Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  She watched Luned thread her way back through the trees and descend the rocky slope, where she disappeared from view. Within minutes she had found herself a ride with a plump woman who was driving a wagon. A few minutes later she wished that she hadn’t: the wagon, attended by clouds of bluebottles, was laden with stinking half-cured hides.

  Eleyne led both horses deeper into the shade and tethered them securely, then she stowed their bundles beneath a clump of elder, before wandering into the copse. Behind it a meadow, spangled with wild flowers and bisected by a narrow, tumbling beck, separated the copse from a larger, more dense area of forest which filled the valley and rose up the side of the hill before the mountains shook themselves clear of the trees and rose high in the sunlight. She walked down towards the water and sat on the grass to wash the dust of the road from her hands and feet. The water was ice-cold and refreshing and she drank long and gratefully from it. She was hungry, but they had eaten the last of their provisions that morning, and she would have to wait to eat until Luned returned, which might not be until dusk. Still barefoot, she wandered along the bank to where the trees came down to the water’s edge. There, in the dappled sunlight, she found some wild strawberries. Lying back in the long grass and staring up through the leaves of a graceful birch tree, she began to eat them.

  She must have dozed, for when she next looked up the sun had moved several degrees towards the west and the shadows had lengthened. She wondered what had wakened her, then she saw a squirrel sitting above her washing its face with its paws. It tensed, chittering at her in fury, then disappeared.

  She sat up. With the squirrel gone, the woods were unnaturally silent. She frowned, every sense alert – she was not alone, she was being watched. She scanned the hazel break on the far side of the beck, then as casually as she could, she looked behind her. The wood was darker than she remembered, the trees closer together. The afternoon was very still and even the cheerful ripple of the water at her feet seemed quieter, more distant. She cursed herself for wandering away from their horses and their bundles, where her only weapon – a small knife – was hidden. The feeling of being watched became stronger and she felt the hairs on her neck prickling. The shadow of the trees had crept nearer. Now it had reached the grass where the skirt of her black gown lay spread around her. The fabric dulled, like a dark flame extinguished.

  Had they been followed after all? Were Stephen’s men in the wood even now, watching her? She rose to her knees, keeping her movements as natural as possible, then she dusted the dried grasses from her skirt and stood up. The feeling was overpowering now; she wanted to turn and run, but she forced herself to retrace her steps casually, feeling eyes on her from somewhere in the dark trees across the stream, expecting every moment to feel an arrow in her back.

  Nothing happened; the silence pressed around her. The world was holding its breath with her.

  At last she regained the trees and slid into the shadows, thankful, not for the first time, for her black gown. She stopped by an ancient oak, its trunk swollen and gnarled, broad enough to hide a dozen men. Slipping behind it, she peered back the way she had come, her hands on the rough bark, taking comfort from it. She could hear her heart beating in her ears. The woodland seemed deserted. Nothing moved, but she could feel it again: a presence in the hazy green distance. A presence that was not human.

  ‘Einion?’ she breathed. She felt the perspiration icy between her shoulder blades. She strained her eyes into the dappled shadows. This new unseen threat was even more frightening than the thought of King Henry’s men hidden in the trees.

  How could Einion be here, so far from Wales? Why had he followed her? She could feel him around her, his frustration beating against the barriers of silence which separated him from her; she could sense his raw emotion, tearing at her, crying to be heard.

  ‘What is it?’ she cried, her voice husky with fear. ‘What is it? Tell me.’ But only the silence of the hot afternoon answered her. She rested her forehead against the tree; it was warm, reassuring, solid.

  The fire, look in the fire.

  Were the words in her head, or had she heard them? She swallowed, trying to calm herself.

  The fire, look in the fire.

  It was a long time since she had tried to see pictures in the fire; the last time she had seen her father’s sickbed. The fire had not told her that he would recover or that John would die. There had been no clue that she would have so short a time with her husband; no clue that he would leave no heir. Everything Einion had told her had been wrong. She would never be the mother of kings. Was that what he wanted to tell her – that he had made a mistake?

