Читать книгу Child of the Phoenix - Barbara Erskine - Страница 90

Isabella could not hide her resentment and Eleyne felt it as soon as she walked into the room. The girl’s look was hard and full of enmity in the streaming light of the torches; her dark eyes were calculating. ‘So, you came back on your own.’

A gale had risen, screaming across the sea from the north-west, pounding the waves against the shore, rattling the window screens in the palace. Isabella clutched her wrap around her bulky body and sat in the chair nearest the hearth. Around her, her ladies, shivering too in the draughty hall, gathered as close as they could to the fire. Eleyne stood alone in the centre of the floor and felt the wave of hostility crest and topple towards her like one of the fat breakers on the beach below. Her heart sank. How could she have thought that she and Isabella could still be friends?

‘My husband was too busy to leave Chester at the moment,’ she said calmly.

‘I heard he couldn’t wait to get rid of you,’ Isabella retorted pertly. ‘Little princess icicle they call you, did you know? One of my ladies said the pages were betting long odds you would still be a virgin when you were twenty!’

Eleyne felt the colour mounting in her cheeks. Not all the sniggers from the listening women had been stifled; in fact, one or two had laughed out loud, their eyes brazen and mocking.

‘I don’t know what you mean!’ She raised her chin.

‘I mean, sister,’ Isabella emphasised the word sarcastically, ‘that if your husband had bedded you, you would have been with child long before this. Besides, it is well known you keep separate rooms!’

Eleyne thought she saw one or two of the women bow their heads, embarrassed by their mistress’s waspishness, and she was comforted by it. Her initial hurt was passing and she felt her own temper rising. She clenched her fists.

‘My private life is none of your business, Bella,’ she retorted. ‘But at least my husband and I live in the same town.’ She closed her mind firmly to the fact that now they did nothing of the sort. ‘My brother, I hear, has taken to putting the breadth of Gwynedd between you and him.’ She turned on her heel, and walked, head high, across the chamber, conscious every step of the way of the staring eyes following her.

‘Murderer!’

Eleyne stopped. For a moment she wondered if she had heard aright. Isabella’s whisper carried as clearly as would a shout across the body of the large room. She turned, her face white, her eyes hard.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said “murderer”,’ Isabella repeated defiantly. She eyed Eleyne warily. ‘Why not? It’s what you are. You killed my father.’

The silence was total in the solar. Only the shifting of the fire stirred the breath-held tension. Eleyne was perfectly calm. Her temper ran cold as ice. ‘Your father was a traitor. He seduced my mother and betrayed my father’s friendship,’ she said, her voice completely steady. ‘He betrayed you and he betrayed me without a thought. I didn’t sentence him to die, but it was the fate he deserved. My father,’ she paused, ‘had no choice but to send him to the death for which he had asked.’ Conscious of the eyes fixed on her back, she walked slowly from the room, aware of a strange calm dignity, of the certainty that she was right.

Surprised at her coolness, she paused outside the door and examined her feelings with detachment. It was as if she had walked through an archway which led directly from childhood to adulthood. It was a step from which there was no turning back: yesterday she would have run from the room, shaking with anger, to throw herself upon her bed, pounding the pillows with frustration and fury; today, when she regained her bedchamber it was at a thoughtful walk.

Through the strange osmosis by which news and gossip spread through the palace, Rhonwen had already heard of the altercation. She laughed wryly. ‘You touched a sensitive place there, cariad. The child was upset when Dafydd left her. She worships him you know, but now he’s got a baby on her he’s away.’

Eleyne sat down on the bed. ‘Why is she so cruel?’

‘You must try to understand how she feels.’ Rhonwen noticed her calmness and was uneasy. ‘She has to blame someone; and she’s always been jealous of you.’

‘I thought she was my friend.’ Wearily Eleyne drew her legs up beneath her skirts.

‘A fair-weather friend only,’ Rhonwen said gently. ‘And a dangerous enemy, cariad. You must watch your back when that young woman is around, indeed.’

It was hard to avoid anyone in the crowded palace over Christmas, confined as they were by the icy winds and the horizontal storms of sleet and soft snow which tore the last clinging dead leaves from the trees over the river, and brought the swirling brown waters down in spate. Eleyne kept as much as possible to her own rooms and to those of her mother, with whom she had several more quiet thoughtful talks.

Her father arrived late one night with an escort of ten men. Their torches spat and hissed in the wind; their fur cloaks were encrusted with frozen snow. Eleyne waited behind her mother, watching as Llywelyn tramped into the hall shouting greetings to his people. He did not see his youngest daughter until he was a few strides from her. For a moment father and daughter stared at each other in silence. Eleyne wanted to throw herself into his arms but she held back, her eyes on his face. He did not smile. A silence fell over the men and women around them. At last it was Joan who spoke. ‘Welcome, my husband. Do you see who is here to spend Christmas with us?’

Eleyne stepped forward and curtseyed low. ‘Papa,’ she said.

Her father put out his hand and took hers. ‘You are welcome here, daughter,’ he said quietly. But he did not hug her and within seconds he had turned away.

It was a week later, after the supper tables had been cleared and the prince had retired to a private room with Ednyfed Fychan, the archdeacon of St Asaph’s and several others among his closest companions and advisers, that the household, led by Princess Joan, settled themselves comfortably to hear a new harper from the land of Cornwall far to the south. Joan beckoned Eleyne to the seat next to her and Eleyne, with a look at Isabella who was scowling as usual, took the place with a smile, watching the grave young man before them lovingly tuning his instrument.

Her eyes wandered over the assembled company, men and women most of whom she had known all her life. There were some strangers, but they were seated in the body of the hall, their faces lost in the light and shadow of the wall sconces with their flaring smoky lights. All were quiet now, replete after their meal and eager to hear the new musician – all loving music, all appreciative, all critical of whatever offering was to come. Her gaze strayed back to the dais where the immediate family sat – all except her father – to Isabella, slumped in her chair, the bloated mound of her belly making it impossible for her to be comfortable. Even as Eleyne watched, she saw the young woman, who had ostentatiously turned her seat away from Eleyne, move awkwardly, obviously in some distress, her hand pressed against her side. Eleyne felt an overwhelming wave of sadness at the sight of her.

The first warm, enticing chords of the music drew her attention back to the performer and she was lost in the magic arpeggios of sound, her spine straight against the carved wooden chairback, her hands resting loosely on its arms, aware of the subtle change in the attention of the audience around her. The first notes had told them that this man was a master, equal to the best of their own harpers. Reassured, the audience sat back to enjoy the evening.

Isabella’s scream cut the music short in mid-sweep, and there was total horrified silence in the hall. Then it was repeated, echoing eerily in the smoky rafters as Isabella half slipped, half threw herself from her chair, clutching her belly.

It took five agonised hours for her to lose the baby, during which time no corner of the palace seemed free of her screams. Rhonwen, her pot of healing salve in her hands, ran at once to help, but Isabella took one look at her and screamed again.

‘Murderess! Sorceress! You did this. You! You did it for her. You hag! You witch!’ Words failed her and once more she clutched in agony at the bed rail above her head. Rhonwen stood staring at the suffering girl, then slipped without a word from the room.

She put the pot of salve on the coffer near Eleyne and regarded it sadly. ‘She is blaming me,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘She claims I did it for you.’

Eleyne grew cold. ‘For me?’ she echoed. They stared at each other in the shadowy room. The only sound was the moan of the wind. ‘Did you?’ Eleyne’s whisper was barely audible.