Читать книгу Child of the Phoenix - Barbara Erskine - Страница 78

This time Isabella wrote back. Eleyne stared at the letter in disbelief, frozen with horror, oblivious of her husband’s worried eyes on her. ‘What is it, Eleyne?’ The letter had been with his as usual courteous note from Llywelyn about march business.

Eleyne shook her head bleakly.

Leaning forward, John took the letter from her limp fingers and scanned the loose childish handwriting. Seconds later he had thrown it on the fire.

‘Forget her.’ His words were curt.

‘But she is – was – my friend.’ Eleyne was bewildered.

‘I fear you have been made a scapegoat, sweetheart. Your brother has, it seems, blamed you for her father’s death. You can see why they have done it. Life would be intolerable if she blamed your father. You are not there. It was the pragmatic answer.’

‘But she was my friend,’ Eleyne repeated. She could not believe such betrayal.

‘Obviously not.’ She had to learn the lesson now, hard though it was. ‘A true friend would have believed in you.’

‘I’ll never go back home now …’ The shock was wearing off and the full significance of the letter began to dawn. ‘If she blames me, everyone else will be doing the same. My mother – ’

John frowned. ‘That may well be so, sweetheart.’

She stood up slowly and walked over to the low window. Through the dim glass she could see the altercation between two wagoners just outside the gates below. The wheels of their vehicles had become locked in the narrow street and, strain as they might, the oxen pulling in opposite directions could not extricate them. The fracas ended only when one of the wheels was wrenched off and the wagon tipped its load of heavy sacks into the filthy road.