Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  Eleyne stepped away from her husband and kissed Rhonwen’s pale cheek. ‘Are you all right?’

  Rhonwen nodded. ‘You saved my life, cariad.’

  ‘Yes.’ For a moment Eleyne looked at Rhonwen, her face bleak. Then she turned to her husband’s side.

  * * *

  The nuptial bed had been set up in the castle’s great guest chamber, and there at last Eleyne found herself alone with Robert de Quincy. He had drunk a great deal at the feast and his handsome face was flushed. He had insisted on watching as his wife’s gown was removed by Luned and Nesta, and as Rhonwen, tight-lipped, had brushed out her hair. Eleyne had kept on her shift and had pulled over it the velvet bed gown. Now she turned to him; he was still fully dressed.

  ‘Do you wish me to call your servants, sir?’

  He smiled. ‘There is no need, you can undress me.’

  She stared at him. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you, wife. You can be my servant.’ His voice was insolent. Stephen Seagrave’s advice had been clear enough: his arrogant young wife had to be mastered. And if in mastering her he indulged some of his favoured pleasures, so much the better. He would begin at once. He stuck his feet out in front of him as he lounged in the heavy carved chair. ‘Remove my shoes first.’

  Eleyne hesitated and his face darkened. ‘You have just promised before God to obey me, woman. Remove my shoes.’

  ‘I am not your servant,’ she retorted hotly, her eyes flashing with indignation. She walked across to the door and pulled it open. ‘Call Sir Robert’s manservant,’ she said to the guard outside. Closing the door, she turned to him. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Yes, you are my wife.’

  ‘I am the Countess of Chester, sir, a title I shall keep until the day I die as you have none to give me.’

  The door opened and a man peered around it. ‘You sent for me, Sir Robert?’

  ‘No,’ Robert leaned back in his chair, ‘I did not. My lady wife will wait on me. You may go, Edward, I shall not need you again tonight.’ He waited until the door closed, then he stood up. He walked across to Eleyne and stood in front of her, smiling.

  She did not see the blow coming. His hand moved so fast she had no time to dodge and his open palm caught her full across the face. He smiled again. ‘It seems a pity that the whole castle will see from your bruises that I have had to chastise my wife so soon.’ He folded his arms as she regained her balance. ‘I understand that woman you summoned after the wedding service is a common murderer,’ he went on, his voice very quiet. ‘Master Seagrave tells me that if I have difficulty in ensuring your obedience I should give the woman up to the hangman.’

  Eleyne gasped and a look of triumph crossed his face. ‘My shoes, madam,’ he commanded again. He did not sit down and, almost blind with rage, she was forced to go down on her knees to remove his shoes and then his hose. She lifted the heavy mantle from his shoulders and hung it, at his instructions, on the peg on the wall, then she unfastened his gown, hanging the heavy girdle beside the mantle. His chest was covered in black hair and his shoulders were very broad. She felt a catch of panic as he stood before her dressed only in his linen drawers, then – deliberately and slowly – he raised his hand and unfastened the ties that held them up, allowing them to fall.

  ‘Now you, wife,’ he said. ‘Take off that hideous shift. Let us see what I have got for my side of the bargain.’

  Fists clenched, she tried not to look at him as he stood so blatantly before her. There was complete silence in the room, then he laughed. ‘Perhaps I should call my manservant to undress you, Lady Chester,’ he said quietly.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Somehow she steadied her hands so she could untie the ribbon which fastened her bed gown and let it fall to the ground, then, almost defiantly, she pulled open the neck of her shift and allowed it too to slide from her shoulders. She did not look at him. She felt his hands running over her body; she was completely cold. She allowed him to lead her to the bed and she lay down when he commanded it, and allowed him to force her legs apart without protest. It was as if a screen separated her from her body.

  It hurt; it hurt very badly and she bit back her tears, turning her head away on the pillow so that he would not see her face, but it was soon over and he withdrew, leaving her feeling strangely inviolate. He might do what he wished with her body, but he could not reach her.

