Barbara Erskine - Child of the Phoenix

‘Sweet Christ!’ She pressed her hands against her ears. ‘Why don’t they do something, Rhonwen? The horses! For Bride’s sake, save the horses! Invictus! Where is Sir William?’

A flame ran along the top of the wall, where the wooden scaffolding had rested, and shot across the archway to the door of the main hall.

Eleyne was rooted to the spot, sobbing with shock. ‘Rhonwen, do something! Where are Isabella and the others? Rhonwen!’

She felt Rhonwen put her arms around her, restraining her, and she pulled away violently. Her nose and mouth were full of smoke, her eyes streaming. ‘Help them. We have to help them!’

‘Eleyne, listen to me!’

She was aware that Rhonwen was shaking her by the shoulders.

‘Eleyne! There is no fire!’ Rhonwen slapped her face hard.

The shock pulled Eleyne up short. Trembling violently, she stared round. The fire had gone. The spring evening was as it had been; the robin still sat on a pile of earth near the bed of knitbone, and as she stared at the bird it began to sing its thin sweet trill into the clear air.

‘What happened?’ Eleyne swallowed hard. She was shaking uncontrollably as she stared round her. ‘There was fire everywhere – ’

‘You had a nightmare.’ Briskly Rhonwen pulled off her cloak and wrapped it around Eleyne’s shoulders. ‘You dozed off for a moment and you had some sort of a bad dream, that’s all. It is all over now. There is nothing to be afraid of.’

‘But I wasn’t asleep – ’

‘You were asleep, cariad!’ In her agitation Rhonwen spoke harshly. She put her arms around the child again. ‘You were so tired you fell asleep where you stood. It is what I told you before. Too much running around the castle at night and not enough rest. You come now, to bed. Do you understand? Then I shall find you some broth in the kitchens and I’ll put some valerian in it to make you sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning and tomorrow I’ll speak to the Lady Gwladus again about going home.’

She gave Eleyne no time to argue. Hustling her inside, she propelled her up the winding stair to the high bedchamber. There she pulled off the girl’s shoes and pushed her, fully dressed, into the bed. Pulling the covers over her, she sat down for a moment beside her, chafing Eleyne’s hands in her own. ‘Don’t think about your nightmare, child. Think about something nice. Think about the horse. He’s well and safe and nothing will happen to him. Perhaps tomorrow you can ride him again.’

Eleyne looked up at her with frightened eyes. The concession alarmed her. ‘You are sure the dream won’t come back?’

‘Quite sure!’ Rhonwen spoke emphatically. At last it had happened, the thing she had dreaded for so many years. A cold breath of icy wind had reached out and touched the child she thought of as her daughter: the kiss of Bride’s fingers. She closed her eyes, holding Eleyne’s hand. When Einion found out she would lose her to him and what would she do then?

‘Rhonwen?’ Eleyne’s voice was still hoarse from her screams. ‘I’m cold.’

Rhonwen pulled another coverlet over her. ‘Wait. I’ll build up the fire, then I’ll go down and get you something hot to drink.’

Reaching into the basket, she threw a couple of logs on to the fire, then with a glance over her shoulder towards the bed, let herself out of the room.

Eleyne lay still for a moment, then she sat up and, pulling the coverlet around her shoulders, she crept out of the bed. She stopped several feet from the fire and stood staring down at it. The damp bark threw off a thick aromatic smoke. She could smell the different woods – the sweetness of apple, the spiciness of oak, the sharp resin of pine; see the red and blue flames licking over the fissures in the bark, just as they had licked up the walls of the tower. She shivered violently. Whatever Rhonwen said, she had not had a dream. She had been awake and she knew what had happened. At last the strange other world, which before she had only glimpsed, had broken through the fragile barrier of her mind.

ABER, GWYNEDD
September 1228

‘You cannot prevent me from seeing my father!’

Gruffydd ap Llywelyn smashed his fist down on to the table. ‘Where is he?’

‘He is not here!’ His half-brother Dafydd looked at him coldly. ‘Here’ was the ty hir, the long stone-built house which formed the royal family’s private living quarters in the palace or llys at Aber on the northern edge of Gwynedd, nestling on its hillside on the edge of the mountains of Eryri, overlooking the sea and the Isle of Anglesey.

‘You are lying!’

Gruffydd swung round to face his small sister who was standing miserably between them. ‘Where is he, cariad?’

