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
The 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.
Twice there had been letters from Robert, the last two years ago, then silence. Michael had reason to remember de Quincy well. In one of his drunken rages he had beaten the quiet stable boy who was now in charge of the Countess of Chester’s brood mares.
‘I’ll go in, Michael.’ She was smiling at him now, that beautiful, slow smile which melted a man’s gut and made him wonder, just for a moment if she – but no, of course she wouldn’t. She showed no interest in men. At thirty-five, she was always the virtuous wife; she loved her children and tended her estates and slept, as far as he knew, chastely alone. He knew the rumours, of course, who didn’t? That his lady had a ghostly lover, a tall presence seen sometimes at her side in the twilight, but who would believe that?
He took the colt’s rein and watched as she walked towards the manor house, her dogs at her heels. No other lady he had ever heard of would ride without attendants and stride tall and free about her estates as did Lady Chester, but perhaps her dogs were escort enough. He eyed them wryly. Tall, grizzled Lyulf and Ancret, both three years old now, the pups of old Donnet who, rumour had it, had been given to her by the King of Scots. When she reached the house, the dogs would throw themselves down in the shade by the door, waiting for her orders. Only then would the ladies of the house get a chance to speak to their mistress. The ladies were ruled over by the Lady Rhonwen, who kept them in order as she did the two children who would otherwise, if their mother had her way, run barefoot and wild like the children of the serfs on the manor farm. He could see little Hawisa now, a sturdy small girl with a determined chin and the dark good looks of her father, rushing out of the house and hurling herself into her mother’s arms. With a grin, Michael began to lead the horses towards the stables. He wouldn’t see Lady Chester again today if Hawisa had her way.
‘We’re to have new gowns for the midsummer revels!’ Hawisa gabbled with excitement as she swung from her mother’s hand.
Eleyne looked down at her fondly. ‘Tell me about them.’ Half her mind was still in the stables where her finest stallion rested a badly gashed leg. The only son of Invictus who actually looked like his dead sire, he was an especial favourite. She brought her attention back firmly to the child and stooped to give her a hug.
‘Mine is yellow, with little bows here and here and here,’ the child’s flying hands seemed to indicate every part of her small person, ‘and Joanna’s is red. And we’ve got ribbons to go around the necks of Ancret and Lyulf – one red and one yellow.’
Eleyne laughed in delight. ‘They’ll like that, they’re very vain dogs.’
She lived in semi-retirement now. Only once had she gone back to Aber, for the funeral of her sister Gwladus. The death had saddened her, but she and Gwladus had never been close; the gap in their ages had been too great. She had spent several days with Margaret and Angharad in the ty hir and then sadly she had come home. Once or twice she had been tempted to court and much against her better judgement she had ridden to York two years before, to attend the marriage of her ten-year-old godson, Alexander, to her cousin Margaret, King Henry’s youngest daughter. The visit was not a success. Miserable and lonely, snubbed by the Scottish queen and her ladies, and paid an unwelcome degree of attention by Malcolm of Fife, she had returned home and tried to forget them all.
She never thought about Scotland now. She had forbidden Rhonwen to talk about the past and she had no interest in the future. The present was sufficient. She had never been so content. The lonely place in her heart which had once been full of Alexander was walled off in a corner somewhere deep inside her. The children, the horses, the dogs: they were enough. For now. In daylight. And if sometimes at night in her dreams she allowed that wall to crumble and let herself imagine that Alexander still watched over her, that was a secret she shared with no one.
One thing hadn’t changed: she still treasured her solitude. She would ride alone for miles with only her dogs for protection and she still insisted on sleeping alone, something at which her ladies had long ago stopped looking askance. They delighted in her eccentricities. She was their countess, the king’s niece; a princess once, they sometimes remembered, and she bred the best horses in ten counties!
She closed the door with a sigh and stretched her arms above her head luxuriously. It had been a tiring day, but she had enjoyed it. The stallion’s leg was healing cleanly and the preparations for the revels after today’s fast were well in hand. She smiled. The girls were almost sick with excitement; their gowns were ready and she had ordered a chased bangle for each of them from a silversmith in Worcester as a surprise.
She walked to the window embrasure and leaned out. It was a glorious evening, the June air full of the magical scents of summer: newly scythed hay, roses and honeysuckle from the hedgerows and the elusive wild smell of the Malvern Hills which reminded her, a little, of Eryri.
She frowned. This was a moment to enjoy, a moment of perfect happiness, and yet for a fraction of a second she had felt a whisper of unease. She stared out into the luminous darkness, listening intently, but there was nothing there beyond the usual sounds of the night. With a shiver she turned away from the window. There was one thing she had to do before she called her ladies to unlace her gown and brush her hair. She stood before her writing desk and picked up the letter which lay there. It was from Isabella. This, of all her letters, had been entrusted to a party of pilgrims who had stopped at the convent guesthouse on their way to Canterbury, and they had sent it safely on its way.
