Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  He was a realist. He knew the king had had many lady friends in his time. The numbers of royal bastards married into the prominent families of Scotland bore witness to the fact, but this woman intrigued him. She was younger than the others, more vulnerable, and more dignified. He guessed who she was: the whole of Scotland knew that during his later years Alexander had eyes for only one woman. The old man gave an indulgent smile. He had decided that he personally would lead her into the great abbey church.

  The king’s tomb lay before the high altar, the carved alabaster of his effigy lit by four tall candles. Eleyne stopped before it and stared at the cold stiff features of the sculpted face, the hard formal ringlets of the beard, the helm surmounted by the crown. Her heart was beating very fast, and there was a lump in her throat. She couldn’t breathe. The light, which filtered, cool and dim, through the coloured glass of the great east window, bathed the pale stone in shadows. The abbey was completely silent.

  The abbot moved back and stood, his hood pulled forward over his head, his arms folded deep within his sleeves, his lips moving in prayer. It was as though she were alone. For several moments she stood, trying to control the pain which filled her chest, then she moved to kneel at the prayer stool at the foot of the tomb. Swallowing hard, she raised her eyes to the window. The stained glass was blurred. She could see nothing.

  They were ten miles from Roxburgh when the horsemen caught up with them. They wore the royal livery.

  Eleyne froze in the saddle. Her joy at having Joanna sitting before her, her chubby legs stuck straight out on either side of the pommel, her small gown rucked up to her thighs, vanished in another wave of misery which almost overwhelmed her. These were not Alexander’s men; Alexander would never send for her again. These riders wore the livery of her godson. Fighting to contain her tears and knowing they could not outride their pursuers, she ordered her companions to rein in and waited, silently praying that Robert was still drunkenly asleep in Fife.

  The leading rider saluted. ‘Sir Thomas, Sir David, Lady Chester. Her grace the queen demands that you attend her at Roxburgh Castle.’

  ‘The queen?’ Eleyne echoed.

  ‘How did you know we were in Scotland?’ Thomas enquired sharply.

  ‘You were seen yesterday on your way north, sir.’ One of the riders had made himself spokesman. ‘Her grace was not pleased that you did not have the courtesy to call on her, especially as Lady Chester had not asked permission to come to Scotland and had no safe conduct for the journey.’

  Eleyne cursed herself under her breath for walking into Marie’s trap. ‘That was my fault, I was in a hurry.’

  ‘Indeed, madam.’ The man’s smile was knowing. ‘So her grace imagined.’

  Eleyne felt her anger mounting. This oaf was going to delay them and Robert would catch up with them. ‘I shall explain to the queen,’ she said haughtily. ‘I am sure she will understand and allow us on our way.’

  ‘I’m sure she will.’ He had fallen in beside her, and she had no doubt that he would remain at her side until they reached their destination.

  XVIII

  ROXBURGH CASTLE

  Queen Marie was seated in state on the dais when Eleyne was ushered into the great hall, still holding Joanna by the hand, the two young men beside her and Rhonwen and Annie behind them.

  ‘I am given to understand that you have been visiting your husband in Fife,’ the queen began without preamble.

  Eleyne tried to conceal her hatred of this woman, who had taken Alexander from her. ‘You are well informed, ma’am,’ she said drily.

  ‘Of course. Whilst the king – my son – is so young, I make it my business to know everything that goes on in Scotland.’ She leaned back in her ornate chair. ‘And I hear you have also visited Melrose.’ Her face darkened. ‘Can you not leave him alone even now?’ she hissed. She glared at Eleyne.

  Her next question was silky with innocence. ‘Is your husband not returning with you?’

  ‘Not yet, your grace.’ Eleyne’s voice was icy. ‘He is unwell.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The queen gave a pert, humourless laugh. ‘Poor Sir Robert. Though it must be a great relief to him to have you all to himself at last.’ Her voice was heavy with innuendo, the smile honeyed. Satisfied that she had scored a hit, she turned her attention to the child who was hiding in Eleyne’s skirts. ‘Is this your daughter?’

