There was compassion in Llywelyn’s eyes as he leaned forward. ‘No. Henry chose to believe she was dead, but it isn’t true. She was taken to Scotland by Lord Fife.’
For a moment he wondered if she had heard what he said. Her eyes were closed, and it was several moments before she spoke again. ‘She’s alive?’ she asked weakly. ‘In Scotland?’
He nodded. ‘She and Lord Fife were married.’
‘I see.’ She turned her head away from him. ‘And do they have children?’
‘They have two sons.’
‘I see.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘Was she so much more beautiful than me, that men rushed to marry her and fight for her body and take care of her, while I was left to rot, childless and without love?’
Llywelyn cursed himself under his breath for telling her the truth. ‘She could not help herself, Aunt Isabella; and she could not help you. I suspect had she had the choice she would have wished to remain her own mistress as you have done. After all, to the English courts she is dead. Her dower, her lands, her two daughters by de Quincy – all were taken from her. As far as the English records are concerned, she died in 1253.’
Isabella’s eyes were wet with tears. ‘And as far as the English records are concerned, I shall probably never die. The death of a nun in an English convent does not merit an entry in the records. My dower has gone to the church. There are no children of my womb to mourn. No one will read what happened to Isabella de Braose, the widow of Dafydd ap Llywelyn.’
‘Of course they will.’ Llywelyn took her hands again, his voice cheerful. ‘When you die, full of years and with a dozen grandchildren, the world shall read about you in the chronicles. My bards will compose poems about you which each take a month to recite and your beauty will be sung to harps all over Wales.’
She smiled. ‘You are like your Uncle Dafydd, you have charm when you want. Are you married yet?’ He shook his head and she sighed. ‘You must marry, have children, ensure there are heirs to follow you.’ She patted his hand. ‘Your grandfather would have been so proud of you. Now, go home, forget me. I’ll be dead before you reach the Welsh border. Pay someone to say a requiem mass for me in Hay. I was so happy there when I was a child. Go.’ She pushed him away feebly. ‘Before the abbess guesses who you are.’
Reluctantly he stood up. ‘Is there anything you want?’
She shook her head. ‘Just tell the Countess of Fife that her curse worked better than she could ever have dreamed. My body has been eaten day by day by the crab she set growing in my womb with her evil eye and her vicious spells. As she cursed me, so I curse her. I pray that her famous fertility will be her downfall. I pray she will die in Scotland in as much agony as I die in, here in England, and I shall no doubt meet her again in hell!’
Her voice had risen and the other nuns stared at her in horror.
With a sob, the girl with the sore throat hauled herself out of bed and staggered to Isabella, pulling off the crucifix she wore around her neck. ‘Sister, for pity’s sake, for the love of the Blessed Virgin don’t say such things! That is mortal sin!’ She pressed Isabella’s fingers around the cross. ‘Please say you didn’t mean it.’
‘I meant it!’ Isabella summoned the last of her strength to sit up and hurl the cross from her. ‘I meant every word!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I
FIFE Autumn 1262
The track was narrow and dangerous. Donald leaned low over his horse’s neck, peering into the heavy rain. It would soon be dark. He shrugged himself deeper into his sodden cloak. His latest poems and a gift – a pretty ring engraved with the words ‘love for eternity’ – were tucked deep inside his scrip. He shook the rain from his eyes and kicked his horse on; he must be nearly there.
A gust of wind bent the trees and roared on through the woods, leaving him even wetter than before, and in the distance he heard the howl of a wolf. Then he saw it at last, the lonely tower standing above the trees on its crag. From here it seemed formidable, an impregnable defence against the foe, but it had been long abandoned, the walls crumbling in places, the oak door hanging off on its hinges, a lonely forgotten outpost of the earldom of Fife. It was the perfect trysting place, according to Eleyne, where they could meet in absolute safety.
