Читать книгу Child of the Phoenix - Barbara Erskine - Страница 65

Her eyes filled with tears, Eleyne turned from the gates and ran blindly across the courtyard, leaving her husband staring after her. After her anguished farewells, Rhonwen’s horse had turned north on to the road outside and she was already lost to sight among the trees. Behind her the gates closed. John smiled. For the first time in many weeks he at last felt safe, and the realisation shocked him. Had the woman’s influence been that malevolent? He was about to follow Eleyne when he stopped and shook his head. Give her some time alone, then he would speak to her.

Ignoring the men and women who stared after her Eleyne ran up the stairs and into the keep. Tears poured down her cheeks as she fled across the lower chamber and began to climb to the topmost storeys of the great tower. There were empty chambers there, places where nobody ever seemed to come, places where she could be alone and no one would see her grief.

Pushing open a door, she peered into a cold empty room. Ten years before it had been the bedchamber of Lord Albemarle who held the castle for a time while John, when he was a boy, still lived with his uncle at Chester. Now it was deserted, the bed frame dusty, the hangings long gone. John preferred to have his rooms above the newly built gatehouse. Hers were in the south tower behind the great hall, overlooking the river.

She walked into the silent room and crossed miserably to the window. It too faced south across the Nene. A ray of pale sunlight fell across the swept boards of the floor. In the opposite wall a low arched doorway led through to a small oratory in the thickness of the stone. The altar was still there; on it were half-burned candles and a carved alabaster crucifix. It was then that she smelt the incense. She frowned, puzzled. The smell was rich and exotic, pungent against the stale coldness of stone.

The woman was standing behind her in the shaft of sunlight, her black skirts rich and heavy, her veil silk, her pale, tired face strained as she stared towards the altar with an expression of resignation and sadness almost too great to bear. Eleyne stared back at her in shock, then a cloud crossed the sun. As the sunbeam faded the woman disappeared.

Terrified, Eleyne rubbed her eyes. She didn’t dare move. Her husband had forbidden her to have visions. They were evil. It was because of her visions he had sent Rhonwen away. And this woman, whoever she was, had not been flesh and blood. She backed away from the spot where the woman had stood, her eyes fixed on the empty space. Who was she? Why had she come? And why had she shown herself now? Eleyne went back into the chapel and reached a hand out to the altar. But the rich scent of incense had gone. The great echoing bedchamber once more smelt of stone and dust and disuse. She was alone.

Trying to control her fear, Eleyne fled to the spiral staircase and began to run down it. All she wanted was to go back to her own bright rooms and find Luned, who would be as miserable as she was without Rhonwen. She put the thought of the lady in black, whoever she was, as far out of her mind as possible. John must never find out that she was still seeing things. Never.

Gasping for breath, she paused at the top of the steps outside the keep and stared down into the courtyard. While she had been in the upper chamber a line of wagons and horses had ridden into the castle. She moved back slightly, out of sight, wondering who they belonged to. Then she noticed that John was already out there ready to greet his guests; she could see his fair hair blowing in the sunlight. She frowned, the lady in black forgotten. She had never seen her husband look so happy, and even as she watched he stepped forward and helped a woman down from one of the horses. She saw him take her in his arms and kiss her on the mouth. Eleyne was stunned. A shock of something very like jealousy shot through her. She had never seen John take a woman in his arms before, never seen him kiss one or look so animated. She stood on the steps, staring down at her husband, feeling the wind cold on her face, and became aware that it was blotchy and swollen with crying. She looked like a stupid, ugly child while this tall elegant fair-haired woman was beautiful.

She realised they were looking up at her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she began to walk down towards them, summoning as much dignity as she could: she was John’s wife. Whoever this woman was, she did not have that distinction.

They were smiling.

‘Eleyne, come here, my love,’ John called. He had time only to whisper to his companion that she had arrived in the nick of time and to ask what in the name of all the saints had kept her. ‘I want you to meet my most favourite person in the whole world,’ he went on, oblivious of the desolation in Eleyne’s face at his words – ‘my sister, Isabel.’

Isabel, married to the irascible Scots nobleman, Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, had received her brother’s letter at her manor of Writtle in Essex. It had begged her to come to Fotheringhay on her way back to Scotland and advise him on what to do about his wife. His brief summary of his problems had left her intrigued, amused and exasperated at the general helplessness of men when it came to matters of the emotions. Looking at Eleyne now, she saw a lonely and unhappy child. She had sensed as much as seen the moment of jealousy in the girl’s eyes as she had watched John kissing her – so the child felt something for him then – and now she saw the wistful longing which replaced it, almost as if Eleyne had sent her an unconscious appeal.

Isabel removed her gloves, then she held out her arms. As she kissed Eleyne on both cheeks, she glanced over the girl’s head towards her secret weapon, her son Robert. If Eleyne of Huntingdon were really a witch, a tomboy, a brilliant breakneck rider and an uncontrollable wanderer, twelve-year-old Robert could match her, fault for fault.

‘You’re crazy,’ John exploded later as his sister unfolded her plan. ‘I brought you here to try to inculcate some sense into her and to cheer her up, not bring her a playmate who will make her worse!’

Unabashed, Isabel reached for the glass of wine her brother had given her. For her he served nothing but the best in his richly enamelled, priceless Venetian glasses.

‘You told me you wanted to get rid of that awful hunted look,’ Isabel said firmly. ‘And you want to hear her laugh. Rob will make her laugh. I guarantee it.’