Child of the Phoenix

  It was a long time later that she was able to speak. ‘You’ll miss mass, I can hear the bell in the distance.’

  ‘I’ll hear mass before we ride, later.’

  ‘Must you go today?’ She clung to him.

  ‘You know I must, Eleyne.’ He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Then he put his hand to her lips. ‘You know I hate goodbyes.’ He reached to stroke a heavy breast, and at the last moment touched the pendant instead, gently, with his forefinger.

  He dressed, but she made no move to put on her own clothes. When he was ready, he bent and dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head.

  ‘God go with you, my love,’ she whispered. Then he was gone.

  VIII

  FOTHERINGHAY

  In her dream she looked down at Einion’s grave. Wild daffodils danced in the wind beneath the lichen-covered stone. When she put her hand on it it was very cold.

  ‘So where is Scotland’s son?’ she whispered out loud. ‘Where? All your predictions were lies.’ Her hands went sadly to the phoenix on the chain around her neck. Behind her from beyond the damp bitter-sweet woods and meadows, across the white-topped waves of the tide race, the south wind carried the fragrance of the mountain air. The vast silences of the lonely peaks, broken only by the cry of the eagle and the rush of waterfalls high on the rocky scree, reached out to her. He was there, near her. She saw Tam Lin’s ears flatten against his head. She saw Donnet’s hackles rise as a blackbird flew screaming from the thicket and she saw the whirl of dead leaves in the grassy ride.

  Go back. The voice was inside her head. Go back to Scotland, go back.

  The echoing silence of the woods was full of menace. The air as it touched her skin carried a hint of ice.

  If you want to keep him go back – now.

  High in the cwms of Eryri the snows still lingered. Wolves prowled the valleys looking for lambs. The echoing cry of a chough from the high cliffs reverberated through the crystal silence.

  Go back, go back.

  She stepped back, her hand going to the dog’s head for reassurance as the leaves settled. Then, thoughtfully, she turned away.

  How could she go back, when Alexander himself had sent her away?

  IX

  KERRERA, ARGYLL 1 July 1249

  Alexander lay on a pile of rugs, gazing up at the furled sails. His head throbbed and swam. The sky, brilliant blue behind the web of stays which held the mast, seemed to be moving, pulsing like a blood-filled heart.

  He heard himself groan and felt at once the cool softness of a wet cloth on his forehead. He must force himself to his feet. He had to show himself to his men. Where were they? He groaned again, trying to lift his head, and then fell back. God’s bones! but he felt ill. What was the matter with him? Was it something he had eaten or something to do with the accursed pain in his head? He had never been ill in his life before. It wasn’t as though there had been any fighting. The visit had been peaceful; successful even. He closed his eyes, but the pain didn’t go away.

  ‘Sire.’ He could hear the voice near him, urgently trying to attract his attention. ‘Sire? Can you hear me?’

  Of course he could hear. Couldn’t the fool see that he could hear? He tried to open his eyes, but he was too tired to make the effort.

  ‘Sire.’ The voice came again, insistent, annoying, not letting him sleep.

  ‘Sire, we are going to take you ashore to the island of Kerrera.’

  The king turned his head restlessly. Don’t bother. He thought he had said it out loud. But it was he who had given the orders earlier; he had told them to take him ashore. He had insisted, before this wretched illness had taken hold so badly, while he was still strong enough to speak. Kneeling at his side, the two senior captains of his fleet looked at one another grimly. One summoned the litter they had made from a sail.

  For two days he lay ill on the island of Kerrera in Oban Bay. On the third his fever lessened and he opened his eyes.

  ‘Eleyne?’ He could see her clearly, sitting in the window, her hair glinting in the sunlight. He smiled. How cross she had been when he teased her about the silver streaks in the glossy chestnut. He was glad she had come back to Scotland. He always missed her so much when she went away; it was as though a limb were missing from his body.

  ‘Eleyne?’ He tried again, but she didn’t seem to hear him. She was gazing out of the window towards the west. He could see the sunset behind her, the flaming sky throwing her into silhouette, as if her hair were on fire. Daughter of the phoenix, child of the fire. Why didn’t she come to him? Why did she not press her lips to his? He wanted her. He needed her. He tried to stretch out his hand.

