Child of the Phoenix

I

It had rained for several weeks; torrential, cold, swelling the rivers and burns, lying in the great sodden mosses of the moors, cascading from the mountains in falls and leaps of white water. When the sun appeared at last it was balm upon the land.

The old man went regularly to the sacred well. He would hang a torn strip of cloth from a branch of thorn or leave a broken piece of bannock and once, in despair, he tossed a penny, a whole day’s pay, into the spring before he dipped a jug of the pure, ice-cold water to take back to the high shielings where his wife lay ill with fever in their makeshift bothy.

The rain had deepened the pool. The trickle which usually bubbled gently from the rock had become a torrent. He could see where the shingle had been washed out of the pool by the force of the floodwater. It lay on the bank amongst the thin scattering of bog orchids and purple-black cornel like the sea strand. Something caught his eye, gleaming amongst the stones. He bent and picked it up. Trailing with soft, feathery moss, the phoenix lay in his palm and it seemed to him that it vibrated like a captive dragonfly. For a long time he looked at it, debating whether he should throw it back into the pool. Someone had left it as an offering, and it would be the worst of luck to take it. On the other hand, he could see the jewel was worth a king’s ransom.

II

On the hills behind Kildrummy Castle the heather was beginning to turn to purple beneath the summer sun. Eleyne sat in her favourite room in the Snow Tower watching Marjorie and Isabella sew whilst she told them the stories of old Wales. Agnes brought in a pouch of letters which had just arrived from the south.

She had grown to dread the arrival of these letters. Too often, as the years passed, they contained bad news. The first had come four years before. A letter, out of the blue, from Alice Goodsire, Luned’s eldest daughter.

It was very quick. Mama did not suffer at all. A seizure, the doctor said. She had a happy life and she remembered you always in her prayers.

Luned had left a doting husband, five children and sixteen grandchildren to mourn her.

Her death shook Eleyne terribly. Her foster sister, her maid and her oldest friend, Luned had been her closest companion for so many years it did not seem possible that she could be dead, that she would never see her again…

Then five months ago the next blow had come, word of her sister Gwenllian’s death, followed only three months later by news that her beloved Margaret had succumbed to a congestion of the lungs and died at last, giving orders that her heart be buried in her beloved husband Walter’s coffin at Aconbury in the rolling hills of the border march.

So, they were all gone now. Luned, Gruffydd and Senena, Dafydd and Isabella, Gwladus, Angharad, Gwenllian and Margaret. She was the only one left of the brood of Llywelyn ap Iorwerth and Joan the daughter of John of England.

She frowned, lost in thought, the pouch dangling from her finger-tips. Henry of England had also died, nine years ago now; her Uncle Henry, the man who had declared her dead. In his eyes, in the eyes of England she had been dead for nearly thirty years! She had felt little sorrow when he had gone, he who had treated her as a pawn, to be handed without a second thought to a man like Robert de Quincy. She shivered. Even after all these years the thought of Robert could still make her skin crawl. The power of a king was frightening – a power of life and death; a power to treat his subjects like so many possessions. The great charter her grandfather had been forced to sign had changed little in the long run. And now another king ruled England: her cousin Edward. Unofficially he recognised her existence; he knew she was there and the thought filled her with unease. For a long time she had known that Edward regarded her as an enemy.

She gazed thoughtfully at the bag of letters.

Donald and his father were at Roxburgh with the Scots court. The letters were undoubtedly from them, full of last-minute instructions to do a thousand things on the estates which she had probably done two weeks ago. Her face cleared; smiling fondly, she picked up one sealed with Donald’s seal.

The letter did indeed contain news. As Donald’s father was still unwell Donald had been called to act as a witness to the marriage agreement between little Princess Margaret, King Alexander’s youngest child, and Eric, King of Norway. The earl was, he said, travelling back to Kildrummy in easy stages. William, who had always been such a robust and energetic man, had been growing old visibly over the past few months, his decline speeded by Muriel’s sudden death of congestion of the lungs. Eleyne put the letter down. Next to it on the pile was a letter in a hand she didn’t recognise. It bore the seal of de Bohun; her heart began to thump uncomfortably.

‘Mama! the story!’ Isabella prompted. At twelve she was tall and slim as a sapling but showing at last the signs of great beauty to come. ‘Please.’

‘In a minute, my love.’ Eleyne turned the letter over and over in her hands, then finally she broke the seal. When she looked up at last, there were tears in her eyes.

‘Mama! Mama, what is it?’ Isabella dropped her work and ran to put her thin arms around her mother’s neck.

Eleyne smiled, barely able to speak for emotion. ‘It’s from your sister.’

‘My sister?’ Isabella looked uncertainly at Marjorie – at eleven, still a chubby tomboy.

‘No, not your little sister, your big sister.’ Eleyne drew her daughter down on to the seat near her. ‘Long before you were born, I lived in England and I had two little girls, much like you and Marjorie. But when I came to live in Scotland with Macduff ’s father, I had to leave them behind.’

‘You wouldn’t leave me behind, would you?’ Marjorie, sitting plumply on a stool of her own, sounded only half confident as she too put down her sewing ready for the new story.

‘No, darling, I wouldn’t leave you behind.’ Eleyne smiled, hiding the terrible sadness those memories still brought back.

‘What is she called. Our sister?’ Isabella asked, eyeing the letter clutched in her mother’s hands.

‘She is called Joanna, and her sister is Hawisa.’

‘What does she say?’ Marjorie interrupted. ‘Is she coming to see us?’

‘She wants to see us, but she hasn’t been very well,’ Eleyne said slowly.

Forgive me my churlish behaviour in the past. I could not forgive you for leaving us and it is only lately, as I find myself increasingly a pawn of King Edward’s marriage plans for me, that I realise how helpless we women are when men have decided our fate. Only my recurrent illness stopped his father remarrying me to someone else after Humphrey’s death. Now I fear my illness will remove me from this world and from the marriage game sooner rather than later. I should so like to see you before I die. Please, mother, if you can forgive me, can we meet?

She did not say how ill she was, nor did she mention her sister.

‘When will she come?’ Marjorie asked eagerly. Scrambling to her feet, she came and leaned against her mother’s knees and picking up the letter, she began to spell out some of the words. ‘How old is she? Her writing is difficult to read. Or did she use a clerk?’ The girl smiled. Her own writing had been condemned as execrable by the boys’ tutor who had remained at Kildrummy after his charges had gone so that twice a week he could give the girls a lesson in reading and writing.

‘She is grown up, my darling. I don’t know when she’ll come or if she’ll be able to travel so far,’ Eleyne said. ‘It may be that I shall ride south to see her.’

‘Then we won’t meet her!’ Isabella scowled. ‘I know! You can take us to see Cousin Llywelyn in Wales. We’ll meet her there and we can see Aber. Can we?’

It was a tempting idea. ‘We’ll see. I’ll speak to your father. I would like to go to Aber again.’ She sighed wistfully and stood up and stretched. Aber and Joanna. That would be perfect.

III

The heatwave which followed the rain broke in a massive storm. Lightning flashed across the mountains, turning heather and rock to blinding silver as the thunder reverberated over the moors and echoed around the corries.

Eleyne surveyed the women in her solar. They were restless, made uneasy by the thunder. At the table Isabella and Marjorie were squabbling quietly over a game of pick-a-sticks.

Eleyne went to stand in the window embrasure, flinching as a flash seemed to angle directly through the eighteen-foot-thick walls.

Donald and his father had still not returned to Mar. There had been no further word from them, and she was unsettled. Something was wrong. She closed her eyes; her head was throbbing dully and, in spite of the heat of the chamber, there was a strange coldness across her shoulders.

Eleyne …

She caught her breath. The whisper had been in her head, inside her brain.

Her eyes flew open and she looked across the room. In spite of the heat, they had had to light candles to sew by. She could see the perspiration on the faces of the women, the dampness of the clinging wimples, dark stains spreading on thin silk. The rankness of their bodies was beginning to fill the room, overpowering the floral scents they used and the sweetness of the beeswax candles.

Eleyne spun around. A dozen faces turned towards her, then turned back to their work.

Eleyne …

There it was again. Clearer this time, stronger.

She couldn’t breathe. ‘Blessed Virgin. Holy Mother of God.’ Soundlessly her lips framed the words. Another lightning flash illuminated the room and she saw Isabella flinch, her hand across her eyes. The child looked near to tears.

‘It’s all right.’ Her voice sounded distant and disembodied above the muted gabble of conversation. ‘It will pass over soon. Bethoc, where is your lute? Play for us. It will take our minds off the storm.’

She went back to the table, feeling the drag of her skirts intolerably hot and heavy against her legs, and she put her hand on Isabella’s for a moment as it hovered over the pile of cut rushes they were using for their game.

‘Mama!’ Marjorie’s protest was anguished. ‘Now you’ve spoiled it – ’

‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to.’ Eleyne smiled at her youngest daughter contritely.

He was there near her; unbelievably, he was there. The women, seated in groups around the candles or at the heavy oak trestle, had sensed nothing. The deep window embrasure was empty and yet she could feel him. For the first time in years she could feel him.

‘Why? Why have you come back?’ She mouthed the words silently over her daughters’ bent heads but she knew the answer.

She hadn’t called him, it was the phoenix.

Someone had found the phoenix.

IV

Eleyne put the idea of a visit to Wales to Donald as soon as he came home with his father two weeks later. It was the only way to escape, to be sure that Alexander would not follow.

‘That would give you real pleasure? To go back to Wales?’

‘You know it would.’

She was trying to hide her anxiety, her terror that Alexander had come back for her at last. She had to get away from Scotland and in Wales surely he couldn’t reach her.

‘I want to see Llywelyn again. And Aber. I’m getting old, Donald. Soon I won’t be able to contemplate the idea of such a long journey.’

He laughed. ‘You old? Never!’

At sixty-three she was as upright and slim as ever and as full of energy. She could still outride him, still sit up all night with a foaling mare, not trusting his horse masters, and be as alert at breakfast as the children. And she was still as desirable as ever. There were times – when she returned from her long lonely rides in the hills with only her two dogs, Lucy and Saer, the latest in the long line of Donnet’s descendants to guard her – when he wondered what magic she practised in secret beneath the moon. There was a glow to her skin and a gleam in her eye, a strange glamour over her, which bewitched him as strongly as when he had first met her.

He frowned. Out of nowhere the fear had returned, the suspicion, the secret dread, that on those lonely trips she met with Alexander’s ghost.

V

William summoned Eleyne to his bedside soon after he and Donald returned. His face had thinned to the point of gauntness and his voice had weakened, but he had lost none of his acerbity when addressing his daughter-in-law.

‘I bring greetings from the king. He thanks you for your messages of condolence.’ Alexander’s second son, David, had died in June.

He groaned as he eased the pain in his joints. ‘You’ve heard no doubt that I was too ill to attend the finalising of the marriage settlement between young Margaret and the King of Norway. Donald was there, though. He’ll be a valuable adviser to the king when I’m gone, if you let him.’ He frowned through his bushy eyebrows. ‘You’re a powerful woman, Eleyne, and you still have my son exactly where you want him. Don’t stand in his way.’

Eleyne eyed him coolly. ‘I have never stood in his way.’

‘Oh yes you have. You keep him dangling here at Kildrummy when he should be with the king; you keep him on a leash like one of your damn dogs. And it’s not good for him. Let him go, woman.’ He shot his neck forward and glared at her. ‘I’ll be dead soon and he’ll be the earl. You’ve given him three sons and all credit to you for that.’ He paused thoughtfully, visibly wondering how she had done it. ‘You stay here and look after the earldom. You’re a good administrator. And let Donald go to court.’ He coughed feebly. ‘Are you afraid he’ll find himself another woman now you’re old?’ The glance he gave her out of the corner of his eye was pure malice.

She smiled. ‘No, I’m not afraid of that.’ She wasn’t, not any more.

‘Nor should you be.’ Grudgingly he smiled. ‘You’ve the looks of a woman half your age still, though, Blessed Margaret, I don’t know how you do it. One last point.’ His cough grew harsher. ‘I’m sending men from Mar as part of the army, keeping the peace in Wales. Wait -!’ He raised his hand as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘This is my duty, according to the agreements made between England and Scotland, and I abide by it, as Donald will be expected to do. You will not try to interfere. The politics of Wales are no longer your concern even if the king permits you to visit Llywelyn as you’ve asked. If there are Scotsmen helping Edward of England keep the peace, it is because your nephew was unable to do so himself. He lost the best part of Wales through his own weakness. Now, with Edward building castles all around him, he’ll be forced to abide by English rules, and there’s nothing you can do about it!’

Eleyne grimaced. He was right, but it hurt to think of foreign soldiers on Welsh soil.

So much had happened in Wales since she had been there last. Ever since Edward’s accession to the English throne, the working relationship which had existed between his father and Llywelyn had deteriorated, until in the face of Llywelyn’s persistent refusal to submit to his new English overlord, Edward had invaded Wales, accompanied by Llywelyn’s ever-rebellious and still jealous younger brother, Dafydd.

The combination of king and brother had inflicted a resounding defeat on Llywelyn, reducing the prince’s territory to the northern part of Gwynedd and forcing him to release his and Dafydd’s elder brother, Owain, whom Llywelyn, in his anxiety to keep him away from the centre of power, had kept so long a prisoner.

Edward had compromised in the interests of peace. He did not take away Llywelyn’s title of Prince of Wales and he had allowed him at long last to marry Eleanor, the daughter of Simon de Montfort, to whom he had been betrothed for so long, in a wonderful ceremony in Worcester Cathedral. That had been the last time Eleyne had seen her nephew. She and Donald had ridden south to attend the wedding, and she had been overjoyed to think that at last Wales would find some kind of peace.

The peace, however, had been an uneasy one.

Lord Mar shook his head grimly. ‘There was a time when I thought Wales and Scotland would unite to keep English ambition in check. It’s sad for Wales that that did not happen, for Edward is a very different man from his father.’ He fell silent, staring grumpily at his gnarled hands.

Eleyne took a deep breath. She was too old a hand at sparring with William to rise to most of the challenges he had flung at her. ‘Are you confident that Edward will not challenge Scottish supremacy one day?’ she asked mildly. She had never trusted Edward, from that day when as a boy he had stared at her with such hostile eyes at Woodstock. And she had sensed something in him – a cold-bloodedness – which set him apart even from his father.

‘He and Alexander get on well, they always have. There is no reason why Edward should threaten us. We are an independent kingdom with a strong king and an effective government.’ He frowned. ‘Though I could wish Prince David had not died. The king’s eldest son, Lord Alexander, is not a strong boy either. He is a fragile defence to have between the king and destiny, especially since the queen died and the king has not remarried.’

His words sparked off some strange warning bell inside Eleyne’s head. ‘But the king has chosen a wife,’ she said.

William nodded. ‘It’s not yet announced, but he has talked to the Count of Flanders about his daughter. There has been too much delay.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘He’s a strong, robust man; he needs a woman now, and a dozen new sons as soon as possible. In case.’

Eleyne frowned: her vision of Alexander on his horse had never returned. It was as if by telling him about it she had pre-empted fate. Certainly it was well known now that he would never ride a grey.

She stood up and dropped a dutiful kiss on her father-in-law’s head. ‘I must leave you now. You are tired.’

He scowled. ‘Yes, Goddamnit, I’m tired.’

Two weeks later William of Mar was dead.

VI

The new Earl of Mar and Thane of Cabrach travelled to Wales with his wife in November. Their intention was to spend Christmas with Prince Llywelyn at Aber and meet at long last with Joanna.

On the way they stopped at King Edward’s great new castle of Rhuddlan, with its canal diversion of the River Clwyd. Solemnly they allowed themselves to be given a tour of the new building by King Edward’s castle builder, Master James of St George, admiring not only the provision for stables and granaries and workshops in the outer ward but also the king’s and queen’s halls with their painted timber walls and, already, the start of the queen’s garden and her little fish pond.

In their lavishly appointed guest chamber Donald turned to one of his coffers and brought out his writing materials. Within minutes he was deeply engrossed in a sketch of the lay-out of the castle.

Eleyne stood behind him, watching. ‘Are you going to show it to Llywelyn?’

He glanced up. ‘I doubt if there’s any secret about the strength of this place, my love. And it bodes ill for Llywelyn. No, I’m taking these drawings back with me to show to my stonemasons. We could gain some useful ideas for strengthening Kildrummy, with the king’s approval.’ He reached up and pulled her down to kiss her. ‘Are the children settled?’

She nodded. ‘They’re all tired and excited.’

He gave her a fond, sideways glance. ‘So are you?’

‘Not as tired as all that, Donald!’ She raised an eyebrow sharply. ‘As you will see, later!’ She left him to his sketching and wandered across to the window which overlooked the broad waters of the diverted River Clwyd. The east wind was beginning to scream through the half-built sections of the inner towers and darkness was setting in.

They had spent the previous night at Chester, a strange echo from earlier times. Tomorrow they would spend the night at the guesthouse of Conwy Abbey, so she could pray at the tombs of her father and her two brothers. Then at last they would be at Aber.

The low cloud racing in on the wind had cut out all views from the castle now. The inner ward was dank and murky as it grew dark. A boy had come in to light the candles and throw logs on the fire. All ought to be well, but she could not throw off a feeling of unease.

At Aber Llywelyn and Eleanor greeted them with enthusiasm and made them all at home. But at once Llywelyn had disappointing news. ‘Lady de Bohun has written to say she is not well enough to travel, Aunt Eleyne. I’m so sorry.’ He handed her Joanna’s letter.

Eleyne gazed unseeing at the parchment in her hands. ‘I knew she wouldn’t come.’ Her voice was flat.

Eleanor frowned at her husband; he needn’t have told her so soon. He could have allowed her the pleasure of coming home first. She smiled at Eleyne. ‘It just means you must come again, next summer perhaps. When the weather is better and she has had a chance to recover.’

