‘I think fresh air would do him more good,’ Eleyne retorted tartly. She had hardly spoken all evening.
Alexander beckoned attendants from the corner of the dais. ‘Take Sir Robert to the courtyard and leave him to sleep it off under the stars,’ he directed. When they had gone he turned back to her. ‘Did you not enjoy the hunt?’
‘I enjoyed it enormously.’ She wanted to throw herself into his arms; to cry, to beg him to help her, to show him her bruises and wait while he stormed outside to kill Robert with his own hands. But she had to be calm. She could not risk two countries going to war because her husband beat her, nor could she risk, ever, the chance of Alexander’s being excommunicated – or worse.
Alexander put his hand over hers. ‘I must talk to you later, alone. Your husband is too drunk to know or care what we do – ’
‘No!’ her cry was almost frightened, and she saw him frown. ‘No,’ she repeated more softly, ‘not here. Falkland is too public, there are too many eyes. Everyone will know – ’
‘I suspect everyone knows already, sweetheart,’ Alexander smiled, ‘but they indulge their old king by turning a blind eye.’
III
The castle was asleep when the king’s servant knocked softly on the stout door. He whispered to Nesta, and Nesta tiptoed to Eleyne’s bed. Eleyne was lying awake, trying to ease her painful body on the mattress. Outside the night was luminous, barely dark, though it was long after midnight and she had left the bed curtains undrawn.
‘The king wants you,’ Nesta whispered importantly. She put her candle down beside the bed, picked up Eleyne’s velvet bed gown and held it up. At last the king would see the poor lady’s bruises: he could hardly miss them this time. He had tipped her and tipped her well to act as a messenger between her mistress and himself since the beginning of their stay in Scotland, and she was happy to do her best to help Eleyne. Like all the Chester servants, she had a low opinion of Sir Robert.
Eleyne was tempted to send a message to say she wasn’t well, but her longing for him was too great. Wrapped in her gown, a candle in her hand, she followed the king’s servant on tiptoe to the state bedchamber, which was almost next to their own. A fire had been lit there, in spite of the warmth of the night, to take the chill off the stone of the room, and the king sat beside it in the light of a single candle. As the servant pulled the door shut, he rose and held out his hands. They did not speak. She clung to him, her face buried in his chest, and it was several minutes before he realised that she was crying.
‘Eleyne?’ He held her away from him and looked down at her face. In the shadowed candlelight he could hardly make out her features, but he felt the hot tears as he touched her cheek with his forefinger. ‘What is it, lass?’
She did not trust herself to speak, just wanting to feel his arms around her again, but he held her away firmly. ‘Tell me!’ His voice was sharper, full of anxiety.
‘I can’t, it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m with you.’
‘It does matter, Eleyne. I’ve never seen you cry.’ Abruptly he released her. He turned to the table and taking the candle he used it to light half a dozen more so that the shadows drew back and he could see her face more clearly. He swore softly and took her in his arms again. ‘Has that bastard de Quincy hurt you?’
She nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter, I’m used to it – ’
‘Used to it?’ His whisper became a roar. ‘By Christ I’ll make him sorry he was ever born! I’ll have his head on a spike on – ’
‘No, no! Please, you mustn’t! You can’t.’ She was sobbing openly now. ‘Don’t you see? He has threatened to tell King Henry of our affair; he has threatened to tell the church that we commit incest.’ Her voice broke and she flung herself down on her knees on the cushions he had thrown ready for their lovemaking in front of the hearth. ‘He says it would lead to war,’ she went on, ‘Uncle Henry would make it the excuse to invade Scotland. Oh my dear, don’t you see he’s right, we can do nothing.’ Knuckling her eyes, she rocked back and forth on her knees.
‘He overestimates his importance,’ the king said succinctly.
‘I know, but at the same time he’s right. Henry could make it an excuse to cause all kinds of unpleasantness. Oh, please, don’t you see …’
Alexander stared down at her, his fury tightly in check. All his instincts told him Robert de Quincy had to die, but she was right. Above all, the king was a statesman and Scotland must come first, even before this beautiful wild creature whom he loved, as he had at last acknowledged to himself, almost to distraction.
