‘I told Sir John that you have no visitors,’ said the abbess, ‘and there is no possibility of the little girl being hidden here.’
‘No.’ Isabella’s voice was hard. ‘There is no possibility of her being hidden here.’
Three times she had written to Eleyne and not once had she received an answer. That all her recent letters had been brought by her chosen messenger – a lay sister from the convent farm – straight to the abbess, read and burned, never occurred to her. Her messenger always took her money and promised to send the letters on their way. She believed her, and she went on writing. Eleyne, like everyone else, was probably rejoicing in her captivity and her unhappiness, or so she believed.
She looked from under her lashes at Sir John, self-preservation overriding her bitterness. ‘I would help if I could. My sister, Eleyne, has always been very dear to me. Perhaps if you could take me to her…’
‘You know that is impossible, my dear,’ the abbess put in quietly. She had seen the melting look Isabella had thrown at the young knight. ‘All you can do is pray for the child, as all the sisters will do with all their hearts. Please tell the king, Sir John, that we cannot help your quest. I’m sorry.’
She stood beside Isabella at the parlour window and watched as Sir John’s squire led his master’s horse to the door. Both young men mounted and rode away without a backward glance. Looking covertly at Isabella, the abbess sighed. On this occasion, she would turn a blind eye to the woman’s tears.
XVI
Eleyne stooped over the tall pitcher and scooped some of the cool water into her palms. She splashed it over her face gratefully, aware that long nights of crying had reddened her eyes and engraved black circles beneath them. There was still no word of Joanna. A thick fetid heat had settled over London and there was plague in the city, but still she stayed. The court had long gone, as had most of the nobility. The great houses were closed.
She stooped again, ready to sink her hands up to the wrists in the cool river water when she stopped and frowned, staring into the shadowy depths of the jug. For a moment she thought she had seen a face in the water. Not her own reflection – her red-gold hair flattened by the head-dress she had discarded on the bed – but a smaller, darker head. A child’s head. Not daring to believe her eyes, she tried to peer through the shadows, seeing the movement of the water as it lapped the rough glaze. She was there: Joanna, her arms outstretched, calling silently and behind her – Eleyne concentrated, terrified the vision would break – a castle. A castle surrounded by water.
She swung round so suddenly that she swept the pitcher off the coffer and it broke on the floor, soaking the dusty woodruff which covered the boards. The sound brought Rhonwen running. ‘What is it,
‘Joanna! She is in Scotland. He has taken her to Loch Leven!’ Eleyne was feverish with excitement. ‘What fools we were not to think of it! Order the horses quickly.’
‘Thank all the gods that she’s all right.’ Rhonwen did not question how Eleyne knew or remind her of her vow never to set foot in Scotland again.
XVII
It was dusk when the four riders arrived at last on the shores of the loch and stared across the dark, still water towards the castle on its island. Eleyne had left Hawisa and her wetnurse in London with Luned and her three children and she and Rhonwen had ridden north at breakneck speed attended by two of her knights, Sir Thomas Bohun and Sir David Paris. There had been no time to think about the past.
‘How will we get there, lady?’ Sir Thomas leaned forward in his saddle and slapped his horse’s sweating neck. ‘Are there boats?’
‘You should ask Lord Fife to help us,’ Rhonwen put in quietly. ‘He would do anything for you.’ She shivered. This place held nothing but unhappy memories.
Dismounting, Sir Thomas led his exhausted horse to the water’s edge and let it drink, watching the water dribble from its soft lips. ‘Is Lord Fife close?’ He stood, squinting at the island.
‘There must be a boat. If we ride towards Kinross, we’ll find something.’ Now that she was so close Eleyne could not tolerate the thought of another delay. The castle’s walls seemed very remote. There was no sign of life on the island as far as she could see and the water was deserted save for sleeping gulls.
Sir David had ridden a little way away from them, pushing his horse breasthigh into the reeds. ‘There’s a boat of sorts here,’ he called softly. ‘Pulled up out of the water.’
A flat-bottomed punt, the paddles still in it, was hidden carefully in the reeds. Eleyne caught her breath with excitement. ‘We three will go. Rhonwen, you stay with the horses.’ She squeezed the woman’s hand, well aware of the horror she must feel at the thought of setting sail in the dark on the water which had so nearly drowned her. ‘If we have not returned by dawn ride to Falkland Castle and find the Earl of Fife. Tell him everything and bring him to look for us.’
Rhonwen watched as the boat drew slowly away. It was hard to see, but the drip of water from the paddles as the two young men propelled it away from the shore sounded loud in the silence. She stood there for a long time. To David and Thomas it was all a great adventure, but she had seen the expression on Eleyne’s face; the fear, the strain, the terrible weight of sorrow which coming back here had reawakened. One day soon – very soon – Sir Robert de Quincy was going to pay for his cruelty with his life.
The bushes were thick near the gateway to the castle and the track was overgrown. Peering cautiously out of the shadows Thomas cursed as the moon floated serenely free of the clouds and flooded the island with silver light. A slight mist had begun to drift across the water. It lapped the shore and floated hesitantly towards the walls.
‘You have to demand entry,’ Eleyne whispered. ‘Hammer on the gates. You are friends of Lord Fife’s. They will let you two in.’
‘And you?’ David looked at her doubtfully.
‘See who is here. If Robert is here, you must find Joanna and bring her to me. If he is not, you can let me in.’ She touched each gently on the shoulder. There was no doubt in her mind that Joanna was in the castle.
She held her breath as they moved stealthily back towards the landing stage. Once there, they stepped brazenly into the moonlight and walked arm-in-arm up the track to the castle gate. Thomas hammered on it with the hilt of his sword and they both began to shout.
For a long time she thought no one was there, then at last she saw a small figure appear on the battlements. He was carrying a horn lantern.
‘Andrew,’ she breathed.
Minutes later the pass door in the iron-bound gates swung open and the two men disappeared inside. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer of gratitude – so far, so good.
They did not reappear. Leaning against the trunk of the tree, she watched as the moonlight travelled slowly across the grey stone walls. Robert must be there. If he wasn’t, they would have come at once to fetch her. She felt a knife-thrust of fear in her stomach. She had not thought beyond this moment. Her child was here; her child had called to her across hundreds of miles and she had come, and she could do nothing. Her fingers went for comfort to the pendant beneath her gown. Pulling her cloak around her more closely she sank down on the damp grass, her back against the rough tree trunk, and drew up her knees with a shiver.
The eastern sky was a blaze of green when the door opened once again and three figures slipped out into the cold dawn. One of them was carrying a sleeping child wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes closing with fatigue and stiff
