Child of the Phoenix (141 page)

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.’

‘And you could,’ Donald said quietly.

‘Of course I could, I was born to it!’ Robert stood up and paced across to lean against one of the wall merlons, his whole body betraying his energy and frustration. He turned abruptly as his son ducked out of the stairwell and on to the roof leads.

The former Lord Carrick greeted Eleyne and Donald warmly. ‘So, what’s the old man plotting now?’ he asked, putting his arm around his father’s shoulders. ‘Not more plans for the royal line of Bruce?’

‘Yes, more plans.’ Robert turned to his son with a flash of impatience. ‘And as usual you’re not here to discuss them. It will be your throne, boy! You’re the one who will inherit it. I’m too old, Goddamn it! Balliol is a broken reed and the other claimants are so much dust in the wind!’ He smacked his hands together in frustration. ‘And I’m stuck with a son who would rather sit about watching the sheep eat grass than buckle on his armour and win himself a kingdom!’

He turned to Eleyne and Donald. ‘I’ve negotiated a match for his daughter,’ he gestured towards his son, ‘that will bring them all up by the ears! Young Isabel, Robert and Kirsty’s sister, is going to marry the King of Norway! What do you think of that?’ He was bursting with pride. ‘King Eric obviously sees the Bruces as a royal family and I shall have a king for a son-in-law.’

Donald raised an eyebrow. ‘Edward of England won’t like that!’

‘No, he won’t.’ The old man chuckled and put his head on one side. ‘My grandson, Rob, is a man now. Shall we fix a date for his wedding too? Your lass, Isabella, must have given up hoping her husband will ever be out of clouts!’ He threw back his head and laughed.

Eleyne shook her head at him reprovingly. ‘I think you’ll find the young people have already decided they are ready,’ she said fondly. ‘The date is all that’s missing.’

Robert Bruce the younger looked at his father and then at the Mars and cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘There’s something I’d like to say. Rob is the Earl of Carrick now. He’s nineteen years old. As you say, he’s a man. And, as you say, I’m not.’ He looked at the ground and they saw the contortion of his throat muscles as he swallowed.

‘No, no, I didn’t say that!’ his father put in testily. ‘You’re overreacting, boy. I didn’t mean anything – ’

‘Yes, you did, father, and you’re right.’ The younger man straightened his shoulders and looked Robert of Annandale in the eye. ‘I would rather be a farmer than a soldier, and I have no stomach for fighting for a throne. It’s best we all recognise the fact. Make Rob your heir, and I will stand back from any claims you make.’

There was silence for a moment. Robert the elder cleared his throat. ‘That is a courageous decision, my son. But I’m not sure it’s possible.’

His son shrugged. ‘Why not? I’ve always supported you. And I’ll support Rob as loyally.’ He smiled. ‘And I think you’ll find the people of Scotland would rather follow Rob than me.’

Donald took his hand and shook it solemnly. ‘That’s a brave thing to say, my friend, and I for one will support Rob as his grandfather’s heir.’

Eleyne reached up and kissed her great-nephew on the cheek. ‘Does Rob know what you feel?’

‘He will soon enough. It was something I didn’t need to consult him over. That boy has the makings of a king, I don’t. It’s as simple as that.’

XIII

Isabella of Mar and young Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, were married in the Great Chapel at Kildrummy eight weeks before Christmas. He was nineteen, his bride was twenty-three. She wore a gown of cloth of silver with a mantle of blue, trimmed with white fox fur. Robert, in scarlet and green, was taller than any of the bride’s brothers. He had grown into a man fit indeed, in Isabella’s eyes, to be her prince. She looked up at him as they knelt side by side at the altar during the nuptial mass. Sensing her look, he smiled and held out his hand.

Isabella hesitated. For a moment she was too overwhelmed to move, then slowly she held out her own to meet his.

Behind them Eleyne saw the gesture and her eyes filled with tears. Donald put his arm around her shoulders and brought his mouth to her ear. ‘They will be happy,’ he said. ‘They will be very happy.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I
February 1296

S
andy found his mother in the chapel. He stood in the doorway watching her as – unaware that he was there – she knelt at the prayer desk facing the altar. Her eyes were open and her hands gripped the front of the desk so that they were white at the knuckles. He could not see her face, which was just as well: its expression was of deepest desolation.

‘Mama.’

She didn’t hear him.

‘Mama!’ He raised his voice slightly.

She started and tensed her shoulders, then she turned her face to him. She was pale and her eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Sandy. I didn’t hear you.’ At seventy-eight her voice was as strong and clear as ever. ‘Has your father ridden back with you?’

