the far side.’ Throwing his leg over the pommel of the saddle, he slid to the ground and pulled her after him. Two of Lord Fife’s men were going with them and she was lifted into the bucking boat. ‘No!’ Desperately she tried to rise, but already Robert was beside her. ‘Sit quietly or you’ll fall overboard,’ he shouted against the wind and she found herself sitting helplessly in the shelter of his arm as the sail was raised and the boat drew away from the jetty, hurtling before the sharp north-easterly wind towards the south.
They made landfall on a deserted sandy coast where two horsemen were waiting with spare mounts in the shelter of a pine wood. The ferryman ran the boat up on to the sand and Eleyne was lifted out. She was wet through from the spray and chilled to the bone, and her back ached worse than ever. She had never been seasick in her life, but Robert had spent most of the journey leaning over the side and he was still green as he staggered up the beach.
Eleyne paused to catch her breath, feeling her shoes sink into the soft sand. ‘I can’t go any further.’
Robert stopped. He felt like death and his legs would hardly support him. However much he knew they must ride south quickly and put as much distance between themselves and the King of Scots as possible, all he wanted at this particular moment was to lie down and die. ‘I’ll ask the men with the horses if there is somewhere we can rest,’ he said. It was obvious to Eleyne that he could not face going any further himself, but he still sounded grudging.
They were taken to a small cottage on the edge of a fishing village nearby. The horses were led away and Robert shown to a shed full of hay where he could sleep, while a cheerful young woman, barefoot, her skirts kilted up to her knees, shyly led Eleyne inside. The whole place smelt strongly of fish, but the bed was a pile of dried heather and bracken, spread with sheepskins, and to Eleyne it was the most comfortable place on earth. She sank into it, too tired even to feel the young woman removing her shoes and pulling her wet cloak from her shoulders.
She woke much later with terrifying suddenness as a vicious pain knifed across her back and cramped her womb. Night must have fallen while she was asleep. The fire was damped and she could see in its faint glow the figure of her hostess dozing on the far side of the hearth. The pain came again and she heard herself cry out.
The young woman awoke with a start and scrambled to her feet. ‘My lady? Are you all right?’
Eleyne lay still, shaking. She could feel the chill of perspiration drying on her face. ‘My baby,’ she gasped, ‘I think it’s coming.’
The woman deftly pulled aside the turves which were heaped over the fire. She found some twigs from the pile of driftwood in the corner and fed them to it. By the time it was blazing, she had lit one of her precious tallow candles and set it on the iron pricket on the chest in the corner. Then she turned to Eleyne and laid a comforting hand on her head.
Eleyne groaned again. She knelt up on the bed, rocking back and forth, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
‘What are we going to do?’ she cried. ‘You must get help.’ Alexander, where was Alexander?
The woman’s frightened shout brought Robert into the cottage, then, a shawl thrown over her head, she ran into the night to fetch her neighbour.
Robert stared at Eleyne, his face white and drawn in the smoky light; he did not dare to go right into the room. There was a strange smile on his face. At the sight of him standing in the doorway something snapped inside Eleyne.
‘This is your fault,’ she screamed. ‘If I lose this baby it is your fault! And I shall kill you myself, if Alexander doesn’t do it first, so help me, I will!’ The tears were streaming down her face. She was aware suddenly of water, warm and salty, pouring between her legs, soaking into the sheepskin on which she was kneeling.
Robert didn’t move. He took in with dispassionate disgust every detail of the dishevelled woman kneeling on the bed in her stained gown, with her huge belly and her wild eyes and her hair deep red in the smoking tallow light.
The fisherman’s wife reappeared almost at once with an older woman behind her and in seconds Robert had been banished from the cottage. He stood outside, wrapped in his cloak, looking across the shore to the black waters beyond. Somewhere out there, this woman’s husband and his colleagues were in their little boats, fishing the dark, storm-bound waters, or even now fighting their way back towards the land. His mind worked furiously as the wind pushed his hair back from his cold forehead, his fear of pursuit eclipsed by his anger that once again she had outwitted him. The child was going to be born in Scotland after all.
Eleyne screamed once, just as the sun was rising in a blaze of stormy crimson out of the eastern clouds. Then the eerie silence descended once more on the cottage. It was a long time before the fisherman’s wife appeared at Robert’s side. When he didn’t turn she touched his elbow timidly.
‘The babe is born, my lord,’ she whispered. ‘It’s too small to live. I’m sorry. Do you want to see it?’
‘What is it?’ His voice was expressionless.
‘A boy.’
‘A boy.’ He repeated the words slowly, then he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want to see it.’ He walked away from the cottage towards the water.
Eleyne was propped against a pile of sacks – there were no pillows in the house – the child wrapped in a bloody piece of torn shift in her arms. He was so tiny, this little mite, her dream of Scotland’s future, his features perfect, too early for pudgy baby fat, his hair a glorious red-gold, his minute fingers curled on themselves like sculptured wax. His eyes fluttered slightly behind transparent lids and his mouth parted a little for the breast he would never have the strength to take.
Tears pouring down her face Eleyne kissed his little face and held him to her as he died.
The old woman who had delivered him had baptised him Alexander at her request.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I
As soon as she was well enough to travel, Robert took her back across the water to Aberdour. He carried her upstairs to the chamber in the tower and left her there, in the care of Mistress Gillespie. Then he sent for Nesta and her ladies.
Eleyne had not spoken since the baby died. There had been no anger, no rage, just a terrible silent grief. It had been many hours before they had been able to take the baby from her. She rocked the little body in her arms, her lips against his soft hair, and she wept as though her heart would break. When at last the two women had managed to take him and wrap him in a piece of clean woollen cloth – the only shroud that could be found for the son of the king – she had lost so much blood that she was too weak to stand. Neither she nor Robert was present at the burial in the churchyard on the shore.
Easter came and went and Robert returned to England alone. He simply rode away one day and left her at Aberdour. He felt no desire to take her with him, he felt no desire for her at all. He felt only increasing fear at what Alexander would do when he found out what had happened. It was several days before she wondered if he were coming back; two more before she realised she was no longer a prisoner. It was six days before Alexander came.
He sat down on the bed and took her hands. For a long time neither of them spoke, then at last she looked at him. His face was grey with pain.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Malcolm of Fife told me.’
