It was a long time before Malcolm came for her. ‘Are you ready for some food now?’ he asked softly. ‘It’ll do no good to starve yourself.’
She pushed herself away from the tree. ‘I won’t marry you,’ she said.
‘We’ll talk about that tomorrow.’ He took her arm.
His men moved aside for her and she sat down on his folded cloak while they brought her a portion of roast hart from one of the animals Malcolm’s men had hunted down on their ride that morning, laughing that though they stole the king’s stag it was at least in season, and they gave her wine from a leather bottle. While she ate, one of the young men produced a bird-bone pipe and began to play a slow, wistful tune which echoed in the swiftly falling night. It was midsummer – there would be no darkness.
She made no attempt to struggle when at last Malcolm folded her into his cloak a little apart from his men, near the dying embers of the fire. As he pulled up her gown and entered her with almost gentle eagerness, it was another man’s face she saw in the glowing peat over his shoulder – the face of the man who had been his king.
IV
King Henry looked at the letter for a long time before he looked up at Roger de Quincy. ‘When did this happen?’
‘St John’s Eve. The place was completely destroyed, no one was left, no one. They seem to have been after the horses. The animals in that stud were worth a fortune.’ Roger took a deep breath. He had seen it. He had ridden west at once when he received the report and arrived within a few hours. The burned house was still smouldering, the butchered men and women, even children, still unburied, as were the few horses they had left – killed in the stable yard.
‘And my niece?’ Henry’s voice was muffled.
‘She must have died too, sire. And her children with her. There was no sign of them. And many -’ Roger paused and cleared his throat – ‘many of the bodies were unrecognisable.’
‘Sweet Christ’s bones! Has any attempt been made to catch the murdering thieves?’
‘Everything possible is being done, sire. There are so many outlaws in the forests up there. Who knows, maybe it was that rascal Robin Fitzooth, Robin Hood, some are calling him now, who – outlaw though he’s become for this thieving ways – claims to be the Earl of Huntingdon. He rides somewhere in that area, I’ve heard, and he’d have reason to know of her wealth and be jealous of it.’
Henry picked up the parchment again. ‘You will have to write to your brother and tell him of his wife’s death, and his children.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s time he came home.’
‘Indeed, sire, I shall send for him at once. There was a report that he’d been killed, but I’m glad to say it proved unfounded. He has been at Acre for the last few months, and I’m sure he will be pleased to be allowed back.’ Roger tightened his lips. ‘Poor Eleyne, she didn’t have a happy life.’
‘Indeed not, with your brother.’ Henry threw down the parchment and reached for the book of hours which lay as usual on his desk. ‘I shall order masses to be said for her soul.’ He sighed. ‘And I shall begin to settle her affairs. Her dower lands are rich. They are very valuable.’
V
The priest was very drunk. He gabbled the words over them, blessed them perfunctorily and passed out on the floor. Malcolm laughed. ‘So, my lady, how does it feel to be wife of the Earl of Fife and Thane of Falkland? Is it not good to be back in Scotland?’ The ring he had put on her finger was a heavy cabochon ruby. It clung tightly, like a manacle, above her knuckle.
‘This marriage is not valid,’ she flashed at him. ‘No one will ever recognise it.’
‘Indeed they will.’ He took her hand and threaded it through his arm. ‘And I shall have the king’s blessing on our union before the week is out.’
The castle had been prepared for her. The great hall and their bedchamber were decorated with garlands of flowers. He had ordered servants, and bales of fabric were waiting to make her gowns and mantles and cloaks. An ivory comb and mirror and three brooches of chased gold and enamel waited in a cedarwood coffer by her bed. Malcolm, his ambition fulfilled at last, was as pleased as a dog with two tails.
‘I’ll not stay with you.’ Now that her exhaustion was easing and the first dull shock of what had happened had passed, her anger was growing. Though she still had no memory of what had happened that night; however hard she tried, she could fill in no details in her own mind amidst the fear and confusion and smoke. But how dare this man come and pluck her like a fruit from the bough just because he wanted her? This marriage was not even a political decision by a king; this was one man’s greed and lust. ‘I swear before God, I will not stay here with you.’
Behind them the chapel of Falkland Castle was ablaze with candles. The priest lay snoring in stentorian tones across his own threshold, his feet stuck out on the cobbles of the yard, his head within the sanctuary of his church.
Malcolm laughed. ‘Don’t make me lock you up, sweetheart. You would hate it, and so would I.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Here you shall have horses, your own and more – as many as you want,’ he promised recklessly, ‘and freedom, anything your heart desires, and a man to satisfy you. Fight me and I shall have to make you my prisoner. You would have no horses, sweetheart, and only bread and water until you learned obedience.’ He looked at her soberly. ‘Henry would have married you to someone else in the end, you know that as well as I. Come on, admit it. I can make you happy. You’ll soon forget your bairns. They’ll be safe in England. We’ll have more children. Sons, plenty of sons.’ His arm encircled her waist. ‘I
She bit back a retort. Arguing with him was not going to get her anywhere. To escape, she would have to be subtle; subtle and very careful.
He slept with his arm across her breasts, the weight of his thigh across her legs, the heat of his body intolerable against her skin, but at least his lovemaking was straightforward, gentle in comparison to Robert. In a strange, half-shy way he wanted to give her pleasure, and his anxiety to please her warred strangely with his exultant triumph of ownership. She lay awake for a long time looking up into the shadows of the bedchamber after he had fallen asleep at last, her hair entwined in his fists, his prisoner as absolutely as if he had tied her, as Robert had so often done, to the bed.
In the silence she thought she had cried the name out loud. But no one came. The only sound was from the wind in the chimney of the room.
They had a visitor the following day. Marie de Couci was radiant in silks sewn with pearls as she was shown into the great hall, followed by a train of attendants.
‘So, I was right, the beautiful Lady Chester is here. Is it true? Have you made her your wife?’
‘Indeed I have. News travels fast, madam.’
The queen’s smile broadened. Walking past Malcolm she sat down on the best chair in the hall and arranged her skirts carefully around her. ‘Your wooing was a little rough, I hear,’ she said lightly. She had addressed no word directly to Eleyne.