  ‘I know you were wrong!’ she called. ‘You were wrong about Scotland. John is dead!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘He’s dead! He will never be Scotland’s king – ’

  Look in the fire …

  ‘I can’t see anything in the fire. I don’t understand.’

  Look in the fire …

  She stared around in despair, her hands shaking. Her breath was coming in painful snatches, deep within her chest, knowing she would have to do it. She could not argue with this strange voice which filled the silence of the woods, because she wanted to know what it was he so desperately wanted to tell her.

  Almost sleep-walking, she made her way back to the clearing where she had left the horses. They were dozing, hip-slack in the heat, their heads low, their eyes closed, not bothering to look up as she crossed the grass towards them. Kneeling, she pulled the bundles from the bush, and inside Luned’s she found the flint and steel. She took them to the far side of the clearing and scraped a hollow in a patch of dusty soil. She collected flakes of birch bark and dry leaves and some brittle summer-dried moss and lichen. Piling them up, she began to strike the flint. It was several minutes before she managed a spark. Her hands were shaking and her fingers were all thumbs, but at last she had a wisp of smoke and minutes later a small flame. Throwing down the flint, she cupped her hands and blew gently.

  It took some time to get the fire she wanted, a small steady glow, fed by lumps of rotten timber and made smoky with fragrant leaves. I’m mad, she thought, quite mad. What am I doing? Lighting a fire on the orders of a ghost! She prayed that the wisp of smoke would not be seen from the road, and it was a long time before she saw any pictures in the glowing embers. Her eyes were sore from the smoke, her head was heavy, and she was too conscious of the brooding presence waiting. Then slowly they came, flickering, indistinct: horses, galloping through the smoke. She could see a sword glinting in a rider’s hand, a banner flogging in the wind, its device indistinct. Frowning, she leaned forward. ‘Show me,’ she whispered, ‘show me! I am watching …’ She reached forward with her hand into the fire as if trying to part the smoke, watching, strangely detached, as the small blue flames licked at her fingers. She felt no pain. The flames nudged at her hand, companionable, friendly, and at last, through them, she saw his face: the thin, ravaged flesh, the white hair, wild as smoke, the skeletal hand raised towards her as he began to speak. She strained to hear, her mind reaching across the smoke, groping for understanding.

  Behind her Luned had walked into the clearing, a heavy sack in her hand. Eleyne was kneeling beside a small fire, her hands in the embers, her eyes open, unseeing, fixed on some object Luned could not see. Luned threw herself forward. ‘Stop it!’ she screamed, and dragged Eleyne back from the fire. ‘What are you doing? Are you mad? Sweet Virgin! Look, look at your hand! You are burning!’

  Eleyne’s face was blank – she didn’t know where she was and she didn’t recognise the woman pulling at her arm. Then the mist cleared from her eyes and she became aware of the agonising pain. Stunned, she looked at her fingers; the flesh of one hand was red and shiny, stained with soot.

  ‘Put it in the stream. Quickly, it will cool it. Come on!’ Luned pulled at her angrily. ‘What were you thinking of, putting your hand in the fire?’ Scolding and cajoling, she pulled Eleyne across the meadow and forced her to kneel at the water�
�s edge, plunging the burned hand into the ice-cold water. Eleyne cried out with pain and struggled to pull free, but Luned, with gritted teeth, held her wrist firmly, pushing the blistered fingers deeper into the beck. ‘Keep it there. You have to take the fire out of the flesh. Rhonwen showed me when I was little and fell into the embers in the nursery in the ty hir at Aber.’

  Eleyne’s teeth had begun to chatter, as much with shock as with the sharpness of the mountain water. ‘For pity’s sake, that’s enough.’

  ‘No, not until the heat has gone.’ Luned touched one of the burns cautiously with her fingertip. ‘I can still feel the fire. Leave it until it’s cold. What were you doing?’ Kneeling at Eleyne’s side, Luned looked at her curiously: ‘You didn’t light the fire for heat, and there was nothing to cook.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Eleyne watched her fingers trailing in the water amongst the green soft fronds of the river weed as Luned released her wrist and sat back on the bank.

