‘That’s not true, and you know it.’ Rhonwen’s temper flared. ‘I love them and I love you. If you loved the devil himself, I would find him for you! But in this you have no choice.’ Rhonwen took her hands. ‘Listen to me. It’s their father’s wish that they stay.’
‘What?’ Eleyne stared at her, white-faced.
‘He has written to them. I saw the letter. He is in the service of King Louis in Acre. He told the girls that you were dead, and that their Cousin Margaret would take care of them.’
‘So. He
‘He was three months ago.’
‘Then my child will be born a bastard!’ She stood up again. ‘Three months, you said? Anything could happen in three months. The war in the Holy Land is cruel, they say.’
Rhonwen watched her closely. ‘You are happy then with Lord Fife?’
‘No.’ Her reply was swift and unequivocal. ‘Resigned, perhaps. It might have been different when Hawisa and Joanna came. He’s good to me and he loves me. But I can never forgive what he did at Suckley. And he lied.’ She shook her head, her voice heavy with despair. ‘He lied about Robert’s death.’
‘No, he wouldn’t have lied about that, not when he had to make vows before the priest.’ If Alexander tolerated Malcolm, so would Rhonwen – for now. ‘He must have believed that Robert was dead. He had been away three years without a word, after all.’ Rhonwen smiled coaxingly. ‘
Eleyne did not deny it.
VI
As if to console her for the loss of the girls, the birth was an easy one and the baby, a boy, was a healthy, happy child. Malcolm was speechless with delight, embarrassed and astonished by the perfection of his son, touching the child’s hands with one cautious finger as if to test if he were real. Eleyne saw the wonder on his face and found herself almost liking him.
‘He’s beautiful,’ he said at last.
She smiled, exhausted but content. He was christened Colban. She had been terrified that he would want to call the baby after the king, but perhaps after all he had more tact.
As before, she recovered quickly from the birth, her muscles snapping back into place swiftly and firmly as she took once more to the saddle and the energetic life which Malcolm allowed her freely now he was confident that she no longer wanted to flee. And once more she wrote to Margaret of Lincoln.
VII
Isabella stared at the abbess. ‘I don’t believe you. I had a letter from Lady Chester less than a year ago. She said I could go to her. She promised. She said she would speak to the king…’
‘I’m sorry.’ Emma Bloet had so hoped that Isabella would settle to her retirement with the grace and dignity which her rank and position demanded. This endless struggle was wearing for them both.
‘Eleyne of Chester is dead, my dear. Nothing can change that.’
‘No, she’s my friend. She’s my sister – ’
The abbess sighed. ‘We must pray for her soul.’
‘And me? What will happen to me now?’ Isabella clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.
‘You will stay here, my daughter.’ The abbess suddenly ran out of patience. ‘In God’s house. Until you die.’
VIII
‘You’re not Michael.’
Eleyne regarded the tall, wild-haired man who stood before her, his gown still damp from the rain which beat down outside.
‘Michael the Wizard is no longer with us, my lady.’ The man bowed gravely. ‘I served him while he was in Scotland and at the court of the emperor and I learned his art. He told me you would call on him one day and that when you did I should come.’
Eleyne frowned. ‘He offered to teach me once.’ Rhonwen sat near the fire, stitching in the light of a branch of candles; otherwise they were alone in the shadowy solar. A rumble of thunder rolled around the Lomond Hills. ‘I want you to look into the future for me,’ she said slowly.
It was two years now since Colban’s birth. She had had no further word from Margaret of Lincoln, in spite of her stream of frantic letters, unaware that King Henry and John de Lacy had forbidden her to reply. Neither had she become pregnant again. Malcolm had hidden his disappointment well, but he came home to her more and more often, sometimes riding from Dunfermline only to dine and to take her to bed before setting off to the court again at dawn. She lay beneath him submissively, wanting a child as much as he did, aware that her lack of passion disappointed him and cooled his ardour, but unable to respond. Never again did she react to him as she had that night when she was pregnant with Colban, when she had released all the passion and frustration her phantom lover had aroused. She was, she supposed, content with him. She would not fight him, but that was all. For passion she looked only into the shadows.
The dark eyes scrutinised her face carefully. Adam Scot had learned well from his master: he could read her soul. ‘You have the power to see, Lady Fife, why do you not use it? Why do you resort to herbs and stars and water when you were born with the power of vision; when you were born with the ability to walk between the worlds?’
Her skin crawled with revulsion. The man’s power was tangible, reaching out to her, probing her mind. She resisted the urge to fend him off. She had after all begged for his help.
‘My powers are untrained, I cannot command them.’
‘I will train you.’ He smiled faintly.
The power frightened her, but it would give her the means to reach Joanna and Hawisa. Through it she could persuade them to ask Margaret to send them to her. And it would bring Alexander to her more often.
Feeling his eyes still on her face, she veiled her thoughts quickly. She had no desire for this dirty, unkempt man to know her most precious secrets. He gave a supercilious smile, seeing the veil and knowing already the reason; but he retreated at once. Don’t frighten her. Don’t pry. Somehow this woman held the future of the kingdom in her hand.
‘You are wondering about your children,’ he said, softening his voice. What should he tell her?
‘The truth,’ she murmured, as if she read his mind in turn.
‘The child you carry now will be a soldier.’ He smiled in triumph as he saw her look of surprise. So she didn’t even know herself about the new life in her belly. ‘He will live to full manhood and he will die gloriously in battle in the service of his king.’
