Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘What is it? Where are you? Who are you?’ She found she had spoken out loud. The answering silence quivered with tension.

  Eleyne stared around. Near her the neatly clipped bushes of thyme and hyssop stirred slightly; the pale, fragrant leaves of costmary moved. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, frightened. ‘Who are you?’

  The silence was intense; even the shouts and bustle from the bailey beyond the hedge had died away.

  ‘Please –’ Eleyne moved away from the bench, her hands shaking. ‘Please, what do you want from me?’

  Again she was surrounded with silence.

  ‘What is it, Eleyne, my dear? Who are you talking to?’ With a rustle of rose-coloured skirts Matilda de Braose swept through the box hedge which sheltered the garden and stared round.

  Eleyne looked at her white-faced. ‘I’m sorry. I thought … I thought there was someone here …’

  Below them a wagon rolled over the high cobbles and the sound of the heavy wheels reverberated above the shouts of the drivers. The presence in the small garden had gone.

  Mattie drew the girl back to the bench and sat down with her. She picked up Eleyne’s sewing and looked at it critically. ‘You’re a good little sempstress, Eleyne. This work is lovely.’ Putting it down carefully she took Eleyne’s hand. ‘Who did you think was here?’

  Eleyne shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was just a feeling –’ She glanced shyly at the older woman, overwhelmed by the need to confide. ‘I get them sometimes.’

  Mattie smiled, her gentle face framed by the crisp wimple. ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘Sometimes pictures, like dreams …’ Eleyne looked down at her hands. ‘Like Sir William … I saw Sir William before …’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘You have the Sight?’ Mattie made it sound quite ordinary. ‘I know many people in Wales have that gift. And you are your father’s seventh child, are you not? Margaret told me. That is a special blessing.’ She paused. ‘And did you see something just now?’

  Eleyne shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’ There was no impatience in the question. Mattie sensed Eleyne’s loneliness and uncertainty, and impulsively she put her arms around her.

  ‘I just felt there was someone here. Someone trying to speak to me.’ Nestling into her shoulder, Eleyne sighed. ‘And she is afraid – ’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Yes.’ Eleyne hesitated. ‘Yes, it was a woman.’

  Mattie smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps you are right. I have sometimes thought … felt that there was someone in this garden. Another Matilda.’ She stood up. ‘My husband’s mother. She never liked Bramber much, but this was her favourite place here. She built this garden. I think from time to time she comes to watch over John. He was always her favourite grandchild. She loved him so much.’ Her eyes filled with tears as they often did when she thought about her adored mother-in-law, the woman whom her father, the Earl of Clare, had loved so devotedly for most of his life, the woman after whom she was named, the woman whom King John, this child’s grandfather, had so viciously murdered.

  Eleyne stared at her. ‘Matilda? She is the lady … my lady who I saw at Hay Castle.’

  ‘You saw her?’ Mattie’s eyes widened.

  Eleyne nodded. ‘I thought she liked me then. But not here, not now. She wants me to go.’

  ‘No, of course she doesn’t!’ Mattie closed her eyes against the superstitious shiver which ran across her shoulders. ‘Why should she want you to go? Silly goose, of course she doesn’t want you to go.’ She paused. ‘What did she look like when you saw her at Hay, my dear?’

  ‘She’s very tall, with dark red hair and grey-green eyes – ’

  Mattie caught her breath.

  ‘I used to see her shadow, sometimes strongly, sometimes just fading away.’ She looked around the garden. ‘But not here, I didn’t see her here. I sort of felt her in my head. I don’t even know that it was her …’

  She broke off as young Will ran into the garden.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I’ve finished my lessons. Now we can ride. We can, can’t we, grandmama? Eleyne said she would ride with me.’ He was tall for his eight years, with grey-green eyes and a shock of blond hair above a tanned face and a torn tunic. In only a few weeks, he had confided in Eleyne, he was to leave Bramber to serve as a page in the household of Sir Walter Clifford. He was reluctant to go; and Margaret was reluctant to let him. It was Mattie who had seen the danger; seen how he clung to his mother’s skirts, and had persuaded her son to insist.

  ‘Of course you can go, if Eleyne wants to.’ Mattie smiled. She stood up and shook out her skirts.

