Barbara Erskine - Child of the Phoenix

‘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.

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.

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.’

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.

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 nothing 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.’