He guided his horse up the tortuous path, hearing its hooves strike rock at every step and, half blinded by the rain, dismounted at last by an old stone outbuilding; it was freshly roofed with thatch, just as she had described it. The shepherds used it in the summer but tonight it was going to serve as a stable. Pulling his horse’s rein over its ears, he led it inside. Her horse was already there. There was fodder enough for the two of them, and a spare rug to throw over his animal’s steaming flanks. He unsaddled swiftly, his hands shaking with anticipation and, wedging the door shut, he left the animals alone. Trust Eleyne to think of their comfort first. He suspected he would find that she was quite prepared to lie on the cold stone. Well, he had thought of that. He was wearing his thickest cloak, lined with fur. At the thought of lying anywhere with Eleyne, he felt his body tense with excitement.
They managed to meet so seldom, he and this beautiful woman who was his mistress, that when they were together the poignancy and rightness of their love seemed almost unbearable. He had never mentioned the king’s continued refusal to grant him knighthood – something he had buried deep within himself, unfaceable and unfaced – and neither had she. Their love was the most important thing in his life, and he had convinced himself that any sacrifice was worth making for it.
His saddlebags over his shoulder, he ran for the doorway. The lower chamber of the old tower was deserted, the floor a mess of rubble and weeds; a strong animal smell came from the darkness. He wrinkled his nose and peered round. The stair in the thickness of the wall was pitch dark.
‘Eleyne!’ he called softly. ‘Nel? Are you there?’
There was no reply.
Cautiously he set his foot on the lowest step. ‘Nel?’ His hand in front of him in the blackness, he began to mount, his feet crunching on the loose stones and mortar. Stumbling heavily on the stairs, he reached the upper chamber at last. Smaller than the one below, it too was empty.
‘Nel?’ He heard the anxiety in his voice. ‘Where are you?’
He almost ran across the dusty floor to the gaping darkness in the wall opposite, which revealed the entrance to another stair. Once more he peered up into the darkness. This spiral stair was narrow and extremely steep. He felt his way up carefully, one hand on the cold stone of the newel post, one feeling the steps before him. At the top he stopped, out of breath. The smallest chamber had lost part of its roof and the rain spattered on to the stone floor. It too was empty. He heard again the lonely howl of a wolf, the sound echoing in the wind.
‘Nel!’ He called sharply. There was real anxiety in his voice now and suddenly over the sound of the rain he heard a stifled giggle.
‘Nel?’ he repeated again, his heart leaping. So she was hiding. Dropping his saddlebags in the archway, he stepped out into the room and looked round. There was nowhere she could hide save the ruined archway which had once been the window. He tiptoed towards it. There she was, crouched against the loose rubble, only feet from the three-storey drop to the rocky ground. Seizing her wrist with a shout of triumph, he pulled her into his arms and covered her face with kisses.
‘You foolish woman! you might have slipped!’ He held her tightly, revelling in the feel of her warm flesh beneath the soft damp wool of her gown. He reached around to unfasten it, but she shook her head. Still laughing, she freed herself and pushed him away. ‘Let’s go down a floor. There’s firewood in the hearth – a hundred old jackdaws’ nests have fallen down the chimney – and there’s quite a bit of old dry bracken and I’ve left food and a rug down there.’ She was breathless too, as eager as he.
He laughed in delight. ‘And I have wine and some bridies, and gifts for my dearest love.’ He gestured towards his saddlebags.
It was his turn to make her
wait while he kindled the fire and laid out two silver goblets, a skin of wine, the food and his cloak. Then he beckoned her with a grin. ‘The fire will soon warm us, but I think you should take off those wet clothes.’
She laughed. ‘I will, if you will.’ She knelt on the rugs and stared, distracted, at the fire which crackled and spat angrily over the damp twigs. She thought she had seen something moving in the flames and felt a quiver of anguish in the air, but that was foolish. The phoenix was in a locked casket at Falkland. She never wore it now.
She had no way of knowing that Rhonwen, noticing that it had been put aside, had taken the pendant from its hiding place. It was a powerful talisman, she had guessed that much; it was special, it carried the king’s love and it protected Eleyne. Without saying anything, she had sewed it into the hem of Eleyne’s cloak. With the weight of the furs, Eleyne would never notice and she would carry the talisman’s protection wherever she went.
