Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘I know.’

  For a moment William did not believe what he had heard. The king’s strangled whisper had been so soft.

  The other three men watching covertly from the shadows saw their king put his face in his hands. ‘How will I tell her, William?’

  Lord Mar bit his lip. ‘I am sure she will understand,’ he said hopefully. Privately, he doubted it. The beautiful Lady Chester had a fiery spirit which did not, as far as he could see, tolerate any contradiction of her wishes.

  The king’s wry smile seemed to imply that he felt the same.

  ‘You could just stay away,’ William said, ‘until she is brought to bed.’

  Alexander shook his head. ‘That would be cruel, and it would be cowardly.’ He straightened. ‘So, William, tell me: whom do my lords think I should marry? Do you have a list of your daughters ready? Or must I marry a foreign princess?’ He stood up abruptly. ‘I love her, William.’ It was a cry of anguish.

  ‘She is a very beautiful woman, sire.’ William stood too. ‘I am sure she will continue to –’ Embarrassed, he groped for words.

  ‘To be my paramour?’ Alexander laughed bitterly. ‘But she deserves better than that, William. Far better.’

  XIII

  PERTH CASTLE February 1239

  Eleyne was sewing with her ladies in the solar above the hall. The gales had grown worse, uprooting trees, tearing roofs from buildings, screaming banshee-like in the chimneys, hurling the rain against the narrow windows. It was hard to sew by the flickering candlelight and the women were talking idly around the table, only now and then inserting stitches into their work. Eleyne had had a letter from Alexander that morning; he was still delayed in the far west. It would be another week at least before he could come to her.

  She knew of the rumour that Robert was alive, but she had no way of finding out the truth. As the weeks passed, she had grown more miserable and uncertain. She did not eat; she did not sleep. On the one hand, his survival meant that Alexander had not after all been guilty of murder. On the other, it meant she was not free. Had Alexander petitioned the pope for an annulment of her marriage? Was he even now awaiting word from Rome?

  She sighed, moving uncomfortably in her chair as the baby kicked beneath her ribs. Why was the king taking so long? Couldn’t he see that time was running out? They had to be married before the baby was born; surely that was more important than yet another squabble among his quarrelsome subjects. He had people to do that for him, he did not have to be there in person. The needle slipped in her hands and she gave an exclamation of pain and annoyance as a spot of blood appeared on her finger.

  The noise of the wind disguised the sound of feet. When the door burst open, the women looked up in amazement. Robert de Quincy had a drawn sword in his hand. Behind him were several armed men who wore the insignia of the Earl of Fife.

  ‘So this is where you are, sweetheart.’ He peered around the room as the shadows leapt from the wildly flickering candles. One of the ladies gave a scream; the rest stared at him, too afraid to move.

  ‘Come, we are leaving, King Henry wants us in London.’

  Eleyne rose to her feet. Her face was white and strained, her heart thudded sickly in her throat. ‘I am not going with you. Our marriage is over.’

  ‘Our marriage isn’t over.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘My dear, it has hardly begun. Fetch her cloak.’ His eyes had flicked over the cowering women and settled on Nesta. ‘We ride south tonight.’

  Nesta licked her lips nervously. ‘My lady is in no condition to ride, Sir Robert,’ she said cautiously, amazed at her own courage.

  ‘No condition?’ Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘Nothing stops my wife from riding, surely.’ He had to raise his voice against the sound of the wind. ‘Not even the fact that she is carrying my child.’

  ‘This is not your child.’ Eleyne’s hand went protectively to her stomach. ‘And you know it. I am carrying the king’s son.’

  ‘You are carrying my son, madam,’ Robert’s voice was harsh, ‘and he will be born under my roof. We ride south tonight.’

  ‘No.’ She backed away from him. ‘The king – ’

  ‘The king is a hundred miles away. You and I will be in England before he even hears that you have gone. You are my wife, any child you bear is my child, and I insist it is born in England. Fetch her cloak.’ The last words were shouted at Nesta as Robert strode towards Eleyne and grabbed her wrist. He was wearing armour beneath his mantle and cloak, his sword still in his right hand.

