‘Not ever?’ The look she gave him was stricken.
He took a deep breath. ‘No doubt a visit can be arranged at some point. When we go back to Chester we can consider it if your father wishes it. But at the moment he has made no mention of it. Neither, if you read your letter carefully,’ he handed it back to her, ‘does the Lady Rhonwen.’
Luned stared at Eleyne. ‘We can’t go back? Ever?’
Eleyne shook her head, biting back her tears. The brightly painted room with its terracotta walls and ornate gilded plasterwork between the beams was cool and shady compared with the street beyond the high gates. The small-paned windows let in a strange greenish light which cast ripples and shadows across the floor. The bitter smell of dry strewn herbs rose and tickled her throat as she moved.
‘Then what?’ Luned sat down heavily on the edge of a coffer.
‘We go on as before. England is our home now.’ Eleyne’s voice was flat. ‘Or Scotland, one day perhaps.’ Scotland was a fairy tale; part of a dream of a queen with a golden crown. ‘But we can visit Aber only if papa asks us. Luned,’ she went and sat down next to her, taking her hand, ‘I am going to write to Rhonwen. And to Isabella. I’ll ask them to speak to papa. Bella would want me there. Aber won’t be much fun on her own. There were so many things we were going to do together; so many adventures I had planned. She’ll persuade them to let me come back, I know she will.’
The bleak reality of John’s glimpse of the future was pushed aside. She could not, would not, believe it possible that she would never live in North Wales again.
VII
This time Isabella wrote back. Eleyne stared at the letter in disbelief, frozen with horror, oblivious of her husband’s worried eyes on her. ‘What is it, Eleyne?’ The letter had been with his as usual courteous note from Llywelyn about march business.
Eleyne shook her head bleakly.
Leaning forward, John took the letter from her limp fingers and scanned the loose childish handwriting. Seconds later he had thrown it on the fire.
‘Forget her.’ His words were curt.
‘But she is – was – my friend.’ Eleyne was bewildered.
‘I fear you have been made a scapegoat, sweetheart. Your brother has, it seems, blamed you for her father’s death. You can see why they have done it. Life would be intolerable if she blamed your father. You are not there. It was the pragmatic answer.’
‘But she was my friend,’ Eleyne repeated. She could not believe such betrayal.
‘Obviously not.’ She had to learn the lesson now, hard though it was. ‘A true friend would have believed in you.’
‘I’ll never go back home now …’ The shock was wearing off and the full significance of the letter began to dawn. ‘If she blames me, everyone else will be doing the same. My mother – ’
John frowned. ‘That may well be so, sweetheart.’
She stood up slowly and walked over to the low window. Through the dim glass she could see the altercation between two wagoners just outside the gates below. The wheels of their vehicles had become locked in the narrow street and, strain as they might, the oxen pulling in opposite directions could not extricate them. The fracas ended only when one of the wheels was wrenched off and the wagon tipped its load of heavy sacks into the filthy road.
VIII
The visit to London ended. John took Eleyne once again on the progress around the Huntingdon estates. Away from the city her spirits rose a little. She was happy to be riding again and, in spite of herself, she was becoming increasingly interested in the complexities of running the great earldom. John encouraged her, enjoying the blossoming confidence, the shrewd native intelligence, the occasional wry humour. He also enjoyed talking to her of deeper things: persuading her to tell him the stories of the old gods of the Welsh hills and in return showing her the gentle meekness of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Often he took her alone with him into the chapels and churches on his estates, to listen to the singing of the liturgy or to see the beauty of the gold and silver, the alabaster, the glass; above all, to feel the peace to be found at the feet of the Mother of God. Eleyne had more or less forgotten Einion and now she found that she could put Rhonwen too at the back of her mind. Her nurse was safe and happy at Aber, and her husband must now become the centre of her life. She would see Rhonwen soon, of that she was certain.
