Two weeks later she knew that she was pregnant with Malcolm’s child.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I
LOCH LEVEN CASTLE 1253
It became easier each time. After a while she didn’t need the fire. As the muggy August days gave way to clear warm September she found she could see pictures in the water too. She watched the children playing in the depths of her earthenware bowl; she saw Tam Lin lying slaughtered on the ground and, through her tears, knew he had been killed quickly and mercifully because his leg was broken when he panicked in the fire. She saw the dogs gambolling in the sun and knew as she whispered their names that somehow they heard her. Sometimes she saw Joanna and Hawisa playing with them, but she could never know, never be sure, that they were alive.
Then Malcolm came. He rode from Dunfermline with gifts and wine. That night as he entered her chamber and dismissed her ladies he was eager for her, unfastening the neck of her shift and pushing it back from her shoulders with shaking hands. He saw the fullness of her breasts; slowly he raised his hands to them, cupping their heaviness in his palms.
‘You’re even more beautiful than I remembered,’ he breathed.
She woke to find him gazing at her naked body, his hand on the curve of her belly as he sat beside her on the bed. ‘You’re carrying my son.’ He sounded awed. When she nodded, he bent and kissed her stomach. ‘So soon! I shall take you back to Falkland. I want you at my side.’
He treated her as though she were made of precious glass. She wasn’t to lift a finger. He surrounded her with servants, plied her with new gowns and stayed with her every second that he could. When she asked for a Welsh harper he sent for one; when she asked for a garden to the south of the castle wall he had one dug and planted. When she asked him not to touch her any more, he backed off sheepishly and left her alone to her dreams.
II
September
Rhonwen put her hand again to the dagger she carried hidden in her gown and gave a grim smile. Ancret and Lyulf had come with her and it was almost as if they understood. She put her hand on Lyulf ’s head as Eleyne used to do and the dog looked up and growled a little in his throat.
She was sorry it was the Earl of Fife who had murdered Eleyne. When she had first heard the rumour that he was behind the raid which had destroyed their lives, it had been with shocked disbelief. He was the kind of man she could almost admire. She had waited silently, listening to the gossip which flew through the halls of Lady Lincoln’s castles, and at last she was convinced. Eleyne was dead. The king had ordered masses for her soul and begun to dismantle her estates, but no one was going to pursue Malcolm. No one was going to punish him. Rhonwen made her preparations.
The children were safe. With their mother dead and their father still in the Holy Land, they had been made the king’s wards and were for the time being to be reared by their cousin, the gentle Countess of Lincoln, whom Rhonwen liked and trusted. Besides, they would be safe with Annie.
Unobtrusively one night she had slipped away and set off on her grim journey north.
Before her, Falkland Castle lay in the shadow of the Lomond, the earl’s standard, depicting a mounted knight with a drawn sword, hanging limply from the Great Tower. The gates stood open. She watched a loaded wain creak slowly under the gatehouse, the shadows of the spikes of the raised portcullis falling obliquely across its load as it disappeared inside. It all looked so normal; so peaceful. Yet within the day the earl would be dead and so probably would she. Touching the dagger again, she smiled and walked forward, leading her horse.
The man-at-arms on the gate must have recognised her from her previous visits to Falkland for he did not question her. He merely smiled and waved her in. ‘Where is the earl?’ Her voice was husky with exhaustion.
‘He’s away, but the countess is here, my lady. You’ll find her in her rooms in the Great Tower.’
Rhonwen wanted no truck with Lord Fife’s countess, whoever she might be. She had nerved herself to kill – today.
The man was waving her on and another huge cart was looming in the gateway behind her and suddenly Lyulf was growling in his throat. As she stepped back out of the way of the heavy iron-bound wheels, the hound leaped away from her across the courtyard. Ancret too tore herself from Rhonwen’s restraining hand and followed him.
Rhonwen ran after them, her anger and astonishment at the dogs’ desertion mixed with a small incredulous flicker of hope. She had never seen them run like that before; not for a long time seen them look so eager or so excited.
