mother of a line of kings. I had to know,’ she rushed on. ‘I had to know when. We always thought he was speaking of my marriage to John.’ She took a deep agonised breath. ‘But that wasn’t to be. And now…’ Her voice faltered to a halt.
‘And now,’ he echoed.
She saw the vivid blaze of his eyes and suddenly she was reminded of John. How he had looked when she had told him the same thing. She put out her hand timidly and touched his arm. ‘Is Robert dead?’ she whispered.
He nodded.
‘You gave the order?’ she forced herself to ask.
‘I gave the order.’ He spoke heavily, staring down at the remains of the smouldering ashes. ‘God forgive me, I gave the order. I had to have you. Sweet Blessed Christ, I had to have you for my wife!’
Eleyne clenched her fists. Her breath was coming in tight, painful gasps. ‘I’m carrying your child, my lord.’ She hadn’t meant to say it like that – straight out.
‘Are you sure?’ Words he had spoken before, to his wife, but this time he already knew the answer. The curves of her belly, the full breasts, the slight broadening of her hips: the signs which he had subconsciously noticed and enjoyed without realising their significance.
‘I’m sure.’ She spoke in a whisper.
‘Sweet Jesus! how long I’ve waited for this moment!’ He took her in his arms, her soft white body crushed against his robe. He threaded his fingers through her hair and gently pulled back her head, raising her lips to his.
‘You will marry me? You will have to marry me now.’ She arched her throat to his kisses, feeling herself growing weak, as always at his touch.
‘Yes,’ he breathed, ‘I’ll have to marry you now.’
‘And Robert?’
‘Robert is dead, I told you.’
He was pulling at his clothes, pushing her down, his mouth on hers. She shut out the shiver of unease his tone had brought. She had always known that Robert would have to die to set her free.
She lay back beneath him, her lips against his, her mind spinning out of thought into animal sensation. If this was the will of the gods, if this was her destiny, who was she to feel guilt at the death of one man?
IX
The River Thames lapped greedily against the wall, small wavelets slapping at the stone, teasing the weed and rubbish which floated there. It was full high tide. The messenger drew Robert de Quincy into a dark corner in the angle of the Water Gate Tower and the wall and glanced over his shoulder before he put his mouth to Robert’s ear.
‘Your wife is with child by the King of Scots.’
Robert’s eyes widened. ‘Who told you?’
The stranger shrugged. ‘I was told to tell you. It was the king who tried to have you killed. They think you’re dead and that she is free to marry him.’
Robert put his hand to the throat of his new gown and shivered. ‘How do they know it’s the king’s child?’ he blustered. ‘It might be mine.’
‘Then you must claim it.’ The man eyed him insolently. ‘If you dare.’
Robert’s mouth was dry with fear, but a slow steady anger churned in his stomach. How dare she? They had made a cuckold of him before the world and now they wanted to dispose of him like so much rubbish. Well, she was not going to find it that easy. Not once he had told King Henry what was going on.
X
‘It won’t be for long, lass.’ Alexander’s hands were on her shoulders. ‘What is it?’
It was unlike her to cry, but the tears slipped down her face in spite of her efforts to check them. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ He was riding to the far west of his kingdom.
‘Neither do I, Eleyne,’ he said, growing impatient. ‘But it has to be; you know that as well as I do.’
Her belly was showing now. If she were careful, always draped in a full mantle, no one could see it, but her servants knew; Nesta knew, for she had had to let out the seams of Eleyne’s gowns. And she was sure some of the men and women of the court had guessed. But still Alexander had not acted. It was only three or four months before her baby was due; they had to be married soon.
She had stopped riding, terrified of harming the baby, her whole being tied up with the scrap of life who would one day wear a crown. She did not know that messengers had arrived from the court of King Henry, and that one of the messages they carried was that Robert de Quincy was alive.
XI
All the lords and princes of Wales were gathered at the command of Prince Llywelyn. Once more he wanted their assurances and their oaths of loyalty: for Dafydd.
Isabella sat watching as her husband’s attendants put the finishing touches to his clothes, tweaking, brushing, pulling at the folds of his cloak. She was shivering in spite of the lighted brazier which threw out a shimmering wall of heat from its glowing coals.
‘Is your father well enough to attend the meeting?’ She was growing agitated now that the day had finally arrived.
Dafydd nodded. He waved away his servants and turned to face her. ‘So, how do I look?’ He was wearing the
‘Handsome.’ She smiled with some of her old coquettishness. ‘Every inch the greatest prince Wales has ever seen.’
‘No prince will ever be greater than my father, Isabella.’
‘You will.’ She stood up and moving towards him with a rustle of silks she stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. ‘You’ll see, Dafydd
Outside the guesthouse the wind had risen, roaring through the trees in the valley beyond the abbey. The lonely hills were dark under the speeding clouds.
‘Not as long as Gruffydd holds so much of Gwynedd and Powys. Father means him to succeed Gwenwynwyn as leader in central Wales. If he does he’ll be a thorn in my flesh for the rest of my days.’
‘Then he mustn’t succeed.’ Isabella’s eyes narrowed. ‘Once the princes have sworn allegiance to you, my
