Barbara Erskine - Child of the Phoenix

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.

KILDRUMMY
September 1289

It was early autumn when Eleyne had her first serious illness, lying in bed tossing feverishly day after day without the strength to rise.

Morna came, fetched from her bothy by Sandy when Eleyne refused to see a physician.

Her bones ached; her body felt tired; she had no desire to leave the room in spite of the call of the brilliant smoky day outside, and she scowled at Morna who had brought her a new infusion of herbs. Donald was away in Perth, Sandy had ridden to visit the Countess of Buchan at Ellon, and Marjorie had gone to her handsome earl, leaving Gratney in charge of the castle and Isabella to fuss endlessly over her mother. It was the fussing which eventually forced Eleyne from her bed.

‘Help me to my chair. If that child sponges my forehead once more, I shall scream.’ She leaned on Morna’s arm and walked the few steps to the chair by the hearth. ‘Bless her, I love her dearly, but she’ll fuss me into my grave. Give me my medicine. I have to be better by the time Donald returns.’

Kneeling at her side, Morna handed her the goblet. Eleyne sipped it with a grimace. ‘Go on, say it: I’m the worst patient you have ever treated.’

‘You’re not used to being ill. You’ve never learned patience.’

‘And I never intend to!’ Eleyne leaned back in the chair with a groan. ‘Do you know how old I am? I’m seventy-one, Morna! I’ve outlived my time.’

‘Rubbish.’ Morna handed the goblet to a waiting servant and settled herself comfortably on a stool near Eleyne’s feet. ‘Your first proper illness in years -’ the illness at Kinghorn had been an illness of the mind ‘ – and you are talking mournfully of death. What would your husband say? Or the children? You’ll be up and in the saddle within days, my friend, I’d stake my reputation on it.’ She laughed her deep melodious laugh. ‘And I intend to take the credit for it. Did you see the way that old monk from Cabrach looked at me when I said I’d given you enough physic and he was to keep his leeches in his scrip.’ She leaned forward. ‘I had a letter from Mairi. The folk in Fife think her illiterate, you know, because she’s quiet and keeps her counsel, but she writes as well as a scribe. I taught her myself, as you well know. She says she’s proud of your little great-grand-daughter. She says the child reminds her of you. She rides already and the little madam has a mind of her own.’

Eleyne smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m glad Mairi is there to take care of Isobel. Something in that household worries me.’

‘Have you heard from Lord and Lady Fife?’ Morna asked.

‘Not for months. I was planning to visit Falkland before the weather got bad, but now…’ Eleyne looked forlorn.

‘So you didn’t know that Lady Fife is expecting another child.’

‘No.’ Eleyne straightened. ‘That’s good news. Is Duncan pleased?’

‘Mairi did not say. She only said that he was away. They have moved from Falkland for the last months of the summer. Then after Lady Fife’s confinement they will travel south.’

‘Then I must try and get better in time to ride down to see them,’ Eleyne said.

It was three weeks more before she was strong enough to order the horses to take her and her companions to Fife. Her sons had left the week before at their father’s command to join him at Stirling. Only Isabella remained to take care of her mother – Isabella, still unmarried as she waited for her fifteen-year-old suitor to become a man.

‘I shall leave you to ensure the last of the stores are brought in, and the marts hung for the winter,’ Eleyne directed briskly the night before she left. ‘Check that we have sugar, ginger, mace, citron, figs, raisins…’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Salt beef, hams, sturgeon, lampreys. The stewards have my lists. You must make sure they check the merchants don’t cheat us. You will be in sole charge of Kildrummy.’ She kissed her daughter’s cheek fondly.

‘And you will come back soon, mama,’ Isabella put her hand over her mother’s, ‘and not tire yourself too much.’

Eleyne laughed. ‘I’m as fit as I ever was, child. Don’t you worry, I can cope with anything.’

FIFE

The ride to Macduff ’s Castle was not unduly tiring, but as they turned towards the coast and saw the walls of the castle rise before them against the evening sky Eleyne felt such a wave of weariness sweep over her that it nearly bore her from her saddle. She reined in her horse and looked at the castle, built long ago by one of Malcolm’s ancestors. Behind it, in the green evening sky, a skein of duck flew westwards towards the last yellow flash of daylight. In the fields nearby, the small black cattle grazed unconcerned.

‘Something is wrong.’ She saw smoke rising from the chimney in the corner of the keep and another column from the kitchens inside the outer wall. Nothing seemed amiss there – the smoke was clear, spiced with apple wood. She raised her hand to shade her eyes, looking for the earl’s barred standard on the tower. No flag flew. The gates were closed although it was not yet dusk.

Urging her horse into a canter, she was first at the castle gate-house, and she waited impatiently, her eyes on the postern, as one of her men-at-arms hammered on it with the hilt of his sword.

It was Master Elias, the blind harper, retired now from court and once more in his beloved Fife, who greeted her in the great hall. ‘My lady, I knew you would come.’ The old man had risen to his feet. He groped his way towards her and held out his hands. Taking them, Eleyne felt a suffocating sense of fear. ‘What has happened? Where is Lady Fife?’

Elias lowered his head. ‘It’s the beginning of the end, my lady. Lord Fife is dead, murdered by his own kinfolk.’ His hands tightened over hers as he heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘His body was taken to Coupar Angus. Lady Fife and the household rode there this morning.’

‘My husband… my son… and now my grandson,’ Eleyne whispered. ‘Sweet Blessed Margaret! The house of Fife is cursed.’ She put her hands over her face. ‘Where is Macduff?’

‘Your son, Macduff, has ridden to Coupar Angus too. He will await you there.’ The blind eyes seemed all-seeing. ‘Lady Fife carries a son in her womb, my lady, another child to inherit the earldom, but it’s the little lass who will fulfil Fife’s destiny.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Give her your blessing this night, for that destiny is already in train.’

Eleyne took his hands again and pressed them gently. Then she turned away, blinking back her tears.

She called for lighted torches. The stables were empty, so they had no choice but to remount their weary horses and turn back north into the coming darkness.

COUPAR ANGUS

The abbey was dark save for the four great candles around the bier. The monks who watched over the body of their patron as it lay beneath the silk banner, embroidered with the rampant lion of Fife, scarcely looked up from beneath their cowls at the old woman who walked in, upright in spite of her tiredness, and stood at the Earl of Fife’s feet. For a long time she remained without moving, then at last she walked closer, lifting the corner of the flag to gaze for the last time on her grandson’s face. If she was appalled at his wounds, she gave no sign. She bent to kiss his forehead, as cold already as the marble that would be his tomb.

At the requiem mass the following day, she stood side by side with her son, the dead earl’s uncle, listening to the voices of the monks as they rose in unison towards the vaulted roof of the church. Requiem aeternam. How many times had she heard those words? She looked at Macduff. At thirty-two, he was a handsome, stocky man, much respected by his followers, married at last to a quiet, attractive, adoring wife and with two sons of his own. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned to her and took her arm. The Countess of Fife was not there. In the guesthouse of the abbey she lay enveloped in the agony of a premature labour brought on by the shock of her husband’s death and the precipitate ride to be at his interment. And now she was near her time. Eleyne raised her eyes to the statue of the Blessed Virgin above the side altar near her and prayed silently for Joanna’s deliverance. For the baby she had no fears. Like Master Elias, she knew that he would live.