  ‘Guards!’ Eleyne screamed, ‘where are the guards?’ She tried to pull away from him.

  ‘The guards are elsewhere, and they have no orders to keep me from my wife.’ He had his arm around her shoulders now. ‘I advise you to come with me without any fuss, sweetheart, if you don’t want to hurt yourself and my son.’

  Nesta, white-faced, scuttled away to fetch Eleyne’s thick cloak. ‘I’ll come too.’ She put it gently around Eleyne’s shoulders, but Robert pushed her away. ‘She needs no servants. Out of my way, woman.’ He was sweating as he turned for the door, dragging Eleyne with him.

  She kicked out at him and tried desperately to pull free, but she knew he was too strong for her.

  ‘Call for help,’ she screamed over her shoulder. ‘Tell the king, for sweet pity’s sake, tell the king – ’

  With a curt nod, Robert pushed Eleyne towards one of his men and the man swept her off her feet. In seconds she was being carried towards the door.

  Robert turned back into the room, where the women cowered. ‘No one is to call for help,’ he said softly, ‘no one at all.’ He raised the sword and very gently put the tip against Nesta’s throat. She moaned with fear, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling. ‘If they do, I shall pull the necks of every woman in this room, for the squawking hens you are.’ He gave a small flick of the sword and a speck of blood appeared on the white fabric of Nesta’s wimple. She moaned again, half fainting with terror, and he gave a humourless bark of laughter as he withdrew the sword. Following the other men outside, he pulled the door closed and locked it, and on the way across the lower floor of the keep he tossed the key into the well.

  He took Eleyne on his horse in front of him and kicked it forward through the gates. On either side his men carried flaring torches to light the road as they turned south at a gallop.

  The wind was mercifully behind them, but within seconds the riders were soaked through. Eleyne was shaking with cold and fright and anger, but her only thought was for the baby as the horses thundered along the track. Robert’s mailclad arm was viciously tight. She could scarcely breathe. At one point the horses plunged across a broad river and she felt the icy water dragging at her skirts, her cloak drenched afresh by the spray from the horse’s hooves, then they were on the road again.

  It was growing light before they reached their destination. The horses walked in single file through a gate in a high curtain wall and halted in a courtyard before a small tower. Robert dismounted and lifted her down. ‘We’ll rest here for a few hours.’ He took her arm and turned towards the door, where an old man was standing, waiting for them.

  ‘Where is this place?’ Eleyne could hear the sound of distant waves crashing against the rocks, and she could smell the sharp green smell of the sea. She took a step forward and winced with pain. Her feet were numb and she was stiff and aching in every muscle.

  ‘A friendly castle.’ Robert grinned. ‘One where your lover will not find you.’ Taking her arm he pulled her towards the door.

  The man who was waiting there was a complete stranger to her. He bowed before them. ‘My wife and her servant have prepared a room for your lady, sir. She will be comfortable there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Still holding her arm, Robert followed the man indoors. A turnpike stair twisted up in the thickness of the wall on the eastern side of the chamber and in single file they followed him up it.

  The bedchamber was at the top of the tower. A fire had been lit and a bed prepared. Too tired to
think of anything but sleep, Eleyne scarcely allowed the woman to remove her wet clothes before she collapsed into the bed and felt the bedcovers being heaped over her. The chatelaine chuckled quietly to herself as she wrapped hot stones in cloths and packed them around Eleyne’s feet. Within minutes Eleyne was asleep, her arms crossed protectively across her belly.

  It was late morning when she awoke but the room was still dark. It was full of the sound of the sea. Robert was standing by the bed. ‘We have to ride on. Mistress Gillespie has dry clothes for you and food.’

  Now that she was rested, Eleyne’s resolve had returned. ‘I am riding nowhere. Do you want me to lose this child?’

  Robert’s eyes narrowed in the light of the candle he held. ‘My child?’ he said quietly. ‘No, I don’t want you to lose it. I want it to be born at home. At Fotheringhay. We’ll ride slowly once we are out of Scotland, I shall get some kind of conveyance for you if it is easier. We should be at Berwick tomorrow.’

