had had a relapse which had left her so weak that her life was feared for. Their sisters, Gwenllian and Angharad, were there with her, but Joan kept asking for Eleyne.
‘Don’t you see, I must go at once!’ Eleyne had found Joanna lying on her bed, still too listless to get up. The king had returned to Cupar two days before. He had gone without warning or explanation and until he went Eleyne had avoided him, remaining in her room or her aunt’s, suddenly acutely aware of Rhonwen’s watchful, puzzled gaze which followed her everywhere. She had not seen him again before he left.
‘No, don’t go. You must stay!’ Joanna sat up in agitation. Her hair was uncombed and her face pale and drawn.
‘I must, aunt. Mama is ill; she might be dying.’ Eleyne’s voice rose unsteadily. ‘Please, give me your good wishes for her and let me go.’
‘You can’t go, not without Alexander’s permission.’ Joanna lay back triumphantly. ‘The reason you are here was to see him, after all. You can’t just leave. He has letters and messages for you to carry.’ It was true.
Eleyne took a deep breath. ‘Then I must find him and ask him for them.’
Margaret’s messenger, riding hard, had taken several days to reach Kinghorn from Aber through the mud and heavy rain. Already it might be too late. Eleyne gave orders for her companions to pack. Despite Joanna’s pleas she had resolved to leave Kinghorn at once, find the king and ride south. Her need to see the king was solely to collect the letters for John and her father; she refused to countenance the idea that it was because she longed to see him before she left. That was unthinkable.
The roads were like quagmires, muddy and full of potholes, and the horses made slow progress. It was well past noon when they cantered into the burgh of Cupar and rode up the high street towards the castle.
The king was surrounded by petitioners as he sat on the dais in the great hall. For a moment Eleyne hovered on the outskirts of the crowd watching him, staring at his handsome face as, preoccupied, he spoke to the man who stood before him. With a sinking heart, she realised that he was talking to Lord Fife.
Cenydd had cleared a way for her to approach the king, and after a moment’s hesitation she walked forward. After all, Lord Fife could hardly accost her here, in front of his sovereign and hundreds of people.
When the king saw her, he broke off his conversation; he did not look pleased to see her. ‘Lady Chester?’
Her throat was constricted as she curtseyed before him. ‘Forgive me, sire, but I have to return to Wales. My mother is ill.’ Her voice faltered. ‘She is dying. I must cut short my visit.’
She saw a frown of irritation cross his face and she looked down miserably. Her visit was supposed to have been a private one to her aunt. Would people wonder why she had ridden miles in the wrong direction to say farewell to him? But it was too late now to worry about that. All she could think of, all she must think of was a speedy start towards the south.
The king had collected himself if she had not. ‘Forgive me, my lords. I would speak with Lady Chester before she leaves.’
She thought she was going to see him alone, and her heart began to beat wildly but, bowing, the men withdrew to the far end of the hall and waited. Alexander sat down again and held out his hand so that she had to move nearer to him. Their privacy was to be notional. No one could overhear their conversation, but they would not be alone. She was half disappointed, half relieved.
‘I have had no time to write letters,’ he said quietly. ‘You are going to have to remember what I tell you. Say to your father that I am going to wait. There is still a chance of a treaty with Henry and I have no wish to jeopardise that or the chance of a meeting with him next year. Visit us again in the spring, when I shall have revised my plans and decided what action needs to be taken. You can say the same to the earl marshal when you visit Margaret.’ He smiled. ‘I am sorry to hear of your mother’s illness. I shall pray for her.’
That was all. She waited a moment, searching his face, wondering if he were going to say something else, but already he had beckoned Lord Fife back to his side.
The earl smiled at her, his gaze running hungrily over her body as he bowed. ‘Lady Chester, I am sorry to hear you are leaving so soon. I had not realised you were in Scotland or I should have paid my respects much sooner.’
Eleyne stepped away from him. ‘I was on a private visit to my aunt, my lord. I did not intend to see anyone but her, and the king my uncle. Forgive me, but I am leaving now.’
‘Then let me ride with you.’ Lord Fife turned to the king and bowed. ‘Sire, may I escort your beautiful niece as far as the border? My business here is done and I should deem it an honour to go with her.’
Eleyne’s eyes flew to the king’s face, pleading. ‘Please, my lord, there is no need. I am going to be riding very fast…’
Alexander grinned: ‘You are sure you would not like an escort, Lady Chester? Lord Fife can move very fast when he wants to – ’
‘No. Thank you, your grace, but no.’ With a flash of impatient anger she realised he was laughing at her.
Alexander frowned. When she was with him the girl guarded her feelings most of the time, masking them with a cold, almost austere formality, but he had seen fury and disappointment in her eyes just then and, when she looked at Malcolm of Fife, cold hatred. Her volatility was captivating, as was the hint of longing he had caught in her eyes when she looked at him. She intrigued him, this beautiful niece of his wife’s; this woman he felt he had known for a thousand years. He found her more attractive than any woman he had met for a long time, and that was why he had left Kinghorn so abruptly. She was dangerous, she was forbidden fruit. Wife to his heir, daughter to his ally, niece to his enemy, and so close to him by marriage that even to think of her too much was incest.
He turned back to the earl, and looked at him coldly. The man was almost visibly panting. ‘Then I shall feel no guilt in asking Lord Fife to remain here. I have need of his services, and clearly you do not.’ He bowed with stiff formality. ‘Farewell, niece, and God go with you.’
XIII
In the bed which she had not left for many months, Joan grew weaker.
She had been lying there when Eleyne had arrived, exhausted and covered in mud from the long wet ride south from Scotland sixteen months before. The last few miles had been ridden by the light of flaring torches, hissing and spitting as the rain sizzled on the slow-burning resin, and Eleyne’s fear that her mother would be dead before they got there had grown with every mile as Aber drew closer.
In the event, Joan had been well enough to welcome her youngest daughter, and she had seemed stronger than they had dared hope.
They stayed only a few weeks, returning to Chester after Martinmas, and in the spring Eleyne was able to convey her messages to Alexander’s sisters at last. As she and John rode around England, they found themselves several times in King Henry’s presence, as the court moved from Westminster to Windsor, to Winchester and Northampton. It was at Nottingham that letters caught up with them, informing them that Joan had had a relapse, and they had ridden west once more. There had been two more visits as her health began to decline faster and now they had made the journey through hard-packed snow and icy winds to the princess’s bedside for the last time.
They were all there, Joan’s six children: Dafydd, with Isabella, Margaret, Gwenllian, Gwladus, Angharad and Eleyne, and the end was very near.
Rhonwen sat at the table, her nimble fingers sorting through the candles, counting under her breath. There were some missing. There had been a hundred in the candle box, enough for two days more at this, the darkest time of the year, and she had been about to order another gross to be sent up from the storeroom beneath the