  When he lay at last, snoring loudly, sprawled across the bed, she crawled away and pulled on her bed gown. Then she went to the fire. She was completely numb.

  The fire had died almost to nothing – the ashes were white and the log which still burned was sour and smoky with its last heat. Stooping wearily to the pile of wood in the basket, she threw some on. For a moment nothing happened, then the flames began to flicker into life.

  A horseman was galloping fast towards her, one hand on the reins, one held out towards her. She heard him call her name.

  ‘Who are you?’

  She breathed the words out loud, leaning closer to the fire. Her hair fell across her shoulders.

  He was coming closer now and she could almost see his face. He was smiling. ‘Wait for me,’ he called. ‘Wait for me, my love.’ She could hear the thunder of his horse’s hooves, see the swirl of its caparison, and suddenly she recognised him.

  ‘What in the name of the Blessed Virgin do you think you are doing?’ The hand on her shoulder was so heavy she lost her balance and sprawled forward in the hearth. Her husband stood over her, naked, his face white with fury in the firelight. ‘Who were you talking to? Who?’ She tried to dodge his kick but it struck her thigh and she winced. ‘What were you doing?’

  She looked up at him through the dishevelled curtain of her hair and saw fear in his eyes behind the anger.

  She laughed. ‘What do you think I was doing?’ she whispered. ‘I was looking into the flames to see the future. Scrying. Seeing the outcome of my marriage.’

  He licked his lips nervously. ‘And what did you see?’ In spite of himself, he had to ask.

  ‘I saw death,’ she answered slowly and she saw him blanch.

  It was untrue. She had seen Alexander of Scotland.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I

  At dawn Eleyne crept from the bed and went to the stables. The grooms stared at the bruises on her face and were embarrassed as they brought out one of the palfreys for her to ride. She gave Invictus titbits, kissed his nose and left him behind. She knew already she could never let Robert know how much she loved the horse.

  She did not see her husband again until supper, when she sat beside him at the high table, sharing his dish as she had shared John’s. He appeared to be in high good humour.

  ‘So you rode out without me?’ He dabbled his fingers in the silver basin of rose water the page held for him and reached for the napkin. ‘Why was that?’ His voice was innocently quiet, his face bland, pleasantly interested.

  ‘You were asleep,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ She waved the page away and signalled for the meal to begin.

  He smiled, holding out his goblet for wine. ‘In future you will remain in bed until I give you permission to rise. Then we will ride together.’

  ‘If you wish.’ She felt her temper flare, but she forced herself to smile back at him. She was not going to defy him before the whole household and give him the chance to rebuke her publicly.

  She ate little and drank less, watching silently as he called again and again for wine. The other men at the high table were watching, their expressions inscrutable as they saw Robert’s hand waver on the stem of the goblet and tip a few drops of wine on to the table.

  ‘We have musicians with us from Provence,’ John de Lacy said at last. ‘Shall I ask them to play?’

  Robert rose unsteadily to his feet, stared around and then smiled. ‘My wife and I are going to bed,’ he announced, shaping his words with care. ‘You may ask the devil to play for you, if you wish!’ He caug
ht Eleyne’s wrist and pulled her to her feet. ‘Madam.’

  Eleyne was calm, conscious that every eye in the crowded great hall was on her. As they walked between the tables to the door at the far end of the hall, a total silence descended on the assembled household.

  The bedchamber was dark, the fire banked and warm. Robert released her wrist and walked to the centre of the room. ‘Why is there only one candle?’ He sounded peevish.

  ‘They did not expect us so soon from supper.’ Eleyne went to the table and touched the candle to the others in the candelabra. As each flame caught and flared, the room grew brighter, though the vaulted ceiling stayed dark. Outside it was bitterly cold; the wind was sighing in the battlements.

  ‘Boy!’ Robert bellowed for the servant who had followed them from the hall. ‘More lights. I want to see what I am doing!’ He threw himself down on the chair by the fire and watched as the boy moved round the room, lighting branch after branch of candles. On the far side of the chamber, the bed loomed dark beneath its hangings.

