Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  Among the guests were the Lord of Annandale and his wife, the bride’s aunt, and the Earl and Countess of Carrick and their eldest son and daughters, and it was here that Gratney met his bride-to-be, Christian Bruce, for the first time since they had been told of the plan for their betrothal.

  ‘I know she’s only eight years old,’ Eleyne said gently. ‘Remember, it will be a long time before you marry and if you don’t like each other when you’re grown up we can always change our minds.’

  He scowled. ‘She’s just a baby!’

  ‘So she is, but in six years she will be of marriageable age.’

  ‘If we are betrothed, I can’t change my mind,’ he went on, determined to be awkward.

  ‘You can if you want it badly enough. But we won’t arrange a betrothal unless you are happy with the idea.’ Patiently, she gave him a little push. ‘Go on, greet her. She knows about the idea and she has always liked you.’

  Smiling at Marjorie, Countess of Carrick, she stepped forward and the two women exchanged kisses. Behind her formidable mother Christian was tall for her age and slim with huge dark eyes and long ash-blonde hair held by a chaplet of gilded flowers. She was an extraordinarily pretty child.

  Seeing Gratney, her brother Robert, youngest of the Robert Bruces, dug her in the ribs with his elbow. She blushed violently and Gratney found himself smiling. He liked all the Bruce children. Perhaps, after all, she wouldn’t make such a bad wife – one day.

  III

  1285

  Isabella was the first to hear of Duncan’s and Joanna’s baby. The messenger was telling everyone as he dismounted in the outer courtyard. ‘It’s a girl! The Earl and Countess of Fife have a daughter! The Fifes have a daughter!’

  ‘My first great-grandchild.’ Eleyne clasped her hands. ‘I must go to see her.’

  ‘May I come, mama?’ Isabella at sixteen had turned into a beautiful young woman. She had inherited only a little of her mother’s colouring. Her hair was red-gold, but her eyes were grey and her skin almost transparent in its fairness. They had still not arranged a marriage for her. Donald had talked to several families, but no one was good enough for his Isabella.

  Eleyne frowned. ‘No, darling, not this time.’

  ‘Why not?’ Isabella’s eyes were so full of disappointment her mother felt a pang of guilt. There was no reason why she should not go. No logical reason for her refusal and yet in the back of her mind a warning bell was ringing. Isabella of Mar and Isobel of Fife. Somehow their destinies were linked, and the link was not a happy one.

  IV

  Anna, the Dowager Countess of Fife, was waiting for Eleyne in her bower at Falkland. ‘I do not want you to see my grandchild.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘You bring nothing but grief when you come here.’ It was a scene that had been played before.

  Eleyne studied her. ‘After all this time can you not let the quarrel rest? It was your father and my husband’s father who had the fight. And even they in the end could let it go. Can’t you forget it?’

  Anna scowled. ‘It’s not that stupid court case. It’s the bad luck you bring with you – ’

  ‘I bring no bad luck – ’

  ‘No?’ Anna’s voice slid up the scale. ‘My husband died when he was scarcely a man. My son died before he came into his earldom and now Duncan has a daughter – ’

  ‘You blame me for that?’ Eleyne said uneasily. ‘When I have not even seen the child?’

  ‘There is no need for you to see her. Bad blood will out.’ Anna was swaying her head from side to side. Still only thirty-six years old, she had all the mannerisms of an old woman. ‘It’s your fault, all of it.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Eleyne said crisply, getting to her feet. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense. You,’ she turned on one of the staring ladies in attendance on the dowager in the crowded, stuffy room, ‘take me to the countess and her baby.’

  Joanna was cradling the baby in her arms, propped up in the huge bed which had once belonged to Eleyne and Malcolm. Now it was painted and gilded and hung with bright, fresh curtains. She looked up eagerly as Eleyne came in and smiled. ‘Grandmama! Come and see my Isobel.’ She held out the baby.

  Eleyne stopped beside the bed and gazed down at the baby. It was tiny: a delicate, faery child with dark hair and deep violet eyes. As Eleyne looked at her, she looked unwinkingly back at her great-grandmother. Then she smiled.

