg. The wound had festered and in spite of her ministrations had refused to heal.

  She seated herself in Senena’s chair without invitation and leaned back, her eyes closed for a moment against another wave of throbbing heat which spread outward from the wound and mounted towards her knee. Gritting her teeth, she noted with grim amusement that Gruffydd’s fingers were crossed. ‘So. You want me out of here, no doubt.’

  Gruffydd looked at the floor. ‘My father’s men will come soon. It is only a matter of time.’

  ‘But you would not betray me to them?’ She regarded him steadily.

  ‘Of course not. But you will never be safe as long as you stay in Wales. The galanas is powerful, its reach is long, you know that as well as I.’

  ‘And you don’t think my magic powers will protect me?’ She laughed grimly. ‘And you are right. For all the stories that I flew out of that cell disguised as an owl you know the truth. I have no magic powers. I have the temper of a wounded cat, that’s all.’ She paused reflectively.

  ‘But you summoned Einion from the dead,’ Senena put in. ‘The whole of Gwynedd talks of it.’

  Rhonwen shook her head. ‘Einion came because he wanted to. Oh, there was magic there that night, and power. But the power did not come from me.’

  ‘Then where –?’ Senena whispered.

  ‘From Eleyne, of course.’ Rhonwen looked at her triumphantly. ‘Didn’t you realise? All the power comes from Eleyne!’

  There was a long moment of silence. ‘I had heard that she has the Sight,’ Gruffydd said cautiously. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  Rhonwen gave a mocking smile. ‘Oh she has more than the Sight, much more. And her destiny is written in the stars!’ She hugged herself as another spasm of pain shot up her leg. ‘She will show them! the Lord Llywelyn; Dafydd; that English minx, his wife. She will show them all. Where is she?’

  Senena looked across at her husband. ‘Eleyne has returned to England. I believe they are at Fotheringhay.’

  ‘And she hasn’t sent for me, because Lord Chester hates me. I nearly killed him too, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Gruffydd replied grimly. ‘You were a fool, my lady, if you will forgive me for saying so. You have made powerful enemies. But as to why Eleyne has sent you no message, it is because all the world thinks you are dead. The rumour at Aber was that the prince had you secretly killed, and I saw no reason to deny it. Only he knows that is not true, and he is too ill to tell anyone.’

  ‘She will know. Eleyne will know I am alive. She will have seen it in the fire.’ Rhonwen gazed at the fire as though seeking confirmation in the hissing coals.

  Senena stepped forward and put a hesitant hand on Rhonwen’s shoulder. ‘What are you going to do? Where will you go?’

  ‘To Eleyne, of course. She needs me. As soon as my leg is better and the weather has cleared a little I shall beg a horse from you and go to her. You need not fear that I shall stay here a moment longer than necessary.’

  ‘But what of Lord Chester?’ Gruffydd enquired soberly. ‘He is not going to welcome you, my lady.’

  ‘He has never welcomed me.’ Painfully Rhonwen pulled herself to her feet. ‘I am no longer sure that Lord Chester is part of Eleyne’s destiny. I don’t think I need worry myself about him. I shall see to it that he does not get in our way. I cursed him at Einion’s grave and I curse him every night!’ She laughed out loud suddenly. ‘Oh no, Lord Chester will not bother me.’

  XI

  FOTHERINGHAY April 1237

  Carpets of snowdrops grew on the banks of the Nene beyond the walls of the castle at Fotheringhay. Slipping from her saddle, Eleyne began to pick some, keeping her back to her husband so he could not see her tears. He had waited until the end of the day’s hunting to tell her. They had been tired and content, nearly home, the horses walking steadily across the flat marshlands towards the castle when he had called her aside and dismounted on the river bank.

  ‘If it were up to him, Eleyne, of course he would want to see you,’ he said slowly. ‘He is not dead. It is some kind of seizure. He may well recover.’

  ‘He cannot move his hands; his speech is affected,’ she said.

