Child of the Phoenix (110 page)

The man in question had therefore to secrete himself in the Tower, in the evening, after supper in the great hall and before the door was closed and bolted for the night. Rhonwen, her eyes everywhere, watched and waited her chance.

Eleyne’s new young maid, Meg, was somewhat in awe of her mistress’s old nurse: the hawklike nose, the glittering eyes, the imperious voice with its strange foreign intonation all frightened her, as did the woman’s reputation amongst the lower servants as a witch, though the old woman had never been anything other than kind to her and she knew the children adored her. So when Rhonwen demanded that she let her wait behind the heavy curtains which screened off the window embrasure in Eleyne’s chamber, she agreed without a word.

‘Your lady and I have to talk alone late,’ Rhonwen confided, ‘and I don’t want the other servants tattling about it or trying to guess what we have to say to each other. So don’t give so much as a sign that I’m there, do you understand?’ If Eleyne discovered her, she would claim she had had a message after all these years of silence from Lady Lincoln, and that her embarrassment at being inadvertently trapped in Eleyne’s room had caused her to hide. It was a flimsy excuse, and unlikely, but it would have to do.

She took a warm wrap into her hiding place and a cushion for the cold stone seat and smiled reassuringly at Meg as the girl pulled the heavy curtain across. It was bitterly cold in the embrasure in spite of the window glass, and the wind, with the scent of wood-smoke, the cold woods and marshes and the far distant sea, sneaked through a dozen cracks in the ill-fitting leads.

It was late when Eleyne came at last to her chamber. She had been sitting in the great hall, listening to the music of their harper, Master Elias. The young man had been blind since birth, but the music his fingers stroked from the strings was like the voices of angels. He was, Eleyne was sure, the most accomplished harper she had ever heard, though as a patriotic Welsh woman she would never admit as much to her husband. Malcolm was at Dunfermline – or Roxburgh – or Edinburgh – she didn’t know which and she didn’t care. Undoubtedly he was with the king; as long as he was not at Falkland, she was content.

She sat back in her chair, listening, her eyes closed, a goblet of wine in her hand, until long after the usual time she went to bed, and it was a long time before she realised that Elias was playing for her alone. Most of the men and women in the great hall had crept away and those who remained had long ago fallen asleep, the tables and benches removed, their cloaks wrapped around them for the night. She stood up and walked over to where the man sat, gently strumming the strings as though reluctant to silence the instrument for the night. She often asked one or other of the musicians to play for her and her ladies in the bedchamber before she retired for the night. It was restful there. She could close her eyes in the chair by the fire and let her thoughts roam as the women quietly prepared the room for the night.

‘Will you come upstairs and play for me?’

‘I will always play for you, my lady.’

She smiled. ‘Tell your boy to bring your harp and come to my chamber.’ He was a handsome man; not tall, and with a slight build, but his arms were muscular and his fingers agile with the telltale calluses of the harper. When he stood up, he was a head shorter than she. ‘My music speaks to your soul, my lady?’ He looked directly at her as though he saw her clearly.

She nodded and though he could not see the gesture he seemed content with her answer. He followed her, his stick in his hand, and behind him came his servant with the precious harp.

After the heat of the great hall the courtyard was very cold. She hurried across it, her head lowered against the wind, followed by two of her ladies, and behind them Elias and his servant. The staircase in the Great Tower was broad and steep, lighted by the burning torches which had been left in the sconces on each landing. The one outside her bedchamber spluttered and spat, spilling resin on the floor.

Meg was asleep in the chair by the fire when Eleyne walked in. The chamber was lit by a single candle. The girl jumped to her feet with a squeak of fright, glancing, in spite of herself, at the curtain across the embrasure. ‘My lady! I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right, child. I’m sorry I was so late. Go to bed. And Annabel and Hylde, you go too. Leave me with my music.’ She sat down on a stool and indicated that the harper should take her chair. His servant set down the instrument with great care and guided his master to the seat. Then he withdrew to sit silently in the shadows as Elias gently tweaked the strings back into tune before he began to play.

V

Behind the curtain Rhonwen too had fallen asleep. She awoke with a start as the door opened and Eleyne came into the room. She almost cried out in fright, but somehow she stifled the sound, remembering at once where she was. She heard the murmur of voices from beyond the curtain, and then the sound of the closing door. She held her breath. Was Eleyne alone, or was someone there with her? For the first time she realised that she was in the only obvious hiding place in the room; if anyone had been going to hide, to wait for Eleyne to be alone, this is where they would have secreted themselves.

She shivered, half expecting to see the curtains twitch before her eyes and a figure slip between them. But nothing happened. She waited in the darkness, holding her breath, and then she heard the first tentative notes of the harp. She could hear no voices now, just the single notes, dropping into the silence as they were tuned, then the music. It was slow, gentle music; soothing, lilting, seductive. Rhonwen edged closer to the curtain and pulled it cautiously a fraction of an inch from the wall; she put her eye to the gap. The room was lit by a single candle and the soft glow from the fire. She saw Eleyne sitting peacefully on the stool, leaning on the table with her elbows. The candle flickered gently, throwing shadows across her face. The harper had his back half turned towards her, sitting near the fire, his fingers stroking the sounds from the strings. They appeared to be alone. There was no sign of Meg or of Annabel or Hylde. Rhonwen eased her position, aware of the cold seeping into her bones so that she was stiff and achy. The wind was moaning through a crack in the window behind her: a desolate, lonely sound. Was it the harper then, this lover who brought the glow to Eleyne’s cheeks? Rhonwen moved, trying to get a better view of his face, though she knew it was Elias. No one else could play like that. She listened, thinking over this new idea, and then shook her head in the darkness. She doubted if Elias was the man.