He knelt beside her and pulled her against him, gentling her sobs, then slowly he kissed her on the lips. She responded, unable to resist the longing which his kisses kindled, allowing him to pull off her bed gown. She heard him catch his breath as he saw the bruises on her buttocks and she felt his fingers tighten on her shoulders until she cried out with pain.
‘It doesn’t matter, love,’ she whispered. ‘Nothing matters as long as I still have you.’ She put her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards her. ‘If harm came to Scotland because of me, you would grow to hate me. I could not bear that to happen. Leave it, my love.’ Her tongue was in his ear, fluttering down his jaw line, dipping, seeking the small erect nipples hidden in the golden chest hair where she was pressing her face as his gown fell open.
The firelight made a golden halo of his hair. Smiling up at him, she lay back on the cushions, pulling him with her, holding his head in her hands, bringing it down to her breasts, wanting to lose her pain and fear and humiliation in the golden, worshipping body of the king. She gasped as his lips caught at her nipple, teasing it, sucking, and her body arched towards his from the soft pile of cushions.
She flung her head sideways, staring at the fire, unseeing, turning inwards, feeling only the growing rush of pleasure as it built towards its crescendo and final explosion.
The horseman in the flames was riding fast, his cloak streaming in the wind, the lightning flashing in the flaming logs which framed the picture, the banner above his head a roaring, ramping lion. He was riding too fast, not able to see the rough track beneath the horse’s feet, unable to steady the animal, not caring, urging it faster, faster still, laughing exultantly into the rain …
‘Eleyne, what’s the matter?’ The king’s voice was sharp. Just as her body seemed ready to crest into a climax, she had become still, withdrawn, almost as though she no longer knew he was there. He felt the heat leaving her skin beneath his hands. Around them the room had grown cold. ‘Eleyne!’ He knelt up, cupping her face in his hands. ‘What is it? Where are you?’ Fear knifed through him.
She stared at him blankly as he knelt over her, her mind still with the galloping horseman, then she glanced back at the fire. But he had gone. The flames had died, leaving a red, glowing bed of ash as the logs collapsed into cinders.
Alexander followed her gaze, the hairs stirring on the back of his neck. ‘You saw something in the fire?’ he asked sharply.
She nodded, shaking violently. ‘Don’t be angry.’
‘Why should I be angry?’ He sat up and pulled one of the rugs around her shoulders before reaching for his own gown.
‘What did you see?’
‘A man. Riding.’
‘Who?’
She shrugged. ‘I never see his face.’
‘You’ve seen him before?’ He felt her fear.
She nodded miserably. ‘Several times. And I’ve seen other things.’ Suddenly she didn’t want to have any secrets from him. ‘I saw Hay Castle when it burned; I saw my father’s illness. Once when I was a child I saw the massacre of the Druids on Môn.’ She stopped abruptly. There was someone in the room with them. The temperature had dropped so sharply she could see Alexander’s breath as a cloud in the air between them. Two of the candle flames paled and smoked and went out, leaving a trail of acrid blue smoke.
She saw the king look round as he felt it too. His face was white. Silently he rose and reached for his mantle
. From its folds he produced a dagger and pulled it from its sheath. But the shadowy bedchamber was empty.
‘Einion –’ She had whispered without realising it, searching the shadows, her fingers clamped into the rug she was holding around her shoulders. Her part in Scotland’s future, if she still had a part in Scotland’s future, had been Einion’s secret and Einion’s vision. He had seen her at a king’s side; he had seen her as the mother of a line of kings. Unconsciously she put her hand to her stomach beneath the thick folds of the rug.
‘What is it?’ Alexander’s whisper was harsh. He had backed towards the wall, lightly hefting the dagger from hand to hand, his eyes everywhere, his whole body poised for attack.
Eleyne shook her head. ‘It’s nothing, it will pass …’
‘Nothing! There was someone here – ’
‘Yes, my lord, and he has gone.’ Eleyne smiled wanly. She was still trembling.
