Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  John lay awake, staring at the hangings of the bed, seeing the glow of the banked-up fire reflected on the heavy beams of the ceiling. He had begun to sweat heavily and could feel his limbs beginning to shake. He eased his arm from beneath Eleyne’s shoulders and sat up, staring down at her. He could not see her face, but she gave a little moan as he moved, and snuggled closer against him. He smiled, his hand gently stroking her hair, and after a moment her breathing steadied again. John pushed his legs over the side of the bed and stood up; immediately the heat left his body and he began to shiver. He pulled his bed gown around his shoulders, went over to the fire and kicked at the turves which covered the logs. It burst into life at once. He could feel the sweat, ice-cold on his forehead; he could smell it, rank upon his body. Sitting down, he hugged his gown around him and rocked back and forth as the nausea began to build. He could hear the silence outside, a tangible wall, like the mist which drifted up from the River Nene. He shivered again and not for the first time he remembered Rhonwen’s curse.

  XII

  ERYRI April 1237

  The horse was lame. In the distance she heard again the liquid trill of a curlew. Her sodden cloak dragged at her shoulders as Rhonwen bent and felt the horse’s leg with stiff cold fingers. The mountains were swathed in mist, the ground a quagmire of mud and slush. Twice she had lost the packhorse trail and spent precious time hunting back and forth among the heather and bilberries until she found it again; now it was growing dark and she could see the pale flicker of corpse lights, the strange fairy lights which showed above the bog cotton in the twilight and made her mouth go dry with fear.

  Senena had given her the horse and the money and the spare gown and shoes which were all wrapped in the bundle which hung from her saddle. She had wanted to stay, to remain in the shelter of the castle at Criccieth until her leg was better, until the weather had cleared; until the hunt for her had been called off, for Senena had warned her that Dafydd did not believe the devil had taken her. He believed she had escaped and the alarm had been raised across Gwynedd and beyond. But they wanted her gone, and she was afraid. If Dafydd’s men came to Criccieth, would Gruffydd hide her then? If she could reach Eleyne, she would be safe. Eleyne would help her and in return she could help Eleyne to her destiny.

  Rhonwen straightened her back and surveyed the wet fog which surrounded her. The horse could go no further tonight, and she had to find shelter. She strained her eyes, trying to make out the shapes of trees and rocks in the gloom, trying to listen for the sound of a stream nearby, but the mist blanketed everything.

  The old man’s dog found her. She heard the bark and stared round, her heart thumping, trying to place the sound. Then she heard the slithering footstep on the loose scree. Nimble in his flat-soled, soft skin shoes, a sheepskin around his shoulders, he was within a few feet of her before she saw him. ‘Greetings, mistress, have you lost the road?’ He was small and wizened, and his eyes darted inquisitively over her horse, lingering on the bundle, then returning to her.

  ‘My horse is lame.’ She forced her voice to be strong. ‘Is there somewhere near here where I can stay?’

  He laughed – a croaky, wheezy sound which was not entirely pleasant. ‘You are welcome to my house, mistress, if you wish. It is but a short way from here. I can see to your horse, my wife will give you food and you are welcome to share our bed.’ He put his hand on the horse’s bridle. ‘You have come a good way up from the track. It’s a good thing I found you, the mountain is treacherous to those who don’t know it.’

  She limped after him as he led her horse back down the steep hillside. It seemed a long time before they stopped, but at last she saw a small dwelling materialise out of the fog. At the old man’s shout a square of light appeared as someone pushed back the covering which hung across the doorway. He gestured her inside. ‘Go, warm yourself. I shall see to your horse.’

  Unhooking the bundle from her saddle, Rhonwen turned with relief towards the light and ducked inside the small cottage. It was blessedly warm, with a bright fire burning in the centre of the single room. Beyond the low partition which formed the wall at the left-hand end a cow and several sheep huddled together in the darkness. The old man’s wife, Rhonwen saw as she shyly motioned Rhonwen to the piled bracken which served as bed, seat and table, was scarcely more than a child. As the girl dipped water from her cauldron for her guest to wash her hands and face, Rhonwen caught a glimpse of the pale hair beneath the coarse white veil.

