Читать книгу Child of the Phoenix - Barbara Erskine - Страница 81

Eleyne shivered. The small bower at the end of the herb garden had grown cold in spite of the sun. She glanced at the sky, but there were no clouds in the intense blue. In the distance a heat haze danced over the Downs. She dropped her work on the bench beside her and looked around. Margaret and Mattie were busy in the wardrobe going through the monthly accounts with the castle steward and Will was with his tutor, so she had made her sewing the excuse to sit in the sun. There had been no sign of John. Over the past weeks she had grown used to looking for him, flirting with him, testing the strange new excitement which caught at her stomach when he was near, strangely like the emotions she had felt when she had been with Sir William – and yet different: more intense, more frightening. She felt the warmth rise in her cheeks even here, alone in the garden, and firmly she pushed the thought away. He was her sister’s husband. She loved her sister and her sister’s son, with whom she played frequently, and she adored Mattie de Braose, who was kind and gentle and motherly to the lonely girl. For she was lonely and to her surprise it was for the strength and friendship she had grown to rely on from her own husband.

Thoughtfully, she gazed down at the piece of work on her knee. At first she had imagined they were all so content at Bramber, but now, as her stay lengthened, she was beginning to feel the undertones and tensions around her. Mattie, frustrated and bitter for her son; Will, spoiled and indulged, and Margaret and John, outwardly so devoted and yet, inwardly, in some way estranged. Margaret had confided a little to her – their disappointment that there had been no other children after Will; John’s dalliance with other women, a comment which had made Eleyne blush and hang her head. Seeing her, Margaret laughed and hugged her. ‘Take it as a compliment, Elly. He only shows interest in the most beautiful women.’ She paused and took her sister’s hand. ‘Are you happy with Lord Huntingdon? From what you tell me he seems a kind and sensitive man.’ The way she said the words spoke volumes about her own husband. Eleyne wondered if she were wrong about John de Braose. He appeared so attractive, so amusing.

‘But Margaret, you do love your John?’ Eleyne stared at her sister anxiously.

Margaret laughed. ‘Of course I love him,’ she said lightly. ‘And I’m lucky. Things could be so much worse. I have heard that Lord Huntingdon is often ill, Elly. Is that true?’

Eleyne nodded, unconscious of the wistfulness in her eyes as she thought of her husband. ‘It was me who was ill last time, but he’s ill a lot, though he was better when I left him.’

Margaret smiled. ‘Then let us pray to the sweet Virgin to preserve his health as I pray daily for my husband.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I have the king’s assurance that, if anything happened to John, which the Blessed Virgin and all the saints forbid,’ she shuddered, ‘he will not force me to marry someone I don’t like. You should do the same, Eleyne. If anything happened to your John you would not want Uncle Henry to choose you another husband against your wishes.’

Eleyne gasped. ‘But that would be a terrible thing to do. It would look as if I expected John to die.’

Margaret shrugged. ‘Men do die; if not of illness, then in battle, Eleyne, just as women die in childbed. It is God’s will. It is best to be prepared.’

Listlessly Eleyne picked up her needle once more and screwed up her eyes against the glare as she began inserting the tiny regular stitches into the soft blue silk. She loved this quiet place; from the vantage point of the hill on which Bramber Castle stood she could see the Downs and though they were nothing like the great mountain of Yr Wyddfa they were better than the flat lands which made up the bulk of her husband’s fief. And better still, to the south, beyond the busy quays and the broad tidal sweep of the Adur, lay the sea. She could smell the sharp saltiness of the mud now, as the low water narrowed the busy river to a trickle, leaving the ships and galleons at the wharf stranded until the next tide.

A shadow fell across her sewing. Again a cold breath had touched her skin, but the sky was still cloudless. For a moment she didn’t move, then she tucked the needle into her work and set it down again. Her heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast. There was someone here with her in the empty garden. She closed her eyes against the urgency of the emotions which were invading her: worry, anger, love and fear, yes, real fear.

‘What is it? Where are you? Who are you?’ She found she had spoken out loud. The answering silence quivered with tension.

Eleyne stared around. Near her the neatly clipped bushes of thyme and hyssop stirred slightly; the pale, fragrant leaves of costmary moved. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, frightened. ‘Who are you?’

