Her hands went to her stomach protectively. ‘You are certain of this?’
‘It is written, my lady.’ He bowed.
‘And what of Colban? And my daughters? Can you see my daughters?’ Her voice sharpened.
He shook his head. The truth would cause her too much pain. ‘The picture there is blurred. Let me teach you, my lady, then you may seek to see them yourself.’
She looked beyond Rhonwen to the fire. ‘Sometimes I see in the flames, but they frighten me. They seem to draw me in.’ That was where Alexander waited, in the heart of the flame. He and the other – the man on horseback. She shivered.
Adam studied her gravely, ‘We must all look where the pictures come. I can help you conjure them more clearly.’
‘And Einion Gweledydd? Can you bring him to me?’ Eleyne fixed him with a cold look, aware that Rhonwen had risen to her feet at the name. The room was silent, and suddenly very cold.
Adam didn’t move; he was staring beyond her, through the castle walls into the whirling darkness and the cold rain. Einion Gweledydd had tried to warn her of what was to come and he had failed. Somewhere out there, beyond the night, his soul flailed in the darkness, seeking forgiveness and peace.
Rhonwen’s face was white. ‘Can you reach him?’ she echoed, her voice husky with fear.
Adam’s eyes focused again. ‘I will try.’ He folded his arms inside the long sleeves of his gown, and addressed Eleyne. ‘If it is truly your wish.’
Eleyne nodded faintly. ‘I must know the truth. I must know why he lied to me.’
Beyond the walls there was a moment of turmoil in the darkness – a whirlwind – which vanished across the parkland and into the forest. Adam frowned. He could feel the protest, the denial, the yearning to put right a great wrong. It spun out of nothing in the rain, spattering on the shuttered windows, then it was gone.
IX
Malcolm stood with his back to the fire, feeling the warmth drying the rain out of his clothes. He tipped the goblet of wine down his throat and held it out for a refill, sighing. The manoeuvres for power at the boy king’s court were becoming wearisome. A couple of days at Falkland and two nights in his wife’s bed would restore him. He eased his shoulders with a grunt, feeling the knotted muscles protest and he grinned at his companions. ‘We’ll hunt well tomorrow if this accursed weather improves a bit.’
‘Where is Lady Fife?’ Alan Durward asked, holding out his goblet for more wine. ‘The great hall is dull without her.’
Malcolm beckoned a servant and despatched him to Eleyne’s solar, but it was Rhonwen who came. Tall and austere, she stood gazing thoughtfully at Malcolm and he shivered. He disliked the woman intensely, though he was always careful to hide his hostility.
‘My lady has retired to bed,’ she said finally. ‘She was feeling unwell.’
‘Unwell?’
Rhonwen gave a slight smile. It was not for her to divulge a pregnancy revealed by a seer.
She was about to speak again when the door at the end of the hall burst open and a rain-soaked figure appeared. Malcolm’s eyes narrowed as he recognised John Keith, one of his most trusted messengers, a man he had despatched a month previously on yet another visit to Margaret of Lincoln, to try to persuade her to allow the children at least to visit their mother.
Keith pushed his way through the crowds huddled around the great fires in the hall, until he had reached Malcolm. Without ceremony, he pulled him to one side. ‘I have to talk to you in private.’
‘What is it, man?’ Malcolm looked around angrily; they were out of earshot of his men. ‘Speak up.’
‘Robert de Quincy is in London.’ John Keith lowered his voice.
Malcolm went white. Over the years the rumours had persisted that de Quincy was alive, but he had not let himself believe them. He dared not let himself believe them. Nothing could be permitted to jeopardise his marriage.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye, he’s at Henry’s court. And he has visited your wife’s children.’
Malcolm cursed. ‘By Our Lady! I can’t believe it!’ He banged his fists together in fury.
‘Lord Fife.’ Rhonwen’s quiet voice at his elbow made him swing round, cursing again. Her eyes were almost colourless in the firelight and he felt a superstitious shiver run up his spine. She had heard, God damn it! She had heard!
She smiled coldly at him. ‘My lady would not welcome Sir Robert’s return,’ she said. ‘She should not be told.’ Those clear, fathomless eyes met his and held them. ‘Not until he is dead.’
Malcolm resisted the urge to cross himself. Sweet Christ, the woman actually frightened him! ‘It seems our thoughts run on the same road, Lady Rhonwen.’
She nodded. ‘It should be done without delay.’
So, she was on his side after all. He looked at John Keith. ‘The man is presumably shriven by his visit to the Holy Land. He is prepared for death. Let it come to him – swiftly.’
John Keith bowed. His face was grim. ‘I’ll see to it, my lord.’
Malcolm nodded curtly. ‘And see to it also that no one knows how or why it came.’
Keith grinned. ‘Not even Sir Robert himself will know that, my lord,’ he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I
‘Ishall come with you.’
John Keith turned in surprise at the soft voice at his elbow as he prepared to mount his horse. It was the countess’s nurse, the Lady Rhonwen.
‘My lord’s orders are that I should ride fast. I go on his business.’
‘I know your business, Master Keith,’ she replied. ‘And I shall come with you.’ Her smile made his blood run cold.
It took five days to reach London, changing horses frequently along the road. Once there, Rhonwen led the way to the house in Gracechurch Street. It belonged now to Dervorguilla Balliol, who had inherited it on Countess Clemence’s death four years before, but Rhonwen was still welcome there. It was dark when they rode into the courtyard and the gates closed behind them.
He had planned an attack in the street – quick, easy and anonymous, as would be his escape, but Rhonwen shook her head. A knife in the ribs was too quick. Too easy. Too anonymous. She wanted him to know where his death came from and she had it all planned. A bolt of finest silk from Luned’s stock was to be the bait.
As he woke up, Robert realised it was St Gilbert’s Day: February the fourth, a dismal day, a day of ill omen. Not a day when he would normally have undertaken any enterprise more energetic than climbing out of bed and pouring himself a goblet of wine. Nevertheless, the bargains he had been promised by the whispering servant the day before
