child ride in, and had forced herself not to run to the stable to meet her. She could see Eleyne’s face, read fifty paces away the child’s happiness, and she knew this was not the moment to go to her. This was a moment for Eleyne to treasure; a triumph she needed to savour alone, without the woman who had been her nurse. Time enough to speak to her later.
Rhonwen had thought about it often, dreading the moment when it would come, but this was what growing up would be from now on for this spirited and wayward girl. Steps to independence through defiance and even, sometimes, deceit. If she wanted to keep Eleyne’s love and trust, she must know when to accept rebellion however hard it proved to be. For she had come to realise over the years that keeping Eleyne’s love was something she had to do. The child was her whole life; without her she would be nothing.
She frowned. Eleyne was listening again, her head cocked at an angle, her whole body alert, the recent ride momentarily forgotten. Watching her, Rhonwen felt the small hairs on her arms and at the back of her neck rise in warning. She pulled her cloak around her and stepped out into the cold evening sunlight.
Eleyne looked up at Rhonwen and smiled. The warmth and love in the smile soothed and cajoled, even if her words made Rhonwen frown.
‘She’s here again. Can’t you feel her?’
‘You’re talking nonsense, my lady!’ But Rhonwen glanced around in spite of herself. Oh yes, she was there, the strange presence who watched over Hay Castle. Rhonwen could sense her too, but she had no intention of encouraging the child: not yet. There had been too many nightmares – mostly Isabella’s – already.
‘Where is Isabella, child? I thought she would have found you by now?’ Rhonwen straightened the girl’s gown and rubbed at a pale streak of mortar dust on the red wool. The tear would have to wait until later.
‘Their mother called them all inside.’ Eleyne went to elaborate lengths to avoid Rhonwen’s eye.
‘Why?’
Shrugging, Eleyne drew a line in the dust with the point of her shoe.
‘Had you been frightening them with ghost stories again?’
‘They’re not stories! All I said this morning was,
‘I see.’ Rhonwen sat down on a piece of rough-hewn stone waiting its turn to be shaped and hauled up the scaffolding. Now was obviously not the time to talk about the ride. ‘So, tell me, what does she look like, this lady of yours?’
‘She’s very tall, and her hair is a deep dark red, a bit like mine, and her eyes are grey-green and gold and alive like river water in the sun.’
‘And do you know who she is, this lady?’ Rhonwen asked cautiously. She remembered suddenly Gwladus’s words,
Eleyne shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I expect she lived here. She is someone who loved this place. Sometimes I see her up on the walls with the masons.’ She giggled. ‘If they could see her too, they’d fall off with fright!’
‘But she doesn’t frighten you?’ Rhonwen stared up at the high new curtain wall.
‘Oh, no. I think she likes me.’
‘How do you know?’ If it were Reginald’s mother, this ghost of Hay, would she, who had been so brutally murdered by King John, really like this child, in whose veins ran that tainted royal blood? She shuddered.
‘I just know,’ Eleyne said. ‘Otherwise she wouldn’t let me see her, would she?’ She stooped and pulled at Rhonwen’s hand. ‘Let’s go in. I must change my gown before we eat, and I’m starving!’
As the innocent words echoed around the courtyard, Rhonwen paled. Secretly she made the sign against evil, as she glanced into the shadows. ‘She doesn’t know,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘Please forgive her, she doesn’t know how you died.’
As they walked towards the door they stopped at the sound of shouting coming from near the blacksmith’s shed. A man from Gwynedd had pulled a man from Hay by the nose, a knife had been drawn and within seconds a dozen men were fighting furiously on the muddy cobbles.
Rhonwen caught Eleyne’s arm and pulled her back hurriedly. ‘Inside,’ she said. ‘Quickly. There will be bloodshed if Sir William doesn’t stop it.’
‘Why do they hate each other so?’ Eleyne hung back, wanting to watch the fighting.
