Cautiously Nesta crept closer to her. Her small embroidery shears were hidden in her hand.
‘I thought this was your guard.’ With a smile Malcolm looked around the shadowy hall.
They were all there: her maids, her ladies, Hal, Michael, most of the stable lads, even Kenrick, her cook, and his kitchen boys and the three pages who were serving her until they moved to a household where the head of house was a knight from whom they could learn the chivalric arts. She was sick with fear for them all. The only people absent were Sam and Rhonwen and Annie and the children. She breathed a little prayer that Rhonwen had taken them into the woods as she had asked, then she looked Malcolm full in the eyes. ‘Please leave my house, sir. I am sorry, but your attentions are not welcome.’ There was a sudden coldness in the air.
‘I am sure you will learn to like me, Eleyne, and I am sorry I have to do this, but as you say, your uncle is the king, and it would be more politic if he didn’t know what had become of you. We’ll leave quietly, and disappear into the darkness forever. If you do as I say, no one will be hurt.’
‘No.’ She raised her voice. ‘I’m not coming with you!’
‘Then I am afraid I must use force. You have condemned these people to death, Eleyne of Chester, out of your own mouth.’ He snapped his fingers and his men in the hall drew their swords, the rasp of steel ugly in the peaceful old house.
Michael did not hesitate. With a shout of anger, he raised his sword and ran towards her, but he had taken only half a dozen steps before he was cut down.
‘Michael!’ She heard herself scream as Malcolm lunged forward and caught her wrist, swinging her into his arms. Nesta, sweet faithful Nesta, raised her hand, the wickedly sharp shears glinting in her fist. A man-at-arms stepped towards her and Nesta doubled up with a soundless gurgle, his sword through her stomach. There was nothing Eleyne could do. Malcolm had pinioned her arms as he carried her through the uproar, striding towards the door, ignoring her frantic struggles. The shadowy hall was splashed with gore. Women lay in pools of blood on the floor amongst the men and in the far corner she saw a sheet of flame race across the hangings which backed the dais, as one of Malcolm’s men snatched up a torch and touched it systematically to the tapestries.
The courtyard was cool and silent after the horror of the hall. Without a word, he carried her to his horse and threw her across the saddle, mounting behind her and kicking the animal into a gallop almost in the same movement. Two of his men were behind them. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was a glimpse of them through her streaming hair as the horse thundered through the gates and up the dust road in the moonlight.
II
GODSTOW
Isabella opened the letter with shaking hands. The seal of Chester was sharp and defiant beneath her fingers, the seal of a woman who was her own mistress and free. She grimaced with a glance at the almoner who sat near her, her beads twisted in her arthritic fingers. Did they think she wouldn’t notice that the letter had been opened? That the seal had been lifted with a knife blade and then melted – probably with the same knife but hot this time from the fire – long enough to hold it closed?
Eleyne’s letter was short. It was dated St John’s Eve, two days before. ‘Be patient, dear Isabella. I have written to the king on your behalf and I am sure he will allow you to journey to me on my undertaking to keep you here …’
Her undertaking! Isabella echoed the words furiously. Then she shrugged. What did it matter what undertakings Eleyne gave if it got her out of this damned convent? It was the mention of the king’s name which had forced them at last to give her this letter. They were afraid to burn it, which they would have done if they had dared. Never mind. She had it now. She clenched her fist over the crackling parchment. Let Eleyne promise anything she wanted; once she was out of the convent it would take more than Eleyne of Chester to imprison her again.
III
The children; she had to get to the children.
The thought pounded in her head, round and round, in time to the beating hooves of the horse.
The children; Sweet Virgin, the children.
She tried to move, but her limbs were like lead and her head swam sickeningly when she tried to open her eyes. She realised it was now bright day: was it two days they had been on the road, or three? She had lost all track of time. She could feel the sun beating down on the hood of her cloak; she was so hot she could hardly breathe and the iron band around her ribs grew tighter every minute.
‘Joanna, Hawisa –’ Their names came out as a whisper, but someone heard. Abruptly the horse’s pace slackened and the band around her waist loosened. It was a man’s arm.
‘Are you awake?’ Malcolm peered at her, pulling the heavy cloak away from her face. ‘We’ll stop and rest as soon as we’re across the border.’
‘The border?’ Her lips were so dry she could hardly speak.
He grinned. ‘Aye, it’ll not be long now.’
‘Joanna, Hawisa.’ She tried to push his arm away, but he didn’t seem to notice. Kicking the horse back into a slow canter, he turned and shouted to his men to follow. Her mind was blank; she remembered nothing of the killing; only the terrible overwhelming fear for her two little girls. ‘Joanna, Hawisa.’ Her lips framed the words again, but no sound came.
