Robert reached for the wineskin at his saddle bow and raised it to his lips. ‘We’ll be at the border by nightfall.’ He passed the wine to James Comyn. ‘Then we’ll stop and think this through.’
‘Think what through, my friend?’ James asked ‘You have to get the king’s letters to Westminster fast. There’s nothing to think about there.’
‘No?’ Robert reached for the sealed letter pouch and felt it thoughtfully. ‘Alexander wants me out of Scotland, and these are his excuse. I doubt if they are important. I’m tempted to turn back.’
‘Then you’re a fool, man.’ James handed back the wineskin and gathered up his reins. ‘And I for one don’t intend to be there if you do!’
The road dipped from the moorland into thick woods and the air grew oppressively still. Robert reached for the wine again, allowing his horse to pick its way after its companions, the reins lying loose on its neck.
The men were waiting for them in the shadows of a thorn thicket, their drawn swords gleaming in the stray rays of sunlight. James Comyn did not stand a chance – before he could draw his weapon the sword had entered his stomach beneath the ribcage and he had slumped to the forest floor. John Gilchrist fared little better. He drew his sword and had time to flail it wildly around his head with a cry of ‘footpads’ before he too fell from the saddle. The two riderless horses thundered away up the grassy ride.
Robert, terrified, hurled the wineskin in the direction of the robbers and lashed his horse’s sides. The animal bolted back the way it had come and within minutes he was lost in the forest.
It was a long time before he brought the fear-crazed horse to a halt. He listened intently: the silence of the broad forest rides and the narrow deer trods was total. There was no sound of pursuit. Whoever had lain in wait had been content with his two companions, at least for now. Sober and scared, Robert looked up for the sun and turned his weary animal once more towards the south.
VII
STIRLING CASTLE
The news that the bodies of James Comyn and John Gilchrist had been found, robbed and mutilated, in the Forest of Ettrick hit the country with a wave of shock. As did the news that there was no sign of Robert de Quincy, who had been with them. The king received the news in silence, then gave orders that the robbers be found and dealt with. Holding up a king’s messenger was a serious offence. But the robbers were not found and there was no news of Robert.
They spied on her the whole time: the women of the court, the servants, the king’s advisers, even his friends. Each time she went to his chamber she felt their eyes upon her from every doorway and window squint; each time he summoned her to his private rooms she sensed ears at the keyhole, and heard the chain of gossip as it flew around the castles of the king.
She walked proudly, ignoring it, her eyes deliberately ahead, but she was deeply troubled. She wanted Robert dead – in the depths of her soul she wanted him dead. But to wish him dead was a sin. How could her happiness with Alexander be based on that? She did not let herself wonder whether Alexander had arranged the murder. If he had it was as great a sin for him. She prayed, but her prayers always ended with one petition. ‘Please, sweet Blessed Virgin, Blessed Bride, let Robert de Quincy be dead.’ If Robert were dead, she would be free to marry again and her husband would be a king. The matter was now urgent, for she had begun to suspect as the weeks passed that she was pregnant.
She was never completely alone; her servants were always with her. They slept in her chamber at night, they followed her by day; when she was summoned to the king, it was by one of his attendants. And now more than ever she needed to be alone. She wanted the chance to see into her future. She could not bear the suspense; could no longer tolerate her position. She had to know. Was the destiny Einion had predicted hers at last? Was she to be the next Queen of Scots, in spite of the opposition to her? For there was opposition. It wasn’t only the Earl of Fife who did not want her to be queen. The Earl of Mar, the Earl of Buchan, the Earl of Dunbar, and of course the Constable of Scotland, Robert’s brother, Roger de Quincy, were all adamant that when the king remarried – and for Scotland’s sake that had to be soon – it could not be to the Countess of Chester. Too much doubt and jealousy and scandal clung to her now, and how could the king marry a woman whose husband might still be alive?
Her nights in Alexander’s arms were a haven, but never once did she dare to ask him what was to happen, and never once did he give her any sign. Together, in silence, they waited for news of her husband. Until it came, they could do nothing. And still she had not told him her secret.
