‘Eleyne?’ He could see her clearly, sitting in the window, her hair glinting in the sunlight. He smiled. How cross she had been when he teased her about the silver streaks in the glossy chestnut. He was glad she had come back to Scotland. He always missed her so much when she went away; it was as though a limb were missing from his body.
‘Eleyne?’ He tried again, but she didn’t seem to hear him. She was gazing out of the window towards the west. He could see the sunset behind her, the flaming sky throwing her into silhouette, as if her hair were on fire. Daughter of the phoenix, child of the fire. Why didn’t she come to him? Why did she not press her lips to his? He wanted her. He needed her. He tried to stretch out his hand.
A priest knelt near him, his lips moving silently in prayer. His attendants and companions stood looking down at their king, their faces tense. The leech they had fetched from the mainland shook his head again. The king would die with the sun; he knew the signs. There was nothing he or anyone could do.
Alexander frowned a little as he tried to keep her in focus. The sunset was fading; she was less distinct now. She must look after his son; she must keep watch over the boy, for Scotland’s sake. Why didn’t she come to him? He wanted so much to touch her. Perhaps he should go to her.
He gathered the last of his strength with a supreme effort of will-power, concentrating every ounce of determination on keeping her in sight. He had to stay with her. Wherever she went, he would go with her into the darkness or into the light beyond.
As the sun set and the room sank into darkness the king sat up, astonished to find it was so easy. He rose and turned for a moment to look at the bed on which he had been lying and he frowned. His body still lay there, hunched against the fever. Around it he could see his friends staring down in disbelief.
‘He’s dead, my lords.’ He heard the words of the leech as from a great distance but already he had moved away. Somewhere out there in the dark behind the setting sun he had to find Eleyne.
X
Eleyne woke suddenly, listening. As the sound of the watchman’s horn died into reverberations in the silence, she heard the beating of her heart very loud in her ears. The bedchamber was in darkness and she was alone. Her household here was small; her ladies slept elsewhere in the keep: Rhonwen, in her own chamber, with her own servants, on the north side near the nursery; Nesta, next door.
She slipped from the bed, pulled on her shift and ran to the window. Moonlight glittered on the great loop of the River Nene. Beyond it fields and marshes and woods merged into a flat chessboard of silver and black. Somewhere towards the convent she could hear two owls calling as they hunted across the cut hay meadows and closer at hand the tiny calls of bats, pinpricks of sound in the night.
Still numb with sleep it was a moment before she realised that her throat was tight with fear, her whole body cold with dread. She leaned on the sill, looking out into the moonlight, and felt the chill of the night air touching her face. Her hands were shaking.
‘Alexander.’
She whispered his name, but there was no answer in the dark. She opened the small coffer on the table where she kept her jewellery and took out the enamelled phoenix. The fine chain was broken. She had meant to summon a goldsmith from Northampton, but somehow it had slipped her mind. She held it for a moment in her hands, gazing at it in the darkness. Even without candles it seemed to gleam, the ruby eyes reflecting a starlight which had not penetrated the room. She felt the tears starting in her eyes. She kissed it sadly and put it back in the coffer. She shivered.
Alexander.
His name would not go away. There was something wrong. He needed her.
Snatching up a silk shawl she threw it around her shoulders over her shift. The castle was silent; they kept early hours unless they had guests. Her last visitor, Isabel Bruce, had left for Scotland three weeks before. Still barefoot she ran down the stairs, Donnet at her heels, and crossed the lower chamber. Some dozen people were asleep there, wrapped in their cloaks around the gently ticking embers of the great fire. None of them seemed to have heard the horn.
She made her way to the door and pulled it open – there was no sign of the watchman.
The stone steps down from the keep were ice-cold and wet with dew, but she scarcely felt them as she ran down and over the high slippery cobbles of the courtyard past the great hall towards the gatehouse. The moat lay black and still in the shadow of the stone wall, a veil of white mist over the water. The drawbridge was up and there was no sign of life from the guardroom. As Eleyne ran in, the guards leaped to their feet.
‘I heard the horn sound,’ she cried. ‘There is a messenger.’
The captain of the guard stepped forward sheepishly jerking his tunic into place. ‘There was no alarm, my lady.’ He looked sharply at his men. ‘There has been no one on the road since dusk.’
‘But I heard it!’ She knew how she must look. The long white shift, bare feet, the silk shawl, her hair loose, without her veil.
‘Not from here, lady.’ His garments straightened to his satisfaction, the captain felt more confident.
‘Then I dreamt it.’ She sounded puzzled. Her shoulders slumped and her voice lost its sharpness. ‘I’m sorry.’ As they watched her go, the captain crossed himself fervently.
At dawn the dream, if dream it were, returned. She heard the horn, jumped from the bed in a panic and ran to the window. The weather was breaking. The dawn was hot and thundery and the sweet scent of the earth mingled with the cool green smell of the river.
The touch on her shoulder was featherlight. For a moment she ignored it, then she swung around. There was no one there. A draught had stirred the wall hangings, that was all. Her jewellery box lay open on the table, she was certain she had closed it. She went to it and picked up the phoenix again, staring at it in the dim light of the dawn. She slipped the chain from its loop and dropped it back into the casket, then she threaded the pendant on to a black silk ribbon and hung it around her neck, feeling the hard bright enamel cold as death between her breasts.
It had been a long time since she had looked into the fire. Kneeling before the hearth, she pushed aside the turves and blew on the embers. She was trembling violently and the cold dread which filled her had nothing to do with dreams.
Alexander!
She leaned towards the flames. Her eyes were blurred. She could see nothing and suddenly she realised she was crying.
The door rattled on its hinges as the wall hangings billowed. Ash blew towards her across the hearth and a log cracked from end to end in a shower of sparks.
There were no pictures in the flames, only the sound of weeping.
XI
Robert de Quincy’s horse was soaked with sweat and he was alone. Eleyne was sitting in the great hall with the entire household as he swaggered in. She knew at once that he was very drunk. It was the first time she had seen him in over two years.
She watched, taut with apprehension as he made his way towards the high table on the dais, where she sat with Rhonwen and some of the senior members of the household.
‘You know, of course, what I am here to tell you.’ He stood, hands on hips, one leg thrust forward, his elegant
