Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

She leaned across to the coffer where the herbal brew, cool now and strained through a piece of muslin, waited in a glazed bowl. The liquid was green as a cat’s eye. She raised John’s head gently and held the bowl to his lips. ‘Not wine, my love, medicine, that is what you need.’

  He scowled. ‘And as foul tasting as any of your concoctions, no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt, but they do you good. Drink it.’

  He swallowed it with difficulty and then lay back, his eyes closed. ‘The priest, Eleyne. Please call him.’

  She sent Luned and the priest came, shuffling into the room, the viaticum in his hands. He had done this so often before for the earl, he scarcely took notice as he listened to the confession and gave him absolution. His prayers said, the priest gave his blessing and withdrew to the hearth, where he sat down while Eleyne resumed her place at John’s side.

  For a long time there was silence and she thought he was asleep, then he opened his eyes. ‘Eleyne, did you ever get your letter from the king?’ He paused, trying to catch his breath. ‘Like your sister, Margaret. Saying you could choose your next husband.’

  ‘No!’ She caught his hand. ‘You know I didn’t. I never want another husband.’

  He grimaced. ‘I think you may find you have to, my love. No, listen.’ He held up his hand and rested his finger against her lips. ‘If … if anything happens to me, I want you to promise me something. I want you to go to Alexander.’ He coughed and she saw him wince with pain. ‘He will take care of you and see you have your rights. Promise me.’

  Alexander.

  Eleyne shook her head miserably. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you. You are going to get better and tomorrow or the next day we are going to ride to Chester.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ His whisper was so faint she could hardly hear it. ‘Promise me, Eleyne. Don’t go to King Henry. I know him, I know what he –’ He coughed again, clutching at her hand with surprising strength as the paroxysms grew stronger.

  He never finished the sentence. The blood was brilliant arterial blood, spewing out over the bedcovers, soaking her gown as he began to choke.

  It was all over very quickly, but still she sat cradling his head in her arms. Behind her the room filled with people. Luned tried to lead her away, but she would not move. Afternoon came: the sun shone directly into the room through the narrow windows which looked out over the trees. A strange silence hung over the manor house, and the village beyond it, where the news had quickly spread. Messengers had set off to Chester, to Scotland and to the king, despatched by the earl’s chamberlain.

  In the bedchamber the silence was broken by the physician. He pushed his way in and stood looking down at the bed. ‘This is your fault, my lady. You killed him,’ he said grimly. ‘You sent me away and gave him potions of which I knew nothing. For all I know they were poisoned – ’

  Eleyne stared at him. She was numb; as cold as the body she still held in her arms. ‘No, I loved him.’

  The man scowled. He seized the cup on the coffer beside the bed and sniffed at what remained of the medicine. ‘Atropine! There is dwale in this and henbane. The earl has been poisoned!’

  Eleyne shook her head.

  ‘My lady, do you dare to question my knowledge? But of course you do. You have questioned it often. And now we know why.’ He turned to the crowd in the room, who were listening in horror. ‘This potion is poisoned. Your countess is a murderess!’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I

  DARNHALL Midsummer Day 1237

  The halfpenny Rhonwen gave to the boy from the village had come from Eleyne’s purse. He had run on bare, silent feet up the forest ride as the bells at the abbey had begun to toll. ‘So,’ she breathed, ‘she is free.’ She watched as the boy disappeared once more into the forest, then stooped and gathered up her belongings, slinging them on the saddle of her horse. It wasn’t a long ride to the manor and this time she would have nothing to fear, with her enemy gone and Eleyne in charge.

  The manor was in turmoil. Carts and wagons which had been packed ready for the early start had been abandoned; mules and horses were standing in rows while servants and men-at-arms milled round aimlessly, spilling in and out of the great hall in a constantly moving tide of humanity.

  Sir Robin, overtaken by a fast-riding horseman, had arrived back just before her, and run at once to the bedchamber where Eleyne still watched over the body. The room was almost empty now. The body of the earl had been laid on the bed, washed and dressed in a velvet mantle, a crucifix between his folded fingers. Candles burned at his head and feet, and Eleyne, her bloodstained bed gown gone, a black velvet wrap around her thin body, knelt at his side. The priest still stood near the bed, murmuring prayers, whilst the chamberlain faced Robin near the door, talking to him in an agitated undertone.

