Child of the Phoenix (138 page)

‘Donald.’ Eleyne could not hide the pain in her voice. ‘Please. Don’t you think there’s enough on my conscience without adding this to it?’ She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the storm of emotions which welled up within her. ‘Where is the queen now?’

‘She is at Stirling Castle. And Isabella is with her. God help Scotland! What a choice of rulers we have! The king’s grandchild, a slip of a girl in Norway under the thumb of a foreign king, or an unborn babe. Who would have thought such a disaster could strike this kingdom?’ He paced the floor. ‘Duncan of Fife is to be one of the guardians, you’ll be pleased to hear, in spite of his youth.’ He scowled. ‘And Alexander of Buchan and James Stewart, with a brace of bishops to keep us all holy.’

‘And Robert of Carrick or his father?’ Eleyne asked, trying to concentrate on the implications of what Donald was saying. She had grown very thin and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.

Donald shook his head. ‘Bruce and Balliol are eyeing each other like gamecocks ready for the fight. They both remember their royal descent, remote though it is. Your nephew, old Robert Bruce of Annandale, is strutting round reminding everyone that he was once named heir to the throne in the old king’s day.’ He studied Eleyne’s face, but it remained shuttered with strain and exhaustion as the memory of the late King Alexander and their own private terror hovered in the air between them.

‘How could I forget that?’ she sighed. ‘It was when John died. Poor John, he was so sure he would one day be a king.’

Donald nodded. ‘Well, the lords of the realm decided in their wisdom that neither a Bruce nor a Balliol should be amongst the guardians. If the queen loses this baby – if there is a baby –’ he added cynically, ‘and if anything happens to Margaret of Norway who is the present acknowledged heir and to whom we have all now taken an oath of fealty, one of those two men will no doubt one day be our king.’

Eleyne caught her breath. ‘And our daughter is betrothed to the Bruce heir,’ she whispered.
It must be wonderful to marry a king
. Isabella’s voice echoed in her head.

Donald smiled grimly. ‘Don’t start seeing crowns on Isabella’s head yet, my love. There are four lives at least between young Robert Bruce and the throne of Scotland, his father and grandfather being two of them, and probably an ocean of blood if John Balliol has anything to say in the matter.’ He stood up. ‘Where is Gratney?’

‘He and the twins took their hawks out this morning. I doubt if they’ll be back before dark.’

Donald walked across to Eleyne and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Forgive me, my darling, it’s not your fault I’m not named a guardian. They know we are close to the Bruces and so have already, in a sense, declared our hand. Young Duncan was only chosen because they revere the earldom of Fife’s old traditions and acknowledge that the Earl of Fife, above all men, has the right to crown the next king.’ He paused. ‘Or queen, God help us. I suspect it is that, rather than Duncan’s talent as an administrator, which has caused his elevation to these dizzy heights.’ He grimaced sourly. ‘Has he told you his latest plan for his little daughter?’

‘No. She’s only a baby, Donald, he can’t have made plans yet.’

‘You were married as a baby, my love.’ He folded his arms. ‘Lord Buchan has approached him, it seems. He would like the Fife alliance and he proposes little Isobel for his eldest son. Duncan agreed with alacrity.’

Eleyne closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘John of Buchan is already a grown man. Surely he won’t wait for her.’ She stared down at the hearth where the wolfhound, Sarra, lay asleep, head on paws, and she pushed the sudden feeling of apprehension aside. Never again would she listen to the voices inside her head, or heed the Sight when it came. Fate could not be side-stepped. What the gods ordained, they carried through ruthlessly and without mercy. There was nothing any puny man or woman could do to save themselves from the destiny which awaited them. Knowing about it beforehand just made it harder to bear.

She walked across to the window and looked out. On the ridge behind the castle, against the brilliant spring sky, she saw the silhouettes of a herd of hinds as they made their way east. In a moment they were out of sight on the far slopes of Garlat Hill.