‘He’s not here – Dafydd’s telling the truth.’ Eleyne looked from one brother to the other unhappily. Their father had ridden towards Shrewsbury to meet his wife who had gone three weeks before to try to intervene in the quarrels between her husband and the King of England. In the continuing problems over the Welsh borders between Llywelyn and her half-brother, King Henry III, Princess Joan had proved herself an able and intelligent ambassador. That her efforts were all intended to ensure her son Dafydd’s succession over Gruffydd’s had not endeared her to the latter, nor to his followers.

‘And in Shrewsbury she has tried yet again to interfere on Gwynedd’s behalf with the English king, I suppose!’ Gruffydd turned away in exasperation. ‘Dear God in heaven! Can father not see what she is doing?’

‘She is working for peace, Gruffydd,’ Dafydd put in smoothly. ‘By negotiating with her brother.’

‘Her brother!’ Gruffyd exploded into anger. ‘King Henry recognises her as his sister now it suits him. Not so long ago she was just another of King John’s bastards!’

‘How dare you!’ Dafydd had his hand on his dagger. ‘My mother was declared legitimate by Pope Honorious III. And at least she’s married to our father.’ He laughed harshly. ‘You are the bastard here, brother, and father can’t wait to disown you, from all I see.’

Gruffydd let out an oath. ‘That is not true!’ he shouted. ‘My father respects and honours me as he honoured my mother under Welsh law.’

‘Does he?’ Dafydd smiled. ‘We shall see. If I were you, I should leave Aber now. Father knows what you have been up to – abusing his trust – working against him and against me, and he has sworn to clip your wings.’

Gruffydd’s face was white with anger. Controlling himself with an effort, he turned his back on Dafydd and smiled grimly at Eleyne. ‘When will father return? I need to see him.’

She shrugged. ‘Soon.’ She wanted to reach out and touch his hand, soothe his anger, just as much as she wanted to leap at Dafydd and scratch his eyes. She did neither. She was learning, slowly, not to become involved in her brothers’ quarrels. As Dafydd had grown to manhood it became harder to pass their hatred off as jealousy and sibling rivalry. Llywelyn’s determination to put his younger son first in everything had sown a deadly seed; instinctively Eleyne knew this was a quarrel which neither could win and where she should try not to take sides.

‘Is it true that Sir William de Braose has taken the field against father?’ she asked, trying to change the subject. She bit her lip. Since his championship of her wish to ride his charger at Hay six months before, she had retained a secret fondness for Isabella’s father.

‘It is.’ Gruffydd laughed harshly. ‘The father of the bride! How embarrassing for you, Dafydd bach. How do you feel about your prospective wife now?’

Eleyne stared unhappily from one brother to the other. Gruffydd, older by some six years, was a short fiery-headed man with brilliant angry eyes. His broad shoulders and muscular build made him seem larger than Dafydd, though they were of roughly the same height. Dafydd, his pale gold hair cut long on his neck, his eyes green like his sister’s, was the more handsome of the two. And the calmer. He had long ago perfected the art of goading his brother to fury and standing back to watch the results.

Now he was looking grim. ‘There will be other ladies for me to marry. Isabella de Braose is no great loss.’

‘But you must marry Isabella!’ Eleyne cried. She saw her cherished plans vanishing before her eyes. ‘It’s not her fault that Sir William has to fight for King Henry. Once you are married, he won’t fight any more.’

‘Oh sweet naive sister!’ Dafydd was exasperated. ‘You don’t understand anything. You’re just a child!’

‘I do understand!’ She stamped her foot. ‘He must still want Isabella to marry you. Gwladus won’t be a de Braose any more now Sir Reginald is dead and he needs the marriage to keep the alliance. Besides, you are a prince.’

‘But not the true heir,’ Gruffydd put in quietly. ‘No doubt he has noticed that fact. What a shame for de Braose that the true heir to Gwynedd is already married.’ Gruffydd’s wife, Senena, had recently given birth to their second son, who had promptly and tactfully been named Llywelyn after his grandfather.

‘You are not, and never will be, his heir!’ Dafydd put in, through gritted teeth. ‘The eldest you may be, but bastards can’t inherit!’

‘I am the heir by Welsh law and custom!’ Gruffydd hit the table with his fist.

Dafydd smiled. ‘But I have been acknowledged heir by father; by King Henry, by the pope, and by the people. That doesn’t leave much doubt, does it? Welsh custom has been dropped and feudal rules of tenure accepted. Now we all know where we stand! And you, brother, don’t stand anywhere.’ He picked up his cloak which had been lying across the table, and swinging it over his shoulders he walked out of the room.