‘And when we will have a new member of the family to show you.’ Llywelyn put his arm around his wife’s waist fondly. ‘June or thereabouts would be about right, I’d say.’

Eleyne put Joanna’s letter away. ‘So, you are to have a daughter, I’m so pleased.’ She spoke without thinking as she kissed Eleanor’s cheek.

‘A son, Aunt Eleyne,’ Llywelyn said sharply, ‘we are expecting a son.’

She looked at him. His handsome face had aged since she had last seen him, and the shadows of exhaustion surrounded his eyes. She shivered slightly as a cold draught whistled through the great hall, gone as soon as it had come.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘A son.’

VII

Einion was not there. Almost defiantly she stood by the river in memory of Rhonwen and threw a late frost-hardened rosebud into the whirling waters as an offering to the past. Her children watched in silence. Gratney was tall and handsome, very like his father, as were the twins; at fourteen, he was a squire now, in the household of his cousin, her nephew and friend of so many years, Robert Bruce of Annandale. The twins were pages with the Earl of Buchan at Slains. All three had been summoned home for the pilgrimage to their mother’s birthplace, and were enjoying for the first time the fact of her royal birth.

She showed them Yr Wyddfa; she showed them the strait and Llanfaes and the views of the great cloud-covered mass of Eryri, the high cwms already deep with snow, but it was Sandy alone who rode with her to the site of Einion’s grave. So like his brother in looks, he was a gentler, dreamier version. Dismounting, he held his mother’s horse as she stood looking down at the lichen-covered stone.

‘These woods are strange,’ he said with a shiver.

‘In what way?’ Squinting at him against the frosty sunlight, she studied his face. Handsome, square-jawed, his nose liberally sprinkled with freckles, his sandy hair as usual awry beneath his cap, he was gazing into the distance, his grey eyes unfocused.

‘There are ghosts, spirits.’ He shrugged, dismissing the thought, and began to fondle the horse’s muzzle. ‘Duncan doesn’t notice, so I don’t talk about it much.’ His voice was carefully casual.

‘You mean you’ve seen them before?’ Eleyne asked softly. She had a vivid memory of her own cautious questioning of Isabella de Braose when they were children, her withdrawal when Isabella’s scorn told her other people didn’t see the things she did.

Sandy nodded.

‘At Kildrummy too?’

He nodded again. ‘And at Slains. And on the mountains.’ He hesitated. ‘You see them, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I see them.’

‘There’s one in particular,’ he went on in a rush, the words tumbling over each other in his eagerness to speak to her on her own at last, now that he had dared to broach the subject. ‘I sometimes think he follows me about.’

Eleyne forced herself to smile. She felt suddenly sick with fear. ‘Perhaps it is your guardian angel,’ she whispered. She put her hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘What does he look like? Have you ever really seen him?’

Sandy met her gaze steadily. A slight blush had coloured his cheeks and was spreading to the back of his neck. ‘He’s shadowy, tall, with dark, watching eyes. I’ve never seen him clearly.’ He broke away from her, his embarrassment overcoming his longing to confide. ‘It’s silly. He’s not really there… I just feel him.’

Eleyne could hardly breathe. ‘And he watches over you?’

Sandy nodded.

Alexander.

‘Well.’ Eleyne took a deep breath. ‘Whoever it is, he must love you very much.’ She kissed him on the forehead. ‘Having the Sight is hard to live with, Sandy. It’s a burden. The people who don’t see into the other worlds are very lucky.’ She paused. ‘Does Duncan ever see anything?’

He shook his head violently. ‘It’s the only thing that comes between us. We’re so close otherwise. It’s as though we’re part of each other. I know when he’s hurt, I know when he’s sad, even when Lord Buchan has taken one of us to court and left the other at Slains… he makes us take turns. But Dunc never sees. Not like me.’

‘Then the gods have chosen you for some reason,’ Eleyne said quietly. ‘You have their blessing and their protection.’

‘And Dunc hasn’t?’ Sandy was uncertain whether to be pleased for himself or upset for his twin.

‘Duncan has other blessings.’ Eleyne smiled reassuringly and with that he had to be content.

She turned away, unable to school her face any longer. She was shaking like a leaf. Was the spirit who watched over her elder twin Alexander of Scotland? Had he after all fathered one of her sons?

That night, alone in the bedchamber in the tower room at the end of the ty hir, while Donald lingered in the great hall with Llywelyn, she went to the north-facing window and tore open the shutters, staring out across the black sea towards Llanfaes and the beaches which stretched in the direction of Penmon.

‘Where are you?’ she cried out loud into the darkness. ‘Where are you? Why don’t you come to me and tell me the truth?’

There was no reply. Alexander had not followed her to Wales.

VIII

Isabella was the most pleased to be back. She had enjoyed their month-long stay in Gwynedd and she had grown very fond of her splendid glamorous cousin who was the Prince of Wales, but she missed her home. She had spent all her twelve years in Mar and had grown used to the mountains and the broad straths of north-east Scotland. The violent crags and the ice-hung gullies and cwms of Yr Wyddfa were to her sinister in their wild beauty and, back in Eryri, her mother’s remote feyness seemed more threatening.

Isabella had a special hiding place which even Meg and the nurserymaids did not know about: a small storeroom in the tower, right under the roof, and there she would sit for hours, dreaming or reading her mother’s precious book of the Mabinogi, or playing with one or other of the dozens of castle kittens. Best of all, Marjorie and her brothers had never found her there. Twice her younger sister had plodded up to the storeroom, calling her, but on both occasions she had missed the little door, carefully hidden behind some empty wooden chests, which led into the small room beyond, her own private sanctuary, and she had heard the plaintive calls getting fainter again as Marjorie went away.

Only a few hours after reaching the castle she made her way up to her hidy-hole clutching a new treasure, a new book of stories, laboriously copied for her by one of Llywelyn’s scribes. It too told of kings and princes; of fairies and magic, and of wonderful princesses with whom she passionately identified.

Wrapping herself in her cloak, she huddled closer to her candle for warmth. Outside the narrow slit window snow flurries whirled up the valley. Soon it would be time for supper but in the meantime she had already forgotten the long ride and the black cliffs and icy crags of Gwynedd. She was lost in her dreams.

It was a severe shock when her mother came into the room, silent as a shadow, and sat down next to her on the dusty floor. ‘So, this is where you hide away.’ Eleyne smiled. ‘Do you mind me knowing?’

‘Not as long as you don’t tell Marjorie.’

Eleyne laughed. Isabella loved the way her mother’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed. It made her look young and carefree. ‘I won’t tell her, I promise.’ Eleyne was studying her daughter’s face. ‘You didn’t like Wales, did you?’

Isabella knew better than to pretend. ‘It was frightening. And sad.’

Eleyne sighed. ‘I wish you could have seen it in the summer, when the snow on the mountains has gone and the cwms are full of flowers.’ She smiled. ‘So. You come up here to read.’

Isabella nodded shyly.

‘I’ve always loved to be alone. But all my special places have been outside – or in the stables. Are you going to come down now? It’s so cold up here. And the horn will call us to supper soon.’

‘Mama.’ Closing the book, Isabella tucked it carefully into a small coffer by the wall. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’ Eleyne wrapped her arms around her legs and sat, chin on knees.

‘Who am I going to marry?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Haven’t you and papa arranged my marriage?’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘We’ve talked about it, of course, and we’ve thought of various possibilities. But there’s nothing arranged. There’s plenty of time to think about it yet.’

‘Did you ever dream about who you would marry?’ Isabella edged closer, her eyes huge in the candlelight.

Eleyne nodded. ‘I did, but you see, it was different for me. I was married when I was a young child, so I always knew who my husband was.’

‘And was he very handsome?’ Isabella sat forward on her knees.

‘He was very handsome and very kind.’

‘And he was Joanna’s father?’

Slowly Eleyne shook her head, ‘No, John and I had no children. Joanna’s father was my second husband.’

Isabella was silent for a moment. ‘And was he handsome too?’ she asked.

‘I suppose so.’

‘And then came Macduff ’s father.’

Eleyne smiled. ‘And then yours.’

‘Will I have four husbands?’

‘I don’t think so. I think you’ll have just one. Someone you’ll love very much.’

‘Is that written in the stars?’ Isabella loved Eleyne’s almanacs and star charts. She and Marjorie had both spent hours poring over them, seeing the pictures in the heavens.

‘Yes, it’s written in the stars.’

‘And will I have lots of children?’

Eleyne leaned forward and took Isabella’s hands in hers. ‘That’s enough questions, sweetheart. I don’t know how many children you’ll have, or when, or who you will marry. Come on, let’s leave the future to take care of itself and go down to supper.’

IX

Morna looked down at the woman lying on the straw pallet on the floor at Mossat. She was pale and shivering, the sweat pouring from her body. She shook her head. ‘The fever hasn’t broken. She’s worse.’

The woman’s husband had brought her down from the high shielings in the autumn, carrying her on his back. Her fever had returned a dozen times since then and he had had to let the other men go to the lambing without him.

‘Last summer I went to the well. I thought the water would cure her,’ he admitted unhappily. He was twisting his cap in his hands in agitation as he looked down at his wife.

Morna frowned. ‘That wouldn’t help for this. What we need to do is break the fever once and for all,’ she said practically. She turned to her bag of remedies. The woman needed medicine now as well as spells.

She knelt, propping the woman’s head on her arm as she fed her the hot green tea. The man felt in his pouch and produced a scrap of sacking. ‘I took something from the spring,’ he said shamefaced. ‘I shouldna have done it. I knew it would bring ill luck.’

Morna was shocked. ‘You stole from the guardians of the spring?’

He nodded. ‘Will you take it back for me? Please. Will you make it all right? She won’t get better until it’s done.’

Morna helped the sick woman drink the last of the decoction, then she laid her gently on the ground and covered her with sheepskin rugs. ‘I’ll take it back, but I can’t promise the spirits will withdraw their anger,’ she said sternly. ‘You’ve done a terrible thing, Eddie, stealing from the gods.’ She held out her hand and taking the sacking she slipped it into her herb bag without looking at it. ‘Keep Jinnie warm. Give her some more of this tea at dusk and again at dawn. I’ll come and see her in the morning.’ She crouched down and laid her hand for a moment on the burning forehead, then she slipped from the house out into the village street.

It wasn’t until Mairi was asleep that night and Morna was sitting exhausted as her fire died, trying to summon the strength to go to her own bed, that she remembered the package and reaching for her bag of dried herbs took it out. She unwrapped the fraying piece of sacking in the firelight and sat looking down at what it contained.

He had packed the phoenix in dried moss. Tiny curls of it clung to the creature’s beak and claws. In the flickering light its eyes were red and malicious, glaring up at her. She, like the old man, could feel its energy.

For a long time she looked at it, then with gentle reverence she wrapped it up again. The fire was dead and the embers cold before she went to sleep.

X

Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, was always a welcome visitor at Kildrummy. With him was his son, another Robert, a grown man and father himself now, who had taken the title of Earl of Carrick from his wife, Marjorie.

‘So, how was Wales?’ Robert of Annandale raised a goblet of wine and toasted Eleyne and Donald cheerfully.

‘Beautiful, as always,’ Eleyne replied. ‘But you haven’t come all this way to ask us about Wales, Robert.’ The two men had not so far divulged the reason for their visit. ‘I trust you haven’t come to complain about your squire.’ Gratney had gone back to the Bruces at Lochmaben two months before.

‘On the contrary, he’s a charming young man. He does you both great credit, doesn’t he, father?’ Robert of Carrick said. ‘You should be very proud of your children.’

‘We are.’ Donald stretched out and took his wife’s hand. ‘As you should be of yours.’

Carrick laughed. He already had a clutch of sons and daughters, and his wife, Marjorie, was pregnant again. ‘I am. My eldest son is so like his grandfather! They get on too well by far.’ He looked fondly at his father. ‘Though Robert is only seven, he is a bright, ambitious boy. And Christian is like mama in looks. She’ll make someone a good wife one day.’ He glanced at Eleyne sideways.

Eleyne smiled. ‘Subtlety was never your strong point, Robbie.’

Carrick threw back his head and laughed. ‘No, I’ll leave that to my father and my son. Subtlety and the Lochaber Axe, that’s about their mark. An unbeatable combination! But seriously, keep us in mind when you think of a match for Gratney. That’s one of the things we came to say. I think we could negotiate something which would please us all.’

Eleyne could not keep the happiness out of her eyes. ‘That would be wonderful,’ she said softly, ‘absolutely wonderful.’

‘And now that we’ve settled that,’ Robert of Annandale remarked, ‘on to the subject of the king’s remarriage. Does anyone yet know whom he has in mind?’

‘I do.’ Eleyne answered, though Robert had been looking at her husband. ‘It is to be Yolande de Dreux, the daughter of the Count of Flanders.’ She laughed at the thunderstruck faces of the three men.

‘Who told you?’ Robert asked.

‘The king, who else? He has made his mind up who to marry, but it’s when that he cannot decide. It’s not easy for him so soon after one son’s death to acknowledge that his eldest son is far from strong and may not live. But he will do what he must.’

Without realising it, her eyes had moved to the fire. The flames were intensifying, curdling over the peats, licking and sparking along the pine logs filling the chamber with their bitter scent.

There were pictures there, part of the flames: she saw the horseman, the storm clouds massing round him, but in a flash he had gone and there was nothing but the orange glow, like the living centre of the sun, searing her eyeballs.

The hands on her shoulders jerked her back to reality. ‘Eleyne,’ asked Donald, ‘are you all right?’

‘Of course.’

‘What did you see?’ Robert of Carrick whispered, awestruck.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

XI

Morna took Eleyne’s hand and led her to the window embrasure, drawing the curtain across the alcove to give them privacy. Behind them in the solar a wall painter was meticulously working on the last corner of the room, sketching in the outlines of two figures with sinopia before he began to colour the dry plaster. Near him, his apprentice stencilled a pattern of rosettes on the green wall. The room already glowed with colour.

‘I must know what you want me to do. If you wish, I will return it to the sacred spring.’ Eddie’s wife was improving. Obviously the gods had forgiven the man’s intrusion. ‘Or I can keep it at my house.’ Morna paused. ‘Or I can bring it here.’

Eleyne sat down. Her heart was beating very fast. ‘I knew it had been found,’ she said. She took a deep shaky breath.

‘Has he come back?’ Morna studied her face sympathetically.

Eleyne nodded. ‘Nothing frightening, not yet, but he’s here.’ She kneaded her hands together nervously in her lap. ‘He’s growing impatient.’ She stood up, every movement betraying her fear. ‘What shall I do, Morna?’

Morna was doubtful. ‘His power is growing. However much you beg him not to come he can reach you now the pendant is out of the water, even though it’s not here in the castle.’

‘I draw a circle round our bed,’ Eleyne said sadly, ‘and he has never crossed the line. And I draw a circle here in my solar and another around the castle walls.’

Morna raised an eyebrow. ‘You believe that will keep him away?’

‘A powerful wizard told me how to do it. But one day,’ Eleyne clutched at Morna’s hands, ‘one day he’ll come when I’m outside the circle. And then he’ll take me from Donald.’

‘Has anyone else seen him?’ Morna murmured.

‘Yes,’ Eleyne said, ‘Sandy.’

XII

Eleyne held the phoenix in her cupped hands. She felt its power; felt the colours vibrating beneath her fingers. She opened them and gazed down at the jewel. Flecks of moss still clung beneath the creature’s claws.

Gently, she packed it into an intricately carved ivory box and wedged it with lambswool. She fitted the lid with care and made her way towards the chapel. She climbed the stairs which led up over the undercroft to the first floor and went into the shadowy body of the building.

Father Gillespie was kneeling before the altar. Crossing himself, he rose to his feet and turned as he heard her footsteps. He had lit the candles on the altar and before the statue of the Virgin.

‘Are you ready, father?’ Eleyne was tense with nerves.

‘I am.’ His face was deeply lined, his eyes narrowed and watery from years of peering at the crabbed writing in his missals and books of hours. Surreptitiously he looked at her face – his countess looked pale and strained. He knew a little of her torment from her confessions; he also suspected that she paid more than lip service to another, older god, but he did not pursue the matter. There were many gods in the mountains, and he was a tolerant man. He knew she liked him and respected him and he liked and respected her. She would have his compassion and she would have his prayers. The Blessed Christ and the Blessed Virgin would succour her in her hour of need. And was not the old king the great-great-grandson of the blessed St Margaret herself? ‘You have the object, my lady?’ He was staring at the box in her hand.

She nodded. ‘You will bless it, father, so that no one can… so no one can use it any more.’

‘I shall weave a prayer around it, my lady, and beg Our Sweet Lord and his mother and all the saints to guard it. I can do no more.’

She gave him a tight smile. ‘Thank you, father.’

There was a strange coldness in the chapel. She shivered. She could see where he meant to put it: he had raised some of the new, painted tiles on the step before the altar, and beneath them a board had been removed. A cavity yawned black between the floor joists.

The candle flames were flickering wildly. She saw him look at them anxiously and again she felt the cold.

‘Put the box on the altar, my lady.’ His voice was strained.

Her mouth dry, Eleyne stepped forward. He was here, in the chapel. She could feel him, feel the protest and the anger in the air around her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Father Gillespie cross himself twice in quick succession.

Eleyne …

‘Ave Maria, gratia plena, intercede pro nobis …’ The words John of Chester had repeated so often at her side filled her head. ‘Pray for me now and in the hour of my need…’

Eleyne …

She laid the box before the crucifix and crossed herself, then she knelt at her usual prayer desk and closed her eyes.

Eleyne …

Father Gillespie had begun his prayers. As he became more confident, his voice strengthened.

Eleyne …

The call was growing weaker.

‘Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine …’ The priest’s voice filled the high vault of the chapel. ‘Requiescat in pace… in pace… in pace…’

The call died away, and Eleyne felt tears burning on her cold cheeks.