  Rhonwen stood in the doorway, looking around as the servant bowed and left her, then she stepped inside and called Eleyne’s name.

  Eleyne rose to her feet. ‘You! It was you. You gave me the herbs! You killed him!’

  Rhonwen met her gaze steadily. ‘How can you think such a thing, cariad?’

  ‘They have accused me of murder!’ Eleyne’s voice was shaking. ‘The doctor says there were poisons in the plants you gave me for him – ’

  ‘If I had put poison in the mixture, would I have come here?’ Rhonwen replied slowly. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Would I have come to your side? Who accuses you of this? The doctor, you say? The same man who has nearly killed the earl a hundred times with his leeches and his knives?’

  The chamberlain cleared his throat. ‘I have already made it clear there is no question of murder,’ he mumbled. ‘It is an outrageous suggestion! The earl has been ill for many years. We all knew that it was merely a matter of time. He has weakened with each attack. It has been the countess who has kept him alive so long with her love and her care.’

  ‘And with my medicines!’ Rhonwen flashed. ‘If the physician was so sure of poison, why did he not give the earl mithridate to counteract it? I suggest it is the physician who should be accused of hastening the earl’s death by treating him with sulphur and vitriol and saltpetre!’

  ‘Rhonwen.’ Eleyne, her face grey with exhaustion, took a step towards her. ‘Rhonwen, please …’

  ‘It’s all right, cariad.’ Rhonwen took her hands. ‘You are distraught. That’s why I came as soon as I heard what had happened. I knew I had to be with you, regardless of the danger.’

  The chamberlain frowned. ‘I am sure that under the circumstances – ’

  ‘Under the circumstances Rhonwen is staying with me. I need her.’ Eleyne still hadn’t cried. Her whole being was numb with shock. When they had finally prised her away from John and laid him back on the pillow, she had looked at him for the first time since he had died. He wasn’t there; he had gone; it was as though she were looking at a stranger.

  Luned had washed her hands and face and helped her to change out of the bloodstained gown, then she had led Eleyne back to John’s side where she knelt beside him, her mind a blank. She had not whispered any prayers for his soul. She had not whispered to him of love or sadness or even anger that he had gone so suddenly from her. He had gone – there was no sense in speaking to an empty shell. She was oblivious of the coming and goings in the room behind her; she had not noticed Robin or his urgent conversation with the chamberlain. She had noticed nothing until Rhonwen came.

  * * *

  The funeral was to be at Chester. The long cortège wound its way slowly to St Werburgh’s Abbey and there John of Scotland, Earl of Chester and Huntingdon, was laid to rest near the high altar.

  Gruffydd came to the funeral and announced afterwards that he was taking Eleyne back to Aber.

  ‘No!’ Rhonwen had cornered her in her bedchamber in Chester Castle, her eyes narrowed with anger. ‘No! Don’t you see? You have to go to Scotland. You told me yourself that the earl said you were to go to King Alexander.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Eleyne rounded on her. ‘I can’t.
It would be wrong.’ She wouldn’t, couldn’t think about Alexander now.

  ‘It would be wrong?’

  ‘I owe it to John’s memory. I can’t go to Alexander! It would look as if – ’

  ‘It would look as if you were obeying your late husband’s last wish,’ Rhonwen said tartly.

  ‘Rhonwen, don’t be angry.’ Eleyne sat down, her pale face framed by the severe white of the wimple she wore. ‘I know you can’t go with me; I know I need you, but I need to see my father more. Gruffydd says he is still not well and he spends more and more time with the monks in prayer as though he knows he hasn’t much time left. He wants to see me; I have to see him, and I want to go to Aber. Later I will go to Scotland, but not yet.’

  II

  ABER July 1237

  Isabella was seated on the dais, attended by a bevy of pretty girls. She had grown very plump once again in the months since Joan’s death.

  ‘Of course, you know why papa wanted you back at Aber.’

  ‘Papa?’ Eleyne stared at her, raising her eyebrow at her sister-in-law’s proprietary use of the word.

