Child of the Phoenix (70 page)

‘What is it?’ Alexander’s whisper was harsh. He had backed towards the wall, lightly hefting the dagger from hand to hand, his eyes everywhere, his whole body poised for attack.

Eleyne shook her head. ‘It’s nothing, it will pass …’

‘Nothing! There was someone here – ’

‘Yes, my lord, and he has gone.’ Eleyne smiled wanly. She was still trembling.

‘You spoke a name.’

‘Einion. He was my father’s bard. It was he who taught me to look in the fire.’

‘Sweet Christ!’ Alexander peered around the room again. The remaining candles had steadied, and the strange unnatural cold, the cold of the grave, had lifted. Still holding the dagger in his right hand, he pulled his mantle over his shoulders, then he bent and threw a couple of pine logs on the fire.

‘So. My Eleyne is a seer.’ His voice was carefully neutral. ‘And protected by the spirits of the dead.’ Behind him the logs spat blue sparks up the chimney.

‘No, it’s not like that. He wants to tell me something – ’

‘He wants to tell you something!’ Alexander sheathed the dagger in his belt and threw it back on the stool. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘He doesn’t choose his moment with any tact, this bard of yours, does he?’

Eleyne gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sorry.’ She leaned past him towards the rugs and pulled another around her shoulders. ‘Do you hate me now?’

‘Why should I hate you?’ He was recovering rapidly. ‘There are seers in Scotland, it’s a gift of our people as it is of yours. You met Michael.’ He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘But you’re afraid.’

‘I can’t control the visions and I can’t understand them. This one,’ she flung her arm in the direction of the fire, ‘it’s a warning, I know it’s a warning. But of what? Who is he? Who is it I keep seeing? That’s why Einion came. He wants to help me understand.’ There were tears in her voice.

He pulled her against him. ‘Perhaps it was me you saw?’

The lion flag; the billowing streaming standard. Was it the standard of the king? Perhaps. But the shoulders of the man in the cloak, the angle of his head – she did not recognise him. ‘I would know if it were you, my love,’ she whispered. ‘I am sure I would know if it were you.’

IV

It was still early when the king summoned Robert de Quincy to his bedchamber the next morning. The ashes of the fire had grown cold many hours before, and the candles had burned down into pools of wax. There was no trace of the strange coldness which had permeated the room. The two narrow windows let in broad slashes of early sunlight which spilled across the floor and lit the far walls.

Robert’s head was pounding and his tongue felt like old leather as he stood before the king. He had drunk so much the night before, his mind was a blank. He looked at the king warily, wondering why he had been summoned, but Alexander’s face gave nothing away as he stood with his back to the empty hearth. He had seen to it that they were alone. The young man’s face was the colour of cold lard, but his eyes, small, brown and intense, were confidently insolent.

Alexander flexed the joints of his hands together, then he smiled. And for the first time Robert felt a quiver of uncertainty.

‘You are a messenger of the King of England,’ Alexander said at last.

Robert nodded, watching the king’s face cautiously, but Alexander’s expression remained unreadable.

‘I have messages for my brother-in-law of England,’ the king went on, ‘which I should like you to deliver without delay. You will ride south this morning.’

‘But, sire – ’

‘You will leave your household here, Sir Robert, to allow you to make best speed, and you will – you must – reach Westminster by the feast of Peter and Paul. I know I can rely on you.’ He had given him four days to reach London.

Robert narrowed his eyes, wishing his brain was thinking more clearly. His wife … she was behind this. She and her kingly lover wanted him out of the way.

‘Eleyne must go with me, sire – ’

‘No, Sir Robert.’ The king folded his arms. ‘Your wife would be safer here. No harm will come to her while you are away.’ Something in the way he said those words made Robert’s hair stir uneasily on his scalp. So. The bitch had told him, and no doubt shown him her bruises. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Last night, before he had drunk all those jars of Gascon wine, what had he done to her? He shuffled his feet. No more than usual, no doubt.

‘You need me here, your grace,’ he said slowly, allowing a slight undertone of menace to enter his voice. ‘Eleyne cannot stay here alone.’

