Child of the Phoenix. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ strewn herbs rose and tickled her throat as she moved.

      ‘Then what?’ Luned sat down heavily on the edge of a coffer.

      ‘We go on as before. England is our home now.’ Eleyne’s voice was flat. ‘Or Scotland, one day perhaps.’ Scotland was a fairy tale; part of a dream of a queen with a golden crown. ‘But we can visit Aber only if papa asks us. Luned,’ she went and sat down next to her, taking her hand, ‘I am going to write to Rhonwen. And to Isabella. I’ll ask them to speak to papa. Bella would want me there. Aber won’t be much fun on her own. There were so many things we were going to do together; so many adventures I had planned. She’ll persuade them to let me come back, I know she will.’

      The bleak reality of John’s glimpse of the future was pushed aside. She could not, would not, believe it possible that she would never live in North Wales again.

      VII

      This time Isabella wrote back. Eleyne stared at the letter in disbelief, frozen with horror, oblivious of her husband’s worried eyes on her. ‘What is it, Eleyne?’ The letter had been with his as usual courteous note from Llywelyn about march business.

      Eleyne shook her head bleakly.

      Leaning forward, John took the letter from her limp fingers and scanned the loose childish handwriting. Seconds later he had thrown it on the fire.

      ‘Forget her.’ His words were curt.

      ‘But she is – was – my friend.’ Eleyne was bewildered.

      ‘I fear you have been made a scapegoat, sweetheart. Your brother has, it seems, blamed you for her father’s death. You can see why they have done it. Life would be intolerable if she blamed your father. You are not there. It was the pragmatic answer.’

      ‘But she was my friend,’ Eleyne repeated. She could not believe such betrayal.

      ‘Obviously not.’ She had to learn the lesson now, hard though it was. ‘A true friend would have believed in you.’

      ‘I’ll never go back home now …’ The shock was wearing off and the full significance of the letter began to dawn. ‘If she blames me, everyone else will be doing the same. My mother – ’

      John frowned. ‘That may well be so, sweetheart.’

      She stood up slowly and walked over to the low window. Through the dim glass she could see the altercation between two wagoners just outside the gates below. The wheels of their vehicles had become locked in the narrow street and, strain as they might, the oxen pulling in opposite directions could not extricate them. The fracas ended only when one of the wheels was wrenched off and the wagon tipped its load of heavy sacks into the filthy road.

      VIII

      The visit to London ended. John took Eleyne once again on the progress around the Huntingdon estates. Away from the city her spirits rose a little. She was happy to be riding again and, in spite of herself, she was becoming increasingly interested in the complexities of running the great earldom. John encouraged her, enjoying the blossoming confidence, the shrewd native intelligence, the occasional wry humour. He also enjoyed talking to her of deeper things: persuading her to tell him the stories of the old gods of the Welsh hills and in return showing her the gentle meekness of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Often he took her alone with him into the chapels and churches on his estates, to listen to the singing of the liturgy or to see the beauty of the gold and silver, the alabaster, the glass; above all, to feel the peace to be found at the feet of the Mother of God. Eleyne had more or less forgotten Einion and now she found that she could put Rhonwen too at the back of her mind. Her nurse was safe and happy at Aber, and her husband must now become the centre of her life. She would see Rhonwen soon, of that she was certain.

      She fought the dreams consciously, never gazing into the fire, never allowing the veil which separated past, present and future to slip. As time passed it seemed to grow easier. She recognised the sensations which sometimes threatened her: the sharpening of perception, the intensity of feeling, the strange blankness which announced the closeness of another world. When that happened, she would clutch at the beautiful carved beads and crucifix John had given her and which now always hung at her waist. The more fixed she became in the present, the more she found herself becoming fond of John. At twenty-eight he was a good-looking man – serious, conscientious, gentle with his young wife.

      He never mentioned the time when they would be more than friends. Her courses had started at last, a full eighteen months after Luned had blossomed as a woman. When it happened, she had held her breath and waited, sure that John would know, sure he would now insist she come to his bed. But he gave no sign of knowing that her thin, skinny body had become a woman’s body. He treated her as he always had and never did anything to frighten her. As the months passed and she came more and more to rely on him and trust him, husband and wife grew more and more pleased with each other.

      In March 1232 King Henry visited them at Fotheringhay and she helped to supervise the preparations for the vast number of men and women in his train. It was the first time she had really felt her role as countess and lady of the castle; the visit was a resounding success. It was all the more surprise therefore when, as the heat returned to the low-lying countryside, she fell ill again. When a summons came for John to attend Henry at Westminster, John was at his wits’ end how to help her. He did not dare to suggest that she return with him to the Strand.

      Eleyne’s sister Margaret came to their rescue. ‘Send her to me,’ she said in her letter. ‘As I suggested before, the air of the Downs will help her regain her strength.’

      John showed her the letter and smiled at the sudden animation in her eyes when she looked up at him. ‘Can I go?’

      ‘Of course you can go. Spend the summer with your sister, and then we will come back to Fotheringhay together in the autumn.’ He did not add out loud the thought which came into his head: And then, Eleyne mine, you must learn to be a real wife.

      IX

       BRAMBER CASTLE, SUSSEX July 1232

      Bramber lay massive and prosperous in the summer sun as Eleyne rode across the bridges which protected it on its hill in the arm of the River Adur. The great castle, sixty miles from London, dominated the Sussex countryside around it, looking down on the busy quays at which were moored several ships which had come in on the high afternoon tide. In the distance the soft heights of the Downs were lost in the hazy sunshine.

      Eleyne threw herself into Margaret’s arms. After a hug of welcome, Margaret disentangled herself. Tall, flame-haired like Eleyne, and bubbling with infectious excitement, Margaret dragged Eleyne towards the keep. ‘Come and meet my John.’

      John de Braose, at twenty-five a year his wife’s senior, was waiting at the head of the stairs. ‘Lady Huntingdon.’ Bowing, he kissed her hand formally, then he straightened and gave her a welcoming smile.

      Eleyne’s heart almost stopped beating: the eyes, the angle of the head. He was so like his dead cousin, William, she found herself speechless with shock.

      ‘Eleyne?’ Margaret took her hand. ‘Are you all right? Come on. I want you to meet John’s mother, Mattie – Lady de Braose.’ She put Eleyne’s hand into that of the woman standing behind John. ‘Mother, this СКАЧАТЬ