Donald followed the direction of Eleyne’s gaze as she sat looking into the fire. ‘You don’t think someone will see the smoke?’ he asked anxiously.
‘No one. We shall be quite safe.’ The moment of unease, the feeling that something was wrong had gone as swiftly as it had come. ‘It will be dark quite soon.’
‘And no one will come after you?’ He approached her almost reverently and began to unplait her hair.
‘No one. Rhonwen will cover for me. We’re quite safe.’
She smiled as he fumbled with the laces of her gown. Gently she took his hands in hers and kissed his cold, clumsy fingers, then she undressed herself swiftly. With a shiver half of cold, half of anticipation, she knelt before him naked, and began to undo the brooch which held his mantle closed.
‘Oh, Nel.’ He pulled her against him, unable to keep still another moment. ‘Oh my love, how I’ve prayed this moment would come. It has been so long since last time. I thought I would go mad, thinking about you and waiting.’ Winding his fingers into her hair, he pulled her against him and kissed her again and again.
The air of the tower was icy on their naked flesh, draughts spinning round the dark chamber, the wind screaming in through the two narrow window slits. Donald pulled the rug over them both and smiled. ‘I’ll have to find some more wood for the fire soon.’ He leaned over and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Are you comfortable, my love?’
Below her the floor was cold and hard beneath his cloak. She felt its dampness and the chill striking up through her bones as his weight pressed her down. The heat of his body warmed her body, but her feet were freezing. It was impossible to be comfortable, but she didn’t care. Her body was alive and tingling with anticipation. She looked up into his eyes and smiled.
The crash of the falling stone brought Donald scrambling to his feet with an exclamation of shock. He stared around, trying to see into the darkness. ‘What was that?’
‘The wind, it must have been the wind.’ Eleyne sat up. She pulled the discarded rug around her shoulders, shivering violently. She realised that the fire had died and no longer gave any light. ‘Come back.’ She held out her hand, but he was standing with his back to her, peering into the darkness.
‘There’s someone here,’ he whispered.
Eleyne clenched her fists. ‘Don’t be silly, there can’t be. No one comes here.’
‘I’ll check all the same.’ His voice was grim. He pulled on his gown, and reached for the dirk which hung from his girdle. He unsheathed it silently; the blade gleamed in the light of a stray pale flame which licked across the cooling embers and was gone almost as soon as it had flared.
Outside, the wind moaned through the trees and the sound of the rain on the autumn leaves grew louder. He smiled reassuringly at her, then he put his finger to his lips. They were both straining their ears trying to hear the inner silence of the old tower beyond the storm.
The touch of the hand on her shoulder was so sudden that she screamed. Donald swung round, the dirk outstretched before him. ‘What is it?’
‘There is someone here, he touched me.’ Eleyne clutched the rug, staggered to her feet and backed towards the wall. Her teeth were chattering with cold and fear. ‘Don’t leave me, don’t go down. There’s someone here, in this room.’
‘There can’t be.’ Donald’s voice was steadying, reassuringly firm. ‘Wait, let me throw something on the fire.’ He stooped, scrabbling among the rubbish on the floor for a handful of jackdaw sticks and old bracken. He tossed it on the embers, his dirk still in his hand, and turned back towards the room. As the kindling flared the empty echoing chamber was full of shadows. His own fell across the floor and up the stone wall. As he moved, it foreshortened grotesquely and thickened but, in the leaping reflections of the flames, they could see the room was empty.
‘He’s gone downstairs,’ Donald breathed. ‘Stay here.’
‘Don’t go –’ Her anguished plea was barely audible. Her terror was increasing. ‘Donald, can’t you feel it? There’s something here, in this room.’
The feeling of anger was palpable: a cold, calculated fury which was building with the storm outside. As the firelight settled into a steady glow, she saw that Donald too could feel it now. The dirk was still held out before him as he moved steadily backwards towards her.
‘What is it?’ he breathed. ‘What’s happening?’ The dust was whirling round his feet and a shower of mortar fell from the vaulted roof above their heads.
