were very hard to resist. How could it be unlucky to go abroad when such riches had been vaunted? Silk. The finest, and at a ludicrous price. He found his way to the empty shop at the back of Paul’s and left his servant outside with the horses as instructed. When he recognised Rhonwen, the door behind him was already bolted.
She had spread the silk across the table. ‘Do you like it?’ She stood, arms folded, watching him. John Keith, by the door, had the dirk ready.
Robert glanced at the fabric. Soft and sensuous, a beautiful scarlet, it was the colour of blood. His mouth suddenly dry, he nodded. His own dagger was in the scrip at his belt beneath his cloak. He took a couple of steps back towards the door. ‘I hear my wife has run off with yet another lover,’ he blustered with a sneer. ‘Didn’t you go with her, Lady Rhonwen? Is she finally tired of your murdering, heathen ways?’
Rhonwen smiled. ‘She knows nothing of my murdering ways, Sir Robert. Nothing. But you, on the other hand, are about to find out all about them.’ She still hadn’t moved.
He had seen the silent man by the door. He was slightly built, but wiry; strong, Robert calculated. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much the night before. The bitch was dangerous as a viper, and probably as quick. He eased his hand towards his dagger, but John Keith was too quick for him. Before Robert realised what had happened, the Scotsman had his dirk at his throat. ‘Keep still,’ he growled, ‘and do as she says.’
Rhonwen still hadn’t moved. His neck drawn back, rigid with fear before the gleaming blade, Robert’s eyes slid sideways to her face.
Again she smiled. She stepped towards the table. ‘I’m glad you like the silk. It shall be your shroud.’ From beneath the soft folds she produced a length of rope.
He paled. ‘You daren’t touch me – ’
‘No?’ She coiled it over her arm, stroking the twisted hemp.
It took them only a few moments to tie his hands behind him and drag him to the upright beam in the middle of the dusty floor. He was struggling violently, but they managed it at last, hobbling his legs and pushing a rag into his mouth to stop him shouting for his servants.
Rhonwen stood back calmly and surveyed him. ‘See how you like it, my lord, being tied and helpless. Does it give you pleasure when it is done to you?’ She saw the fear in his eyes.
‘What else did you do to her, my lord?’ she went on quietly. ‘Oh, she never told me. She never told anyone. She was too ashamed. But do you think I don’t know? Did you think you would get away with it? You are going to be very sorry that the infidel hordes did not get their hands on you, my lord, because what I am going to do to you is a thousand times worse than anything they have thought of.’
Without looking at John Keith, she held out her hand; her meaning was clear. He put the dirk into it. He was beginning to feel a little sick himself. This wasn’t what he had in mind. A knife in the ribs. A throat cut in a back alley. That was a man’s work, but this…
Carefully keeping his face impassive he stepped back and folded his arms. He had the feeling she didn’t need him any more.
By the time she had finished he had vomited in the corner, his ears ringing with Robert’s stifled screams, muffled at last to a dying gurgle as she forced his severed genitals into his mouth.
The silence that followed was as appalling as the noise had been. John Keith stared at her, the bile still rising in his gorge. He had seen many men die; he had killed a few himself, but never had he seen anyone kill with such slow and calculated hatred.
She was covered in blood, but her face was impassive as she wiped clean the dirk and held it out to him. ‘I shall change,’ she said calmly, ‘then we can ride north. Go down and fetch my saddlebag, and while you are there send his servants away. Tell them he is riding with us to Fotheringhay. By the time someone finds the body we shall be in Scotland. Well, go on, man. What are you waiting for?’
His hands were shaking. Sweet Christ but there had been true madness in her eyes! He nodded. What matter how it was done? Lord Fife had been obeyed.
‘John.’ Her voice was gentle now. ‘He hurt my lady very badly.’ It was all she offered by way of explanation.
II
Eleyne looked up from the fodder accounts she was studying as Malcolm walked in, her mind still full of the price of oats and hay, beans and pease and horsebread. He stood for a moment with a strange expression on his face. She tried to read it. He was still a good-looking man, but more grizzled now and hardened. ‘What is it, what has happened?’
He did not answer. His gaze slid from her face to her belly; in its fourth month now, the pregnancy had just begun to show.
‘We have to ride to St Andrews.’
‘Why?’ She put down her pen, stretching cramped fingers.
‘I have to see the archdeacon.’
‘And do I need to come?’
‘I think you do.’
She walked to his side. ‘What has happened, Malcolm?’ She had never seen him like this – tense, excited, his muscles taut, like a man about to ride into battle.
He smiled at her. ‘Get ready, my love. We ride at once.’
‘Is it the bishop? Has he returned from exile?’ Bishop Gamelin, the government’s choice for Bishop of St Andrews, had fled abroad two years before.
He shook his head. ‘Our business is with the archdeacon.’
III
It was cold and stormy. The Castle of St Andrews, on its bleak promontory, rose dark in the early twilight. Below it, the sea crashed on the fingers of rock which stretched into it, crawling back in an uneasy lace of foam, then hurling itself again against the low hollow cliffs below the outer castle wall. Inside, the high stone created an oasis of quiet shelter out of the wind.
The archdeacon met them in the gatehouse. He bowed as Malcolm greeted him. ‘All is ready, my lord.’
‘Is it to be in the cathedral?’
‘Aye, my lord, all is arranged.’ He gave Eleyne a tight smile. ‘Would you like to rest first, my lady, after your long ride?’
‘Thank you, archdeacon, I shall rest later. First I want to know what is happening.’ Eleyne turned to her husband. ‘I think it is time you told me why we are here.’ She surveyed his face, her eyes steady.
The archdeacon shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Malcolm frowned. ‘We are to be married.’
‘Married?’ Eleyne was stunned, too astonished even to speak.
‘It appears I was misinformed when I was told originally that your husband had died,’ he went on gruffly. ‘Now I have absolute proof of his death. This marriage is to seal the bond between us without any possibility of doubt.’
Eleyne was silent for a moment. ‘When did he die?’ she asked at last. There was no sadness, only a cold curiosity and relief.
‘I believe he died in London,’ Malcolm replied. Cautiously he glanced at her face.
She met his gaze. ‘How did he die?’
‘Of a fever I understand, but whatever the reason, he is dead now without a doubt. We have come here to be
