Child of the Phoenix

by Barbara Erskine

  The metal clouded slightly under his breath and she could see the movement of his muscles as he swallowed, almost see the liquid as it slid down his throat. The effort was nearly too much for him. She put the goblet down and dabbed his lips with a napkin. His fists clenched over hers as a new spasm of pain took him. ‘Will it take long?’ He was fighting for breath.

  She shook her head. ‘Not long, my darling.’ She stroked his face. ‘Close your eyes.’

  ‘I want to see you,’ he smiled faintly, ‘and the candle is dying.’ His words were becoming slurred. ‘It’s getting dark. Come closer – ’

  She touched his forehead with her lips. ‘Sleep well, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘No more pain.’

  The flame by the bed had died and grown cold before she moved. His hands in hers were icy and stiff, the harshness of his breathing stilled at last.

  There were no tears left. She sat on, still holding his hands as the chamber slowly grew light. She did not hear as Gratney pushed open the door and tiptoed across the shadowy floor. He stood for a long time without saying anything, his face heavy with grief. Then at last he put his hands on his mother’s shoulders.

  ‘Come and rest, mama. You can do no more for him now.’

  She looked up at him, so cold and stiff she could barely move. ‘I couldn’t bear to see him in such pain – ’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It was what he wanted …’

  ‘I know, mama.’ Carefully he raised her to her feet. Bethoc had tiptoed into the room. She stood looking down at the earl’s body and crossed herself slowly, then she came to Eleyne’s side.

  ‘Come and sleep, my lady. We’ll do all that has to be done now,’ she said.

  Behind her Duncan had appeared in the shadowy room. Eleyne looked from one to the other of her sons with tear-filled eyes. But she could not speak.

  IX

  She dreamed that Donald was young again. She touched the springy curls of his hair, the softness of his skin. She touched his hand and he pushed a role of parchment into her fingers. He smiled. ‘A poem,’ he whispered. ‘Just for you.’

  She had begun to unfold it when a hand reached over her shoulder and snatched the parchment from her. She tried to cry out in protest but no sound came. There were hands on her arms, turning her away from Donald, and she could not fight them; she did not want to fight them.

  Alexander looked at her and smiled. He reached up to touch her cheek with the back of his forefinger. ‘Mine,’ he whispered. ‘You are mine now.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, but she could not resist him. Unprotesting, she walked with him away from Donald. Donald stood staring after her, his hands outstretched, but he was fading. A mist seemed to be forming around him. She turned once to look at him one last time. He raised a hand in farewell, then he was gone.

  X

  It was midday when she awoke. Morna was sitting on the window seat looking out across the valley.

  For a moment Eleyne stared at her, disorientated, then slowly she pulled herself up against the pillows.

  ‘He has gone,’ Morna said. She came to the bed and studied Eleyne’s face, troubled. ‘I saw him,’ she went on gently. ‘Lord Mar stood beside your bed to bid you farewell. You will meet again in another life, but not as lovers.’ She sat down and put her hands over Eleyne’s. ‘The other was here too, and it’s to his destiny that yours is linked and always has been through the ages.’

  ‘So, I am to die soon too.’ Eleyne no longer found the idea frightening. ‘And then I shall be with him.’

  Morna closed her eyes. She was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what is to happen. Death is only passing through a door. People should not fear it the way they do.’ She smiled. ‘But you know that as well as I do.’

  XI

  The countryside was locked in silence. Snow blanketed the mountains; ice slowed the rivers. Only the tiny specks of birds, desperately hunting for food, and deer, forced through hunger into the towns and villages, moved in the grey freezing landscape. The howl of the wolves echoed with the howl of the wind.

  Eleyne shunned the great hall. Her chamber in the Snow Tower was warm and bright with candles and she and her ladies spent much of their time there. Morna had moved into the castle – her own bothy was buried feet deep in snowdrifts. Kirsty was there too with little Marjorie. And big Marjorie was there with her John and their three children – David, John and Isabel – and Duncan’s wife, Christiana Macruarie with their son, Ruairi. The close-knit family had drawn around Eleyne for comfort.