‘They come from different worlds, child, that’s why.’ Rhonwen compressed her lips. Her sympathies were with their own men. If she had been able, she would have been down there with them, tearing the eyes out of the hated English.
From the comparative safety of their position near the wall, they watched the fighting for a moment. Eleyne glanced up at her. ‘You don’t want Dafydd to marry Isabella, do you?’
‘I don’t care what Dafydd does.’ Rhonwen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just so long as he isn’t made your father’s heir. That position belongs to the eldest son by right, whether or not his mother was married to the prince under English laws. Gruffydd must have it. And Gruffydd is married to a Welsh wife.’
Eleyne sighed. ‘I wish Gruffydd and Dafydd didn’t quarrel all the time.’
‘That is your father’s fault. He should have stood up to your mother and made it clear that his eldest son would remain his heir.’
‘If Dafydd becomes papa’s heir instead of Gruffydd, Isabella will one day be the Princess of Aberffraw,’ Eleyne went on thoughtfully. ‘I hope she doesn’t get big-headed.’ She suppressed the treacherous thought quickly. ‘But it will be nice to have her living at Aber so I can see her all the time.’
Rhonwen frowned. Eleyne had forgotten, as she was always forgetting, her own marriage to the Earl of Huntingdon, the Scots prince who would one day be Earl of Chester, the greatest earl in England. The reality of her position – that she would not be living at Aber forever – meant nothing to her yet, and it was something Rhonwen preferred not to think about. It would be four years at least before Eleyne would have to go to her husband. All the time in the world. Anything could happen in four years. She took Eleyne’s hand. ‘Look, they’re fighting near the stables now. We must go in. If we go round by the herb gardens we won’t be anywhere near them.’ She dragged Eleyne away from the door and around the base of the tower towards the south side of the castle.
The sun was setting behind the distant peak of Cadair Arthur, Arthur’s Seat, the greatest of the great beacons, sending long shadows from the walls across the ground. It was almost dark in the comparative peace of the little herb garden. Eleyne stooped and picked the heavy golden head of a dandelion and twirled it in her fingers. ‘When will we go home, Rhonwen?’
‘Soon, child. Don’t you like it here?’ In the small oasis of silence away from the fighting Rhonwen found herself glancing round suddenly and she shivered. Was she here too, that unseen presence whom Eleyne saw all too clearly, the woman who had laid out these herb gardens so many years before? She turned a speculative eye on Eleyne. The child was sensitive, but how much could she really see, and how much was due to an overactive imagination?
From the moment of Eleyne’s birth she had watched and waited for the signs of Bride’s hand on the child. Sometimes she thought it was there – the Sight – other times she wasn’t sure.
‘I love it here with Isabella,’ Eleyne went on dreamily, ‘but I miss the sea. And there is something here, something I don’t like.’ She frowned, holding the fluffy golden flower head against her cheek. ‘I sometimes feel strange, as if I’m watching the world from outside, and I’m not really part of it.’ She gave an embarrassed smile. ‘Do you know what I mean?’
Rhonwen looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, but all she said was, ‘It sounds to me as if you don’t go to bed early enough, young lady.’
Eleyne laughed. She tossed away the flower. If she had been going to confide further in Rhonwen, she changed her mind. The strange feelings troubled her. They set her apart, made her feel distant sometimes, as if she were waiting for something to happen, something which never did. It made her restless and uneasy. She had mentioned them guardedly to Isabella, but her friend had laughed and Eleyne had never spoken about them again.
Eleyne moved into the shadow of the wall where it was already dark, and turned to look back through the archway towards the courtyard where sunlight still played across the cobbles. It was happening again now. She could hear the shouts of the men fighting in the distance; she could see Rhonwen standing near her, the blue of her gown vivid, very vivid, against the grey stone wall. Suddenly she could hear so clearly that the least sound hurt her ears. The birds’ singing deafened her; the rush of feathers as a robin flew down near Rhonwen’s feet; the crackle of
