Читать книгу Child of the Phoenix - Barbara Erskine - Страница 41

‘I don’t want to go!’ Tearfully Eleyne caught Gruffydd’s hand. The letter she had dreaded had arrived at last.

‘I know, sweetheart, but father has sent for you. There’s nothing you can do. You have to obey him. You can’t stay here forever.’ Her hands were ice-cold in Gruffydd’s and he could see the fear in her eyes. ‘What is it, Eleyne? What are you afraid of?’

‘Nothing.’ She met his gaze, half defiant, half pleading, before she turned away. ‘Nothing at all.’

After tearful goodbyes to Gruffydd and Senena and her small cousins who had to remain in their prison, Eleyne, Luned and Rhonwen, escorted by Cenydd and his hand-picked band of guards and by Llywelyn’s messengers, embarked once more across the Conwy and set off west towards Aber. Tucked into Eleyne’s baggage were several letters from Gruffydd to his father begging forgiveness; begging for leave to come to his side.

Eleyne rode upright, her face pinched with cold, her fear buried deep inside her. She could not tell Senena or Gruffydd, she would not tell Rhonwen, that she was still afraid. Instead she clung to the thought that Isabella would be at Aber waiting for her. Sir William had, it appeared, long ago paid his ransom and gone. The wedding arrangements had been made. It should be a lovely spring.

Above them in the mountains great swathes of snow still lay unmelted in the shadowy crevices and valleys, and over the peaks the crisp whiteness shone like caps of beaten egg-white. Wild daffodils, small tight spikes in the cold wind, only here and there showed a yellow trumpet. The wind cut like a sword. The mountain route west was impassable, so they took the road along the coast.

As Eleyne entered the crowded, noisy hall of the llys, still swathed in her furs after the ride, Einion was the first person she saw, standing behind her father’s chair. She stopped in her tracks, shielded by the crowd of people around her. Behind her, Rhonwen too saw him and grew pale.

Einion spotted them at once, his eyes going unerringly to Rhonwen and then to the child at her side, and they saw him stoop and whisper into the prince’s ear.

‘No!’ Eleyne turned away, trying to fight her way back through the crowd. Her heart was thumping with terror and she felt sick.

‘You have to go on.’ Rhonwen caught her arm. ‘You have to greet your father. You have to give him Gruffydd’s letters and plead for your brother’s release.’

‘No.’

‘Yes,’ Rhonwen insisted. Now she was near him, her own fear of Einion had returned and she was torn between her protective love for Eleyne and her duty and obedience to the seer. ‘You are a princess, Eleyne! You are never afraid!’ she whispered harshly. ‘He’s just an old man! He can’t hurt you!’ She crossed her fingers, afraid that he would know what she had said, then remembered, comforted, that he was not all-seeing. There were things he did not know.

Eleyne was rooted to the spot with fear, but somehow Rhonwen’s words penetrated her terror. She clenched her fists, goaded by her nurse’s tone. He was just a tired old man. He was nothing like the wild-eyed wizard of her nightmares. Besides, her father was there. She forced herself to walk on, her eyes avoiding those of the bard.

It was only when she drew near the dais where her father sat that Eleyne saw her mother. Joan was seated on the far side of the roaring fire, dressed in a gown of scarlet, stitched with gold thread. Over her shoulders was her mantle trimmed with fox furs. At her side, deep in conversation with her, sat Sir William de Braose. Eleyne felt her heart jump with happiness and surprise at the sight of him, and relief that beneath her heavy cloak she was wearing one of the new gowns Senena and Rhonwen had made her during the long winter days. It was a deep moss green, heavily stitched and embroidered, showing her colouring to perfection and every bit as beautiful, in her own eyes, as her mother’s.

As she curtseyed to her father she glanced half defiantly at Einion. His expression was unreadable. He looked at her and then once more at the prince. ‘Your daughter has been away too long, sir. Aber has missed her.’

‘Indeed we have,’ Llywelyn agreed heartily. ‘Greet your mother, child, and take off your cloak. We are to have a recital.’ He indicated the harp standing near them.

Eleyne curtseyed dutifully to her mother and then more animatedly to Sir William. There was no sign of Isabella.

Sir William smiled. ‘So, do you want to ride Invictus again? I’ll toss you for it tomorrow. My imprisonment is over, but it seems that I can’t keep away!’ His smile deepened. ‘I have come back as a guest this time to make the final arrangements for Bella’s wedding, so we can ride together. With your mother’s permission.’

Eleyne’s pleasure and excitement were strangely dampened by his glance at Joan. There was more warmth there than he had shown her; more intimacy. She felt a sudden sense of loss as if she had been excluded from something private and special.

‘Eleyne, come here and sit by me.’ The prince indicated a stool near his feet, but his eyes were on his wife’s face and Eleyne, sympathetic, knew he felt the same as she. Instinctively she reached up and touched her father’s hand. Llywelyn smiled and pressed her shoulder gently. At least he would never have cause to doubt his daughter’s love and loyalty as he had begun, Christ forgive him, to doubt his wife’s. He turned and nodded to the bard.