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a daughter of the prince, lived here, was torture to her. They represented the loathed English who had insinuated themselves into the principalities over the last century and a half, and she could see no good coming of the prince’s desire to be allied to them. Her knuckles whitened. William had publicly challenged her; he had overruled her authority over Eleyne, an authority vested in her by the prince himself. For that, one day, she would make him pay. The de Braoses had fallen once from their power and influence in the March. Why should they not fall again?

      VIII

      It was many hours before Eleyne returned and when she did she was careful to avoid Rhonwen. Exhilarated, tired, her face streaked with mud thrown up by the thundering hooves, her hair tangled and her gown torn, she was happier than she had ever been. Leaving the stables with considerable reluctance, she looked around the courtyard. There was no sign of Isabella or her sisters. They had been there when Eleyne rode in so proudly at Thomas’s side, and they had swarmed around as Eleyne dismounted. Then a maid had come to fetch them. The Lady Eva, their mother, wanted them indoors.

      As the shadows lengthened across the cobblestones she stood for a moment watching the builders swarming over the castle walls. Wisps of hay danced and spun in the wind; a rowan tree, heavy with fruit, tossed its branches near the smithy.

      She was seeing everything with a strange intensity: she noticed every detail of the stones the hod carriers lifted up the walls; the flakes and holes in the rough porous surfaces, the old dried lichen. She noticed the details of the men’s faces, the different textures of their skins – some rough and weatherbeaten, one soft and downy as a child. She saw the clumps of primroses and cowslips, heartsease, the flowers intense purple and yellow, streaked with hair lines of black, and melissa with its glossy rumpled leaves, strays from the herb gardens, which had rooted at the foot of the walls.

      Eleyne frowned. She was there again – the shadowy figure – watching the masons at their work. She was less distinct today, a wraith against the stone, fading, then gone.

      Rhonwen was watching Eleyne from the shelter of the wall with its forest of scaffolding. She had watched the child ride in, and had forced herself not to run to the stable to meet her. She could see Eleyne’s face, read fifty paces away the child’s happiness, and she knew this was not the moment to go to her. This was a moment for Eleyne to treasure; a triumph she needed to savour alone, without the woman who had been her nurse. Time enough to speak to her later.

      Rhonwen had thought about it often, dreading the moment when it would come, but this was what growing up would be from now on for this spirited and wayward girl. Steps to independence through defiance and even, sometimes, deceit. If she wanted to keep Eleyne’s love and trust, she must know when to accept rebellion however hard it proved to be. For she had come to realise over the years that keeping Eleyne’s love was something she had to do. The child was her whole life; without her she would be nothing.

      She frowned. Eleyne was listening again, her head cocked at an angle, her whole body alert, the recent ride momentarily forgotten. Watching her, Rhonwen felt the small hairs on her arms and at the back of her neck rise in warning. She pulled her cloak around her and stepped out into the cold evening sunlight.

      Eleyne looked up at Rhonwen and smiled. The warmth and love in the smile soothed and cajoled, even if her words made Rhonwen frown.

      ‘She’s here again. Can’t you feel her?’

      ‘You’re talking nonsense, my lady!’ But Rhonwen glanced around in spite of herself. Oh yes, she was there, the strange presence who watched over Hay Castle. Rhonwen could sense her too, but she had no intention of encouraging the child: not yet. There had been too many nightmares – mostly Isabella’s – already.

      ‘Where is Isabella, child? I thought she would have found you by now?’ Rhonwen straightened the girl’s gown and rubbed at a pale streak of mortar dust on the red wool. The tear would have to wait until later.

      ‘Their mother called them all inside.’ Eleyne went to elaborate lengths to avoid Rhonwen’s eye.

      ‘Why?’

      Shrugging, Eleyne drew a line in the dust with the point of her shoe.

      ‘Had you been frightening them with ghost stories again?’

      ‘They’re not stories! All I said this morning was, look, she’s watching us, and Isabella screamed.’ Eleyne’s chin set firmly. ‘She was, Rhonwen. The Lady. She often watches us.’

      ‘I see.’ Rhonwen sat down on a piece of rough-hewn stone waiting its turn to be shaped and hauled up the scaffolding. Now was obviously not the time to talk about the ride. ‘So, tell me, what does she look like, this lady of yours?’

      ‘She’s very tall, and her hair is a deep dark red, a bit like mine, and her eyes are grey-green and gold and alive like river water in the sun.’

      ‘And do you know who she is, this lady?’ Rhonwen asked cautiously. She remembered suddenly Gwladus’s words, She’s still here, you know, Reginald’s mother. She haunts the castle…. Reginald’s mother, Matilda de Braose, the Lady of Hay, who had built this castle, some said with her own hands.

      Eleyne shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I expect she lived here. She is someone who loved this place. Sometimes I see her up on the walls with the masons.’ She giggled. ‘If they could see her too, they’d fall off with fright!’

      ‘But she doesn’t frighten you?’ Rhonwen stared up at the high new curtain wall.

      ‘Oh, no. I think she likes me.’

      ‘How do you know?’ If it were Reginald’s mother, this ghost of Hay, would she, who had been so brutally murdered by King John, really like this child, in whose veins ran that tainted royal blood? She shuddered.

      ‘I just know,’ Eleyne said. ‘Otherwise she wouldn’t let me see her, would she?’ She stooped and pulled at Rhonwen’s hand. ‘Let’s go in. I must change my gown before we eat, and I’m starving!’

      As the innocent words echoed around the courtyard, Rhonwen paled. Secretly she made the sign against evil, as she glanced into the shadows. ‘She doesn’t know,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘Please forgive her, she doesn’t know how you died.’

      As they walked towards the door they stopped at the sound of shouting coming from near the blacksmith’s shed. A man from Gwynedd had pulled a man from Hay by the nose, a knife had been drawn and within seconds a dozen men were fighting furiously on the muddy cobbles.

      Rhonwen caught Eleyne’s arm and pulled her back hurriedly. ‘Inside,’ she said. ‘Quickly. There will be bloodshed if Sir William doesn’t stop it.’

      ‘Why do they hate each other so?’ Eleyne hung back, wanting to watch the fighting.

      ‘They come from different worlds, child, that’s why.’ Rhonwen compressed her lips. Her sympathies were with their own men. If she had been able, she would have been down there with them, tearing the eyes out of the hated English.

      From the comparative safety of their position near the wall, they watched the fighting for a moment. Eleyne glanced up at her. ‘You don’t want Dafydd to marry Isabella, do you?’

      ‘I don’t care what Dafydd does.’ Rhonwen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just so long as he isn’t made your father’s heir. That position belongs to the eldest son by right, whether or not his mother was married to the prince under English laws. Gruffydd must have it. And Gruffydd is married to a Welsh wife.’

      Eleyne sighed. ‘I wish Gruffydd and Dafydd didn’t quarrel all the time.’

      ‘That is your father’s fault. He should have stood up to your mother and made it clear that his eldest son would remain his heir.’

      ‘If Dafydd becomes papa’s heir instead of Gruffydd, Isabella will one day be the Princess of Aberffraw,’ Eleyne went on thoughtfully. ‘I hope she doesn’t

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