  ‘Oh yes I do!’ Her face clearing, Eleyne said eagerly, ‘Will has promised to take me to the sea.’

  Watching them run together down the steps which led from the garden into the bailey Mattie frowned. The children were quite safe here. They would have an escort, and of course the devoted Cenydd would go with them, so why did she, too, feel a tremor of unease?

  ‘May I ride Invictus one day?’ The boy looked longingly at Eleyne on the great stallion as she arranged her skirts around her.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve already told you, he’s too big for you.’

  ‘He’s too big for you!’ the boy retorted, and turned to his own pony, shorter by some half-dozen hands.

  ‘I’m the only person who rides him now,’ Eleyne said and bit her lip. It was true. Since Sir William had been hanged no one else, save the groom, had ridden the great horse. She leaned forward in the high saddle and fondled his mane. ‘You’re mine, aren’t you, my love.’

  They followed the curve of the broad river south, cut behind the port of Shoreham and rode west along the coast, from time to time riding down on to the beach where, with the tide still low, they could gallop on the firm sands. By the time they returned to Bramber they were exhausted, and the horses walked slowly through the warm evening sun.

  In the inner bailey they dismounted. Will came round to Eleyne and patted Invictus’s head. ‘Please let me ride him, Eleyne. He’s tired now. He won’t mind.’

  ‘No.’ Eleyne stuck out her chin stubbornly. ‘No one rides him but me.’

  ‘Oh please,’ the boy wheedled. ‘Cenydd could lift me up. Just for a minute.’

  ‘No!’

  The air had grown cold as the shadow of the gatehouse cut out the westering sun. Somewhere in her head Eleyne could feel it again. The warning; the fear. ‘No!’ she repeated. ‘No, you can’t ride him. Not ever. No one rides him but me.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Margaret and her husband had appeared from the great hall. The two figures stood watching the two children, amused at their bickering.

  ‘She won’t let me sit on her horse, papa!’ Will whined, his voice heavy with grief. ‘I only wanted to sit on him.’

  ‘No one rides him but me.’ Eleyne gritted her teeth.

  John de Braose came down the steps and put his hand on the stallion’s bridle. ‘This, I take it, is William’s horse?’

  ‘He gave him to me,’ Eleyne repeated stubbornly. ‘Will is too small. He’d be thrown.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, papa. I’m a good rider.’ Will, sensing parental support, was pleading, his eyes shining.

  ‘You don’t think him good enough?’ John raised an eyebrow in Eleyne’s direction. As always, his eyes were flattering, challenging, teasing.

  ‘He’s good.’ She could feel her cheeks colouring. ‘But no one rides Invictus but me.’

  John looked amused. ‘You have a very high opinion of yourself, young lady. You are beautiful and talented without a doubt,’ his hand strayed to her cheek and she felt a small shiver of pleasure at his touch, ‘but I think you will find others can ride him. Here, let me.’ Firmly he took the horse’s rein from her and beckoned one of his squires. ‘Give me a leg up; I’ll see how he goes. I can certainly ride any animal Cousin William could.’ He smiled grimly. Invictus side-stepped as he reached for the high pommel of the saddle. The horse’s ears we
nt flat and he rolled his eyes.

  ‘No, please,’ Eleyne whispered, white-faced. ‘You mustn’t … you can’t …’ She could feel the fear all around her now. The air was full of anguish, bitterly cold and sharp; brittle, clear and yet shimmering as though reflected in water. As the squire humped John into the saddle, the horse let out a shriek of anger and bucked. ‘Brute!’ John’s smile vanished and he dug his feet deep into the stirrup cups and jerked on the reins. Below the swirl of his long cloak Eleyne saw the huge rowels of his spurs. ‘I’ll tell you one thing: he’s not safe for any child to ride –’ He broke off as the horse, surprised and infuriated by the heavy hand on the savage bit, ran backwards for several steps and then reared up, pawing the air. John clung to the saddle, then with a cry he slipped sideways and crashed to the stone cobbles beneath the massive hooves.

  No one moved. John lay absolutely still. Beneath his head a red stain spread slowly over the cobbles.