She fought the dreams consciously, never gazing into the fire, never allowing the veil which separated past, present and future to slip. As time passed it seemed to grow easier. She recognised the sensations which sometimes threatened her: the sharpening of perception, the intensity of feeling, the strange blankness which announced the closeness of another world. When that happened, she would clutch at the beautiful carved beads and crucifix John had given her and which now always hung at her waist. The more fixed she became in the present, the more she found herself becoming fond of John. At twenty-eight he was a good-looking man – serious, conscientious, gentle with his young wife.
He never mentioned the time when they would be more than friends. Her courses had started at last, a full eighteen months after Luned had blossomed as a woman. When it happened, she had held her breath and waited, sure that John would know, sure he would now insist she come to his bed. But he gave no sign of knowing that her thin, skinny body had become a woman’s body. He treated her as he always had and never did anything to frighten her. As the months passed and she came more and more to rely on him and trust him, husband and wife grew more and more pleased with each other.
In March 1232 King Henry visited them at Fotheringhay and she helped to supervise the preparations for the vast number of men and women in his train. It was the first time she had really felt her role as countess and lady of the castle; the visit was a resounding success. It was all the more surprise therefore when, as the heat returned to the low-lying countryside, she fell ill again. When a summons came for John to attend Henry at Westminster, John was at his wits’ end how to help her. He did not dare to suggest that she return with him to the Strand.
Eleyne’s sister Margaret came to their rescue. ‘Send her to me,’ she said in her letter. ‘As I suggested before, the air of the Downs will help her regain her strength.’
John showed her the letter and smiled at the sudden animation in her eyes when she looked up at him. ‘Can I go?’
‘Of course you can go. Spend the summer with your sister, and then we will come back to Fotheringhay together in the autumn.’ He did not add out loud the thought which came into his head: And then, Eleyne mine, you must learn to be a real wife.
IX
BRAMBER CASTLE, SUSSEX July 1232
Bramber lay massive and prosperous in the summer sun as Eleyne rode across the bridges which protected it on its hill in the arm of the River Adur. The great castle, sixty miles from London, dominated the Sussex countryside around it, looking down on the busy quays at which were moored several ships which had come in on the high afternoon tide. In the distance the soft heights of the Downs were lost in the hazy sunshine.
Eleyne threw herself into Margaret’s arms. After a hug of welcome, Margaret disentangled herself. Tall, flame-haired like Eleyne, and bubbling with infectious excitement, Margaret dragged Eleyne towards the keep. ‘Come and meet my John.’
John de Braose, at twenty-five a year his wife’s senior, was waiting at the head of the stairs. ‘Lady Huntingdon.’ Bowing, he kissed her hand formally, then he straightened and gave her a welcoming smile.
Eleyne’s heart almost stopped beating: the eyes, the angle of the head. He was so like his dead cousin, William, she found herself speechless with shock.
‘Eleyne?’ Margaret took her hand. ‘Are you all right? Come on. I want you to meet John’s mother, Mattie – Lady de Braose.’ She put Eleyne’s hand into that of the woman standing behind John. ‘Mother, this is my very important little sister!’
Matilda de Braose smiled. ‘My dear. I am so pleased you have come to stay with us.’ The face, framed by a snow-white wimple, was mi
ddle-aged, the eyes dark and vivid in the gentle face. Giving Eleyne a warm hug, she drew her arm through hers. ‘Come in and have some refreshments. Then you may sit and gossip with your sister as much as you like!’
‘She’s nice, your mother-in-law,’ Eleyne said shyly as Lady de Braose left them together. ‘I thought perhaps she would hate me.’
‘Hate you?’ Margaret stared at her.
‘Your husband’s cousin, Isabella, blames me for Sir William’s death.’ Eleyne stood miserably in front of her sister, pulling off her soft kid riding gloves.
Margaret looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Why?’
Eleyne stared in surprise. ‘Because it was me who found them in bed together.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘It was me who told papa.’