VIII
John the Baptist’s Day, 29 August 1238
They were at Scone again. The hot muggy August days stretched out and thunder was never far away. The beautiful old palace of Scone lay in a heat haze. It was very silent in the king’s rooms where Eleyne lay in Alexander’s arms. They were both naked.
The knocking on the door was quick and urgent. Alexander sat up and frowned. His servants had orders that he was never to be disturbed when he was alone with Lady Chester.
The knocking was repeated, light, so as not to be heard far away, but insistent.
Pulling on his gown, he went to the door and unbolted it. A shadowy figure waited outside in the dark corridor. The king heard the whispered message and scowled.
‘I have to go, my love.’ He was dressing swiftly. ‘But wait here, I’ll be back soon.’ He knelt and put his hand on her breast as she lay sleepily where he had left her. ‘Lock the door behind me.’
She needed no second bidding. Her hands were shaking as she struck flint to steel and coaxed a spark into the fire laid in the hearth. It had not been lit for days and the kindling was dry as dust. She had no herbs to conjure up the scented smoke. This time she had to do it alone.
Kneeling before the flames, still naked, she waited impatiently for them to heat and steady, emptying her mind, seeking the pictures she knew would be there.
Outside footsteps approached up the stone-flagged passage. She held her breath; they came nearer – she heard the double beat of the heavy boot, heel and toe, and then the jarring metallic ring of the long spurs. They reached the door and paused, then they moved on. She closed her eyes with relief.
The future, her future, her destiny. Would she marry the king? Was the child she was now certain she was carrying going to be the heir to the throne of Scotland? She had to know.
Show me, show me the future. She knelt closer to the fire, her hands outstretched. I must know. Her eyes were reddening; sore and dry from the heat. The sweat was pouring down between her breasts, and her fingertips tingled warningly. ‘Please show me,’ she begged out loud.
Were the flames condensing into a picture? She leaned closer, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, her bare knees on the sprinkling of broken twig and bark which lay in the hearth.
There, against the grey stones of the chimney, still cold and impervious to the new heat, was that a picture? ‘Einion, help me! Tell me what is to happen!’ She shook her head to clear her eyes. ‘Tell me my future.’
The flames crackled up merrily, devouring the dry sticks, licking at the log which lay ready to heat the room on the first cold night. Outside, the sunlight had turned coppery; thunder rolled around the Perthshire hills.
She did not hear Alexander’s soft leather-soled shoes. His knock was imperious. ‘Eleyne, open this door!’ For one long moment she remained where she was, kneeling before the empty flames, then she rose to her feet.
Alexander stared at her and slammed the door behind him. ‘Never, never open the door with no clothes on again. Supposing someone had seen … Eleyne, what is the matter? Why in the name of all that is holy have you lit a fire?’ He strode over and kicked at the logs, scattering them. Then he turned. ‘You were looking into the future?’
She was still standing by the door, her long hair curling down over her breasts, her hands and arms streaked with wood ash and soot. Her eyes were red.
‘Or were you sum
moning the dead?’ His face darkened angrily. ‘Is that it?’
She was frightened. ‘No, I was trying to see … to see the future … I needed to know,’ she finished in a whisper.
‘You needed to know. What pray did you need to know?’
‘What will happen.’ She looked at him in anguish. ‘It was prophesied by Einion Gweledydd that I should be the mother of a line of kings. I had to know,’ she rushed on. ‘I had to know when. We always thought he was speaking of my marriage to John.’ She took a deep agonised breath. ‘But that wasn’t to be. And now …’ Her voice faltered to a halt.
‘And now,’ he echoed.
She saw the vivid blaze of his eyes and suddenly she was reminded of John. How he had looked when she had told him the same thing. She put out her hand timidly and touched his arm. ‘Is Robert dead?’ she whispered.
He nodded.
‘You gave the order?’ she forced herself to ask.
‘I gave the order.’ He spoke heavily, staring down at the remains of the smouldering ashes. ‘God forgive me, I gave the order. I had to have you. Sweet Blessed Christ, I had to have you for my wife!’