The silence was intense; even the shouts and bustle from the bailey beyond the hedge had died away.

‘Please –’ Eleyne moved away from the bench, her hands shaking. ‘Please, what do you want from me?’

Again she was surrounded with silence.

‘What is it, Eleyne, my dear? Who are you talking to?’ With a rustle of rose-coloured skirts Matilda de Braose swept through the box hedge which sheltered the garden and stared round.

Eleyne looked at her white-faced. ‘I’m sorry. I thought … I thought there was someone here …’

Below them a wagon rolled over the high cobbles and the sound of the heavy wheels reverberated above the shouts of the drivers. The presence in the small garden had gone.

Mattie drew the girl back to the bench and sat down with her. She picked up Eleyne’s sewing and looked at it critically. ‘You’re a good little sempstress, Eleyne. This work is lovely.’ Putting it down carefully she took Eleyne’s hand. ‘Who did you think was here?’

Eleyne shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was just a feeling –’ She glanced shyly at the older woman, overwhelmed by the need to confide. ‘I get them sometimes.’

Mattie smiled, her gentle face framed by the crisp wimple. ‘Tell me about them.’

‘Sometimes pictures, like dreams …’ Eleyne looked down at her hands. ‘Like Sir William … I saw Sir William before …’ Her voice trailed away.

‘You have the Sight?’ Mattie made it sound quite ordinary. ‘I know many people in Wales have that gift. And you are your father’s seventh child, are you not? Margaret told me. That is a special blessing.’ She paused. ‘And did you see something just now?’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘No.’

‘What then?’ There was no impatience in the question. Mattie sensed Eleyne’s loneliness and uncertainty, and impulsively she put her arms around her.

‘I just felt there was someone here. Someone trying to speak to me.’ Nestling into her shoulder, Eleyne sighed. ‘And she is afraid – ’

‘She?’

‘Yes.’ Eleyne hesitated. ‘Yes, it was a woman.’

Mattie smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps you are right. I have sometimes thought … felt that there was someone in this garden. Another Matilda.’ She stood up. ‘My husband’s mother. She never liked Bramber much, but this was her favourite place here. She built this garden. I think from time to time she comes to watch over John. He was always her favourite grandchild. She loved him so much.’ Her eyes filled with tears as they often did when she thought about her adored mother-in-law, the woman whom her father, the Earl of Clare, had loved so devotedly for most of his life, the woman after whom she was named, the woman whom King John, this child’s grandfather, had so viciously murdered.

Eleyne stared at her. ‘Matilda? She is the lady … my lady who I saw at Hay Castle.’

‘You saw her?’ Mattie’s eyes widened.

Eleyne nodded. ‘I thought she liked me then. But not here, not now. She wants me to go.’

‘No, of course she doesn’t!’ Mattie closed her eyes against the superstitious shiver which ran across her shoulders. ‘Why should she want you to go? Silly goose, of course she doesn’t want you to go.’ She paused. ‘What did she look like when you saw her at Hay, my dear?’

‘She’s very tall, with dark red hair and grey-green eyes – ’

Mattie caught her breath.

‘I used to see her shadow, sometimes strongly, sometimes just fading away.’ She looked around the garden. ‘But not here, I didn’t see her here. I sort of felt her in my head. I don’t even know that it was her …’

She broke off as young Will ran into the garden.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I’ve finished my lessons. Now we can ride. We can, can’t we, grandmama? Eleyne said she would ride with me.’ He was tall for his eight years, with grey-green eyes and a shock of blond hair above a tanned face and a torn tunic. In only a few weeks, he had confided in Eleyne, he was to leave Bramber to serve as a page in the household of Sir Walter Clifford. He was reluctant to go; and Margaret was reluctant to let him. It was Mattie who had seen the danger; seen how he clung to his mother’s skirts, and had persuaded her son to insist.

‘Of course you can go, if Eleyne wants to.’ Mattie smiled. She stood up and shook out her skirts.

‘Oh yes I do!’ Her face clearing, Eleyne said eagerly, ‘Will has promised to take me to the sea.’

Watching them run together down the steps which led from the garden into the bailey Mattie frowned. The children were quite safe here. They would have an escort, and of course the devoted Cenydd would go with them, so why did she, too, feel a tremor of unease?