  ‘You are injured, mistress?’ The child’s sharp eyes had spotted the limp. Rhonwen sat down, pushing her bundle behind her as a back support, and with a groan kicked off her sodden shoes. The girl knelt before her. With gentle fingers she folded back Rhonwen’s wet, muddy skirt and stared at the linen which covered the wound. Fresh blood and pus mingled with the dirt on the bandage.

  The heat was beginning to make Rhonwen feel drowsy. She watched as the girl fetched a bowl of fresh water and clean rags, and saw her put a thick green ointment on the wound before she rebandaged it. Gratefully she accepted a bowl of mead to drink. When the man returned, she was nearly asleep.

  ‘I have seen to your horse,’ he said. ‘It’s next door with the other animals. I’ve moved the stone in its hoof, and the bruising will be better by tomorrow.’ He sat down beside her and accepted a bowl of mead from his wife. In the cooking pot over the fire something bubbled gently with an appetising smell, and he sniffed hungrily.

  ‘Where are you bound?’ He eyed Rhonwen curiously and she stiffened at his uncouth manners. No host should ask where his guest was going, or how long they wished to stay. She forced herself to smile: ‘I ride to Chester.’

  ‘Chester?’ He stared at her blankly. ‘That’s a long way.’ His eyes had strayed from Rhonwen’s face to the bundle against which she was lying. ‘Especially for a lady such as yourself, alone.’

  Rhonwen’s attention sharpened. ‘I became separated from my companions,’ she said quietly. ‘They cannot be far away. Once this accursed mist lifts they will find me.’

  ‘Indeed. I am glad to hear it. It’s dangerous to ride these roads alone. There are all manners of thieves and outlaws in the mountains. It is no place for an unescorted lady.’ He watched as his wife ladled the contents of the cooking pot into three wooden bowls. She reached into the crock for some coarse bread and, breaking it into pieces, gave Rhonwen her share.

  ‘My name is Annest,’ she said shyly. ‘And my man is Madoc.’

  ‘I am Rhonwen.’ The words were out before she could stop them, but her host gave no sign that the name meant anything to him. He was too busy pushing the stew from his bowl into his mouth. Rhonwen tasted hers. There was a heavy flavour of leek, and some kind of game bird – the grease floated on the thin stock in great shining gobbets – and it was very hot. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to eat it eagerly, feeling the warmth run through her veins.

  They ate in silence, the small room lit only by the fire. Beyond the wall, she heard the animals moving about; caught the heavy smell of dung. Twice Madoc leaned forward to refill her bowl of mead and twice she found she had drained it. She put down her bowl and, the last of her bread eaten, lay back against her bundle.

  The fire had died when she awoke, and the room had become very cold. Her head was aching violently. Her eyes still half shut, she groped for her cloak. It had dried by the fire and she pulled it over her, thankful for its heavy folds. She was almost asleep again when she heard someone whispering. She tensed, straining her ears, aware that her hosts were no longer by the fire with her. In the darkness she had not noticed that they were gone, but now she missed the staccato snoring of the drunken Madoc and the snuffling whimpers of his wife. They were outside, and she realised that the cold draught which had awakened her had come from the loosely flapping sacking across the doorway. They appeared to be arguing about something in hushed tight whispers. Again she strained her ears, but she could not make out what they were saying. Fully awake and every nerve tense, she edged hersel
f into a sitting position, feeling for her precious bundle and pushing it behind her. Something was wrong. She had mistrusted Madoc from the first moment she set eyes on him; she should have obeyed her instincts. If only she had a knife. She had asked Senena for a weapon and the stupid woman had laughed: ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ she had said. She had given Rhonwen money, clothes and shoes, but no weapon.

  There was a sound in the doorway and she held her breath. She heard the slither and drag of the bracken as the two figures crept back inside. It was pitch black, then a small flicker of light showed as Madoc squatted before the fire and pushed aside the turf covering. He paused, silhouetted against the faint glow, then turned towards her. She had half expected him to be holding a knife, but in his hand was a coil of rope.

  Her heart thudding with fear, she had almost sat upright when her face was enveloped in a suffocating blackness. Annest, creeping around behind her, had dropped a length of sacking over her head. In seconds she felt the rope looped around her flailing hands, and moments later her ankles were bound as well. Only then was the sack removed. She had been left lying on her side, her ankles pulled up to her wrists so that she was trussed like a fowl ready for the spit.

