Far to the east, beyond the mountains, Henry, leaving his wife and year-old son Edward behind in the castle, left Shrewsbury for Rhuddlan, encouraged by Senena’s message, marching purposefully towards the heartland of North Wales. In front of him Dafydd, without allies and without friends, moved steadily back. At Degannwy he delayed to pull down the castle, so that Henry could not use it as a base, then he retreated into the heat haze which hung over the mountains.
‘Sweet Christ! I cannot fight him!’ He ran his fingers through his hair, looking from his wife to his sister and back. He had invited Eleyne to join them at Aber for safety, not really believing that Henry would invade Wales. ‘Even the weather is against me. He marched his army across the marshes as though they were hard ground! Nothing seems to delay him! He’ll be at the Conwy any moment.’
‘Go and negotiate,’ Isabella pleaded. ‘What else can you do? Do a deal with him. He doesn’t want to fight you. He’s making a point, that’s all. He wants you to recognise him as your overlord and submit, then he’ll help you put down the revolts against you. He’ll help you deal with Gruffydd and Senena. For God’s sake, Dafydd, you have to do it. Do you want him here at Aber?’
‘She’s right, Dafydd.’ Eleyne felt sorry for her brother. His allies had deserted out of jealousy, because Llywelyn had left him too strong and they were afraid. ‘Negotiate now before it’s too late.’
‘What you mean is surrender,’ Dafydd said.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘It’s that or lose Gwynedd,’ Eleyne murmured at last.
It was the advice Ednyfed Fychan, his father’s chief adviser, who was now his own, had given him too.
The night before Dafydd left Aber he called Eleyne to him in the small room which had been his father’s study. ‘There is something you should know. Isabella has written to your husband and told him you are here.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ It was as though every part of Eleyne had turned to ice.
‘I’m afraid it’s true, and I’m sorry. I’m only surprised she left it so long.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘She’s very loyal to me, Elly. I think, all things considered, it might be better if you left Gwynedd.’
Eleyne closed her eyes. Would Isabella never allow her any peace?
Dafydd gave her an escort of four men and two women to accompany her and Nesta away from Wales. He did not ask her where she was going and she did not volunteer the information. He kissed her gravely under Isabella’s watchful eye and gave her a little money. ‘Yours, under papa’s will,’ he said quietly. She blessed that money. It would give her something to live on for the immediate future without having to sell any more of Joanna’s jewels.
VII
LONDON October 1240
Her men wore no insignia and, as she drew near the old Countess of Chester’s town house in Gracechurch Street with Donnet at her horse’s heels, she pulled her veil across her face. She wanted no one to recognise her.
The house was quiet, but there were servants to open the heavy gates and lead away the horses. Eleyne followed the old woman who had greeted her and found herself in a shadowy parlour on the first floor of the house, where she was left alone.
It was a long time before Rhonwen came. She stood in the doorway without a word, then ran to Eleyne and folded her in her arms, tears pouring down her face. ‘I’ve missed you so much, cariad, and I’ve been so afraid for you. Where have you been?’
Eleyne was crying too. ‘I’ve been at Llanfaes. I was with papa when he died, and Dafydd let me stay on. I couldn’t send for you, not to Gwynedd, you know that.’
‘I had thought you were still in Scotland.’ Rhonwen shook her head. ‘Have you seen your husband?’
‘Isabella told him that I had left Scotland, and he now knows that I no longer have Alexander’s protection.’ Eleyne found she could say it calmly, as if she did not care. ‘Isabella told him I was in Wales. That’s why I had to leave. That’s why I came here. I had nowhere else to go.’
Rhonwen sighed. ‘Your husband does not care for war, so the king left him here in London! He has been to this house a dozen times, swearing that he’ll hang me if he finds me.’
‘Then why are you still here?’ Eleyne was shocked.
