‘Then I shall not ride. You were quite right to tell me.’ Yolande went back to her seat and sat down firmly. ‘I shall send a messenger to Alexander to come to me. Tomorrow. As soon as he can.’ She was suddenly coquettish. ‘I don’t think he will find this a hardship.’
Isabella was sharing her mother’s bed. In the darkness she snuggled against Eleyne’s back, exhausted and pleased now with her new role as one of the queen’s maidens and it was not long before Eleyne heard the girl’s breathing grow steady as she fell asleep.
Eleyne lay looking into the glowing fire, listening as the wind grew stronger. Like the queen’s bower, their bedchamber looked out across the Forth. Behind the ill-fitting shutters and the glass, so loosely set in its leads that it rattled, she heard the waves beating on to the shore. Her mind was churning with images: Mairi, so far from home and, at the whim of Joanna de Clare, in charge of the nursery at Falkland at the age of seventeen. Shadows hung over that girl’s head, and over little Isobel’s. And Isabella. Shadows hung over the whole land.
She eased herself away from Isabella so as not to wake her, and crept out of bed. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and went over to the fire. Reaching for the poker, she pushed aside the turves which covered it and threw on a couple of pieces of wood. Then she sat on a stool facing it, huddling for warmth in the folds of her thick cloak. Behind her Isabella flung out an arm in her sleep and gave a little murmur.
Staring into the flames, trying to see pictures which would not come, Eleyne was aware that there was someone with her. The room was dark save where the light of the fire sent flickering shadows leaping up the walls and across the floor. She smiled sadly and reached out her hand, but there was no one to take it. Only a whisper too soft to hear above the sigh of the ash beneath the logs.
Alexander! The name floated soundlessly in the air around her.
‘Alexander. My love!’
Her eyes widened. How could he be here? The phoenix was hidden.
The shadows were uneasy. The air tense and unhappy. Outside the window the sound of a gull’s laughing cry, shredded on the night wind, tumbled into the room and was gone, borne away on the storm.
Alexander! The name again, in her head, a cry of despair.
She was afraid. ‘What is it?’ She spoke out loud and heard Isabella groan. The shadows were growing blacker. She shivered and looked down at the fire. The flames had died, the logs lay sullenly black and suddenly the room was full of the noise of the storm. Staggering to her feet, Eleyne groped her way to the narrow window. The shutter had blown open and the fragile glass was rattling in its frame. As she reached it, two opaque panes blew in and broke at her feet on the floor of the window embrasure.
‘Mama! What is it?’ Isabella sat up in fright. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing, my darling. Stay in bed.’ Eleyne groped for the flailing shutter. ‘The storm has blown in the window, that’s all. I can fix the shutter.’ She felt a sharp pain as she stood on a piece of broken glass. Rain was spattering on the floor and ice-cold on to her face and arms as she struggled with the heavy shutter. At last she pushed it back across the window and wedged the bar home in its slot. The room grew still and dark once more.
A light flared as Isabella pushed a taper into the fire and lit a candle. ‘Are you all right?’ Her voice was high and frightened.
‘I’ve cut my foot.’ Eleyne could feel the blood running down her instep.
‘The storm has got so bad!’ Isabella ran to her and knelt at her mother’s feet. ‘I’ll fetch some ointment from your coffer and bind it up for you. Poor mama, you should have called a servant to fix the shutter.’ She bustled away, the candle in her hand throwing a crazy whirl of shadows on the walls.
Eleyne hobbled to the bed and hoisted herself on to the high mattress with a groan. The frightened hammering in her chest slowed. Whatever, whoever, had been in the room, had gone.
The next day the storm had blown itself out. The sun sparkled on the blue waters of the Forth and they could see clearly across the firth.
After breakfast the queen sent for Eleyne. ‘Are you rested, my lady?’ she asked warily and Eleyne noted with weary amusement that she had made the sign against the evil eye.
‘Thank you, yes.’ Eleyne refrained from mentioning the sleepless night or her swollen painful foot.
‘I’ve taken your advice,’ Yolande went on, ‘and sent a messenger to Edinburgh begging the king to come to me as soon as his meetings are over.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure he won’t stay away from me a moment longer than he need.’
‘I’m sure he won’t.’ Eleyne’s head was as heavy as lead. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Lethargically she took her place beside the queen and reached for the embroidery which the queen’s ladies had laid ready for the day. Isabella had vanished, already whispering secrets to a new-found friend.
‘You still look tired.’ Yolande noticed the paleness of her companion’s face.
Eleyne gave a wry smile. ‘I do feel tired. I fear I’m getting old.’
But it was not tiredness or age weighing her down; it was a feeling of oppression and despair which seemed to fill her soul.
XIV
18 March 1286
In Edinburgh Castle Alexander walked to the door of the great keep and stared out at the storm. As the day went on, the weather had grown worse again. The blue sky vanished; black cloud raced in from the east, and with it snow. The weather was set for the night, probably for weeks. Cursing, he turned back into the hall, then stopped. He had had enough of meetings, enough of discussion, enough of argument, on a day which the gossips and old wives whispered was to be a day of doom. What he wanted was to ride with the wind and rain and ice on his face until he was exhausted, a drink and bed with his highly desirable wife.