Father Gillespie picked up the box and knelt on the step. He lowered the box into the darkness, then he fitted back the floorboard and replaced the tiles. He climbed to his feet and, strenuously rubbing the dirt from his hands on his chasuble, he smiled. ‘It is done, my lady.’

‘Thank you.’ She rose from her knees. ‘And you will tell no one, ever.’

‘My lips are sealed. I will have one of the masons come in and cement down the tiles. He will not know why they came loose.’

The candles burned steadily now in the silence. She and the priest were completely alone in the chapel.

All she had to do now was to leave another offering of gold at the holy spring where Elizabeth had died. Then she would be left in peace.

XIII

We are surrounded on all sides. By sea, Edward attacks Anglesey. He is trying to establish a blockade around Eryri. But he won’t succeed. Llywelyn knows his people and his mountains too well, and he has even ordered the digging of a secret tunnel from the palace to the valley so we can flee in safety if Edward traps us here. Would that I could help him more, but my time is near, and he has to leave valuable men here at Aber to guard me and our son when he is born. Pray for us, dear Eleyne, and if you have the King of Scots’ ear, beg him to send us help. If Wales falls to this tyrant ambition, who knows but that Scotland might be next…

Eleyne put down Eleanor’s letter, smuggled out of Aber, and her eyes filled with tears. Her nephew Dafydd, Llywelyn’s younger brother, disenchanted at last with his treacherous adherence to King Edward, had launched the revolt against the English tyranny in Wales only weeks after Eleyne and Donald had left Aber. Within days the revolt had spread and all Wales was again in arms with Llywelyn at her head.

Gwynedd was far from Mar, but she did not need Llywelyn’s brief heartbroken note a week later to know that Eleanor was already dead, and that the longed-for heir to the Prince of Wales was a daughter. She had seen the woman’s agony in the candle flame and heard Wales’s sorrow in the wind on the moors.

XIV

She and Donald were at court a week later, and Eleyne lost no time in seeking a private audience with the king.

‘You have to do something; you must send my nephew help! Don’t you see how dangerous, how disastrous, it would be if Edward were to conquer Wales?’

Alexander shook his head thoughtfully. ‘I am deeply sorry for Llywelyn and I hope he manages to save the situation, but the matter is terribly delicate, Aunt Eleyne. So many of my vassals are also vassals of Edward of England. You know yourself how many Scots have English estates and vice versa. I should be asking them to choose between their allegiances for a matter which does not concern Scotland.’

‘It will,’ Eleyne flashed. ‘If Wales falls, where do you think Edward will look next for conquest?’

‘Not to Scotland, I assure you.’ Alexander folded his arms. ‘Edward and I have an understanding. We respect each other. Scotland’s sovereignty is safe.’

‘Is it?’ She met his eye. ‘You should not trust Edward Plantagenet. I know my cousin of old; ever since he was a boy he has been ambitious, devious, and vicious. Don’t put him to the test.’

‘I won’t.’ Alexander scowled. ‘Because, unlike you, I get on well with him and have no reason to cross him. And I am not going to make reason by taking arms with Wales, much as I might like to for sentiment’s sake.’

‘You made an alliance before, against Henry – ’

‘An informal alliance which is no longer valid. No, I’m sorry.’

Eleyne looked at him in despair. ‘I have seen pictures of war and disaster in the fire,’ she said quietly. ‘Your father would have listened to me.’

‘Then my father would have been listening to his heart, not his head,’ Alexander replied sharply. ‘Now, if you please, Aunt Eleyne, I have matters to attend to.’

Alexander, why don’t you show yourself to him… why don’t you tell him of the danger… for Scotland’s sake?

She sighed. ‘Then listen at least to one other thing I have to say. When your advisers beg you to fix a date for your marriage, listen to them,’ she pleaded. ‘I know how much you miss Margaret, and I know how much you love Alexander and what a credit he is to you, but you must have other sons.’

His face darkened. ‘You are presuming too much, Aunt Eleyne.’

‘No, I’m taking a privilege allowed to old ladies!’ She raised an eyebrow imperiously and he laughed out loud.

‘Old? You? Never!’ He sighed. ‘I’m not a fool. I know I have to remarry. I even understand that if I die without a strong heir to succeed me that might give Edward an excuse to interfere in Scotland’s business.’ His voice was rueful. ‘I do not take unnecessary risks, I promise you. After all, I have banned grey horses from my stables and I never ride in storms.’

‘I’m glad.’ Taking his hand, she dropped a deep curtsey and raised his fingers to her lips. ‘Take care, my sovereign lord. I see black clouds everywhere, and it makes me afraid.’

XV

Isabella had woven ribbon collars for the dogs. Seeing them brought a lump to Eleyne’s throat as she thought of the Midsummer’s Eve celebrations all those years ago. There had been no further word from Joanna since her letter at Christmas the year before. Eleyne moved closer to the fire, shivering violently.

‘What is it, mama? Aren’t you well?’ Isabella was knotting the plaited silk around the wolfhounds’ great, shaggy necks.

‘I don’t know.’ Eleyne closed her eyes. A wave of terrible cold had swept over her. She turned to the fire, overwhelmed by the strange despair which had swept away her happiness. ‘It’s as though a light has gone out. Someone is dead – ’

Isabella crossed herself nervously. ‘Who?’ she whispered. ‘Not papa?’ Her voice slid up into a frightened squeak; her father was once more with the king.

‘No, not papa.’

‘Why don’t you know?’ Isabella was used to her mother’s second sight. Though Sandy was the only one who showed signs of having inherited it, all her children accepted it as being part of the normal way of things, a short cut sometimes to the truth.

Eleyne shrugged in despair. ‘I don’t know. I can’t always see what I want to; the flames don’t answer my questions.’ She leaned closer to the fire. ‘I can’t see anything; I can’t hear anything but the howling of the wind in the hills.’

Isabella stared at her. ‘There’s no wind, mama, not here.’ She slid her arms unhappily around Saer’s neck and the dog turned and licked the girl’s face.

‘No.’ It was a whisper. ‘No, it’s a Welsh wind.’

XVI

Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, separated from his men as he directed an attack on Builth in central Wales, was killed by a lance wielded by a member of the Shropshire levy, a man called Stephen Frankton. He did not even realise whom he had killed.

By the time confirmation of the news reached Scotland, Llywelyn’s head was being paraded before Edward’s troops on Anglesey and his tiny orphaned daughter and heir, Gwenllian, was Edward’s prisoner. The child was to spend the rest of her life in a nunnery.

I

‘Do I have to close my eyes and raise my arms above my head and go into a trance to convince you, sire?’ Eleyne, wrapped in a scarlet fur-lined cloak against the cold, addressed the king wearily.

She’s getting old after all, he thought to himself. She is still a beautiful woman, but the tiredness which shows in her eyes is new, as is the despair.

Behind them Master Elias, the king’s harper, played gently in the shadows, his sightless eyes fixed blankly on the wall. It had been Eleyne’s suggestion after Malcolm’s death that he leave Falkland and enter royal service, and his fame at court had spread far and wide. Apart from the harper they were alone.

The king stood up and took her hands in his. ‘No, you don’t have to do that. I know you foresee a dire future for Scotland and for me. And I know that now both my sons are dead, I can put it off no longer. I must take steps to meet it.’ His third child, too, had died in far-off Norway, leaving as the king’s only heir her small daughter, Margaret. ‘When all the arrangements have been made the chancellor will go to France to fetch Yolande.’

‘She is a wife of whom England approves?’ Eleyne raised an eyebrow.

‘She is.’

‘So you have bought us more peace.’

Wales had fallen to the English. Owain and Rhodri were dead and Dafydd was dead, beheaded by Edward of England, his sons captured. Gwynedd was a proud, independent principality no more.

‘I hope so.’ He turned away. ‘I have done what everyone wants, so why do I hear disapproval in your voice?’

‘Do you?’ She shrugged. ‘I see danger from England ahead. It’s no more than an instinct, but I know Edward.’

‘I thought it was more than an instinct; I thought it was foresight.’

She shrugged. ‘What use is foresight if I can see only faintly and not understand?’

‘You are able to warn people of what the stars intend and they can step away from fate,’ he answered.

‘But I saw nothing for Llywelyn. Could I not have foreseen his death and warned him?’

‘As you did mine? Perhaps he was too far away. Perhaps his was a fate which could not be avoided.’ The king put his arm around her shoulders kindly. ‘Go and celebrate Lord Fife’s good fortune in winning himself a beautiful wife, and stop worrying about me.’

When Duncan of Fife, twenty-one at last, inherited his father’s earldom, he had triumphantly announced his impending marriage to Joanna de Clare, daughter of the Earl of Gloucester and a niece of Robert of Annandale’s wife. Eleyne was very proud of him.

‘Are you coming to his wedding?’

He nodded. ‘Fife is one of the great earldoms of Scotland. How could I miss such a ceremony?’

‘You didn’t come to my wedding to his grandfather as I recall,’ she replied tartly, her voice heavy with irony.

He gave a sheepish shrug. ‘I was very young.’

‘Indeed you were, and under your mother’s thumb.’ She gathered her cloak around her. ‘May the gods bless you, Alexander of Scotland. I shall wait in turn for an invitation to your wedding!’

II

Joanna de Clare was fair-haired and pretty, with large blue eyes, the daughter of one of England’s greatest earls and a close kinswoman of King Edward. Duncan was inordinately proud of her.

The wedding ceremony was held in St Andrews Cathedral, covered in wooden scaffolding still after the great storm which had brought down the whole west front a few years before. This was not a hasty ceremony in a side chapel lit by midnight candles but a full nuptial mass before the high altar in the presence of the king and all the greatest nobles in the land.

Among the guests were the Lord of Annandale and his wife, the bride’s aunt, and the Earl and Countess of Carrick and their eldest son and daughters, and it was here that Gratney met his bride-to-be, Christian Bruce, for the first time since they had been told of the plan for their betrothal.

‘I know she’s only eight years old,’ Eleyne said gently. ‘Remember, it will be a long time before you marry and if you don’t like each other when you’re grown up we can always change our minds.’

He scowled. ‘She’s just a baby!’

‘So she is, but in six years she will be of marriageable age.’

‘If we are betrothed, I can’t change my mind,’ he went on, determined to be awkward.

‘You can if you want it badly enough. But we won’t arrange a betrothal unless you are happy with the idea.’ Patiently, she gave him a little push. ‘Go on, greet her. She knows about the idea and she has always liked you.’

Smiling at Marjorie, Countess of Carrick, she stepped forward and the two women exchanged kisses. Behind her formidable mother Christian was tall for her age and slim with huge dark eyes and long ash-blonde hair held by a chaplet of gilded flowers. She was an extraordinarily pretty child.

Seeing Gratney, her brother Robert, youngest of the Robert Bruces, dug her in the ribs with his elbow. She blushed violently and Gratney found himself smiling. He liked all the Bruce children. Perhaps, after all, she wouldn’t make such a bad wife – one day.

III

Isabella was the first to hear of Duncan’s and Joanna’s baby. The messenger was telling everyone as he dismounted in the outer courtyard. ‘It’s a girl! The Earl and Countess of Fife have a daughter! The Fifes have a daughter!’

‘My first great-grandchild.’ Eleyne clasped her hands. ‘I must go to see her.’

‘May I come, mama?’ Isabella at sixteen had turned into a beautiful young woman. She had inherited only a little of her mother’s colouring. Her hair was red-gold, but her eyes were grey and her skin almost transparent in its fairness. They had still not arranged a marriage for her. Donald had talked to several families, but no one was good enough for his Isabella.

Eleyne frowned. ‘No, darling, not this time.’

‘Why not?’ Isabella’s eyes were so full of disappointment her mother felt a pang of guilt. There was no reason why she should not go. No logical reason for her refusal and yet in the back of her mind a warning bell was ringing. Isabella of Mar and Isobel of Fife. Somehow their destinies were linked, and the link was not a happy one.

IV

Anna, the Dowager Countess of Fife, was waiting for Eleyne in her bower at Falkland. ‘I do not want you to see my grandchild.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘You bring nothing but grief when you come here.’ It was a scene that had been played before.

Eleyne studied her. ‘After all this time can you not let the quarrel rest? It was your father and my husband’s father who had the fight. And even they in the end could let it go. Can’t you forget it?’

Anna scowled. ‘It’s not that stupid court case. It’s the bad luck you bring with you – ’

‘I bring no bad luck – ’

‘No?’ Anna’s voice slid up the scale. ‘My husband died when he was scarcely a man. My son died before he came into his earldom and now Duncan has a daughter – ’

‘You blame me for that?’ Eleyne said uneasily. ‘When I have not even seen the child?’

‘There is no need for you to see her. Bad blood will out.’ Anna was swaying her head from side to side. Still only thirty-six years old, she had all the mannerisms of an old woman. ‘It’s your fault, all of it.’

‘Rubbish,’ Eleyne said crisply, getting to her feet. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense. You,’ she turned on one of the staring ladies in attendance on the dowager in the crowded, stuffy room, ‘take me to the countess and her baby.’

Joanna was cradling the baby in her arms, propped up in the huge bed which had once belonged to Eleyne and Malcolm. Now it was painted and gilded and hung with bright, fresh curtains. She looked up eagerly as Eleyne came in and smiled. ‘Grandmama! Come and see my Isobel.’ She held out the baby.

Eleyne stopped beside the bed and gazed down at the baby. It was tiny: a delicate, faery child with dark hair and deep violet eyes. As Eleyne looked at her, she looked unwinkingly back at her great-grandmother. Then she smiled.

Sweet Blessed Bride! The air around the child was full of whirling shadows! ‘No.’ It was only a murmur, but Joanna heard it. She paled. ‘What is it?’ she asked, ‘what can you see?’

Eleyne didn’t hear her. She hugged the baby to her, burying her face in the woollen shawl. ‘No,’ she begged softly again. She looked at Joanna and there were tears on her cheeks. ‘She’s lovely,’ and she tried to smile.

‘And you see her doom.’ Joanna was as white as a sheet. ‘Is she going to die?’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘No. She will live to be a woman and to fulfil her destiny.’ A destiny which involved Isabella of Mar. She stared over the baby’s head at the fire as though seeking the answer there, then, hearing Joanna’s weeping, she looked at her grandson’s wife. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I’ve frightened you.’ She touched the baby’s face with her finger and smiled as the little face turned instinctively towards the gentle pressure. ‘Take no notice of the ramblings of an old woman. I saw shadows and they made me afraid. This child has the mark of the gods on her; she will one day serve her nation and her king and she will be glorious.’ She cradled the baby closer, pulling aside the swaddling bands so she could see the child more clearly. ‘And she is beautiful.’

‘And she is not a boy.’ Joanna had recovered from her moment of panic, but her voice was flat. ‘Duncan is very disappointed.’

‘Then Duncan is a fool!’ Eleyne’s voice was sharp. ‘No man could be what this child will be.’ She gave a sudden half-apologetic laugh. ‘I must be going mad, I talk in certainties yet I don’t know what I’m talking about!’ Gently she handed the baby back to Joanna. ‘That has been my curse.’ She stepped back. ‘My dear, I’ll leave you to rest. We’ll talk again later. Don’t let anything I say upset you. Isobel will grow up to be a beautiful, happy, healthy young woman and,’ she put her head on one side, ‘your next child will be a son.’

V

‘I hear you’ve been terrifying Joanna out of her mind with your spooks and your fortune-telling, grandmama.’ Duncan of Fife cornered her in the great hall as they made their way towards the table for supper. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do it.’

He turned to rinse his hands in the bowl of scented water held for him by a page and dried his hands energetically on the proffered towel.

Eleyne looked him in the eye. ‘I’m sorry if she’s upset. I can’t always control the visions when they come…’

‘Did you speak the truth when you said we would have a son?’ His grey eyes were hard, she noticed.

‘I believe so.’

He smiled, satisfied. ‘That’s all that matters. The destiny of a girl is not important as long as she marries well.’

Eleyne looked at him steadily. ‘Quite so,’ she said drily.

VI

‘Morna, would you consider letting Mairi go to Falkland? She can learn how to be a nurserymaid and later she can be Isobel’s nurse and companion. It would be a position full of prestige and honour.’ Eleyne had picked up Morna’s spindle, and began idly to twirl the wool between her fingers. They had often discussed the girl’s future. Morna was ambitious for her.

‘You fear for the child?’ Morna asked.

‘Yes,’ Eleyne admitted.

‘Will Mairi be strong enough to help her?’

‘She is your daughter, she has your strength. I can think of no one better.’ Eleyne sighed. ‘I don’t know what is to come. I saw storms; I saw much unhappiness and I saw the hand of destiny over the child’s cradle. But why? How? I don’t know. And I will probably never know. That’s why I want to send someone young and strong to be with her. My grandson has agreed; if you do, we could send Mairi to Falkland almost at once. She will earn good money, and learn the ways of the castle. She could have a very good future there and she can tell Isobel the stories of the hills; show her a little of the magic that is ours.’

Morna nodded slowly. ‘She can certainly do that. And it will be with my blessing.’

VII

‘Well? Was there something special about her?’

Isabella cornered her mother in the herb garden as Eleyne tended her plants, clipping and snipping with a pair of embroidery shears.

She straightened her back with a groan. ‘Special about who?’

‘Isobel of Fife.’ Isabella folded her arms defensively.

Oh yes, there was something special. But the words remained unsaid. Eleyne threw down her shears and put her arm around Isabella’s shoulder. ‘She was just a very pretty baby,’ she said gently. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t want you to come to see her. It was one of my funny feelings.’ She smiled. ‘I expect you and she will be great friends one day.’

She stopped with a shiver. A cold wind had arisen, scattering the clippings of hyssop and thyme and lavender in her basket. Her eyes were fixed on the girl’s face.

‘Mama? What is it?’ Isabella paled. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know. For a moment I thought I saw someone… I saw a crown…’ Suddenly Eleyne was crying.