  Isabella smiled. ‘He asked me to call him that, as he has no daughters left at home. He wants you here so he can marry you off to someone else. Gwynedd needs allies, but I doubt if he will find you such a good match as the Earl of Chester. I wonder how you will cope with being the wife of a mere lordling!’

  Eleyne flinched as if she had been struck as the pain of her loss hit her yet again, but determinedly she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think papa means to find me a husband. Besides,’ she was aware of the listening women around them, but unable to keep her hope to herself any longer, ‘I think I might be expecting a child. John’s heir. My duty would be to bring him up and help him until he was old enough to inherit the earldom.’ Six weeks had passed now, since she had last bled. Surely that could mean only one thing?

  Isabella laughed. ‘You don’t look pregnant,’ she said unkindly. ‘Well, well. Lucky you!’ This time the tone was openly caustic. ‘But it won’t save you from the marriage market.’

  ‘Oh, indeed it will,’ Eleyne said firmly. ‘Believe me, papa will not marry me to anyone against my wishes, and nor will King Henry. I am quite sure about that. I never want to marry again!’

  Isabella let out a peal of laughter. ‘Eleyne! I’m twenty! And you’re a year younger than me! You’ll have to marry. Won’t she, papa?’

  Unnoticed by Eleyne, the prince had entered the hall and walked slowly towards the dais. He leaned heavily on a stick, but apart from that he seemed to have regained his former vigour.

  ‘Won’t she what?’ With a groan Llywelyn lowered himself into his chair. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’ He held out his hand to Eleyne.

  ‘Marry, she’ll have to remarry.’

  He frowned. ‘In due course, perhaps. There is no hurry to decide. I am sure the king will allow Eleyne to do as she wishes. She is a rich and powerful young woman now. Her dower lands will be immense.’ He smiled at her fondly. ‘But before all else we must get some colour back into her cheeks and comfort her sorrow. I know what it is like to be lonely and there is no healer but time.’ He squeezed her hand again.

  ‘Or another man,’ Isabella murmured, not quite inaudibly.

  Llywelyn smiled into his beard as Eleyne gritted her teeth. ‘Take no notice, child,’ he said softly. ‘Madame is as sharp-tongued as ever, as my son knows to his cost. And if you’re with child,’ he peered at her thoughtfully, ‘she’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘I think I am.’ She smiled, unable to restrain the temptation to place her hands protectively, just for a second, on her still-flat belly. A baby for John – an heir. How much he had longed for it and now he would never see it. Her eyes filled with tears, in spite of her vow never to give way to them in public, and she turned her back to Isabella. ‘I think I might go and rest, papa, if you will excuse me. I am so tired.’

  ‘Of course.’ Llywelyn rose to his feet stiffly. ‘Rest as much as you can, child.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and gently drew her into the crook of his arm. ‘I am glad you’ve come home.’ He led her away from the others towards the door at the far end of the hall. ‘Your nurse, the Lady Rhonwen,’ he said awkwardly, ‘she came between us so often. I must tell you that it is almost certain that she is dead, and I am glad of it.’ As he felt her stiffen, he pulled her closer: ‘I don’t know what happened to her, but had she remained in custody she would surely have paid the severest of penalties for what she did on the night of your mother’s funeral.’ He paused as they reached the door, staring out across the courtyard. ‘She was evil, Eleyne, a servant of the devil. I like to think that I am growing more devout in my old age, and I pray more than I used to. Perhaps that has made me see what I should have seen from the start. She was a bad influence on you. She came between you and your mother. She is better dead.’ He had not looked at her.

  Eleyne had closed her eyes. Rhonwen had stayed at Chester with the dowager and her ladies. Her fists clenched in the folds of her black skirts, she said nothing. What was there to say?

  III

  Over the next two weeks Eleyne had little time for grieving. Day after day a string of messengers came to see her with condolences from the kings of England and Scotland and all the nobles of the land. Bailiffs and clerks came endlessly too as the vast inheritance of Chester and Huntingdon was surveyed, ready to be split amongst its heirs, and as Eleyne’s dower lands were apportioned.

