Rhonwen looked away. ‘He has not returned since you left.’ The phoenix was in her saddlebag, carefully wrapped in lambswool and wedged inside a box of dried lavender heads.
‘Good.’ Eleyne was watching her carefully. ‘If you stay here, I shall want your complete and undivided loyalty to be given to my husband. I do not want Alexander here.’
‘Of course,
Dismissing Agnes, Eleyne poured two beakers of mulled wine and passed one to Rhonwen. ‘We need not speak about it any more. Drink this, then tell me what has been happening at Falkland. How are my boys?’
When Rhonwen had finished speaking at last, Eleyne laid her head in her arms. ‘Poor Colban, poor Macduff. I’ve written to them both a score of times. Do they really think I would have forgotten them?’
Rhonwen shook her head. ‘They realise now Sir Alan would intercept anything you sent. You must send messages they are bound to get. Write to the young king,
Rhonwen found out at once where Donald had gone. The pretty wench from the castle dairies had long glossy red hair and skin like curds. It was Elizabeth of Mar’s maiden, Maggie, who told Bethoc who told Rhonwen that Elizabeth had told Donald to leave his wife alone; had told him that pursuing her was a sin whilst she was with child and pushed the red-haired girl – who looked a little as Eleyne had when she was a child – in his direction. It took no one to tell Rhonwen that when he had lain with the slim girl, he would turn away in revulsion from Eleyne’s swollen body.
Rhonwen was torn: part of her wanted to rejoice that Donald had proved a broken reed; part of her, convinced that Alexander would want nothing to do with Eleyne while she carried another man’s child, wanted to comfort Eleyne’s misery.
When she told Eleyne where he had gone for his comforts, Eleyne wept.
‘I knew it, I suppose. I’ve seen them together,’ she sobbed. ‘He was looking at her the way he always looked at me. And can you blame him!’ She pressed her hands to her sides. ‘Look at me! I’m disgusting.’
‘You’re beautiful,
‘Lady Mar?’ Eleyne looked up, the tears sparkling on her lashes.
‘Who else?’ Rhonwen had very quickly formed an unfavourable opinion of the Countess of Mar. ‘He wouldn’t have left you had she not told him it was a mortal sin to lie with his wife whilst she was with child.’
‘Mortal sin?’ Eleyne was aghast.
Rhonwen nodded. ‘Be thankful he’s not in your bed now, while you are so large and uncomfortable. He’ll come back to you as soon as you are delivered. You’ll see.’
V
Gratney was born at midnight as the first great gale of the autumn swept up the strath, battering the walls of the castle, toppling the battlements on the south-western gatehouse, turning the burn which flowed down the Den, the ravine behind the castle, into a raging torrent.
He was a large baby, with his father’s hair and eyes. The delivery was easy and quick and even Elizabeth was satisfied that her first grandson made a lusty heir.
Exhausted, Eleyne lay back on the bed. She had been bathed and lay in fresh lavender-scented linen, her hair brushed loose on her shoulders. Only then did she let them bring Donald to her. He sat on the bed and took her hand. ‘My beautiful, clever love.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth.
Beside them the baby lay asleep in its carved oak cradle.
VI
Donald was standing alone on the battlements of the Snow Tower staring at the distant hills. Behind him the castle drowsed in the winter sunshine. The great fortress, built largely by his father at the instigation of King Alexander II over forty years before, was still in the process of being finished; the tower in the south-west angle of the wall near him was at this moment covered in scaffolding, though there were no workmen to be seen.
He had come from the bedchamber where he had been sitting with Eleyne and the baby, watching them as they drifted together into a warm, milky sleep. He leaned on the cold stonework, his chin in his cupped hand. His son was the most beautiful child he had ever seen: tiny, delicate, his violet eyes fringed with long dark lashes which, when he slept, lay on a skin as white as alabaster. It was unheard of to write a poem about a child, unless it was the Blessed Saviour himself, but already the words of adoration were pounding through his head.
It was a moment before he realised that there was someone behind him. Annoyed at the intrusion he was tempted to do nothing in the hope that whoever it was would take the hint and go away; then some sixth sense made him swing round.
There was no one there.
Puzzled, he stared across the stone slabs which roofed the tower. The door into the stairwell stood open as he had left it. Inside, it was in deep shadow. He strode across the roof and, stooping, peered in. The staircase disappeared down into the darkness. There was no sound of retreating footsteps from the deeper recesses of the tower.
Ducking back into the sunlight he looked around again uneasily, the skirt of his heavy gown blowing against the stonework near him.
Across the steep sides of the ravine behind the castle he saw the trees on the hillside opposite, behind the quarry where the stone for building came from, stirring gently as the wind strengthened, moaning amongst the boughs of the tall Scots pine, rustling the last crisped leaves of oak and birch to the ground. If he listened hard, he could hear the sound of the burn tumbling over the rocks far below into the boggy ground of the Den.
He shivered violently. Sweet Christ, he could feel the cold sweat of fear between his shoulder blades! He stared round again, then he dived for the staircase.
‘Nel!’
Two at a time he hurtled down the narrow, winding staircase, floor after floor until he reached the bedchamber, gasping for breath.
‘Nel! Are you all right?’ Without realising it, he had his hand on his dagger.
She was startled into wakefulness. Pulling herself up on the pillows, her eyes were wide with fear.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ She clutched little Gratney tightly in her arms.
He looked down at her and sheepishly pushed the dagger into its gilded leather sheath. His relief that she was all right was palpable, the flood of adrenalin in his body draining away, leaving him weak and exhausted.
‘I’m sorry, my darling. I shouldn’t have woken you – ’
‘What was it?’ She reached out her hand to him. She was afraid now as suddenly, staring at his face, she knew what had happened.
‘Alexander is here?’ Soundlessly her lips framed the question, while her eyes held his.
He shrugged. ‘I saw nothing. I can’t believe he would follow us. How could he? It was my imagination.’
‘No, you’re right. He’s here.’ Her arms tightened around the baby. Rhonwen had brought him somehow and now that she no longer carried Donald’s child in her womb he was searching for her.
She could taste the strange metallic sharpness of fear in her throat. Slowly she knelt up on the bed, peering around the dimly lit chamber. Only a ray or two of pale winter sunshine pierced the double lancets of the