‘May I ride Invictus one day?’ The boy looked longingly at Eleyne on the great stallion as she arranged her skirts around her.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve already told you, he’s too big for you.’

‘He’s too big for you!’ the boy retorted, and turned to his own pony, shorter by some half-dozen hands.

‘I’m the only person who rides him now,’ Eleyne said and bit her lip. It was true. Since Sir William had been hanged no one else, save the groom, had ridden the great horse. She leaned forward in the high saddle and fondled his mane. ‘You’re mine, aren’t you, my love.’

They followed the curve of the broad river south, cut behind the port of Shoreham and rode west along the coast, from time to time riding down on to the beach where, with the tide still low, they could gallop on the firm sands. By the time they returned to Bramber they were exhausted, and the horses walked slowly through the warm evening sun.

In the inner bailey they dismounted. Will came round to Eleyne and patted Invictus’s head. ‘Please let me ride him, Eleyne. He’s tired now. He won’t mind.’

‘No.’ Eleyne stuck out her chin stubbornly. ‘No one rides him but me.’

‘Oh please,’ the boy wheedled. ‘Cenydd could lift me up. Just for a minute.’

‘No!’

The air had grown cold as the shadow of the gatehouse cut out the westering sun. Somewhere in her head Eleyne could feel it again. The warning; the fear. ‘No!’ she repeated. ‘No, you can’t ride him. Not ever. No one rides him but me.’

‘What’s this?’ Margaret and her husband had appeared from the great hall. The two figures stood watching the two children, amused at their bickering.

‘She won’t let me sit on her horse, papa!’ Will whined, his voice heavy with grief. ‘I only wanted to sit on him.’

‘No one rides him but me.’ Eleyne gritted her teeth.

John de Braose came down the steps and put his hand on the stallion’s bridle. ‘This, I take it, is William’s horse?’

‘He gave him to me,’ Eleyne repeated stubbornly. ‘Will is too small. He’d be thrown.’

‘I wouldn’t, papa. I’m a good rider.’ Will, sensing parental support, was pleading, his eyes shining.

‘You don’t think him good enough?’ John raised an eyebrow in Eleyne’s direction. As always, his eyes were flattering, challenging, teasing.

‘He’s good.’ She could feel her cheeks colouring. ‘But no one rides Invictus but me.’

John looked amused. ‘You have a very high opinion of yourself, young lady. You are beautiful and talented without a doubt,’ his hand strayed to her cheek and she felt a small shiver of pleasure at his touch, ‘but I think you will find others can ride him. Here, let me.’ Firmly he took the horse’s rein from her and beckoned one of his squires. ‘Give me a leg up; I’ll see how he goes. I can certainly ride any animal Cousin William could.’ He smiled grimly. Invictus side-stepped as he reached for the high pommel of the saddle. The horse’s ears went flat and he rolled his eyes.

‘No, please,’ Eleyne whispered, white-faced. ‘You mustn’t … you can’t …’ She could feel the fear all around her now. The air was full of anguish, bitterly cold and sharp; brittle, clear and yet shimmering as though reflected in water. As the squire humped John into the saddle, the horse let out a shriek of anger and bucked. ‘Brute!’ John’s smile vanished and he dug his feet deep into the stirrup cups and jerked on the reins. Below the swirl of his long cloak Eleyne saw the huge rowels of his spurs. ‘I’ll tell you one thing: he’s not safe for any child to ride –’ He broke off as the horse, surprised and infuriated by the heavy hand on the savage bit, ran backwards for several steps and then reared up, pawing the air. John clung to the saddle, then with a cry he slipped sideways and crashed to the stone cobbles beneath the massive hooves.

No one moved. John lay absolutely still. Beneath his head a red stain spread slowly over the cobbles.

‘John?’ Margaret let out a small cry of disbelief, then flung herself towards her husband’s still, crumpled body. ‘John? John!’

Behind her the stallion stood trembling, his eyes wild as he pawed the ground. Eleyne ran to him. She soothed his neck gently, but her eyes were on her brother-in-law’s inert body.

Margaret straightened. Still on her knees, her hands on her husband’s cloak, her face was distorted with grief and shock.

‘He’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘He’s DEAD!’