  ‘This is my daughter, Joanna –’ Too late she tried to hold the name back; the woman’s eyes hardened at the name of Alexander’s first wife. ‘Named for my mother, Joan,’ Eleyne said softly. She could feel Joanna’s wary restlessness as the child sensed the tension in the atmosphere.

  ‘You have no sons, I think.’ The queen retaliated with a knife twist.

  ‘No sons, your grace,’ Eleyne repeated firmly. ‘No sons who lived.’

  ‘Quite.’ Marie smiled again. ‘I intend to keep you here, my lady, until your husband is well enough to ride south with you.’ A look of triumph swept across her face as she saw Eleyne recoil. ‘You will be a very welcome guest, I assure you.’ She turned to Thomas. ‘Your father is here, Sir Thomas. I am sure you will be pleased to see him. And Lord Fife has joined us with Sir Alan Durward. We shall be a very merry gathering this evening.’

  Eleyne stepped forward. ‘Do you really wish to keep us here, your grace?’ she asked forcefully. ‘The memories I bring back for you cannot be happy ones.’

  The queen flinched as if Eleyne had hit her, and for a moment she didn’t speak. ‘Yes, my lady, I really wish you to stay here. I want to see you given back to your husband with my own eyes.’

  XIX

  Malcolm of Fife found Eleyne outside the great hall. His hair was greying now and there was an ugly scar across his cheek from a fall from his horse the year before, but his charm seemed undiminished.

  ‘You have to help me get Joanna away.’ Eleyne wasted no time in drawing him into a corner. ‘I feel as though I’m a prisoner here for her amusement!’

  Malcolm nodded. ‘I am afraid that’s exactly what you are. She knows Joanna was taken against your will. Robert bragged of it openly, as he bragged that he beat you. Our gracious queen makes no secret of her hatred of you. She will make you suffer as much as she possibly can. You stole too much from her.’

  Eleyne looked away. ‘It was she who stole from me.’ Her voice was full of pain.

  He frowned again. ‘I can take you and the child to Falkland. It’s a risk, but I’m prepared to do it for you.’ He looked sheepish. ‘I can protect you and I can deal with your husband.’

  She hesitated. To go with Malcolm would be moving from one trap to another, yet what alternative was there? And it was she who had begged his help.

  He grinned amiably. ‘Surely, by the process of elimination, I am the least of all evils.’

  She laughed out loud. ‘Perhaps you are, my lord, but I have no wish to return north. I have made my home in England.’

  ‘With Robert de Quincy?’

  ‘As my own mistress. If he comes back, I shall go to my nephews in Wales. Robert will never find me if I hide myself in the mountains of Eryri. No one would find me there.’

  ‘I would find you.’ He was gazing at her with undisguised hunger in his eyes. ‘You will be mine one day, Eleyne. Why fight it? Why not let me take you away from your boor of a husband? I could make you content and I could give you sons.’

  She flinched, ‘I want no sons.’

  ‘Rubbish, every woman wants sons. The king has gone, Eleyne, forget him.’

  ‘I’ll never forget him!’ She rounded on him. ‘How could you even ask it?’ Her composure was cracking. Why couldn’t they leave her alone with her memories? Why did they have to plague her like this? ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t come with you.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Then I can’t help you, you’ll have to stay here.’ He bowed. ‘But one day you’ll come, Eleyne, I promise you that. And one day soon.’

  XX

  Rhonwen, Joanna and Annie had been es
corted to the nursery quarters which had once belonged to the young king when Eleyne found herself once more before the queen that evening. Marie was smiling as Eleyne walked swiftly, her head high, up the great hall towards her, bitterly aware of her shabbiness, of her lack of attendants, and of the wagging spiteful tongues. As she curtseyed before the throne – Alexander’s throne – Eleyne saw the triumph in her rival’s eyes.

  ‘I have a surprise for you, Lady Chester,’ Marie said sweetly. ‘I sent someone to see how your husband was, and he was already on his way south after you. Wasn’t it nice that we were able to tell him where you were? Sir Robert?’ She turned and beckoned Robert from the shadows at the back of the dais.

