And yet it was she who had told her father of Sir William’s treachery; she who had set the chain of events in motion. She had been given the chance to alter the course of history and she had not understood.
‘Eleyne, we can go now.’ Rhonwen came between her and the gallows and put her arm gently around her shoulders.
Eleyne was clinging desperately to her self-control. She pushed aside Rhonwen’s arm.
Why? Why had she not understood? She could have stopped it. She could have saved his life!
Trembling, she stood still, not seeing the crowds of people streaming past her, some with sympathetic glances for the child.
Rhonwen frowned unhappily. ‘Come back to your room, cariad,’ she whispered. ‘There’s nothing to stay for here.’
‘I saw it and I didn’t understand.’ Eleyne’s voice was husky. In the distance she could hear the whistling of the shore birds, feeding on the sands.
‘Didn’t understand what?’ Rhonwen ached to take her in her arms. She saw Llywelyn, his face a mask of pain and anger, walking slowly by. He did not glance at his white-faced daughter.
‘The hanging.’ Eleyne’s words were almost inaudible. ‘I saw it in the fire …’
Rhonwen closed her eyes and murmured a prayer.
‘I could have stopped it. If I had learned how to control the visions I could have saved him …’
‘No, sweetheart, no.’ Rhonwen hugged her now and this time Eleyne did not push her away.
‘But don’t you see? That’s why I was allowed to see it. I could have warned him. I could have.’ Suddenly the storm of tears broke. Sobbing, Eleyne clung to her. ‘I could have stopped it, I should have. That was why I saw it in the fire. And yet it was me who betrayed him. Me …’ Her voice broke and she choked on her sobs. ‘Why couldn’t I have saved him?’
Rhonwen frowned at the sky. ‘Perhaps that was because it was his destiny,’ she whispered.
XXIII
7 May 1230
Einion was with the prince when Llywelyn sent at last for his youngest daughter.
‘You cannot stay at Aber.’ Llywelyn looked down at the slight figure of the child with cold dislike.
‘Sir, now would be a good time for me to take her to Llanfaes.’ Einion stepped forward quickly. There had been no opportunity to speak to the child alone; he knew what she must be feeling; the fear, the uncertainty, the overwhelming guilt. He alone knew what she knew, had seen what she had seen in the fire. ‘I have already spoken to you of the little princess’s future at your side – ’
‘She has no future at my side,’ Llywelyn snapped. He closed his eyes bitterly. Every time in the last few days that he set eyes on Eleyne it was the same: she reminded him of the night when his world had crashed about his ears. His tender fondness for her had been eclipsed by anger and heartache. Now he almost hated her.
‘Then, sir, may I take her back to Degannwy, to Prince Gruffydd.’ Rhonwen stepped forward.
Llywelyn shook his head. ‘No.’ He stood up slowly. ‘My mind is made up. There is no longer a home for her in Wales. Eleyne, you will go to your husband; your place is at his side now.’
There was a stunned silence. Eleyne looked from her father’s closed face to Rhonwen, who had gone white. She could not think clearly; her mind was numbed by her father’s words.
Einion’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘Sir, this cannot be. She is too young, and her place is here, in Gwynedd.’
‘She is not too young.’ Llywelyn looked from one to the other, grimly. ‘All is arranged. She leaves tomorrow. I do not wish to see my daughter again.’
1230–1241
I
ABER
The prince’s guards were at Eleyne’s door; Princess Joan’s ladies – those who had not been dismissed or followed their mistress into captivity – crowded the nursery quarters packing great coffers full of clothes and bedding and gifts. Although he refused even to bid Eleyne farewell, Llywelyn had made sure that she would leave Aber with a train suitable for a princess and a bride.
Eleyne sat silently amidst all the activity, frozen with unhappiness, unable to bring herself to believe what was happening to her. It had been so sudden. She could eat no supper and that night she lay awake fighting her tears. She could not go to the stable. The rooms were guarded. Beside her Luned slept heavily, worn out with excitement, for she too was to go to Chester.
Eleyne groped for her pillow and hugged it to her miserably, her brain whirling. Her husband was a man; he would want to take her to his bed; he would want to do the things that William de Braose had done to her mother – William whose body was still hanging out there in the darkness, carrion for the crows. She clung to the pillow, feeling sick panic clutch at her stomach. She could have saved him. She could have saved herself. She bit her lip, pressing her small, thin body harder into the feather bed, unconsciously clamping her thighs together in the darkness.
The line of wagons and carts and the escort of armed men stretched for over a mile as the party made its way north-east along the coast road, across the Conwy and, following the old Roman road to St Asaphs, over Afon Clwyd, turned south at last on to the flat lands of Dee. Riding behind Eleyne and Rhonwen came Cenydd and Luned, Luned mounted on Cadi. Somewhere behind them one of the knights led Invictus. Llywelyn had decreed that the horse might be a suitable gift for his son-in-law.
Eleyne’s face was white and strained. There were dark rings beneath her eyes. ‘What is he like, can you remember?’ She rode closer to Rhonwen, her small hands steady on the gilded leather rein of her mother’s favourite cream-coloured mare, an outcast as she was from the purge at Aber. She was very afraid.
‘The Earl of Huntingdon?’ Rhonwen too was numb with shock. ‘He’s nephew to the great Earl of Chester, and a prince of Scotland. That’s all I know. And he is waiting at Chester Castle to meet us.’ She tightened her lips. How could Einion have let this happen? Why, when Eleyne had been given to the goddess, had he been unable to prevent it? She closed her eyes wearily and eased herself in the saddle.
Eleyne edged her mare even closer to Rhonwen’s, so that