  A priest knelt near him, his lips moving silently in prayer. His attendants and companions stood looking down at their king, their faces tense. The leech they had fetched from the mainland shook his head again. The king would die with the sun; he knew the signs. There was nothing he or anyone could do.

  Alexander frowned a little as he tried to keep her in focus. The sunset was fading; she was less distinct now. She must look after his son; she must keep watch over the boy, for Scotland’s sake. Why didn’t she come to him? He wanted so much to touch her. Perhaps he should go to her.

  He gathered the last of his strength with a supreme effort of will-power, concentrating every ounce of determination on keeping her in sight. He had to stay with her. Wherever she went, he would go with her into the darkness or into the light beyond.

  As the sun set and the room sank into darkness the king sat up, astonished to find it was so easy. He rose and turned for a moment to look at the bed on which he had been lying and he frowned. His body still lay there, hunched against the fever. Around it he could see his friends staring down in disbelief.

  ‘He’s dead, my lords.’ He heard the words of the leech as from a great distance but already he had moved away. Somewhere out there in the dark behind the setting sun he had to find Eleyne.

  X

  FOTHERINGHAY. 8 July 1249

  Eleyne woke suddenly, listening. As the sound of the watchman’s horn died into reverberations in the silence, she heard the beating of her heart very loud in her ears. The bedchamber was in darkness and she was alone. Her household here was small; her ladies slept elsewhere in the keep: Rhonwen, in her own chamber, with her own servants, on the north side near the nursery; Nesta, next door.

  She slipped from the bed, pulled on her shift and ran to the window. Moonlight glittered on the great loop of the River Nene. Beyond it fields and marshes and woods merged into a flat chessboard of silver and black. Somewhere towards the convent she could hear two owls calling as they hunted across the cut hay meadows and closer at hand the tiny calls of bats, pinpricks of sound in the night.

  Still numb with sleep it was a moment before she realised that her throat was tight with fear, her whole body cold with dread. She leaned on the sill, looking out into the moonlight, and felt the chill of the night air touching her face. Her hands were shaking.

  ‘Alexander.’

  She whispered his name, but there was no answer in the dark. She opened the small coffer on the table where she kept her jewellery and took out the enamelled phoenix. The fine chain was broken. She had meant to summon a goldsmith from Northampton, but somehow it had slipped her mind. She held it for a moment in her hands, gazing at it in the darkness. Even without candles it seemed to gleam, the ruby eyes reflecting a starlight which had not penetrated the room. She felt the tears starting in her eyes. She kissed it sadly and put it back in the coffer. She shivered.

  Alexander.

  His name would not go away. There was something wrong. He needed her.

  Snatching up a silk shawl she threw it around her shoulders over her shift. The castle was silent; they kept early hours unless they had guests. Her last visitor, Isabel Bruce, had left for Scotland three weeks before. Still barefoot she ran down the stairs, Donnet at her heels, and crossed the lower chamber. Some dozen people were asleep there, wrapped in their cl
oaks around the gently ticking embers of the great fire. None of them seemed to have heard the horn.

  She made her way to the door and pulled it open – there was no sign of the watchman.

  The stone steps down from the keep were ice-cold and wet with dew, but she scarcely felt them as she ran down and over the high slippery cobbles of the courtyard past the great hall towards the gatehouse. The moat lay black and still in the shadow of the stone wall, a veil of white mist over the water. The drawbridge was up and there was no sign of life from the guardroom. As Eleyne ran in, the guards leaped to their feet.

  ‘I heard the horn sound,’ she cried. ‘There is a messenger.’

  The captain of the guard stepped forward sheepishly jerking his tunic into place. ‘There was no alarm, my lady.’ He looked sharply at his men. ‘There has been no one on the road since dusk.’

  ‘But I heard it!’ She knew how she must look. The long white shift, bare feet, the silk shawl, her hair loose, without her veil.