She moved back from the curtain and sat down on the window seat. She was cold and stiff and she wanted to go to her bed, but she was trapped. She would have to stay there, in the window embrasure, until Eleyne had gone to sleep, and then hope that she could creep unnoticed from the room. She felt cheated and not a little angry.

The sound of voices awakened her a second time. The music had stopped, and Elias was speaking. She crept towards the curtain again and listened.

‘The time has come for you to be alone, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘I shall play for you tomorrow.’

Eleyne sat up straight, and Rhonwen saw the sudden suspicion on her face. ‘You know.’ Her voice was sharp in the silence.

Elias smiled. ‘I know, my lady. I need no eyes to see, so I see things which others miss.’ He rose and his servant scrambled to his feet and hurried to his master’s side. Rhonwen was startled. She hadn’t even noticed the young man sitting against the wall by the door.

Eleyne waited courteously as Elias moved towards the door, guided by his servant, and only when they had descended the stairs towards the lower floors of the Great Tower did she walk over to the door and bolt it behind them, then she turned back to the fire and threw on several logs. It flared a little in its bed of ash. Eleyne nodded, as though satisfied that it would burn steadily for the rest of the night. She blew out the candle on the table and moved towards her bed. She was obviously not going to call her maids.

The room was almost dark. The warm firelight flickered up the walls and threw deep velvet shadows across the floor and Rhonwen realised that Eleyne was not, after all, alone. A man was standing near her, in the pool of deeper darkness near the bed. She caught her breath so painfully she was sure they would hear her gasp, but neither figure turned in her direction. Where had he been hiding? Had he been in the room when Rhonwen had come in? Unaware that the hairs on the back of her neck and on her arms were standing on end, Rhonwen pressed her eye closer to the curtain and watched as Eleyne moved towards him slowly, almost as though she were in a dream. Rhonwen saw the figure, scarcely more than a greater darkness against the darkness of the bed curtains, open his arms and enfold her.

A log slipped in the hearth and Rhonwen jumped as a shower of sparks shot up the broad chimney, but neither Eleyne nor her lover moved. They were totally preoccupied with each other. Rhonwen watched, fascinated, half ashamed at her own prurient interest but unable to look away as she saw Eleyne turn at last from his embrace. Still moving in a dreamlike trance, Eleyne began to undress. The man made no move to help her. He had stepped away, and Rhonwen found she had to stare very hard to be sure he was still there. His shape merged with the curtains of the bed as he waited in the moving shadows. Eleyne’s gown fell to the floor, and Rhonwen saw the white glow of her arms as she raised her hands to unbraid her hair. She shook it free and then pulled her shift over her head, stretching languidly upwards as she did so, flaunting her body sensuously as she dropped the garment in a tangled heap at her feet. Only then did he step forward again and Rhonwen saw that he too was naked. Her scalp prickled warningly. She had not seen him undress; she had not seen him move.

Without warning, she was very afraid. Not once had she seen his face; she couldn’t even guess who he was and, she realised, she was shaking like a leaf, half from cold and half from terror.

The room was growing darker as the fire burned low; she could barely see them now. They were still standing up, lost in one another’s arms, as if almost reluctant to fall on the bed and consummate their passion. Rhonwen’s throat had gone dry, and the room was so cold that her feet had gone numb. She looked longingly at the fire and, almost in response to her yearning for more heat, a log slipped from the sluggishly burning pile. A sheet of flame spurted up, throwing a swathe of clear amber light across the room. Rhonwen looked towards the bed and saw his face.

For a moment her terror was so great she could not breathe; she stepped back, forgetting her hands were clutching the curtain, and as they swung inwards she stumbled and fell, pulling them open. With a moan, she crumpled in a heap between the two window seats and brought her arms around her head.

Eleyne’s voice was sharp with anger: ‘What are you doing there? Get up!’

Rhonwen raised her head, searching in wild terror for the dead king. He had gone. Eleyne stood in front of her, alone. She had pulled on her bed gown, and her face was white with fury. Rhonwen saw the gleam of the phoenix between her breasts.

‘How long have you been there?’

Rhonwen was shaking so violently she could not stand. ‘I was asleep. I must have fallen asleep waiting for you –’ Her mind groped for excuses even as it flitted around the reality of what she had seen. ‘I’m sorry,
cariad
, I must have fallen off the seat. So silly.’ She was kneeling at Eleyne’s feet, and she realised that tears were pouring down her face. She raised her hands pathetically and Eleyne took them, her face softening.

‘You’ve been asleep all the time?’ She sounded relieved.

Rhonwen nodded violently, unable to meet Eleyne’s eye. ‘I was dreaming, I dreamt I heard music, then I woke and found myself on the floor. I’m sorry, I must have given you such a fright.’ She was trying desperately to pull herself together; she had known that the king visited Eleyne, but to see him as real as another man, taking her in his arms … she was overcome with shock. He was still a man and he could still love Eleyne like a man. Grunting with the effort, Rhonwen stood and walked stiffly over to the fire.

‘This room is very cold,
cariad
,’ she said, her voice trembling.

‘That’s because it is the middle of the night,’ Eleyne said gently. ‘I’ll come with you to your room and make sure you get to bed.’ She bent and threw on another log. The fire was burning brightly now. Eleyne reached for the candle and thrust it into the flames. The light spread to the dark corners near the bed. There was no one there; nothing, not even a shadow.