  Madoc kicked at the fire with a chuckle and sat down opposite her, his face illuminated by the flames. ‘So, my fine lady. When I spoke of outlaws in the mountains, little did I realise that I was entertaining one of them under my roof.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘See what she has in that bag she’s been guarding so carefully, cariad!’ he instructed his wife, who knelt trembling near the door. Annest glanced at Rhonwen in terror and shook her head.

  ‘Go on, woman, she can’t hurt you!’ Madoc reached for his jug of mead and poured out the last measure. Shaking the jug regretfully upside down, he tossed it over his shoulder into the shadows. ‘She’s going to make us rich, this lady. The prince has offered a reward for her capture, and the family of Cenydd ap Maredudd want her dead or alive.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Maybe they will pay even more than the prince, who knows?’

  In spite of herself, Rhonwen groaned. Her wrists and ankles hurt savagely and the wound in her leg was sending a knifing pain up to her knee. ‘Please. Let me at least sit up.’ She despised herself for the whimper in her voice.

  Madoc ignored her. His eyes were on the bundle which Annest had pulled into the firelight.

  ‘Go on. Open it.’

  She did so and dragged out the spare gown – a soft rich red wool – a fine linen chemise, the pair of leather shoes and the small bag of coins. Taking the purse into her hand, Annest tossed it up and down on her palm. Madoc’s eyes glinted at the sound of the coins.

  ‘Empty it!’ he hissed. She fumbled with the thongs which bound the mouth of the bag and with an exclamation of impatience he reached into his belt and tossed her his dagger. ‘Cut it, you stupid bitch! Cut it.’

  The girl’s hands were shaking as she inserted the blade beneath the leather thong and snicked it. A small pile of shining coins spilled on to the bakestone. Welsh silver pennies with the cross of the Rhuddlan mint lay gleaming in the light of the fire. Madoc licked his lips. ‘So. You carry a fortune with you, Lady Rhonwen. To buy your way across Wales, no doubt.’ He hiccuped morosely. ‘Did you not realise that your name has been cried from every market, from every pulpit, from every mouth, from every passing eagle?’ He snatched a new flagon of mead from his wife, who had produced it from the back of the room without being asked. Drawing the stopper with his teeth, he tipped the bottle and drank deeply, wiping the sticky residue from his lips with the back of his hand before he lay back on his elbow and stared reflectively at the coins. ‘Beautiful,’ he said dreamily, ‘beautiful.’

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ Rhonwen asked at last. She was still trying to ease her position.

  Madoc stared at her, bleary-eyed. ‘I haven’t decided. Maybe I’ll let them haggle over you like a mare at the horse sales!’ He gave a contented smile and belched. ‘Perhaps we should fatten you up a bit, eh? Get a better price for you that way. In foal!’ He let his eye run insolently over her body.

  Rhonwen felt herself shudder with loathing. The hatred she felt for this man was greater than anything she had felt in her life. She could feel it burning through her like fire; like vitriol, corroding her veins. She was almost surprised not to see the ropes which bound her falling away from her limbs, smoking. Her dazedness had gone, and her brain was working as clearly and keenly as a honed knife. He was not going to kill her, that much was clear. She had time to work out how to escape. She eased herself again, feeling a new ache in her back from the awkward curled position in which she lay. She tried to ease her wrists apart, but he had tied the ropes cruelly tight. She heard a quiet chuckle from across the fire, and saw that he was watching her. ‘Trussed like a fowl, you are, my beauty, you’ll not escape,’ he said smugly. He lifted the flagon again, and she watched his Adam’s apple jumping up and down as he swallowed, the shadows from the fire playing across his weathered skin. Behind her Annest sat down quietly and pulled her cloak around her, shivering. She had not touched a drop of the drink.

  The fire had burned low again before the jug was at last empty and Madoc lay snoring on the bracken, his mouth open. Rhonwen saw the dagger back in his belt. The bag of coins, carefully gathered again, lay beneath his hand.

  ‘Annest!’ She could not see the girl from where she lay. ‘Annest, are you there?’

