of the Countess of Chester’s brood mares.
‘I’ll go in, Michael.’ She was smiling at him now, that beautiful, slow smile which melted a man’s gut and made him wonder, just for a moment if she – but no, of course she wouldn’t. She showed no interest in men. At thirty- five, she was always the virtuous wife; she loved her children and tended her estates and slept, as far as he knew, chastely alone. He knew the rumours, of course, who didn’t? That his lady had a ghostly lover, a tall presence seen sometimes at her side in the twilight, but who would believe that?
He took the colt’s rein and watched as she walked towards the manor house, her dogs at her heels. No other lady he had ever heard of would ride without attendants and stride tall and free about her estates as did Lady Chester, but perhaps her dogs were escort enough. He eyed them wryly. Tall, grizzled Lyulf and Ancret, both three years old now, the pups of old Donnet who, rumour had it, had been given to her by the King of Scots. When she reached the house, the dogs would throw themselves down in the shade by the door, waiting for her orders. Only then would the ladies of the house get a chance to speak to their mistress. The ladies were ruled over by the Lady Rhonwen, who kept them in order as she did the two children who would otherwise, if their mother had her way, run barefoot and wild like the children of the serfs on the manor farm. He could see little Hawisa now, a sturdy small girl with a determined chin and the dark good looks of her father, rushing out of the house and hurling herself into her mother’s arms. With a grin, Michael began to lead the horses towards the stables. He wouldn’t see Lady Chester again today if Hawisa had her way.
‘We’re to have new gowns for the midsummer revels!’ Hawisa gabbled with excitement as she swung from her mother’s hand.
Eleyne looked down at her fondly. ‘Tell me about them.’ Half her mind was still in the stables where her finest stallion rested a badly gashed leg. The only son of Invictus who actually looked like his dead sire, he was an especial favourite. She brought her attention back firmly to the child and stooped to give her a hug.
‘Mine is yellow, with little bows here and here and here,’ the child’s flying hands seemed to indicate every part of her small person, ‘and Joanna’s is red. And we’ve got ribbons to go around the necks of Ancret and Lyulf – one red and one yellow.’
Eleyne laughed in delight. ‘They’ll like that, they’re very vain dogs.’
She lived in semi-retirement now. Only once had she gone back to Aber, for the funeral of her sister Gwladus. The death had saddened her, but she and Gwladus had never been close; the gap in their ages had been too great. She had spent several days with Margaret and Angharad in the
She never thought about Scotland now. She had forbidden Rhonwen to talk about the past and she had no interest in the future. The present was sufficient. She had never been so content. The lonely place in her heart which had once been full of Alexander was walled off in a corner somewhere deep inside her. The children, the horses, the dogs: they were enough. For now. In daylight. And if sometimes at night in her dreams she allowed that wall to crumble and let herself imagine that Alexander still watched over her, that was a secret she shared with no one.
One thing hadn’t changed: she still treasured her solitude. She would ride alone for miles with only her dogs for protection and she still insisted on sleeping alone, something at which her ladies had long ago stopped looking askance. They delighted in her eccentricities. She was their countess, the king’s niece; a princess once, they sometimes remembered, and she bred the best horses in ten counties!
She closed the door with a sigh and stretched her arms above her head luxuriously. It had been a tiring day, but she had enjoyed it. The stallion’s leg was healing cleanly and the preparations for the revels after today’s fast were well in hand. She smiled. The girls were almost sick with excitement; their gowns were ready and she had ordered a chased bangle for each of them from a silversmith in Worcester as a surprise.
She walked to the window embrasure and leaned out. It was a glorious evening, the June air full of the magical scents of summer: newly scythed hay, roses and honeysuckle from the hedgerows and the elusive wild smell of the Malvern Hills which reminded her, a little, of Eryri.
She frowned. This was a moment to enjoy, a moment of perfect happiness, and yet for a fraction of a second she had felt a whisper of unease. She stared out into the luminous darkness, listening intently, but there was nothing there beyond the usual sounds of the night. With a shiver she turned away from the window. There was one thing she had to do before she called her ladies to unlace her gown and brush her hair. She stood before her writing desk and picked up the letter which lay there. It was from Isabella. This, of all her letters, had been entrusted to a party of pilgrims who had stopped at the convent guesthouse on their way to Canterbury, and they had sent it safely on its way.
‘… If you beg the king for my release he will allow it. He has always loved you. Please, for the love of the Holy Virgin, help me. I am dying in this place…’
She sighed. Presumably the warm June night with its whispers of sweetness and promise filtered into the cold stone cells at Godstow too. It would take only a few moments to write to the king and to Isabella, promising her at least a little hope. She had been staring at that letter for much too long, knowing that she would have to offer Isabella a home, knowing Isabella would cause nothing but trouble here at Suckley. But it was her duty to help and she must put it off no longer.
The candle had almost burned down when the letters were finished and she rang at last for Nesta. ‘Take these and have Sam ride tonight, first to Godstow and then to London.’
‘Tonight?’ Nesta stared. ‘My lady, it must be midnight!’
‘Tonight,’ Eleyne repeated. She went back to the window to wait for Nesta’s return. Leaning on the broad sill, she found she had tensed again, listening, her ears straining beyond the calls of the owls hunting the home park where the mares grazed with their foals. Something was out there. There was a strange indefinable feeling of menace in the air. It had been a long time since she had felt anything like this.
She wanted to leave the window, to bury her face in her pillow and pull the covers over her head and hide. She looked at the dogs; they were both asleep in their accustomed place by the hearth, where a dull glow showed the small summer fire, damped down to embers. They sensed nothing. She moved towards them, the hairs on her arms prickling with fear, and Lyulf raised his head and gazed at her. He felt her disquiet at once and rose to his feet, his hackles stirring, his eyes puzzled as he looked round the room for the source of his beloved mistress’s fright.
When Nesta returned, she was still standing there, her hand on the dogs’ heads. To Nesta, it looked as if she were listening to something very far away.
‘My lady?’
Eleyne shook her head. ‘It’s nothing, I thought I heard something – ’
She gestured the dogs back to the hearth and sat down so that Nesta could unfasten her hair. ‘Where are the children?’
‘Asleep, my lady. Where else would they be?’ Nesta laughed.
‘I didn’t kiss them goodnight.’ Why was it suddenly so important?
‘You kissed them a thousand times between dawn and supper!’ Nesta picked up the comb and began to unplait Eleyne’s hair. ‘And they’ll be up again at dawn for Midsummer’s Day – as you will. There’s John’s Mass fires on the hills. You can see them from the tower.’ The fires were to keep away the evil spirits which roamed so freely abroad on this night of all nights of the year. Was that what she had sensed? Was there evil here tonight? Had Einion returned after so long to perpetuate his lies? Eleyne frowned. ‘Send Rhonwen to me.’ She pushed away Nesta’s hand. ‘Quickly, I must speak to her.’
She stood up and went across to her jewel casket, which stood on the clothes chest near her bed. Her hand hesitated over the lid, then she opened it. The phoenix lay on top of her other jewels, wrapped in a scrap of silk. She stared at it as it glowed in her hand. She was aware of him, when she held it; felt him near her. It was at night, when she took the pendant and put it under her pillow, that it was so easy to imagine that he was there in the darkness. And it was when the sensation grew too strong to bear that she took the pendant and put it in her jewel box. Only that way could she keep her sanity. The door opened and guiltily she put the pendant down on the table.
Rhonwen had been asleep. ‘What is it,
