Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  Eleyne took his hands again and pressed them gently. Then she turned away, blinking back her tears.

  She called for lighted torches. The stables were empty, so they had no choice but to remount their weary horses and turn back north into the coming darkness.

  VII

  COUPAR ANGUS

  The abbey was dark save for the four great candles around the bier. The monks who watched over the body of their patron as it lay beneath the silk banner, embroidered with the rampant lion of Fife, scarcely looked up from beneath their cowls at the old woman who walked in, upright in spite of her tiredness, and stood at the Earl of Fife’s feet. For a long time she remained without moving, then at last she walked closer, lifting the corner of the flag to gaze for the last time on her grandson’s face. If she was appalled at his wounds, she gave no sign. She bent to kiss his forehead, as cold already as the marble that would be his tomb.

  At the requiem mass the following day, she stood side by side with her son, the dead earl’s uncle, listening to the voices of the monks as they rose in unison towards the vaulted roof of the church. Requiem aeternam. How many times had she heard those words? She looked at Macduff. At thirty-two, he was a handsome, stocky man, much respected by his followers, married at last to a quiet, attractive, adoring wife and with two sons of his own. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned to her and took her arm. The Countess of Fife was not there. In the guesthouse of the abbey she lay enveloped in the agony of a premature labour brought on by the shock of her husband’s death and the precipitate ride to be at his interment. And now she was near her time. Eleyne raised her eyes to the statue of the Blessed Virgin above the side altar near her and prayed silently for Joanna’s deliverance. For the baby she had no fears. Like Master Elias, she knew that he would live.

  She found Mairi much later with little Isobel in the monks’ orchards. The child was white-faced, her small features pinched with fear and exhaustion.

  ‘So, little one.’ She took Isobel on her knee and looked at Mairi. ‘Are you happy to have a little brother?’

  Isobel shook her head dumbly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s already more important than me.’ Isobel buried her face in her great-grandmother’s gown. ‘Even Mairi went away to be with him.’

  ‘Is this true?’ Eleyne asked the girl; Mairi nodded her head unhappily.

  ‘They made me attend the countess, my lady. No one knew what to do.’

  ‘I see.’ Eleyne pursed her lips and turned back to the child. ‘Surely you don’t begrudge your mama the help she needed when she was ill?’

  ‘She was having a new earl.’ Isobel screwed up her small fists. ‘And I hate him!’ She glanced up to see what effect the words would have on her great-grandmother. ‘I shall never, ever have a baby. Not if it hurts so much it makes you scream, like mama did.’ Her voice trembled and Eleyne tightened her arms around the child. ‘Having babies kills you.’ Isobel went on in a whisper. ‘One of mama’s ladies told me. It might kill mama!’ She burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to have a baby, ever!’

  ‘Hush, my love.’ Mairi sank to her knees and pulled the child into her lap. ‘Your mama is safe and well. I told you last night. And you won’t have to have babies if you don’t want to.’ Her eyes met Eleyne’s challengingly over the child’s dark curls. ‘I’ll show you what to do to stop them coming, then you’ll never need to cry like your mama.’

  Joanna looked wan and exhausted when Eleyne sat on her bed in the vaulted guesthouse and took the tiny red-faced swaddled baby in her arms.

  ‘I’ve called him Duncan for his father,’ Joanna said, her voice croaky and faint.

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘And I’m sending Isobel to Buchan. It’s all decided, Elizabeth de Quincy will have the job of bringing her up.’ Joanna lay back on the heaped pillows, her face pallid and damp with perspiration. ‘No, don’t argue, grandmama, please.’ She had seen the shocked surprise on Eleyne’s face. ‘I can’t cope with the child; it would be better for her to be brought up by her future husband’s family.’ Eleyne saw tears sliding slowly down her cheeks. ‘It’s what Duncan wanted, and it’s best for everyone. Then I can go home. To England.’ She turned her head away. Eleyne stood up. She gazed down for a moment at the small puckered face of the baby in her arms and sighed, then she handed him to one of Joanna’s maids. At least she could insist that Mairi go with Isobel to Slains. Beyond that she could do no more.