‘Alexander,’ she breathed, staring around wildly. ‘Alexander, no, please!’
‘Who is it? Where is he?’ Donald’s jaw was set, his face grim. ‘Sweet Jesus, Nel, I can’t see him, where is he?’ He swore as another stone fell from the ceiling. ‘This place is falling apart. Come on, we must get out of here – ’
‘No!’ Eleyne ran forward and clutched at his sleeve. ‘No, that’s what he wants. He wants us out in the storm, so he can separate us. Stay here. Leave us alone, please,’ she cried to the shadows. ‘I don’t want you, don’t you understand? I don’t want you any more!’ Her voice rose hysterically as she addressed the darkness.
‘Nel! What is it? Who is it?’ The hairs on Donald’s neck were rising like the hackles on a dog. ‘Sweet Jesus, Nel, what is it?’
‘Give me your dagger!’ Eleyne held out her hand. ‘Quickly, give it to me!’
Without thinking, he reversed the dirk and handed it to her, hilt first. Behind him the fire was dying again. Eleyne raised the dirk before her, hilt upwards, in the age-old sign of protection and blessing.
‘In the name of the holy cross I command you to leave us.’ She raised her voice in a wild cry against the scream of the wind. ‘Leave us now, I don’t want you. I love Donald of Mar. You’re dead, don’t you understand? You’re dead, and I’m alive! I need a living man. Don’t torment yourself. Please go. Now!’ Her eyes filled with tears and she was shaking so much she couldn’t stand. She collapsed on her knees, the dirk still clutched in her fingers. Donald’s face was white. He crossed himself, then he squatted down beside her and put his arms around her.
‘Has he gone?’ The room was still full of the sound of the wind and rain.
She raised her head, and after a moment she nodded. Wordlessly she clutched at Donald’s arm, trembling violently. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I’m so sorry.’
He squeezed her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, it’s all over.’ He kissed her gently on the cheek, then he released her. ‘I’ll get us some wine.’ His mouth was dry and his voice husky, and when he unstoppered the wineskin and tried to pour the wine he found his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He managed it at last and turned back to her. She had pulled on her gown and her cloak and was sitting silently, her arms clasped tightly around her knees.
He put the silver goblet into her hand and closed her fingers around the stem. ‘Drink that.’
Obediently she sipped, feeling the rough red wine slipping down her throat. She sipped again, watching as Donald threw more rubbish on the fire, followed by the end of an old oak beam which had b
een lying in the corner of the chamber. The fire flared and settled into a steady glow.
‘Can you tell me what that was all about?’ His voice was carefully neutral.
‘Alexander.’ She licked her lips and took a deep nervous breath. ‘He was someone who loved me very much.’ She took another sip of wine.
Donald said nothing; his wine remained untouched in the goblet in his hand.
She saw the expression on his face with a sinking heart. ‘He died,’ she went on.
There was a long silence, then Donald raised his goblet to his lips and tipped the wine down his throat. ‘Do I take it we are talking about the late king?’ His voice was curiously flat.
She nodded.
‘He must indeed have loved you.’
She smiled wistfully then she nodded again.
‘And did you love him?’ Tossing the goblet aside, he folded his arms. It was a curiously defensive gesture and her heart went out to him.
‘Yes.’ There was no way she could lie about her feelings for Alexander, however much it hurt Donald. ‘But that was a long time ago. It’s you I love now.’ She looked up at him pleadingly. ‘Oh, Donald, help me.’
He shook his head, bewildered. ‘I thought Lord Fife was my rival. I can fight a flesh and blood man, but a ghost?’ He crossed himself again.
‘You can fight a ghost too,’ she said softly, ‘if your love is strong enough.’
‘Can I?’ He faced her. ‘I can’t bolt the doors against a ghost! I can’t carry you off and hide you from a ghost! We came here to escape people; you promised no one could find us here, but he did! Your ghost found us and stood over us while we made love, as no doubt he has done before, though I’ve been too preoccupied to notice! How can I fight that?’ His voice rose in anguish.
Eleyne bit her lip. ‘I don’t know, but you have to fight him. You have to.’
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