mud, turning it to rich silk stained with gold.
‘The king your uncle, is it now?’ The soft voice at her elbow was gently probing. ‘And the queen your aunt, what does she say in the matter?’
‘She thinks it amusing,’ Eleyne replied dry-lipped. ‘She teases me about my followers.’
There was a burst of laughter near them and a group of girls scampered past, giggling, pursued by two young men. The wind was rising. The ornate tents set up around the castle walls began to flutter and thrum, a background accompaniment to the steady beat of whistle, viol and cymbals, timbrel and cittern.
Rhonwen smiled. There was more. Oh, yes, there was more there. She could always tell when Eleyne had secrets, and she could always worm them out of her. In the end.
The Chesters were being accommodated in a large tent, the gaudy canvas surmounted by pennants, the tall conical roof surrounded by scalloped bunting.
Chairs had been placed outside the tent near the fire which had been lit as soon as dusk fell. The revelry continued all around them, the noise as loud as ever. Glancing up at the high stone walls of Berwick Castle above them, Eleyne shivered.
The banquet over at last, the bride and groom had departed to their chamber in the great keep. At last she and John had been able to leave the hall with its reek of cooking and wine and hot excited humanity, and pick their way through the dozens of fires to their own. Their servants were mulling wine, and inside the tent she could see in the warm lamplight the piles of rugs and furs unnecessary on such a hot night, but nevertheless a soft bed awaiting them.
John sprawled in one of the chairs and let out a great sigh of exhaustion. ‘Perhaps we can rest a few days here before we ride south.’
‘The burgesses of Berwick won’t thank us; they are already complaining at the number of people camped in the town,’ Eleyne said drowsily. ‘They hope to see us all on our way as soon as possible.’
John snorted. ‘We’ll be gone soon enough. They should be glad their town has been honoured with a royal wedding. Burgesses were ever tight-fisted. You -’ He beckoned a young minstrel who had paused near them, his instrument across his back. ‘Can you play us a lullaby to ready us for bed?’
The boy gave a slow rich chuckle. ‘Aye, my lord.’ He pulled the viol from his shoulders and squatting near the fire tweaked the instrument into tune. Then he began to play.
Eleyne closed her eyes. She had eaten and drunk and danced since dawn, or so it seemed, and she was tired. And she wanted to leave Scotland. She still dreamed of the king; she found herself watching him; her fingers longed to touch his springy golden hair. She spent hours on her knees in prayer begging forgiveness – of whom she was not quite sure – the Holy Virgin who was so pure in thought and body? Would she understand and help a mortal woman fight the sins in her heart? Or St Bride, who was her own goddess, the patron of her birthday, surely she would help? And the Blessed Queen Margaret, whom all Scotland revered as a saint and whose miracles were manifest. She too might intercede.
She must not let herself think about him, must control her dreams. She must leave Scotland; never see him again. She was doubly guilty because she loved her aunt, and Joanna had at last, she thought, come to love her. In spite of herself, she looked once more at the castle walls, their battlements lost in the dark. Desolation and loneliness hung over this place. However loud the music, however joyful the crowds, she could feel the sadness: sadness past and sadness to come. Beyond the encampment, beyond the ditches and palisades which surrounded the town, the black rolling hills stretched out into the dark.
The boy was playing more softly now – the music compelling and clear against the background noise which swelled around them. She leaned forward to hear better and, opening her eyes, found that she was staring into the fire.
IV
‘Why? Why must I stay here?’ Isabella glared at the slate-black skies and dark mountains all around her. Standing on its rock on the route from Caernarfon to the upper Conwy valley, Dolbadarn Castle, with its enormous stone keep and majestic hall, lay below high gorse and scree-covered ridges in the heart of the great mountains. It was a desolate place.
‘I want to be with your father’s court. There at least I have some fun.’ Sulkily she turned her back on the window. ‘Is it because Senena is there? Does she object to my Englishness?’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.
Dafydd sighed. ‘Gruffydd is in the Lleyn and Senena is with him. We are here at my father’s orders, Bella, you know that as well as I. There are matters here that need sorting out.’
‘I think we are here to keep us out of the way.’ She flounced across the room towards him. ‘And if you are too stupid to see it, I’m not! Your father has something up his sleeve, Dafydd, don’t you see? He’s up to something. And he doesn’t want you there. So it must be something to do with Gruffydd. How can he be so foolish as to trust him!’ In an anguish of frustration, she turned with a swirl of skirts and paced back to the window.
Dafydd smiled ruefully at her back. She was shrewd, his little wife, and as so often right in her assessment of the situation. Save in one respect. The plot Llywelyn and Gruffydd were hatching included him. It was Isabella and Isabella alone they wanted to exclude from Aber.
‘Sweetheart.’ He followed her to the window and put his hands on her shoulders. If it took a lie to allay her suspicions, then lie he must. ‘I can see I must let you in on a secret. It is Gruffydd and I who plan a meeting. I ride to Criccieth to see him tomorrow. I’ll be gone only two days. I want you to remain here so that it seems that I am still here. I’ll be back before you know it, then you and I shall ride together for Caernarfon to join the princess my mother.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. He had no intention of going to Criccieth. The family meeting with Eleyne was at Aber.
It never occurred to him that she would disobey him.
V
It was Eleyne’s first visit to Aber since Isabella’s miscarriage and her own ignominious return to Chester. Then it had been midwinter. Now the countryside was heavy with summer. The clouds hung low over the mountains and thunder rumbled around the hidden peaks of Eryri. Her party was small: this was a private visit by the Countess of Chester to her mother. Attended by Rhonwen and Luned and two ladies, only a dozen men-at-arms escorted them over the high, rough road from Conwy to Aber through the clinging mist and down towards the river.
Eleyne was silent as she rode, her head whirling with thoughts as she guided her mare over the rough track, all that was left of the broad Roman road which swung high here across the shoulder of the mountains. She had messages from King Alexander and John for her father; she had messages of goodwill, albeit stilted, from Joanna to her half-sister; and she was still thinking about the wedding with all its pageantry and state. Now that she was away from John – he was waiting for her at Chester – she found to her shame that she was thinking even more about Alexander, and guiltily again and again she tried to push all thoughts of him from her head.
‘We’ll be there before dusk.’ Rhonwen rode up beside her. She saw Eleyne’s troubled face. ‘What is it,
Eleyne dragged her attention back to the present. ‘Of course I want to go home. I’ve missed Wales.’ Her voice