  The victory of William Wallace and Andrew Moray over an army of English knights at Stirling Bridge barely three weeks after Donald had died had been a triumph for Scotland, marred by Moray’s death from his wounds. The patriots were at last in control. Those who had vacillated over their allegiance over the months and years, swinging first this way, then the other – like Robert and Gratney and John, Earl of Buchan – had opted wholeheartedly for the Scots, under the leadership now of Wallace alone. Only the onset of winter had brought a halt to the hostilities and to Wallace’s exuberant raids on northern England, and English and Scots alike retreated to recoup their losses and plan their strategy for the following spring.

  One person was missing from the family gathering. Sandy was still in the Tower. Eleyne’s desperate letters informing Edward of Donald’s death and begging for her son’s release had produced one curt refusal. Then silence.

  The first messenger to fight his way up the strath on snowshoes was not from the south. He brought a letter from Macduff. ‘I returned to Slains with the Comyns as the weather turned. There has been unusually deep snow here on the coast. Isobel has lost the baby she was expecting. Come as soon as you can travel, mama. She needs you.’ The letter was dated three weeks earlier.

  XII

  SLAINS CASTLE February 1298

  Isobel was with her husband’s niece, Alice Comyn, and Elizabeth de Quincy when Eleyne arrived exhausted after the long cold journey from Mar. Most of the men, including Isobel’s husband, had gone, impatiently riding away from Slains as soon as the snows began to melt.

  Eleyne was appalled at the sight of her great-grand-daughter. Isobel’s beauty was ravaged by pain and grief, her eyes huge in the pinched paleness of her face. She looked so vulnerable, so wild, trapped in the cold, dark room with Alice Comyn and her mother-in-law that Eleyne’s heart went out to the child.

  ‘I would like to talk to Isobel alone,’ she said firmly. She held out her hand and Isobel came to her. She recognised the angle of the girl’s head, the straightness of her shoulders. She had felt like this herself a thousand times in the past – defiant, desolate, despairing. Isobel of Buchan was far, far more like her than any of her own children had been.

  She did not speak until they were seated in the window embrasure, both very conscious of the Countess of Buchan’s thoughtful gaze.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my darling,’ Eleyne said. ‘You’re so thin, Isobel. You look as though one breath of wind could break you in two.’

  Isobel looked down at her hands and Eleyne noticed the nails were bitten to the quick. ‘I’m well enough, grandmama.’

  ‘Are you?’ Eleyne’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Does Mairi take care of you?’

  Isobel nodded numbly. Then, ‘Grandmama!’ and she threw herself into Eleyne’s arms.

  ‘My darling.’ Eleyne cradled her close for a long time, aware of Alice and Mairi retiring discreetly to the far side of the solar. Elizabeth stayed where she was. Beyond the shuttered windows Eleyne could hear the sound of the sea, crashing icily on the rocks in the narrow bay.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Eleyne held the girl at arm’s length, feeling the narrow bones almost brittle beneath her thinness.

  Isobel shook her head mutely. ‘We were snowed up at one of the castles along the coast. John was so angry with me.’ Her eyes flooded with tears. ‘He thought I did it on purpose,’ she burst out. ‘That is the stupid part! I had tried everything to get rid of it, but nothin
g worked. Then he came in and he pushed me and I fell against the corner of the coffer –’ She put her face in her hands as the tears coursed down her cheeks. ‘Are you terribly shocked?’ The words were almost inaudible through her fingers.

  Eleyne shifted uneasily on the cushioned seat. The cold wind and the tiring ride in the uncomfortable litter had set her bones aching so much she found it painful to sit still. She pulled Isobel to her and the girl subsided on the dried heather at her feet, her arms on Eleyne’s knees.

  ‘No, I’m not shocked, I’m just distressed that you should be so unhappy.’ Eleyne looked into Isobel’s eyes. ‘I know what it is like to be married to a man you hate.’

  ‘You do?’ Isobel looked up almost eagerly. ‘How did you bear it?’

  Eleyne did not answer for a while. She frowned, trying to remember. ‘For a long time I was in love with someone else,’ she said at last. ‘The thought of him helped a little.’