‘I like it here. I’ve become a city dweller.’ Rhonwen smiled. ‘I like being my own mistress; old Lady Chester is a fine employer. She leaves me to run her house as I see fit. Robert de Quincy isn’t going to chase me away from here.’ She folded her arms. ‘Perhaps he’s ridden to Wales to find you. If he has, you’ll be safe here for now; I shall look after you. Don’t worry, cariad, we’ll think of something. That bastard is not going to find you, I swear it!’
VIII
As the months passed Eleyne hated London more and more. Rhonwen’s anger and sympathy when she found out at last about Eleyne’s dead child from Nesta strained her patience to the limit. And as time went on and there was still no sign of Robert, her fear of him was beginning to give way to anger and impatience.
‘Fotheringhay is my home, it’s part of my dower, and I should be allowed to live there. I’ll go and see the king now he is back at Westminster and ask him to forbid Robert to come near me.’
Rhonwen raised an eyebrow. ‘And you think he will agree?’
Eleyne sighed, pacing the floor like a caged animal. ‘I don’t know, but I can’t stay in hiding for the rest of my life, it would drive me insane! Besides, Robert will find me in the end.’
They both knew that if he found her he would take her back by force.
IX
WESTMINSTER August 1241
King Henry granted her an audience almost at once. He was in jovial mood.
‘So, niece, how are you? I’m glad your brother decided to come to heel and that ridiculous business in Wales is over. You know he is coming here to London?’
Eleyne hid her surprise. She gazed at her uncle in some dislike. ‘I didn’t know, no.’ A survey of the great hall at Westminster had reassured her that neither of the de Quincy brothers was in attendance on the king.
He smiled. ‘Indeed he is, and I have brought Gruffydd and the Lady Senena to London as my guests at the Tower.’
Eleyne was almost speechless with horror. She had known nothing of this. ‘Your prisoners?’
‘My guests.’ He gave her a hard look. ‘I am glad to see you here at last. You’ve been too long in mourning for your father. We have missed you at court.’ There was a pause. ‘Your husband has been lost without you. He will be very glad to hear of your return.’
‘Your grace –’ She tried to interrupt, but he held up his hand. ‘He has told me how much he has missed you, and how much he looked forward to having you once again at his side. Wales is too far from Westminster, Eleyne, and so …’ his eyes were gimlets, boring into her skull, ‘is Scotland. Your place is at your husband’s side. Here, at court.’
The conversation was not going as she had planned. In panic she tried to speak, but he went on ruthlessly.
‘I remember …’ he smiled without warmth, ‘that you asked me to draw up a pardon for a woman of your household. The Lady Rhonwen, was it not?’ She stiffened with suspicion. ‘Your husband has spoken to me about the case and pleaded her cause. I think, Eleyne, it will be possible to give her that pardon.’ He smiled again. ‘Once you are back in Sir Robert’s bed, where you belong.’
It was all so neat. Robert had baited his trap and waited, and she had walked straight into it. She dropped her head in bleak despair as she left the king’s presence chamber. Robert had grown clever, she had to give him that. Clever and devious and patient. All he had had to do was wait and she had come as meekly as a lamb to the slaughter. She could not disobey the king’s direct command.
X
August 1241
‘I will return to your hall, and to your fireside.’ She confronted her husband in the panelled solar in the Earl of Winchester’s house. They were alone for the first time since he had left her at Aberdour more than two yea
rs before. ‘But I will not sleep in your bed.’
‘Then you can sleep on the floor.’ His tone was mild, though his face was hard.
‘Willingly.’ The silence which followed her retort was broken by the rattle of wheels on the cobbles outside the window.
‘Hardly the spirit to earn a pardon for your viperous nurse.’ Robert curled his lip.
‘Before the world I shall be your wife again. Is that not enough to appease your vanity?’ She took a step towards him and involuntarily he shrank back. She had grown very thin, her face almost austere in its gravity, and there was a coldness about her which repelled him. He had been looking forward to taking her back, looking forward to the excitement her anger and disdain always raised in him; above all, he had been looking forward to dominating her, but now, looking into those chilling eyes, he felt his confidence waver.