  Husband and wife stared at each other, oblivious of the silence that had fallen over the entire hall. He was dressed in a soiled tunic, his rich, embroidered mantle torn. His eyes were bloodshot and his face blurred by drink.

  ‘So.’ He managed to make the one word accusing, triumphant and threatening all at once. He was panting slightly.

  ‘So.’ Her echo was icy.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Safe.’

  A group of men pushed past them, coming in from the courtyard. Neither Eleyne nor Robert noticed.

  ‘We’ll go back to Loch Leven,’ he said. ‘Get her ready.’

  ‘No.’ Eleyne clenched her fists, well aware of the enjoyment on Marie’s face. ‘I think you will find that at last you have outstayed your welcome in Fife.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Robert suppressed a belch. ‘Then we’ll go elsewhere.’

  A second group of people appeared in the doorway and Eleyne recognised with a sinking heart that one of them was Robert’s brother, the Constable of Scotland. Roger de Quincy regarded Robert sternly. He stood as if deep in thought, then walked purposefully towards the group of people around the throne and dropped on one knee before the queen.

  ‘I am sorry to see my brother here in such a state, your grace. I hoped it wasn’t true when I was told that he had followed his wife and child to Roxburgh. I have instructions from King Henry that he and Lady Chester are to return south. If either of them disobeys the order, the child, Joanna de Quincy, will be made a royal ward.’

  There was a stunned silence in the hall. The queen frowned. ‘King Henry has no jurisdiction here.’

  ‘Indeed not, madam, but my brother and his wife are King Henry’s subjects.’ Roger’s voice was firm.

  ‘They are my son’s subjects too,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘I think you must allow them to go, your grace.’ Roger gave her the practised smile of a courtier. ‘Scotland does not want to antagonise Henry over so minor a matter. I shall escort them south myself.’

  It was obvious that the queen respected him; in his role as constable Roger de Quincy was one of her closest advisers. But she had not realised until today how much she hated this woman; to see her quail before her drunken oaf of a husband would have given her enormous satisfaction. But she did not dare anger Henry of England. ‘Very well.’ She made up her mind at last. ‘Take them.’

  XXI

  For two days on the long slow ride Robert did not speak to her. He rode apart at the back of the group of horsemen, ignoring his brother, casting baleful looks at Rhonwen, who threw murderous glances back, and from time to time reaching into the bag which hung at his saddle bow for a stoppered jug of wine, which he hung from his forefinger and tipped to his mouth with his arm.

  The third night they spent in the guesthouse of a lonely abbey on the Yorkshire moors, wrapped in their cloaks in the single small room beneath the vaulted stone roof. Outside the men of the escort slept with the horses.

  Eleyne lay, her head cushioned on her saddlebags, looking up at the shadowy ceiling, listening to the sounds of the men around her. Robert snored loudly, a wineskin lying empty beside him. Beyond him his brother slept enveloped in his cloak. Joanna had cuddled up to Rhonwen who, so far, had kept well out of Robert’s way. Eleyne stirred uncomfortably. The floor was hard and the dying fire left the room cold and damp in spite of the huddled sleepers.

  Slowly she sat up. Cautiously, so as not to disturb any of the others, she felt in her saddlebag. There, at the bottom, wrapped in a silk kerchief, was the phoenix pendant. She had hidden it there, afraid that Robert would see it around her neck. She took it out and stared at it, watching the way even the dying fire reflected in the dark glitter of the eyes. She looked at it for a long time, then slipped the chain around her neck and tucked the jewel inside the bodice of her gown so that it nestled between her breasts. It always brought her closer to him.

  Hugging her knees, she gazed out of the open door. The soaring roof of the abbey was black against the stars and she could smell the cool sweetness of the night above the staleness of the bodies around her. Quietly she rose and tiptoed to the door. The man on guard stirred and nodded in silent recognition. The grass was ice-cold, wet with dew as she walked through it away from the guesthouse towards the great looming shadow of the abbey grange. Behind her Joanna slept securely in the curve of Rhonwen’s arm. She was safe now, but what would happen when they reached the king? What would he do, confronted with both de Quincys?

