Child of the Phoenix

  ‘So. He is alive!’ Eleyne sat down heavily; she put her hand to her side.

  ‘He was three months ago.’

  ‘Then my child will be born a bastard!’ She stood up again. ‘Three months, you said? Anything could happen in three months. The war in the Holy Land is cruel, they say.’

  Rhonwen watched her closely. ‘You are happy then with Lord Fife?’

  ‘No.’ Her reply was swift and unequivocal. ‘Resigned, perhaps. It might have been different when Hawisa and Joanna came. He’s good to me and he loves me. But I can never forgive what he did at Suckley. And he lied.’ She shook her head, her voice heavy with despair. ‘He lied about Robert’s death.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t have lied about that, not when he had to make vows before the priest.’ If Alexander tolerated Malcolm, so would Rhonwen – for now. ‘He must have believed that Robert was dead. He had been away three years without a word, after all.’ Rhonwen smiled coaxingly. ‘Cariad, surely Malcolm of Fife is a thousand times a better man than Robert de Quincy. If Henry can declare you officially dead, then surely you can do the same for Sir Robert. He is dead for you. And Malcolm of Fife is now your chosen man.’

  Eleyne did not deny it.

  VI

  As if to console her for the loss of the girls, the birth was an easy one and the baby, a boy, was a healthy, happy child. Malcolm was speechless with delight, embarrassed and astonished by the perfection of his son, touching the child’s hands with one cautious finger as if to test if he were real. Eleyne saw the wonder on his face and found herself almost liking him.

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ he said at last.

  She smiled, exhausted but content. He was christened Colban. She had been terrified that he would want to call the baby after the king, but perhaps after all he had more tact.

  As before, she recovered quickly from the birth, her muscles snapping back into place swiftly and firmly as she took once more to the saddle and the energetic life which Malcolm allowed her freely now he was confident that she no longer wanted to flee. And once more she wrote to Margaret of Lincoln.

  VII

  GODSTOW April 1254

  Isabella stared at the abbess. ‘I don’t believe you. I had a letter from Lady Chester less than a year ago. She said I could go to her. She promised. She said she would speak to the king …’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Emma Bloet had so hoped that Isabella would settle to her retirement with the grace and dignity which her rank and position demanded. This endless struggle was wearing for them both.

  ‘Eleyne of Chester is dead, my dear. Nothing can change that.’

  ‘No, she’s my friend. She’s my sister – ’

  The abbess sighed. ‘We must pray for her soul.’

  ‘And me? What will happen to me now?’ Isabella clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.

  ‘You will stay here, my daughter.’ The abbess suddenly ran out of patience. ‘In God’s house. Until you die.’

  VIII

  FALKLAND CASTLE Winter 1256

  ‘You’re not Michael.’

  Eleyne regarded the tall, wild-haired man who stood before her, his gown still damp from the rain which beat down outside.

  ‘Michael the Wizard is no longer with us, my lady.’ The man bowed gravely. ‘I served him while he was in Scotland and at the court of the emperor and I learned his art. He told me you would call on him one day and that when you did I should come.’

  Eleyne frowned. ‘He offered to teach me once.’ Rhonwen sat near the fire, stitching in the light of a branch of candles; otherwise they were alone in the shadowy solar. A rumble of thunder rolled around the Lomond Hills. ‘I want you to look into the future for me,’ she said slowly.

  It was two years now since Colban’s birth. She had had no further word from Margaret of Lincoln, in spite of her stream of frantic letters, unaware that King Henry and John de Lacy had forbidden her to reply. Neither had she become pregnant again. Malcolm had hidden his disappointment well, but he came home to her more and more often, sometimes riding from Dunfermline only to dine and to take her to bed before setting off to the court again at dawn. She lay beneath him submissively, wanting a child as much as he did, aware that her lack of passion disappointed him and cooled his ardour, but unable to respond. Never again did she react to him as she had that night when she was pregnant with Colban, when she had released all the passion and frustration her phantom lover had aroused. She was, she supposed, content with him. She would not fight him, but that was all. For passion she looked only into the shadows.

