flames,’ she instructed in a whisper. Eleyne put her hand into the pouch, feeling the crumbly brittle petals, smelling the bitter spicy aroma of the herbs. Taking a handful, she let them fall into the brazier. He was very close.
Rhonwen began a low keening chant, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the moan of the wind in the branches above their heads. Mesmerised by the sound, Eleyne dug her cold fingers once more into the pouch and scattered a new handful of herbs. The wind caught them and whirled them away into the shadows.
Rhonwen’s eyes were fixed on the snow at their feet, almost invisible as the moon disappeared behind the clouds. Imperceptibly her keening grew louder and throwing back her head she raised her arms, staring at the sky behind the trees.
‘Come!’ she screamed. ‘From beyond the grave, I command thee, come. My lady awaits you!
XVI
John was seated beside Margaret, toying half-heartedly with the food on his platter. Several times he had left the table to search for Eleyne, but had failed to find her. Then Cenydd was at his elbow. ‘May I speak to you, my lord?’ The man’s face was creased with worry.
John threw down his napkin, rose and followed Cenydd out of the hall.
‘It’s my fault, my lord.’ Cenydd was furious with himself. ‘They gave me the slip. Rhonwen must have planned it. But I know where they’ve gone. I think we should follow them.’ He half guessed what his cousin planned to do and his skin crawled at the thought.
John scanned his face thoughtfully, then nodded curtly. ‘Bring four men, as quick as you can.’
They left the men with their horses on the edge of the woods, cautiously following the hoofprints of Rhonwen’s and Eleyne’s mounts in the moonlight. At the edge of the clearing they stopped, hidden by the tangled undergrowth and the near darkness. The clear low notes of Rhonwen’s chant carried easily in the cold air.
‘What are they doing?’ John breathed. He could see the two women and between them the smoking vessel on the low mound of the grave.
‘It’s the burial place of the seer, Einion,’ Cenydd whispered back.
‘Sweet Christ!’ John crossed himself. He felt the hackles on his neck prickling with fear. His wife, her face almost lost in the shadows of her black hood, looked preoccupied, dazed, as she gazed at the red glow of the smoking brazier. Around it, the melting snow was full of crimson reflections.
The two men looked at each other and, abruptly, Cenydd drew his sword, the rasp of metal ugly against the moan of the wind. ‘We have to stop them,’ he said.
‘Eleyne!’ John pushed his way out of the undergrowth. ‘Don’t you see what that woman is doing?’ His voice was harsh with anger. ‘Stop her!’
Eleyne did not appear to hear him. John grabbed the sword from Cenydd’s hands and reversed it, holding it up to form a cross. ‘Be silent, woman!’ he thundered. His nerves were raw. ‘I forbid this. Eleyne – go. Go now. While you can! Run!’ Holding the sword before him, he stepped forward and stopped. The air around her was like ice: a tangible barrier between him and his wife.
‘
She did not seem to hear him. She was standing completely still, gazing down.
John swore at Cenydd, who was standing as if paralysed behind him. ‘Grab Rhonwen, you fool. Grab her! Stop her mouth! Don’t you see what she is doing? She is summoning the dead!’
Cenydd stepped backwards, his eyes rolling. ‘Don’t touch her, my lord. Don’t go near her!’
Rhonwen whirled to face them, as though conscious of their presence for the first time, and they saw the glint of a knife in her hand. ‘He is here!’ she hissed. ‘Listen, Eleyne, listen! He is here. Listen to his message!’ She raised her hands again and there was a roar from the wind. It whirled into the treetops and rose to a scream, tearing the branches, shredding the clouds to reveal the cold distant moon.
Eleyne raised her head: ‘Einion…?’
In the shadows one of the guards had followed John and Cenydd. He peered petrified from his hiding place in the trees.
‘
‘Let go of her!’ Rhonwen turned, light-footed as a cat, and positioned herself in his path, the knife still in her hand. ‘She is ours! Look!’ She was triumphant. ‘Look, John of Scotland. Look!’
In spite of himself, John followed her pointing finger. In the streaming moonlight he could see a tall wavering figure with long white hair and a dark robe, a staff in its hand, hovering in the shadows behind the grave.
Rigid with fear, he dropped Eleyne’s wrist and the sword wavered. In his hiding place amongst the trees the guard fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands.
‘Speak, Lord Einion!’ Rhonwen screamed. ‘See, I have brought her to you. Speak. Give her your message!’
‘No, you scheming hellcat, no!’ Cenydd recovered first and threw himself at Rhonwen. ‘You evil witch! You -!’ His hands grappled for the knife and they swayed back and forth together in the shadows.
John threw his arms around Eleyne. ‘Come away. For sweet Christ’s sake, come away!’
‘He’s gone.’ She was staring white-faced at the place where the spectre had been. As suddenly as it had come, the whirling wind had died and the night was silent save for the heavy breathing of the man and the woman as they grappled in the snow.
‘He was never there! It was a trick of the moonlight. He was never there, Eleyne!’ John dragged her towards the trees. ‘Come away, quickly, before – ’
He stopped and swung around as a bubbling scream rang out behind them. Slowly, Cenydd sank to his knees in the snow, his hands clasped to his stomach. The blood welling from between his fingers and from his mouth was black in the moonlight.
‘Guards!’ John’s voice rang out in the silence. ‘Guards!’ He pushed Eleyne aside and flung himself towards Cenydd.
Rhonwen’s eyes were wild. Her teeth bared in a grimace of hatred, she leapt at John, the knife still in her hand. For a moment they wrestled as he tried to dislodge the weapon from her grasp, but it was slippery with blood and his fingers lost their grip.
Behind them the guard had finally recovered his wits enough to scramble to his feet and run to John’s aid as his colleagues burst out of the darkness. As they threw themselves at Rhonwen she thrust the knife with all her remaining strength at John’s heart. The thick folds of his cloak deflected the blade and he felt it graze his arm, but it was over. As the men seized Rhonwen’s arms and pulled her back the knife flew harmlessly to the ground.
Panting, John knelt beside Cenydd’s body and felt below the ear for a pulse. He looked up. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.
Rhonwen ceased struggling. She stood still between her captors, looking down at the earl as he knelt in the snow, and her face contorted with rage. ‘I curse you, John of Scotland!’ she screamed. ‘I curse you in the name of all the gods. May you roast in eternal hell for interfering here tonight!’
CHAPTER TEN
I