‘I see.’ Margaret bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘I cried when I heard papa had put mama in prison. She was always so just, so loyal to him. And so in love. It was hard to think of her as guilty of anything so terrible. It was William’s fault of course; he must have bewitched her in some way.’ She leaned forward and caught Eleyne’s hand. ‘William de Braose had few friends at Bramber, Eleyne, so you’ve nothing to worry about here. His father, Reginald, stole John’s inheritance. John and his mother have been fighting for years to have it restored. When the family were reinstated after John’s grandparents died, the king gave the de Braose lands back to John’s uncle, Bishop Giles, because John was still a minor and under the guardianship of Mattie’s father. But when the bishop died the king gave them to Reginald instead of John, who was the rightful heir. That was very wrong.’ She grimaced. ‘Anyway, enough of family talk for now. Come and meet my son, Will.’ She gave Eleyne another hug. ‘Oh, to think he’s nearly nine years old! It makes me feel such an old lady to have a son so old, and my baby sister grown up at last!’
Was she grown up? Eleyne sat that night in the room she had been given with her ladies in the great gatehouse keep, and gazed thoughtfully into the polished metal mirror which Luned had taken out of her casket.
That afternoon, John de Braose had cornered her as she left the great hall after dinner had been cleared away. He had looked at her with a grave smile. ‘I had no idea Margaret’s little sister would be so beautiful,’ he said softly. ‘How can Lord Huntingdon bear to part with you?’
She blushed. ‘My husband is waiting on the king at Westminster. He won’t miss me.’
‘No?’ His eyes on hers were warmly quizzical. ‘Then he is a fool. If you were my wife, I shouldn’t let you out of my sight.’ His arm around her shoulders was warm and strong. She swallowed nervously, unused to such blatant flirtation, half embarrassed, half excited by his attention.
Like his cousin, Sir William, he was a well-built man, strong, virile, exuding energy. Eleyne had a sudden vision of her mother’s lover crouched over her mother’s body and she closed her eyes, half dizzy with strange, conflicting emotions.
He felt her hesitate, felt the slight stagger as the memory hit her. ‘Are you all right?’ He removed his arm from her waist and took her elbow instead. She could feel the warmth and power of his fingers through the silk of her sleeve.
‘I’m all right. Where’s Margaret?’ Her voice sounded strange – breathless.
He smiled. ‘She’s close behind us with mama. Why, are you afraid to be alone with me?’ he teased and again she blushed.
‘Of course not …’
‘I can see I shall have to keep away from you, little sister.’ His voice was low and amused. ‘You have found your wings as a temptress and intend to practise on me.’
Her protest was cut off as he drew her arm through his and turned to wait for his wife and mother as they emerged from the hall.
Had he really thought her beautiful or had he been teasing her? She angled the mirror this way and that to get a better look at her face. It showed her a pair of large green eyes, fringed with dark lashes and broad upslanted eyebrows; a nose still upturned like a child’s but showing already the strong lines to come; the cheekbones emerging from their round baby bloom. Her neck was long; her throat beneath her veil white and narrow; her mouth generous, quirky – quick to laugh and quick to scowl. She frowned and watched the light die from her eyes. Behind her the shadowed room was dark; the distorted reflection did not reach that far; but she saw a flicker of movement in the shadows. Dropping the mirror, she turned. Only Luned was in the chamber, bending low over a coffer, stowing away some of Eleyne’s clothes. The corners of the room were empty.
That night as she lay in bed she thought about John de Braose, comparing him sleepily with her husband. This John was brash, confident, effortlessly attractive and flirtatious. He knew exactly how to charm, how to cajole. Her own John was so different. Quiet, serious, but kind. Sterner, but more gentle. And in his own way more handsome. Hugging herself secretly beneath the bedclothes, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to be kissed – properly kissed – by John de Braose, but immediately her eyes flew open and she shuddered as the memory of William and her mother flooded through her. She tried to push it away, pulling herself up against the pillows. As her eyes closed, she vowed that never, never would she do that with anyone.
In her dreams someone came to her however. Someone who took her in his arms and kissed her; someone who was a part of her; someone without whom, did she but realise it, she was lonely. His face did not belong to John of Scotland or to John or William de Braose, and in the morning she had forgotten that he was ever there.