  ‘I am not going.’ She could feel waves of panic rising inside her and desperately she fought them down. ‘You can’t do this. The king will kill you – ’

  Robert smiled humourlessly. ‘I don’t think so. Don’t you think he would have married you by now if he were going to? Sweet Eleyne, the king is not going to marry you. And I’ll tell you why. He knows this child isn’t his.’

  ‘It is.’ Her cry was full of anguish.

  Robert put down the candle and sat on the bed beside her. ‘Poor Eleyne. So ambitious. Not content with being Countess of Chester, she wants to be Queen of the Scots. Well, sweetheart, it isn’t going to happen, you are my wife and my wife you are going to stay. And all your children …’ he put his hand heavily on her stomach, ‘are going to be mine. Is that clear?’ He sat looking at her for a long moment, then he stood up. When he left the chamber she heard the bolt shoot home on the door behind him.

  Dragging herself out of bed she went to the window and pulled the shutter open. The wind had dropped, but it was still ice-cold in her face as she leaned out across the broad wet sill and peered through the narrow lancets. The tower was built high in the woods above the sea. She could see the waves crashing on to the shore in the distance, sending up clouds of spray. On the horizon a multitude of small islands stood out of the mist. There was no escape that way. Turning from the window she surveyed the round room. It was sparsely furnished. Two coffers and a bed were all the comforts it afforded. The two archways with curtains across them revealed the garderobe and a small oratory in the thickness of the massive wall. She stood for a moment before the crucifix which stood on the altar. The narrow windows above it had small yellowish panes of glass set in a leaded frame. It was very dark.

  The prayers she had thought to make would not come. Instead, she found herself concentrating on the dull ache in her spine. With a groan she braced her hands against the small of her back in the time-honoured gesture of the heavily pregnant woman and went to sit on the bed.

  She ate the food she was brought and put on the clothes. She knew enough about Robert to be certain that he would have no compunction about forcing her if he had to and that he would enjoy doing it. She refused to give him that satisfaction. Her only chance of escape was to use her head. Mistress Gillespie had refused to speak to her, shaking her head sternly when questioned as to where they were, but Eleyne guessed they were somewhere in Fife. The men who had ridden with Robert wore the Earl of Fife’s blazon on their surcoats. But why should Malcolm of Fife help Robert? He wouldn’t want to make an enemy of his king, and besides, he still seemed to want her himself.

  She was no wiser when Robert came upstairs to collect her. He eyed her clothes, smoky but dry from the fire, and nodded. ‘I’m glad you’ve decided to be sensible. The horses are ready.’

  Even now she could probably outride him, given a decent horse. It was the only chance of escape. Gritting her teeth against the nagging ache in her back, she followed him down the narrow spiral stair.

  ‘I’ll ride my own horse!’ She saw with alarm that he intended her to sit behind him.

  ‘I think not. It’s safer for the baby if you are with me. Besides, we are not going far.’

  It was barely half a mile down to the small harbour where a boat was waiting, jerking at its mooring rope on the choppy water.

  Eleyne stared at it in horror. ‘I’m not going in that.’

  She saw her hopes of escape receding fast and she could feel her panic growing.

  ‘Indeed you are, sweetheart. The ferryman is going to take us across the Forth. I have fresh horses waiting on the far side.’ Throwing his leg over the pommel of the saddle, he slid to the ground and pulled her after him. Two of Lord Fife’s men were going with them and she was lifted into the bucking boat. ‘No!’ Desperately she tried to rise, but already Robert was beside her. ‘Sit quietly or you’ll fall overboard,’ he shouted against the wind and she found herself sitting helplessly in the shelter of his arm as the sail was raised and the boat drew away from the jetty, hurtling before the sharp north-easterly wind towards the south.

  They made landfall on a deserted sandy coast where two horsemen were waiting with spare mounts in the shelter of a pine wood. The ferryman ran the boat up on to the sand and Eleyne was lifted out. She was wet through from the spray and chilled to the bone, and her back ached worse than ever. She had never been seasick in her life, but Robert had spent most of the journey leaning over the side and he was still green as he staggered up the beach.

  Eleyne paused to catch her breath, feeling her shoes sink into the soft sand. ‘I can’t go any further.’

