Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  XIV

  ABER February 1237

  Joan died at last on Candlemas Day. Her husband and all her children were at her bedside. Llywelyn, the tears running down his face, was holding his wife’s hand. She smiled as, one by one, they came to the bedside and kissed her. She was too weak to speak or move her head, but they could read the message of blessing and farewell in her eyes. One by one, the men and women in the room sank to their knees in prayer. When the end came, it was so gentle that it was several moments before Llywelyn realised that the hand in his had fallen limp and that she had left them.

  The funeral was lavish. The sons-in-law arrived and joined Llywelyn in following Joan’s body as it was carried in state over the Lafan sands and ferried across the strait to Llanfaes. It lay there one more night in the prince’s hall before it was interred in a ceremony conducted by Bishop Hugh of St Asaphs in the new burying ground especially prepared to receive it nearby.

  Rhonwen did not go to the requiem mass or to the interment. In the solar she waited alone for the mourners to return. The room was dark; it was early yet so she had ordered no candles, but the lowering sky was heavy with more wet snow and the sea was like black slate. She shivered: Einion was here again; the air was heavy with anger and reproach.

  Each time she had come with Eleyne to Gwynedd she had felt him. And so had Eleyne, she was sure of it; but the girl refused to acknowledge him, refused to allow him in, clutching at her crucifix and backing away from the shadows, never letting him come near her, never letting him give her his message. And each time his frustration and despair had grown. And so had Rhonwen’s; she was racked with guilt.

  The moment they had set foot on the island of Mô n, as part of the funeral cortège, the plan had come to her. The mourners would be back soon from the burial ground and the feast would start; the place would be full of people. She would force Eleyne to come with her, now while she was here on the island, his home and his body’s resting place. Rhonwen smiled grimly. With the Englishwoman dead at last, and Eleyne too exhausted by grief and the cumulative strain of the long months of her mother’s illness to know what she was doing or to argue, it would be easy to take her to Einion and do what must be done. Then and only then would her conscience be clear.

  She pounced on Eleyne as the girl appeared in the doorway, her eyes red with tears. ‘Quickly, now, before you take off your cloak!’ Rhonwen was almost hysterically insistent. ‘There is something we have to do. It won’t take long! I have horses waiting. No one will know we’ve gone. You will be back before they’ve missed you. All you have to do is come to where Einion is buried. You owe him that much! The rest of the night, the rest of your life you can grieve for your mother! But tomorrow you will leave the island. You may never come back. You have to come with me now. You have to.’

  Eleyne was too tired and depressed to do more than shake her head. Slowly and heavily she sat down on the bed and began to pull off her embroidered gloves. ‘Don’t be foolish, Rhonwen. My place is here. I’ve told you a dozen times, I don’t want to see Einion’s grave!’

  Rhonwen stood over her. ‘Have you never wondered, cariad, what he wanted to tell you so badly?’ she hissed. ‘Your destiny lies in Scotland, yet you bear Lord Chester no children. Why?’ She leaned so near, Eleyne could feel her breath on her cheek. ‘Supposing Einion can tell you? Supposing he was going to tell you about the King of Scots!’ Her eyes glittered with triumph as she saw the start of guilt and the rush of colour to the girl’s cheeks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. You think I don’t see you count on your fingers every month in the hope that you have conceived. But nothing happens. Your milksop earl can’t father a child. He’s impotent! And Queen Joanna is barren!’ Rhonwen leaned even closer. ‘Ask Einion! Ask him what is to be. Now! With me!’ Her hand closed over Eleyne’s wrist.

  Slowly, only half knowing what she was doing, Eleyne allowed Rhonwen to pull her to her feet. Still wearing her heavy furs, her hair and face swathed in a black veil, she followed Rhonwen to the side door in the wall. Behind them in the great timber hall the funeral feast was already in full swing. She had not been missed. People assumed she was prostrate with grief like her sisters Angharad and Margaret.

  The doors to the hall had been pushed open to clear the smoky fetid air and the noise of the feast, subdued at first as always at funerals, had risen almost to the usual level, although there were no musicians. The only music the whole day had been the chanting of the monks and the slow dirge of the bards in the rain.