X
Eleyne shivered. The small bower at the end of the herb garden had grown cold in spite of the sun. She glanced at the sky, but there were no clouds in the intense blue. In the distance a heat haze danced over the Downs. She dropped her work on the bench beside her and looked around. Margaret and Mattie were busy in the wardrobe going through the monthly accounts with the castle steward and Will was with his tutor, so she had made her sewing the excuse to sit in the sun. There had been no sign of John. Over the past weeks she had grown used to looking for him, flirting with him, testing the strange new excitement which caught at her stomach when he was near, strangely like the emotions she had felt when she had been with Sir William – and yet different: more intense, more frightening. She felt the warmth rise in her cheeks even here, alone in the garden, and firmly she pushed the thought away. He was her sister’s husband. She loved her sister and her sister’s son, with whom she played frequently, and she adored Mattie de Braose, who was kind and gentle and motherly to the lonely girl. For she was lonely and to her surprise it was for the strength and friendship she had grown to rely on from her own husband.
Thoughtfully, she gazed down at the piece of work on her knee. At first she had imagined they were all so content at Bramber, but now, as her stay lengthened, she was beginning to feel the undertones and tensions around her. Mattie, frustrated and bitter for her son; Will, spoiled and indulged, and Margaret and John, outwardly so devoted and yet, inwardly, in some way estranged. Margaret had confided a little to her – their disappointment that there had been no other children after Will; John’s dalliance with other women, a comment which had made Eleyne blush and hang her head. Seeing her, Margaret laughed and hugged her. ‘Take it as a compliment, Elly. He only shows interest in the most beautiful women.’ She paused and took her sister’s hand. ‘Are you happy with Lord Huntingdon? From what you tell me he seems a kind and sensitive man.’ The way she said the words spoke volumes about her own husband. Eleyne wondered if she were wrong about John de Braose. He appeared so attractive, so amusing.
‘But Margaret, you do love your John?’ Eleyne stared at her sister anxiously.
Margaret laughed. ‘Of course I love him,’ she said lightly. ‘And I’m lucky. Things could be so much worse. I have heard that Lord Huntingdon is often ill, Elly. Is that true?’
Eleyne nodded, unconscious of the wistfulness in her eyes as she thought of her husband. ‘It was me who was ill last time, but he’s ill a lot, though he was better when I left him.’
&
nbsp; Margaret smiled. ‘Then let us pray to the sweet Virgin to preserve his health as I pray daily for my husband.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I have the king’s assurance that, if anything happened to John, which the Blessed Virgin and all the saints forbid,’ she shuddered, ‘he will not force me to marry someone I don’t like. You should do the same, Eleyne. If anything happened to your John you would not want Uncle Henry to choose you another husband against your wishes.’
Eleyne gasped. ‘But that would be a terrible thing to do. It would look as if I expected John to die.’
Margaret shrugged. ‘Men do die; if not of illness, then in battle, Eleyne, just as women die in childbed. It is God’s will. It is best to be prepared.’
Listlessly Eleyne picked up her needle once more and screwed up her eyes against the glare as she began inserting the tiny regular stitches into the soft blue silk. She loved this quiet place; from the vantage point of the hill on which Bramber Castle stood she could see the Downs and though they were nothing like the great mountain of Yr Wyddfa they were better than the flat lands which made up the bulk of her husband’s fief. And better still, to the south, beyond the busy quays and the broad tidal sweep of the Adur, lay the sea. She could smell the sharp saltiness of the mud now, as the low water narrowed the busy river to a trickle, leaving the ships and galleons at the wharf stranded until the next tide.
A shadow fell across her sewing. Again a cold breath had touched her skin, but the sky was still cloudless. For a moment she didn’t move, then she tucked the needle into her work and set it down again. Her heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast. There was someone here with her in the empty garden. She closed her eyes against the urgency of the emotions which were invading her: worry, anger, love and fear, yes, real fear.
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