They stopped in the wild empty hills as the sun was setting and bivouacked in the heather. Eleyne staggered away from the men and sinking down beside a peaty pool of brown water bathed her face, trying to clear her head. She was dizzy and her temples throbbed sickeningly. Malcolm followed her and stood, hands on hips, watching her. Her hands and face were dripping as she knelt on the coarse heather stems. ‘What happened?’ she asked. The past days were a blur of terror and confusion. She could remember nothing but shouting and fire. Her mind refused to work properly. ‘Joanna, Hawisa!’
‘Don’t you bother about them.’ His face was hard. ‘Forget them.’
‘How can you say that?’ Her eyes blazed at him. ‘There was a fire! My children! My two little girls! What have you done to them? Where are they? What’s happened to them?’
‘Nothing happened to them.’ For a moment he dropped his gaze. ‘I saw no children. The people scattered when we burned the place. No one was hurt.’
‘You burned it?’ For a moment she was too shocked to speak. Suckley, her beautiful, peaceful home. ‘And the horses? You burned the stables too?’
He shook his head emphatically. ‘You know me better than that. The stables were untouched.’
‘You spared the horses.’ She seemed able only to repeat everything he said. Her mind had blotted out most of what had happened.
Malcolm nodded. ‘Those which can travel are being brought north. I know how much you cared for them.’
‘So, you act like a reiver. You steal my horses and you burn my house.’
‘I’m no horsethief, Eleyne.’ He looked very grave. ‘The horses are yours.’
‘And I am yours?’ It was barely a question.
‘You are mine.’
‘And if I choose not to be yours?’
‘You will, given time.’ He folded his arms. ‘If you want food, you must come to the fire.’
‘I’ll not eat with you.’ She rose unsteadily to her feet and faced him. ‘I’ll not eat with you and I’ll not sleep with you, if that’s what you’re hoping.’
She moved a few paces away. All around them the heather bent stretched empty beneath the crimson sky. In the silence a curlew called.
‘Eat or not as you choose, my lady,’ he called after her. ‘But sleep with me you will. Tonight and every night, for the rest of your life.’
‘No!’ She flung herself round. ‘Never!’
He smiled ‘If it’s your good name you’re worried about, we shall be wed as soon as we reach Falkland. Though I always got the impression that your reputation didn’t worry you much.’ He put his head on one side. ‘I’ve waited a long time for you, Eleyne – an unconscionable long time. I don’t intend t
o wait any longer. But for now, I can see you won’t be satisfied until you’ve tried to run. Go on then, see how far you get. I’ll come for you when I’m ready.’
She watched as he strode towards the fire where already venison was roasting on the makeshift spit. She could smell the cooking flesh and her stomach turned with revulsion even as it growled with hunger. She knew it was no use. There was nowhere to hide. The folded ground was a wilderness of heather and grass, dotted with stunted thorn and pine. All round her the wild Cheviot Hills formed a barrier of loneliness and desolation. She walked for several minutes, stumbling on the tussocky ground, watching the bog cotton as it bobbed in the falling dusk. Curlew called in the distance, their liquid trills emphasising the emptiness of the hills.
The men settled around their fire. She could hear their laughter and their shouts as they lounged on the soft ground. She stopped at last by an old pine tree and leaned against it, closing her eyes. She could not escape: wherever she went, whatever she did, Malcolm would find her; she suspected he would follow her now to the ends of the earth. It was as if he had been her destiny all along. She smiled grimly to herself. Was this what Einion had predicted? A life and a death, in Scotland.
It was a long time before Malcolm came for her. ‘Are you ready for some food now?’ he asked softly. ‘It’ll do no good to starve yourself.’
She pushed herself away from the tree. ‘I won’t marry you,’ she said.
‘We’ll talk about that tomorrow.’ He took her arm.
His men moved aside for her and she sat down on his folded cloak while they brought her a portion of roast hart from one of the animals Malcolm’s men had hunted down on their ride that morning, laughing that though they stole the king’s stag it was at least in season, and they gave her wine from a leather bottle. While she ate, one of the young men produced a bird-bone pipe and began to play a slow, wistful tune which echoed in the swiftly falling night. It was midsummer – there would be no darkness.
She made no attempt to struggle when at last Malcolm folded her into his cloak a little apart from his men, near the dying embers of the fire. As he pulled up her gown and entered her with almost gentle eagerness, it was another man’s face she saw in the glowing peat over his shoulder – the face of the man who had been his king.
IV
WESTMINSTER 28 June 1253
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.’