Barbara Erskine - Child of the Phoenix

After the first onslaught, it was several days before the siege weapons were in use and a sense of almost peaceful anticipation filled the men and women in the castle. It did not last long. As the huge ballistas and trebuchets swung into action, hurling massive missiles at and across the walls, they had their first casualties. Two men from the Garioch died as they crossed the open courtyard. Roofs within the curtain walls collapsed; chunks of masonry flew from the massive walls and the walls of the chapel and the great hall both sustained hits which cracked the stone. After that people became more cautious.

A week later Prince Edward sent the first of many messengers to the castle gate under a white flag of truce to negotiate with Nigel and, they soon discovered, to try to establish if the Queen and Princess of Scotland were still at Kildrummy.

The castle flew two banners. The royal lion of Scotland and the cross-crosslets of Mar. On his first visit the messenger, Sir John Appleby, found out nothing save that they were well stocked with grain, and that Sir Nigel Bruce and the dowager Countess of Mar at least were there behind the granite walls and that they were confident and defiant.

On his second visit, three weeks later, he had another mission besides his message for Sir Nigel. As he walked across the courtyard beneath his white flag, his eyes were everywhere, scanning the faces of the men and women who stared at him from the shelter of the outbuildings. They were looking to see if the rumour that Englishmen had tails was true. He was looking for signs of a different kind: rebellion, frustration, avarice – the bag of jingling coins openly bouncing at his belt might possibly speak to one of the people who were watching him now.

Carefully trained by King Edward’s negotiators, the messenger looked to left and right, scrutinising the faces around him, and as he left the castle, ostensibly disappointed by his defiant reception, he smiled. He reckoned he had spotted his man.

The dream came again. Not the battle, but the fire. Eleyne woke sobbing, to find Bethoc shaking her. ‘My lady, please, what is it?’ The woman was frightened.

Eleyne felt her pillows damp with her tears. The dream had gone. Elusive as a shadow, it had been there at the edge of her consciousness, then it had vanished into blackness. She stared across the room, lit only by the one tallow candle, and frowned. ‘The fire is out.’

‘It hasn’t been lit for weeks, my lady,’ Bethoc said gently. ‘Only the cooking fires are lit and those only during the day.’

‘Of course, I had forgotten.’ Eleyne closed her eyes. ‘Is it nearly dawn?’

‘Near enough, my lady.’ Bethoc glanced towards the window. The glow outside came from the great fires which burned all night in the camp around their walls, openly defying the cold darkness of the castle in the first rawness of autumn.

Bethoc tucked the covers around Eleyne once more and crawled back into her own bed, shivering. In minutes she was asleep.

Eleyne lay looking up at the grey shadows on the ceiling as imperceptibly it grew lighter. Without realising it, her hand had gone to the phoenix lying over her thin, bony chest. The enamel was warm, vibrant between her fingers; his hands, when they touched her shoulder, were gentle and persuasive, soothing her pounding heart, stroking away her fear, making her forget her aged, treacherous body. Beneath the warm covers of her bed, she began to smile.

Edward of Caernarfon was sitting in his pavilion when Sir John Appleby returned to the camp. At twenty-two, Edward was tall, cool, uninvolved, like his father in many ways, and yet different – a paler, weaker version. Always there was that soft centre, that lack of resolution, which meant he would never be the king his father was. It showed even now amongst his men. He sat back on his stool and looked at Sir John’s face. One glance told him what he wanted to know, and he threw down his quill. ‘You found someone?’ He stretched his legs in front of him with a groan. He was bored with the siege; he wanted quick results. And glory.

Sir John nodded. He bowed formally, then took the stool Prince Edward indicated and drew it forward. Above their heads, the sun threw dappled shadows on to the canvas of the pavilion. He could smell the crushed grass beneath the floor coverings. Outside, the brazier burned merrily; a page was feeding twigs into the flames. ‘Yes, sire, I think I’ve found my man. Strong, but disabled. Frustrated; angry and resentful. I saw his eye follow me, and I saw it linger a long time on the gates as they opened for me. My bet is that he noticed my purse and he’d sell his own grandmother for it.’

Edward smiled. ‘Good.’ He picked up his pen again and tapped it on the folding table where he was sitting. ‘This siege begins to bore me. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I’ll be pleased. Did you see the Bruce’s family?’

