Barbara Erskine - Child of the Phoenix

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.’

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.’

February 1296

Sandy 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.

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.

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.

KILDRUMMY CASTLE
May 1296

‘Well, what is your news?’ Eleyne looked down at the panting, gasping man who knelt at her feet. Her face was white.

‘The battle was lost, my lady.’ The man took a gulp of air. ‘Lost. All lost. The English king walked all over our host.’

‘Donald?’ Her mouth had gone dry, and the word came out as less than a whisper. She was clenching her fists tightly.

The man had not heard. He was still kneeling before her, his head bent, and there were tears coursing down his grimy, weathered face. Eleyne felt a moment of compassion as he knelt there. ‘My husband,’ she repeated desperately. ‘Where is Lord Mar?’

‘Captured, my lady. And Sir Alexander with him.’ The man knuckled his eyes fiercely and took a deep breath. ‘And most of the lords of Scotland.’

‘Captured,’ she echoed, numb with shock. ‘By Edward? What is to happen to them? Where are they? Where is Lord Gratney?’

He shrugged. ‘All was confusion at Dunbar. The English king is in complete control, and opposition to him has collapsed. Many of the prisoners are being sent south to England. I think it likely that Lord Mar is amongst them. The king is sending south all the leaders of what he called the rebellion.’

‘And our king?’ Eleyne’s voice was heavy. ‘What of our King John? Was he captured too?’ She was fighting off the despair which threatened to overwhelm her.

‘He was not taken. I don’t know where he is.’

‘You don’t know?’ Eleyne cried. ‘What kind of king is this who allows his kingdom to fall about his ears and his people don’t know where he is?’ She took a deep breath. ‘I must go to Donald, I must find him. Is King Edward still at Dunbar? I must leave at once – today.’ She turned and almost ran to the door. As she reached it Gratney appeared. He had been but minutes behind his father’s messenger when he drew his mud-stained slavering horse to a halt in the courtyard.

‘It’s all right, mama, papa is unhurt. He is safe and with Sandy in honourable custody. Would you expect any less of King Edward?’

Eleyne stared at her eldest son. ‘You weren’t fighting for Edward!’ Her voice was husky with shock.

Gratney shook his head. ‘Of course not. I am loyal to Scotland, mama. But like the Bruces it does not suit me to fight for Balliol. I’m not prepared to answer his summons as meekly as father is. But I would not fight my own people, either. Never!’ He gave her a sheepish grin. ‘So I was a bit late for the battle. I fought on neither side. I knew papa and the twins would provide enough Mar blood between them. No, no!’ He raised his hand as she went white. ‘None of them has shed any of it. I heard Duncan is safe, though I haven’t seen him. I’m fairly sure he escaped.’