No one challenged her as she ran up the stairs into the lower chamber of the tower. The dogs had vanished, but she ran on across the room to the stair up to the higher floors. At the doorway to the earl’s chamber she stopped, gasping for breath.
Eleyne was there, her arms around Lyulf ’s great neck, kissing the dog’s head whilst Ancret tried to push between them, licking her hands. It was a long time before she looked up, tears pouring down her face, and saw Rhonwen in the doorway. She straightened and held out her arms. ‘Rhonwen! Joanna? Hawisa? Where are they?’
The shock was so great that Rhonwen could not move, but the terror in Eleyne’s face as she misinterpreted Rhonwen’s silence catapulted her back to reality. ‘They’re safe, cariad, and well.’ For a long time the two women hugged each other in silence, with Eleyne’s ladies looking on in astonishment, then Emmot stepped forward. ‘I don’t know that my lord would want you to have visitors without his knowledge, my lady,’ she ventured timidly.
Eleyne smiled. ‘He would not object to Rhonwen.’ She turned to the eager dogs, kissing their heads in turn. ‘Oh, Rhonwen. I can’t believe you are here! I thought you were dead!’ She was crying through her laughter.
‘As I thought you.’ Rhonwen’s voice was strangely flat. ‘What happened to you? The whole world thinks you are dead. King Henry has had masses said for your soul and your lands have been redistributed. The girls have become the king’s wards.’ Her practised eyes ran over Eleyne’s figure. ‘Had you forgotten us?’
Eleyne gave a sob. ‘Forgotten! How can you say that? I was brought here against my will, forced into marriage. Guarded day and night!’
‘You’re married already. How can they force you to marry again?’ Rhonwen asked.
‘Robert is dead!’ Flinging away Rhonwen’s questioning hand Eleyne paced across the floor.
‘Dead, is it?’ Rhonwen’s voice followed her. ‘Then no one in England knows it. They say he is on his way back from Acre.’
There was a long pause.
‘Are you sure?’ Eleyne’s voice was no more than a whisper. Unconsciously her hand had gone to her belly where Malcolm’s child lay, not yet quickened, beneath her ribs.
‘When I took the children from the Lady Dervorguilla at Fotheringhay to Lady Lincoln, who has been made their guardian, she said they had sent letters to him to come back as soon as he could.’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Eleyne stared at her appalled.
‘My lady.’ Ann Douglas, one of her new companions, had been listening in increasing distress and now she was wringing her hands. ‘It’s not true. What this woman tells you is a lie. You are married before God and the law!’
‘Am I?’ Eleyne was numb. Her joy at realising the children were safe had drained away as the full horror of the truth began to dawn on her. Malcolm’s plan had worked. The whole world thought her dead. Her children had been given to another woman and the king had reclaimed her lands. A wave of fury hit her. She shook off Ann Douglas’s restraining hand.
‘At least now I know the truth! That’s why no one looked for me; no one came to help me. I didn’t believe him! I didn’t believe people would think I was dead.’ She paused. ‘But you must be wrong about Robert. Malcolm would not have married me if he were still alive. He couldn’t have. That would be the most terrible sin.’
He had told her the truth when he said the children were alive; he had told her the truth when he had said that Henry thought her dead. This too must be t
he truth; it had to be. If it wasn’t, what did it make her and the child she carried?
‘You find that you like Lord Fife after all, do you, cariad?’ Rhonwen asked at last. She was staring into Eleyne’s eyes. Did her ghostly lover still visit her, or was he too forgotten? She reached surreptitiously into her bundle and touched the phoenix which lay there. But she did not give it to Eleyne.
‘Like him!’ Eleyne turned on her furiously. ‘He brought me here as a captive.’
‘You don’t look like a captive now though.’ There had been no guards save at the castle gatehouse.
‘No, because every person in this castle is my guard! She is my guard!’ She flung her arm in Ann’s direction. ‘And she.’ This time it was Emmot. ‘Every time I escaped – and I did – I was brought back. All my letters were intercepted!’ She paced the floor, solemnly followed by the two dogs who pressed close on either side of her. ‘And now I carry his child! What am I to do? Where am I to go?’ The words were a ringing challenge.