Turning, she saw her husband looking at her, and she shrugged. ‘So be it. If it’s what Duncan wants. One day the child will be Countess of Buchan. I can only hope she is strong enough for whatever lies ahead.’

II

With Isabella still in attendance on Queen Yolande, her hideaway was empty and Eleyne found her way there more and more often. She was growing tired. Gratney and Donald quarrelled endlessly, mainly over the intentions of the King of England. To Donald he was a danger, ever present on their border. Gratney, on the other hand, admired Edward enormously, proud of his close kinship with the King of England; they were after all first cousins once removed. His two brothers, Alexander and Duncan, supported their father and Marjorie, outspoken beyond her years, joined in the family quarrels with alacrity, her hair flaming, her thin face screwed up with passion, supporting her eldest brother whom she adored unreservedly. Sometimes Eleyne felt the castle would never be free of the passionate, ringing voices of the young Mars, or of the slamming doors as one or another of them stormed out of the latest quarrel.

In the autumn Isabella came home, with tales of Queen Yolande’s tearful admission that she was not – and never had been – pregnant; that there would be no direct male heir to the ancient line of Scotland and that now without a doubt little Margaret of Norway, King Alexander II’s great-grand-daughter, was their queen.

‘Yolande is to go to France, to remarry, no doubt,’ Isabella said sadly. ‘So she has sent all her Scottish maidens home. Look, she gave me a gift.’ She held out her hand and showed them the ring which sparkled on her third finger. Made from twisted gold wire, it was set with a crystal which caught the firelight as it moved.

‘Poor lady.’ Eleyne sighed.

Isabella looked pityingly at her mother. ‘She found it hard to forgive you at first, mama, but she did in the end. She said you had no way of knowing what would happen…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘But you did know, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I knew.’

‘Why didn’t you do something, mama?’ It was a whisper.

‘Because I didn’t know
when
it would happen.’ Eleyne clutched her hands together, her knuckles white. ‘He knew! He knew he should not ride in a storm. He knew he must never ride a grey, but he did both. He went ahead and did both, anyway! Because we cannot change what is to be.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Scotland’s destiny was in my hands, but I could change nothing,
nothing
! I was not strong enough. Perhaps once I could have done it. If I had studied with Einion or with Michael or Adam, perhaps I could have altered the course of history. I don’t know.’

‘Who was Einion?’ Isabella asked.

Eleyne considered for a moment. ‘A wise man, a descendant of the ancient Druids. But even he made mistakes. He saw my children as kings …’ She paused.

Isabella grimaced. ‘My Robert’s grandfather will claim to be king if anything happens to little Queen Margaret.’

She went to look out of the high narrow window. The sky was a clear washed blue, cold and harsh above the mountains. ‘That means Robert might one day be king. Then your Druid’s prophecy will come true, if I am his wife.’

Eleyne gave a small smile. So Isabella too had seen a crown in her dreams. ‘Did you see more of your betrothed when you were at Stirling?’

Isabella tossed her head. ‘He is always at Turnberry or Lochmaben. But he came with his grandfather to see James the Stewart and Duncan last week.’

‘And do you like him better now?’ Eleyne asked the question lightly.

Isabella considered for a moment. ‘I suppose he’s quite handsome,’ she said at last, reluctantly. ‘And he’s as tall as I am. And at least now he is a squire.’

Eleyne smiled. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It seems he’s improving.’

III

John of Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, twenty-two years old, with dark wavy hair and handsome regular features, shook hands solemnly with Donald and smiled.

‘I’ll take care of her,’ he said firmly. ‘And I’ll make her happy.’

‘You make sure you do,’ Donald said gruffly. Then he grinned. ‘She’s a handful, mind. It’s all that red hair. And she’s like her mother. Determined!’

Atholl laughed. ‘So am I, my friend, I assure you. I’ll cope.’

