‘Beautiful. It has mountains bigger even than your great Snowdon, and lochs, great lochs as deep as the sea. One day soon we’ll go there. Your mother’s sister, Joanna, is married to my cousin the king, so we are both near the throne.’ He saw her frown. ‘Your mother is well, Eleyne. Sad in her prison, but well. You must not go on blaming yourself for her imprisonment. It was she who sinned.’ He looked at her. ‘No more bad dreams, I hope?’
She shook her head. The man with the auburn hair was forgotten again, part of the whirling blackness of her fever.
‘And no more burning castles.’ He smiled. ‘I keep wondering whether to stand to a bucket chain in case.’ The violence of her descriptions was still in the forefront of his mind.
‘It wasn’t any of your castles,’ she said, anxious to reassure him.
‘Then where was it?’ he asked softly.
‘It was Sir William’s castle. At Hay.’
There was a long silence.
‘I understand Hubert de Burgh, the king’s justiciar, has custody of Hay Castle,’ he said at last. ‘It must have been the past you saw, sweetheart. Your grandfather, King John, burned Hay after he destroyed Sir William’s grandmother and grandfather twenty years ago.’
He saw her knuckles whiten.
‘It’s all over now. And best forgotten, Eleyne.’
‘I know.’ It was a whisper.
IV
The visitor did not realise the importance of the news he brought. He had been given fresh water to wash and food and wine in the great hall and then, as courtesy demanded, he repaid the hospitality with news of the country through which he had ridden. He had been in Hereford when he had heard of the sack of Hay Castle and the latest round of battles which raged in Wales.
‘I hear they were still rebuilding the castle from the last time when the attack came. The women tried to hide in the church with their children, but that was burned too. The whole place has been razed to the ground, so I heard.’
John stared at him. Beside him Eleyne was as white as a sheet.
‘Who has done such a thing?’ John put out his hand and rested it over his wife’s on the table.
‘The Prince of Aberffraw. Your father, my lady. He burned Hay Castle.’
Letters came some time later from Llywelyn to John. He had done it, he said, to reduce the de Burgh influence in the march, and to remind the King of England not to encroach too far into Wales.
‘That’s not true,’ Eleyne said huskily, the letter in her hand. ‘He burned Hay for revenge. Because Sir William loved it there.’ She took a deep unsteady breath, fighting back her tears. ‘Poor Isabella. I wonder how she is enjoying life at Aber.’
She had written three times to her friend; there had been no reply.
‘She’ll be fine.’ John tried to comfort her. ‘Your brother Dafydd is a good man. He’ll look after her.’
He did not mention the fire again and neither did she. She could not have saved Hay Castle from her father any more than she could have saved Sir William from the noose. She realised now, their destinies had been written in the stars. But how had she been allowed to see the future? And why?
V
The Earl and Countess of Huntingdon were summoned to Westminster within weeks of the burning of Hay Castle. John guessed that Llywelyn’s motive must be of great importance to the king, and he warned Eleyne that the king would ask her about it.
‘You won’t tell him that I saw it all?’ She looked at him anxiously.
‘Of course not. Do you think I want the whole world knowing that my wife has visions of the future?’
She sat down at the great oak table where he had been writing, and picked up one of his quills. ‘I do not do it on purpose.’
‘I know.’ Contrite, he squeezed her shoulder. ‘But we cannot – must not – let it happen again. It’s dangerous. And it makes you unhappy. The king will ask you about your father’s motives. All you have to say is that you don’t know. Tell him all your father’s letters are addressed to me.’ This was true.
King Henry III stood facing his niece, a quizzical smile on his face. ‘Your father is thumbing his nose at me again, I think, my lady.’
Eleyne felt her face colouring. ‘No, sire, that is not true.’
‘My wife feels sure that the burning of Hay, at least, was a personal grudge, your grace.’ John put a protective hand on her arm. ‘A last gesture against the de Braoses.’
‘Ah, the lustful Sir William who managed to win my half-sister’s heart.’ Henry smiled. ‘The man must have been either a fool or so mad for love it made him so.’ He looked around for approval for his joke.
At twenty-four Henry Plantagenet was an elegant, handsome young man with an artistic eye, amply demonstrated in his love of clothes and luxurious furnishings and in the extravagant plans he was drawing up for the rebuilding of Westminster Abbey. As yet unmarried, he was a pious, shrewd and sometimes obstinate man.
For a long moment he eyed Eleyne, then he turned away. She was still a child. Later, when she had more influence with her husband, would be the time to make use of her.
VI
The Huntingdons were at home in their house in the Strand, a sprawling new suburb between London and Westminster, when news came that the Prince of Aberffraw had finally taken pity on his erring wife and forgiven her. After two years of imprisonment she had at last been allowed to return to her husband’s side and was reinstated in his favour. Eleyne gave the messenger a silver penny, overjoyed with the news, and went to find her husband.
‘I can go home! If papa has forgiven her, he will have forgiven me, won’t he, my lord? Oh, please. Can I go home?’ Not once in the last two years had they gone to the west.
John looked at her in astonishment and took the letter. It was the first she had ever received from Aber, and it came from Rhonwen.
‘Home? To Gwynedd you mean?’
She nodded in excitement. ‘Please?’ Noticing his expression she stopped uncomfortably. ‘I know I am your wife, I know I must come back to you when I am fourteen, but until then I could go home to Rhonwen. Back to Wales. Back to see Isabella -’ Her voice died away. They stood looking at each other for a long moment, and slowly her face fell.
‘I am sorry, sweetheart.’ John shook his head. ‘You must stay with me. Your home is with me now.’
‘My home is in Gwynedd.’ It was almost a sob.
‘Not now, Eleyne. You are the Countess of Huntingdon. Wales is no longer your home. It never will be again.’
‘But it must be!’ Huge tears welled up in her eyes. ‘It will always be my home. I love Wales. I hate it here!’ The angry sweep of her arm encompassed not only the heavily oak-beamed room of the house with the endless rattle of carts and wagons outside and the hot, fetid smell of the crowded streets of London so close, but the whole of eastern England and her husband’s domains.
‘Then you must learn to like it, Eleyne.’ His voice was unusually stern. He had not realised she still expected to go back to her father. He had thought she was happy with him. The wild ride of the night of the storm had not been