‘Do you want your pardon or not?’ he asked sulkily. His voice was still arrogant, but he had turned away from her. Pulling his dagger from the ornate sheath at his belt, he began to pare his nails with exaggerated casualness.
‘Yes, I want the pardon.’
He wasn’t sure if it was resignation which flattened her voice or hatred. Either way it gave him no pleasure.
‘Then I shall go to the king and get it for you.’ He sheathed his dagger and stood up. ‘I shall stay with you in Gracechurch Street as long as the court sits at Westminster. I am sure Countess Clemence will not object. Then we can ride to Fotheringhay.’
XI
FOTHERINGHAY CASTLE September 1241
The summer had been one of soaring temperatures and devastating drought. The corn shrivelled in the fields and throughout the land men and women searched the skies for some sign of rain. Autumn brought no relief.
Eleyne watched anxiously over her horses, to which she gave more and more of her time, seeing the grazing disappearing and knowing there was little hay for the winter. When Robert wasn’t pursuing the succession of obsessive legal battles he had undertaken to consolidate Eleyne’s claim to her dower lands, he had taken to drinking outside, carrying his wine to the shade of the woods where two local girls amused him in the time-honoured way. He did not sleep in Eleyne’s bed.
They had left Rhonwen in London with her pardon. Tacitly the two women had agreed that for the present this was best. If Eleyne needed her, Rhonwen would come, and Eleyne found that she had parted from Rhonwen with something like relief. Fond though she was of her nurse, there was something about Rhonwen which made her more and more uneasy; a cold core to the woman’s soul even when she smiled.
Her sleeves rolled up, her head shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat, Eleyne was with the farrier examining a wound on the hock of one of her mares when Robert found her. Donnet, as always, was nearby, asleep in the shade. Robert stood watching her, displeased by the sight of her tanned arms and roughened hands, then he remembered why he was there. He felt in his pouch for the letter.
She watched him cautiously as he approached. He had been drinking heavily already, although it was not yet noon, but his hand was perfectly steady as he unfolded the crackling parchment.
‘A letter, sweetheart, from my brother in Scotland.’
She took off her hat and rubbed her arm across her forehead. It left a small dusty streak which for some reason pleased him greatly. ‘He thought we would like to know: the Queen of Scots is safely delivered of a son at Roxburgh.’
She was completely unprepared. He saw the pain and shock in her eyes as though he had dealt her a physical blow. At last he had penetrated her defences. He refolded the letter. It would be so easy to turn the knife in the wound, to watch her wriggle and suffer like a lizard skewered on a dagger. ‘I think we should go north, don’t you? To pay our respects to the little prince,’ he went on. ‘Roger says the king has commanded your attendance on him. I expect he wants to show off his son to you.’
XII
ROXBURGH CASTLE September 1241
She could no more keep away than she could stop breathing. However much pain she knew it would cause her, she had to go to Alexander if he had summoned her. To be near him, to be in the same room, even with his wife and her child, was something she could not resist. She knew Robert believed it would be a punishment for her; she knew he would watch and enjoy every moment of her suffering but still she had to go.
The drought still held, but in the cooler north there was more grass in the meadows, and the trees, already turning golden and russet in the sun, were not so jaded. They found lodgings in Roxburgh, near the castle wall. Rhonwen, summoned by urgent messenger to Eleyne’s side, was with them and it was she who helped Eleyne change into her most beautiful gown. It was of deep blue silk, trimmed with silver, held in at her too-thin waist by a heavy girdle stitched with chased silver ornaments.
They presented themselves at the castle at noon on the day after their arrival, and Robert gave their names to the official who was overseeing the crowds of petitioners waiting in the courtyard. They were ushered in at once. The king and queen were seated on a dais at the far end of the hall. Eleyne forced herself to walk beside Robert, her head high, her step firm, conscious of the whispers as she drew near the king and curtseyed. He had risen as they appeared and for a moment her eyes met his. He did not, after all, look pleased to see her.
