Child of the Phoenix. Barbara Erskine
bared his teeth spitefully and Cenydd’s gelding sidestepped.
‘Come on. We can see well enough here.’ She was gathering her reins and the stallion was on his toes.
‘Why, princess?’
The forceful disapproval in his voice stopped her, fighting with the bit, holding the horse back on its haunches.
‘What do you mean?’ She raised her head defensively.
‘Why must you ride like this? A countess, a princess, should behave like a lady …’
Even in the moonlight he could see the colour darken her cheeks. ‘There are many kinds of lady, Cenydd. My husband has taught me that. I am the kind who rides like Rhiannon on her white horse, whom no man can catch.’ She pronounced the soft Welsh name wistfully.
Cenydd stared across at her. ‘Your husband told you this?’
She nodded emphatically.
She had been reading to him as he lay, his eyes closed, on the daybed they had arranged for him on the dais in the great hall. At first she had resented these hours at John’s side, longing to be out in the sun, longing to be riding. Seeing this, he had kept her with him for short periods only, lengthening them infinitesimally until, one day, when the rain teemed down outside, sluicing off the roofs and pouring in waterfalls from the stone gutters jutting out from the parapets of the keep, he drew her down near him and with a smile handed her a packet wrapped in a piece of linen.
‘A present.’
She looked at it with a sinking heart, knowing already from the feel that it was a book. Slowly she began to unfold the wrapping. To her delight the book was in Welsh, and as she turned the richly decorated pages she gasped in wonder.
‘I asked your father if he could send a book of Welsh stories to cheer you up, Eleyne, and he had this made especially for you. The stories are as old as time. His bards and storytellers have been collecting them and writing them down for many years, I gather.’ He waited, half amused, half anxious as she leafed through the pages spelling out the titles: The Dream of Maxen, the Countess of the Fountain, Peredur. She looked up at John, her eyes shining. ‘I know these stories – ’
‘Of course you do.’ He smiled. ‘And I want to know them too. Will you read them to me?’ He was watching her as he so often did, this strange child, the daughter of a Welsh prince, descendant perhaps of the ancient gods of the stories in the book she held. Maybe the stories would help him understand her better, and maybe they would help to relieve the homesickness which still robbed her cheeks of colour and filled him with such guilt whenever she came, trying so hard to hide her reluctance, to his side.
‘Even so, princess,’ Cenydd went on grudgingly, ‘I am sure he did not mean you to ride without escort like this. These heaths and fens are full of robbers and thieves and outlaws.’ He examined the still, moonlit landscape with its brooding shadows and the deeper pools of blackness beneath the trees, big enough to have hidden an army, and he shivered.
Eleyne laughed lightly. ‘If there are any robbers here, we can outride them. And I have you and your sword to protect me.’ Behind them a low rumble of thunder echoed around the horizon.
She waited for him in a patch of streaming moonlight, her hair wildly tangled on her shoulders, her blood singing with exhilaration, she and the horse tired at last. Then out of nowhere a bolt of lightning hissed out of the sky near them and exploded into the ground, making the stallion rear.
She had not seen the castle as she approached, but as she gentled the great horse she could see it clearly in the green eldritch light. The lightning vanished into blacker darkness leaving flames running along the walls, licking across the roofs, strung along the scaffolding poles like bright flags at a tourney. Dear God, the lightning must have struck the roof. Horrified, she watched, hearing the shouts and screams of the men and women trapped at high windows too narrow to let them push their way free. On the roof leads she saw a figure outlined by fire. As she watched, the man turned from the flames and climbing into the battlements hurled himself out into the smoke, his cry lost in the tumult below.
Dimly she was aware of Cenydd beside her now. ‘Look. Oh, Holy Mother! Oh, the poor people! Can’t we do something?’ But there was nothing they could do; nothing anyone could do. They were surrounded by the roar of the flame and the rolling smoke, white and grey against the blackness of the night, sewn with a million sparks.
Another flash of lightning showed the broad band of the river between them and the castle and the line of armed men who stood unmoving between the castle and the water which could have saved it. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see the banner of the man at their head, but the smoke rolled down to the river once more and she could see nothing.
The rain came, as though a giant bucket had been overturned in the heavens, soaking the ground, the horses and the two riders within seconds, reducing the visibility to no more than a few feet. Eleyne narrowed her eyes, desperately trying to see ahead, but her eyes refused to focus now, seeing only the cold silver needles which stung her face and hands.
She realised that Cenydd had dismounted and was standing at Invictus’s head, looking questioningly at her as he gripped the horse’s sharp bit. She had not flinched from the rain. She sat upright, unmoving, her eyes on the distance.
‘Are you all right, princess?’
She could barely make out his narrowed eyes, his hair plastered to his skin beneath his leather cap.
‘I … I don’t know.’ She felt strangely disorientated. ‘The castle … will they be all right? The rain will help put out the fire …’
Cenydd let go of the bridle long enough to cross himself fervently: ‘You saw a fire?’
She stared at him. ‘You must have seen it. There – ’
Behind them the heath was invisible behind the curtain of rain. Another lightning flash zigzagged across the sky.
‘There is no fire, my lady, and no castle,’ he said gently. ‘And there never has been. Not here.’
I
BANGOR
The nuptial mass had been all Isabella had dreamed it would be. The cathedral at Bangor, with its sturdy pillars and its high arched roof, glowed with sunlight as, the marriage completed, Prince Dafydd ap Llywelyn, heir to Gwynedd and Aberffraw and all North Wales, led his young bride to the high altar and knelt beside her there on a faldstool embroidered with silver and gold. Behind him stood his father, alone. In spite of a stream of desperate, contrite letters from Joan, begging his forgiveness, she was still imprisoned. She had not been permitted to attend the wedding of her lover’s daughter to her son.
Nearby, tight-lipped, stood Eva de Braose, her lovely face hidden by a black silk veil. Was she, she wondered, as she stared around the packed cathedral, the only person there to remember that her husband had been hanged by these people? She clenched her fists angrily as the voices of the choir soared aloft. Then a hand touched hers. Standing next to her, Gwladus, now married to Ralph Mortimer, remembered. She too had loved her dead husband’s dashing son. In sorrow the two women bowed their heads and prayed.
Isabella was not thinking of her father. She ran her hands quickly over the front of her richly embroidered gown, then folded them meekly in prayer. On her thick curtain of black hair, brushed loose almost to her waist, sat a golden coronet studded with pearls.
She stole a look at her handsome husband. He was tall, his red-gold hair gleaming in the stray beams of sun which slanted across the hills behind the cathedral