  XV

  Rhonwen had found the exact spot. Deep in the woods Einion lay in a grave marked by a slim upright stone. There was no carving on it, no name, no sigil – only a shadow of lichen which had been there long before the stone was raised. Who had found his body, sprawled across the dead ashes in his lonely cell, she did not know; nor who had buried him here, far from consecrated ground, blessed only by the rites of his own faith. All she knew was that he wanted Eleyne to come. Rhonwen dismounted before the grassy mound with its streaks of melting snow. The trees which interlaced their boughs above were stark against the cloud wrack. Behind the storm there was a full moon.

  Eleyne did not move: her head was a whirling confusion of sorrow and exhaustion. Like her sisters, she had sat up for the last few nights at her mother’s bedside, and like them she had slept little since her mother’s death. The ride through the cold night had been numbing. It was farther than she had expected and as they rode deeper into the woods she grew more and more tense. Rhonwen was right. He was here beside them. He was in the trees, in the scattered, fleeting moonlight, in the howl of the wind.

  And he wanted to speak of her destiny.

  ‘Get down, I’ll tether the horses.’ Rhonwen was at her stirrup, her hood blown back, her hair whipping around her face where it had been torn from her braids.

  Eleyne did as she was bid. She stared at the grass mound and her mouth was dry with fear.

  Rhonwen lit a fire in the small brazier which she had carried at her saddle bow and set it gently on the grave. She had a leather pouch at her girdle. In it, gathered the summer before for this specific purpose, were dried hemlock and poppy seed, dittander, mugwort, rowan and sallow bark. She handed it to Eleyne. ‘Scatter some on the flames,’ she instructed in a whisper. Eleyne put her hand into the pouch, feeling the crumbly brittle petals, smelling the bitter spicy aroma of the herbs. Taking a handful, she let them fall into the brazier. He was very close.

  Rhonwen began a low keening chant, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the moan of the wind in the branches above their heads. Mesmerised by the sound, Eleyne dug her cold fingers once more into the pouch and scattered a new handful of herbs. The wind caught them and whirled them away into the shadows.

  Rhonwen’s eyes were fixed on the snow at their feet, almost invisible as the moon disappeared behind the clouds. Imperceptibly her keening grew louder and throwing back her head she raised her arms, staring at the sky behind the trees.

  ‘Come!’ she screamed. ‘From beyond the grave, I command thee, come. My lady awaits you! Come!’

  XVI

  John was seated beside Margaret, toying half-heartedly with the food on his platter. Several times he had left the table to search for Eleyne, but had failed to find her. Then Cenydd was at his elbow. ‘May I speak to you, my lord?’ The man’s face was creased with worry.

  John threw down his napkin, rose and followed Cenydd out of the hall.

  ‘It’s my fault, my lord.’ Cenydd was furious with himself. ‘They gave me the slip. Rhonwen must have planned it. But I know where they’ve gone. I think we should follow them.’ He half guessed what his cousin planned to do and his skin crawled at the thought.

  John scanned his face thoughtfully, then nodded curtly. ‘Bring four men, as quick as you can.’

  They left the men with their horses on the edge of the woods, cautiously following the hoofprints of Rhonwen’s and Eleyne’s mounts in the moonli
ght. At the edge of the clearing they stopped, hidden by the tangled undergrowth and the near darkness. The clear low notes of Rhonwen’s chant carried easily in the cold air.

  ‘What are they doing?’ John breathed. He could see the two women and between them the smoking vessel on the low mound of the grave.

  ‘It’s the burial place of the seer, Einion,’ Cenydd whispered back.

  ‘Sweet Christ!’ John crossed himself. He felt the hackles on his neck prickling with fear. His wife, her face almost lost in the shadows of her black hood, looked preoccupied, dazed, as she gazed at the red glow of the smoking brazier. Around it, the melting snow was full of crimson reflections.

  The two men looked at each other and, abruptly, Cenydd drew his sword, the rasp of metal ugly against the moan of the wind. ‘We have to stop them,’ he said.

  ‘Eleyne!’ John pushed his way out of the undergrowth. ‘Don’t you see what that woman is doing?’ His voice was harsh with anger. ‘Stop her!’