‘You haven’t met Lady Chester, the widow of my cousin John,’ he said at last to his wife. ‘And Sir Robert de Quincy, her husband.’
Queen Marie was sitting back in her carved chair, her wrists hanging loosely on the armrests, her dark eyes watchful. Her face was heavy and olive-skinned, her hair black, looped around her ears in an elaborate style which emphasised the breadth of her chin. Eleyne realised at once that the queen knew exactly who she was.
Robert smiled at the queen. ‘Madam, we have come to offer our congratulations on the birth of your son. This is a wonderful event for Scotland.’
‘Indeed it is.’ The queen’s voice was heavy and without humour. ‘Something for which Scotland has waited a long time. It was kind of you both to come and convey your good wishes. I understand you are on your way to stay with your brother, Sir Robert?’
‘Indeed, madam.’ Robert bowed.
Eleyne glanced up at Alexander; his eyes were on her face.
‘Then we shall not detain you.’ The queen had not looked at Eleyne. She held out her hand to Robert and he kissed it.
Alexander narrowed his eyes. She looked ill; unhappy; her face was thin to the point of gauntness, but she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And his wife was publicly snubbing her.
‘It would be churlish to allow you to move on so soon after your arrival, Lady Chester,’ he said, forcing the words from a throat tight with emotion. ‘I should like you and your husband to stay at the castle. The Constable of Scotland is commanded to wait on me here. You do not need to travel further to see him.’
A small sigh passed around the spectators in the body of the hall and the queen’s colour heightened.
So did Eleyne’s. She met Alexander’s gaze and gave a hesitant smile. It was a small enough triumph, but it was better than nothing.
As Countess of Chester, she sat next to the king at the high table. It was a long time before the level of conversation had reached such a volume that he could turn to her and speak without their being overheard. On her other side, Robert had already drunk more than enough to lull him into a stupor over the heavy spiced food.
‘Why did you come?’ he asked.
‘You sent for us.’ She kept her voice steady.
‘No, lass, I wouldn’t have done that to you.’
She sighed. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘Are you content with him now?’ Alexander’s hand, his fingers clenched around his knife, lay near hers on the table.
‘How could I be content!’ Her eyes were fixed on the dish of stewed capons in front of her. There was no bitterness in her voice. ‘I know it was the only way, and I’m glad for you. You have your son at last.’
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‘Aye.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Alexander. He’s a beautiful bairn. You shall see him presently.’ He did not notice the pain in her eyes as she thought of that other little Alexander buried in an unmarked grave on the cold windy shore of the Firth of Forth.
She and Robert shared a bed that night in the gatehouse tower of the castle, overlooking the River Tweed. He did not touch her. He was drunkenly asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Silently she cried herself to sleep, aware of Rhonwen and Nesta in their beds beyond the curtains and Donnet on the floor at the foot of the bed.
The baby was plump and healthy and screamed lustily as the wetnurse picked him up and put him in Eleyne’s arms. He was warm and heavy, his eyes a deep blue as he gazed up at her, his small mouth puckered into a brief toothless smile as his cries stopped. Her heart lurched with pain as her arms tightened around the child – Alexander’s child, the child who should have been hers – and her eyes filled with hot tears.
‘I want you to be his godmother,’ Alexander said in the short silence as his son and heir paused to refill his lungs.
It was his way of saying he understood.
She sniffed, burying her face in the tightly swaddled shawl. When she looked up, she had recovered enough to give him a small smile. ‘And the queen? Does she want that too?’ She hugged the baby more tightly.
‘Indeed she does.’ He caught her eye and winked. ‘It’s Marie’s greatest wish.’
She looked away, unable to bear him so close to her, wanting to reach out to him, wanting him to reach out to her, but the nurses were impatient. The king’s servant was hovering, trying to catch his attention; across the room some ladies were waiting for the queen. A dozen pairs of eyes were on her and she had the feeling that each one of them could read her mind.
‘Eleyne.’ His anguished whisper was so quiet, she wondered if she had imagined it.
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