  Sweet Blessed Bride! The air around the child was full of whirling shadows! ‘No.’ It was only a murmur, but Joanna heard it. She paled. ‘What is it?’ she asked, ‘what can you see?’

  Eleyne didn’t hear her. She hugged the baby to her, burying her face in the woollen shawl. ‘No,’ she begged softly again. She looked at Joanna and there were tears on her cheeks. ‘She’s lovely,’ and she tried to smile.

  ‘And you see her doom.’ Joanna was as white as a sheet. ‘Is she going to die?’

  Eleyne shook her head. ‘No. She will live to be a woman and to fulfil her destiny.’ A destiny which involved Isabella of Mar. She stared over the baby’s head at the fire as though seeking the answer there, then, hearing Joanna’s weeping, she looked at her grandson’s wife. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I’ve frightened you.’ She touched the baby’s face with her finger and smiled as the little face turned instinctively towards the gentle pressure. ‘Take no notice of the ramblings of an old woman. I saw shadows and they made me afraid. This child has the mark of the gods on her; she will one day serve her nation and her king and she will be glorious.’ She cradled the baby closer, pulling aside the swaddling bands so she could see the child more clearly. ‘And she is beautiful.’

  ‘And she is not a boy.’ Joanna had recovered from her moment of panic, but her voice was flat. ‘Duncan is very disappointed.’

  ‘Then Duncan is a fool!’ Eleyne’s voice was sharp. ‘No man could be what this child will be.’ She gave a sudden half-apologetic laugh. ‘I must be going mad, I talk in certainties yet I don’t know what I’m talking about!’ Gently she handed the baby back to Joanna. ‘That has been my curse.’ She stepped back. ‘My dear, I’ll leave you to rest. We’ll talk again later. Don’t let anything I say upset you. Isobel will grow up to be a beautiful, happy, healthy young woman and,’ she put her head on one side, ‘your next child will be a son.’

  V

  ‘I hear you’ve been terrifying Joanna out of her mind with your spooks and your fortune-telling, grandmama.’ Duncan of Fife cornered her in the great hall as they made their way towards the table for supper. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do it.’

  He turned to rinse his hands in the bowl of scented water held for him by a page and dried his hands energetically on the proffered towel.

  Eleyne looked him in the eye. ‘I’m sorry if she’s upset. I can’t always control the visions when they come …’

  ‘Did you speak the truth when you said we would have a son?’ His grey eyes were hard, she noticed.

  ‘I believe so.’

  He smiled, satisfied. ‘That’s all that matters. The destiny of a girl is not important as long as she marries well.’

  Eleyne looked at him steadily. ‘Quite so,’ she said drily.

  VI

  KILDRUMMY CASTLE

  ‘Morna, would you consider letting Mairi go to Falkland? She can learn how to be a nurserymaid and later she can be Isobel’s nurse and companion. It would be a position full of prestige and honour.’ Eleyne had picked up Morna’s spindle, and began idly to twirl the wool between her fingers. They had often discussed the girl’s future. Morna was ambitious for her.

  ‘You fear for the child?’ Morna asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Eleyne admitted.

  ‘Will Mairi be strong enough to help her?’

  ‘She is your daughter, she has your strength. I can think of no one better.’ Eleyne sighed. ‘I don’t know what is to come. I saw storms; I saw much unhappiness and I saw the hand of destiny over the child’s cradle. But why? How? I don’t know. And I will probably never know. That’s why I want to send some
one young and strong to be with her. My grandson has agreed; if you do, we could send Mairi to Falkland almost at once. She will earn good money, and learn the ways of the castle. She could have a very good future there and she can tell Isobel the stories of the hills; show her a little of the magic that is ours.’

  Morna nodded slowly. ‘She can certainly do that. And it will be with my blessing.’

  VII

  ‘Well? Was there something special about her?’

  Isabella cornered her mother in the herb garden as Eleyne tended her plants, clipping and snipping with a pair of embroidery shears.

  She straightened her back with a groan. ‘Special about who?’

  ‘Isobel of Fife.’ Isabella folded her arms defensively.