  ‘John?’ Margaret let out a small cry of disbelief, then flung herself towards her husband’s still, crumpled body. ‘John? John!’

  Behind her the stallion stood trembling, his eyes wild as he pawed the ground. Eleyne ran to him. She soothed his neck gently, but her eyes were on her brother-in-law’s inert body.

  Margaret straightened. Still on her knees, her hands on her husband’s cloak, her face was distorted with grief and shock.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘He’s DEAD!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  RHOSYR, ANGLESEY August 1232

  Rhonwen had seen the messengers ride in from the east and had recognised with excited relief the insignia of the Earl of Huntingdon on the surcoats of the escort. Breathlessly she waited outside the hall of the palace, her eyes fixed on the doorway. There had to be a letter for her this time. Eleyne would not, could not have forgotten her.

  From within she could hear a low murmur of voices and once a higher, louder shout of laughter, like a wave breaking on the shore.

  Princess Joan was inside with her ladies. Two days before, Prince Llywelyn had taken the boat with Dafydd to Caernarfon. They had left the women behind.

  Rhonwen hesitated. Princess Joan’s displeasure and dislike were not things she relished; and the Princess of Aberffraw and Lady of Snowdon as she now liked to be called, following her husband’s example, had made it clear that these were all she could expect. The day she had returned to Aber, Rhonwen had been summoned to the princess in the chamber where Rhonwen had last seen her, peering over Eleyne’s head, three years before.

  ‘So, you have been dismissed by Lord Huntingdon.’ Joan’s eyes were hard.

  ‘No, highness.’ Rhonwen managed to keep her voice meek. ‘Lord Huntingdon has given me leave to return home for a visit.’

  ‘A visit,’ Joan repeated. ‘No, you are mistaken if you think you are to go back. Lord Huntingdon’s letter is quite clear. He does not wish you to attend his wife again. Ever.’ She paused. ‘When do you intend to visit your family, Lady Rhonwen?’ Her voice was silky.

  ‘As you know, highness, I have no family now.’ Rhonwen’s voice, though low, was steady. Cenydd was all the family she had who would acknowledge her and he was with Eleyne.

  ‘So, if I send you away from here, you will have nowhere to go?’

  ‘I shall write to Eleyne, highness. She will persuade Lord Huntingdon to take me back.’ Rhonwen managed a note of defiance.

  ‘I am sure she will.’ The smile on Joan’s face belied her words. ‘But I’m sure there will be no need for that. You may serve me, Lady Rhonwen, as long as –’ her eyes narrowed – ‘there is no suspicion of you ever, ever supporting my husband’s bastard and his cause. Is that clear?’

  ‘Quite clear, highness.’ Rhonwen looked away from the hard eyes.

  ‘She doesn’t know!’ It was Isabella who cornered her later. ‘The princess doesn’t know who betrayed her to her husband.’

  Rhonwen stepped back in front of the small whirlwind who had entered the bower and slammed the door behind her. The two of them were alone.

  ‘You were with Eleyne! You could have stopped her! You could have saved my father!’

  ‘I could have done nothing!’ Rhonwen’s temper flared. ‘If I hadn’t found them, others would have. They were careless, flagrant; the whole court had seen them.’

  ‘That is not true! She seduced my father …’

  ‘No, lady, no.’ Rhonwen felt sudden pity for this woman who was no more than a child, only a year older than her own Eleyne. ‘Don’t be under any illusion. They seduced each other. They could no more have stayed apart than could two moths from a candle. If Eleyne had said nothing, others would have spoken. There were too many whispers already. But why talk of it now? The past cannot be undone. Your father is dead, God rest his unhappy soul, and Llywelyn has forgiven his wife. Let it rest, lady.’ She turned and picked up an armful of clean linen to return to the lavender-scented coffer.

  ‘I’ll never let it rest!’ Isabella’s eyes were blazing. ‘I loved my father and one day I’ll clear his name. I’ll prove she seduced him. And I’ll prove you and Eleyne trapped him deliberately – ’

  ‘Lady Isabella – ’

  ‘No, it’s true. Perhaps the princess was part of it. Perhaps she did it just to ensnare and betray him. After all,’ her voice dropped to a hiss, ‘what happened to her? Two years in comfortable exile then she is back at Llywelyn’s side as though nothing had happened. Dafydd says his father trusts her totally. He is using her as his adviser and negotiator as though nothing had happened. He has forced Ednyfed Fychen to accept her in her old role as ambassador. He is allowing her to negotiate with her brother the king as though nothing had happened. And my father is dead!’ The last sentence came out as an anguished sob.