  The dark eyes scrutinised her face carefully. Adam Scot had learned well from his master: he could read her soul. ‘You have the power to see, Lady Fife, why do you not use it? Why do you resort to herbs and stars and water when you were born with the power of vision; when you were born with the ability to walk between the worlds?’

  Her skin crawled with revulsion. The man’s power was tangible, reaching out to her, probing her mind. She resisted the urge to fend him off. She had after all begged for his help.

  ‘My powers are untrained, I cannot command them.’

  ‘I will train you.’ He smiled faintly.

  The power frightened her, but it would give her the means to reach Joanna and Hawisa. Through it she could persuade them to ask Margaret to send them to her. And it would bring Alexander to her more often.

  Feeling his eyes still on her face, she veiled her thoughts quickly. She had no desire for this dirty, unkempt man to know her most precious secrets. He gave a supercilious smile, seeing the veil and knowing already the reason; but he retreated at once. Don’t frighten her. Don’t pry. Somehow this woman held the future of the kingdom in her hand.

  ‘You are wondering about your children,’ he said, softening his voice. What should he tell her?

  ‘The truth,’ she murmured, as if she read his mind in turn.

  ‘The child you carry now will be a soldier.’ He smiled in triumph as he saw her look of surprise. So she didn’t even know herself about the new life in her belly. ‘He will live to full manhood and he will die gloriously in battle in the service of his king.’

  Her hands went to her stomach protectively. ‘You are certain of this?’

  ‘It is written, my lady.’ He bowed.

  ‘And what of Colban? And my daughters? Can you see my daughters?’ Her voice sharpened.

  He shook his head. The truth would cause her too much pain. ‘The picture there is blurred. Let me teach you, my lady, then you may seek to see them yourself.’

  She looked beyond Rhonwen to the fire. ‘Sometimes I see in the flames, but they frighten me. They seem to draw me in.’ That was where Alexander waited, in the heart of the flame. He and the other – the man on horseback. She shivered.

  Adam studied her gravely, ‘We must all look where the pictures come. I can help you conjure them more clearly.’

  ‘And Einion Gweledydd? Can you bring him to me?’ Eleyne fixed him with a cold look, aware that Rhonwen had risen to her feet at the name. The room was silent, and suddenly very cold.

  Adam didn’t move; he was staring beyond her, through the castle walls into the whirling darkness and the cold rain. Einion Gweledydd had tried to warn her of what was to come and he had failed. Somewhere out there, beyond the night, his soul flailed in the darkness, seeking forgiveness and peace.

  Rhonwen’s face was white. ‘Can you reach him?’ she echoed, her voice husky with fear.

  Adam’s eyes focused again. ‘I will try.’ He folded his arms inside the long sleeves of his gown, and addressed Eleyne. ‘If it is truly your wish.’

  Eleyne nodded faintly. ‘I must know the truth. I must know why he lied to me.’

  Beyond the walls there was a moment of turmoil in the darkness – a whirlwind – which vanished across the parkland and into the forest. Adam frowned. He could feel the protest, the denial, the yearning to put right a great wrong. It spun out of nothing in the rain, spattering on the shuttered windows, then it was gone. r />
  IX

  FALKLAND CASTLE January 1257

  Malcolm stood with his back to the fire, feeling the warmth drying the rain out of his clothes. He tipped the goblet of wine down his throat and held it out for a refill, sighing. The manoeuvres for power at the boy king’s court were becoming wearisome. A couple of days at Falkland and two nights in his wife’s bed would restore him. He eased his shoulders with a grunt, feeling the knotted muscles protest and he grinned at his companions. ‘We’ll hunt well tomorrow if this accursed weather improves a bit.’

  ‘Where is Lady Fife?’ Alan Durward asked, holding out his goblet for more wine. ‘The great hall is dull without her.’

  Malcolm beckoned a servant and despatched him to Eleyne’s solar, but it was Rhonwen who came. Tall and austere, she stood gazing thoughtfully at Malcolm and he shivered. He disliked the woman intensely, though he was always careful to hide his hostility.

  ‘My lady has retired to bed,’ she said finally. ‘She was feeling unwell.’

  ‘Unwell?’

