XII
She could no more keep away than she could stop breathing. However much pain she knew it would cause her, she had to go to Alexander if he had summoned her. To be near him, to be in the same room, even with his wife and her child, was something she could not resist. She knew Robert believed it would be a punishment for her; she knew he would watch and enjoy every moment of her suffering but still she had to go.
The drought still held, but in the cooler north there was more grass in the meadows, and the trees, already turning golden and russet in the sun, were not so jaded. They found lodgings in Roxburgh, near the castle wall. Rhonwen, summoned by urgent messenger to Eleyne’s side, was with them and it was she who helped Eleyne change into her most beautiful gown. It was of deep blue silk, trimmed with silver, held in at her too-thin waist by a heavy girdle stitched with chased silver ornaments.
They presented themselves at the castle at noon on the day after their arrival, and Robert gave their names to the official who was overseeing the crowds of petitioners waiting in the courtyard. They were ushered in at once. The king and queen were seated on a dais at the far end of the hall. Eleyne forced herself to walk beside Robert, her head high, her step firm, conscious of the whispers as she drew near the king and curtseyed. He had risen as they appeared and for a moment her eyes met his. He did not, after all, look pleased to see her.
‘You haven’t met Lady Chester, the widow of my cousin John,’ he said at last to his wife. ‘And Sir Robert de Quincy, her husband.’
Queen Marie was sitting back in her carved chair, her wrists hanging loosely on the armrests, her dark eyes watchful. Her face was heavy and olive-skinned, her hair black, looped around her ears in an elaborate style which emphasised the breadth of her chin. Eleyne realised at once that the queen knew exactly who she was.
Robert smiled at the queen. ‘Madam, we have come to offer our congratulations on the birth of your son. This is a wonderful event for Scotland.’
‘Indeed it is.’ The queen’s voice was heavy and without humour. ‘Something for which Scotland has waited a long time. It was kind of you both to come and convey your good wishes. I understand you are on your way to stay with your brother, Sir Robert?’
‘Indeed, madam.’ Robert bowed.
Eleyne glanced up at Alexander; his eyes were on her face.
‘Then we shall not detain you.’ The queen had not looked at Eleyne. She held out her hand to Robert and he kissed it.
Alexander narrowed his eyes. She looked ill; unhappy; her face was thin to the point of gauntness, but she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And his wife was publicly snubbing her.
‘It would be churlish to allow you to move on so soon after your arrival, Lady Chester,’ he said, forcing the words from a throat tight with emotion. ‘I should like you and your husband to stay at the castle. The Constable of Scotland is commanded to wait on me here. You do not need to travel further to see him.’
A small sigh passed around the spectators in the body of the hall and the queen’s colour heightened.
So did Eleyne’s. She met Alexander’s gaze and gave a hesitant smile. It was a small enough triumph, but it was better than nothing.
As Countess of Chester, she sat next to the king at the high table. It was a long time before the level of conversation had reached such a volume that he could turn to her and speak without their being overheard. On her other side, Robert had already drunk more than enough to lull him into a stupor over the heavy spiced food.
‘Why did you come?’ he asked.
‘You sent for us.’ She kept her voice steady.
‘No, lass, I wouldn’t have done that to you.’
She sighed. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘Are you content with him now?’ Alexander’s hand, his fingers clenched around his knife, lay near hers on the table.
‘How could I be content!’ Her eyes were fixed on the dish of stewed capons in front of her. There was no bitterness in her voice. ‘I know it was the only way, and I’m glad for you. You have your son at last.’
‘Aye.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Alexander. He’s a beautiful bairn. You shall see him presently.’ He did not notice the pain in her eyes as she thought of that other little Alexander buried in an unmarked grave on the cold windy shore of the Firth of Forth.
She and Robert shared a bed that night in the gatehouse tower of the castle, overlooking the River Tweed. He did not touch her. He was drunkenly asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Silently she cried herself to sleep, aware of Rhonwen and Nesta in their beds beyond the curtains and Donnet on the floor at the foot of the bed.
The baby was plump and healthy and screamed lustily as the wetnurse picked him up and put him in Eleyne’s arms. He was warm and heavy, his eyes a deep blue as he gazed up at her, his small mouth puckered into a brief toothless smile as his cries stopped. Her heart lurched with pain as her arms tightened around the child – Alexander’s child, the child who should have been hers – and her eyes filled with hot tears.
‘I want you to be his godmother,’ Alexander said in the short silence as his son and heir paused to refill his lungs.
It was his way of saying he understood.
She sniffed, burying her face in the tightly swaddled shawl. When she looked up, she had recovered enough to give him a small smile. ‘And the queen? Does she want that too?’ She hugged the baby more tightly.
‘Indeed she does.’ He caught her eye and winked. ‘It’s Marie’s greatest wish.’
She looked away, unable to bear him so close to her, wanting to reach out to him, wanting him to reach out to her, but the nurses were impatient. The king’s servant was hovering, trying to catch his attention; across the room some ladies were waiting for the queen. A dozen pairs of eyes were on her and she had the feeling that each one of them could read her mind.
‘Eleyne.’ His anguished whisper was so quiet, she wondered if she had imagined it.
Ducking her head to kiss the baby’s small nose she allowed herself to glance up. What she read in his eyes made her catch her breath.
It was as if they were alone in the world, she and the king and the small child in her arms. Then it was over. The baby began to cry again. Clucking, the wetnurse hurried forward to take him, the voices of others in the room intruded again and the king was surrounded by his attendants.
She didn’t mind. He would find a way – somehow.
XIII
It was three days before he did. Rhonwen had arranged it.
Swathed in heavy cloaks, the two women slipped from the postern gate and into the teaming burgh outside the walls. Rhonwen led her down a narrow wynd and into a small court. An outside staircase led up above the baker’s shop and Eleyne followed her into a small room, full of the scent of new bread. Outside the high narrow window the River Tweed ran low and slow down the centre of its stony bed. It was full of rubbish, tossed from the town.
‘Lock the door after me,’ Rhonwen whispered. ‘Open to no one unless they knock six times like this.’ She rapped with her knuckle on the frame of the window. ‘There’s wine and pasties here in the basket, if loving makes you both hungry.’ She winked. ‘The bed’s not over-clean, but if it’s fit for a king it’s good enough for you!’ Chuckling, she punched the coverlet and they wrinkled their noses as a cloud of dust flew up. Rhonwen stared round the room once more and then she let herself silently out of the door.
Eleyne walked to the window: a thick unpleasant smell of mud and rubbish wafted from the river, and the room was airless and very hot. She longed to throw off her clothes but she did not dare. Not yet, not until she knew what
