‘Leave her.’ Luned pushed him away. ‘Let me see her hand.’
He stood back as Luned unwrapped the dirty bandage and pulled it gently away from Eleyne’s blistered and bleeding fingers. ‘I’ll have to bandage it again,’ she said softly, ‘does it hurt very much?’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘We’ll ride back to Kendal immediately,’ the man said, ‘and find a physician to dress it for you before we go back.’
‘Go back?’ Eleyne looked at him wearily.
‘To Chester. The king has ordered that you be taken back there the moment we find you.’ He gave a half bow. ‘I understand his grace does not think it an appropriate time for you to be visiting Scotland.’
The two horses were led up to them.
‘Allow me, my lady, I’ll help you into the saddle, then we’ll rejoin the escort on the track below.’
VII
Eleyne slept in the earl’s bedchamber and was given all the state of the Countess of Chester. But she was a prisoner. John de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, had made that quite clear. She was not to ride or to visit the town; she couldn’t receive envoys or messengers unless he was present, and she could not write to her father or to her aunt or uncle in Scotland. Her vision faded and she did not have the heart to summon it again. Whatever destiny had in store for her, it would come without her aid.
Rhonwen anointed her hand with salves which softened and healed the burned skin, and scolded her alternately for running away and for getting caught. ‘That has put you in the wrong,
‘He hasn’t asked – ’
‘He has. Countess Clemence told me. He has written to King Henry in the strongest possible terms and demanded that, as the widow of the heir to Scotland, you be allowed to return there. King Henry has refused.’
‘Of course.’ Eleyne walked sadly to the window of the solar and looked down across the walls into the busy street. ‘He has already selected my husband, it seems, but he does not deign to tell me his name.’
She turned with a flash of impatience. ‘Dear sweet Christ! for two pins I would throw a rope of sheets across the battlements and slide down! How dare he do this to me! I am one of the highest-born ladies in the land, I am a princess of Wales and of Scotland, and he treats me like a brood bitch to be mated at his command!’
‘It was ever so,
‘I won’t do it!’ Eleyne swept back to the table where Rhonwen was sitting and stood glaring down at her. ‘I’d rather die!’
‘You don’t mean that, it’s not you that should die; it’s the man who lets himself be mated with you when he knows you’re unwilling.’ Rhonwen paused, her eyes hard, then she shook her head. ‘He must be a great man, to be married to the Countess of Chester – a prince at least.’
‘There are no princes who are not related within the prohibited degree.’ Eleyne paced the floor again. ‘How could he do this to me? Why does he keep it a secret? Surely I should be told whom he has chosen, or is he too afraid to tell me? Is he afraid what I will do when I find out whom he has selected?’
Outside the castle walls the town was busy; the noises of the street drifted up to the windows of the keep, and with them the stench of refuse. The long August days were unremittingly hot; there was disease in the merchants’ quarter and night after night the sound of fighting drifted up from the town as men’s tempers grew short.
Eleyne’s hand had healed, leaving only two small red scars across the knuckles of two fingers. Her grief for John was contained now, sealed deep within herself, buried beneath the worry and frustration which grew daily. Day after day she paced the floor of the solar or walked in the small garden within the inner walls – ten paces towards the setting sun, four paces back and forth north and south, the flower-strewn grass bank which bordered it long turned to grey barren dust. Beyond the castle walls the river ran low between its banks, the mud shining briefly as the tide receded, then cracking open like a desert.
The trees outside the walls began to look jaded and the leaves yellowed. Peter de Mungumery returned from his survey of the estates of Huntingdon and closeted himself with Lord Lincoln and his justice and chamberlain, Richard de Draycott and Richard de Gatesden, and her old antagonist, Stephen Seagrave, for hours in the castle scriptorium. Eleyne was neither consulted nor told the outcome of their deliberations. Her haughty enquiries were treated with tolerant scorn and tight-lipped silence. September came, then October. The drought broke at last and torrential rain turned the dusty roads and fields to quagmires within hours. At last, with the first gales from the west, came news of Eleyne’s husband-to-be.
John de Lacy never summoned her to the great hall. Instead he would beg for her presence there, sending messengers who would let it be known that they would wait until she came. He and Stephen Seagrave sat in the two great chairs on the dais, near the fire; Peter de Mungumery stood near. As Eleyne walked towards them, followed by two of her ladies, they both rose. She walked calmly to the earl’s chair, vacated by John de Lacy, and sat down, eyeing them with distaste.
‘You wished to see me, gentlemen?’
The castle shook with the strength of the wind, shutters rattling, doors banging back and forth on the latch, the floor coverings stirring and whispering, wall hangings billowing uneasily. Everywhere, the fires smoked unpleasantly.
De Lacy bowed. ‘The king has sent news at last, my lady. The accusations of murder against you have been dropped.’ He paused. ‘The king has found someone, it seems, who is prepared to take you, even with the suspicion unresolved. Your marriage is to be celebrated here, next month, on Martinmas Eve.’
Eleyne felt her stomach tighten but she kept her face impassive. ‘Indeed. And I am to be told the name of my husband-to-be?’
‘Of course, madam.’ De Lacy could not keep the triumph out of his eyes. ‘It is someone I know well. The king’s letter informs me that this – gentleman,’ he paused, ‘is to be knighted next week by the king himself. It is none other than my late father-in-law’s brother, Robert de Quincy.’
‘His youngest brother,’ Stephen Seagrave put in softly. ‘A young man of about your own age, I believe, madam.’
Eleyne stared incredulously from one man to the other: ‘I am to be married to the youngest son of an earl, a man with no title?’
‘You will, of course, under the circumstances, keep your late husband’s title, madam…’
‘A man not yet knighted -’ she swept on without heeding him.
‘He will have his knighthood before the wedding,’ Stephen added reassuringly. He was enjoying this. ‘His grace has asked me to give you a loan, madam, of fifty marks to buy finery for the wedding. Just until the sum of your dower has been agreed. I understand Robert has little or no wealth of his own.’
Eleyne looked at him coldly. ‘I don’t even know this Robert de Quincy – ’
‘No, madam, though he is of course a brother-in-law to your late husband’s Aunt Hawise. I believe he serves his elder brother, the present Earl of Winchester. They have been much in Scotland in the service of King Alexander. As you know, Lord Winchester’s wife, Elena, brought with her the office of Constable of Scotland. I am sure the King of the Scots will heartily approve the match.’
‘No.’ Eleyne shook her head slowly. ‘No, he will not approve it. I will be disparaged by this marriage, sir. I am a princess of Wales. It is unthinkable that I should marry a man with no title.’ She rose to her feet.
The men rose too, and Stephen did not attempt to hide his smirk of triumph. ‘The king, your uncle, feels the match is a good one, madam,’ he said smoothly. ‘It will please the Earl of Winchester greatly.’