Rhonwen walked stiffly to a chair and sat down with a sigh. Perhaps after all she would still need her dagger. But the tension was pouring out of her and she felt limp and exhausted. ‘There is always Aber,’ she said wearily. ‘Young Llywelyn loves you. He would welcome you, you know that.’
Eleyne paused in her pacing. ‘Must I always run back to Aber?’
‘No, my lady!’ Ann caught her wrist. ‘Please, we love you. Your home is here at Falkland now.’
Eleyne shrugged. Only one thing mattered now. ‘Would Malcolm send for my daughters?’
Ann smiled. ‘I think he would do anything if it would make you happy, my lady.’
III
November
Her letters to Margaret of Lincoln went unanswered; Malcolm’s more circumspect requests to King Henry received the curt reply that, now that their mother was dead, the children had been given to their cousin’s charge and were safe and well in her care. There was no acknowledgement of Malcolm’s interest and no hint that Henry knew the identity of his new countess. There was no mention of the children’s father.
‘Be patient!’ Malcolm was bored by the whole business. ‘You’ll have another bairn soon to occupy you.’
The phrase was repeated often before he left once more for Stirling.
‘You have to go and fetch them.’ Eleyne’s patience, at best frail, had snapped. She caught Rhonwen’s hand. ‘You must go and bring them to Falkland. Malcolm will give you an escort. Steal them, kidnap them, anything. But please, please bring them. Go now, before winter sets in.’
The night before she left, Rhonwen put a small packet into Eleyne’s hands. Eleyne looked down at it. For a long time she did not move. She could feel him: Alexander. He was there beside her in the room; there between her hands; in the shadows. She closed her eyes and brought the package to her lips. ‘The phoenix?’ she said wonderingly.
Rhonwen nodded grimly. ‘I found it in the ruins of the fire.’
Eleyne unfolded the piece of soft leather and held the pendant in her palm. ‘He always said I had nothing to fear from Malcolm,’ she whispered. Her hand went to her shoulder almost as though another hand rested there – a strange, intimate gesture and Rhonwen, seeing it, suddenly smiled.
IV
Snow came at the beginning of January: drifts which blocked the roads and made riding impossible. The great fires were banked high and minstrels and harpists kept the household amused.
Eleyne slept late each morning, her body heavy and uncomfortable and constantly tired. The salt-meat diet of winter did not suit her, nor did the narrow indoor life. She wanted to ride; she wanted her children and, strangest of all in that crowded environment, with her husband beside her every night, his hand resting proprietorially on her belly, she was lonely; desperately and deeply lonely, for her lover had not returned. She had not dared to put the phoenix around her neck for fear that Malcolm would see it and recognise it. Instead she kept it hidden. But she kept it close – yet still he did not come.
One visitor came however, in the shadows and in the cold winter sunlight, a visitor who was never seen by others. The lady in black velvet was here too, only now her clothes were white and silver and she smiled, and Eleyne knew that at Falkland she was happy. ‘Who are you?’ She spoke the words out loud as the lady drifted across the snow-covered gardens, a wraith scarcely more visible than the snow itself.
Marie …
Perhaps she had imagined the name of the woman who shared her blood and whose destiny was bound with hers at Fotheringhay, at Falkland and in the bitter loneliness of Loch Leven, but her presence comforted Eleyne in the long desolate days.
Weeks passed and there was still no word from Rhonwen. At first Eleyne waited calmly, filling her days with her horses, cooped up in their stables, and organising the castle, for the first time assuming her full role as Malcolm’s wife. He responded by turning over to her the financial running of his estates. Fife was not a rich earldom, or a large one. One of the seven ancient earldoms of Scotland, it was tiny compared with the lands she had overseen as Countess of Chester, but it had power and influence in Scotland and some pretensions to be pre-eminent because of the tradition which gave the Earls of Fife the ancient right of sanctuary beneath the sacred cross of the Clan Macduff and the right to place the crown on the king’s head at his coronation.
