high walls to cluck over her and try to dissuade Lord Huntingdon from letting her ride the great horse.
‘I see.’ He hid his amusement with difficulty. ‘Then perhaps you had better not bother now.’
They were accompanied by half a dozen well-mounted knights who rode behind them as they turned south beyond the castle and out of the town walls into the forest. Eleyne glanced sideways at her husband, shocked to find him mounted on a staid gelding some two hands shorter than Invictus. He rode well, but stiffly, as if ill at ease in the saddle. Gently she eased Invictus’s long stride back to match that of the smaller horse.
‘I thought you would ride a destrier,’ she said a little reproachfully after they had ridden in silence for some time, following the road out of the city and through the fields until they were beneath the new-green leaves of the oak forest.
He smiled. ‘A warhorse, for a ride in the woods? In England we cherish our valuable horses, Eleyne.’
Her cheeks coloured at the implied rebuke. ‘But it will be no race if we gallop,’ she said sadly. ‘No one here could keep up with Invictus.’ She cast a professional eye at the mounts of the escort trotting two abreast behind them.
Lord Huntingdon hid a smile. ‘I’m sorry we disappoint you. Come, why don’t we gallop now?’ Ahead of them the grassy ride broadened into an open track. He kicked his horse forward and with surprising speed it stretched its legs into a gallop.
Eleyne did not hesitate. The great stallion was like a coiled spring: as she relaxed her gentle hands he leaped forward and thundered after his companion. In seconds they had overtaken him and, leaving the others behind, streaked away up the track.
She did not rein him in for a long time, enjoying the rush of wind in her hair, the feel of the horse’s powerful muscles between her legs, the thunder of his hooves on the soft track. When at last she stopped, laughing, her hair was loose around her shoulders, her cap gone, her long skirts ridden high on her slim thighs and she was alone. The track behind her was empty.
She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, exhilarated. For a moment she was tempted to ride on and on into the forest, to be lost forever away from her husband and his escort. Then slowly she walked the horse back the way they had come.
She thought he would be angry with her, but his frown was one only of concern. ‘What if you had run into trouble? No one could have saved you.’
‘I don’t get into trouble. I’ve never fallen off in my life –’ She was conscious of the admiring smiles, scarcely hidden, of the men around them, and she found herself sitting a little straighter.
‘I am sure you haven’t.’ He was smiling too. ‘But you might have met undesirable company. The march is a nest of robbers and thieves and outlaws. That is why the wife of an earl must always have an escort. Does Cenydd manage to keep up with you?’ He threw her a quizzical glance.
She smiled at him unrepentantly. ‘Only if I let him.’
‘And you let him the day you swam the strait?’ He hid a smile.
She blushed and nodded. ‘He saved my life.’
‘One day, Eleyne, I think you must tell me the story of the great swim, but in the meantime I think you must only ride Invictus if you promise to hold him in,’ he said gently. ‘Sir William bequeathed him to you and as far as I am concerned, he is your horse, but only if you ride him slowly. I want your promise.’ His face was stern.
Her eyes were shining. ‘I promise.’ Then she frowned. ‘Don’t you want to ride him yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve been ill, Eleyne. I can’t ride fast yet. My bones are stiff and my body aches.’ He laughed. ‘But I improve daily and I shan’t long be able to resist the challenge of having a wife who can outride me, I promise you. When I am recovered, I shall borrow him back and test his paces myself.’
XI
It took many days for the huge household to ride across England, and as they did so Rhonwen grew more and more depressed. The country was heavily forested, dull beneath lowering wet skies, even though around them hawthorn erupted in the hedges and the trees were full of birdsong as they crossed broad, shallow, slow-moving rivers and threaded their way across the flat central spine of England. From time to time they climbed hills and rode between small neat fields, the strips of crops showing green beneath the rain, but they had left the great mountains of Wales far behind and with them any hope of reprieve. No word had come from Einion, no ray of hope or explanation how his plans for Eleyne could have gone so far astray. She looked often at Eleyne, riding the cream mare some paces behind her husband, huddled in her cloak against the driving rain, and wondered what the child was thinking.
With every step their journey took them farther and farther from the land of their birth towards a new, strange life, but Eleyne was silent, her eyes only now and then flicking to left or right to note some aspect of the scenery they passed. The sense of desolation, which had swiftly replaced her initial excitement when they had set out on their journey, was overwhelming. The long days in the saddle, moving slowly but inexorably south and east, weighed on her, and it gave her time to think. There was no way now of avoiding the pictures which kept returning to her mind of the gallows; of her mother’s bed and of Sir William’s handsome face, and his rueful smile as he walked towards his death. Had he known? Had he known who it was who had betrayed him?
Again and again she tried to close her mind to the horror, tried to fight the guilt and remorse which threatened to overwhelm her. And again and again she failed. Hourly, or so it seemed to Rhonwen, her face grew more pinched and white and the shadows darker beneath her eyes.
XII
FOTHERINGHAY CASTLE
Lord Huntingdon called Eleyne to him three weeks after they arrived. ‘I have had a letter from your father.’
He was still tired after the long journey, but the frailty and misery in the child’s eyes dismayed him far more than his own failing health. Her face lit however at the mention of her father and she went to him eagerly. So, after all, he missed her as much as she missed him; he was calling her home; it must be that. Her eyes on her husband’s face, she waited for him to hand it to her, but he held it curling loosely in his hand. There had been no message for Llywelyn’s daughter in the long document, no piece of news of home which he could tell her, save one. ‘Your father tells me your brother, Dafydd, is to be married soon to Isabella de Braose,’ he said after a pause. ‘It appears the wedding is to take place as though nothing has happened. She has arrived at Aber.’
‘Isabella?’ Eleyne looked stricken. ‘But I wanted to be there.’ Somewhere deep inside herself she had kept the hope that her father would relent, that he would allow her back for the wedding – the event she and Isabella had dreamed of and planned together for so long.
‘I am sure you’ll see her soon.’ Instead of giving her the letter he dropped it into a coffer and locked it, then he turned back to her and smiled. ‘So, how do you like this part of the country?’
‘Well enough, my lord.’ Crestfallen, she dragged her eyes away from the casket where the letter had disappeared, trying to hide her disappointment, and she forced a shy smile. She had seen little yet. The weather had been too wet for riding, but the rooms to which she and Rhonwen and her ladies had been shown were comfortable and richly appointed. Fotheringhay, one of the chief castles of the huge Honour of Huntingdon, was a large stone-built fortress set beside the River Nene in Northamptonshire amid a gentle landscape of flat meadows and fields, of fen and forest. The village outside its walls was small, augmented by a church and a nunnery of Cluniac sisters.
At Fotheringhay they kept considerable state, and the household had swiftly fallen into its routine. Lord Huntingdon was rich. He was important. His household was larger by far than even her