are you feeling, my lord?’ She approached him and laid a timid hand on his arm.
He leaned back in the chair and smiled at her. ‘Much rested, I’m glad to say. How did you leave the king?’
She smiled. ‘In good humour. He hopes you will feel better tomorrow.’
‘I’m better now.’ He was watching her closely. ‘Becoming Earl of Chester seems to have done me nothing but good.’ There was no mistaking the message in his eyes as he pulled her towards him and put his arm around her waist. ‘Here, fill up my goblet and have some yourself. The spiced wine is excellent.’ With a gesture, he dismissed the attendants who hovered behind him. ‘Now, come here.’ He caught her hand and pulled her on to his knee. ‘Do you have a kiss for your husband, Eleyne?’
His kiss was firm and light and tasted of cinnamon and mace and ginger. Closing her eyes, she returned it shyly, astonished at the excitement which paralysed her lungs and sent prickles of anticipation up and down her spine. Strangely comfortable perching on his knees, she relaxed into his arms and nuzzled his neck fondly as he began to unfasten her braids, letting her hair fall loose. Then he was opening the neck of her gown, his fingers straying inside, seeking her breasts. Eleyne caught her breath and, misunderstanding, he frowned. ‘It is not too soon.’ His words were lost in her hair. ‘You are a woman now …’
‘I know, I know.’ Shyly she kissed his cheek then, unable to stop herself, his throat, and even his chest beneath the cool linen of his tunic, feeling her excitement rise with his. At last the moment had come; at last he was going to make her his. She gasped as his fingers tightened over her breast and eagerly she began to pull at the fastening on his tunic.
He paused as his wandering fingers dislodged the letter she had tucked into her bodice. ‘What’s this?’ His voice was teasing. ‘A love letter from one of your admirers?’
Eleyne smiled. ‘Of course, my lord, what else?’ she said coquettishly. ‘My beauty has not gone unnoticed, you know.’
He laughed, holding the letter up between finger and thumb. ‘What do I do if my wife receives love letters? Do I beat her? Do I challenge the writer to single combat? Or do I admire him for his good taste and condone his billets doux and poems?’
She was giggling now, her fingers gently playing with the curls of his hair. ‘It’s from my sister, Margaret,’ she whispered.
‘A likely tale.’ Shifting her more comfortably into the crook of his arm, he began to unfold the letter.
‘It is! She has remarried and goes back to live in the Welsh march.’ Her eyes strayed to the looped flamboyant writing on her sister’s letter, the shadows of the candelabra dancing on the crackling parchment. Suddenly, through the mists of contentment, Eleyne remembered her sister’s postscript. She tensed. ‘Please. May I have it?’ She put out her hand. But he held it out of her reach, bringing it into the light of the candles. ‘Surely you have no secrets from your husband.’ He was reading, a scowl between his eyes. There was a long silence when he had finished.
Then: ‘I’m sorry. I have a cramp.’ He tipped her from his lap without ceremony and stood up. Dropping the letter on to the chair, he walked over to the fire, and stood looking down into the flames. ‘So you expect me to die soon and leave you free to marry the man of your choice.’
‘No!’ She ran to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘No, it’s not like that. Margaret said – ’
‘Margaret!’ He spun to face her, throwing off her hand. ‘Margaret has some excellent advice for her little sister which you obviously discussed together – was it before John de Braose died or after? Perhaps it was a plan you both hatched to have him ride that accursed horse, to free your sister to marry her lover. Was that it?’ His face was white with anger. ‘Holy Virgin, but I’ve been mistaken in my estimation of you, my lady! Was I to ride it too? Was that the plan? It would be so much easier, wouldn’t it, for me to fall, sick and feeble as I am! Or perhaps you had decided not to bother with helping my demise along. After all, I’m likely to die soon anyway!’ His face was hard and angry, his lips white as he glared at her.
‘No.’ Eleyne was beside herself with anguish. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. You must believe me, please.’ He had pushed past her, making for the door. ‘Please listen, let me explain – ’
‘No explanations are needed.’ For a fraction of a second she saw the devastation in his eyes. ‘Do you have a lover, Eleyne? Is that it? Or is there someone you want to marry? Someone you prefer to me?’ He looked away. ‘Suffice to say, my dear, that in future I shall be on my guard.’
She stared at the door for a long time after he had slammed it shut, then she turned miserably towards the bed she had hoped to be sharing with him and threw herself on to his pillow, kneading her fingers deep into the silk-covered down.
V
CEMAES, ANGLESEY
Isabella was walking in the gardens of the llys, ignoring the wet, straggling grasses which caught at the hem of her gown. She lifted her face to the unseasonably warm sun and closed her eyes, feeling gratefully the gentle heat on her skin. A gaggle of ladies followed, the garden noisy with their chatter and laughter, but she was paying them no attention. The pain had returned: a low, nagging ache in her back, coupled with a strange tiredness which frightened her. She stopped, conscious of how wet her shoes were. Behind her the ladies stopped too, their conversation unabated.
Princess Joan was resting indoors. She often rested now and, from time to time, her hand went unobtrusively to her stomach, as if she too had a pain. Isabella wasn’t interested. All she cared about was her coming child. Was it all going to be this unpleasant? The nausea; the inability to keep any food down, save a warm milk pap and gentle syllabubs; the aching and the tiredness; the strange tenderness of her skin which made her hate it when Dafydd touched her, as he still did sometimes when he was there, laughing off her pleas that he leave her alone in her pregnancy. The women laughed too while they clucked around her; they cosseted her and gave her the food she asked for and held the basin when she vomited, but they still laughed and nodded their heads and said it was the same for everyone; it would pass; soon she would be better. She took a deep breath, trying to master the pain in her back, wishing she had not decided on this walk and had elected to retire to her bedchamber.
From her seat on the wall Rhonwen watched her sourly. Isabella was pasty-faced, bloated from the coming baby, though it was early yet for that; more likely it was her constant nibbling at sweetmeats. The girl looked unhealthy and discontented. Rhonwen hid a smile. For the first months of the marriage Dafydd had stayed close to his bride, petting her, stroking her under the chin, fondling her before the world, clearly delighted with her charms; but now, bored with her company perhaps or sated with bedding her, his duty done as her pregnancy had become obvious, he had left with his father for Caernarfon and Isabella had been left alone with the womenfolk. Rhonwen’s eyes narrowed. She had not forgiven Isabella that letter to Eleyne. She saw Isabella stop and put her hand to her back, discomfort plain on her face. Her ladies, too preoccupied with their chatter to notice their mistress’s distress, did not see as she leaned against the wall of the small windswept bower and tried to catch her breath.
Rhonwen stood up and approached her cautiously, half expecting to be dismissed, but Isabella did not seem to have noticed her.
‘Are you unwell, highness?’ Rhonwen saw the superstitious fear in Isabella’s eyes as she noticed