Isabella threw her arms around her. ‘Mama, don’t, please. What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ It was gone so fast. ‘I’m sorry, my darling, I think I’m going in. I feel so chilled.’ She stooped to pick up the shears and her basket. ‘Don’t worry, next time I go to Fife, you shall come.’

Isabella was playing with Lucy’s pups when her father found her. ‘Those dogs are already too rough for you, my darling,’ he said, ‘they’ll bite you.’

‘No they won’t.’ Isabella laughed. ‘They love me.’ The wind ruffled her hair. Her face saddened. ‘Papa, you said you’d tell me who you’d chosen for my husband.’ Pushing away the wrestling puppies she stood up. There were grass smears on her skirt.

‘Your mother and I haven’t decided yet.’

‘But papa, I’m sixteen – ’

‘And already you’re left on the shelf?’ Donald laughed. ‘Poor Bella, don’t rush. Your mother and I want the very best for you – a veritable prince amongst men.’ He sighed. ‘Your mother’s very protective of you, sweetheart. She has three marriages behind her and two of them were not happy. Neither of us wants that to happen to you. We couldn’t bear you to be unhappy.’ He shook his head. ‘Be patient a little longer. We’ll find the right man soon, I promise.’

VIII

Rain, cold and heavy and driven horizontally by the wind, soaked through the cloaks of the riders and chilled them to the bone as they rode towards the royal castle of Jedburgh. There, the Lady Yolande, daughter of the Count of Dreux, awaited her king, accompanied by the Chancellor of Scotland Master Thomas Charteris, Patrick Graham, William Soules and William Sinclair, the four emissaries of the King of Scots, who had ridden to France to escort her through the length of England with the King of England’s blessing.

Donald and Eleyne were riding with the king, having spent the last few nights in Roxburgh waiting to hear that the lady who would be Scotland’s new queen had arrived. In the broad valley the trees leaned away from the gale, their leaves brown and torn, trampled into the mud.

Alexander refused to be downhearted. He had ordered minstrels, feasts, finery, paid for by the crown for his entourage, his bride and himself, and he was smiling broadly at Eleyne who rode beside him. His black stallion danced sideways, shaking its bridle, irritated by the wind. ‘So, shall you and I gallop, my lady, and leave the sluggards behind? There’s no thunder and my horse is as sable as the night. I should be safe!’ His words were caught by the wind and almost indistinguishable to Eleyne as she urged her chestnut palfrey forward beside him along the muddy track. Behind them the king’s banners drummed and cracked like snapping twigs in the wind, straining the staffs to which they were fastened, and the colourful caparisons flogged wetly around the horses’ legs.

Donald shook his head at her sternly and she resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at him like a naughty child. She knew he disapproved of her riding fast. He thought it undignified and dangerous for a woman in her sixties to rush about the country with her hair tumbling around her ears. She caught a mocking gleam in the king’s eye. It was enough of a challenge. She gathered her reins more tightly and urged the palfrey on.

She and Alexander reached the town gates only a short way ahead of the escort, who had gamely whipped their horses into a gallop in hot pursuit of their king. In the castle courtyard he jumped from his horse and came to Eleyne’s side. ‘A king has to gallop to see his bride, does he not?’ His eyes were full of laughter.

‘Indeed he does.’ She smiled down at him, still out of breath. ‘No, go on, my lord, don’t wait to help me. There is only one lady you must give your hand to today.’

She had seen the heavy doors opening in the wall of the keep at the top of the stairs. A group of people appeared in the archway. ‘Go to her, my lord.’ She remained in her saddle, watching as the king turned and ran two at a time up the stairs.

‘Are you pleased with yourself now?’ Donald’s voice at her elbow was light and teasing. She realised suddenly how mud-splashed they all were, and found she was laughing. Donald shook his head in despair and vaulting from his horse came to help her down.

At the top of the stairs, the king was gazing at his bride. Tall and slim, fair-skinned, with large grey eyes and a wide, humorous mouth, Yolande de Dreux curtseyed to her future husband, taking in his muddy finery, the glow of the wind-swept cheeks and the fiery hair. By the time he took her hand and kissed it she had decided she would find it easy to fall in love with her Scottish king.

‘Nel? I said, shall I help you?’ Donald was standing with his hand on the bridle of Eleyne’s horse, and he saw his wife’s face. She was staring at the king and his bride with a strangely troubled expression.

‘What is it? Don’t you like her?’ Donald had found the bride attractive enough.

‘She’s very beautiful.’ Eleyne sounded abstracted. A strange chill had settled over her.

‘And the wedding tomorrow will be a grand affair,’ Donald said cheerfully. He put his hands over her cold wet fists as they rested, still clutching her gilded reins, on the horse’s wet mane. ‘Come on, let’s find our quarters and get you dry.’ He squeezed her hands gently. ‘Nel?’

‘There’s something wrong.’

Inside the castle courtyard all was bustle and noise as fifty horses milled about and their riders dismounted and began to sort themselves out. But outside the walls, beyond the small teeming burgh with its lovely abbey, the hills and moors were dreich beneath the rain and the wind howled mournfully like an animal prowling before the coming darkness. Donald resisted the urge to make the sign against the evil eye and took the reins firmly from her chilled fingers. ‘Rubbish, you’re cold and wet and chilled. When you’ve had a mug of mulled wine and got your feet by the hearth you’ll feel better.’

However, even in the warm curtained bed in the brightly painted roof chamber which they had been allocated and with her husband’s arms around her, Eleyne could not shake off her feeling of dread. It lingered all next day until the wedding and the feast which followed it.

IX

Eleyne was sitting at the king’s left hand. She eyed him surreptitiously. After the years of procrastination over this wedding, he appeared at last to have put every reservation aside and thrown himself totally into the joy of his new marriage. Yolande sat close to him, her face glowing with happiness, her hand straying often at the same time as his to the dish they shared so that their fingers touched in the sensuous warmth and scent of sauces and gravies and sweet creams and junkets.

Below the dais, in the crowded heat of the hall, the noise of talk and laughter had risen to a deafening pitch which drowned the playing of the minstrels in the space between the tables. Course after course of food continued to arrive, and with it a positive river of rich Gascon wine.

In one of the rare moments when he took his eyes off his wife, Alexander turned to Eleyne and was astounded. How had he ever imagined that Eleyne of Mar looked old? She was radiant. Her trained velvet gown was an exquisite deep green trimmed with gold, her girdle heavy with gilt, her mantle of russet silk trimmed with fox fur, but it was her eyes which caught his attention. They were as green as emeralds in the golden candlelight, large and lustrous. And full of laughter.

Outside, the thunder rumbled gently around the hills. He laughed and touched her arm. ‘Thank you.’

He mouthed the words above the noise and she smiled. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for – for helping sway him finally into remarriage, perhaps; perhaps for caring; for having loved the father he could barely remember but who came to him sometimes in his dreams.

He frowned, aware suddenly that there was someone standing behind them, between his great chair and Eleyne’s smaller one. He saw her look over her shoulder and her face paled, all the animation dying before his eyes.

He swung around, angry at the interruption, and caught his breath. There was no one there. Yet he felt it, felt it as clearly as she obviously had. Someone had been there, his shadow cutting off the light from the huge candelabra which burned on the dais behind them.

Eleyne closed her eyes, aware of the sudden cold in the heat of the great hall.

‘No.’ She didn’t realise that she had spoken out loud. ‘No, please.’

She felt Donald’s arm around her shoulders. ‘What is it, Nel?’

Her knife had fallen on the table. Gravy from the roast peacock had soaked into the linen cloth. Her hand went unconsciously to her throat, to the silver pendant she wore there, Donald’s pendant. The phoenix lay within a circle of power, imprisoned beneath the floor in the chapel of Kildrummy, sealed under the tiles with rough lime mortar.

It was Alexander. She had known that at once. But he had not come to Jedburgh to see her: he had come to be with his son.

The candles flickered and she was aware suddenly that a strange hush was falling over the great hall as table by table the hundreds of guests fell silent. Beside her the king had half turned in his seat and was staring into the wildly flickering candlelight, his normally ruddy complexion grey.

‘Holy Mother of God!’ She heard his whispered gasp. ‘Who are you?’

She could see something now, a shadow, tall and indistinct, hovering over the king, feel the anguish around them.

Below the high table every face had turned to stare. The new queen was as white as a sheet as she too saw the tossing shadows.

Beware.

Eleyne heard the words in the howling wind.

Beware, my son, beware.

Alexander swallowed, and Eleyne realised that his hand had gone automatically to the ornamental jewelled dirk he wore at his girdle. She saw his knuckles white around the cruciform hilt.

In the quiet one could have heard a pin drop, then from the shadowy body of the hall a woman screamed. The sound tore through the silence, echoing up into the carved roof beams as she pointed towards the high table. It was a signal for total panic. Screams and the crash of overturning tables and benches almost drowned the words.

Too late.

He was fading.

Too late, my son.

The wind in the chimneys reached a crescendo and showers of sparks and ashes blew back into the hall from the two hearths.

Only a scant handful of people actually saw the ghost at the wedding feast of King Alexander III and Yolande of Dreux, but within days the story had spread around Scotland and beyond the border, south. Only three of them – Alexander himself, and Eleyne and Donald – knew who he was, but two whole nations knew that such a spectre was an omen of doom.

X

‘It’s all right. Please, my dear, calm yourself.’ Eleyne cradled the hysterical queen’s head in her arms. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing.’ She turned the queen’s face gently towards her. ‘He came to give you his blessing. He came to be with his son.’

Yolande lifted a tear-streaked face. ‘But everyone is saying the ghost spoke of death…’

‘No.’ Eleyne shook her head. ‘No, I heard him. He made no mention of death. He came to bless you both.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Forget him, your grace, be happy with your husband.’

While you still have him. The words hung in the silence between them until Eleyne shrugged them away.

She quickly became very fond of Yolande. The new queen made a confidante of her in the loneliness of her new country, explaining how apprehensive she had been, especially in the care of her solemn, humourless escort of Scotsmen. Her French companions, there for the wedding only, had nearly all departed, leaving only a handful of ladies with her. ‘But Alexander, he is different,’ she said in her heavy accent. ‘He laughs and he makes me laugh and he is kind.’

Eleyne smiled. ‘I’m glad. My godson is a good man.’

‘Soon I shall give him a son. And then another and then another!’

Eleyne laughed. ‘That will please him, my dear, but at the moment he seems perfectly delighted with you.’

Yolande looked away, embarrassed. ‘I know how to make him happy.’

‘I can see that.’ Patting the young woman’s shoulder, Eleyne hid a smile.

‘And you, you will stay my friend?’ Yolande became anxious. ‘Alexander says you live in the far north.’

‘I do indeed. But I spend my life in the saddle,’ Eleyne said, touched at the loneliness the remark betrayed, for all the queen’s outward happiness. ‘I shall come and see you often, have no fear.’

XI

Isabella had brought cushions and a thick tapestry to her eyrie in the Snow Tower while her parents were at the king’s wedding. One servant had been allowed into the secret and now there was a fire up there, beside which Isabella read her books by candlelight.

‘You’ve turned it into a real bower.’ Eleyne admired it, pulling her cloak around her. In spite of the merrily blazing little fire, the vaulted chamber was dark and cold, the roughly plastered walls unpainted. Outside, heavy sleet lashed the castle walls and turned the heather on the hills to a black sodden mass.

‘Tell me about the wedding.’ Isabella sat cross-legged on the tapestry which she had spread on the floor. ‘What did the queen wear?’

Eleyne described the queen’s gown, her mantle, the jewellery she had worn and the golden chaplet in her hair, which had hung loose, brushed until it lay like polished ebony over the scarlet samite of her wedding gown.

‘It must be wonderful to marry a king.’ Isabella put her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin wistfully in her linked fingers.

She dreamed often of the man she would marry. He would be tall and handsome – a prince – like her heroic cousin Llywelyn – a poet like her father; gentle and kind and above all loving. Her father had promised her as much but no one who had yet sought her hand, and there had been many, was good enough for his beautiful Bella.

Eleyne looked away from her daughter’s face. ‘Isabella, while we were at Jedburgh, your father and Robert of Carrick had a long talk.’

‘About Gratney and Christian? Have you fixed a date for their betrothal?’

Eleyne nodded, and held out her hand. ‘They were also discussing young Robert’s future marriage.’

‘Oh?’ Isabella was studying her mother’s face.

‘He is an exceptional young man: charming, intelligent, full of courage…’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘We have always liked the Bruces. I have known Robert’s grandfather for fifty years and his mother and I were once very close – ’

‘So?’

There was a long silence.

‘I always thought you liked Christian’s brothers,’ Eleyne said at last.

‘Mama!’ Her daughter jumped to her feet. ‘You don’t mean it! You can’t mean it! Robert is a boy! He is years younger than me.’

‘Not so much younger,’ Eleyne coaxed. ‘Only five years. Your father is twenty years younger than me.’

‘That is different!’

‘How is it different?’

‘Because it is.’ Isabella’s voice rose passionately. ‘Mama! It will be so long. When he’s ready for a wife, I shall be… old!’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘You promised! You promised that I should love my husband! You promised, mama!’

Eleyne flinched at the accusation. ‘You will grow to love Robert Bruce,’ she said softly. ‘I do promise. He will make you a good husband; and he will one day be an earl.’

It must be wonderful to marry a king. Isabella’s wistful words rose between them for a moment. Eleyne repeated, ‘You will love him, my darling, I do promise it.’

That night in the bedchamber Eleyne sat beside the fire brushing out her hair slowly, watching the reflection of the flames throw glints into the curls. There was more white now, but it still crackled with energy as she pulled the comb through. ‘I hope we have done right.’

Donald was poring over some documents by the light of the great candelabra near the shuttered windows. Behind him they could hear the sleet rattling against the glass.

He did not look up. ‘She will get used to the idea. He’s a fine boy. He’ll grow up soon enough.’

‘It is a big gap, though.’ Eleyne put down her comb.

‘You say that?’ Donald grinned mischievously and she nodded vehemently.

‘Yes, I say that. You were a man when I met you. Isabella has to wait for him to grow. And she will have to wait while her blood is yearning for a lover.’

Walking across, Donald put his arm around her shoulder and dropped a kiss on her head. ‘If she were destined for the convent, she would have to wait forever,’ he said gently. ‘It will do her no harm at all. Take her with you when you ride to Fife and take her with you when you go to court; present her to the queen. Give the girl some fun, some distractions, and the time will soon pass. I’ll bet that boy could father a child in a year or two given half a chance!’ He laughed. ‘Who knows? Maybe the marriage will come sooner than she thinks.’

XII

Mairi at seventeen was a tall, shy girl with huge eyes. To Eleyne’s surprise Joanna seemed happy to hand her daughter over to the girl’s care at once.

‘She looks strong and competent – that’s all that matters. The nurses here are old.’ The Countess of Fife wrinkled her nose. ‘And they obey my mother-in-law rather than me!’ She paused, a puzzled look on her beautiful face. ‘Why should you want to give the child a nurse from Mar?’

Eleyne touched the baby’s cheek with her fingertip. ‘I think one day she’ll have need of a friend.’

‘And a nursemaid will be her friend?’ Joanna sounded scandalised.

‘My nurse was my friend.’ Eleyne paused. ‘If anything she loved me too much,’ she added almost inaudibly. The thought of Rhonwen still hurt; still haunted her dreams. ‘Mairi will not make that mistake but she will be there when Isobel needs her.’ She frowned. ‘I only hope she will be strong enough when the time comes.’

The girl’s calm acceptance of her fate had worried her slightly. There had been no tears at the thought of leaving her mother; no obvious fear at the thought of the long journey to Fife and the strange household she would be joining, so different from Morna’s small lonely cottage. Mairi had taken the journey well; she was shy, and she spoke only Gaelic, though she understood some French and English, but she had picked up the baby with affection and nodded contentedly when she was shown the nursery quarters and introduced to the other nursemaids. By some strange instinct they seemed to know that they were to be superseded by this quiet northern girl, yet they seemed to regard her without resentment.

Eleyne was watching Mairi bustling competently around the nursery when Isabella came into the room. On the eve of their departure she had had qualms about taking Isabella to Fife. It had been there again, the warning at the back of her mind, the fear that something was wrong. But what could be wrong? What possible danger could a baby be to a girl of seventeen?

Her daughter, tall and pretty, her long hair the colour of ripe corn, held back by a chaplet of woven silk, stood in the doorway. ‘Mama! you’re here, I’ve been looking for you.’ She moved forward, a slight graceful figure, and looked down into the cradle. Without realising it, Eleyne was holding her breath. The baby looked back at Isabella steadily from dark, smoky eyes and the girl smiled uncertainly. ‘What a pretty little thing.’ She put her hand down towards the baby, then withdrew it without touching her. ‘Are you coming, mama?’

‘Of course.’ Eleyne was watching little Isobel. The solemn small face was still watching her daughter as if fascinated by the girl. Eleyne turned to Mairi. ‘My dear, you’ll be happy here. And Isobel is your responsibility, you understand that?’

Mairi nodded gravely. ‘I’ll take care of her for you, my lady, I promise.’

XIII

From Falkland they rode to Kinghorn where Queen Yolande was staying. She greeted Eleyne warmly, kissed her on both cheeks and smiled at Isabella, before ushering them into her bower. In the doorway Eleyne stopped: this was the room Alexander had used as his own – her Alexander. The hearth was heaped high with crackling driftwood and the small room was hot and stuffy. The windows had been glassed in now and were heavily shuttered.

Seating herself on a cushion Yolande held out her hand to Isabella. ‘So, this is your daughter, Lady Mar. Is she going to come and serve me as one of my maidens?’

‘Would you like that, my dear?’ Eleyne asked Isabella. She had not planned it, but the queen was offering her a great honour; one which could not be refused and one which would help to pass the time until a boy became a man.