  ‘Not from here, lady.’ His garments straightened to his satisfaction, the captain felt more confident.

  ‘Then I dreamt it.’ She sounded puzzled. Her shoulders slumped and her voice lost its sharpness. ‘I’m sorry.’ As they watched her go, the captain crossed himself fervently.

  At dawn the dream, if dream it were, returned. She heard the horn, jumped from the bed in a panic and ran to the window. The weather was breaking. The dawn was hot and thundery and the sweet scent of the earth mingled with the cool green smell of the river.

  The touch on her shoulder was featherlight. For a moment she ignored it, then she swung around. There was no one there. A draught had stirred the wall hangings, that was all. Her jewellery box lay open on the table, she was certain she had closed it. She went to it and picked up the phoenix again, staring at it in the dim light of the dawn. She slipped the chain from its loop and dropped it back into the casket, then she threaded the pendant on to a black silk ribbon and hung it around her neck, feeling the hard bright enamel cold as death between her breasts.

  It had been a long time since she had looked into the fire. Kneeling before the hearth, she pushed aside the turves and blew on the embers. She was trembling violently and the cold dread which filled her had nothing to do with dreams.

  Alexander!

  She leaned towards the flames. Her eyes were blurred. She could see nothing and suddenly she realised she was crying.

  Alexander!

  The door rattled on its hinges as the wall hangings billowed. Ash blew towards her across the hearth and a log cracked from end to end in a shower of sparks.

  There were no pictures in the flames, only the sound of weeping.

  XI

  Robert de Quincy’s horse was soaked with sweat and he was alone. Eleyne was sitting in the great hall with the entire household as he swaggered in. She knew at once that he was very drunk. It was the first time she had seen him in over two years.

  She watched, taut with apprehension as he made his way towards the high table on the dais, where she sat with Rhonwen and some of the senior members of the household.

  ‘You know, of course, what I am here to tell you.’ He stood, hands on hips, one leg thrust forward, his elegant surcoat mud-spattered and torn, his tunic stained with sweat.

  ‘Indeed not.’ She tried to keep her voice neutral.

  ‘What? No pyromancy to tell your fortune in the flames?’ He was speaking deliberately loudly, ensuring silence in the hall.

  Eleyne heard the priest next to her draw in his breath sharply and she clenched her fists. ‘What is it you have to tell me?’

  Robert laughed. ‘So, you don’t know! How strange. You’re happy, yet in a few minutes you’re going to be devastated.’ He looked at her almost clinically, with total detachment. ‘I’m about to break your heart!’

  Eleyne could feel the fear building inside her. ‘Do you intend to make a public spectacle of this announcement?’ she asked coldly. ‘If so, you should hurry before the horn sounds for supper.’

  Turn away, keep your back to him, keep your back to the hall. Don’t give him the pleasure of seeing it hurt, whatever it is.

  But she knew. She had known for a whole week. And her heart was already breaking.

  Robert was giggling now, quietly. He stepped towards the dais, missed his footing and decided to sit on the edge of the step instead. So he was facing down the great hall when at last he spoke, tears of laughter running down his face.

  ‘He’s dead, sweetheart. Your king is dead! I was with King Henry when the messengers brought the news from Scotland. We thought it only seemly to bring you the news at once …’

  His voice had faded into a mist. It swirled and eddied around her, muffling her ears, enveloping her head, blinding her eyes. She took a step forward, and felt an arm around her. Rhonwen’s. Her back was straight; she was not crying. With Rhonwen at her side, she stepped slowly off the dais past her giggling husband and walked the length of the hall to the door.

  She went into the chapel and knelt on the ornate tiles before the altar, aware that Rhonwen had waited at the door. Beeswax candles glowed before a statue of the Virgin; she did not see them. She saw nothing. Her mind was a spinning emptiness; a whirl of nameless pain.

  Robert came for her a long time later. He had eaten and drunk more, but now he was steadier on his feet. He strode into the chapel and found her still on her knees, her eyes closed, her face transparent with exhaustion and unhappiness.