‘She’ll be safe here,’ the king repeated.

‘She won’t be safe from scandal. And the condemnation of the church.’ Robert forced his lips into a leer. ‘You, as a king and a widower, may be beyond the reach of either, but she isn’t.’

Alexander clenched his fists. ‘There will be no scandal, Sir Robert.’ He paused. ‘There would be even less chance, of course, if your wife were a widow, but I am sure it will never come to that.’ He held Robert’s eye and saw the young man flinch. ‘And do not be misled into believing that your death would cause an incident of any importance,’ he went on relentlessly. ‘The King of England needs peace with Scotland as much as Scotland needs peace with him. The death of an unimportant messenger on some lonely moor at the hands of a few footpads would not even occasion an exchange of letters.’ The king took a step forward. ‘I shall not expect replies to my letters from King Henry. Do I make myself clear?’

V

Lord Fife was waiting for him as he walked towards the great hall, the king’s pouch of letters dangling from his hand.

Fear and anger were still vying for priority when he found himself confronted by his host and drawn into a private corner. ‘Is he sending you away?’ Lord Fife wasted no time on formalities.

Robert raised his chin slightly. ‘He has an urgent message for the King of England. I am the only one who can be trusted with it – ’

Fife laughed. ‘And he has got his way. You will be in England and Eleyne will be in Scotland – alone.’

Robert glowered. ‘What is that to you?’

Lord Fife shrugged. ‘Nothing, but I dislike seeing our sovereign make a fool of himself. He must be detached from her somehow. Why not order her to remain here at Falkland? I’ll look after her if you give the word.’

‘Against the king’s wish?’ Robert could not keep the scorn out of his voice. ‘You think he would quietly ride off and leave her, even if you dared to defy him?’

‘Oh, I would dare.’ The expression in the earl’s eyes was formidable and Robert felt a moment of unease. He scrutinised the other man’s face, trying to read his meaning.

‘You are going to do it anyway,’ he said at last, astonished at the ease with which he could read the man’s mind. ‘You are going to keep Eleyne here, and tell the king she’s gone with me. That’s it, isn’t it? You want her for yourself!’

The earl smiled grimly. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to anger my king, Sir Robert. Believe me, I would do nothing to anger my king.’

Lord Fife was waiting in the stables when Eleyne went to Tam Lin. She did not see him until it was too late. As she entered the stall and began to make a fuss of the horse, the shadow of his stocky figure fell across her.

‘So, my lady, my gift still pleases you.’ The earl smiled. He was very close to her and she could not back away because of the wooden partition in the stall.

‘He pleases me enormously, my lord.’ She turned to face him, her hand still caressing the horse’s soft muzzle. The wonderful feeling of release she had experienced as Robert rode away with his escort of two companions was still with her, but she eyed Malcolm uneasily. ‘I’m very grateful.’

‘How grateful?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Your affair with the king can’t go on, my lady,’ he said gruffly. ‘You must know that. Already it is being talked about. The king has to marry again. He has to get an heir …’

Eleyne had gone cold. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she retorted. ‘What I do is none of your business. Nor is anything the king may choose to do!’

‘Oh but it is.’ Malcolm’s voice was silky. ‘I am the most senior earl of the kingdom, and the king listens to my advice. It will be my honour and my duty one day perhaps to crown Alexander’s son. Don’t demean yourself, Eleyne, you are worth too much. Come away with me – ’

She stared at him in fury. ‘How can you suggest such a thing? Never!’ She ducked under Tam Lin’s head so that the horse was between them.

‘Aunt Eleyne?’ The voice from the end of the stalls made Malcolm swing round with an exclamation of anger. Young Robert Bruce was standing there, hands on hips, a quizzical smile on his face.

‘Rob!’ In relief Eleyne moved towards him. ‘Lord Fife was just looking at Tam Lin again.’ Flustered, she clutched her nephew’s arm.

He grinned. ‘His grace the king is asking for you, Aunt Eleyne. I think he plans to ride out with his hawks.’ He bowed gravely to the earl.

Malcolm glared at the young man, then he smiled. If there were no royal son, young Robert Bruce might one day be his king. Better keep him sweet. He could wait for Eleyne of Chester.