‘You spoke a name.’
‘Einion. He was my father’s bard. It was he who taught me to look in the fire.’
‘Sweet Christ!’ Alexander peered around the room again. The remaining candles had steadied, and the strange unnatural cold, the cold of the grave, had lifted. Still holding the dagger in his right hand, he pulled his mantle over his shoulders, then he bent and threw a couple of pine logs on the fire.
‘So. My Eleyne is a seer.’ His voice was carefully neutral. ‘And protected by the spirits of the dead.’ Behind him the logs spat blue sparks up the chimney.
‘No, it’s not like that. He wants to tell me something – ’
‘He wants to tell you something!’ Alexander sheathed the dagger in his belt and threw it back on the stool. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘He doesn’t choose his moment with any tact, this bard of yours, does he?’
Eleyne gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sorry.’ She leaned past him towards the rugs and pulled another around her shoulders. ‘Do you hate me now?’
‘Why should I hate you?’ He was recovering rapidly. ‘There are seers in Scotland, it’s a gift of our people as it is of yours. You met Michael.’ He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘But you’re afraid.’
‘I can’t control the visions and I can’t understand them. This one,’ she flung her arm in the direction of the fire, ‘it’s a warning, I know it’s a warning. But of what? Who is he? Who is it I keep seeing? That’s why Einion came. He wants to help me understand.’ There were tears in her voice.
He pulled her against him. ‘Perhaps it was me you saw?’
The lion flag; the billowing streaming standard. Was it the standard of the king? Perhaps. But the shoulders of the man in the cloak, the angle of his head – she did not recognise him. ‘I would know if it were you, my love,’ she whispered. ‘I am sure I would know if it were you.’
IV
It was still early when the king summoned Robert de Quincy to his bedchamber the next morning. The ashes of the fire had grown cold many hours before, and the candles had burned down into pools of wax. There was no trace of the strange coldness which had permeated the room. The two narrow windows let in broad slashes of early sunlight which spilled across the floor and lit the far walls.
Robert’s head was pounding and his tongue felt like old leather as he stood before the king. He had drunk so much the night before, his mind was a blank. He looked at the king warily, wondering why he had been summoned, but Alexander’s face gave nothing away as he stood with his back to the empty hearth. He had seen to it that they were alone. The young man’s face was the colour of cold lard, but his eyes, small, brown and intense, were confidently insolent.
Alexander flexed the joints of his hands together, then he smiled. And for the first time Robert felt a quiver of uncertainty.
‘You are a messenger of the King of England,’ Alexander said at last.
Robert nodded, watching the king’s face cautiously, but Alexander’s expression remained unreadable.
‘I have messages for my brother-in-law of England,’ the king went on, ‘which I should like you to deliver without delay. You will ride south this morning.’
‘But, sire – ’
‘You will leave your household here, Sir Robert, to allow you to make best speed, and you will – you must – reach Westminster by the feast of Peter and Paul. I know I can rely on you.’ He had given him four days to reach London.
Robert narrowed his eyes, wishing his brain was thinking more clearly. His wife … she was behind this. She and her kingly lover wanted him out of the way.
‘Eleyne must go with me, sire – ’
‘No, Sir Robert.’ The king folded his arms. ‘Your wife would be safer here. No harm will come to her while you are away.’ Something in the way he said those words made Robert’s hair stir uneasily on his scalp. So. The bitch had told him, and no doubt shown him her bruises. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Last night, before he had drunk all those jars of Gascon wine, what had he done to her? He shuffled his feet. No more than usual, no doubt.
‘You need me here, your grace,’ he said slowly, allowing a slight undertone of menace to enter his voice. ‘Eleyne cannot stay here alone.’
‘She’ll be safe here,’ the king repeated.
‘She won’t be safe from scandal. And the condemnation of the church.’ Robert forced his lips into a leer. ‘You, as a king and a widower, may be beyond the reach of either, but she isn’t.’
