were a wave and leave her in soft darkness. Then the next contraction dragged her back to screaming wakefulness. ‘For God’s sake do something!’ She clutched at Alice’s hands. She threw her head back, fighting the pain. As she did so she caught sight of Robert, lounging against the wall, his arms folded. Several times he had left the room and gone away to eat and drink and rest, but he had always returned. ‘Go away!’ she screamed. ‘Go away! Get out of here. Get out!’
‘Not until I’ve seen my son born.’ His voice was calm, but she did not hear him. She had thrown herself back against the pillows, grabbing at the twisted sheet which had been tied to the bedpost for her to pull. Alice put a cloth soaked in coriander in Eleyne’s hand and encouraged her to put it to her face. ‘Breathe it in, my lady, breathe in the fumes. They’ll make it easier.’
‘If the child’s legs are across the way to freedom, it will never come and they will both die.’ The old woman shook her head gloomily. ‘I’ve turned babies before, my lady, you’d do best to let me see.’ Elbowing Alice aside at last she pulled back the sheets and began to feel with surprising gentleness beneath Eleyne’s bloodstained shift. ‘No,’ tis a normal birth, Blessed Mother be praised. I can feel the head. It won’t be long now.’ She wiped her fingers fastidiously on the corner of the sheet and looked down at Eleyne as she lay in an exhausted doze. ‘This child will live, my dear, and grow tall and healthy.’ She put her hand on Eleyne’s forehead. ‘A few more pushes, my lady, and she will be born.’
‘She?’ Eleyne’s eyes flickered open.
The woman gave a fruity chuckle. ‘I’d lay money on it,’ she said.
Twenty minutes later the baby was born. Robert stepped forward. ‘My son!’ he said exultantly.
‘Your daughter, sir.’ Alice held the naked child aloft, the pulsating cord still dangling from its belly.
Robert’s face darkened. ‘But I wanted a son!’ He stepped back in disgust.
‘We get what God sends us!’ Alice handed the baby to the old woman.
Eleyne lying exhausted on the bed turned her head slowly towards him. ‘It takes a man to father a son,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘And you think I am not a man?’ Robert’s voice was dangerously low. He stepped forward threateningly. ‘You contrived this. To spite me! You with your spells and your foresight. Well, you will be sorry, my lady, very sorry.’ He looked as though he would hit her.
Alice stepped between him and the bed. ‘My lady must sleep now, sir. You can see how tired she is…’ She folded her arms in a gesture so adamant that Robert stopped, then turned on his heel.
Eleyne did not want the child. She turned her head away and closed her eyes and Alice beckoned forward the wetnurse who had been waiting.
The old woman who had stood watching as they cleaned Eleyne’s torn and aching body and changed the stinking sheets sat down on the bed. ‘I told you. She will live.’
‘The others died.’ Tears slid down Eleyne’s cheeks. ‘My two little boys. I watched them die in my arms.’ She had wanted them; prayed for them; planned for them. And all for nothing.
‘Look, my lady.’ The old woman took the swaddled baby from the nurse. ‘See, it’s you she wants, bless her. See her tiny face. She’ll be a beauty, this child of yours.’
‘If she lives.’ Eleyne’s eyes were closed.
‘She will live.’ The woman’s voice was so forceful that everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and stared.
Eleyne opened her eyes and the woman thrust the baby at her, folding Eleyne’s limp arms around her. ‘She is your child, my lady, yours,’ she whispered. ‘What does the father matter? She is of your blood, your body. It’s your love she wants.’
Almost unwillingly, Eleyne found herself looking down at the swaddled bundle in her arms. The fuzz of hair on the baby’s head was dark, the eyes, which looked directly and unblinkingly into hers, a deep midnight blue. Involuntarily, her arms tightened and, without knowing she had done it, she bent to nuzzle the small soft head.
Three days later as she slept, with the baby beside her in its carved cradle, Robert rode out of the castle and took the road south. He had waited only for the baptism. His daughter had been named Joanna.
VIII
Marie de Couci waited until her husband’s chancellor had left the room, followed by the clerks and servants of the chancellery. Alexander looked up at her and waited. He was weary after an afternoon of intense discussion; he wanted food and wine and relaxation. His wife’s expression was smug, and he felt his heart sink. Why did she take such an unholy pleasure in bad news? No doubt it was bad news.
‘So, my dear, you have something to tell me.’
Marie looked at the floor, her expression veiled. ‘My lord, if I don’t tell you, someone else will. You have to know.’ The triumphant glance she threw him was so swift he all but missed it. ‘Lady Chester has been brought to bed of a daughter.’ She paused. ‘By her husband.’
Alexander had long ago schooled his expression to give nothing away. She would never have the satisfaction of knowing how the news hurt him.
IX
Isabella looked for a long time staring at the letter before her then slowly she stood up and walking to the fire she dropped it on to the flames. So, Eleyne’s child continued to thrive. She had had reports over the last ten months from one of Eleyne’s servants, since that first tentative note after the baby’s birth. Each time she had cried, always secretly, always bitterly, for her own barren womb. And her tears this time had been more anguished than ever as Dafydd had drawn up the details of the succession with Ednyfed Fychan, who had been his father’s most trusted adviser and now was Dafydd’s. It was unthinkable that Henry of England should remain Dafydd’s heir. The line must after all revert, now Gruffydd was dead, to Gruffydd’s eldest son, Owain, released from the Tower the previous August; Owain who had three younger brothers behind him, all robust and healthy. What hurt Isabella so much was the way they all assumed now that there would be no direct heir; no son for Dafydd. She stamped her foot petulantly and sighed.
The death of Gruffydd had removed any need for restraint on Dafydd’s part. At first, although he had expected it, Henry did not take the renewed rebellion seriously, but news had reached them now that he had resolved on a major campaign in Wales. Soon the war would resume in earnest. Isabella frowned at the snow which whirled thickly down. It was the first day of Lent.
Dafydd had eaten something that disagreed with him in the wild Shrove Tide feasting the night before and had retired to his chamber with a belly ache. A few hours later he had begun to vomit violently and this morning he had been worse. She sighed again; she resented anything which kept him from her bed. She needed him with a deep aching hunger which was more than physical – it had become an obsession. The more often they made love, the more chance that she would conceive. Her hand strayed to her throat. Three amulets hung there now, three amulets to ward off the evil eye and counteract Eleyne’s curse. Because it was Eleyne’s fault that she had no child.
She walked back to the fire and kicked out spitefully at the logs where the letter from Fotheringhay had disintegrated into ash. Perhaps it would happen tonight. The stars were propitious and Dafydd would be recovered by then. She would bathe in rose water in front of the fire and have her servants rub scented oils into her skin. She