‘… If you beg the king for my release he will allow it. He has always loved you. Please, for the love of the Holy Virgin, help me. I am dying in this place …’
She sighed. Presumably the warm June night with its whispers of sweetness and promise filtered into the cold stone cells at Godstow too. It would take only a few moments to write to the king and to Isabella, promising her at least a little hop
e. She had been staring at that letter for much too long, knowing that she would have to offer Isabella a home, knowing Isabella would cause nothing but trouble here at Suckley. But it was her duty to help and she must put it off no longer.
The candle had almost burned down when the letters were finished and she rang at last for Nesta. ‘Take these and have Sam ride tonight, first to Godstow and then to London.’
‘Tonight?’ Nesta stared. ‘My lady, it must be midnight!’
‘Tonight,’ Eleyne repeated. She went back to the window to wait for Nesta’s return. Leaning on the broad sill, she found she had tensed again, listening, her ears straining beyond the calls of the owls hunting the home park where the mares grazed with their foals. Something was out there. There was a strange indefinable feeling of menace in the air. It had been a long time since she had felt anything like this.
She wanted to leave the window, to bury her face in her pillow and pull the covers over her head and hide. She looked at the dogs; they were both asleep in their accustomed place by the hearth, where a dull glow showed the small summer fire, damped down to embers. They sensed nothing. She moved towards them, the hairs on her arms prickling with fear, and Lyulf raised his head and gazed at her. He felt her disquiet at once and rose to his feet, his hackles stirring, his eyes puzzled as he looked round the room for the source of his beloved mistress’s fright.
When Nesta returned, she was still standing there, her hand on the dogs’ heads. To Nesta, it looked as if she were listening to something very far away.
‘My lady?’
Eleyne shook her head. ‘It’s nothing, I thought I heard something – ’
She gestured the dogs back to the hearth and sat down so that Nesta could unfasten her hair. ‘Where are the children?’
‘Asleep, my lady. Where else would they be?’ Nesta laughed.
‘I didn’t kiss them goodnight.’ Why was it suddenly so important?
‘You kissed them a thousand times between dawn and supper!’ Nesta picked up the comb and began to unplait Eleyne’s hair. ‘And they’ll be up again at dawn for Midsummer’s Day – as you will. There’s John’s Mass fires on the hills. You can see them from the tower.’ The fires were to keep away the evil spirits which roamed so freely abroad on this night of all nights of the year. Was that what she had sensed? Was there evil here tonight? Had Einion returned after so long to perpetuate his lies? Eleyne frowned. ‘Send Rhonwen to me.’ She pushed away Nesta’s hand. ‘Quickly, I must speak to her.’
She stood up and went across to her jewel casket, which stood on the clothes chest near her bed. Her hand hesitated over the lid, then she opened it. The phoenix lay on top of her other jewels, wrapped in a scrap of silk. She stared at it as it glowed in her hand. She was aware of him, when she held it; felt him near her. It was at night, when she took the pendant and put it under her pillow, that it was so easy to imagine that he was there in the darkness. And it was when the sensation grew too strong to bear that she took the pendant and put it in her jewel box. Only that way could she keep her sanity. The door opened and guiltily she put the pendant down on the table.
Rhonwen had been asleep. ‘What is it, cariad?’ She moved more slowly now; her joints were stiff and her bones ached even in the warmth of the summer.
‘Listen!’ Eleyne held up her hand. ‘Can you hear anything?’ Nesta had followed Rhonwen into the room and they both listened. The ashes shifted softly in the hearth and Ancret sighed. ‘There is something wrong. Is it Einion?’
Rhonwen looked surprised. ‘It’s a long time since you spoke of him, I thought you no longer believed.’
‘I don’t believe in his prophecies! How could I?’ Eleyne said bitterly. ‘But he still haunts me.’
‘No, cariad, whatever it is, it is not him, not here.’ Rhonwen sat down on the edge of the bed. She had her suspicions. She had heard the rumours that Eleyne walked with ghosts, and she had smiled secretly to herself. The child had always walked with ghosts, but now there was one special ghost, who watched over her; if it was the man she thought it was, she blessed them both. The love of Eleyne and her king had been sanctified by the gods. With their blessing even death could not separate them.
‘Nothing is wrong. Why don’t you go to sleep? Those children of yours will have me awake at first light if I know them.’ She smiled indulgently.
The dogs heard the footsteps in the hall before the women, but the loud knocking surprised them all. Hal Longshaft pushed into the room before Nesta had a chance to answer his knock; he was visibly distressed.
‘My lady, there are armed men on the road.’
‘Armed men?’ So that was it. There was a human danger out there in the night. Robert! Robert had returned from the Holy Land. Robert, whom she had hoped never to see again. Her stomach began to churn with fear.
