Child of the Phoenix (19 page)

She was stopped almost at once by the Bridge Gate, which was still barred. As she turned uncertainly northwards into the city, she heard a shout behind her. In a panic she saw four horsemen galloping after her, weaving through the crowds. They wore the livery of the Earl of Chester over their mail. Desperately she looked round for a place to hide, but within seconds they were on her, two each side. Outraged, Invictus reared up and she grabbed at his mane to stop herself falling.

They took her straight to Lord Huntingdon. She was still barefoot, her hair loose, dressed only in her shift and bed gown – a dirty, unruly and stubborn child, her cheeks streaked by tears.

He looked at her for a long time after he had dismissed her escort. At last he spoke. ‘Where were you going, Eleyne?’ he asked gently.

She stared back at him defiantly. She had expected him to be angry, not gentle. ‘To the forest.’

‘The forest?’ he repeated, astonished. ‘Why?’

‘I won’t live here without Rhonwen. I can’t. I’d rather be an outlaw or a beggar.’ Tears began to trickle down her cheeks in spite of her efforts to stop them. ‘I don’t want to be a countess. I want Rhonwen.’

John walked across to his chair and sat down, perplexed. He didn’t know what to do to comfort her, this ragged urchin who was his wife.

‘Please, Eleyne, don’t cry.’ He knew he should be angry. Probably he should whip her. Certainly he should send her for a bath. The child smelt strongly of the stables.

‘Please don’t send Rhonwen away.’ Her huge eyes, fixed on his face, were brimming with tears. ‘Please, my lord –’ She still didn’t know how to address this tall stranger who was her husband. ‘Please let Rhonwen stay.’ Her sleepless night and the weight of her tears had reddened her eyes and underlined them with shadows.

He frowned. Certainly he regretted his summary dismissal of the entire Welsh entourage. Lord Chester was wrong. Such an action would antagonise the prince and needlessly make this child unhappier than she already was.

He rubbed his thumb against his chin. ‘We are to travel across England to my lands in the Honour of Huntingdon, Eleyne. Would she wish to follow you there? She would find it very strange so far from Wales,’ he said at last.

Eleyne stared at him, her eyes alight with hope. ‘She would go with me anywhere, my lord.’ She did not point out that she too would find it strange.

‘Then perhaps I could change my mind and allow a few of your servants to remain with you. If it would make you happy and stop you running away again.’

‘Luned and Marared and Ethil?’ The girl’s eyes were shining.

He nodded tolerantly. ‘Very well. If it will convince you to stay with me you may keep half a dozen of your own ladies. But that is all– ’

‘And Cenydd. Cenydd saved my life when I swam the strait.’

‘When you – what?’ He blinked at her in astonishment.

Abashed she looked down. She should not have told him that. ‘My father asked him to be my bodyguard,’ she amended cautiously. ‘He would die to protect me.’

‘There are many here whose job will be to protect you with their lives,’ he said gently. And he would want to know today exactly where they all were, to allow the Countess of Huntingdon to ride out of the castle as she had without an escort. ‘But, yes, for now you may keep Cenydd too. But that is all.’

For a moment he thought she would fling her arms around his neck and kiss him but she remembered in time. Looking down, she gave a little curtsey. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said.

X

From the high window in the castle keep Eleyne and Rhonwen watched the huge train of wagons and carts move out of the courtyard. They were both numb with misery as this last link with home and Wales disappeared beneath the gatehouse arch with its massive portcullis, and headed west towards the ford which crossed the Dee.

Eleyne’s head ached; her limbs felt like lead. If they could get away, lose themselves in the corridors and passages of the great castle, perhaps even now they could hide in the carts and be smuggled home.

The Earl of Huntingdon watched her for a long time from the doorway as she stood in the window embrasure with Rhonwen. Allowing Rhonwen and her companions to stay had helped Eleyne a little – his eyes went to the woman’s protective arm around the child’s narrow shoulders – but the frozen misery on the child’s face, the lost bewilderment in her eyes, touched him deeply. She was his, this little girl, his to do with as he pleased. His countess, his child bride. Somehow he had to win her trust and if possible her affection.

‘Eleyne?’ Although he spoke her name gently, both women jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Lady Rhonwen can go to Lady Chester for now, my dear. I should like you to come down to the stables.’

One of his grooms had told him of the midnight visit; the tears, the anguished cuddling of the horses. With admiration, he had reported her fearless mounting of the great stallion, and Lord Huntingdon had seen a way of reaching her.

‘The stables?’

He saw with satisfaction the sudden light in her eyes and he nodded. ‘Your father gave me several horses as a gift and you have your own there too. I should like to look them over.’ He held out his hand and, hesitating, she went to him.

Invictus whickered his usual welcome as she ducked into his box, her velvet skirts catching on the straw. Lord Huntingdon smiled. ‘He obviously knows you well.’

Eleyne nodded. ‘Sir William …’ Her voice wavered and she bit her lip, unprepared for the wave of misery which the mention of his name brought. ‘Sir William used to let me ride him. He … he gave him to me before …’ her sobs tightened her throat, ‘before they hanged him.’

Lord Huntingdon raised an eyebrow. ‘So, this was de Braose’s horse?’

Eleyne nodded numbly. ‘My father wanted you to have him.’ Her despair at losing her treasured inheritance after so short an ownership was obvious in her voice.

‘He is not a lady’s horse, Eleyne.’ He smiled at her. Nor a slip of a child’s were the words he left unsaid.

‘No.’ Her reply was barely audible.

‘You must ride well if Sir William allowed you to ride him,’ he persisted gently. Lord Chester’s men-at-arms had told him as much.

She nodded. The germ of an idea had lodged in her mind. ‘Could we go for a ride now?’ She looked her husband in the eye for the first time. ‘Please?’