She held her breath, seeing the shyness in her daughter’s eyes turning to terror as the implications of the queen’s warm-hearted invitation hit her. Isabella shook her head. ‘I don’t know, mama…’

‘I think she would be honoured, your grace,’ Eleyne replied gently. ‘My daughter will serve the queen with all her heart.’

Yolande smiled. ‘She will soon become accustomed to the idea. Tell me, child, are you betrothed?’ She leaned forward, still holding Isabella’s hand.

Isabella was speechless and again Eleyne answered for her. ‘She is, your grace, to Robert Bruce, the eldest son of the Earl of Carrick.’

‘Ah,’ the queen nodded, ‘I have met the Lady Marjorie, his mother. A formidable lady!’ She laughed good-naturedly. ‘Now, let us call some of my other maidens. They can take Isabella away while I talk with her mother.’

Eleyne ignored Isabella’s pleading look as two young women came in answer to the queen’s call and bore her off. As the door closed behind the chattering girls, a strange silence fell on the room. Eleyne turned from the queen towards the fire, feeling a cold draught playing on her spine. The fire had died; the embers glowed weakly where only moments before a cheerful blaze had crackled up the chimney.

The queen exclaimed crossly, ‘Call the boy to bring more wood!’ She shivered ostentatiously. ‘The fires at Kinghorn gobble fuel like greedy monsters. This is a godforsaken country when it comes to the weather!’

The spell was broken. Whatever had hung above the room had gone. Eleyne found she could breathe more easily suddenly and she laughed. ‘Our winters can be bad, your grace, but spring always comes – in the end.’

‘Good.’ Yolande folded her arms and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘May I tell you a secret?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘No one knows it yet, not even the king, but I have to tell someone.’ She patted the bench beside her and when Eleyne sat down took her hand in excitement. ‘I think I am with child.’

‘That’s wonderful, your grace!’ Eleyne smiled, but there was something wrong; her skin prickled a warning. The room had grown colder again. Standing up, she went to the door and called the page in attendance outside. ‘We need wood for the fire quickly. The queen’s bower is freezing.’

Turning, she looked at the queen. The room was shimmering with cold; the patterns on the wall hangings stood out in extraordinary detail; she could see every board in the painted shutters, dark though they were in the candlelight. She could hear the wind moaning over the Forth as it funnelled in from the North Sea. A haze of spume hit the small panes of leaded glass, running down on to the sills and streaming down the walls. She could not see it, but her ears, suddenly preternaturally sensitive, picked up the sound and interpreted it correctly.

Yolande was watching her. ‘What is it?’ she breathed. ‘What is wrong?’

Eleyne did not hear her. The air was full of danger. It crackled with the coldness of ice in the atmosphere of the stuffy little room. She heard the storm building until it was in the room with them. The howl of the wind; the crash of the waves and suddenly a knife blade of lightning, zigzagging through the air around the queen. Eleyne gasped and stepped forward, expecting to see Yolande drop, but the queen was still sitting exactly where she had been, her face a mask of astonishment.

‘Lady Mar? Eleyne, my dear? What is it?’

Eleyne was shaking from head to foot. ‘Didn’t you see it?’

‘See what?’ At last the queen stood up. ‘What’s the matter? Shall I call a physician? Or one of your ladies?’ She put her hand on Eleyne’s arm, seeing her as an old woman, her face lined, her shoulders stooped.

‘The storm. The lightning touched you -’ Eleyne was confused.

Yolande smiled. She shook her head. ‘There is no storm. Listen.’ She gestured towards the shuttered windows.

Eleyne could hear the gentle moan of the wind, no more. Walking wearily over to the fireplace, she stared down at the hot embers. ‘Forgive me, I must be more tired than I thought.’

‘I’ll call for some wine,’ the queen said reassuringly, ‘then you must rest. Your daughter can attend you. Tomorrow if you’re well enough we shall travel together to Edinburgh, to Alexander.’

‘To Alexander?’ Eleyne was disorientated. ‘Alexander is dead.’

The queen went white. ‘What do you mean? Alexander is in Edinburgh with his council!’

‘No, no, I’m sorry.’ Eleyne shook her head. ‘I was muddled. I was thinking of his father…’

Yolande’s face had closed, and she turned away frowning. The woman was indeed growing old. ‘I think you should rest, my lady. Tomorrow we shall ride.’

‘No!’ Eleyne’s voice was suddenly sharp. ‘No, you mustn’t ride to Edinburgh.’ The air was spinning around the queen’s head, crackling with warning. ‘Please, you mustn’t. If you ride, something terrible will happen. Wait, you must wait here. Let Alexander come to you. You can tell him about the child you carry then. Tell him to come here.’

Yolande had swung to face her again. ‘Go and rest, my lady,’ she repeated. Her eyes were full of pity, mixed with not a little apprehension. ‘We can talk about it all in the morning. Here is the boy with the logs. Leave me now. Call your daughter and rest.’

Eleyne smiled sadly. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve frightened you. I didn’t mean to. It is just that I see things sometimes…’

‘You mean you are clairvoyante!’

‘Yes.’

‘And you saw danger for my baby?’ The queen put her hand to her stomach protectively.

‘I saw no baby, madame. But I did see danger. I saw danger all around you.’

‘Then I shall not ride. You were quite right to tell me.’ Yolande went back to her seat and sat down firmly. ‘I shall send a messenger to Alexander to come to me. Tomorrow. As soon as he can.’ She was suddenly coquettish. ‘I don’t think he will find this a hardship.’

Isabella was sharing her mother’s bed. In the darkness she snuggled against Eleyne’s back, exhausted and pleased now with her new role as one of the queen’s maidens and it was not long before Eleyne heard the girl’s breathing grow steady as she fell asleep.

Eleyne lay looking into the glowing fire, listening as the wind grew stronger. Like the queen’s bower, their bedchamber looked out across the Forth. Behind the ill-fitting shutters and the glass, so loosely set in its leads that it rattled, she heard the waves beating on to the shore. Her mind was churning with images: Mairi, so far from home and, at the whim of Joanna de Clare, in charge of the nursery at Falkland at the age of seventeen. Shadows hung over that girl’s head, and over little Isobel’s. And Isabella. Shadows hung over the whole land.

She eased herself away from Isabella so as not to wake her, and crept out of bed. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and went over to the fire. Reaching for the poker, she pushed aside the turves which covered it and threw on a couple of pieces of wood. Then she sat on a stool facing it, huddling for warmth in the folds of her thick cloak. Behind her Isabella flung out an arm in her sleep and gave a little murmur.

Staring into the flames, trying to see pictures which would not come, Eleyne was aware that there was someone with her. The room was dark save where the light of the fire sent flickering shadows leaping up the walls and across the floor. She smiled sadly and reached out her hand, but there was no one to take it. Only a whisper too soft to hear above the sigh of the ash beneath the logs.

Alexander! The name floated soundlessly in the air around her.

‘Alexander. My love!’

Her eyes widened. How could he be here? The phoenix was hidden.

The shadows were uneasy. The air tense and unhappy. Outside the window the sound of a gull’s laughing cry, shredded on the night wind, tumbled into the room and was gone, borne away on the storm.

Alexander! The name again, in her head, a cry of despair.

She was afraid. ‘What is it?’ She spoke out loud and heard Isabella groan. The shadows were growing blacker. She shivered and looked down at the fire. The flames had died, the logs lay sullenly black and suddenly the room was full of the noise of the storm. Staggering to her feet, Eleyne groped her way to the narrow window. The shutter had blown open and the fragile glass was rattling in its frame. As she reached it, two opaque panes blew in and broke at her feet on the floor of the window embrasure.

‘Mama! What is it?’ Isabella sat up in fright. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing, my darling. Stay in bed.’ Eleyne groped for the flailing shutter. ‘The storm has blown in the window, that’s all. I can fix the shutter.’ She felt a sharp pain as she stood on a piece of broken glass. Rain was spattering on the floor and ice-cold on to her face and arms as she struggled with the heavy shutter. At last she pushed it back across the window and wedged the bar home in its slot. The room grew still and dark once more.

A light flared as Isabella pushed a taper into the fire and lit a candle. ‘Are you all right?’ Her voice was high and frightened.

‘I’ve cut my foot.’ Eleyne could feel the blood running down her instep.

‘The storm has got so bad!’ Isabella ran to her and knelt at her mother’s feet. ‘I’ll fetch some ointment from your coffer and bind it up for you. Poor mama, you should have called a servant to fix the shutter.’ She bustled away, the candle in her hand throwing a crazy whirl of shadows on the walls.

Eleyne hobbled to the bed and hoisted herself on to the high mattress with a groan. The frightened hammering in her chest slowed. Whatever, whoever, had been in the room, had gone.

The next day the storm had blown itself out. The sun sparkled on the blue waters of the Forth and they could see clearly across the firth.

After breakfast the queen sent for Eleyne. ‘Are you rested, my lady?’ she asked warily and Eleyne noted with weary amusement that she had made the sign against the evil eye.

‘Thank you, yes.’ Eleyne refrained from mentioning the sleepless night or her swollen painful foot.

‘I’ve taken your advice,’ Yolande went on, ‘and sent a messenger to Edinburgh begging the king to come to me as soon as his meetings are over.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure he won’t stay away from me a moment longer than he need.’

‘I’m sure he won’t.’ Eleyne’s head was as heavy as lead. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Lethargically she took her place beside the queen and reached for the embroidery which the queen’s ladies had laid ready for the day. Isabella had vanished, already whispering secrets to a new-found friend.

‘You still look tired.’ Yolande noticed the paleness of her companion’s face.

Eleyne gave a wry smile. ‘I do feel tired. I fear I’m getting old.’

But it was not tiredness or age weighing her down; it was a feeling of oppression and despair which seemed to fill her soul.

XIV

In Edinburgh Castle Alexander walked to the door of the great keep and stared out at the storm. As the day went on, the weather had grown worse again. The blue sky vanished; black cloud raced in from the east, and with it snow. The weather was set for the night, probably for weeks. Cursing, he turned back into the hall, then stopped. He had had enough of meetings, enough of discussion, enough of argument, on a day which the gossips and old wives whispered was to be a day of doom. What he wanted was to ride with the wind and rain and ice on his face until he was exhausted, a drink and bed with his highly desirable wife.

He thought again of the note she had sent him that morning and the unspecified delights it promised. He had hoped that the meetings would be finished by midday and that he would be with her by dark. So be it: he would ride now and be with her by midnight. Surprise her; come cold of face and hot of body to her bed.

Without a word to the assembled nobles and courtiers, who stood drinking around the great fire waiting for the horn to call them to the evening meal, he ran down the staircase and into the slanting rain.

His great black horse whickered as he glanced into its stall and he rubbed its nose fondly. ‘Saddle him up, James, and find four men to ride with me to Kinghorn,’ he ordered the groom.

‘Kinghorn, my lord?’ The man glanced out at the rain. ‘You’ll not be crossing the water in this weather?’

‘Why not? I’ll find a sturdy boatman to take me over.’ Alexander slapped him on the back. ‘Hurry, man, before my friends see I’ve gone and insist on coming too.’

Suddenly the expedition had turned to an adventure, and he wanted no one urging caution. He wanted to gallop, to forget the discussions, the voices of sober restraint and shout his warcry into the storm.

The ride to Dalmeny was wild. He galloped ahead of the four men who rode with him and when they arrived he had already called the ferryman from his bed, smacking the great bell at the water’s edge with the flat of his sword, hearing the wild note ring out across the white-topped waves to be lost in the scream of the wind.

‘You’ll not take the horses tonight, my lord,’ James shouted, pitching the full power of his lungs against the storm. ‘Not in an open boat. Best leave them here and pick up new mounts on the other side.’

‘It’s too bad, my lord!’ the boatman said, his beard streaming in the wind. ‘I’ll not take my boat out tonight.’

‘Yes, tonight!’ Alexander shouted back, exhilarated. He threw his horse’s rein to James. ‘You stay. Take them back to the castle. And you, my friend -’ he spoke to the ferryman – ‘a bag of silver pennies to you when I set foot on the other side. You’re not afraid, surely!’ He laughed out loud as he saw the greedy light in the man’s eyes.

The ferryman wagged his head in mock resignation. ‘No doubt I could not die in better company,’ he acknowledged grumpily as they all looked out across the water.

The wind had backed to the south and the sturdy ferry set out into the waves, bucking violently, sending cascades of spray over the bows. In the stern the boatman stood at the steering oar, his eyes narrowed, watching the sail which strained in a great arc before the mast.

The journey was fast. They were all soaked to the skin by the time they reached the shore at Inverkeithing and Alexander’s mood was if anything more exhilarated than before.

Leaping ashore he turned to the ferryman, ‘A bag of silver for the crossing and another for your men, my friend. You did your king great service tonight. Summon the bailie and have him find us horses, then you can go.’

The bailie tried to persuade the king to go no further, but Alexander would not listen and reluctantly the man found horses for his king and his three companions, plus two local men to guide them.

By the light of the torches which spluttered under the rain the king surveyed the horses. Three of them were greys, the finest a rig with an arched neck and proudly carried tail, its harness gilded and studded with gleaming metal. For a moment Alexander hesitated, then he swung himself into the high saddle. It was not far to Kinghorn and in his present mood he wanted no delay. With a shout, he turned the horse’s head towards the track and set it at a gallop into the darkness, his companions in hot pursuit.

He could smell the sharp resin of the pines as the track turned inland, following the contours of the land. Amongst the trees the strange twilight of the darkness grew absolute, and he was forced to slow the horse, realising for the first time that it had a mouth of iron and a will to match. It had caught his mood of wild excitement and was thundering up the track parallel with the edge of the low cliff. Far out to sea the first flicker of lightning cut across the sky and above the roar of the wind in the pine boughs he heard a grumble of thunder. He reined the horse in to a rearing halt and looked back the way he had come. There was no sign of the others. Cursing, he narrowed his eyes in the wind-borne sleet, aware of the shifting moaning mass of the firth to his right, hidden between the pine trees with their whipping branches.

When the lightning came, it cut through the darkness like a steel blade, slamming into one of the old Scots pines and igniting it like a burning torch. The horse let out a piercing scream of fear and plunged off the track into the narrow belt of trees which fringed the top of the cliff. Desperately Alexander dragged at the reins trying to turn its head but its hooves were slipping, scrabbling in the soft slippery mud at the edge of the cliff. He tried to throw himself from the saddle but they were already falling, man and horse together, into the blackness of the night.

XV

‘NO!’

Eleyne sat up in the bed, the scream ringing in her ears.

‘Mama, what is it?’ Terrified, Isabella sat up, but her mother had already scrambled from the bed, swinging her heavy cloak around her. Eleyne ran towards the door and pulled it open. Barefoot, she flew down the stairs and through the silent building, trying to drag open the heavy outer door with her hands.

‘My lady?’ The sleepy doorward stepped forward and unbolted it for her, swinging it open to let in the rush of the storm.

She ran outside, staring up at the sky, feeling the icy sleet on her face and throat, knowing the wind had seized her cloak and torn it open.

‘No! No!’ She was sobbing violently as Isabella caught up with her in the courtyard.

‘Mama, what is it? Was it a dream?’ Isabella tried to put her arms around her, pulling the cloak across her mother’s nakedness.

‘A dream! A nightmare!’ Eleyne screamed. ‘Oh sweet Blessed Virgin, why? I warned him! I told him! Thomas told him and Michael of Balwearie! He knew!’ Suddenly she froze. ‘I told the queen to send for him. I told her to tell him to come to Kinghorn. It was me! It was my fault!’ Tears streamed down her face.

‘What was you, mama? What has happened?’

Behind Isabella figures had appeared in the doorway. The door-ward had raised a lighted torch high and the flames streamed past his head.

‘What has happened?’ Eleyne turned to her daughter in despair. ‘You don’t know! No one knows! The king is dead! That is what has happened! If my destiny was to save him and to save Scotland I have failed!’ She tore at her hair in despair. ‘I saw, I saw what was to come and I failed to stop it. I told the queen to send for him. And I killed him!’

XVI

The room was lit by a single lamp, its faint light steady on the table. Eleyne lay gazing up at the ceiling above her head. She was shivering violently, and her teeth were chattering.

Isabella had brought her back to bed, put the sleeping draught to her lips and held her hands until she dozed. The household was in turmoil. The queen had collapsed in hysterics and been escorted to her own bed, sobbing wildly, whilst every able-bodied man in the place had ridden out into the storm to search.

To search for what? A wild-eyed half-naked old woman had run out into the courtyard in the middle of the night, screaming that the king was dead, that the king had fallen from his horse! And that she was to blame. More than one person that night looked at Eleyne of Mar and crossed their fingers against the evil eye.

Her head felt heavy and her eyes were red and sore with weeping, but she was unable to sleep again. If she moved her head slightly, she could see Isabella sitting by the fire. Wrapped in a blue velvet cloak, the child was dozing in her chair.

She heard a log move and fall from the firedogs on to the hearth. The fire flared briefly, sending reflected lights dancing over the walls of the room. Here near the bed the walls were stencilled with green and silver patterns, a repetitive, gentle decoration designed to soothe and calm the weary as they climbed into the high bed.

Her eyes closed. She was still shaking, still so very, very cold. Turning on her side, she humped herself into the foetal position, clutching her cloak around her ice-cold body beneath the bedcovers.

Eleyne… Eleyne…

Her eyes flew open. The room was full of voices.

The child… the girl… Isabella…

‘Einion!’ Her lips were stiff. After so many years the name was unfamiliar.

Eleyn… Eleyne…

‘Alexander!’ She was crying now, the tears scalding her frozen skin. Her head was spinning and she was still trembling violently. Was that a figure in the corner of the room, or was she asleep, her mind a black hell of nightmares?

She tried to sit up, but she couldn’t move. ‘Isabella!’ She tried to call, but no sound came. Was it a tall figure by the wall, the white hair and beard incandescent round his head, or had the fire, blown back by the wind, belched smoke into the room?

‘Einion Gweledydd,’ she whispered again. She was terribly afraid. ‘I tried to warn him, I tried…’

But he had gone.