  Rhonwen was silent. For a brief moment she had glimpsed the lonely and frightened child inside the brash young woman, and remembered the urchin who, bare-legged, had climbed the scaffolding at Hay with Eleyne. Then the child was gone. Isabella straightened her shoulders.

  ‘Did Eleyne send you away?’

  ‘No.’ Rhonwen could not keep the pain from her voice.

  ‘But her husband did. And Princess Joan doesn’t want you. And neither do I.’ She paused. ‘I can have you dismissed if I want. I can have you sent into the mountains to starve.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Remember that, Lady Rhonwen, if I ever ask you to do anything for me.’ Fumbling with the door handle, she left the room.

  After that Rhonwen did her best to remain out of sight, choosing to eat and sleep with some of Princess Joan’s less important ladies rather than run the risk of drawing attention to herself. And she had written. Several times she had written, enclosing her letter with those from Llywelyn to Lord Chester and Lord Huntingdon, and once she had paid for a messenger of her own from her meagre savings, directing him straight to Bramber and bidding him put the letter into Eleyne’s own hands. None of the letters had received an answer.

  Disconsolately she followed the court from Aber to Llanfaes, to Cemaes in the far north of Anglesey, then down to Caernarfon and back to Aber. And now they had come over the water again to Rhosyr on the edge of the drifting sands.

  Twice she had seen Einion and both times he had asked after Eleyne. Her news had not pleased him. Shaking his head he had sighed. ‘She needs me. Her gift will destroy her. This man, her husband, does he understand her?’

  Rhonwen shrugged. ‘He is kind to her,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘He has not forced her. He is a good Christian.’ She said the last under her breath.

  ‘She is sworn to the goddess, Lady Rhonwen. Nothing and no one can change that. And nothing can change her destiny. When the time is right, she will return to us.’

  Standing in the carved, ornate doorway to the hall, Rhonwen stared across the narrow strip of sea towards the wooded mainland. If there were a letter for her, would Joan tell her or would she throw it upon the fire as Lord Huntingdon presumably disposed of those she wrote to Eleyne?

  ‘Are y
ou waiting for someone or merely eavesdropping as usual, Lady Rhonwen?’ Isabella’s light voice made her jump guiltily. Beyond her a gull, flying low over the silver water, let out a long yelping cry.

  Her slim body clothed in madder silks, her black hair covered in a net of silk sewn with pearls, Isabella looked a picture of elegance.

  Rhonwen forced herself to smile. ‘I was waiting to see if the messenger had brought me any letters – ’

  ‘Then why wait here? Why not come in and ask?’ Isabella flounced past her and, pushing the door wide, hurried up the shadowed aisle of the hall to drop a pretty curtsey before her mother-in-law.

  ‘The Lady Rhonwen is anxious to know if there is any news of Eleyne,’ she announced.

  Following her slowly, Rhonwen too curtseyed before the princess. Her heart was beating painfully.

  Joan looked up and frowned. ‘Indeed there is.’ Her voice was thin and strained as she stood up with a rustle of silks and put her arm around Isabella’s shoulder. ‘My dear, I am afraid I have some terrible, terrible news.’ Rhonwen went cold. Had something happened to Eleyne? Joan’s hands, she noticed, were shaking. ‘I have a letter from Bramber, from Lady Matilda de Braose. It is about your cousin, John. He has been killed. He was thrown by that wretched horse, the horse –’ Her voice broke and the tears began to run down her cheeks. ‘The horse your father gave to Eleyne!’

  II

  BRAMBER CASTLE

  The chapel had been filled to overflowing for the requiem mass and the congregation had spilled out on to the hillside around the small square building with its squat Norman tower, built by the first William de Braose two hundred years before outside the walls of his castle.

  Eleyne, swathed in black mourning veil like her sister and John’s mother, had sobbed uncontrollably throughout the service.