VI

Robert de Quincy slowed his horse and looked across at his companions. They had been riding hard at his insistence and the horses were blown. As the road climbed high over the Pentlands and dived down into the Ettrick Forest, they drew rein.

Robert reached for the wineskin at his saddle bow and raised it to his lips. ‘We’ll be at the border by nightfall.’ He passed the wine to James Comyn. ‘Then we’ll stop and think this through.’

‘Think what through, my friend?’ James asked ‘You have to get the king’s letters to Westminster fast. There’s nothing to think about there.’

‘No?’ Robert reached for the sealed letter pouch and felt it thoughtfully. ‘Alexander wants me out of Scotland, and these are his excuse. I doubt if they are important. I’m tempted to turn back.’

‘Then you’re a fool, man.’ James handed back the wineskin and gathered up his reins. ‘And I for one don’t intend to be there if you do!’

The road dipped from the moorland into thick woods and the air grew oppressively still. Robert reached for the wine again, allowing his horse to pick its way after its companions, the reins lying loose on its neck.

The men were waiting for them in the shadows of a thorn thicket, their drawn swords gleaming in the stray rays of sunlight. James Comyn did not stand a chance – before he could draw his weapon the sword had entered his stomach beneath the ribcage and he had slumped to the forest floor. John Gilchrist fared little better. He drew his sword and had time to flail it wildly around his head with a cry of ‘footpads’ before he too fell from the saddle. The two riderless horses thundered away up the grassy ride.

Robert, terrified, hurled the wineskin in the direction of the robbers and lashed his horse’s sides. The animal bolted back the way it had come and within minutes he was lost in the forest.

It was a long time before he brought the fear-crazed horse to a halt. He listened intently: the silence of the broad forest rides and the narrow deer trods was total. There was no sound of pursuit. Whoever had lain in wait had been content with his two companions, at least for now. Sober and scared, Robert looked up for the sun and turned his weary animal once more towards the south.

VII
STIRLING CASTLE

The news that the bodies of James Comyn and John Gilchrist had been found, robbed and mutilated, in the Forest of Ettrick hit the country with a wave of shock. As did the news that there was no sign of Robert de Quincy, who had been with them. The king received the news in silence, then gave orders that the robbers be found and dealt with. Holding up a king’s messenger was a serious offence. But the robbers were not found and there was no news of Robert.

They spied on her the whole time: the women of the court, the servants, the king’s advisers, even his friends. Each time she went to his chamber she felt their eyes upon her from every doorway and window squint; each time he summoned her to his private rooms she sensed ears at the keyhole, and heard the chain of gossip as it flew around the castles of the king.

She walked proudly, ignoring it, her eyes deliberately ahead, but she was deeply troubled. She wanted Robert dead – in the depths of her soul she wanted him dead. But to wish him dead was a sin. How could her happiness with Alexander be based on that? She did not let herself wonder whether Alexander had arranged the murder. If he had it was as great a sin for him. She prayed, but her prayers always ended with one petition. ‘Please, sweet Blessed Virgin, Blessed Bride, let Robert de Quincy be dead.’ If Robert were dead, she would be free to marry again and her husband would be a king. The matter was now urgent, for she had begun to suspect as the weeks passed that she was pregnant.

She was never completely alone; her servants were always with her. They slept in her chamber at night, they followed her by day; when she was summoned to the king, it was by one of his attendants. And now more than ever she needed to be alone. She wanted the chance to see into her future. She could not bear the suspense; could no longer tolerate her position. She had to know. Was the destiny Einion had predicted hers at last? Was she to be the next Queen of Scots, in spite of the opposition to her? For there was opposition. It wasn’t only the Earl of Fife who did not want her to be queen. The Earl of Mar, the Earl of Buchan, the Earl of Dunbar, and of course the Constable of Scotland, Robert’s brother, Roger de Quincy, were all adamant that when the king remarried – and for Scotland’s sake that had to be soon – it could not be to the Countess of Chester. Too much doubt and jealousy and scandal clung to her now, and how could the king marry a woman whose husband might still be alive?