  She heard a rustle in the bracken, but there was no answer. ‘Annest, please, my leg hurts so much. Could you not loosen the ropes a little?’ Again there was no answer, but she could hear the silence of the girl holding her breath. ‘Please. You helped me; you bathed my feet and gave me hospitality; you tended my wound. All I am asking is that you loosen the rope around my ankles. He would never know.’ The pain in her voice was real.

  Annest sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes. She said nothing.

  ‘Please, Annest.’

  ‘I don’t dare,’ the girl whispered.

  Rhonwen gave a small smile – Annest had answered; her will was weakening.

  ‘Please help me, Annest, I am in such pain.’

  There was another slight rustle as Annest crawled towards her. In the dying firelight it was almost dark, but Rhonwen could see the girl’s long flaxen hair hanging forward over the shoulders of her gown.

  ‘If I loosen the ropes, you won’t do anything?’

  ‘No, of course I won’t do anything.’ Rhonwen bit her lip as another wave of agony swept up her leg.

  Annest touched Rhonwen’s ankles. The rope was very tight, strapping her wrists to her feet, pulling her head almost down to her knees. Her flesh was so bruised and numb she could barely feel Annest’s cold fingers groping their way around the knots.

  ‘I can’t undo them, they’re too tight.’

  ‘Then cut them. Please, Annest, in the name of pity.’ Suddenly she was sobbing.

  ‘Oh please, don’t cry. You’ll wake Madoc,’ Annest said unhappily. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Cut the ropes around my ankles. I can’t escape if my hands are still tied; and anyway I can’t walk with my injured leg, you know that.’ Madoc snorted and shifted his position on the far side of the bakestone. They held their breath. Almost at once his snores began again, softer now, muffled by his arm.

  ‘He’ll see. In the morning, he’ll see I’ve helped you. He’ll beat me.’

  ‘He won’t see if we burn the cut ropes, and he won’t remember what he did after all that drink anyway. Oh, please.’ Rhonwen closed her eyes as another wave of pain hit her. ‘Have you got a knife?’

  Annest nodded, reached into her girdle and pulled out a small knife. With a glance across the embers at her sleeping husband, she began to saw at Rhonwen’s bonds. It took what seemed like an age to cut through the bands around her ankles. The knife was blunt and the rope had tightened deep into her flesh, but at last it gave and with a groan Rhonwen was able to straighten a little. ‘Here, again, c
ut this one too.’ Her lower lip bled with the effort not to cry out in pain.

  ‘I don’t know if I should …’

  ‘Of course you should. Go on, otherwise he will see. The rope is not yet free.’ She felt the blood flowing back into her wrists as the knots loosened.

  ‘You won’t do anything – ’

  ‘I have already told you that.’

  In another moment she would be free. She eased her cramped body, feeling the brush of the girl’s long hair on her arms, smelling her unwashed skin.

  ‘Eh! What’s going on!’ Madoc’s shout was loud in the hut. With a terrified cry, Annest dropped the knife and jumped backwards almost into the fire.

  ‘You stupid bitch!’ Madoc staggered to his feet cursing. ‘What are you doing? Leave her alone! Do you want her to escape?’

  As he lurched towards her Rhonwen grabbed with her bound hands for the knife Annest had dropped. She jerked herself up on to her knees as Madoc reached her and brought the knife up in one swift movement through his jerkin and under his ribs. He let out a howl of rage; his arms flailed and he staggered back as Annest cowered sobbing in the darkness.

  ‘Don’t come near me, you bastard son of a pig!’ Rhonwen breathed. She still had the knife, and the warm blood running down the blade told her it had found its target. ‘Don’t you ever come near me again.’ She held it, point out, towards him, marking him as he stumbled into the red-hot embers and fell on one knee near her. His hands were clutched to his middle and he had begun to breathe with harsh rasping sounds.

  ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch! Annest! Annest, help me!’ He had fallen to both knees now. Rhonwen sawed frantically through the last of the rope that held her feet, and somehow got the blade of the knife under the rope around her wrists. It was too blunt; without sawing it would do nothing. She was shaking so much she could hardly hold it. ‘Don’t drop it,’ she muttered between her teeth, ‘don’t drop it!’ Across the fire she could see faintly the huddled silhouette of the man. His curses were barely audible. Annest had not moved; sobbing hysterically, she was pressed against the wall on the far side of the cottage, clutching her cloak around her.