He thought again of the note she had sent him that morning and the unspecified delights it promised. He had hoped that the meetings would be finished by midday and that he would be with her by dark. So be it: he would ride now and be with her by midnight. Surprise her; come cold of face and hot of body to her bed.
Without a word to the assembled nobles and courtiers, who stood drinking around the great fire waiting for the horn to call them to the evening meal, he ran down the staircase and into the slanting rain.
His great black horse whickered as he glanced into its stall and he rubbed its nose fondly. ‘Saddle him up, James, and find four men to ride with me to Kinghorn,’ he ordered the groom.
‘Kinghorn, my lord?’ The man glanced out at the rain. ‘You’ll not be crossing the water in this weather?’
‘Why not? I’ll find a sturdy boatman to take me over.’ Alexander slapped him on the back. ‘Hurry, man, before my friends see I’ve gone and insist on coming too.’
Suddenly the expedition had turned to an adventure, and he wanted no one urging caution. He wanted to gallop, to forget the discussions, the voices of sober restraint and shout his warcry into the storm.
The ride to Dalmeny was wild. He galloped ahead of the four men who rode with him and when they arrived he had already called the ferryman from his bed, smacking the great bell at the water’s edge with the flat of his sword, hearing the wild note ring out across the white-topped waves to be lost in the scream of the wind.
‘You’ll not take the horses tonight, my lord,’ James shouted, pitching the full power of his lungs against the storm. ‘Not in an open boat. Best leave them here and pick up new mounts on the other side.’
‘It’s too bad, my lord!’ the boatman said, his beard streaming in the wind. ‘I’ll not take my boat out tonight.’
‘Yes, tonight!’ Alexander shouted back, exhilarated. He threw his horse’s rein to James. ‘You stay. Take them back to the castle. And you, my friend –’ he spoke to the ferryman – ‘a bag of silver pennies to you when I set foot on the other side. You’re not afraid, surely!’ He laughed out loud as he saw the greedy light in the man’s eyes.
The ferryman wagged his head in mock res
ignation. ‘No doubt I could not die in better company,’ he acknowledged grumpily as they all looked out across the water.
The wind had backed to the south and the sturdy ferry set out into the waves, bucking violently, sending cascades of spray over the bows. In the stern the boatman stood at the steering oar, his eyes narrowed, watching the sail which strained in a great arc before the mast.
The journey was fast. They were all soaked to the skin by the time they reached the shore at Inverkeithing and Alexander’s mood was if anything more exhilarated than before.
Leaping ashore he turned to the ferryman, ‘A bag of silver for the crossing and another for your men, my friend. You did your king great service tonight. Summon the bailie and have him find us horses, then you can go.’
The bailie tried to persuade the king to go no further, but Alexander would not listen and reluctantly the man found horses for his king and his three companions, plus two local men to guide them.
By the light of the torches which spluttered under the rain the king surveyed the horses. Three of them were greys, the finest a rig with an arched neck and proudly carried tail, its harness gilded and studded with gleaming metal. For a moment Alexander hesitated, then he swung himself into the high saddle. It was not far to Kinghorn and in his present mood he wanted no delay. With a shout, he turned the horse’s head towards the track and set it at a gallop into the darkness, his companions in hot pursuit.
He could smell the sharp resin of the pines as the track turned inland, following the contours of the land. Amongst the trees the strange twilight of the darkness grew absolute, and he was forced to slow the horse, realising for the first time that it had a mouth of iron and a will to match. It had caught his mood of wild excitement and was thundering up the track parallel with the edge of the low cliff. Far out to sea the first flicker of lightning cut across the sky and above the roar of the wind in the pine boughs he heard a grumble of thunder. He reined the horse in to a rearing halt and looked back the way he had come. There was no sign of the others. Cursing, he narrowed his eyes in the wind-borne sleet, aware of the shifting moaning mass of the firth to his right, hidden between the pine trees with their whipping branches.
When the lightning came, it cut through the darkness like a steel blade, slamming into one of the old Scots pines and igniting it like a burning torch. The horse let out a piercing scream of fear and plunged off the track into the narrow belt of trees which fringed the top of the cliff. Desperately Alexander dragged at the reins trying to turn its head but its hooves were slipping, scrabbling in the soft slippery mud at the edge of the cliff. He tried to throw himself from the saddle but they were already falling, man and horse together, into the blackness of the night.
XV
19 March 1286
‘NO!’
Eleyne sat up in the bed, the scream ringing in her ears.
‘Mama, what is it?’ Terrified, Isabella sat up, but her mother had already scrambled from the bed, swinging her heavy cloak around her. Eleyne ran towards the door and pulled it open. Barefoot, she flew down the stairs and through the silent building, trying to drag open the heavy outer door with her hands.