  VIII

  LOCHMABEN CASTLE 1290

  Gratney married his fifteen-year-old bride, Christian Bruce, at the end of September the following year. Christian, known as Kirsty to her adoring family, was attended by Isabella and Marjorie of Atholl, by her own two sisters, Mary and Isobel, and by Duncan’s wife, Christiana Macruarie. She brought as her dower the lordship of the Garioch, a huge area of land which abutted the eastern side of the earldom of Mar.

  The day after the wedding the first of the rumours reached them. Old Robert Bruce of Annandale stormed into the great hall at Lochmaben waving a letter above his head. Seventy-two now, like Eleyne, and like her as active as ever, his eyes glittered above a red-veined nose.

  ‘So. It has happened. I knew it! I knew it! Little Queen Margaret is dead!’

  There was silence as shocked eyes turned to him.

  Donald stood up, looking at his son-in-law, John of Atholl. Only moments before they had been discussing the little queen’s imminent arrival in Scotland. ‘Where did that news come from? If it’s true it’s a sad day for this country. How did she die?’

  Robert Bruce shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But if it’s true …’ His eyes gleamed with excitement, ‘I am heir to the throne. That makes me Scotland’s king!’

  He glared around the great hall. ‘Oh, I know I’ll have to fight for the crown. And fight I will, make no mistake. John Balliol is not going to take the crown with his claims. It’s mine! I was confirmed as his heir by King Alexander II, and I am the most senior of the descendants of David of Huntingdon, we all know that.’

  ‘There are more claimants than John Balliol, papa,’ Robert of Carrick put in mildly. In his view John Balliol, the grandson of the elder sister of John of Chester, had more claim than his father, who though one generation closer to John was the son of the younger sister. ‘There are at least two others; probably more. For Scotland’s sake we should pray your informant is mistaken and that Margaret is still alive. At least her succession has been confirmed by everyone and the preparations are under way for her coronation.’

  Robert smiled. He winked at his grandson, who was waiting nearby, wide-eyed with excitement. ‘So be it. We shall go to Scone as arranged. We shall all go.’ His gesture took in the Earls of Mar and Atholl. ‘And we shall take a goodly contingent of men, to show our support for the little queen. And if by any sad chance this news is true and she has died, we’ll have the advantage when it comes to establishing our claim.’ He laughed softly. ‘We’ll have a great advantage: several hundred fully armed men.’

  IX

  SCONE October 1290

  Eleyne, tired after the long days of feasting for the wedding and the precipitate journey, was lying down in their bedchamber when Donald brought her the confirmation that the little queen was truly dead. There were no details of her illness, but it appeared that she had succumbed to some childish ailment. She, like her mother and her two uncles, had never been strong.

  ‘So.’ She sighed, putting her arm across her eyes to try to suppress the throbbing headache which assaulted her temples. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘You tell me.’ Donald sat down beside her and took her hands. ‘It is you who sees Scotland’s future.’

  Eleyne turned her head away sharply. ‘I see blood and fire.’

  Donald’s face was lined with worry. ‘I fear you may be right,’ he said drily. ‘I gather that the guardians of the realm are resolved to ask King Edward for his advice. They are not prepared to give the throne to either a Bruce or a Balliol or any of the other cl
aimants, at present. They don’t seem to be able to make up their minds what to do.’

  Eleyne sat up. ‘And so it starts. Do they really think Edward will give impartial advice? Do they think he will stand by to see a strong king set up on his northern border?’ She put her head in her hands. ‘Persuade them, Donald, persuade them to see how foolish they are being. They are handing Scotland to Edward on a platter.’

  There were many who agreed with her, but it seemed that Bishop Fraser, one of the guardians, had already written to Edward. It proved too late to hold back his letter and by May the following year King Edward I of England had claimed overlordship over Scotland and demanded fealty from her nobility before announcing whom he had chosen as the country’s next king. His decision fell on John Balliol, in his view, the view of the lawyers and of a substantial majority of Scots the senior claimant to the throne as grandson of John of Chester’s eldest sister. On St Andrew’s Day 1292, King John Balliol was crowned at Scone, the crown put on his head not by Duncan, Earl of Fife, who was but a baby, but by Sir John de St John in the young earl’s name. It remained to be seen what kind of a king he would make.

