Child of the Phoenix

on its hill in the arm of the River Adur. The great castle, sixty miles from London, dominated the Sussex countryside around it, looking down on the busy quays at which were moored several ships which had come in on the high afternoon tide. In the distance the soft heights of the Downs were lost in the hazy sunshine.

Eleyne threw herself into Margaret’s arms. After a hug of welcome, Margaret disentangled herself. Tall, flame- haired like Eleyne, and bubbling with infectious excitement, Margaret dragged Eleyne towards the keep. ‘Come and meet my John.’

John de Braose, at twenty-five a year his wife’s senior, was waiting at the head of the stairs. ‘Lady Huntingdon.’ Bowing, he kissed her hand formally, then he straightened and gave her a welcoming smile.

Eleyne’s heart almost stopped beating: the eyes, the angle of the head. He was so like his dead cousin, William, she found herself speechless with shock.

‘Eleyne?’ Margaret took her hand. ‘Are you all right? Come on. I want you to meet John’s mother, Mattie – Lady de Braose.’ She put Eleyne’s hand into that of the woman standing behind John. ‘Mother, this is my very important little sister!’

Matilda de Braose smiled. ‘My dear. I am so pleased you have come to stay with us.’ The face, framed by a snow-white wimple, was middle-aged, the eyes dark and vivid in the gentle face. Giving Eleyne a warm hug, she drew her arm through hers. ‘Come in and have some refreshments. Then you may sit and gossip with your sister as much as you like!’

‘She’s nice, your mother-in-law,’ Eleyne said shyly as Lady de Braose left them together. ‘I thought perhaps she would hate me.’

‘Hate you?’ Margaret stared at her.

‘Your husband’s cousin, Isabella, blames me for Sir William’s death.’ Eleyne stood miserably in front of her sister, pulling off her soft kid riding gloves.

Margaret looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Why?’

Eleyne stared in surprise. ‘Because it was me who found them in bed together.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘It was me who told papa.’

‘I see.’ Margaret bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘I cried when I heard papa had put mama in prison. She was always so just, so loyal to him. And so in love. It was hard to think of her as guilty of anything so terrible. It was William’s fault of course; he must have bewitched her in some way.’ She leaned forward and caught Eleyne’s hand. ‘William de Braose had few friends at Bramber, Eleyne, so you’ve nothing to worry about here. His father, Reginald, stole John’s inheritance. John and his mother have been fighting for years to have it restored. When the family were reinstated after John’s grandparents died, the king gave the de Braose lands back to John’s uncle, Bishop Giles, because John was still a minor and under the guardianship of Mattie’s father. But when the bishop died the king gave them to Reginald instead of John, who was the rightful heir. That was very wrong.’ She grimaced. ‘Anyway, enough of family talk for now. Come and meet my son, Will.’ She gave Eleyne another hug. ‘Oh, to think he’s nearly nine years old! It makes me feel such an old lady to have a son so old, and my baby sister grown up at last!’

Was she grown up? Eleyne sat that night in the room she had been given with her ladies in the great gatehouse keep, and gazed thoughtfully into the polished metal mirror which Luned had taken out of her casket.

That afternoon, John de Braose had cornered her as she left the great hall after dinner had been cleared away. He had looked at her with a grave smile. ‘I had no idea Margaret’s little sister would be so beautiful,’ he said softly. ‘How can Lord Huntingdon bear to part with you?’

She blushed. ‘My husband is waiting on the king at Westminster. He won’t miss me.’

‘No?’ His eyes on hers were warmly quizzical. ‘Then he is a fool. If you were my wife, I shouldn’t let you out of my sight.’ His arm around her shoulders was warm and strong. She swallowed nervously, unused to such blatant flirtation, half embarrassed, half excited by his attention.

Like his cousin, Sir William, he was a well-built man, strong, virile, exuding energy. Eleyne had a sudden vision of her mother’s lover crouched over her mother’s body and she closed her eyes, half dizzy with strange, conflicting emotions.

He felt her hesitate, felt the slight stagger as the memory hit her. ‘Are you all right?’ He removed his arm from her waist and took her elbow instead. She could feel the warmth and power of his fingers through the silk of her sleeve.

‘I’m all right. Where’s Margaret?’ Her voice sounded strange – breathless.

He smiled. ‘She’s close behind us with mama. Why, are you afraid to be alone with me?’ he teased and again she blushed.

‘Of course not…’

‘I can see I shall have to keep away from you, little sister.’ His voice was low and amused. ‘You have found your wings as a temptress and intend to practise on me.’

Her protest was cut off as he drew her arm through his and turned to wait for his wife and mother as they emerged from the hall.

Had he really thought her beautiful or had he been teasing her? She angled the mirror this way and that to get a better look at her face. It showed her a pair of large green eyes, fringed with dark lashes and broad upslanted eyebrows; a nose still upturned like a child’s but showing already the strong lines to come; the cheekbones emerging from their round baby bloom. Her neck was long; her throat beneath her veil white and narrow; her mouth generous, quirky – quick to laugh and quick to scowl. She frowned and watched the light die from her eyes. Behind her the shadowed room was dark; the distorted reflection did not reach that far; but she saw a flicker of movement in the shadows. Dropping the mirror, she turned. Only Luned was in the chamber, bending low over a coffer, stowing away some of Eleyne’s clothes. The corners of the room were empty.

That night as she lay in bed she thought about John de Braose, comparing him sleepily with her husband. This John was brash, confident, effortlessly attractive and flirtatious. He knew exactly how to charm, how to cajole. Her own John was so different. Quiet, serious, but kind. Sterner, but more gentle. And in his own way more handsome. Hugging herself secretly beneath the bedclothes, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to be kissed – properly kissed – by John de Braose, but immediately her eyes flew open and she shuddered as the memory of William and her mother flooded through her. She tried to push it away, pulling herself up against the pillows. As her eyes closed, she vowed that never, never would she do that with anyone.

In her dreams someone came to her however. Someone who took her in his arms and kissed her; someone who was a part of her; someone without whom, did she but realise it, she was lonely. His face did not belong to John of Scotland or to John or William de Braose, and in the morning she had forgotten that he was ever there.

X

Eleyne shivered. The small bower at the end of the herb garden had grown cold in spite of the sun. She glanced at the sky, but there were no clouds in the intense blue. In the distance a heat haze danced over the Downs. She dropped her work on the bench beside her and looked around. Margaret and Mattie were busy in the wardrobe going through the monthly accounts with the castle steward and Will was with his tutor, so she had made her sewing the excuse to sit in the sun. There had been no sign of John. Over the past weeks she had grown used to looking for him, flirting with him, testing the strange new excitement which caught at her stomach when he was near, strangely like the emotions she had felt when she had been with Sir William – and yet different: more intense, more frightening. She felt the warmth rise in her cheeks even here, alone in the garden, and firmly she pushed the thought away. He was her sister’s husband. She loved her sister and her sister’s son, with whom she played frequently, and she adored Mattie de Braose, who was kind and gentle and motherly to the lonely girl. For she was lonely and to her surprise it was for the strength and friendship she had grown to rely on from her own husband.

Thoughtfully, she gazed down at the piece of work on her knee. At first she had imagined they were all so content at Bramber, but now, as her stay lengthened, she was beginning to feel the undertones and tensions around her. Mattie, frustrated and bitter for her son; Will, spoiled and indulged, and Margaret and John, outwardly so devoted and yet, inwardly, in some way estranged. Margaret had confided a little to her – their disappointment that there had been no other children after Will; John’s dalliance with other women, a comment which had made