  Roger had already told his brother sharply to sober up before they reached the king and Robert had smiled and nodded that he would do it. By the time they walked into Henry’s presence his barber would have trimmed his beard and hair, he would be washed and scented with oils and pomades and wearing one of the new gowns he had no doubt ordered already to be waiting for him when he returned to London. He would look the picture of reliable and loyal manhood.

  There was only one way to be rid of him now that she could see. She had to leave Fotheringhay, run back to Wales with the children and hide in the mountains. He would never find her there. She would lose everything: her income, her property, her status, but she would be free and never again would she have to suffer the endless nightmares thinking about what Robert was going to do to her, or what, in a drunken frenzy, he might do to his own daughters. She closed her eyes, breathing in the sweet night air.

  In the doorway to the guesthouse Robert watched his wife as she moved steadily away from him into the darkness. His arms were folded and he was swaying slightly. Pushing himself away from the doorpost he walked around the side of the building and relieved himself against the wall, then he turned to follow her.

  He made no effort to walk quietly but she didn’t hear him as he trod unsteadily through the long grasses, feeling them cold and wet at the hem of his mantle. Deep in thought, she wandered more and more slowly, seeing, not the velvet Yorkshire sky, but the ice-covered peaks of Yr Wyddfa, where she would live with Owain’s and Llywelyn’s help in one of the mountain castles her father had built and where her daughters could grow up free and unafraid.

  When she turned and saw him, only feet away from her, his hands on his hips and a disarmingly pleasant smile on his face, it was too late to run.

  ‘At last.’ He spoke slowly and distinctly. ‘Some privacy. I don’t like taking my wife before an audience.’ He put his hand around her wrist. ‘I find it inhibiting. It spoils the fun.’

  She broke his grip. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘Why not? You are my wife. Before God and the law you belong to me.’

  ‘No.’ She backed away, keeping just out of reach. ‘I belong to no one, no one at all.’

  ‘Now that your Scots king has abandoned you.’ He lunged and managed to catch her cloak. She pulled away, but she was off balance and he had sobered during the walk through the icy grass. This time he pulled her into his arms and sought her mouth with his own. ‘We need to tie your hands to make you obedient, don’t we?’ he murmured as he sucked at her face, his lips wet and hot, his breath stinking of stale wine. ‘Remind my beautiful wife who is her master. I have something. I have a rope especially for you, to keep you still. So we can enjoy ourselves.’

  He held her with one hand and fumbled at his girdle as she kicked and struggled with grim fury. Her nails conn
ected with his face, then he was pulling a loop of cord around her wrist, drawing it tight, forcing her arm behind her, groping for her other hand.

  The swirl of ice-cold wind in the stillness of the night sent them both reeling. Robert staggered off balance, staring into the darkness; there was something there, something between him and Eleyne. A figure. He screamed and lashed out at it, but he missed. His fist passed straight through it; there was nothing there but the shadows from the starlight. He was stunned, then recovering himself he lunged after her, catching the rope which trailed from her wrist and giving it a vicious tug. It was the accursed drink which had fuddled his wits and made him imagine things.

  ‘Robert!’

  Roger de Quincy’s voice was shockingly loud against the sound of his brother’s laboured breathing. So was the smack of bone on flesh as his fist caught Robert full in the face. Robert crumpled and lay still.

  Eleyne was too shocked to move, then she looked up and stared round. Roger de Quincy’s arrival had rescued her. But before that, in the icy darkness. Her mind grappled with the implications of what she had seen. Who or what had attacked her husband out of the shadows? Whatever it was, it had saved her.

  Her brother-in-law’s gentle hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him shakily as he unknotted the cord from her wrist.

  Roger’s mouth had set in a hard line. ‘I’m sorry, I gave the king my word that in future Robert would behave as a knight should.’

  Gathering her cloak round her Eleyne groped for the phoenix. She stared down at her husband’s crumpled form. ‘If only you could.’ Her voice was husky with shock.