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
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?
Her nights in Alexander’s arms were a haven, but never once did she dare to ask him what was to happen, and never once did he give her any sign. Together, in silence, they waited for news of her husband. Until it came, they could do nothing. And still she had not told him her secret.
VIII
They were at Scone again. The hot muggy August days stretched out and thunder was never far away. The beautiful old palace of Scone lay in a heat haze. It was very silent in the king’s rooms where Eleyne lay in Alexander’s arms. They were both naked.
The knocking on the door was quick and urgent. Alexander sat up and frowned. His servants had orders that he was never to be disturbed when he was alone with Lady Chester.
The knocking was repeated, light, so as not to be heard far away, but insistent.
Pulling on his gown, he went to the door and unbolted it. A shadowy figure waited outside in the dark corridor. The king heard the whispered message and scowled.
‘I have to go, my love.’ He was dressing swiftly. ‘But wait here, I’ll be back soon.’ He knelt and put his hand on her breast as she lay sleepily where he had left her. ‘Lock the door behind me.’
She needed no second bidding. Her hands were shaking as she struck flint to steel and coaxed a spark into the fire laid in the hearth. It had not been lit for days and the kindling was dry as dust. She had no herbs to conjure up the scented smoke. This time she had to do it alone.
Kneeling before the flames, still naked, she waited impatiently for them to heat and steady, emptying her mind, seeking the pictures she knew would be there.
Outside footsteps approached up the stone-flagged passage. She held her breath; they came nearer – she heard the double beat of the heavy boot, heel and toe, and then the jarring metallic ring of the long spurs. They reached the door and paused, then they moved on. She closed her eyes with relief.
The future, her future, her destiny. Would she marry the king? Was the child she was now certain she was carrying going to be the heir to the throne of Scotland? She had to know.
Were the flames condensing into a picture? She leaned closer, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, her bare knees on the sprinkling of broken twig and bark which lay in the hearth.
There, against the grey stones of the chimney, still cold and impervious to the new heat, was that a picture? ‘Einion, help me! Tell me what is to happen!’ She shook her head to clear her eyes. ‘Tell me my future.’
The flames crackled up merrily, devouring the dry sticks, licking at the log which lay ready to heat the room on the first cold night. Outside, the sunlight had turned coppery; thunder rolled around the Perthshire hills.
She did not hear Alexander’s soft leather-soled shoes. His knock was imperious. ‘Eleyne, open this door!’ For one long moment she remained where she was, kneeling before the empty flames, then she rose to her feet.
Alexander stared at her and slammed the door behind him. ‘Never,
She was still standing by the door, her long hair curling down over her breasts, her hands and arms streaked with wood ash and soot. Her eyes were red.
‘Or were you summoning the dead?’ His face darkened angrily. ‘Is that it?’
She was frightened. ‘No, I was trying to see… to see the future… I needed to know,’ she finished in a whisper.
‘You needed to know. What pray did you need to know?’
‘What will happen.’ She looked at him in anguish. ‘It was prophesied by Einion Gweledydd that I should be the