  She was taken aback by the blaze of excitement in Isobel’s eyes. ‘King Alexander! I remember! I know the story! It’s the same with me! Oh, great-grandmama, there’s someone I love too! Someone handsome and brave – and young!’ Her eyes flooded with tears again. ‘But I can’t go to him, I’m a prisoner here.’ Her voice rose passionately.

  ‘Hush, child.’ The others were talking together at the table and did not appear to have heard. Only Mairi was looking in their direction, her expression wary and thoughtful.

  ‘I’m sure your husband would let you come to Kildrummy,’ Eleyne said gently. She was horrified by how cold Isobel’s hands were. ‘I will tell him I’ve invited you to keep me company for a while. The men of this country will be kept busy fighting for Scotland’s freedom – I suspect for a very long time. Edward is not going to give in easily, I know him. He will not forgive the defeat at Stirling Bridge. He will come back from Flanders bent on revenge.’

  Isobel subsided on to her heels. The fire in her eyes had died. Then she looked up again. ‘Who do you believe should be King of Scots, grandmama?’

  Eleyne sat back. ‘I must confess I favour the Bruces’ claim. Both John Balliol and Robert are descended from the royal house of Canmore through my first husband’s sisters, but Isabel Bruce, my friend, was John’s mother’s younger sister. Dervorguilla, John Balliol’s mother, as daughter of the elder sister, inherited Fotheringhay forty years ago when I forfeited my dower lands, and I believe the lawyers were probably right that Balliol has the senior claim.’ She raised her hand to fend off the storm of protest she could see building in Isobel’s eyes. ‘But I also believe that Robert is a leader of men. John Balliol, with the best will in the world, is not.’

  She paused thoughtfully. Isobel had blushed scarlet. Seeing her great-grandmother had noticed, the girl buried her face in her arms on Eleyne’s knee. Eleyne put her hand on Isobel’s head. ‘So, that’s it,’ she said. ‘Oh, Isobel, my dear.’

  Wordlessly Isobel shook her head without looking up.

  ‘Does he know?’ But even as she said the words Eleyne remembered her conversation with Robert the night after Marjorie was born. She is trouble. Trouble for everyone near her. It’s when I’m near her …

  Eleyne swallowed the wave of grief that it should be this child, this beloved great-grand-daughter, who had caused her own daughter so much unhappiness in the last weeks of her life.

  As though sensing what her great-grandmother was thinking, Isobel looked up. ‘I know he was married to Isabella, but I loved him first!’ she cried in anguish. ‘I have loved him since I was four years old! By rights he is mine!’

  ‘My dear, you have a husband, Robert can never be yours.’ Eleyne kept her voice steady. ‘You should not even think about him.’

  ‘You had a husband when you were King Alexander’s mistress!’ Isobel cried rebelliously. ‘You just admitted it. And the whole country knew about your affair!’

  ‘I suppose Lady Buchan told you that,’ Eleyne said drily. Elizabeth de Quincy was the daughter of Roger, the Constable of Scotland, and thus her dead husband Robert’s niece.

  ‘So, you should understand how I feel.’ Isobel’s voice was passionate. ‘I thought you would understand.’ She sounded cheated.

  ‘I do understand.’ Eleyne cupped the girl’s stormy face between her hands. ‘Believe me, I understand. I also understand that John of Buchan is a very different man from Robert de Quincy! Be careful, my darling. Be very, very careful.’

  There was a thoughtful silence, then Isobel looked up again. ‘Grandmama, don’t you see?’ Her eyes again blazed with excite ment. ‘It is I who am going to fulfil your destiny! My father told mama a long time ago – he didn’t know I was listening – that it was foretold that one of your children would be a queen. It’s me! It has to be me. John will die and I will marry Robert! Don’t you see?’ She knelt up, her forearms on Eleyne’s knees. ‘I am to fulfil the prophecy of your Welsh bard! All we have to do now is help Robert become king!’

  ‘Isobel – ’

  ‘I know it’s true, great-grandmama! I know it, I feel it here.’ She hugged her chest dramatically. ‘Please, you must understand, you’re the only one who can.’

  Eleyne sighed. And so that foolish story went on, from generation to generation.

  ‘Great-grandmama?’ Isobel was looking up at her, pleading.