‘Alexander, please, I tried to warn him…’

The lamp was guttering. The gentle light played for a moment over Isabella’s face, then it went out, leaving only the firelight to flicker in the shadows of the room.

They found King Alexander’s body at first light, on the beach below the cliffs. His neck was broken. The dead horse lay several yards away from him. They brought him first to Kinghorn. Then he was taken to Dunfermline where he was to lie near the shrine of St Margaret.

Eleyne was too ill to view the body. By morning, when they brought the king to his wife’s bed, she was delirious with fever. If she knew that her nephew lay beneath the same roof, she gave no sign. The country, stunned by the news, hummed to the rumours that the Countess of Mar had foretold the king’s death. Isabella sent for Mairi to come from Falkland and between them they nursed her from the brink of insanity.

It was several weeks before she was well enough to return to Kildrummy, leaving Mairi once more with her charge, and sending Isabella to be with the queen. There in the lonely northern hills she rode and paced and ran in the wind and rain, railing against the uncaring gods who had allowed the death of the king. All her life she had seen what was to happen, but it could not be prevented. Alexander’s death, like every other death, had been written in the stars. Nothing had been allowed to change the course of destiny.

I

‘So. That is that!’ Donald flung himself into the elegantly carved X-chair before the hearth in the solar of the Snow Tower. ‘The parliament at Scone has elected a group of guardians to rule Scotland until she has a king again, and I am not amongst them. No doubt the fact that my wife made a public spectacle of her foolishness helped them make their decision.’

‘Donald.’ Eleyne could not hide the pain in her voice. ‘Please. Don’t you think there’s enough on my conscience without adding this to it?’ She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the storm of emotions which welled up within her. ‘Where is the queen now?’

‘She is at Stirling Castle. And Isabella is with her. God help Scotland! What a choice of rulers we have! The king’s grandchild, a slip of a girl in Norway under the thumb of a foreign king, or an unborn babe. Who would have thought such a disaster could strike this kingdom?’ He paced the floor. ‘Duncan of Fife is to be one of the guardians, you’ll be pleased to hear, in spite of his youth.’ He scowled. ‘And Alexander of Buchan and James Stewart, with a brace of bishops to keep us all holy.’

‘And Robert of Carrick or his father?’ Eleyne asked, trying to concentrate on the implications of what Donald was saying. She had grown very thin and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.

Donald shook his head. ‘Bruce and Balliol are eyeing each other like gamecocks ready for the fight. They both remember their royal descent, remote though it is. Your nephew, old Robert Bruce of Annandale, is strutting round reminding everyone that he was once named heir to the throne in the old king’s day.’ He studied Eleyne’s face, but it remained shuttered with strain and exhaustion as the memory of the late King Alexander and their own private terror hovered in the air between them.

‘How could I forget that?’ she sighed. ‘It was when John died. Poor John, he was so sure he would one day be a king.’

Donald nodded. ‘Well, the lords of the realm decided in their wisdom that neither a Bruce nor a Balliol should be amongst the guardians. If the queen loses this baby – if there is a baby -’ he added cynically, ‘and if anything happens to Margaret of Norway who is the present acknowledged heir and to whom we have all now taken an oath of fealty, one of those two men will no doubt one day be our king.’

Eleyne caught her breath. ‘And our daughter is betrothed to the Bruce heir,’ she whispered. It must be wonderful to marry a king. Isabella’s voice echoed in her head.

Donald smiled grimly. ‘Don’t start seeing crowns on Isabella’s head yet, my love. There are four lives at least between young Robert Bruce and the throne of Scotland, his father and grandfather being two of them, and probably an ocean of blood if John Balliol has anything to say in the matter.’ He stood up. ‘Where is Gratney?’

‘He and the twins took their hawks out this morning. I doubt if they’ll be back before dark.’

Donald walked across to Eleyne and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Forgive me, my darling, it’s not your fault I’m not named a guardian. They know we are close to the Bruces and so have already, in a sense, declared our hand. Young Duncan was only chosen because they revere the earldom of Fife’s old traditions and acknowledge that the Earl of Fife, above all men, has the right to crown the next king.’ He paused. ‘Or queen, God help us. I suspect it is that, rather than Duncan’s talent as an administrator, which has caused his elevation to these dizzy heights.’ He grimaced sourly. ‘Has he told you his latest plan for his little daughter?’

‘No. She’s only a baby, Donald, he can’t have made plans yet.’

‘You were married as a baby, my love.’ He folded his arms. ‘Lord Buchan has approached him, it seems. He would like the Fife alliance and he proposes little Isobel for his eldest son. Duncan agreed with alacrity.’

Eleyne closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘John of Buchan is already a grown man. Surely he won’t wait for her.’ She stared down at the hearth where the wolfhound, Sarra, lay asleep, head on paws, and she pushed the sudden feeling of apprehension aside. Never again would she listen to the voices inside her head, or heed the Sight when it came. Fate could not be side-stepped. What the gods ordained, they carried through ruthlessly and without mercy. There was nothing any puny man or woman could do to save themselves from the destiny which awaited them. Knowing about it beforehand just made it harder to bear.

She walked across to the window and looked out. On the ridge behind the castle, against the brilliant spring sky, she saw the silhouettes of a herd of hinds as they made their way east. In a moment they were out of sight on the far slopes of Garlat Hill.

Turning, she saw her husband looking at her, and she shrugged. ‘So be it. If it’s what Duncan wants. One day the child will be Countess of Buchan. I can only hope she is strong enough for whatever lies ahead.’

II

With Isabella still in attendance on Queen Yolande, her hideaway was empty and Eleyne found her way there more and more often. She was growing tired. Gratney and Donald quarrelled endlessly, mainly over the intentions of the King of England. To Donald he was a danger, ever present on their border. Gratney, on the other hand, admired Edward enormously, proud of his close kinship with the King of England; they were after all first cousins once removed. His two brothers, Alexander and Duncan, supported their father and Marjorie, outspoken beyond her years, joined in the family quarrels with alacrity, her hair flaming, her thin face screwed up with passion, supporting her eldest brother whom she adored unreservedly. Sometimes Eleyne felt the castle would never be free of the passionate, ringing voices of the young Mars, or of the slamming doors as one or another of them stormed out of the latest quarrel.

In the autumn Isabella came home, with tales of Queen Yolande’s tearful admission that she was not – and never had been – pregnant; that there would be no direct male heir to the ancient line of Scotland and that now without a doubt little Margaret of Norway, King Alexander II’s great-grand-daughter, was their queen.

‘Yolande is to go to France, to remarry, no doubt,’ Isabella said sadly. ‘So she has sent all her Scottish maidens home. Look, she gave me a gift.’ She held out her hand and showed them the ring which sparkled on her third finger. Made from twisted gold wire, it was set with a crystal which caught the firelight as it moved.

‘Poor lady.’ Eleyne sighed.

Isabella looked pityingly at her mother. ‘She found it hard to forgive you at first, mama, but she did in the end. She said you had no way of knowing what would happen…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘But you did know, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I knew.’

‘Why didn’t you do something, mama?’ It was a whisper.

‘Because I didn’t know when it would happen.’ Eleyne clutched her hands together, her knuckles white. ‘He knew! He knew he should not ride in a storm. He knew he must never ride a grey, but he did both. He went ahead and did both, anyway! Because we cannot change what is to be.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Scotland’s destiny was in my hands, but I could change nothing, nothing! I was not strong enough. Perhaps once I could have done it. If I had studied with Einion or with Michael or Adam, perhaps I could have altered the course of history. I don’t know.’

‘Who was Einion?’ Isabella asked.

Eleyne considered for a moment. ‘A wise man, a descendant of the ancient Druids. But even he made mistakes. He saw my children as kings…’ She paused.

Isabella grimaced. ‘My Robert’s grandfather will claim to be king if anything happens to little Queen Margaret.’

She went to look out of the high narrow window. The sky was a clear washed blue, cold and harsh above the mountains. ‘That means Robert might one day be king. Then your Druid’s prophecy will come true, if I am his wife.’

Eleyne gave a small smile. So Isabella too had seen a crown in her dreams. ‘Did you see more of your betrothed when you were at Stirling?’

Isabella tossed her head. ‘He is always at Turnberry or Lochmaben. But he came with his grandfather to see James the Stewart and Duncan last week.’

‘And do you like him better now?’ Eleyne asked the question lightly.

Isabella considered for a moment. ‘I suppose he’s quite handsome,’ she said at last, reluctantly. ‘And he’s as tall as I am. And at least now he is a squire.’

Eleyne smiled. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It seems he’s improving.’

III

John of Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, twenty-two years old, with dark wavy hair and handsome regular features, shook hands solemnly with Donald and smiled.

‘I’ll take care of her,’ he said firmly. ‘And I’ll make her happy.’

‘You make sure you do,’ Donald said gruffly. Then he grinned. ‘She’s a handful, mind. It’s all that red hair. And she’s like her mother. Determined!’

Atholl laughed. ‘So am I, my friend, I assure you. I’ll cope.’

He and Donald had just signed the marriage contract drawn up by their respective advisers. Two months hence, on John the Baptist’s Day, the twenty-fourth of June, Midsummer, Lord Atholl would marry Marjorie, youngest daughter of the Earl of Mar.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Isabella raged at her sister. ‘That’s not fair. You’ll be married before me. And he’s older than you. Much older than Robert, and he’s an earl. I’m the eldest! He should have married me!’

‘It was me he wanted!’ Marjorie performed a little twirl of excitement and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her sister. ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t break off your betrothal to Robert. I thought you liked him.’

‘I do like him, but he’s a boy still.’ Isabella sat down abruptly. Her face crumpled. ‘You’ll be a countess.’

‘So will you, one day.’

‘But not for years and years and years!’

Marjorie frowned. Suddenly her triumph didn’t look so fine after all. ‘He’d have chosen you if you’d been free,’ she said coaxingly. ‘I’m sure he would. I wasn’t his first choice, after all. He’s been married before and his wife died.’ She bit her lip. ‘She was only eighteen. She died in childbirth.’ Both girls were silent for a moment, then Marjorie shrugged. ‘I’m sure that won’t happen to me. I’ll give him lots of sons,’ she said. She did not sound altogether convinced.

Only weeks after Marjorie’s betrothal came another. Duncan the twin was to marry Christiana, the only child and heir of Alan Macruarie of the great lordship of Garmoran in the Western Isles.

‘So, the brood are taking wing at last.’ Fondly Donald put his arm around Eleyne’s shoulders.

‘It’s wonderful to see them so happy.’ All three sons had been knighted by the king, Gratney on his twenty-first birthday, and the twins on theirs a year later.

‘Sandy hasn’t said much about his twin’s marriage,’ she commented.

‘He’s a strange young man, that one. He’s determined not to marry himself, you know.’ Donald shook his head, and there was a moment of tension between them. It was always there, the uncertainty, even after all these years. Donald fought it constantly, and if anything showed Sandy greater favour than the others, ashamed of his doubts. Sandy reciprocated with a special shy affection for his father, without ever realising the cause of his father’s extra warmth.

Eleyne took Sandy to walk with her in the herb garden and made him hold her basket while she cut lavender and marjoram and new shooting fennel.

‘Your father tells me you’re not upset that Duncan is going to be married,’ she said gently. ‘Is that true?’

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.

IV

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.

V

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.’

VI

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.

VII

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.

She found Mairi much later with little Isobel in the monks’ orchards. The child was white-faced, her small features pinched with fear and exhaustion.

‘So, little one.’ She took Isobel on her knee and looked at Mairi. ‘Are you happy to have a little brother?’

Isobel shook her head dumbly.

‘Why not?’

‘He’s already more important than me.’ Isobel buried her face in her great-grandmother’s gown. ‘Even Mairi went away to be with him.’

‘Is this true?’ Eleyne asked the girl; Mairi nodded her head unhappily.

‘They made me attend the countess, my lady. No one knew what to do.’

‘I see.’ Eleyne pursed her lips and turned back to the child. ‘Surely you don’t begrudge your mama the help she needed when she was ill?’

‘She was having a new earl.’ Isobel screwed up her small fists. ‘And I hate him!’ She glanced up to see what effect the words would have on her great-grandmother. ‘I shall never, ever have a baby. Not if it hurts so much it makes you scream, like mama did.’ Her voice trembled and Eleyne tightened her arms around the child. ‘Having babies kills you.’ Isobel went on in a whisper. ‘One of mama’s ladies told me. It might kill mama!’ She burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to have a baby, ever!’

‘Hush, my love.’ Mairi sank to her knees and pulled the child into her lap. ‘Your mama is safe and well. I told you last night. And you won’t have to have babies if you don’t want to.’ Her eyes met Eleyne’s challengingly over the child’s dark curls. ‘I’ll show you what to do to stop them coming, then you’ll never need to cry like your mama.’

Joanna looked wan and exhausted when Eleyne sat on her bed in the vaulted guesthouse and took the tiny red-faced swaddled baby in her arms.

‘I’ve called him Duncan for his father,’ Joanna said, her voice croaky and faint.

‘I’m glad.’

‘And I’m sending Isobel to Buchan. It’s all decided, Elizabeth de Quincy will have the job of bringing her up.’ Joanna lay back on the heaped pillows, her face pallid and damp with perspiration. ‘No, don’t argue, grandmama, please.’ She had seen the shocked surprise on Eleyne’s face. ‘I can’t cope with the child; it would be better for her to be brought up by her future husband’s family.’ Eleyne saw tears sliding slowly down her cheeks. ‘It’s what Duncan wanted, and it’s best for everyone. Then I can go home. To England.’ She turned her head away. Eleyne stood up. She gazed down for a moment at the small puckered face of the baby in her arms and sighed, then she handed him to one of Joanna’s maids. At least she could insist that Mairi go with Isobel to Slains. Beyond that she could do no more.

VIII

Gratney married his fifteen-year-old bride, Christian Bruce, at the end of September the following year. Christian, known as Kirsty to her adoring family, was attended by Isabella and Marjorie of Atholl, by her own two sisters, Mary and Isobel, and by Duncan’s wife, Christiana Macruarie. She brought as her dower the lordship of the Garioch, a huge area of land which abutted the eastern side of the earldom of Mar.

The day after the wedding the first of the rumours reached them. Old Robert Bruce of Annandale stormed into the great hall at Lochmaben waving a letter above his head. Seventy-two now, like Eleyne, and like her as active as ever, his eyes glittered above a red-veined nose.

‘So. It has happened. I knew it! I knew it! Little Queen Margaret is dead!’

There was silence as shocked eyes turned to him.

Donald stood up, looking at his son-in-law, John of Atholl. Only moments before they had been discussing the little queen’s imminent arrival in Scotland. ‘Where did that news come from? If it’s true it’s a sad day for this country. How did she die?’

Robert Bruce shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But if it’s true…’ His eyes gleamed with excitement, ‘I am heir to the throne. That makes me Scotland’s king!’

He glared around the great hall. ‘Oh, I know I’ll have to fight for the crown. And fight I will, make no mistake. John Balliol is not going to take the crown with his claims. It’s mine! I was confirmed as his heir by King Alexander II, and I am the most senior of the descendants of David of Huntingdon, we all know that.’

‘There are more claimants than John Balliol, papa,’ Robert of Carrick put in mildly. In his view John Balliol, the grandson of the elder sister of John of Chester, had more claim than his father, who though one generation closer to John was the son of the younger sister. ‘There are at least two others; probably more. For Scotland’s sake we should pray your informant is mistaken and that Margaret is still alive. At least her succession has been confirmed by everyone and the preparations are under way for her coronation.’

Robert smiled. He winked at his grandson, who was waiting nearby, wide-eyed with excitement. ‘So be it. We shall go to Scone as arranged. We shall all go.’ His gesture took in the Earls of Mar and Atholl. ‘And we shall take a goodly contingent of men, to show our support for the little queen. And if by any sad chance this news is true and she has died, we’ll have the advantage when it comes to establishing our claim.’ He laughed softly. ‘We’ll have a great advantage: several hundred fully armed men.’

IX

Eleyne, tired after the long days of feasting for the wedding and the precipitate journey, was lying down in their bedchamber when Donald brought her the confirmation that the little queen was truly dead. There were no details of her illness, but it appeared that she had succumbed to some childish ailment. She, like her mother and her two uncles, had never been strong.

‘So.’ She sighed, putting her arm across her eyes to try to suppress the throbbing headache which assaulted her temples. ‘What happens now?’

‘You tell me.’ Donald sat down beside her and took her hands. ‘It is you who sees Scotland’s future.’

Eleyne turned her head away sharply. ‘I see blood and fire.’

Donald’s face was lined with worry. ‘I fear you may be right,’ he said drily. ‘I gather that the guardians of the realm are resolved to ask King Edward for his advice. They are not prepared to give the throne to either a Bruce or a Balliol or any of the other claimants, at present. They don’t seem to be able to make up their minds what to do.’

Eleyne sat up. ‘And so it starts. Do they really think Edward will give impartial advice? Do they think he will stand by to see a strong king set up on his northern border?’ She put her head in her hands. ‘Persuade them, Donald, persuade them to see how foolish they are being. They are handing Scotland to Edward on a platter.’

There were many who agreed with her, but it seemed that Bishop Fraser, one of the guardians, had already written to Edward. It proved too late to hold back his letter and by May the following year King Edward I of England had claimed overlordship over Scotland and demanded fealty from her nobility before announcing whom he had chosen as the country’s next king. His decision fell on John Balliol, in his view, the view of the lawyers and of a substantial majority of Scots the senior claimant to the throne as grandson of John of Chester’s eldest sister. On St Andrew’s Day 1292, King John Balliol was crowned at Scone, the crown put on his head not by Duncan, Earl of Fife, who was but a baby, but by Sir John de St John in the young earl’s name. It remained to be seen what kind of a king he would make.

