husband, he will have no friends. And your father will go back happily to his prayers at Aberconwy. The field will be yours.’
‘My thoughts exactly! Though I must move carefully. Remove his lands little by little, isolate him. With my allies and my sisters’ husbands with their lands… Angharad and Maelgwyn Fychan, Gwladus and Ralph Mortimer, Gwenllian and William de Lacy, Margaret and Walter Clifford. It’s a formidable list.’ He paused. ‘It’s a pity that Chester is now so irrevocably in Henry’s hands. With the earl as our ally we were far more secure.’
Isabella frowned. ‘Where is the Countess of Chester now, do we know?’
Dafydd smiled. The minx was showing her claws again. He could tell by the tone of her voice. She knew very well where Eleyne was. He shook his head at her gravely. ‘She is, I hope, working on strengthening the prospects of a Welsh alliance with Scotland.’
Isabella laughed shrilly. ‘Is that what it’s called? That is not what Robert de Quincy called it when he came to see papa.’
If Robert de Quincy had hoped for sympathy from Eleyne’s father when he came to Aber the month before, he had been sadly disappointed. Llywelyn, on his way back to Aberconwy, where he spent more and more of his time in prayer, had been curt to the point of rudeness to his unwanted and unloved son-in-law, pointing out that a wife was a man’s own business and if he could not control Eleyne he should perhaps look to his own character for the reason.
The news of Eleyne’s attachment to the King of Scots had pleased Dafydd enormously; her marriage to him would be the best and biggest insult to Henry anyone at Aber could conceive. He had said as much to his father.
‘If that young man should meet with an accident on his way out of Wales, we would be doing the whole world a favour!’ he had said succinctly as Robert de Quincy left Aber.
Llywelyn had frowned, groping with shaking hand for the crucifix he wore around his neck. ‘Murder is not the answer, my son, though I’m tempted, sorely tempted. The alliance with the royal house of Scotland would be good for Wales, very good.’ He smiled with a glint in his eye, quite like his old self. Then he sighed. ‘But I don’t wish to die with that wretched young man’s death on my conscience. Or on yours -’ he added hastily.
Both men had thought for a moment with regret about Gruffydd. He would not have hesitated. But Gruffydd wasn’t there.
XII
William, Earl of Mar, was sitting near King Alexander. He glanced at his companions with a scowl. They had wished this on him after long discreet discussions by the fireside, and now they had turned to talk among themselves, leaving him alone with his king.
Alexander lay back in his chair and sighed. ‘So, William, another two days and we can ride back to Roxburgh.’
‘I hope so, sir.’ What kind of fool was he to try this? How could he even begin?
Someone cleared their throat in the room behind him. William took the hint.
‘I hear Sir Robert de Quincy is bragging at Henry’s court that he is to be a father, sire.’ He kept his eyes on his hands, watching the fire glint on the stone in his ring. ‘He claims his wife was cohabiting with him when the child was conceived and claims to know when it will be born.’
He risked a glance at the king’s face, and wished he hadn’t. The pain was raw.
‘Sir Robert is also claiming that you tried to have him killed, sire,’ he said softly. ‘Even if he released her -’ he paused – ‘or if he died, there would always be doubt. Even with a papal dispensation, as the widower of her aunt,’ he ploughed on manfully, ‘you cannot marry her. Scotland would be torn apart.’
‘I know.’
For a moment William did not believe what he had heard. The king’s strangled whisper had been so soft.
The other three men watching covertly from the shadows saw their king put his face in his hands. ‘How will I tell her, William?’
Lord Mar bit his lip. ‘I am sure she will understand,’ he said hopefully. Privately, he doubted it. The beautiful Lady Chester had a fiery spirit which did not, as far as he could see, tolerate any contradiction of her wishes.
The king’s wry smile seemed to imply that he felt the same.
‘You could just stay away,’ William said, ‘until she is brought to bed.’
Alexander shook his head. ‘That would be cruel, and it would be cowardly.’ He straightened. ‘So, William, tell me: whom do my lords think I should marry? Do you have a list of your daughters ready? Or must I marry a foreign princess?’ He stood up abruptly. ‘I love her, William.’ It was a cry of anguish.
‘She is a very beautiful woman, sire.’ William stood too. ‘I am sure she will continue to -’ Embarrassed, he groped for words.
‘To be my paramour?’ Alexander laughed bitterly. ‘But she deserves better than that, William. Far better.’
XIII
Eleyne was sewing with her ladies in the solar above the hall. The gales had grown worse, uprooting trees, tearing roofs from buildings, screaming banshee-like in the chimneys, hurling the rain against the narrow windows. It was hard to sew by the flickering candlelight and the women were talking idly around the table, only now and then inserting stitches into their work. Eleyne had had a letter from Alexander that morning; he was still delayed in the far west. It would be another week at least before he could come to her.
She knew of the rumour that Robert was alive, but she had no way of finding out the truth. As the weeks passed, she had grown more miserable and uncertain. She did not eat; she did not sleep. On the one hand, his survival meant that Alexander had not after all been guilty of murder. On the other, it meant she was not free. Had Alexander petitioned the pope for an annulment of her marriage? Was he even now awaiting word from Rome?
She sighed, moving uncomfortably in her chair as the baby kicked beneath her ribs. Why was the king taking so long? Couldn’t he see that time was running out? They had to be married before the baby was born; surely that was more important than yet another squabble among his quarrelsome subjects. He had people to do that for him, he did not have to be there in person. The needle slipped in her hands and she gave an exclamation of pain and annoyance as a spot of blood appeared on her finger.
The noise of the wind disguised the sound of feet. When the door burst open, the women looked up in amazement. Robert de Quincy had a drawn sword in his hand. Behind him were several armed men who wore the insignia of the Earl of Fife.
‘So this is where you are, sweetheart.’ He peered around the room as the shadows leapt from the wildly flickering candles. One of the ladies gave a scream; the rest stared at him, too afraid to move.
‘Come, we are leaving, King Henry wants us in London.’
Eleyne rose to her feet. Her face was white and strained, her heart thudded sickly in her throat. ‘I am not going with you. Our marriage is over.’
‘Our marriage isn’t over.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘My dear, it has hardly begun. Fetch her cloak.’ His eyes had flicked over the cowering women and settled on Nesta. ‘We ride south tonight.’
Nesta licked her lips nervously. ‘My lady is in no condition to ride, Sir Robert,’ she said cautiously, amazed at her own courage.
‘No condition?’ Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘Nothing stops my wife from riding, surely.’ He had to raise his voice