Alexander clenched his fists. ‘There will be no scandal, Sir Robert.’ He paused. ‘There would be even less chance, of course, if your wife were a widow, but I am sure it will never come to that.’ He held Robert’s eye and saw the young man flinch. ‘And do not be misled into believing that your death would cause an incident of any importance,’ he went on relentlessly. ‘The King of England needs peace with Scotland as much as Scotland needs peace with him. The death of an unimportant messenger on some lonely moor at the hands of a few footpads would not even occasion an exchange of letters.’ The king took a step forward. ‘I shall not expect replies to my letters from King Henry. Do I make myself clear?’
V
Lord Fife was waiting for him as he walked towards the great hall, the king’s pouch of letters dangling from his hand.
Fear and anger were still vying for priority when he found himself confronted by his host and drawn into a private corner. ‘Is he sending you away?’ Lord Fife wasted no time on formalities.
Robert raised his chin slightly. ‘He has an urgent message for the King of England. I am the only one who can be trusted with it – ’
Fife laughed. ‘And he has got his way. You will be in England and Eleyne will be in Scotland – alone.’
Robert glowered. ‘What is that to you?’
Lord Fife shrugged. ‘Nothing, but I dislike seeing our sovereign make a fool of himself. He must be detached from her somehow. Why not order her to remain here at Falkland? I’ll look after her if you give the word.’
‘Against the king’s wish?’ Robert could not keep the scorn out of his voice. ‘You think he would quietly ride off and leave her, even if you dared to defy him?’
‘Oh, I would dare.’ The expression in the earl’s eyes was formidable and Robert felt a moment of unease. He scrutinised the other man’s face, trying to read his meaning.
‘You are going to do it anyway,’ he said at last, astonished at the ease with which he could read the man’s mind. ‘You are going to keep Eleyne here, and tell the king she’s gone with me. That’s it, isn’t it? You want her for yourself!’
The earl smiled grimly. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to anger my king, Sir Robert. Believe me, I would do nothing to anger my king.’
Lord Fife was waiting in the stables when Eleyne went to Tam Lin. She did not see him until it was too late. As she entered the stall and began to make a fuss of the horse, the shadow of his stocky figure fell across her.
‘So, my lady, my gift still pleases you.’ The earl smiled. He was very close to her and she could not back away because of the wooden parti
tion in the stall.
‘He pleases me enormously, my lord.’ She turned to face him, her hand still caressing the horse’s soft muzzle. The wonderful feeling of release she had experienced as Robert rode away with his escort of two companions was still with her, but she eyed Malcolm uneasily. ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘How grateful?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Your affair with the king can’t go on, my lady,’ he said gruffly. ‘You must know that. Already it is being talked about. The king has to marry again. He has to get an heir …’
Eleyne had gone cold. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she retorted. ‘What I do is none of your business. Nor is anything the king may choose to do!’
‘Oh but it is.’ Malcolm’s voice was silky. ‘I am the most senior earl of the kingdom, and the king listens to my advice. It will be my honour and my duty one day perhaps to crown Alexander’s son. Don’t demean yourself, Eleyne, you are worth too much. Come away with me – ’
She stared at him in fury. ‘How can you suggest such a thing? Never!’ She ducked under Tam Lin’s head so that the horse was between them.
‘Aunt Eleyne?’ The voice from the end of the stalls made Malcolm swing round with an exclamation of anger. Young Robert Bruce was standing there, hands on hips, a quizzical smile on his face.
‘Rob!’ In relief Eleyne moved towards him. ‘Lord Fife was just looking at Tam Lin again.’ Flustered, she clutched her nephew’s arm.
He grinned. ‘His grace the king is asking for you, Aunt Eleyne. I think he plans to ride out with his hawks.’ He bowed gravely to the earl.
Malcolm glared at the young man, then he smiled. If there were no royal son, young Robert Bruce might one day be his king. Better keep him sweet. He could wait for Eleyne of Chester.
VI
Robert de Quincy slowed his horse and looked across at his companions. They had been riding hard at his insistence and the horses were blown. As the road climbed high over the Pentlands and dived down into the Ettrick Forest, they drew rein.
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