Eleyne clenched her fists. Her breath was coming in tight, painful gasps. ‘I’m carrying your child, my lord.’ She hadn’t meant to say it like that – straight out.
‘Are you sure?’ Words he had spoken before, to his wife, but this time he already knew the answer. The curves of her belly, the full breasts, the slight broadening of her hips: the signs which he had subconsciously noticed and enjoyed without realising their significance.
‘I’m sure.’ She spoke in a whisper.
‘Sweet Jesus! how long I’ve waited for this moment!’ He took her in his arms, her soft white body crushed against his robe. He threaded his fingers through her hair and gently pulled back her head, raising her lips to his.
‘You will marry me? You will have to marry me now.’ She arched her throat to his kisses, feeling herself growing weak, as always at his touch.
‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘I’ll have to marry you now.’
‘And Robert?’
‘Robert is dead, I told you.’
He was pulling at his clothes, pushing her down, his mouth on hers. She shut out the shiver of unease his tone had brought. She had always known that Robert would have to die to set her free.
She lay back beneath him, her lips against his, her mind spinning out of thought into animal sensation. If this was the will of the gods, if this was her destiny, who was she to feel guilt at the death of one man?
IX
LONDON September 1238
The River Thames lapped greedily against the wall, small wavelets slapping at the stone, teasing the weed and rubbish which floated there. It was full high tide. The messenger drew Robert de Quincy into a dark corner in the angle of the Water Gate Tower and the wall and glanced over his shoulder before he put his mouth to Robert’s ear.
‘Your wife is with child by the King of Scots.’
Robert’s eyes widened. ‘Who told you?’
The stranger shrugged. ‘I was told to tell you. It was the king who tried to have you killed. They think you’re dead and that she is free to marry him.’
Robert put his hand to the throat of his new gown and shivered. ‘How do they know it’s the king’s child?’ he blustered. ‘It might be mine.’
‘Then you must claim it.’ The man eyed him insolently. ‘If you dare.’
Robert’s mouth was dry with fear, but a slow steady anger churned in his stomach. How dare she? They had made a cuckold of him before the world and now they wanted to dispose of him like so much rubbish. Well, she was not going to find it that easy. Not once he had told King Henry what was going on.
X
DUNFERMLINE CASTLE October 1238
‘It won’t be for long, lass.’ Alexander’s hands were on her shoulders. ‘What is it?’
It was unlike her to cry, but the tears slipped down her face in spite of her efforts to check them. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ He was riding to the far west of his kingdom.
‘Neither do I, Eleyne,’ he said, growing impatient. ‘But it has to be; you know that as well as I do.’
Her belly was showing now. If she were careful, always draped in a full mantle, no one could see it, but her servants knew; Nesta knew, for she had had to let out the seams of Eleyne’s gowns. And she was sure some of the men and women of the court had guessed. But still Alexander had not acted. It was only three or four months before her baby was due; they had to be married soon.
She had stopped riding, terrified of harming the baby, her whole being tied up with the scrap of life who would one day wear a crown. She did not know that messengers had arrived from the court of King Henry, and that one of the messages they carried was that Robert de Quincy was alive.
XI
STRATA FLORIDA, WALES 19 October 1238
All the lords and princes of Wales were gathered at the command of Prince Llywelyn. Once more he wanted their assurances and their oaths of loyalty: for Dafydd.
Isabella sat watching as her husband’s attendants put the finishing touches to his clothes, tweaking, brushing, pulling at the folds of his cloak. She was shivering in spite of the lighted brazier which threw out a shimmering wall of heat from its glowing coals.
‘Is your father well enough to attend the meeting?’ She was growing agitated now that the day had finally arrived.
Dafydd nodded. He waved away his servants and turned to face her. ‘So, how do I look?’ He was wearing the talaith, the coronet which was the symbol of his rank.
‘Handsome.’ She smiled with some of her old coquettishness. ‘Every inch the greatest prince Wales has ever seen.’