  Rhonwen gave a slight smile. It was not for her to divulge a pregnancy revealed by a seer.

  She was about to speak again when the door at the end of the hall burst open and a rain-soaked figure appeared. Malcolm’s eyes narrowed as he recognised John Keith, one of his most trusted messengers, a man he had despatched a month previously on yet another visit to Margaret of Lincoln, to try to persuade her to allow the children at least to visit their mother.

  Keith pushed his way through the crowds huddled around the great fires in the hall, until he had reached Malcolm. Without ceremony, he pulled him to one side. ‘I have to talk to you in private.’

  ‘What is it, man?’ Malcolm looked around angrily; they were out of earshot of his men. ‘Speak up.’

  ‘Robert de Quincy is in London.’ John Keith lowered his voice.

  Malcolm went white. Over the years the rumours had persisted that de Quincy was alive, but he had not let himself believe them. He dared not let himself believe them. Nothing could be permitted to jeopardise his marriage.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Aye, he’s at Henry’s court. And he has visited your wife’s children.’

  Malcolm cursed. ‘By Our Lady! I can’t believe it!’ He banged his fists together in fury.

  ‘Lord Fife.’ Rhonwen’s quiet voice at his elbow made him swing round, cursing again. Her eyes were almost colourless in the firelight and he felt a superstitious shiver run up his spine. She had heard, God damn it! She had heard!

  She smiled coldly at him. ‘My lady would not welcome Sir Robert’s return,’ she said. ‘She should not be told.’ Those clear, fathomless eyes met his and held them. ‘Not until he is dead.’

  Malcolm resisted the urge to cross himself. Sweet Christ, the woman actually frightened him! ‘It seems our thoughts run on the same road, Lady Rhonwen.’

  She nodded. ‘It should be done without delay.’

  So, she was on his side after all. He looked at John Keith. ‘The man is presumably shriven by his visit to the Holy Land. He is prepared for death. Let it come to him – swiftly.’

  John Keith bowed. His face was grim. ‘I’ll see to it, my lord.’

  Malcolm nodded curtly. ‘And see to it also that no one knows how or why it came.’

  Keith grinned. ‘Not even Sir Robert himself will know that, my lord,’ he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I

  February 1257

  ‘Ishall come with you.’

  John Keith turned in surprise at the soft voice at his elbow as he prepared to mount his horse. It was the countess’s nurse, the Lady Rhonwen.

  ‘My lord’s orders are that I should ride fast. I go on his business.’

  ‘I know your business, Master Keith,’ she replied. ‘And I shall come with you.’ Her smile made his blood run cold.

  It took five days to reach London, changing horses frequently along the road. Once there, Rhonwen led the way to the house in Gracechurch Street. It belonged now to Dervorguilla Balliol, who had inherited it on Countess Clemence’s death four years before, but Rhonwen was still welcome there. It was dark when they rode into the courtyard and the gates closed behind them.

  He had planned an attack in the street – quick, easy and anonymous, as would be his escape, but Rhonwen shook her head. A knife in the ribs was too quick. Too easy. Too anonymous. She wanted him to know where his death came from and she had it all planned. A bolt of finest silk from Luned’s stock was to be the bait.

  As he woke up, Robert realised it was St Gilbert’s Day: February the fourth, a dismal day, a day of ill omen. Not a day when he would normally have undertaken any enterprise more energetic than climbing out of bed and pouring himself a goblet of wine. Nevertheless, the bargains he had been promised by the whispering servant the day before were very hard to resist. How could it be unlucky to go abroad when such riches had been vaunted? Silk. The finest, and at a ludicrous price. He found his way to the empty shop at the back of Paul’s and left his servant outside with the horses as instructed. When he recognised Rhonwen, the door behind him was already bolted.

  She had spread the silk across the table. ‘Do you like it?’ She stood, arms folded, watching him. John Keith, by the door, had the dirk ready.

  Robert glanced at the fabric. Soft and sensuous, a beautiful scarlet, it was the colour of blood. His mouth suddenly dry, he nodded. His own dagger was in the scrip at his belt beneath his cloak. He took a couple of steps back towards the door. ‘I hear my wife has run off with yet another lover,’ he blustered with a sneer. ‘Didn’t you go with her, Lady Rhonwen? Is she finally tired of your murdering, heathen ways?’