  X

  KILDRUMMY CASTLE 1292

  Isabella was sitting in her bower, reading. The November wind was finding its way into the lonely chamber under the roof; she could hear it whistling and screaming up the stairs. It was a dismal sound. She shrugged herself deeper into her cloak, knowing she should be downstairs helping her mother supervise the accounts. Guiltily she turned the page of her vellum-bound book and read on. Only a few more minutes, then she would blow out her candle, put the book into her book chest and creep downstairs.

  The door opening behind her brought her out of her reverie a long time later. The candle was nearly gone and her legs were an agony of pins and needles. She looked up, expecting to see her mother’s face.

  Young Robert Bruce was standing in the doorway. He grinned at her. ‘I did knock but you didn’t hear.’

  ‘Robert!’ Isabella stared at her betrothed in confusion. The book slipped from her fingers and, squatting down, he picked it up and gave it back to her. ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming up here. Your mother told me where you were. She thought you’d not mind too much …’ He faltered to a stop and shrugged, his eyes full of laughter.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ Isabella tried to hide how flustered she was. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

  ‘Grandfather and I came to see your father and Kirsty,’ Robert said.

  She loved the way his eyes narrowed when he smiled, his strong face softening momentarily. And it was a strong face; there was no longer any sign of the unformed features of the adolescent, or of the slightly gauche shyness he had displayed last time they had met. As he sat near her on the dusty floor his tunic and surcoat fell gracefully round his knees as he crossed his long legs clad in soft leather boots; he was totally composed.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  She glanced down at the book lying in her lap on the azure velvet of her gown. ‘It’s the story of Branwen, the daughter of Llyr.’ It was her favourite.

  There was an awkward silence. ‘I was sorry to hear that your mama had died,’ Isabella said at last.

  She looked up in time to see the intense sadness in his eyes.

  ‘I shall miss her very much,’ he said. ‘It’s strange. It’s as though I’d lost a best friend. I got on far better with her –’ He left the sentence unfinished, the words ‘than with my father’ unsaid, hanging in the air between them.

  ‘And you’re the Earl of Carrick now,’ Isabella went on. ‘Does your papa mind very much?’

  Robert’s father had been Earl of Carrick only in right of his wife. Now that she had died the title was no longer his. It had passed to her eldest son, leaving her husband, only heir himself to the lordship of Annandale, without a title.

  ‘I don’t think he minds much,’ Robert replied, ‘and he can go on using it if he wants to. I don’t mind. But my father is totally without ambition.’ He tried to keep the scorn out of his voice. He was fond of his father, but the two found each other mutually incomprehensible. It was with his ambitious, fiery, romantic grandfather, Robert Bruce of Annandale, that Robert identified. Completely.

  He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his chin on them, watching her. ‘Aunt Eleyne said I should bring you down to join her and my sister in her solar before you freeze to death,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘I’ll come now.’ Scrambling to her feet, she put her precious book into the coffer by the wall and, turning back to him, she let out a little squeak of surprise. He had risen swiftly and silently to his feet and was standing immediately behind her.

  They looked into each other’s eyes, all shyness forgotten as he raised his hands to her shoulders and drew her to him. His kiss was firm and sure and she was taken by surprise by her own reaction to it. Her legs began to grow weak as she found herself sliding her arms around his neck, drawing his face down for a second lingering kiss.

  It was a long time before they drew apart and she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. She was trembling all over.

  ‘I came up here to ask you something,’ Robert said softly. He reached for her hand. ‘I wanted to know if you thought I was old enough yet to get married.’

  She caught the irrepressible amusement in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve tried so hard to grow up quickly,’ he went on, teasing. He pulled her towards him again and looked down at her. Her head was level with his shoulders. ‘What do you think?’ His voice had dropped to a husky whisper.