  Eleyne did not appear to hear him. John grabbed the sword from Cenydd’s hands and reversed it, holding it up to form a cross. ‘Be silent, woman!’ he thundered. His nerves were raw. ‘I forbid this. Eleyne – go. Go now. While you can! Run!’ Holding the sword before him, he stepped forward and stopped. The air around her was like ice: a tangible barrier between him and his wife.

  ‘Eleyne!’

  She did not seem to hear him. She was standing completely still, gazing down.

  John swore at Cenydd, who was standing as if paralysed behind him. ‘Grab Rhonwen, you fool. Grab her! Stop her mouth! Don’t you see what she is doing? She is summoning the dead!’

  Cenydd stepped backwards, his eyes rolling. ‘Don’t touch her, my lord. Don’t go near her!’

  Rhonwen whirled to face them, as though conscious of their presence for the first time, and they saw the glint of a knife in her hand. ‘He is here!’ she hissed. ‘Listen, Eleyne, listen! He is here. Listen to his message!’ She raised her hands again and there was a roar from the wind. It whirled into the treetops and rose to a scream, tearing the branches, shredding the clouds to reveal the cold distant moon.

  Eleyne raised her head: ‘Einion …?’

  In the shadows one of the guards had followed John and Cenydd. He peered petrified from his hiding place in the trees.

  ‘No!’ With a roar of anguish John launched himself at her. He tore the pouch from her hands and hurled it to the ground. ‘Einion is dead! He is dead, Eleyne! He has no message for you!’ He couldn’t make himself heard above the scream of the wind. ‘This woman’s mad, don’t you see? She is mad!’ He seized Eleyne’s wrist and dragged her away from the grave. ‘Cenydd, call the men!’

  ‘Let go of her!’ Rhonwen turned, light-footed as a cat, and positioned herself in his path, the knife still in her hand. ‘She is ours! Look!’ She was triumphant. ‘Look, John of Scotland. Look!’

  In spite of himself, John followed her pointing finger. In the streaming moonlight he could see a tall wavering figure with long white hair and a dark robe, a staff in its hand, hovering in the shadows behind the grave.

  Rigid with fear, he dropped Eleyne’s wrist and the sword wavered. In his hiding place amongst the trees the guard fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

  ‘Speak, Lord Einion!’ Rhonwen screamed. ‘See, I have brought her to you. Speak. Give her your message!’

  ‘No, you scheming hellcat, no!’ Cenydd recovered first and threw himself at Rhonwen. ‘You evil witch! You –!’ His hands grappled for the knife and they swayed back and forth together in the shadows.

  John threw his arms around Eleyne. ‘Come away. For sweet Christ’s sake, come away!’

  ‘He’s gone.’ She was staring white-faced at the place where the spectre had been. As suddenly as it had come, the whirling wind had died and the night was silent save for the heavy breathing of the man and the woman as they grappled in the snow.

  ‘He was never there! It was a trick of the moonlight. He was never there, Eleyne!’ John dragged her towards the trees. ‘Come away, quickly, before – ’

  He stopped and swung around as a bubbling scream rang out behind them. Slowly, Cenydd sank to his knees in the snow, his hands clasped to his stomach. The blood welling from between his fingers and from his mouth was black in the moonlight.

  ‘Guards!’ John’s voice rang out in the silence. ‘Guards!’ He pushed Eleyne aside and flung himself towards Cenydd.

  Rhonwen’s eyes were wild. Her teeth bared in a grimace of hatred, she leapt at John, the knife still in her hand. For a moment they wrestled as he tried to dislodge the weapon from her grasp, but it was slippery with blood and his fingers lost their grip.

  Behind them the guard had finally recovered his wits enough to scramble to his feet and run to John’s aid as his colleagues burst out of the darkness. As they threw themselves at Rhonwen she thrust the knife with all her remaining strength at John’s heart. The thick folds of his cloak deflected the blade and he felt it graze his arm, but it was over. As the men seized Rhonwen’s arms and pulled her back the knife flew harmlessly to the ground.

  Panting, John knelt beside Cenydd’s body and felt below the ear for a pulse. He looked up. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

  Rhonwen ceased struggling. She stood still between her captors, looking down at the earl as he knelt in the snow, and her face contorted with rage. ‘I curse you, John of Scotland!’ she screamed. ‘I curse you in the name of all the gods. May you roast in eternal hell for interfering here tonight!’