  Robert stopped. He felt like death and his legs would hardly support him. However much he knew they must ride south quickly and put as much distance between themselves and the King of Scots as possible, all he wanted at this particular moment was to lie down and die. ‘I’ll ask the men with the horses if there is somewhere we can rest,’ he said. It was obvious to Eleyne that he could not face going any further himself, but he still sounded grudging.

  They were taken to a small cottage on the edge of a fishing village nearby. The horses were led away and Robert shown to a shed full of hay where he could sleep, while a cheerful young woman, barefoot, her skirts kilted up to her knees, shyly led Eleyne inside. The whole place smelt strongly of fish, but the bed was a pile of dried heather and bracken, spread with sheepskins, and to Eleyne it was the most comfortable place on earth. She sank into it, too tired even to feel the young woman removing her shoes and pulling her wet cloak from her shoulders.

  She woke much later with terrifying suddenness as a vicious pain knifed across her back and cramped her womb. Night must have fallen while she was asleep. The fire was damped and she could see in its faint glow the figure of her hostess dozing on the far side of the hearth. The pain came again and she heard herself cry out.

  The young woman awoke with a start and scrambled to her feet. ‘My lady? Are you all right?’

  Eleyne lay still, shaking. She could feel the chill of perspiration drying on her face. ‘My baby,’ she gasped, ‘I think it’s coming.’

  The woman deftly pulled aside the turves which were heaped over the fire. She found some twigs from the pile of driftwood in the corner and fed them to it. By the time it was blazing, she had lit one of her precious tallow candles and set it on the iron pricket on the chest in the corner. Then she turned to Eleyne and laid a comforting hand on her head.

  Eleyne groaned again. She knelt up on the bed, rocking back and forth, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she cried. ‘You must get help.’ Alexander, where was Alexander?

  The woman’s frightened shout brought Robert into the cottage, then, a shawl thrown over her head, she ran into the night to fetch her neighbour.

  Robert stared at Eleyne, his face white and drawn in the smoky light; he did not dare to go right into the room. There was a strange smile on his face. At the sight of him standing in the doorway something snapped inside Eleyne
.

  ‘This is your fault,’ she screamed. ‘If I lose this baby it is your fault! And I shall kill you myself, if Alexander doesn’t do it first, so help me, I will!’ The tears were streaming down her face. She was aware suddenly of water, warm and salty, pouring between her legs, soaking into the sheepskin on which she was kneeling.

  Robert didn’t move. He took in with dispassionate disgust every detail of the dishevelled woman kneeling on the bed in her stained gown, with her huge belly and her wild eyes and her hair deep red in the smoking tallow light.

  The fisherman’s wife reappeared almost at once with an older woman behind her and in seconds Robert had been banished from the cottage. He stood outside, wrapped in his cloak, looking across the shore to the black waters beyond. Somewhere out there, this woman’s husband and his colleagues were in their little boats, fishing the dark, storm-bound waters, or even now fighting their way back towards the land. His mind worked furiously as the wind pushed his hair back from his cold forehead, his fear of pursuit eclipsed by his anger that once again she had outwitted him. The child was going to be born in Scotland after all.

  Eleyne screamed once, just as the sun was rising in a blaze of stormy crimson out of the eastern clouds. Then the eerie silence descended once more on the cottage. It was a long time before the fisherman’s wife appeared at Robert’s side. When he didn’t turn she touched his elbow timidly.

  ‘The babe is born, my lord,’ she whispered. ‘It’s too small to live. I’m sorry. Do you want to see it?’

  ‘What is it?’ His voice was expressionless.

  ‘A boy.’

  ‘A boy.’ He repeated the words slowly, then he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want to see it.’ He walked away from the cottage towards the water.

  Eleyne was propped against a pile of sacks – there were no pillows in the house – the child wrapped in a bloody piece of torn shift in her arms. He was so tiny, this little mite, her dream of Scotland’s future, his features perfect, too early for pudgy baby fat, his hair a glorious red-gold, his minute fingers curled on themselves like sculptured wax. His eyes fluttered slightly behind transparent lids and his mouth parted a little for the breast he would never have the strength to take.