  ‘You were looking in the fire for your future?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She could not tell Luned of the wraith amongst the trees, the agony of a man who had died with a message unspoken, of the future which swirled and battered against her brain in a series of untold riddles.

  ‘And did you see anything?’

  Eleyne shook her head. ‘The pictures were starting to come as you pulled me from the fire.’

  ‘Just as well I did. You would have thrown yourself on the flames if I had been any later.’

  Eleyne sat back at last, holding her hand before her. ‘The redness is quite gone.’ She looked at Luned, ‘You came back sooner than I had thought.’

  ‘I have the bridles and I have some food. And I have news.’ Grimly, Luned turned back her skirt and tore a strip off the bottom of her shift to bind Eleyne’s hand. ‘The king’s messengers have been in Kendal. They have guessed you are trying to reach Scotland and they are asking for you by name everywhere. They have our descriptions and those of the horses we ride. I wasn’t recognised on my own and without a horse, but we are going to find it very difficult from now on.’

  Eleyne bit her lip and looked across the meadow towards the wood. The trees were empty now, Einion had gone. The shadows where the westering sun had sunk behind the hill at the end of the valley threw long black lines on the ground, but they were empty of menace. Shivering, she sat on the bank, looking glumly at her bandaged hand. ‘We’ll have to ride at night then.’

  ‘And keep away from towns and villages. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’ Luned smiled. ‘Shall we eat, then we can set off. At least the horses are rested. We can ride as long as the moon is high and sleep at moonset.’

  They could not ride so fast in the darkness; the horses picked their way cautiously up the steep tracks and both young women were acutely aware of the cavernous black shadows behind trees and rocks as the path grew wilder and more steep. The night was cold and crystal clear. Every sound from the horses’ hooves, every jingle of the new bridles was magnified a thousand times and seemed to echo from the rocks behind them.

  The moon dropped away into the west. For a while they continued in the starlight, then as dawn began to break they saw a huddled village in the valley below them. ‘We daren’t go down,’ Eleyne whispered, reining in her mare with her good hand. ‘We have followed the most direct road. They will look for us there.’ She peered into the shadows, looking for shelter, but high on the pass there were few trees. In the east behind the mountains the sky was paling to green. ‘We’ll have to ride well away from the track.’ She led the way up a small glen and into the shadow of a group of tall pine trees, where she dismounted. ‘There is grazing here, and water. I don’t think we’ll be seen from the main road – ’ She broke off. ‘What is it?’

  Luned had cocked her head, listening, her hand over her horse’s nose to stop him calling. ‘Horses, behind us,’ she whispered.

  They held their breath, pressing back into the darkness as the sound of hooves grew louder – there seemed to be a considerable number of horses riding purposefully up the road beneath them. Then they heard a sharp command ringing up the valley and the horses drew to a halt.

  ‘We’ve been followed,’ Eleyne breathed, her heart thudding with fear.

  ‘But how? I wasn’t recognised.’

  ‘You must have been. Come on.’ Eleyne began to lead her mare further up the defile, picking her way over the rocky ground, praying there was a way out at the top of the small valley. If there wasn’t, they were trapped.

  Behind them the horses hadn’t moved, but a new sound reached their ears: the excited yelp of a hound.

  Eleyne bit her lip. ‘They have dogs. We’ll never get away now.’ She looked at the rocky cliff above them. ‘Unless –’ she put her hand on the rock. It was icy, black in the pre-dawn twilight. ‘Leave the horses,’ she whispered, ‘leave everything. Climb.’

  Luned stared at her. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’ll have to, there is nothing else for it. The dogs are following the horses. They will not know where we have gone.’

  She gave the grey mare a regretful kiss on her silky nose and turned soundlessly to the cliff.

  Her hand hurt intolerably. It had ached and burned all night, and as she used her fingers to hitch her skirts into her girdle the pain became worse. Gritting her teeth, she set her foot on a small ledge and pulled herself clear of the track. Luned followed her. The rock was slippery with dew and very cold. Clinging to it, Eleyne looked down and saw them. Three men on foot, following two dogs. They were almost below them.