She kept herself busy, but there was no privacy; nowhere she could go to stare into fire or water to see how Rhonwen fared; nowhere she could go to try to summon Alexander. Night after night she lay awake listening to Malcolm’s quiet, regular snores, trying to ease her body on the deep mattress as the wind howled across the central flat lands of Fife and beat against the ice-coated walls of the castle. This night in particular was colder than any before. Her back ached; her legs ached. Her heart ached. She pulled herself up on the pillows wondering if she should get up yet again to visit the garderobe. But the room was bitter. The fire, banked for the night, gave off little heat and she was reluctant to crawl from beneath the warm bedcovers. She slipped her hand beneath the pillow where she had tucked the phoenix, wrapped in a blue silk handkerchief. Easing herself once more on to her side, she closed her eyes, pressing the cold jewel against her lips.
The hand on her breast wakened her. The sheets were thrown back as though she had been dreaming, her breasts aroused. She frowned: Malcolm had up to now respected her wish not to be touched. Then she heard his snore from beside her. He was fast asleep. She lay still, confused, then she felt the touch on her breast again, as though lips caressed her in the velvety darkness. Were her eyes open or closed? She wasn’t sure. Was she awake or asleep? Again the light touch, the whisper of fingers over her breasts and down her belly, the warmth of a mouth on hers. With a secret shiver of recognition, she eased herself down on the pillows and opened her arms. She could feel his warmth, his strength, his longing and at last she felt the brush of his lips on hers as her thighs parted to receive him. Malcolm was still asleep when some time later Eleyne gave a gasp of pleasure in fulfilment of her waking dream.
He came every night after that; she never saw him and she never tried to speak, but he brought her reassurance and pleasure in her lonely bed. Then one night Malcolm awoke. For a while he lay still, aware of his wife awake in the darkness beside him. He could feel her tenseness; feel her excitement. He frowned. She had made it clear that she didn’t want him while her belly was so huge and uncomfortable, and yet he knew she was aroused. Cautiously he put out his hand and cupped it around a heavy breast.
Half-asleep, not knowing if it was a dream or reality, Eleyne turned to him. She wanted the hardness of a man inside her, his lips on her breasts, his skin on hers. Glancing at her face in the shadowy firelight he saw the hunger there and he smiled. She closed her eyes. It wasn’t Alexander. She had realised it too late. It was her husband and yet at that moment she wanted him.
He was less gentle that night than he had ever been and she responded in kind, tearing at his shoulders with her nails, sinking
her teeth into the sinews of his neck, gripping his hips with her thighs as though she would suck him dry of his seed. She took no pleasure from him though and somewhere in the darkness of the room she could feel Alexander’s anger and despair. When at last he fell away from her, spent, she turned towards the wall and wrapping her arms around herself she felt the tears pouring down her face.
V
March 1254
When Rhonwen arrived back the children were not with her.
‘They didn’t want to come, cariad. They love their Cousin Margaret, and they thought you were dead. Yes, yes, I told them you weren’t.’ She raised her hand as Eleyne tried to interrupt. ‘But that made it worse. Joanna got very angry; angry that you had left them. I tried to explain, again and again, but they are only little, and it has been a long time since they saw you. I know it’s unfair, but Joanna blames you. She has been hurt too much. Hawisa is too little to know anything but that she loves her sister and she loves Margaret Lincoln and they both adore Annie, who looks after them and runs a nursery of ten children!’ She smiled. ‘They are happy and secure and well looked after there – ’
‘You are telling me to leave them there – ’
‘Cariad –’
‘You are! You are telling me to leave them. To abandon them! You never cared for them because they were Robert’s children.’
‘That’s not true, and you know it.’ Rhonwen’s temper flared. ‘I love them and I love you. If you loved the devil himself, I would find him for you! But in this you have no choice.’ Rhonwen took her hands. ‘Listen to me. It’s their father’s wish that they stay.’
‘What?’ Eleyne stared at her, white-faced.
‘He has written to them. I saw the letter. He is in the service of King Louis in Acre. He told the girls that you were dead, and that their Cousin Margaret would take care of them.’
Child of the Phoenix Page 67