  Rhonwen smiled. ‘She knows nothing of my murdering ways, Sir Robert. Nothing. But you, on the other hand, are about to find out all about them.’ She still hadn’t moved.

  He had seen the silent man by the door. He was slightly built, but wiry; strong, Robert calculated. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much the night before. The bitch was dangerous as a viper, and probably as quick. He eased his hand towards his dagger, but John Keith was too quick for him. Before Robert realised what had happened, the Scotsman had his dirk at his throat. ‘Keep still,’ he growled, ‘and do as she says.’

  Rhonwen still hadn’t moved. His neck drawn back, rigid with fear before the gleaming blade, Robert’s eyes slid sideways to her face.

  Again she smiled. She stepped towards the table. ‘I’m glad you like the silk. It shall be your shroud.’ From beneath the soft folds she produced a length of rope.

  He paled. ‘You daren’t touch me – ’

  ‘No?’ She coiled it over her arm, stroking the twisted hemp.

  It took them only a few moments to tie his hands behind him and drag him to the upright beam in the middle of the dusty floor. He was struggling violently, but they managed it at last, hobbling his legs and pushing a rag into his mouth to stop him shouting for his servants.

  Rhonwen stood back calmly and surveyed him. ‘See how you like it, my lord, being tied and helpless. Does it give you pleasure when it is done to you?’ She saw the fear in his eyes.

  ‘What else did you do to her, my lord?’ she went on quietly. ‘Oh, she never told me. She never told anyone. She was too ashamed. But do you think I don’t know? Did you think you would get away with it? You are going to be very sorry that the infidel hordes did not get their hands on you, my lord, because what I am going to do to you is a thousand times worse than anything they have thought of.’

  Without looking at John Keith, she held out her hand; her meaning was clear. He put the dirk into it. He was beginning to feel a little sick himself. This wasn’t what he had in mind. A knife in the ribs. A throat cut in a back alley. That was a man’s work, but this …

  Carefully keeping his face impassive he stepped back and folded his arms. He had the feeling she didn’t need him any more.

  By the time she had finished he had vomited in the corner, his ears ringing with Robert’s stifled sc
reams, muffled at last to a dying gurgle as she forced his severed genitals into his mouth.

  The silence that followed was as appalling as the noise had been. John Keith stared at her, the bile still rising in his gorge. He had seen many men die; he had killed a few himself, but never had he seen anyone kill with such slow and calculated hatred.

  She was covered in blood, but her face was impassive as she wiped clean the dirk and held it out to him. ‘I shall change,’ she said calmly, ‘then we can ride north. Go down and fetch my saddlebag, and while you are there send his servants away. Tell them he is riding with us to Fotheringhay. By the time someone finds the body we shall be in Scotland. Well, go on, man. What are you waiting for?’

  His hands were shaking. Sweet Christ but there had been true madness in her eyes! He nodded. What matter how it was done? Lord Fife had been obeyed.

  ‘John.’ Her voice was gentle now. ‘He hurt my lady very badly.’ It was all she offered by way of explanation.

  II

  FALKLAND CASTLE 9 February 1257

  Eleyne looked up from the fodder accounts she was studying as Malcolm walked in, her mind still full of the price of oats and hay, beans and pease and horsebread. He stood for a moment with a strange expression on his face. She tried to read it. He was still a good-looking man, but more grizzled now and hardened. ‘What is it, what has happened?’

  He did not answer. His gaze slid from her face to her belly; in its fourth month now, the pregnancy had just begun to show.

  ‘We have to ride to St Andrews.’

  ‘Why?’ She put down her pen, stretching cramped fingers.

  ‘I have to see the archdeacon.’

  ‘And do I need to come?’

  ‘I think you do.’

  She walked to his side. ‘What has happened, Malcolm?’ She had never seen him like this – tense, excited, his muscles taut, like a man about to ride into battle.

  He smiled at her. ‘Get ready, my love. We ride at once.’