  Oh yes, there was something special. But the words remained unsaid. Eleyne threw down her shears and put her arm around Isabella’s shoulder. ‘She was just a very pretty baby,’ she said gently. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t want you to come to see her. It was one of my funny feelings.’ She smiled. ‘I expect you and she will be great friends one day.’

  She stopped with a shiver. A cold wind had arisen, scattering the clippings of hyssop and thyme and lavender in her basket. Her eyes were fixed on the girl’s face.

  ‘Mama? What is it?’ Isabella paled. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know. For a moment I thought I saw someone … I saw a crown …’ Suddenly Eleyne was crying.

  Isabella threw her arms around her. ‘Mama, don’t, please. What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ It was gone so fast. ‘I’m sorry, my darling, I think I’m going in. I feel so chilled.’ She stooped to pick up the shears and her basket. ‘Don’t worry, next time I go to Fife, you shall come.’

  Isabella was playing with Lucy’s pups when her father found her. ‘Those dogs are already too rough for you, my darling,’ he said, ‘they’ll bite you.’

  ‘No they won’t.’ Isabella laughed. ‘They love me.’ The wind ruffled her hair. Her face saddened. ‘Papa, you said you’d tell me who you’d chosen for my husband.’ Pushing away the wrestling puppies she stood up. There were grass smears on her skirt.

  ‘Your mother and I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘But papa, I’m sixteen – ’

  ‘And already you’re left on the shelf?’ Donald laughed. ‘Poor Bella, don’t rush. Your mother and I want the very best for you – a veritable prince amongst men.’ He sighed. ‘Your mother’s very protective of you, sweetheart. She has three marriages behind her and two of them were not happy. Neither of us wants that to happen to you. We couldn’t bear you to be unhappy.’ He shook his head. ‘Be patient a little longer. We’ll find the right man soon, I promise.’

  VIII

  November 1285

  Rain, cold and heavy and driven horizontally by the wind, soaked through the cloaks of the riders and chilled them to the bone as they rode towards the royal castle of Jedburgh. There, the Lady Yolande, daughter of the Count of Dreux, awaited her king, accompanied by the Chancellor of Scotland Master Thomas Charteris, Patrick Graham, William Soules and William Sinclair, the four emissaries of the King of Scots, who had ridden to France to escort her through the length of England with the King of England’s blessing.

  Donald and Eleyne were riding with the king, having spent the last few nights in Roxburgh waiting to hear that the lady who would be Scotland’s new queen had arrived. In the broad valley the trees leaned away from the gale, their leaves brown and torn, trampled into the mud.

  Alexander refused to be downhearted. He had ordered minstrels, feasts, finery, paid for by the crown for his entourage, his bride and himself, and he was smiling broadly at Eleyne who rode beside him. His black stallion danced sideways, shaking its bridle, irritated by the wind. ‘So, shall you and I gallop, my lady, and leave the sluggards behind? There’s no thunder and my horse is as sable as the night. I should be safe!’ His words were caught by the wind and almost indistinguishable to Eleyne as she urged her chestnut palfrey forward beside him along the muddy track. Behind them the king’s banners drummed and cracked like snapping twigs in the wind, straining the staffs to which they were fastened, and the colourful caparisons flogged wetly around the horses’ legs.

  Donald shook his head at her sternly and she resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at him like a naughty child. She knew he disapproved of her riding fast. He thought it undignified and dangerous for a woman in her sixties to rush about the country with her hair tumbling around her ears. She caught a mocking gleam in the king’s eye. It was enough of a challenge. She gathered her reins more tightly and urged the palfrey on.

  She and Alexander reached the town gates only a short way ahead of the escort, who had gamely whipped their horses into a gallop in hot pursuit of their king. In the castle courtyard he jumped from his horse and came to Eleyne’s side. ‘A king has to gallop to see his bride, does he not?’ His eyes were full of laughter.

  ‘Indeed he does.’ She smiled down at him, still out of breath. ‘No, go on, my lord, don’t wait to help me. There is only one lady you must give your hand to today.’