  CHAPTER TEN

  I

  LLANFAES

  The cell had only one window, high under the roof. Through it Rhonwen could see the moon, high and lonely far beyond the cloud wrack which raced across it. They had put chains on her wrists and ankles and given her straw to lie in, like an animal. She could remember screaming – a long high-pitched scream, which went on and on, echoing inside her skull. Cenydd’s blood had dried on her gown. She could feel it, crusted and stiff in the darkness. Dimly she remembered the dagger in her hand. The blade had glinted, and in its reflection she had seen Einion’s anger and frustration, his desperation to speak.

  Eleyne had screamed too. Why had she screamed? Was it when Lord Chester flung himself across the grave and tried to snatch the dagger? Had she tried to stab him too? She couldn’t remember. But she could remember the fury in Einion’s eyes before the guards had closed in on her and dragged her away.

  Where was Eleyne? Why didn’t she come? And Cenydd. Where was Cenydd? She had always been fond of Cenydd.

  She tried to settle herself more comfortably against the wall, linking her manacled wrists over her knees and hugging them for warmth. The cell was quite clean; it had been used as a storeroom over the winter, but the damp and chill of the earth floor struck through the straw and she felt a dull ache beginning to seep into her bones. Quietly, she began to cry.

  II

  ‘Papa! Please let me see her!’ Eleyne was distraught. ‘Please. She did it for me!’

  ‘She killed your bodyguard, her own cousin, for you?’ Llywelyn stared at her. His anger and horror vibrated in the air around him. Lord Chester had told him what had happened. Sorcery. Necromancy. Murder. Sweet Jesus, Dew! His daughter was a necromancer!

  Eleyne took a deep breath. ‘Lord Einion wrote to me before he died. He wanted to see me urgently, but Rhonwen burned the letter. When he died it preyed upon her conscience that I would never know his message.’ She caught his hand as she used to when she was a little girl. ‘Please, papa, I have lost my mother. Don’t take away my nurse. I love her.’ There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘The woman has committed murder, Eleyne. She must pay the price.’ Somehow he kept his voice steady. Eleyne must be kept out of this, and her involvement concealed.

  Eleyne clung to him. ‘No, please, you can’t kill Rhonwen! You mustn’t.’ She was sobbing now. ‘She did it for me!’

  ‘She has killed a man, Eleyne, and by the laws of Wales she must pay the
price,’ Llywelyn said heavily. By Our Lady, didn’t she realise the penalty for necromancy was death? Death for both of them! He had aged ten years in the few short days since his wife had died. His strong, lined face had grown puffy, his eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. Across the courtyard in the great wooden hall the funeral feast was still going on. When the prince had been called away, he had given no signal that it should cease.

  ‘Cenydd was my servant. She must pay the price to me,’ Eleyne said desperately. ‘I will see that she is punished, papa.’

  ‘Cenydd’s family will require more than that, Eleyne.’

  ‘Cenydd’s family is her family. They won’t want her life!’ She rushed on. ‘She didn’t mean to kill him. She loved Cenydd, he was her cousin. She trusted him.’

  ‘Your nurse, Eleyne, is a heretic,’ Llywelyn said. ‘She is in a state of the most mortal sin. As you are.’ He added the last words with terrible emphasis.

  Eleyne froze. She looked at her father, then at her husband who was sitting in a chair near the fire. There was blood on his mantle.

  ‘Papa.’ Eleyne’s words were anguished. ‘You can’t punish us for summoning Einion – ’

  ‘It was the Lady Rhonwen who summoned him,’ Llywelyn said slowly. ‘Your husband and I have discussed your part in the ceremony, such as it was, and we have decided that you were there in complete ignorance of what she intended. She, as its instigator, must pay the full price. Your husband will deal with you as he sees fit.’ He folded his arms in his mantle. ‘She has caused nothing but trouble as long as I have known her,’ he said grimly. ‘And now she must be punished for her crimes. Your husband agrees.’

  Eleyne looked from one man to the other; she was sick with horror. ‘John dislikes her because she loves me, don’t you understand?’