X

Isabella was sitting in her bower, reading. The November wind was finding its way into the lonely chamber under the roof; she could hear it whistling and screaming up the stairs. It was a dismal sound. She shrugged herself deeper into her cloak, knowing she should be downstairs helping her mother supervise the accounts. Guiltily she turned the page of her vellum-bound book and read on. Only a few more minutes, then she would blow out her candle, put the book into her book chest and creep downstairs.

The door opening behind her brought her out of her reverie a long time later. The candle was nearly gone and her legs were an agony of pins and needles. She looked up, expecting to see her mother’s face.

Young Robert Bruce was standing in the doorway. He grinned at her. ‘I did knock but you didn’t hear.’

‘Robert!’ Isabella stared at her betrothed in confusion. The book slipped from her fingers and, squatting down, he picked it up and gave it back to her. ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming up here. Your mother told me where you were. She thought you’d not mind too much…’ He faltered to a stop and shrugged, his eyes full of laughter.

‘Of course I don’t mind.’ Isabella tried to hide how flustered she was. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting anyone.’

‘Grandfather and I came to see your father and Kirsty,’ Robert said.

She loved the way his eyes narrowed when he smiled, his strong face softening momentarily. And it was a strong face; there was no longer any sign of the unformed features of the adolescent, or of the slightly gauche shyness he had displayed last time they had met. As he sat near her on the dusty floor his tunic and surcoat fell gracefully round his knees as he crossed his long legs clad in soft leather boots; he was totally composed.

‘What are you reading?’

She glanced down at the book lying in her lap on the azure velvet of her gown. ‘It’s the story of Branwen, the daughter of Llyr.’ It was her favourite.

There was an awkward silence. ‘I was sorry to hear that your mama had died,’ Isabella said at last.

She looked up in time to see the intense sadness in his eyes.

‘I shall miss her very much,’ he said. ‘It’s strange. It’s as though I’d lost a best friend. I got on far better with her -’ He left the sentence unfinished, the words ‘than with my father’ unsaid, hanging in the air between them.

‘And you’re the Earl of Carrick now,’ Isabella went on. ‘Does your papa mind very much?’

Robert’s father had been Earl of Carrick only in right of his wife. Now that she had died the title was no longer his. It had passed to her eldest son, leaving her husband, only heir himself to the lordship of Annandale, without a title.

‘I don’t think he minds much,’ Robert replied, ‘and he can go on using it if he wants to. I don’t mind. But my father is totally without ambition.’ He tried to keep the scorn out of his voice. He was fond of his father, but the two found each other mutually incomprehensible. It was with his ambitious, fiery, romantic grandfather, Robert Bruce of Annandale, that Robert identified. Completely.

He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his chin on them, watching her. ‘Aunt Eleyne said I should bring you down to join her and my sister in her solar before you freeze to death,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘I’ll come now.’ Scrambling to her feet, she put her precious book into the coffer by the wall and, turning back to him, she let out a little squeak of surprise. He had risen swiftly and silently to his feet and was standing immediately behind her.

They looked into each other’s eyes, all shyness forgotten as he raised his hands to her shoulders and drew her to him. His kiss was firm and sure and she was taken by surprise by her own reaction to it. Her legs began to grow weak as she found herself sliding her arms around his neck, drawing his face down for a second lingering kiss.

It was a long time before they drew apart and she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. She was trembling all over.

‘I came up here to ask you something,’ Robert said softly. He reached for her hand. ‘I wanted to know if you thought I was old enough yet to get married.’

She caught the irrepressible amusement in his eyes.

‘I’ve tried so hard to grow up quickly,’ he went on, teasing. He pulled her towards him again and looked down at her. Her head was level with his shoulders. ‘What do you think?’ His voice had dropped to a husky whisper.

Her breath was catching in her throat; her hand was shaking in his; all she wanted in the world was for him to take her once more into his arms.

She frowned, hesitating, seeming to give the matter serious thought, and was grateful to see a moment of uncertainty in his eyes. Trying very hard to hide her eagerness, she reached out her other hand and took his.

‘I think you’re old enough, my lord,’ she said.

XI

‘Macduff of Fife has been arrested by King John Balliol and thrown into prison!’ John Keith, still one of the most trusted administrators of the beleaguered earldom of Fife, stood in front of Eleyne, his face white with anger. ‘Is there no end to the iniquities this man is prepared to authorise!’

‘Macduff?’ Eleyne’s embroidery shears fell unnoticed from her fingers. ‘Arrested?’

‘Yes, my lady. He has been pursuing the restoration of his lands – the lands your late husband, his father, left him in Creich and Rires. With the earldom for so long in minority he has been deprived of what was rightfully his. And now Balliol denies him his claim and throws him into a cell for his pains!’

Eleyne’s lips tightened. ‘John Balliol oversteps the mark all too often. He is a weak man, playing the strong.’ She stood up. ‘This is not to be borne. Macduff must be released. Where is he being held?’

Keith shrugged. ‘At first at Kinross. Then he was taken before the king at Stirling. My lady, you should seek help from the Bruces and their friends.’

‘And stir the cauldron?’ Eleyne said softly. ‘Is that what you would like?’

‘I, and many others. Balliol is not the king for Scotland.’

‘He is the chosen king.’

‘Chosen by God or by man?’ Keith paused. ‘What will Lord Mar do, my lady?’

Eleyne looked up, searching his face. ‘That will remain to be seen, my friend, when I have told him about Macduff.’

XII

Turnberry Castle stood on a promontory, the sea protecting it on three sides. It was an ancient stronghold, the seat of the Earls of Carrick. Standing on the high walls which surrounded the castle, Eleyne looked out to sea, stunned by the overwhelming homesickness which had hit her. This was her sea; the sea which washed the shores of Gwynedd; the sea which had echoed in her ears as a child. She could smell the cold, salt freshness above the warmth of the land, the sea spice vying with the sweetness of thyme and roses and whin, the hint of vast distances lost in the haze, a backdrop to the warmth and greenness of the land.

She stood mesmerised, oblivious of the people around her on the wall walk. Below, the sea lapped the rocks exposed by the low tide, hardly moving, licking at the drifting wood, clear as a mountain stream.

When she turned back, they had brought a chair up to the battlements for old Robert Bruce of Annandale.

She frowned. She had caught herself thinking of him as an old man; his followers obviously thought of him as an old man. No one had volunteered to bring her a chair. Yet they were of an age, she and this robust, cantankerous patriarch of the house of Bruce. She put the thought behind her briskly. ‘So, what are we going to do? What about Macduff?’

The Lord of Annandale leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs in front of him with a groan. ‘Calm down, lass. Let your old nephew speak! Macduff is free. Balliol has already ordered his release.’

‘Are you sure? When?’

Eleyne and Donald had set off for John Balliol’s court soon after hearing of Macduff ’s arrest. Then they had changed their minds, and ridden west instead towards the stronghold of opposition to their elected king.

‘He let him go almost at once.’ Robert grinned. He had lost two of his front teeth the previous year and his smile had a piratical wickedness which Donald found fascinating. Even knowing how foolish it was, he felt a shiver run up his spine at the sight of the old man smiling. There was a joyful malevolence there. Robert’s next words confirmed his fears.

‘Macduff is to appeal against Balliol,’ he said quietly. ‘If the appeal doesn’t come out his way, he has threatened to go over his head to King Edward. Balliol is being shown up for his true worth. The man is an ineffectual fool who can’t handle the smallest problem, never mind a kingdom.’

‘And you could,’ Donald said quietly.

‘Of course I could, I was born to it!’ Robert stood up and paced across to lean against one of the wall merlons, his whole body betraying his energy and frustration. He turned abruptly as his son ducked out of the stairwell and on to the roof leads.

The former Lord Carrick greeted Eleyne and Donald warmly. ‘So, what’s the old man plotting now?’ he asked, putting his arm around his father’s shoulders. ‘Not more plans for the royal line of Bruce?’

‘Yes, more plans.’ Robert turned to his son with a flash of impatience. ‘And as usual you’re not here to discuss them. It will be your throne, boy! You’re the one who will inherit it. I’m too old, Goddamn it! Balliol is a broken reed and the other claimants are so much dust in the wind!’ He smacked his hands together in frustration. ‘And I’m stuck with a son who would rather sit about watching the sheep eat grass than buckle on his armour and win himself a kingdom!’

He turned to Eleyne and Donald. ‘I’ve negotiated a match for his daughter,’ he gestured towards his son, ‘that will bring them all up by the ears! Young Isabel, Robert and Kirsty’s sister, is going to marry the King of Norway! What do you think of that?’ He was bursting with pride. ‘King Eric obviously sees the Bruces as a royal family and I shall have a king for a son-in-law.’

Donald raised an eyebrow. ‘Edward of England won’t like that!’

‘No, he won’t.’ The old man chuckled and put his head on one side. ‘My grandson, Rob, is a man now. Shall we fix a date for his wedding too? Your lass, Isabella, must have given up hoping her husband will ever be out of clouts!’ He threw back his head and laughed.

Eleyne shook her head at him reprovingly. ‘I think you’ll find the young people have already decided they are ready,’ she said fondly. ‘The date is all that’s missing.’

Robert Bruce the younger looked at his father and then at the Mars and cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘There’s something I’d like to say. Rob is the Earl of Carrick now. He’s nineteen years old. As you say, he’s a man. And, as you say, I’m not.’ He looked at the ground and they saw the contortion of his throat muscles as he swallowed.

‘No, no, I didn’t say that!’ his father put in testily. ‘You’re overreacting, boy. I didn’t mean anything – ’

‘Yes, you did, father, and you’re right.’ The younger man straightened his shoulders and looked Robert of Annandale in the eye. ‘I would rather be a farmer than a soldier, and I have no stomach for fighting for a throne. It’s best we all recognise the fact. Make Rob your heir, and I will stand back from any claims you make.’

There was silence for a moment. Robert the elder cleared his throat. ‘That is a courageous decision, my son. But I’m not sure it’s possible.’

His son shrugged. ‘Why not? I’ve always supported you. And I’ll support Rob as loyally.’ He smiled. ‘And I think you’ll find the people of Scotland would rather follow Rob than me.’

Donald took his hand and shook it solemnly. ‘That’s a brave thing to say, my friend, and I for one will support Rob as his grandfather’s heir.’

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.’

XIII

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.’

I

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.

II

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.

III

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.

IV

‘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.’

He frowned. ‘I’m not a coward, mama, I’ll fight when the time comes. But this was not the time. Please don’t think badly of me, I did what I thought was right. Listen, I shall ride south again at once to negotiate their release. I admire Edward and he trusts me. He will let them go. He does not mean to harm Scotland. He does what’s best for our land.’

‘Is it best to invade us and fight a war?’

‘No. He invaded because of Balliol’s alliance with the French. In his eyes that was treachery.’ Gratney stepped forward and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It will all turn out all right, mama.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘Will you look after Kirsty for me if I leave her here while I ride south?’

She was troubled. ‘You think you can free your father and Sandy?’

‘I’m sure I can.’

She walked away from the door at last, to stand in front of the smouldering fire. ‘I couldn’t live if anything happened to Donald, Gratney. He has been my whole life for so many years.’ Tiny blue flames licked across the logs; the deep red heart of the burning wood glowed and pulsed before her eyes. ‘I always assumed I would die first. It’s just not possible that anything could happen to him. We’ve had so many years of peace in Scotland. I can’t believe it has come to war. And yet it had to happen. When Alexander died… it had to happen.’

Gratney regarded her fondly. Upright, strong, indomitable, his mother looked twenty years younger than her age. He had never heard her say anything before which came so close to despair and defeat.

‘I shall bring him home, mama, I promise.’ He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. ‘I know you can’t live without him.’ He took her hands in his. ‘The love affair that rocked Scotland. I know the story. And it will have a happy ending, I promise.’

V

‘There is nothing you can do.’ Kirsty’s arms were around Eleyne and she hugged her. Beside her stood her sister, Mary, also a refugee from the south, come to be with Isabella at the birth. ‘You said yourself that you dislike Edward and he dislikes you. I find it hard to believe, but if it’s true you are the last person to plead for your husband’s release. Leave it to Gratney. He gets on well with Edward. Besides, Isabella needs you here.’

In the upper bedchamber of the Snow Tower Isabella was asleep, worn out by the heat and the bulk of the child not yet born.

‘I hope Robert arrives soon,’ his younger sister, Mary, whispered to Kirsty. ‘He’ll be distraught if anything awful happens.’

‘Nothing awful is going to happen!’ Kirsty snapped. Their nerves were on edge. The huge castle, populated mainly by women, seemed claustrophobic, an island beneath the beating sun as the afternoon wore on. It was several days since the messengers had ridden south to find the young Earl of Carrick and tell him his wife’s labour had started. Since then the pains had stopped and started several times. Isabella was no nearer giving birth, but she was growing weaker. Timidly Kirsty touched Eleyne’s arm. ‘You said she would have a son,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re sure?’

‘She will have a son,’ Eleyne repeated. ‘The heir to Scotland. The destiny Einion foresaw. At last.’

Kirsty glanced at Mary and grimaced fondly. She had grown used to her mother-in-law’s incomprehensible asides and ignored them. In Eleyne’s more straightforward predictions she had the utmost confidence. ‘Poor Isabella.’ She looked towards the white disc of the sun. ‘I hope the child is born soon.’

It was three days before Isabella’s labour pains began again in earnest and still Robert had not appeared.

Sitting with her daughter, holding her hand in the stifling bedchamber, Eleyne looked up as one of Isabella’s ladies came in. ‘Is there no sign of him?’ She winced as Isabella’s hand tightened over hers.

‘None, my lady.’ The woman wrung out a fresh cloth in the cold-water pitcher and gently wiped Isabella’s face.

‘Mama!’ Isabella threw her head from side to side on the hot pillow. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’ll come soon, my darling.’ Eleyne took the cloth from the woman’s hands and gestured her away. ‘Don’t worry. Just concentrate on saving your strength.’

‘You know he’s in love with someone else.’ Isabella closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as another wave of pain took her.

Eleyne stared at her in shocked disbelief. For a moment the air in the room seemed to shimmer over the bed, then all was normal again. ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ she said gently.

‘It is. Perhaps he’s with her. She’s young and beautiful. I heard one of the grooms talking. He would have married her if he could; if he hadn’t been betrothed to me for so long.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ Eleyne sponged her daughter’s face again. ‘Robert worships you. You have only to see the way he looks at you.’

‘He looks at me with guilt.’ Isabella could feel the tears coming as the pain built once more.

‘No, no, I won’t believe it.’ Eleyne laid her hand on the linen sheet which covered the contorted muscles of her daughter’s belly. She felt every pain as if it were in her own body. ‘He loves you, and if it’s humanly possible he will come.’

‘Can’t you see? Can’t you see in the fire?’ Isabella’s voice rose unsteadily. ‘Look, mama. Please. See where he is.’

Nearby the two midwives, sitting side by side telling their beads, looked at each other and one crossed herself.

In the hearth the fire burned in spite of the heat of the day. One of the maids sprinkled dried rose petals and coriander on it every so often, using a small wooden scoop, and the room was full of aromatic, spicy scent. Reluctantly Eleyne walked across to it, feeling the heat on her face. Beneath her veil, the perspiration started out on the back of her neck. On the bed Isabella groaned again.

Eleyne pursed her lips and stared into the depth of the flames, feeling the heat against her eyes, willing the picture to come – the picture that would tell her beyond all doubt that Isabella would be safe and that the child would be a son, but there was nothing there. Nothing but the red heart of the burning wood. And then she saw it: a shadow in the heat, no more. She leaned forward – a standard. Surely it was a standard. A flag flying in the wind, a flag of red and gold – the standard of the king.

‘My lady – ’

Only the hand on her elbow had saved her from toppling into the fire. Shaken, she saw the maid standing beside her, holding her arm, watching her with frightened eyes. ‘I thought you were going to fall, my lady.’ The woman dropped her hand apologetically.

‘Thank you.’ Eleyne collected herself with difficulty. ‘I was dizzy for a moment with the heat. How is she?’ She turned back to the high bed.

‘She’s coming on nicely.’ One of the midwives smiled. ‘I reckon it will be here with the dawn.’

It was Robert who arrived with the dawn, throwing himself, exhausted, from his horse, taking the stairs to the bedchamber two at a time. He was allowed only a moment to touch his wife’s hand and kiss her forehead before he was ushered from the room. Childbirth was women’s work. There was no room here for a man, save perhaps a priest. The midwives scanned Isabella with practised eyes. She was strong, but tired already and old for a first child. The baby was positioned wrong; it should have been here long since. Shaking their heads, they bent over the bed again.

The sight of her husband and the touch of his hand had done more for Isabella than all the charms and potions with which the two women had been plying her for the last two days. She reached for Eleyne’s hand. ‘He came.’

Eleyne nodded. ‘He came.’

The child was born four hours later. It was a girl.

‘No.’ Eleyne shook her head as the small scrap of humanity was held out to her, wrapped in a bloodstained sheet. ‘No. It is not possible. He was to be a boy.’

‘Well, if he’s a boy, he’s got some precious baubles missing, my lady.’ One of the midwives took the baby, chuckling, and began to wash and wrap her. ‘This bairn will be no prince.’ Everyone in the castle knew of Eleyne’s prediction.

‘No.’ Eleyne shook her head disbelievingly. She walked towards the bed and took Isabella’s hand, but her daughter had drifted already into an exhausted sleep.

‘You must tell Lord Carrick, my lady.’ The woman smiled spitefully. ‘He too expected a son.’

VI

Robert was asleep, his head on the table beside an overturned goblet. For a moment she stood looking down at him, not wanting to wake him, aware of the whispers in the body of the hall, full of compassion for the young man’s disappointment.

As if sensing her standing over him, he raised his head and with the instincts of a soldier was instantly awake. She took a deep breath.

‘You have a daughter.’

If there was dismay in his face, it was veiled as soon as it appeared. ‘Isabella? Is she all right?’