  He pulled her to her feet. ‘Enough of prayer! Now perhaps you will pay some attention to your husband.’

  Wearily she looked at him. ‘I do not have a husband who merits my attention.’

  ‘No?’ His lips twisted into a sneer. ‘Then perhaps this will encourage it.’ The blow from his ringed hand tore open her cheek and the blood trickled like warm tears down her face.

  ‘You hit me in the presence of Our Lady?’ Eleyne backed towards the niche with its candlelit statue. Neither of them noticed that the door had banged shut. The air around them was full of anger.

  ‘I shall hit you where I please!’

  She could not fight him and no one in the household would stand against him as he dragged her across the inner courtyard up the steep steps into the gatehouse, past crowds of openly staring men and women and on up towards the bedchambers. She did not sleep in the lord’s chamber, the room which had been John’s, but that was where he took her now. The great bed stood without hangings in the darkness, the deep feather mattress musty and full of mice, the flagstone floor swept bare of strewing herbs.

  She did not even try to fight him. She submitted as he dragged off her clothes and tied her hands; she knelt like a frozen statue as he swaggered towards her and commanded that she open her mouth and later as she lay back painfully on her bound hands on the bare mattress, and let him thrust again and again inside her, her mind shut off entirely from the degradation of her body and allowed her to drift away.

  Her wrists were still bound when Rhonwen found her at daybreak. Robert had slept for a few hours, sprawled across her inert body, then he had woken and staggered off in search of more wine. He had not returned.

  ‘Do you still forbid me to kill him?’ Tight-lipped, Rhonwen slid the blade of her small knife into the thongs around Eleyne’s wrists.

  ‘What good would his death achieve now?’ Eleyne’s fingers were white and lifeless and she watched, strangely detached still, as Rhonwen began gently to rub them.

  ‘It would free you of him for good.’

  XII

  A week later Eleyne received a letter from Malcolm of Fife. Robert was out riding when the messenger arrived for which she was thankful because the letter made her cry. It was courteous and restrained, and gave her the facts.

  Alexander had been struck down by a sudden fever while his fleet was at anchor in Oban Bay. He struggled on, insisting on being rowed ashore to the island of Kerrera to complete their business there and there he had died. His body had been taken for interment
to Melrose Abbey, as he had long ago specified in his will. His eight-year-old son had been crowned five days after he died, at Scone, elevated on the sacred stone by Malcolm himself, following the ancient tradition that the Earls of Fife alone had that right. But already, it appeared, there was quarrelling amongst the magnates. The king’s closest henchman, Sir Alan Durward, and Lord Menteith were locked in conflict over who should have power during the young king’s minority. At the end of his letter Malcolm gave her the crumb of comfort she so desperately needed. ‘I am assured, my lady, that in his last delirium the king mentioned your name several times and begged that you pray for his soul’s eternal rest.’ As the tears flooded her eyes, she threw down the letter. It was not until a long time later that she read the closing sentence. ‘Please be assured, my lady, of my lasting devotion and my service, which shall be yours as long as I draw breath.’

  XIII

  By the beginning of November she knew she was once again with child. Robert had stayed only a few days at Fotheringhay then, bored with tormenting her and afraid, though he would not admit it even to himself, of the cold, considered hatred which seemed to emanate from the very stones of the castle and from the air around him, he had finally obtained the king’s permission to return to court. That same day she had made them take out the bed on which, though she did not yet know it, her child had been conceived and burn it in the outer court.

  It seemed strange that life went on as usual once he had gone. She oversaw the stud farm and rode regularly about the manor. She ate and slept and sewed and talked and waited indifferently as her belly began to grow. It would be a girl. Robert would father no sons, of that she was certain.

  Her dreams were at an end. Her love was dead; her heart a lead weight inside her. She had no place in history. Her sons would never be kings. Einion had been a charlatan, her own visions the demon-inspired ramblings of a fevered brain. She would not return to Scotland where her godson was now king, firmly tied to his mother’s apron strings whilst Alan Durward governed as justiciar. Scotland was a place of dreams and memories; a place of broken destiny.