‘Hugh Fletcher saw them, my lady. He was going to ride a bit of the way with Sam, but when they saw the men he turned back to warn us. I’ve called the men awake and the gates are under double guard. Hugh didn’t know their leader. He said they wore dark cloaks over the devices on their surcoats, but he was certain it wasn’t Sir Robert, my lady.’
So, he had read her mind. ‘Issue arms to all the men,’ she said quietly, ‘and pray.’ What good could her servants, her household do against armed men? There was no garrison here, no bodyguard. If this was an attack from the armies of thieves and outlaws who lived in the wild border march, they could do nothing. She turned to Rhonwen as Hal hurried away. ‘Why didn’t I see the danger sooner –?’
‘Your senses have grown lazy, cariad.’ Rhonwen shook her head. ‘They’ve had no need to develop here. Don’t reproach yourself, you chose the other path. Those content with the present don’t seek to see into the future. Besides, perhaps there is no danger.’ Her voice was reassuring. ‘They could be harmless travellers passing along the road.’
‘Take the children, Rhonwen. Take them into the woods below the brook.’ Eleyne caught her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Quickly. I want them out of the house and as far away as possible. Take Annie with you. Everyone else must stay and fight if necessary.’
‘But cariad –’
‘Do as I say. Quickly. Please. To be safe. I’ll send Hal to find you as soon as the danger is over. Take the dogs, they’ll guard the children with their lives.’ She ran towards the door, the dogs at her heels. ‘Go. Now. Go with Rhonwen.’ She pointed at Rhonwen and the two dogs obeyed her. Lyulf looked back once, and she saw the reproach in his eyes. With a quick look at Eleyne’s face, Rhonwen hurried away.
Eleyne was standing on the steps outside the front door of the old house when the horsemen drew up outside the gates and shouted for entry.
‘Who asks?’ The gateward’s voice sounded thin in the warm night air.
‘Tell Lady Chester that Malcolm of Fife has come to call.’ The voice sounded clearly across the cool green moat beyond the wall.
A wave of relief swept over Eleyne. She realised that her fists had been clenched so tightly that her nails had cut into the palms of her hands. Malcolm of Fife might not be welcome under most circumstances, but tonight, in the wake of her panic, he counted as a friend. ‘Open the gates,’ she called. ‘Make our guests welcome,’ and she stepped forward as the old oak gates creaked open and the armed men trooped across the bridge and into the courtyard.
Malcolm dismounted and bowed. ‘Lady Chester! It has been too long.’
She smiled at him. ‘You are welcome.’
‘I hope so.’ He followed her into the great hall of the manor house as she gave orders for the fire to be rekindled and lights to be placed in the sconces.
‘You have ridden a long way, Sir Malcolm,’ she commented as she sat in her chair and gestured him towards the other, ‘if you have come all the way from Scotland.’
‘I have come from Fife.’
‘And you are on your way south? To Bristol perhaps to see the king?’
‘No.’ He sat down and leaned forward, his elbows on hi
s knees, his eyes on her face. ‘I came for you.’
She smiled guardedly, her apprehension returning. ‘For me?’
‘Your husband is dead, Eleyne. You are free to remarry.’ He kept his voice low, aware of the curious glances in their direction from Eleyne’s sleepy household.
‘Dead?’ The shock of his words cut through her fear like a knife. ‘Robert is dead?’
‘Didn’t you guess? You haven’t heard from him for two years.’
‘Who told you? Who told you Robert was dead?’
‘I have my informants.’ He leaned back in his chair with a smile. ‘The fate of Robert de Quincy was, after all, of special importance to me. The reports I received seem conclusive. He is dead and buried. He will not come back to pester you again. You are free.’
Her immediate sense of relief was short-lived as she considered what Malcolm had said. ‘If I am, I intend to stay that way.’ She was painfully aware of her helplessness. She had opened the gates. She had invited him in and now some three dozen fully armed men were inside her walls, men who, while accepting the wine her servants had offered, had not laid down their swords. Conscious of the sudden stillness in his expression, she forced herself to soften her voice. ‘You do me great honour, my lord, but I will never marry again. And I have the assurance of my uncle, the King of England, on that.’ She hadn’t, but Malcolm would never know.
‘I do not intend to ask the king your uncle, madam.’ Malcolm’s voice dropped slightly. ‘I have waited too long. You are mine now.’
‘Perhaps we could discuss this in the morning?’ She was thinking frantically. Nearby she could see Michael standing, his hand on his sword. She frowned. She had never seen her horse marshal wear a sword before. ‘You and your men must be tired and such important matters must be talked about with due ceremony.’
He laughed softly. ‘There is nothing to talk about. We leave tonight.’
‘No!’ Her eyes were blazing. She stepped towards him, aware of the silence in the hall. ‘Leave my house, now, before I call my guard!’