  ‘Enough. Now fetch a bucket of water.’ Robert sounded completely sober.

  ‘Water?’ Eleyne echoed.

  ‘Water,’ he repeated, and he laughed.

  ‘Why do you want water?’ A small unacknowledged knot of fear tightened in her stomach.

  ‘You will see.’ He folded his arms.

  It was a long time before the boy reappeared, panting, with a large bucket of water. He put it on the floor with relief, slopping some over his shoes. From the door and down the stairs a wet trail showed the way he had come with his burden from the well.

  Robert smiled; he did not seem to have grown impatient with the long wait. ‘Throw it on the fire.’

  ‘Sir Robert?’ The boy stared at him.

  ‘You heard me. Throw it on the fire.’ Robert stood up and the boy hastily picked up the heavy pail. Staggering slightly, he carried it to the hearth and tipped the water over the fire, which hissed and died in clouds of steam. Immediately the room began to grow chill.

  Robert nodded grim approval. ‘Now leave us.’

  The boy ran for the door, the pail banging against his knees.

  ‘Why did you put out the fire?’ Eleyne kept her voice steady with difficulty. She could feel her anger and fear mounting.

  He folded his arms. ‘I’ve done it for your sake, wife. We don’t want you staring into the future too often, do we? Particularly if what you see frightens you.’

  He began to unfasten his cloak. ‘Now, you may remove my shoes, if you please.’

  She moved away from him. ‘No, I am not your servant.’

  ‘Oh, but you are, if I say so.’ He let his cloak fall to the floor. ‘Think of the Lady Rhonwen, my dear, with the rope around her neck.’ He moved so swiftly she did not have time to dodge. ‘I think you have to learn a little about obedience. I think your grand titles have gone to your head! Now, undress me.’

  She side-stepped. ‘No. You are a knight, sir. You should be undressed by a man, by your squire. Surely it demeans you to be undressed by a woman.’ She could not keep the scorn out of her voice.

  ‘Not if that woman is a princess,’ he sneered. ‘Are you going to do as I say?’

  ‘No.’ Even the danger to Rhonwen was forgotten. ‘I shall go to my uncle the king. I shall show him what you have done to me.’ She fingered her cheek. ‘He will protect me.’

  Just for a moment he hesitated, then he shook his head. ‘You will have to reach him first, my dear. Oh, I want you to see the king; I want you to see that I am given office at court, but first we are going to have to ensure that you have learned to be a good wife.’ His voice dropped menacingly. ‘Perhaps in future we should see that your bruises are not quite so obvious.’ As he lunged, she ducked away, dodging him, hearing his breath rasping in his throat as he spun around to follow her. She threw herself at the heavy door, her fingers scrabbling for the latch. She found it and pulled it half open but he was right behind her and, slamming it shut with his fist, he shot the bolt across. As he gripped her arm and swung her to face him, she caught the full blast of his wine-sodden breath and realised just how drunk he was.

  She kicked at him but he ignored her, cursing as he dragged her across the room towards the bed. She fought him but he was too strong for her. He had no difficulty holding her with one hand as he ripped down the ornate woven cord which held back the bed hangings, letting the heavy curtains fall around the end of the bed. He pulled the cord tightly around her flailing wrists and pushed her face down on to the bed, binding the rope again and again around the oak bedpost, pinioning her securely.

  He was panting as he stood back to survey his handiwork. Her veil had been torn off in the struggle, and her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders. Looking at her as she lay helpless before him, he smiled again then carefully he drew his dagger. His smile deepened as he heard her frightened intake of breath at the sight of the gleaming blade. He tested it with his thumb, enjoying her fear, then methodically, with exaggerated care, he began to cut off her clothes, reducing gown and mantle and shift to a tangle of brilliant rags.

  Satisfied that she was naked, he left her and went to the coffer by the wall. He had obviously put the slender birch whip there during the day in anticipation of this moment. He took it out and flexed it, the smile still frozen on his face. ‘Your bruises will be where even the king will not see them, princess mine,’ he said softly.