  Her breath was catching in her throat; her hand was shaking in his; all she wanted in the world was for him to take her once more into his arms.

  She frowned, hesitating, seeming to give the matter serious thought, and was grateful to see a moment of uncertainty in his eyes. Trying very hard to hide her eagerness, she reached out her other hand and took his.

  ‘I think you’re old enough, my lord,’ she said.

  XI

  KILDRUMMY CASTLE 1293

  ‘Macduff of Fife has been arrested by King John Balliol and thrown into prison!’ John Keith, still one of the most trusted administrators of the beleaguered earldom of Fife, stood in front of Eleyne, his face white with anger. ‘Is there no end to the iniquities this man is prepared to authorise!’

  ‘Macduff?’ Eleyne’s embroidery shears fell unnoticed from her fingers. ‘Arrested?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. He has been pursuing the restoration of his lands – the lands your late husband, his father, left him in Creich and Rires. With the earldom for so long in minority he has been deprived of what was rightfully his. And now Balliol denies him his claim and throws him into a cell for his pains!’

  Eleyne’s lips tightened. ‘John Balliol oversteps the mark all too often. He is a weak man, playing the strong.’ She stood up. ‘This is not to be borne. Macduff must be released. Where is he being held?’

  Keith shrugged. ‘At first at Kinross. Then he was taken before the king at Stirling. My lady, you should seek help from the Bruces and their friends.’

  ‘And stir the cauldron?’ Eleyne said softly. ‘Is that what you would like?’

  ‘I, and many others. Balliol is not the king for Scotland.’

  ‘He is the chosen king.’

  ‘Chosen by God or by man?’ Keith paused. ‘What will Lord Mar do, my lady?’

  Eleyne looked up, searching his face. ‘That will remain to be seen, my friend, when I have told him about Macduff.’

  XII

  TURNBERRY CASTLE

  Turnberry Castle stood on a promontory, the sea protecting it on three sides. It was an ancient stronghold, the seat of the Earls of Carrick. Standing on the high walls which surrounded the castle, Eleyne looked out to sea, stunned by the overwhelming homesickness which had hit her. This was her sea; the sea which washed the shores of Gwynedd; the sea which had echoed in her ears as a child. She could smell the cold, salt freshness above the warmth of t
he land, the sea spice vying with the sweetness of thyme and roses and whin, the hint of vast distances lost in the haze, a backdrop to the warmth and greenness of the land.

  She stood mesmerised, oblivious of the people around her on the wall walk. Below, the sea lapped the rocks exposed by the low tide, hardly moving, licking at the drifting wood, clear as a mountain stream.

  When she turned back, they had brought a chair up to the battlements for old Robert Bruce of Annandale.

  She frowned. She had caught herself thinking of him as an old man; his followers obviously thought of him as an old man. No one had volunteered to bring her a chair. Yet they were of an age, she and this robust, cantankerous patriarch of the house of Bruce. She put the thought behind her briskly. ‘So, what are we going to do? What about Macduff?’

  The Lord of Annandale leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs in front of him with a groan. ‘Calm down, lass. Let your old nephew speak! Macduff is free. Balliol has already ordered his release.’

  ‘Are you sure? When?’

  Eleyne and Donald had set off for John Balliol’s court soon after hearing of Macduff ’s arrest. Then they had changed their minds, and ridden west instead towards the stronghold of opposition to their elected king.

  ‘He let him go almost at once.’ Robert grinned. He had lost two of his front teeth the previous year and his smile had a piratical wickedness which Donald found fascinating. Even knowing how foolish it was, he felt a shiver run up his spine at the sight of the old man smiling. There was a joyful malevolence there. Robert’s next words confirmed his fears.

  ‘Macduff is to appeal against Balliol,’ he said quietly. ‘If the appeal doesn’t come out his way, he has threatened to go over his head to King Edward. Balliol is being shown up for his true worth. The man is an ineffectual fool who can’t handle the smallest problem, never mind a kingdom.’