  She forced herself to look up and saw an overhang above her – there was no way up, nothing to be done but to cling to the rock face and pray that the men would not see them. She held her breath, waiting, aware of Luned hanging motionless beside her.

  In the clear dawn air they could hear every word of the men below as they drew closer.

  ‘I’ll be glad when I’m back in a warm bed,’ one called, ‘with a hot-blooded wench to heat my feet.’ The retort of a second was lost in a shout of laughter.

  The men were casual, unarmed as far as Eleyne could see, confident as they came upon the two horses.

  ‘Here they are.’ The words were clear and ringing. ‘The dogs will soon find the women. There’s no way out of this valley. Then we can get back to our beds.’

  For a brief moment men and dogs were lost to view in the brush at the foot of the cliff, then Eleyne saw them emerge immediately below them. The dogs were barking wildly; all three men looked up.

  ‘So, our flyaway birds have roosted on the cliff!’ With a shout of laughter the leading man stood, hands on hips, and stared at them. ‘Come down.’

  Eleyne clung to the rock more tightly and closed her eyes, paralysed with fear. Seconds later, there was a sharp ping as an arrow hit the rock a few feet to her left.

  ‘Come down, Lady Chester, or the next will be through your maid’s back.’ The banter had left the man’s voice.

  ‘All right.’ Eleyne’s voice was hoarse. ‘All right, we’ll come down.’

  By the time she reached the bottom of the cliff, she was shaking like a leaf and her burned fingers were bleeding through the bandage. Unable to stand, she sank to the ground helplessly as Luned jumped the last few feet and landed beside her.

  The man looked concerned. ‘Bring the horses up here; I don’t think her ladyship can walk.’ He stepped over to her.

  ‘Leave her.’ Luned pushed him away. ‘Let me see her hand.’

  He stood back as Luned unwrapped the dirty bandage and pulled it gently away from Eleyne’s blistered and bleeding fingers. ‘I’ll have to bandage it again,’ she said softly, ‘does it hurt very much?’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘We’ll ride back to Kendal immediately,’ the man said, ‘and find a physician to dress it for you before we go back.’

  ‘Go back?’ Eleyne looked at him wearily.

  ‘To Chester. The king has ordered that you be t
aken back there the moment we find you.’ He gave a half bow. ‘I understand his grace does not think it an appropriate time for you to be visiting Scotland.’

  The two horses were led up to them.

  ‘Allow me, my lady, I’ll help you into the saddle, then we’ll rejoin the escort on the track below.’

  VII

  CHESTER CASTLE August 1237

  Eleyne slept in the earl’s bedchamber and was given all the state of the Countess of Chester. But she was a prisoner. John de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, had made that quite clear. She was not to ride or to visit the town; she couldn’t receive envoys or messengers unless he was present, and she could not write to her father or to her aunt or uncle in Scotland. Her vision faded and she did not have the heart to summon it again. Whatever destiny had in store for her, it would come without her aid.

  Rhonwen anointed her hand with salves which softened and healed the burned skin, and scolded her alternately for running away and for getting caught. ‘That has put you in the wrong, cariad. Now they are on their guard. They expect you to try again.’ She tied the cool buttered silk bandage tighter and settled Eleyne’s arm into the scarf knotted around her neck as a sling. ‘You should have bided your time. You should have waited for King Alexander to ask for you to be sent to him.’

  ‘He hasn’t asked – ’

  ‘He has. Countess Clemence told me. He has written to King Henry in the strongest possible terms and demanded that, as the widow of the heir to Scotland, you be allowed to return there. King Henry has refused.’

  ‘Of course.’ Eleyne walked sadly to the window of the solar and looked down across the walls into the busy street. ‘He has already selected my husband, it seems, but he does not deign to tell me his name.’

  She turned with a flash of impatience. ‘Dear sweet Christ! for two pins I would throw a rope of sheets across the battlements and slide down! How dare he do this to me! I am one of the highest-born ladies in the land, I am a princess of Wales and of Scotland, and he treats me like a brood bitch to be mated at his command!’