‘I spoke to Sir Nigel. They’re there all right.’

‘But did you see them?’ Edward’s eyes narrowed.

‘No one but Sir Nigel and the Countess of Mar. The old girl looked daggers at me.’ He shivered. ‘I wouldn’t like to be the one to put chains on her. Quite a nest of vipers we have holed up here, my lord. Once you have them the Bruce will be hamstrung. Wife, mistress, child! What a gift for the king, your father!’

‘What a gift indeed.’ Edward stood up and strode to the tent’s doorway. He stood gazing at the curtain wall of the castle, so high and thick his siege engines could make no impression on them. Kildrummy would never fall to them. He smiled cynically. Those walls and that gatehouse had been reconstructed under his father’s orders at the direction of Master James of St George. They were impregnable! He gave an ironic little laugh. Then his face sobered. Only treachery would bring Kildrummy to its knees.

Sir Nigel spent a great deal of time now in the solar in the Snow Tower. He had grown fond of Eleyne and they talked and played chess and backgammon to while away the long hours when he was not patrolling the walls and supervising weapons practice amongst his few men. It was hard to keep morale high; harder to keep them from the boredom which would miss the scaling ladder in the dark. Women as well as men were being trained to use any weapons which came to hand and to take their turn on the walls.

‘What will happen, Nigel?’ Eleyne had put down her sewing. Her eyes tired easily now. She rubbed them and blinked. Even on the sunniest days, and with the window glass removed to give light – and so that the lead could be melted down to make shot for their catapults – she found it harder to place the intricate stitches.

He shrugged. ‘Prince Edward looks set for a long siege.’

‘Through the winter?’

‘I suspect so. He can only guess how much food we have here, but he knows we can last a long, long time. No doubt we’ll have more proposals for terms of surrender soon.’

Eleyne shuddered. ‘Sir John made it clear there would be little quarter given.’ He had promised the women their lives, no more. And he had promised to return for their reply. ‘I suspect that quarter would be withdrawn when he found there was no one here he wanted but you and me.’ She smiled grimly. ‘I would be a grave disappointment to my dear cousin, who’s hoping for far more exotic pickings.’

Nigel was silent for a while, then he sat down opposite her. He leaned forward and picked up her embroidery. She had stitched a bird into the linen. An eagle? An osprey? It looked as though it were sitting in a nest of fire. ‘You, of all of us, have the most royal blood, you know,’ he said with a laugh.

‘And Edward cannot wait to shed it.’ Eleyne took the sewing from him and tucked it neatly into her sewing basket. She sighed. ‘How strange. I was once so sure that my royal blood would bring me to a throne and now it looks as though it will bring me to my death.’

That night she dreamed again. This time the dream was triumphant. She saw Robert crowned; she saw Elizabeth and Isobel at his side and Marjorie tall and radiant, and at her side another child – a son; a prince for Scotland. She lay awake a long time thinking about it the next morning as, slowly, the chamber grew light. Had she dreamed truly or was the dream just the form of her longings? She could still see in her mind the faces of the men and women who had walked through the bright halls, and the boy – Elizabeth’s son – the son who would take away her grand-daughter’s right to the crown, and the chance of her own blood succeeding, ever, to the throne of Scotland.

It was several minutes before she felt a hand on her shoulder gently caressing her beneath the silk coverlet. She smiled and relaxed back on to the pillows, looking up at the hangings above her head as a stray beam of sunlight reflected into the narrow east window. ‘Can you see what will happen, my dear?’ she whispered out loud. ‘Will Robert win? Will he come to our rescue?’ Slowly she sat up. That was it! That was what the dream meant. Robert was on his way. He was coming to rescue them. He had regrouped his men.

For the first time in weeks she felt a small ray of hope and it acted as a tonic to her stiff bones. Climbing from her bed, she picked up the bell and rang it for Bethoc, then she walked to the window, without the aid of her stick, and looked down the strath. A fresh wind was blowing and she could see the royal banner above Edward’s tent rippling merrily on its tall staff. There was little activity in the camp of their enemy. She could see the cooking fires, newly built, with smoking cauldrons of something hot suspended over them. Her stomach growled with hunger. She shook her head. They had enough to eat, and she of all the men and women in the castle needed least to sustain her old bones.