Sandy nodded, and helped her to her feet. ‘We were present at the ratification of the treaty. Scotland and France are now allies against Edward of England.’ He stood looking at her sadly, as though trying to read her face. ‘We have as good as declared war on England, mama. And Edward has already ordered his host to assemble at Newcastle. I’m afraid we are going to have to fight.’

Eleyne groped for his hand. ‘You and your brothers?’ Her mouth had gone dry.

‘And papa. He must lead the men of Mar. All the lords of Scotland will be mustering their armies.’

‘But he’s too old to fight!’ Eleyne was horrified. ‘Your father can’t possibly go!’

‘He’s scarcely older than King Edward, mama,’ Sandy said ruefully, ‘and he is as fit as I am. He wouldn’t want to be left behind, you know that as well as I do.’

He took her hands in his and squeezed them, horrified at how ice-cold they were. ‘We’ve brought someone else home with us.’ He tried to cheer her up. ‘Rob and Isabella were at Scone. He wants her to be here with you over the next months until the baby is born. Lochmaben and Turnberry wouldn’t be safe if there’s an invasion, so she has come home with us.’

Eleyne’s face lit up. ‘So, he’s seen sense! He’s joining the loyal Scots – ’

‘No!’ Sandy shook his head. ‘It seems my brother-in-law would rather fight for the English than support Balliol.’ He did not try to hide his disgust. ‘He swears he is biding his time, but I think it’s pretty odd. In fact it’s damn near treason, to my mind!’ Sandy, who so seldom raised his voice, was trembling with anger.

Eleyne felt a terrible lump in her throat: her second son was normally so quiet, so pacific. She closed her eyes, seeing him armed, sword in hand, his eyes narrowed, his jaws tensed, every muscle straining –

‘Mama? Are you all right?’ His hand under her elbow was gentle. There was no sword. There never had been a sword except in training. All those long hours at the quintain, or with his instructors or fighting mock duels with his brothers. He was no soldier. No more was his father. Eleyne’s eyes went automatically to the floor of the chapel. Alexander, her Alexander, had been a soldier, but not Donald. Not her poet husband. She doubted if he had ever raised a weapon in anger in his life.

‘Come and see Isabella, mama.’ Sandy put his arm around her thin shoulders.

For a moment she didn’t respond. Then she nodded. In the shadows, below the triple lancet windows, just for a moment, she had thought she saw the figure of a man. Then it was gone.

II

Isabella was five months pregnant and radiant. She sat down next to Sandy at the high table and they shared a plate. At the far end sat Duncan, newly arrived from the west where he had left Christiana with their baby son, Ruairi. Next to him sat Kirsty, then Gratney, then her mother and father, sitting close together, both slightly strained. Every now and again, she noticed, her mother’s hand strayed to touch Donald’s. The atmosphere at the table was very subdued.

‘She’s never had to send him off to war before,’ Sandy said quietly, following the direction of Isabella’s gaze. ‘In all the years they’ve been married, papa has never been called to arms.’

Isabella smiled sadly. ‘They seem to be as much in love as ever. Yet mother is nearly eighty!’

‘It’s her magic powers!’ Sandy was only half joking. He gave a deep sigh. ‘And you and I will both be dead long before her –’ He spoke without thinking, and stopped, appalled, as he saw his sister’s face. She had gone as white as a sheet, her hand flying automatically to her stomach where the outline of her child was scarcely visible yet.

‘I don’t mean literally,’ he said quickly, ‘I meant it’s as though she’s immortal. There’s something special about her, something that keeps her young.’ He paused. What he had said, trying hastily, desperately, to cover up his terrible blunder, was in a sense true.

He reached for some coffined lamprey made just the way he liked it, with the finest white bread and wine and served with a ginger and wine syrup, and taking a piece of the pastry on the tip of his knife he held it to Isabella’s lips, trying to distract her.

‘You’re sure you haven’t seen my death?’ she whispered. To his horror he saw that her hand was shaking.

‘No, no. Oh, Bella! I never meant that! Blessed Lady, I never meant you to think that.’ Sandy dropped the knife and leaned across to put his hand gently on his sister’s stomach. Then he laughed, genuinely amused. ‘The little Bruce is kicking!’ he said in delight.

She smiled. ‘Indeed he is.’

It was special, this child of Isabella’s. Sandy didn’t need the stars to tell him that; nor did he need them to tell him that he would never see it.

III

The war progressed too fast; the Scots were overconfident. Their first attacks across the border were not pressed home, and Edward was able to concentrate his forces at Berwick and take the town so quickly the townspeople barely had time to fight. The castle garrison surrendered and the citizens were slaughtered. Appalled, the Scots army hurried eastwards towards Dunbar and there on the twenty-seventh of April they met the English under Earl Warenne and were totally defeated. Amongst those captured were Donald of Mar and his son, Alexander.

IV
KILDRUMMY CASTLE 
May 1296