He looked down at her, amused. ‘I don’t see why not.’

‘And could I ride Invictus?’

‘Ah, I see. You want to show me you are the mistress of my new stallion.’

She nodded shyly. ‘I used to race against Sir William,’ she said hopefully.

‘Did you indeed?’ He grimaced. ‘I fear I don’t have Sir William’s prowess in the saddle, but we could certainly ride.

‘Saddle him, and my horse too.’ He turned to the groom who hovered behind them. ‘Do you wish to change, my lady?’ He smiled.

Eleyne glanced down at her velvet skirts and scowled. ‘I never usually bother.’ She did not want the moment to pass. She didn’t want Rhonwen or Lady Chester or any of the strangers inside these high walls to cluck over her and try to dissuade Lord Huntingdon from letting her ride the great horse.

‘I see.’ He hid his amusement with difficulty. ‘Then perhaps you had better not bother now.’

They were accompanied by half a dozen well-mounted knights who rode behind them as they turned south beyond the castle and out of the town walls into the forest. Eleyne glanced sideways at her husband, shocked to find him mounted on a staid gelding some two hands shorter than Invictus. He rode well, but stiffly, as if ill at ease in the saddle. Gently she eased Invictus’s long stride back to match that of the smaller horse.

‘I thought you would ride a destrier,’ she said a little reproachfully after they had ridden in silence for some time, following the road out of the city and through the fields until they were beneath the new-green leaves of the oak forest.

He smiled. ‘A warhorse, for a ride in the woods? In England we cherish our valuable horses, Eleyne.’

Her cheeks coloured at the implied rebuke. ‘But it will be no race if we gallop,’ she said sadly. ‘No one here could keep up with Invictus.’ She cast a professional eye at the mounts of the escort trotting two abreast behind them.

Lord Huntingdon hid a smile. ‘I’m sorry we disappoint you. Come, why don’t we gallop now?’ Ahead of them the grassy ride broadened into an open track. He kicked his horse forward and with surprising speed it stretched its legs into a gallop.

Eleyne did not hesitate. The great stallion was like a coiled spring: as she relaxed her gentle hands he leaped forward and thundered after his companion. In seconds they had overtaken him and, leaving the others behind, streaked away up the track.

She did not rein him in for a long time, enjoying the rush of wind in her hair, the feel of the horse’s powerful muscles between her legs, the thunder of his hooves on the soft track. When at last she stopped, laughing, her hair was loose around her shoulders, her cap gone, her long skirts ridden high on her slim thighs and she was alone. The track behind her was empty.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, exhilarated. For a moment she was tempted to ride on and on into the forest, to be lost forever away from her husband and his escort. Then slowly she walked the horse back the way they had come.

She thought he would be angry with her, but his frown was one only of concern. ‘What if you had run into trouble? No one could have saved you.’

‘I don’t get into trouble. I’ve never fallen off in my life –’ She was conscious of the admiring smiles, scarcely hidden, of the men around them, and she found herself sitting a little straighter.

‘I am sure you haven’t.’ He was smiling too. ‘But you might have met undesirable company. The march is a nest of robbers and thieves and outlaws. That is why the wife of an earl must always have an escort. Does Cenydd manage to keep up with you?’ He threw her a quizzical glance.

She smiled at him unrepentantly. ‘Only if I let him.’

‘And you let him the day you swam the strait?’ He hid a smile.

She blushed and nodded. ‘He saved my life.’

‘One day, Eleyne, I think you must tell me the story of the great swim, but in the meantime I think you must only ride Invictus if you promise to hold him in,’ he said gently. ‘Sir William bequeathed him to you and as far as I am concerned, he is your horse, but only if you ride him slowly. I want your promise.’ His face was stern.

Her eyes were shining. ‘I promise.’ Then she frowned. ‘Don’t you want to ride him yourself?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve been ill, Eleyne. I can’t ride fast yet. My bones are stiff and my body aches.’ He laughed. ‘But I improve daily and I shan’t long be able to resist the challenge of having a wife who can outride me, I promise you. When I am recovered, I shall borrow him back and test his paces myself.’

XI

It took many days for the huge household to ride across England, and as they did so Rhonwen grew more and more depressed. The country was heavily forested, dull beneath lowering wet skies, even though around them hawthorn erupted in the hedges and the trees were full of birdsong as they crossed broad, shallow, slow-moving rivers and threaded their way across the flat central spine of England. From time to time they climbed hills and rode between small neat fields, the strips of crops showing green beneath the rain, but they had left the great mountains of Wales far behind and with them any hope of reprieve. No word had come from Einion, no ray of hope or explanation how his plans for Eleyne could have gone so far astray. She looked often at Eleyne, riding the cream mare some paces behind her husband, huddled in her cloak against the driving rain, and wondered what the child was thinking.

With every step their journey took them farther and farther from the land of their birth towards a new, strange life, but Eleyne was silent, her eyes only now and then flicking to left or right to note some aspect of the scenery they passed. The sense of desolation, which had swiftly replaced her initial excitement when they had set out on their journey, was overwhelming. The long days in the saddle, moving slowly but inexorably south and east, weighed on her, and it gave her time to think. There was no way now of avoiding the pictures which kept returning to her mind of the gallows; of her mother’s bed and of Sir William’s handsome face, and his rueful smile as he walked towards his death. Had he known? Had he known who it was who had betrayed him?

Again and again she tried to close her mind to the horror, tried to fight the guilt and remorse which threatened to overwhelm her. And again and again she failed. Hourly, or so it seemed to Rhonwen, her face grew more pinched and white and the shadows darker beneath her eyes.

XII
FOTHERINGHAY CASTLE
July 1230