  She had seen the heavy doors opening in the wall of the keep at the top of the stairs. A group of people appeared in the archway. ‘Go to her, my lord.’ She remained in her saddle, watching as the king turned and ran two at a time up the stairs.

  ‘Are you pleased with yourself now?’ Donald’s voice at her elbow was light and teasing. She realised suddenly how mud-splashed they all were, and found she was laughing. Donald shook his head in despair and vaulting from his horse came to help her down.

  At the top of the stairs, the king was gazing at his bride. Tall and slim, fair-skinned, with large grey eyes and a wide, humorous mouth, Yolande de Dreux curtseyed to her future husband, taking in his muddy finery, the glow of the wind-swept cheeks and the fiery hair. By the time he took her hand and kissed it she had decided she would find it easy to fall in love with her Scottish king.

  ‘Nel? I said, shall I help you?’ Donald was standing with his hand on the bridle of Eleyne’s horse, and he saw his wife’s face. She was staring at the king and his bride with a strangely troubled expression.

  ‘What is it? Don’t you like her?’ Donald had found the bride attractive enough.

  ‘She’s very beautiful.’ Eleyne sounded abstracted. A strange chill had settled over her.

  ‘And the wedding tomorrow will be a grand affair,’ Donald said cheerfully. He put his hands over her cold wet fists as they rested, still clutching her gilded reins, on the horse’s wet mane. ‘Come on, let’s find our quarters and get you dry.’ He squeezed her hands gently. ‘Nel?’

  ‘There’s something wrong.’

  Inside the castle courtyard all was bustle and noise as fifty horses milled about and their riders dismounted and began to sort themselves out. But outside the walls, beyond the small teeming burgh with its lovely abbey, the hills and moors were dreich beneath the rain and the wind howled mournfully like an animal prowling before the coming darkness. Donald resisted the urge to make the sign against the evil eye and took the reins firmly from her chilled fingers. ‘Rubbish, you’re cold and wet and chilled. When you’ve had a mug of mulled wine and got your feet by the hearth you’ll feel better.’

  However, even in the warm curtained bed in the brightly painted roof chamber which they had been allocated and with her husband’s arms around her, Eleyne could not shake off her feeling of dread. It lingered all next day until the wedding and the feast which followed it.

  IX

  Eleyne was sitting at the king’s left hand. She eyed him surreptitiously. After the years of procrastination over this wedding, he appeared at last to have put every reservation aside and thrown himself totally into the joy of his new marriage. Yolande sat close to him, her face glowing with happiness, her hand straying often at the same time as his to the dish they shared so that their fingers touched in the sensuous warmth and scent of sauces and gravies and sweet creams and junkets.

  Below th
e dais, in the crowded heat of the hall, the noise of talk and laughter had risen to a deafening pitch which drowned the playing of the minstrels in the space between the tables. Course after course of food continued to arrive, and with it a positive river of rich Gascon wine.

  In one of the rare moments when he took his eyes off his wife, Alexander turned to Eleyne and was astounded. How had he ever imagined that Eleyne of Mar looked old? She was radiant. Her trained velvet gown was an exquisite deep green trimmed with gold, her girdle heavy with gilt, her mantle of russet silk trimmed with fox fur, but it was her eyes which caught his attention. They were as green as emeralds in the golden candlelight, large and lustrous. And full of laughter.

  Outside, the thunder rumbled gently around the hills. He laughed and touched her arm. ‘Thank you.’

  He mouthed the words above the noise and she smiled. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for – for helping sway him finally into remarriage, perhaps; perhaps for caring; for having loved the father he could barely remember but who came to him sometimes in his dreams.

  He frowned, aware suddenly that there was someone standing behind them, between his great chair and Eleyne’s smaller one. He saw her look over her shoulder and her face paled, all the animation dying before his eyes.

  He swung around, angry at the interruption, and caught his breath. There was no one there. Yet he felt it, felt it as clearly as she obviously had. Someone had been there, his shadow cutting off the light from the huge candelabra which burned on the dais behind them.

  Eleyne closed her eyes, aware of the sudden cold in the heat of the great hall.

  ‘No.’ She didn’t realise that she had spoken out loud. ‘No, please.’