He and Donald had just signed the marriage contract drawn up by their respective advisers. Two months hence, on John the Baptist’s Day, the twenty-fourth of June, Midsummer, Lord Atholl would marry Marjorie, youngest daughter of the Earl of Mar.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Isabella raged at her sister. ‘That’s not fair. You’ll be married before me. And he’s older than you. Much older than Robert, and he’s an earl. I’m the eldest! He should have married me!’

‘It was me he wanted!’ Marjorie performed a little twirl of excitement and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her sister. ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t break off your betrothal to Robert. I thought you liked him.’

‘I do like him, but he’s a boy still.’ Isabella sat down abruptly. Her face crumpled. ‘You’ll be a countess.’

‘So will you, one day.’

‘But not for years and years and years!’

Marjorie frowned. Suddenly her triumph didn’t look so fine after all. ‘He’d have chosen you if you’d been free,’ she said coaxingly. ‘I’m sure he would. I wasn’t his first choice, after all. He’s been married before and his wife died.’ She bit her lip. ‘She was only eighteen. She died in childbirth.’ Both girls were silent for a moment, then Marjorie shrugged. ‘I’m sure that won’t happen to me. I’ll give him lots of sons,’ she said. She did not sound altogether convinced.

Only weeks after Marjorie’s betrothal came another. Duncan the twin was to marry Christiana, the only child and heir of Alan Macruarie of the great lordship of Garmoran in the Western Isles.

‘So, the brood are taking wing at last.’ Fondly Donald put his arm around Eleyne’s shoulders.

‘It’s wonderful to see them so happy.’ All three sons had been knighted by the king, Gratney on his twenty-first birthday, and the twins on theirs a year later.

‘Sandy hasn’t said much about his twin’s marriage,’ she commented.

‘He’s a strange young man, that one. He’s determined not to marry himself, you know.’ Donald shook his head, and there was a moment of tension between them. It was always there, the uncertainty, even after all these years. Donald fought it constantly, and if anything showed Sandy greater favour than the others, ashamed of his doubts. Sandy reciprocated with a special shy affection for his father, without ever realising the cause of his father’s extra warmth.

Eleyne took Sandy to walk with her in the herb garden and made him hold her basket while she cut lavender and marjoram and new shooting fennel.

‘Your father tells me you’re not upset that Duncan is going to be married,’ she said gently. ‘Is that true?’

Sandy smiled. He took the shears from her hands and began to cut for her, expertly choosing the right shoots. ‘Of course I’m not upset. I shall miss him when he goes off to the Hebrides, of course I shall. It’s a long way. But he and I don’t have to be together to be close, you know that.’

Eleyne smiled. ‘I know. And he’ll come back and see us often, I’m sure. Sandy, about your marriage …’

‘No, mama.’ Sandy put the shears and basket on the grass and took her hands. ‘It’s right for Gratney to marry. He’s the heir. And it’s right for Duncan as the youngest to marry an heiress, so his son will be a great lord one day too. But not me.’ He held her gaze with his strangely fathomless eyes. ‘There’s no place for my children in history.’

Eleyne felt pinpricks of cold tiptoeing up and down her spine. ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. Her mouth had gone dry.

‘Let’s just say I know.’ He raised her hands and kissed her fingers lightly. ‘And now, little mama, I suggest we go in. The wind is cold and I can feel you shivering.’

Later, alone in the chapel, she stood looking at the Holy Rood and then down at the floor beneath the tall lancet windows. The tiles were covered now by a richly woven carpet. Beneath the carpet, incarcerated in wood and cement and clay, inside its ivory box bound with a web of prayer, the phoenix lay wrapped in lambswool and silk. Around it, when Father Gillespie was elsewhere, she had woven a circle of power to hold it prisoner until it was time for her to join her king.

She was puzzled as she stood in the cool shadows of the chapel. Did Alexander visit his son within the great walls of Kildrummy? Was the hand of destiny resting on Sandy’s head? He had been so certain, so sure that it was not to be. It was almost as though he knew his future already and that it was bleak. She walked to the prayer desk near the chancel steps and knelt, then she buried her face in her hands and wept.

IV
KILDRUMMY
September 1289