  She had not seen the angry look he had given her when she confessed that she knew her father was ill. Every further detail of knowledge she betrayed made him more horrified.

  ‘He may get better. There is no point in rushing off to Aber until we know how he is.’

  ‘He would want me with him. That is why I was shown his illness …’ She began to tremble violently beneath her cloak of warm furs.

  ‘No, my darling, he would not want you there.’ He sighed. That at least she hadn’t seen: her brother’s prohibition. ‘And neither would Dafydd. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You mean I am forbidden to go to him?’ She looked at him, stricken, the flowers clutched in her gloved hand. He could see the tears swimming in her eyes, clinging for a moment to her eyelashes, then she turned away. She walked slowly towards the river and stood for a moment on the muddy bank, then bringing the flowers up to her lips she tossed them high in the air and watched as they scattered across the dark slow-moving water.

  John followed her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘He will always love you, Eleyne. It’s just that your mother’s death is still very much on his mind. Give him time.’

  ‘And what if there is no time?’ She swung and faced him. ‘What if he is dying? What if he is already dead?’

  ‘Then that is God’s will.’ The cold air caught his throat and he began to cough. Stepping back as he gasped for breath, he pressed his hand to his chest.

  She stared as she saw the colour drain from his face except for two hectic patches which had appeared on his cheeks. ‘You should not have come out today,’ she said almost absently, ‘I didn’t know you were ill again.’

  ‘I’m not ill.’ He controlled the cough with a monumental effort. ‘It’s just the cold wind. Come on, let’s ride back now, it’s growing dark.’

  Patches of mist were drifting up from the river across the marshes and into the meadows and woods as the light faded. They could see the castle in the gloom, a black silhouette against the lowering sky.

  ‘Here. Let me help you mount.’ For a moment he stood looking into her eyes. ‘You know that I love you, don’t you?’ He looked down, as abashed as a boy.

  She stared at him for a moment, then she began to cry.

  ‘Eleyne.’ His arms were round her. ‘Eleyne, my darling.’ He could not feel her figure through the thick cloak, or touch her hair. Her cheeks were like ice, but her tears were hot as they ran into the collar of his cloak. He held her tightly, oblivious of the assembled attendants watching as their horses stamped impatiently in the cold. His lips sought hers as he pulled her i
nto the shelter of his cloak.

  They did not stay long in the hall that night. As soon as supper was finished they withdrew to their bedchamber and John called for the candles to be lit. Sitting at the fireside Eleyne watched the servant move from candle to candle, his taper wavering as he held the flame to each new wick, the shadows in the room drawing back into the corners. Beyond the shutters the night was still; a heavy white mist hung over the river, wrapping the castle in soft dripping silence. There was no sound from the great hall below. A travelling minstrel was entertaining the household with a succession of soft dreamy ballads and, the supper dishes cleared away and the cooking fires doused for the night, the whole castle had settled early into quietness. Lighting the last candle, the servant bowed and withdrew. John threw himself into his chair and thrust his feet out towards the fire. ‘Will you sing to me?’ He smiled at Eleyne and held out his hand.

  She went to him and sat at his feet, her head resting against his knees. The loss of Rhonwen and her mother had been devastating, but through everything John had been with her. Even when she was angry with him he had given her strength, as he was giving her strength now, just by being there and by loving her. ‘I would rather hear one of your stories.’

  Her tears were long dried. It had happened too often before: the rejection from Aber, the hurt, the sorrow. If her father were dead, she would have known. Probably every passing day without news meant that he was growing stronger. She reached for John’s hand and felt his grip at once, strong and reassuring. ‘You really want to hear one?’

  He smiled down at her, and he nodded.

  He made love to her with great tenderness that night and she fell asleep at last, secure in the circle of his arms. Outside the mist thickened. It swirled and licked against the heavy shutters and glistened on the castle walls. The men of the night watch strained their eyes from the gatehouse tower and the wall walks and, seeing nothing, turned gratefully back to their braziers.