‘No prince will ever be greater than my father, Isabella.’
‘You will.’ She stood up and moving towards him with a rustle of silks she stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. ‘You’ll see, Dafydd bach, after today you will rule all Wales.’
Outside the guesthouse the wind had risen, roaring through the trees in the valley beyond the abbey. The lonely hills were dark under the speeding clouds.
‘Not as long as Gruffydd holds so much of Gwynedd and Powys. Father means him to succeed Gwenwynwyn as leader in central Wales. If he does he’ll be a thorn in my flesh for the rest of my days.’
‘Then he mustn’t succeed.’ Isabella’s eyes narrowed. ‘Once the princes have sworn allegiance to you, my husband, he will have no friends. And your father will go back happily to his prayers at Aberconwy. The field will be yours.’
‘My thoughts exactly! Though I must move carefully. Remove his lands little by little, isolate him. With my allies and my sisters’ husbands with their lands … Angharad and Maelgwyn Fychan, Gwladus and Ralph Mortimer, Gwenllian and William de Lacy, Margaret and Walter Clifford. It’s a formidable list.’ He paused. ‘It’s a pity that Chester is now so irrevocably in Henry’s hands. With the earl as our ally we were far more secure.’
Isabella frowned. ‘Where is the Countess of Chester now, do we know?’
Dafydd smiled. The minx was showing her claws again. He could tell by the tone of her voice. She knew very well where Eleyne was. He shook his head at her gravely. ‘She is, I hope, working on strengthening the prospects of a Welsh alliance with Scotland.’
Isabella laughed shrilly. ‘Is that what it’s called? That is not what Robert de Quincy called it when he came to see papa.’
If Robert de Quincy had hoped for sympathy from Eleyne’s father when he came to Aber the month before, he had been sadly disappointed. Llywelyn, on his way back to Aberconwy, where he spent more and more of his time in prayer, had been curt to the point of rudeness to his unwanted and unloved son-in-law, pointing out that a wife was a man’s own business and if he could not control Eleyne he should perhaps look to his own character for the reason.
The news of Eleyne’s attachment to the King of Scots had pleased Dafydd enormously; her marriage to him would be the best and biggest insult to Henry anyone at Aber
could conceive. He had said as much to his father.
‘If that young man should meet with an accident on his way out of Wales, we would be doing the whole world a favour!’ he had said succinctly as Robert de Quincy left Aber.
Llywelyn had frowned, groping with shaking hand for the crucifix he wore around his neck. ‘Murder is not the answer, my son, though I’m tempted, sorely tempted. The alliance with the royal house of Scotland would be good for Wales, very good.’ He smiled with a glint in his eye, quite like his old self. Then he sighed. ‘But I don’t wish to die with that wretched young man’s death on my conscience. Or on yours –’ he added hastily.
Both men had thought for a moment with regret about Gruffydd. He would not have hesitated. But Gruffydd wasn’t there.
XII
DUMBARTON CASTLE
William, Earl of Mar, was sitting near King Alexander. He glanced at his companions with a scowl. They had wished this on him after long discreet discussions by the fireside, and now they had turned to talk among themselves, leaving him alone with his king.
Alexander lay back in his chair and sighed. ‘So, William, another two days and we can ride back to Roxburgh.’
‘I hope so, sir.’ What kind of fool was he to try this? How could he even begin?
Someone cleared their throat in the room behind him. William took the hint.
‘I hear Sir Robert de Quincy is bragging at Henry’s court that he is to be a father, sire.’ He kept his eyes on his hands, watching the fire glint on the stone in his ring. ‘He claims his wife was cohabiting with him when the child was conceived and claims to know when it will be born.’
He risked a glance at the king’s face, and wished he hadn’t. The pain was raw.
‘Sir Robert is also claiming that you tried to have him killed, sire,’ he said softly. ‘Even if he released her –’ he paused – ‘or if he died, there would always be doubt. Even with a papal dispensation, as the widower of her aunt,’ he ploughed on manfully, ‘you cannot marry her. Scotland would be torn apart.’
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