– they’ll think I’ve stolen the horse. I’ll be safe on my own; no one is looking for me.’
Eleyne had to acknowledge that. She could not take the risk of being found this side of the Scottish border. If King Henry’s men were following them, they would stop at every guesthouse, monastery and inn; at every castle – at every place the two might have stopped. Luned pulled their bundles from her horse and threw them on the ground. Eleyne was determined and more courageous than anyone she had ever known, but the strain of the past few weeks was beginning to tell. Luned had seen the exhaustion on her face. She cried softly in the night; Luned had heard her and now, in the daylight, though her eyes were bright and there was excitement in them, she was almost too tired to stand.
Eleyne nodded and sighed. ‘You’re right, it would be safer. Take some money and buy bridles from two different saddlers, so they do not grow suspicious. Then we can buy saddles one at a time later.’
‘You won’t have enough money for saddles, my lady.’ Luned had looked into the money bag. ‘They are expensive and we should keep as much money as we can – we may need it.’
‘It’s not that far to Scotland,’ Eleyne countered. All her life she had been wealthy and it had never crossed her mind that she might one day find herself without money – that without the small, steadily dwindling pile of coins they would find themselves destitute.
‘It will be five or six days’ ride to Edinburgh at least, and each night we have to find somewhere to stay, unless you intend to continue sleeping in the forest like an outlaw,’ Luned said firmly. ‘We don’t need saddles.’
Eleyne sighed. ‘I don’t know that we dare show ourselves even in Scotland until we reach Alexander,’ she said. She kicked off her shoes and pushed her feet into the grass.
‘But once we get to him, we’ll be safe.’
‘Of course.’ Eleyne smiled. She was staring into the distance, where the green shade of the trees hazed into a blur. Crossly, she rubbed her eyes and turned to Luned. ‘Go on, if you’ve rested enough. It looks as though it must be market day. There are a lot of people on the road.’
She watched Luned thread her way back through the trees and descend the rocky slope, where she disappeared from view. Within minutes she had found herself a ride with a plump woman who was driving a wagon. A few minutes later she wished that she hadn’t: the wagon, attended by clouds of bluebottles, was laden with stinking half-cured hides.
Eleyne led both horses deeper into the shade and tethered them securely, then she stowed their bundles beneath a clump of elder, before wandering into the copse. Behind it a meadow, spangled with wild flowers and bisected by a narrow, tumbling beck, separated the copse from a larger, more dense area of forest which filled the valley and rose up the side of the hill before the mountains shook themselves clear of the trees and rose high in the sunlight. She walked down towards the water and sat on the grass to wash the dust of the road from her hands and feet. The water was ice-cold and refreshing and she drank long and gratefully from it. She was hungry, but they had eaten the last of their provisions that morning, and she would have to wait to eat until Luned returned, which might not be until dusk. Still barefoot, she wandered along the bank to where the trees came down to the water’s edge. There, in the dappled sunlight, she found some wild strawberries. Lying back in the long grass and staring up through the leaves of a graceful birch tree, she began to eat them.
She must have dozed, for when she next looked up the sun had moved several degrees towards the west and the shadows had lengthened. She wondered what had wakened her, then she saw a squirrel sitting above her washing its face with its paws. It tensed, chittering at her in fury, then disappeared.
She sat up. With the squirrel gone, the woods were unnaturally silent. She frowned, every sense alert – she was not alone, she was being watched. She scanned the hazel break on the far side of the beck, then as casually as she could, she looked behind her. The wood was darker than she remembered, the trees closer together. The afternoon was very still and even the cheerful ripple of the water at her feet seemed quieter, more distant. She cursed herself for wandering away from their horses and their bundles, where her only weapon – a small knife – was hidden. The feeling of being watched became stronger and she felt the hairs on her neck prickling. The shadow of the trees had crept nearer. Now it had reached the grass where the skirt of her black gown lay spread around her. The fabric dulled, like a dark flame extinguished.
Had they been followed after all? Were Stephen’s men in the wood even now, watching her? She rose to her knees, keeping her movements as natural as possible, then she dusted the dried grasses from her skirt and stood up. The feeling was overpowering now; she wanted to turn and run, but she forced herself to retrace her steps casually, feeling eyes on her from somewhere in the dark trees across the stream, expecting every moment to feel an arrow in her back.
Nothing happened; the silence pressed around her. The world was holding its breath with her.
At last she regained the trees and slid into the shadows, thankful, not for the first time, for her black gown. She stopped by an ancient oak, its trunk swollen and gnarled, broad enough to hide a dozen men. Slipping behind it, she peered back the way she had come, her hands on the rough bark, taking comfort from it. She could hear her heart beating in her ears. The woodland seemed deserted. Nothing moved, but she could feel it again: a presence in the hazy green distance. A presence that was not human.
‘Einion?’ she breathed. She felt the perspiration icy between her shoulder blades. She strained her eyes into the dappled shadows. This new unseen threat was even more frightening than the thought of King Henry’s men hidden in the trees.
How could Einion be here, so far from Wales? Why had he followed her? She could feel him around her, his frustration beating against the barriers of silence which separated him from her; she could sense his raw emotion, tearing at her, crying to be heard.
‘What is it?’ she cried, her voice husky with fear. ‘What is it? Tell me.’ But only the silence of the hot afternoon answered her. She rested her forehead against the tree; it was warm, reassuring, solid.
Were the words in her head, or had she heard them? She swallowed, trying to calm herself.
It was a long time since she had tried to see pictures in the fire; the last time she had seen her father’s sickbed. The fire had not told her that he would recover or that John would die. There had been no clue that she would have so short a time with her husband; no clue that he would leave no heir. Everything Einion had told her had been wrong. She would never be the mother of kings. Was that what he wanted to tell her – that he had made a mistake?
‘I know you were wrong!’ she called. ‘You were wrong about Scotland. John is dead!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘He’s dead! He will never be Scotland’s king – ’
‘I can’t see anything in the fire. I don’t understand.’
She stared around in despair, her hands shaking. Her breath was coming in painful snatches, deep within her chest, knowing she would have to do it. She could not argue with this strange voice which filled the silence of the woods, because she wanted to know what it was he so desperately wanted to tell her.
Almost sleep-walking, she made her way back to the clearing where she had left the horses. They were dozing, hip-slack in the heat, their heads low, their eyes closed, not bothering to look up as she crossed the grass towards them. Kneeling, she pulled the bundles from the bush, and inside Luned’s she found the flint and steel. She took them to the far side of the clearing and scraped a hollow in a patch of dusty soil. She collected flakes of birch bark and dry leaves and some brittle summer-dried moss and lichen. Piling them up, she began to strike the flint. It was several minutes before she managed a spark. Her hands were shaking and her fingers were all thumbs, but at last she had a wisp of smoke and minutes later a small flame. Throwing down the flint, she cupped her hands and blew gently.
It took some time to get the fire she wanted, a small steady glow, fed by lumps of rotten timber and made smoky with fragrant leaves. I’m mad, she thought, quite mad. What am I doing? Lighting a fire on the orders of a ghost! She prayed that the wisp of smoke would not be seen from the road, and it was a long time before she saw any pictures in the glowing embers. Her eyes were sore from the smoke, her head was heavy, and she was too conscious of the brooding presence waiting. Then slowly they came, flickering, indistinct: horses, galloping through the smoke. She could see a sword glinting in a rider’s hand, a banner flogging in the wind, its device indistinct. Frowning, she leaned forward. ‘Show me,’ she whispered, ‘show me! I am watching…’ She reached forward with her hand into the fire as if trying to part the smoke, watching, strangely detached, as the small blue flames licked at
