castle, where they were summoned by the king the following winter. Outside, the wind howled across the Nor Loch, battering against the wooden window shutters and rattling the heavy doors as though they were made of thin board.
Eleyne tensed. She had seen Lord Mar in the great hall with the king, but there had been no sign of Donald and, after an initial moment of wistful longing, she had put the young man firmly out of her head.
She turned away to hunt in her coffer for an enamelled necklace which would go with her gown the next day. Her heart was beating fast. Donald of Mar was here, in Edinburgh, beneath the same roof. She took a deep breath; she must not think about him, she must not even look at him in the great hall. Her fingers went automatically to the phoenix pendant at her throat. Hardly realising what she was doing, she slipped the chain over her head, put the pendant into the jewel casket and closed the lid.
In front of the fire Ancret and two of her pups, Raoulet and Sabina – old Lyulf had died in his sleep the previous spring – were stretched out on the carpet of warm heather. Already the beds for Rhonwen and Eleyne’s two maids were pulled out and heaped with blankets. The curtains around the great bed had been pulled back and the feather mattress put in place. Malcolm was with the king and his lords in the great hall; he had shown no inclination to go to bed yet.
‘I trust you are not going to allow him to pester you again,’ Rhonwen said as she helped Eleyne off with her mantle and folded it over her arm.
‘I have no reason to think he will pester me at all,’ Eleyne returned sharply. ‘I had no idea he was here. It’s two years since I saw him.’
‘Oh, he’s here. And he was watching you. He was watching you all the time.’
‘Then he is a fool.’ Eleyne turned so that Rhonwen could unlace her gown. She could not believe that he had been in the hall and she had not seen him.
‘You’d tell me,
‘I’d tell you,’ Eleyne answered in a whisper.
She was already in bed, the curtains closed, when the tap at the door brought Rhonwen to her feet in the firelight. The other two women, curled tightly in their truckle beds, were fast asleep.
Rhonwen opened the door cautiously. Donald of Mar stood in the passage outside, a flickering torch in his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I thought – ’
‘You thought this was the Countess of Fife’s room.’ Rhonwen spoke in a harsh whisper. ‘She doesn’t want to see you. She wants nothing to do with you. Do you understand?’ She was almost sorry for the young man, his expression in the unsteady light was so crestfallen. ‘Now go. Go, before Lord Fife comes up and finds you here.’
‘Lord Fife is busy with my father and Sir Alan Durward. They will be talking for hours…’ Donald peered past Rhonwen towards the bed, and his face lit up. ‘My lady!’
Hearing the muffled whispers at the door, Eleyne had pushed back the bed curtains. Her hair loose, her shoulders bare beneath the cloak she had pulled around her, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. ‘Donald.’ Her voice was husky. Suddenly her heart was thudding under her ribs. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Eleyne! My lady!’ Pushing past Rhonwen he threw himself at Eleyne’s feet and kissed her hand. ‘Oh sweet lady, it’s been so long. I’ve missed you so much.’
Eleyne looked across at the two sleeping women and then at Rhonwen. ‘Watch the door!’ she commanded in a low voice. She took Donald’s hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘Over here, in the window embrasure. We must talk.’
Rhonwen had extracted the small dagger she still wore at her belt beneath her cloak. ‘I can call for help, my lady.’
‘Don’t be such a fool!’ Eleyne cried impatiently. ‘Can’t you see I want this! If you love me, help us. Keep watch and don’t say a word!’
Leaving Rhonwen staring, her mouth slightly open, she pulled Donald towards the window, where a heavy curtain divided the chilly embrasure from the room. In the ice cold beyond the curtain they stood staring at each other in the darkness. Tentatively Donald put out his hands, ‘My sweet love.’
Her hands met his and he pulled her gently towards him. All her resolutions had vanished at the sight of his face. Malcolm was forgotten; her dreams of Alexander were forgotten; the last two years were forgotten. He had grown if anything more handsome. Nothing mattered but that she should feel his lips on hers. Desperately she shook her head. ‘Donald, this is mad.’
‘I can’t help it. I need you so much. And you want me, don’t deny it.’ After a moment’s hesitation his hands slid gently inside her cloak. She caught her breath but did not push him away. Almost reluctantly she raised her face and felt his lips on hers. This was not the airy kiss of a phantom lover. This was the real kiss of a passionate man. The shock of her own reaction shook her.
‘We mustn’t do this,’ she breathed as she returned his kiss.
‘I think we must,’ he replied, his own doubts forgotten, as were his protestations that he wanted to worship her from afar. For the last two years he had dreamed of Eleyne of Fife and in his dreams she had been his absolutely. Throwing caution away his hands were suddenly more demanding, pushing back her cloak. ‘You want this as much as I, don’t pretend you don’t.’ She could hear his smile in the darkness.
‘Donald -’ Her whisper was almost a groan. Her knees were growing weak. He was right. She did want him. Desperately. She could not resist him as he dropped his cloak on the cramped stone floor between the window seats and pulled her down.
By the door Rhonwen stood, arms folded, staring at the heavy curtain, the knife still in her hand. So Malcolm of Fife had lied – her lady loved Donald of Mar and the husband and ghost lover were no longer needed. Sitting down, she held out her hands to the warmth of the hearth.
Eleyne lay still at last, her body sated with the young man who lay asleep, his thighs slack between hers, his head heavy on her breast. She felt no guilt, no shame. She was unutterably content, but she knew she had to wake him. The floor was agonisingly hard beneath the cloak and besides, Malcolm might return at any moment. But she could not bear to end it. She raised her hand to touch his tumbled curls.
Opening her eyes she was looking up towards the stone arch above their heads when something caught her eye: a darker shadow in the darkness. She narrowed her eyes, straining to see better; it was almost as if someone was sitting on the edge of the seat, watching.
The grief and anger, when they hit her, were like tangible weights, filling the embrasure, encompassing her and Donald like a miasma.
XXIII
Malcolm regarded Rhonwen coldly. ‘I expected you to deal with the situation.’
‘What situation, my lord?’ She met his gaze blankly.
‘Donald of Mar.’ He hissed the name softly. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I believe Lord Mar’s son is here as part of his father’s entourage,’ Rhonwen replied. ‘If you feel he should not remain, perhaps you should speak to the grand chamberlain, his father, yourself.’ With a small curtsey, she left Malcolm glaring furiously after her.
XXIV
