He strained to hear her over the sound of the wind.
‘Your uncle is dead!’
John sat bolt upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Are you sure?’
The violence of his words made her jump. ‘I think so … I don’t know …’ Dragged from her reverie, she was confused and horrified that she had betrayed herself by telling him what she saw. But he did not reprimand her; he seemed to accept her premonition.
‘We’ll soon know.’ He stood up, clutching his cloak around his shoulders, and walked to the chair by the fireplace. When the knock came, he was sitting upright gazing fixedly across the room. Eleyne sat opposite him, still demurely wrapped in her mantle.
Imperceptibly John relaxed his shoulders against the hard, carved wood as the messenger formally relayed the news. Ranulf de Blundevill, Earl of Chester, had died at the royal palace at Wallingford on the Thames on the twenty-sixth of October.
John’s face was grey with exhaustion. ‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘at last it has happened.’
Eleyne stared at him, astonished by the feverish triumph in his eyes. ‘You’re glad he is dead?’
He shook his head in irritation. ‘Of course not! I shall order masses for the repose of his soul, but now – now I am Earl of Chester!’
Eleyne looked down at her hands. John had always been so passive; so gentle and accepting. The naked ambition flaring in his eyes frightened her. It excited her too.
She stole another look at him. It was his turn to stare into the fire, but his gaze was not dreamy. It was eager and full of determination.
IV
November 1232
In less than a month John was well enough to ride with Eleyne to the castle at Northampton. There, on the twenty-first of November, King Henry III confirmed him in his earldom.
Two days later a messenger found Eleyne as she was sitting on the dais in the crowded hall, watching the antics of some travelling acrobats who were putting on their show for the king. As they tumbled in the deep floor covering of sweet woodruff and hay, she turned to find a man bowing before her. She frowned, not immediately recognising the emblem on his shoulder.
‘I have a letter for you, my lady, from Lady Clifford.’ The man bowed.
Eleyne frowned. ‘Lady Clifford?’ She beckoned Luned forward to give the man a farthing. ‘Do I know Lady Clifford?’
Hearing her comment, the king, who was sitting close to her, turned. ‘A surprise for you, Lady Chester.’ He gave her her new title with humorous formality. ‘You know her well. Away, man.’ He jerked his thumb at the messenger. ‘It seems to be a family trait, changing your name suddenly.’ He chuckled and turned back to the show.
With a puzzled glance at him, Eleyne broke the seal and began to read the letter, oblivious of the cheers around her as the entertainers reached the climax of their routine.
Dear Sister, I know you will be surprised to read this. Walter Clifford and I were married yesterday and today we leave for his lands in the march. We have known one another for many years; Walter’s wife died two years ago, so when John was killed he asked me to be his. How strange that I shall return to live so near to Hay which John always wanted to reclaim as his own. Please understand that I am very happy.
Your loving sister,
Margaret
At the end of the letter Margaret had written a postscript: Remember my advice. Ask Uncle Henry for his assurance that, should your husband die, you too can marry the man of your choice. M.
Eleyne looked up. The king’s eyes were on her face. ‘So. The grieving widow has told you her news?’
Eleyne bit her lip. ‘I didn’t know, I never guessed.’
Henry smiled. ‘She has been in love with Walter Clifford for three years at least, I hear. De Braose’s death must have been a blessing to her – ’
‘No!’ Eleyne couldn’t believe it. ‘She loved John. And what of Will? Who will take care of Will?’
‘The boy?’ The king sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. ‘I have yet to decide who has the wardship of him. But in the meantime his grandmother is to have his care at Bramber. His mother is too taken up with her new husband to want a child of the old …’
Eleyne had thought Margaret and John so in love; she had believed every bit of her sister’s anguished mourning, and yet only four months later she was remarried. Now she understood Margaret’s insistence that she be allowed to marry a man of her choice; the man had already been chosen!
John was waiting for her in their chamber, sitting in a chair by the fire, huddled in fur wraps. His hands were cupped around some pungent steaming brew. Eleyne stopped in the doorway and looked at him for a moment before she went into the room. He was pale again, and weakened by their ride through the cold November winds – too weak to stay up for supper and the entertainment in the great hall. Eleyne felt her heart sink. When she had seen that he and she were to share a chamber, sleeping together in the great curtained bed, she had felt a frisson of excitement. Those few moments at Fotheringhay when he had looked at her and touched her as if he were aware that the child was at last a woman had frightened her and yet exhilarated her. She was excited by a longing within her body, a longing which had not been assuaged. In the bustle of the next weeks he had not tried to see her alone again, but now that they were here, and his title confirmed, she had hoped that he would once more have time for her.
‘How 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