  One of them, the king’s clerk, Peter de Mungumery, stayed at Aber before setting off to Fotheringhay. There he was to list and value all the vast possessions of the Honour of Huntingdon in Northampton, Rutland, Bedford, Huntingdonshire and Middlesex, for if there were no direct heir, the earl’s three surviving sisters, Maud, who had never married, Isabel Bruce, the Lady of Annandale, and Ada, Lady de Hastings, together with Christian and Dervorguilla, the two daughters of John’s eldest sister, Margaret, Lady of Galloway, who had died the preceding year in Scotland, would inherit these vast estates. Already a legal battle had begun as Alexander of Scotland claimed seisin over the lands of the earldom of Huntingdon and Robert Fitzooth claimed the title.

  If there was no direct heir … Peter was waiting to find out if there was a child. As each day passed, Eleyne prayed, her only comfort that maybe she would bear John’s child.

  It was not to be. The symptoms her body had shown and over which she had watched so hopefully were not those of pregnancy. As the long July days slid by and her body rested, recovering from the shock of John’s death, her courses resumed naturally and she was forced to acknowledge that there would be no direct heir to the earldom of Chester. To have to make such a private moment so public, knowing that so many, from the king to the least servant of the earldom, were waiting and watching to see what happened, was humiliating enough, but the moment was made more devastating by Isabella’s obvious pleasure at her distress.

  King Henry’s messenger had spent a long time closeted with Llywelyn, and Eleyne, used by now to such visitors, waited in the arbour at Aber for a summons to their presence, expecting more interminable, impersonal discussions of rents and tenancies and dower lands.

  She was sitting on the turf bank, idly picking daisies as she watched her ladies playing with the baby of one of Isabella’s women, when she saw her father and his visitor walking towards her beneath the trees. She could see at once that something was wrong: Llywelyn’s face was grey with fatigue and his mouth was tight.

  She rose to her feet, her throat constricting with fear, dimly aware that the ladies around her had scooped up the baby and withdrawn to the far side of the garden. Llywelyn stopped in front of her. ‘King Henry has commanded you to return to Chester,’ he said without preamble. ‘This gentleman is here to escort you.’

  ‘But why?’ Eleyne stared from her father to the stranger and back. The visitor bowed. He was a tall thin man, dressed as she was in black, a colour which drained any semblance of animation from his face and le
ft it looking cadaverous.

  ‘Permit me to introduce myself, my lady. I am Stephen of Seagrave, former Justiciar of England, one of his grace’s officers. King Henry has ordered that I take charge of you and escort you back to Chester and that you be kept in honourable and fitting state there until certain enquiries have been completed concerning accusations made against you, that you procured your husband’s death by use of foul poisons.’

  ‘Those were lies!’ Eleyne exploded. ‘Terrible, cruel lies!’

  Stephen gave a shrug. ‘I am sure that will be quickly established. Whatever the case the king wishes you to be held there until he decides what is best to do with you.’

  ‘To do with me?’ Eleyne echoed.

  Stephen bowed. ‘Those were his grace’s words.’

  ‘He means to give you in marriage to one of his supporters,’ Llywelyn put in heavily.

  ‘No!’ Eleyne stared at him. ‘No, he can’t! I don’t want to remarry – ’

  ‘I am sorry, my lady, it is the king’s command,’ Stephen said crisply. She saw the glint of metal beneath his mantle and realised that he wore full mail under his robe. ‘His grace waited in case you were enceinte with the earl’s heir, but it has proved not to be so and it is his grace’s wish to make provision for you. You are young, and if I may say so very beautiful. It would be a crime if you were not to remarry.’

  ‘And you are very rich and the king wants to secure the support of someone or other at his court, no doubt,’ Llywelyn added, his voice weary. ‘Would that I could spare you this, Eleyne, but there are reasons why I must agree to the king’s wishes.’

  Eleyne tightened her lips. She was angry as she had never been angry in her life before. ‘You mean it is convenient for you – or perhaps for Dafydd! That’s it, isn’t it? It would be good for Dafydd if you were seen to be supporting King Henry at the moment. And no doubt Isabella has had her say!’

  ‘No, my darling, Isabella doesn’t even know …’