carpet which darkened and flattened under the weight of the rain.
The horse was a grey, a stallion, its eyes wild, its neck arched, its scarlet bridle studded and decorated with gold. The rider sat forward eagerly, his hands wet on the slippery reins as he urged the animal forward through the storm. He was excited, exhilarated by the crash of thunder around him, alone with the darkness and the elements.
‘Slow down,’ Eleyne could hear herself calling, ‘slow down, be careful, please.’ Behind her Alexander – her Alexander – was watching with her. She could feel him, feel his fear.
He was going faster now, the animal’s great muscles bunching and flexing as it covered the ground. A flash of lightning sliced through the sky and the horse shied, nearly unseating him. She heard him curse above the roar of the wind; another flash of lightning and the horse reared with a piercing scream. In that moment he turned his head and for a fleeting second she saw his face at last.
‘My lady.’ Bethoc was shaking her arm, her face white. ‘My lady? What’s the matter? what is it?’ The woman looked terrified.
Eleyne looked at her blankly.
‘My lady, what is it?’ Bethoc repeated, shaking Eleyne’s arm. ‘Shall I call someone? What’s wrong?’
‘The king,’ Eleyne whispered, ‘I have to see the king.’ She turned as though Bethoc wasn’t there and began to run up the park back towards the palace. ‘I have to see him, now, alone.’
She was gasping when she reached the king’s hall, and pressed her hand to her side as the pain of a stitch knifed through her, barely aware of how she must look to the staring attendants. Her gown was dusty and her face pale. Her head-dress had fallen back and her braids hung loose around her shoulders. ‘Please. I have to see him, now – ’
Her raised voice must have reached the king for he looked up from the table where he was studying some documents with two of his advisers. ‘Aunt Eleyne…?’
‘Please, I have to talk to you. Alone.’ Trying to steady her breath and talk calmly, Eleyne hastened towards him.
‘Of course.’ After one puzzled glance at her anguished face, Alexander gestured those around him away. ‘Sit down. Here, let me pour you some wine.’
Eleyne collapsed on to the stool he pulled forward and took the wine with a shaking hand. ‘Forgive me, sire. I had to see you.’
‘So, I am here.’ He sat down opposite her and smiled. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his rich blue gown, stitched with silver, hitched up to show his cross-gartered hose. He was like his father, very like – his colouring, the strong face, the eyes which could within seconds turn from anger to compassion. He had shown himself a strong and effective monarch, and under his rule Scotland was prospering. He had two sons now and a daughter. He was absolutely in control of himself and of his country’s destiny, so why was she filled with such a certainty of disaster?
She tore her eyes from his face and looked down. ‘Ever since I was a child I have had the gift of the Sight. One of the visions I have had again and again was of a man riding his horse in a storm. The horse is scared by the lightning and throws his rider.’
There was total silence in the big room. The king did not move. His eyes were on hers.
‘This morning I had that vision again, and for the first time I saw the rider’s face.’ Alexander had shown it to her. ‘It was you, sire.’
At last he spoke. ‘You think you have foreseen the manner of my death?’ His voice was calm.
‘I’ve never seen what happened after the rider falls, but my feeling is one of such fear and dread…’ She opened her hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
He smiled. ‘Perhaps I should take it as a warning never to ride again in a storm.’ Standing up, he took her hands and raised her to her feet. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What can I do? If the manner of my death is already written in the stars I cannot avoid it. Except, as I say,’ he grinned, ‘by keeping in out of the storm.’
‘Please God the warning can save you.’
He nodded fervently. ‘Amen to that! I receive many warnings – from sages, from soothsayers, from spaewives, as I ride around the kingdom. Most of the time they are wrong, the Lord be thanked. Sometimes they are right.’ He followed her to the edge of the dais, and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘You know, Michael Scot of Balwearie once prophesied my horse would be the cause of my death. And Thomas of Ercildoune himself has said I would be killed by a storm. They would seem to have had the same premonition as you. So,’ he put his hand on her arm, ‘just one more thing, before you go. What colour was the horse?’ There was laughter in his eyes now.
‘Grey.’
‘Then the answer is simple. Never again shall I ride a grey.’
IX
Alexander – her Alexander – came to her again that evening as she sat at the table in her bedchamber writing a letter to Macduff. Bethoc was near her, hemming a gown, her eyes narrowed as she held the garment up to the last light from the window. Eleyne felt her pen slow and falter as she became aware that someone was standing behind her. When she looked around there was no one there and she turned back to the letter but she did not pick up the pen. Alexander was at her shoulder; she could feel him watching her, feel him wanting her to turn to him and smile.
Trembling, she got to her feet and walked to the window, only dimly hearing Bethoc’s exclamation of irritation, hastily cut short, as her mistress blocked the light. Bethoc looked up and for a brief instant she thought she saw a tall shadow hovering at Eleyne’s side. Her mouth dropped open and she crossed herself, dropping her sewing on to the table where light from the lancet window fell across the old polished oak. ‘My lady,’ she whispered. Her mouth had gone dry.
Eleyne didn’t appear to have heard her, then she turned. ‘I’m sorry?’ The window was empty now, the shadow gone. Whatever it was had disappeared as soon as Bethoc spoke.
‘That’s all right, my lady, it’s just that I thought I saw something…’ Her words faded uncertainly.
Eleyne looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought I saw someone standing in the window near you.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. It was only for a moment, then he was gone.’
Eleyne shook her head. ‘That’s nonsense. It was a trick of the light. Come, let me help you with your stitching, then we must go down to join the men in the hall for supper.’
She sat down, gathering her skirts neatly around her, and picked up Bethoc’s work basket, searching for needle and threads and thimble, but twice Bethoc saw her glance back at the window where she had been standing. The expression on her face was troubled.
That night as Donald drew the curtains around their bed she clung to him with fear rather than passion. ‘Nel, what is it, my darling?’ He held her close, stroking her hair. Her skin was cold as ice.
‘Hold me.’ There was nothing flirtatious in the way she nestled into his arms. She reminded him more of a frightened child.
‘What’s wrong? What is it?’ he whispered. Something in her fear was communicating itself to him. ‘For pity’s sake, tell me.’ He tightened his arms protectively.
‘He’s here,’ she whispered back. ‘He wants me. And he’s grown so strong!’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ He did not need to ask who she meant.
‘Hold me, Donald. Don’t let him take me.’
‘No one will take you anywhere.’ Sitting up, he pushed back the bed curtain and groped for the tinder. The sudden pale glow of the candle flame sent shadows leaping round the bedchamber, over the truckle beds along the far wall with the three sleeping women and up the hangings on one of the walls. The room was completely still.
