Patches of mist were drifting up from the river across the marshes and into the meadows and woods as the light faded. They could see the castle in the gloom, a black silhouette against the lowering sky.
‘Here. Let me help you mount.’ For a moment he stood looking into her eyes. ‘You know that I love you, don’t you?’ He looked down, as abashed as a boy.
She stared at him for a moment, then she began to cry.
‘Eleyne.’ His arms were round her. ‘Eleyne, my darling.’ He could not feel her figure through the thick cloak, or touch her hair. Her cheeks were like ice, but her tears were hot as they ran into the collar of his cloak. He held her tightly, oblivious of the assembled attendants watching as their horses stamped impatiently in the cold. His lips sought hers as he pulled her into the shelter of his cloak.
They did not stay long in the hall that night. As soon as supper was finished they withdrew to their bedchamber and John called for the candles to be lit. Sitting at the fireside Eleyne watched the servant move from candle to candle, his taper wavering as he held the flame to each new wick, the shadows in the room drawing back into the corners. Beyond the shutters the night was still; a heavy white mist hung over the river, wrapping the castle in soft dripping silence. There was no sound from the great hall below. A travelling minstrel was entertaining the household with a succession of soft dreamy ballads and, the supper dishes cleared away and the cooking fires doused for the night, the whole castle had settled early into quietness. Lighting the last candle, the servant bowed and withdrew. John threw himself into his chair and thrust his feet out towards the fire. ‘Will you sing to me?’ He smiled at Eleyne and held out his hand.
She went to him and sat at his feet, her head resting against his knees. The loss of Rhonwen and her mother had been devastating, but through everything John had been with her. Even when she was angry with him he had given her strength, as he was giving her strength now, just by being there and by loving her. ‘I would rather hear one of your stories.’
Her tears were long dried. It had happened too often before: the rejection from Aber, the hurt, the sorrow. If her father were dead, she would have known. Probably every passing day without news meant that he was growing stronger. She reached for John’s hand and felt his grip at once, strong and reassuring. ‘You really want to hear one?’
He smiled down at her, and he nodded.
He made love to her with great tenderness that night and she fell asleep at last, secure in the circle of his arms. Outside the mist thickened. It swirled and licked against the heavy shutters and glistened on the castle walls. The men of the night watch strained their eyes from the gatehouse tower and the wall walks and, seeing nothing, turned gratefully back to their braziers.
John lay awake, staring at the hangings of the bed, seeing the glow of the banked-up fire reflected on the heavy beams of the ceiling. He had begun to sweat heavily and could feel his limbs beginning to shake. He eased his arm from beneath Eleyne’s shoulders and sat up, staring down at her. He could not see her face, but she gave a little moan as he moved, and snuggled closer against him. He smiled, his hand gently stroking her hair, and after a moment her breathing steadied again. John pushed his legs over the side of the bed and stood up; immediately the heat left his body and he began to shiver. He pulled his bed gown around his shoulders, went over to the fire and kicked at the turves which covered the logs. It burst into life at once. He could feel the sweat, ice-cold on his forehead; he could smell it, rank upon his body. Sitting down, he hugged his gown around him and rocked back and forth as the nausea began to build. He could hear the silence outside, a tangible wall, like the mist which drifted up from the River Nene. He shivered again and not for the first time he remembered Rhonwen’s curse.
XII
The horse was lame. In the distance she heard again the liquid trill of a curlew. Her sodden cloak dragged at her shoulders as Rhonwen bent and felt the horse’s leg with stiff cold fingers. The mountains were swathed in mist, the ground a quagmire of mud and slush. Twice she had lost the packhorse trail and spent precious time hunting back and forth among the heather and bilberries until she found it again; now it was growing dark and she could see the pale flicker of corpse lights, the strange fairy lights which showed above the bog cotton in the twilight and made her mouth go dry with fear.
Senena had given her the horse and the money and the spare gown and shoes which were all wrapped in the bundle which hung from her saddle. She had wanted to stay, to remain in the shelter of the castle at Criccieth until her leg was better, until the weather had cleared; until the hunt for her had been called off, for Senena had warned her that Dafydd did not believe the devil had taken her. He believed she had escaped and the alarm had been raised across Gwynedd and beyond. But they wanted her gone, and she was afraid. If Dafydd’s men came to Criccieth, would Gruffydd hide her then? If she could reach Eleyne, she would be safe. Eleyne would help her and in return she could help Eleyne to her destiny.
Rhonwen straightened her back and surveyed the wet fog which surrounded her. The horse could go no further tonight, and she had to find shelter. She strained her eyes, trying to make out the shapes of trees and rocks in the gloom, trying to listen for the sound of a stream nearby, but the mist blanketed everything.
The old man’s dog found her. She heard the bark and stared round, her heart thumping, trying to place the sound. Then she heard the slithering footstep on the loose scree. Nimble in his flat-soled, soft skin shoes, a sheepskin around his shoulders, he was within a few feet of her before she saw him. ‘Greetings, mistress, have you lost the road?’ He was small and wizened, and his eyes darted inquisitively over her horse, lingering on the bundle, then returning to her.
‘My horse is lame.’ She forced her voice to be strong. ‘Is there somewhere near here where I can stay?’
He laughed – a croaky, wheezy sound which was not entirely pleasant. ‘You are welcome to my house, mistress, if you wish. It is but a short way from here. I can see to your horse, my wife will give you food and you are welcome to share our bed.’ He put his hand on the horse’s bridle. ‘You have come a good way up from the track. It’s a good thing I found you, the mountain is treacherous to those who don’t know it.’
She limped after him as he led her horse back down the steep hillside. It seemed a long time before they stopped, but at last she saw a small dwelling materialise out of the fog. At the old man’s shout a square of light appeared as someone pushed back the covering which hung across the doorway. He gestured her inside. ‘Go, warm yourself. I shall see to your horse.’
Unhooking the bundle from her saddle, Rhonwen turned with relief towards the light and ducked inside the small cottage. It was blessedly warm, with a bright fire burning in the centre of the single room. Beyond the low partition which formed the wall at the left-hand end a cow and several sheep huddled together in the darkness. The old man’s wife, Rhonwen saw as she shyly motioned Rhonwen to the piled bracken which served as bed, seat and table, was scarcely more than a child. As the girl dipped water from her cauldron for her guest to wash her hands and face, Rhonwen caught a glimpse of the pale hair beneath the coarse white veil.
‘You are injured, mistress?’ The child’s sharp eyes had spotted the limp. Rhonwen sat down, pushing her bundle behind her as a back support, and with a groan kicked off her sodden shoes. The girl knelt before her. With gentle fingers she folded back Rhonwen’s wet, muddy skirt and stared at the linen which covered the wound. Fresh blood and pus mingled with the dirt on the bandage.
The heat was beginning to make Rhonwen feel drowsy. She watched as the girl fetched a bowl of fresh water and clean rags, and saw her put a thick green ointment on the wound before she rebandaged it. Gratefully she accepted a bowl of mead to drink. When the man returned, she was nearly asleep.
‘I have seen to your horse,’ he said. ‘It’s next door with the other animals. I’ve moved the stone in its hoof, and the bruising will be better by tomorrow.’ He sat down beside her and accepted a bowl of mead from his wife. In the cooking pot over the fire something bubbled gently with an appetising smell, and he sniffed hungrily.
‘Where are you bound?’ He eyed Rhonwen curiously and she stiffened at his uncouth manners. No host should ask where his guest was going, or how long they wished to stay. She forced herself to smile: ‘I ride to Chester.’