  Eleyne smiled. ‘I shall certainly do all I can to help Robert become king one day,’ she said. ‘John Balliol is not the man to rule this country.’

  XIII

  March 1298

  Duncan rode the horse on a loose rein, deep in thought. The snows were melting fast, the air was full of the clean wet cold smell of the newly released waters which cascaded down the hills.

  They had killed a wild boar and he had left his men to load the carcass on to the garron and bring it home. There would be fresh meat at the high table when his mother returned to Kildrummy.

  Christiana was waiting for him there with Ruairi. He should be content. Why then did he feel so strange? He reined in, his hand pressed to his chest. He could feel his heart thumping as though he had been involved in some violent wrestling match. His breath was constricted, labouring. Sweat had broken out on his brow; something was wrong.

  Sandy is in trouble … The conviction came to him suddenly. It was like that: if either of them were ill or hurt, the other would know immediately, however great the distance between them. And this time the distance was very great. Sandy was still Edward’s prisoner.

  Duncan turned in his saddle, looking down the strath towards the south, as though he could see through the hills and forests and the high stone walls which separated his brother from himself. His eyes were, shamefully, full of unmanly tears.

  XIII

  KILDRUMMY

  Eleyne was scrambling over the rocks in the marshy bed of the burn at the foot of the small waterfall. Her fingers were bleeding, her gown soaked and cold, dragging around her legs. She was crying.

  ‘Mama? Mama, please don’t.’ Duncan had found her there, and he leaped down the steep sides of the den, putting his arms around her. His own eyes were red with weeping. ‘What are you doing? Come back before you freeze to death.’

  ‘I’m looking for something I lost.’ Shaking with cold, she clung to him. ‘Something Sandy’s father gave me long ago.’

  Sandy’s father. As she said the words she began to sob. Sandy’s father. Not your father. Duncan frowned as his arms tightened around her thin shoulders. ‘We’ll find it,’ he said gently, ‘whatever it is, we’ll find it, but you must come in now. It won’t help anyone if you get a congestion in the lungs.’ Carefully he helped her up the steep slope, half carrying her, conscious for the first time of how light she had become. He broke off an ashplant for her to lean on, and guided her feet on to the precipitous path. Below them the sun reflected on the water in the deep ravine, glittering like a thousand precious gems.

  The letter from London had merely stated that Alexander of Mar had died of a sudden fever. His body had been interred in the pr
ecincts of the rebuilt church of St Peter ad Vincula within the great curtain wall of the Tower. The king had asked for his condolences to be conveyed to the Mars. That was all: a few lines of black, crabbed, clerical script on a regulation sheet of parchment from the king’s chancery.

  ‘What is it, mama? What did you lose down there?’ His arm around her shoulders, Duncan drew his mother down to sit on a tree stump to rest. Her breath was coming in painful gasps and her face was alarmingly white.

  ‘My phoenix.’ She smiled wanly. ‘A pendant. It was so beautiful, so precious …’

  ‘How did it get in the back den?’

  ‘I threw it there.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘One day I’ll tell you the story, Duncan. One day I’ll tell all of you. But not yet.’ She sighed. ‘There’s no point in looking for it; if it wishes to return, it will. It always has in the past.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘Give me your hand. Let’s go back indoors.’ She rose stiffly, leaning on the ashplant. She stared at it for a moment, then she gave a light, astonished laugh. ‘And have someone cut me a proper walking stick. I give in, I need one at last.’ Her voice was still young and vibrant, even in her unhappiness. She reached up to kiss him. ‘Don’t grieve too much for your brother, Duncan. He’s still there, and he still loves us. We’ll all be together again one day.’

  She walked ahead of him up the path. In spite of the bright, cold sunlight, the shadows were gathering over Scotland. She shivered. There would be more deaths before the year was out; she had seen them in the flames.

  XIV

  FALKIRK 22 July 1298

  Macduff eased himself deeper into his saddle. His mail felt heavy on his shoulders; his sword dragged at the baldric across his shoulder. It was hot and muggy, the sun hidden behind a bronzed pall of cloud. It was the Feast of St Mary Magdalene and the whole army had heard mass at first light.