‘My lady?’ The sleepy doorward stepped forward and unbolted it for her, swinging it open to let in the rush of the storm.
She ran outside, staring up at the sky, feeling the icy sleet on her face and throat, knowing the wind had seized her cloak and torn it open.
‘No! No!’ She was sobbing violently as Isabella caught up with her in the courtyard.
‘Mama, what is it? Was it a dream?’ Isabella tried to put her arms around her, pulling the cloak across her mother’s nakedness.
‘A dream! A nightmare!’ Eleyne screamed. ‘Oh sweet Blessed Virgin, why? I warned him! I told him! Thomas told him and Michael of Balwearie! He knew!’ Suddenly she froze. ‘I told the queen to send for him. I told her to tell him to come to Kinghorn. It was me! It was my fault!’ Tears streamed down her face.
‘What was you, mama? What has happened?’
Behind Isabella figures had appeared in the doorway. The door-ward had raised a lighted torch high and the flames streamed past his head.
‘What has happened?’ Eleyne turned to her daughter in despair. ‘You don’t know! No one knows! The king is dead! That is what has happened! If my destiny was to save him and to save Scotland I have failed!’ She tore at her hair in despair. ‘I saw, I saw what was to come and I failed to stop it. I told the queen to send for him. And I killed him!’
XVI
The room was lit by a single lamp, its faint light steady on the table. Eleyne lay gazing up at the ceiling above her head. She was shivering violently, and her teeth were chattering.
Isabella had brought her back to bed, put the sleeping draught to her lips and held her hands until she dozed. The household was in turmoil. The queen had collapsed in hysterics and been escorted to her own bed, sobbing wildly, whilst every able-bodied man in the place had ridden out into the storm to search.
To search for what? A wild-eyed half-naked old woman had run out into the courtyard in the middle of the night, screaming that the king was dead, that the king had fallen from his horse! And that she was to blame. More than one person that night looked at Eleyne of Mar and crossed their fingers against the evil eye.
Her head felt heavy and her eyes were red and sore with weeping, but she was unable to sleep again. If she moved her head slightly, she could see Isabella sitting by the fire. Wrapped in a blue velvet cloak, the child was dozing in her chair.
She heard a log move and fall from the firedogs on to the hearth. The fire flared briefly, sending reflected lights dancing over the walls of the room. Here near the bed the walls were stencilled with green and silver patterns, a repetitive, gentle decoration designed to soothe and calm the weary as they climbed into the high bed.
Her eyes closed. She was still shaking, still so very, very cold. Turning on her side, she humped herself into the foetal position, clutching her cloak around her ice-cold body beneath the bedcovers.
Eleyne … Eleyne …
Her eyes flew open. The room was full of voices.
The child … the girl … Isabella …
‘Einion!’ Her lips were stiff. After so many years the name was unfamiliar.
Eleyn … Eleyne …
‘Alexander!’ She was crying now, the tears scalding her frozen skin. Her head was spinning and she was still trembling violently. Was that a figure in the corner of the room, or was she asleep, her mind a black hell of nightmares?
She tried to sit up, but she couldn’t move. ‘Isabella!’ She tried to call, but no sound came. Was it a tall figure by the wall, the white hair and beard incandescent round his head, or had the fire, blown back by the wind, belched smoke into the room?
‘Einion Gweledydd,’ she whispered again. She was terribly afraid. ‘I tried to warn him, I tried …’
But he had gone.
‘Alexander, please, I tried to warn him …’
The lamp was guttering. The gentle light played for a moment over Isabella’s face, then it went out, leaving only the firelight to flicker in the shadows of the room.
They found King Alexander’s body at first light, on the beach below the cliffs. His neck was broken. The dead horse lay several yards away from him. They brought him first to Kinghorn. Then he was taken to Dunfermline where he was to lie near the shrine of St Margaret.
Eleyne was too ill to view the body. By morning, when they brought the king to his wife’s bed, she was delirious with fever. If she knew that her nephew lay beneath the same roof, she gave no sign. The country, stunned by the news, hummed to the rumours that the Countess of Mar had foretold the king’s death. Isabella sent for Mairi to come from Falkland and between them they nursed her from the brink of insanity.
It was several weeks before she was well enough to return to Kildrummy, leaving Mairi once more with her charge, and sending Isabella to be with the queen. There in the lonely northern hills she rode and
paced and ran in the wind and rain, railing against the uncaring gods who had allowed the death of the king. All her life she had seen what was to happen, but it could not be prevented. Alexander’s death, like every other death, had been written in the stars. Nothing had been allowed to change the course of destiny.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I
May 1286
‘So. That is that!’ Donald flung himself into the elegantly carved X-chair before the hearth in the solar of the Snow Tower. ‘The parliament at Scone has elected a group of guardians to rule Scotland until she has a king again, and I am not amongst them. No doubt the fact that my wife made a public spectacle of her foolishness helped them make their decision.’
‘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.
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