  She was helpless. All she could do was bite her lips, so as not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out as he hit her again and again. When at last he stopped, she lay slumped across the mattress only half conscious that he was untying her.

  ‘Are you still going to tell the king?’ His mouth was close to her ear; she felt his hot stinking breath on her face. ‘If you do, I shall give you Rhonwen’s head to take to him as a present.’

  Pushing himself away from the bed, he began to remove his own clothes. She raised her face, her hair in her eyes, her face burning in spite of the bitter cold of the room. Her whole body ached, the welts across her thighs and buttocks stung, and she felt the stickiness of the blood from the worst of the wounds, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had defeated her. She dragged herself to her feet as he removed the last of his garments.

  ‘Where do you think you are going?’ He was smiling again, naked now as she was, his hands on his hips, his member massively erect. ‘Get back on that bed.’

  She found the courage to shake her head. ‘No.’ Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. ‘No, I will not sleep with you. Get out.’ It was not a plea; it was a command.

  His face darkened and he stepped forward, meaning to catch her wrist, but she was too quick for him. Her fingers clawed, she dragged them down his face, seeing with satisfaction three ribs of black oozing blood open down his cheek. He let out an explosive curse and grabbed her, throwing her to the floor, then he reached with both hands for her hair. She screamed with pain as he pulled her on to her knees and held her for a moment, her head forced back, before he made her take his red, engorged penis in her mouth. Retching, she clawed at him, blind with fury and disgust, but she could not free herself until, satisfied at last, he pushed her away.

  As he threw himself on to the bed, laughing, she crawled to the garderobe and vomited again and again down the latrine hole into the darkness, her naked body ice-cold and sheened with sweat. She knelt there for a long time, her forehead resting on the rim of the cold wooden seat before she found the strength to stand. Her hands still numb from the ropes, she pulled off the wedding ring her husband had given her the day before. She cupped it in her palm, feeling the weight of it for a moment, then let it fall four storeys into the fetid ditch below.

  She was shaking uncontrollably as she walked back into the bedchamber. Robert was snoring. She pulled the torn curtain from its hook and wrapped it around her shoulders, then she turned away, fighting back a new wave of nausea. She had time to take only a few steps towards the bolted
door before she collapsed on to the stone floor.

  II

  When she awoke, she was so bruised and stiff she could hardly move. The bed was empty; the fire had been made up, and Luned was bending over her.

  ‘Where is he?’ As Eleyne sat up a wave of dizziness swept over her.

  Luned was tight-lipped. ‘I’ve sent for hot water and salves.’

  The smears of blood on the curtain were evidence enough of what had happened. Silently Luned helped Eleyne to wash and anoint her bruises and cuts, then she dressed her in a shift of softest silk before putting on her gown.

  ‘I put the whip on the fire,’ she said as she brushed Eleyne’s hair.

  ‘Good.’ Their eyes met. ‘Did you see him this morning?’

  For the first time Luned smiled. ‘Everyone saw him. He will carry those scars on his face for a very long time.’

  III

  ‘You have to go, don’t you see?’ Eleyne shook Rhonwen’s arm. ‘As long as you are here he has a hold over me. He can make me do anything he wants. I can’t fight him while you are here.’

  ‘The man is an animal!’ Rhonwen spat at her. ‘He can’t be allowed to live! I can get rid of him for you. I can see to it that he dies – ’

  Eleyne turned away. ‘No, that is not the answer.’ She pushed away the thought of John dying in her arms; of the empty goblet of dark green, earth-smelling infusion which he had drunk. She could never again allow that suspicion to rise to the surface of her mind.

  ‘Then what shall I do? I have to help you …’ Rhonwen’s eyes were narrow with hate.

  ‘You have to go while I work out how to deal with the situation.’ It was too painful to sit down. She leaned against the table, conscious that her sleeves, long as they were, failed to hide the rope marks on one of her hands.

  Rhonwen frowned. ‘How can you deal with him? He can always resort to violence. That is the only language men understand, and before it we are powerless.’

  ‘I will think of something,’ Eleyne said grimly. ‘But you must go, don’t you see?’