Eleyne nodded with a rush of warmth for her son-in-law. He cared for Isabella. Of course he cared. Isabella was wrong. ‘She’ll be all right; she’s exhausted now. Go up and see her later.’ They both understood there was no need to rush upstairs to view the baby – a daughter could wait.

‘I’m sorry.’ She lowered her head, defeated. ‘I got it wrong. I was so sure this child was to be the progenitor of kings.’

Robert grinned. ‘I’m the one who intends to be the progenitor of kings.’ He lurched wearily to his feet. ‘Don’t blame yourself. I’m content to wait for destiny. There will be other children.’

‘I hope so,’ she said sadly.

He frowned. ‘There’s something wrong – ’

‘No! No.’ The wave of terrible unhappiness had gone as soon as it had come. ‘No, I’m very tired, that’s all. Forgive me, Robert, if I go and rest. I’m too old to stay up all night.’ She smiled at him. ‘Isabella is all right. And so is the baby. What shall you call her?’

‘Marjorie. After my mother.’

‘God bless you, my dear.’ She put her hand up to his cheek for a moment, then turned to climb wearily to her bedchamber.

VII

The next evening Robert and Eleyne dined alone at the high table. Father Gillespie had been called away, the officers of the household were visiting the manors of the Garioch, Eleyne’s ladies were down the far end of the table and Mary and Kirsty were both with Isabella. For the first time it was possible to talk in private.

‘Do you have news of what is happening in the south?’ She had been wanting all day to talk of the war and Donald.

Robert nodded as he raised his wine to his lips. ‘Gratney is with King Edward and has put in a plea for Donald’s release. All the high-ranking captives are being sent south. To Chester or to the Tower.’ He saw her flinch at the words. ‘Don’t be afraid, he’ll be all right. They’re being treated well. My concern is what Edward means to do with Scotland now that our noble King John has abdicated like a craven fool.’ His voice was full of contempt for the man who after his defeat had been captured and forced to surrender his crown.

‘You, like me, suspect the worst of our interfering neighbour.’ Eleyne leaned forward, her elbows on the table. ‘When are you going to act, Robert? The country is waiting for your lead.’

The year before, on Maundy Thursday, 31 March, her old friend and nephew Robert Bruce of Annandale had died, defiant and cantankerous to the last. His loss had been a terrible blow to Eleyne, as it had to all the supporters of the Bruces.

Robert demurred. ‘What can I do? My father has no stomach for battle, and he is still the heir to our claims to the throne, not I. However much grandfather wanted it, he couldn’t replace papa in the succession, and I’m afraid I’ll have to play a waiting game. I will not support John Balliol or the Comyns while I wait, which means in a world that is black and white that I must be seen to support Edward. For now.’ He grinned at her. ‘You and I know better.’

‘Be careful.’ She smiled, responding as always to the young man’s charm. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’

‘I know.’ He reached for the wine and refilled her goblet. ‘My grandfather would have loved this, and I am like him. I play for high stakes, but I play to win. It may take time, but I intend to take the prize.’

‘I believe you.’ She hesitated, then she turned to face him again. ‘Tell me, Robert, while we confide in each other over our cups. Are you unfaithful to my daughter?’ Having sprung the question, she studied his profile, aware of the sudden tenseness.

There was a silence which lasted just too long. ‘I love my wife. And I am faithful to her as is my duty as a husband and a knight.’

‘And if you were not a husband and a knight? What then?’

‘Then nothing. The other lady is also married.’

‘I see.’ Eleyne poked idly at the food on the manchet of bread before her with her small bone-handled knife. She swallowed her anger and disappointment in him. ‘Thank you for being open with me. Have you lost your heart to this other lady?’

‘No.’ He put down his goblet, shaking his head. ‘No, I know it’s madness. She is trouble. Trouble for everyone near her. It’s when I’m near her…’ The sentence remained unfinished.

‘And she reciprocates your feelings, does she? This troublesome lady?’ Eleyne persisted sternly.

He nodded.

‘But you would never betray Isabella.’ It was a command rather than a question.

He shook his head. ‘I love Isabella. I would never do anything to hurt her, never.’ Suddenly he frowned. ‘It wasn’t Isabella who told you this?’

‘However much you think you’ve kept your feelings hidden, your servants have noticed. Did you expect them to keep your secret?’ Her voice was harsh.

Robert closed his eyes wearily. ‘I suppose I did expect them to keep it a secret as there was nothing to tell.’ He sounded disillusioned. ‘I’m sorry. I would not have had that happen for the world. The last thing I wanted was to upset Isabella. You must believe me. Did she tell you who the lady is?’

‘No, I don’t know who she is, and I don’t want to. And I don’t think Isabella knows,’ Eleyne said more gently. ‘If she suspects she did not tell me.’

He looked relieved. ‘I shall make it up to her… and I shall see that the lady and I are not alone together again.’

Eleyne raised an austere eyebrow. ‘Please do,’ she said.

VIII

He left Kildrummy a week later. Neither she nor Robert had referred to their conversation again, but Eleyne detected from his demonstrative affection for his wife that she had pricked his conscience. She kissed him farewell fondly; and watched as he kissed Isabella, then little Marjorie, who was already showing signs of having inherited her paternal grandmother’s flaming hair and her temper.

Kirsty watched her brother leave, then turned to her mother-in-law and took her hands.

‘What is it, mama? What’s wrong?’

‘Why should anything be wrong, child?’

‘I don’t know, I just feel it.’ Kirsty shrugged. ‘Something to do with Robert.’

Eleyne looked dejected. ‘I let him down. I told him he would have a son. All my predictions – everything – pointed to this child being the ancestor of kings…’ Her voice died away. ‘My powers have never been strong. Now I believe they have left me altogether.’ She tightened her mouth angrily. ‘I see nothing, Kirsty. I cannot see your father or Sandy, however hard I try. I can see nothing for Scotland but blood.’ She shuddered. ‘I’m too old. I’ve lived too long.’

‘That’s not true, mama.’ Gently Kirsty took her hand. ‘I want you to do something for me. I want you to ride with me to the Garioch. I have a plan, which I want to discuss with you.’

‘I should stay with Isabella – ’

‘There’s no need. She’ll spare you for a couple of days.’ Kirsty looked at her shrewdly. ‘You need a ride as much as I do. It’s stifling here, and we are all brooding too much. A canter on the hills and a ride around Bennachie and up to Drumdurno will do us both good.’

IX

The horses stood panting, their heads hanging low as the two women gazed around. The low hills stretched into the distance behind them, a wilderness of heath and moor and bog, with small areas of woodland and scattered birch. In front the great fang of Bennachie rose up against a sky as clear and blue as amethyst. Kirsty had reined in at an ancient circle of stones near the track. Sliding from her horse, she came to Eleyne’s side as the groom helped her down and she led her into the centre of the stone ring.

‘This is a very special place,’ she said quietly, glancing up. The sky was empty.

‘It belongs to the old gods.’ Eleyne smiled. The air was strangely still; there were no birds; no sound broke the intense silence. Even the grooms, waiting a few hundred yards away, made no sound in the heat of the afternoon. ‘Why have you brought me here?’

‘I wanted you to approve. I’ve decided to build a chapel here, dedicated to Our Lady. I have so many prayers; so many petitions…’ She stopped, half embarrassed. ‘I vowed a chapel to her if she would hear me and one day, when I am old, I shall be buried here.’ She walked to one of the great recumbent stones and touched it reverently. ‘Do you think I’ve done right?’

Eleyne didn’t answer. She was staring into the distance. The air was full of the scent of grass and flowers, the resinous odour of pine and juniper, the clear cold overtones from the mountain a hint only beneath the heat. Around Kirsty the heat reflecting from the stone on which she had laid her hand made the air quiver. She looked insubstantial, almost ghostly, a wraith from the past; a ghost from the future. Eleyne shivered, then she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I approve.’

The weather grew even hotter; the haze on the hills as they turned for home was heavy with brooding thunderheads. The horses were lethargic and they were walking slowly when the party was met by James Leslie, one of Gratney’s squires, galloping as fast as he could, his horse lathered, gobbets of foam flying from the animal’s bit.

‘My lady, thank God!’ The man reined to a rearing halt. ‘The king is on his way to Kildrummy! Lord Gratney has arrived there, and he sent me to fetch you.’ He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his forearm.

‘I thought the king had been taken prisoner.’

‘Not King John, my lady.’ The man was almost gibbering with anxiety. ‘King Edward of England.’

‘Edward?’ An icy shiver tiptoed up Eleyne’s spine, for all the heat of the day.

James nodded, still gulping for breath. ‘He’s making a progress around Scotland, visiting the greatest castles, taking oaths of fealty from everyone.’

Eleyne stiffened. ‘Taking oaths for Scottish lands?’

James nodded. ‘Last night he was at Elgin. He’s coming by way of Inverharroch and will go to the monks at Cabrach. My lady, he expects you at Kildrummy to greet him.’

Eleyne scowled. ‘Where is Lord Mar? Is he with the king?’

‘He has been sent south, with the other prisoners, my lady.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then there are things I wish to say to my cousin of England.’ She kicked her horse on. ‘And as soon as possible. If he chooses to wait on me at Kildrummy, so much the better.’

She rode the last few miles in grim silence, only half aware of the apprehension of the men and women who rode with her.

At Kildrummy there was as yet no sign of the King of England or his outriders. Eleyne handed her horse to a groom and made her way towards her bedchamber. There would be time for a cool wash in scented water, fresh clothes and an interview with her eldest son before she had to nerve herself to meet Edward.

X

It was twilight before he arrived and already clear that he intended to spend at least one night at Kildrummy, with the attendant colossal expense to the Mars of feeding hundreds of extra men and horses. Calmly Eleyne and Kirsty gave orders for the preparations to be made, and they were in the great hall, seated on the dais, when Edward at last appeared. Eleyne rose, giving only the slightest curtsey in greeting, the stiffness of old age exaggerated as she moved.

Edward, at fifty-seven, was a tall, energetic, wiry man with sharp all-seeing eyes and a grim set to his mouth. Wearing full armour beneath his embroidered surcoat, with a golden circlet on his head, he radiated power as he walked towards the dais. ‘Lady Mar,’ he acknowledged with brisk formality, ‘I have come to demand your allegiance and the keys of Kildrummy.’

‘Indeed.’ Eleyne met her cousin’s eye haughtily. ‘The keys are my husband’s to give or withhold as he sees fit.’

‘Your husband has taken the oath of fealty, madam.’ Edward’s eyes had hardened. ‘An oath which every man and woman and child in Scotland will take before I have finished.’

‘If he has taken the oath, why has he not come home?’ Eleyne asked with deceptive mildness.

‘Because I am not yet entirely convinced of his wholehearted loyalty. Because every man who stood against me at Dunbar will have to convince me of his loyalty before I release him.’

Eleyne turned and walked deliberately away from him. She stopped, her back still turned. ‘I shall take no oath until my husband is returned to me,’ she said. ‘I have promised to obey him and he has given me no orders to swear allegiance to an enemy of this country.’

‘An enemy, madam?’ Edward’s voice was icy. ‘I am overlord of all Scotland, a country at present without a king and without any government save mine. I have removed to England all the emblems of government: the Scottish regalia – all that wasn’t hidden – the crown jewels, the plate, the relics, the Black Rood of St Margaret and -’ he paused and glared around the hall triumphantly – ‘after I burned the palace and the abbey of Scone I took your precious Stone of Destiny.’ He acknowledged the gasp of horror with a half-smile. ‘It’s on its way to the abbey at Westminster at this very moment and there it will stay – forever. I am the government of this country now and my son will be the next monarch crowned on your coronation stone. Face me, madam, when I am addressing you!’ His voice was a whiplash.

Eleyne turned, hiding her horror as best she could, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing how shaken she was by his sacrilege. Giving him a long disdainful look, she was aware that the great hall was crowded with the men and women of the household and beyond them, in grim, serried ranks, Edward’s men-at-arms. The eyes of all were on her as she spoke.

‘You will not destroy Scotland’s independence by stealing the things she holds most sacred,’ she said confidently. Her face was drawn and tight with anger. ‘Nor will you win the allegiance of her people that way. As for me, I owe you no allegiance, Edward of England. Your father declared me dead! He took my land, my inheritance, my name, even my children! I owe you nothing!’

‘Of course.’ Edward smiled. ‘You are not just a rebellious Scot! How could I have forgotten the escapades of your youth? And how could I have forgotten how thickly the blood of Welsh rebels runs in your veins? Perhaps I should arrest you, madam, and send you to join your nephew Owain in Bristol Castle, or to the Tower with the pathetic Scots king who seems to have your enthusiastic allegiance. If I had considered allowing your husband to return north, now I know I am right to keep him in London, safely away from his rebellious wife. You have one last chance.’ He shot his head forward and glared at her coldly. ‘You take the oath or you spend the rest of your days in my dungeons at the Tower with him.’ He folded his arms. ‘Let us waste no more time. Decide.’ He held her eyes steadily.

It was Eleyne who looked away. The threat of Edward’s dungeon was too real and too terrible to contemplate. And what use would she be to Donald or the children or to Scotland if she were a prisoner? Cursing her own weakness, she forced herself to kneel on the hard dais before him and put her hands between his. She repeated the oath through clenched teeth and saw the triumph in his eyes at the humiliation of her public defeat. She could barely hold back her tears.

She went to the chapel. Kneeling in the near darkness, she looked at the statue of Our Lady. She was tired, so tired. Her back straight, her hands gripping the edge of the prayer desk, she tried to pray. The image of the Virgin was indistinct, blurred by her tears, the flame of the candle at her feet shimmering, beckoning, a tiny speck of fire in the cool darkness of the great chapel.

She wasn’t aware of standing up or of moving towards the altar. The only sound was of the light shushing of her skirts on the paving slabs as she was drawn towards it. The heavy carpet was shadowy in the candlelight, the embroidered Virgin and Child unmoving, their eyes fixed emptily on infinite distances. She stooped, her hand going involuntarily to the heavy fabric as she began to pull it aside. It was as though someone else was directing her actions; someone else guiding her hand. She was not thinking as her stiff, gnarled fingers touched the tiles. She did not realise that she was pulling at them, scrabbling with her nails, working one of them back and forth until the ill-mixed mortar crumbled and cracked and the tile came free of the floor, loosening its neighbours. She was not aware that she had lifted the loose board, groped beneath it, taken out the dusty box, and tucked it into the bosom of her gown. Replacing the board and tiles she allowed the heavy carpet to fall back into place. Even when she knelt again at the faldstool, she was unaware of what she had done.

For the two days King Edward spent at Kildrummy, Eleyne kept to her solar, and he did not insist that she appear again. Access to one of the richest and best-stocked castles in the north of Scotland was sufficient for Edward; he saw to the replenishing of his packhorses and the feeding of his men at Mar’s expense. Only when he was satisfied that all were rested and replete did he give the order to move on. Before he left, he commanded Eleyne to attend him once more in the great hall.

She kept him waiting long enough to put on her best gown and call for a jewelled chaplet for her hair. When she walked at last into the hall, tall and stately, attended by four of her ladies, it was as a princess of the royal blood, and it was as a princess that she curtseyed gracefully before him, her aches and pains forgotten.

He acknowledged her arrival with a curt nod.

‘I am about to take my leave, Lady Mar. A word before I go.’ She heard the silence echoing in the rafters of the hall as every man, woman and child held their breath. ‘Kildrummy will be held for me by your son, Lord Gratney. I shall direct my master builder to strengthen your defences. Scotland’s castles, like those in Wales, will provide me with the bases I need to keep the country obedient. And its people.’ He paused. ‘Don’t, ever, defy me again, madam. If you do, you will pay dearly for it. Do I make myself understood?’

She forced herself to smile. ‘Indeed you do, cousin.’ The mockery in the ultimate word brought a spot of colour to his cheeks but without another word he turned and strode towards the great double doors to the courtyard. No one else moved until at a sharp command from one of Edward’s knights the men-at-arms stood to attention, rapping their lances on the stone floor and, turning, marched out.

Eleyne felt herself sway slightly, then a hand was on her arm and another and another. Kirsty and Mary and her ladies sur rounded her. The household was closing ranks once more. In a few minutes the king and his men would be clear of the gatehouse and on the long road south.

Eleyne straightened. Somehow she found the strength to stand upright and smile. ‘Thank you all,’ she said in ringing tones which carried to the farthest corners of the hall. ‘Let us try to forget this interlude. Let us all return to our duties, securing Kildrummy, strengthened or not, for Earl Donald and holding it safe for his return. And let us all remember,’ she looked proudly around her, ‘that whatever oaths your earl and countess may have been forced to take by our self-appointed overlord, we are all by birth or by marriage,’ she paused with a smile, ‘Scots!’

XI

Her bedchamber was cooler now it was fully dark. Wearing only a light linen bed gown, her hair brushed loose down her back, Eleyne sent her ladies away at last. She walked into the garderobe. On a rail there hung her winter furs together with some of Donald’s; his fur-trimmed mantles, his heaviest woollen gowns. Unhooking one, she gathered it into her arms and buried her face in its folds, smelling faintly the scent of her husband.

She crossed to the window and sat stiffly on the cushioned window seat in the cool depth of the embrasure. Far away to the south, was Donald too staring out of a window thinking wistfully of his home? The tears began to trickle down her cheeks, unchecked in the darkness. It was the first time she had broken down since his capture, the first time she had acknowledged even to herself how desperately she missed him, and how hard it was for her to carry on alone.

For a moment she didn’t notice the gentle touch on her cheek – featherlight, hesitant, no more than a whisper against her skin. Still hugging Donald’s robe, she turned her head towards the window. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees in the back den below the castle wall or opposite the ravine, above the quarry. The pale sky was sewn with a myriad stars and even as she watched a shooting star, trailing its tail of luminous green, hurled itself across the heavens in the throes of its fiery death. The second touch was firmer, brushing aside the tears which trickled down on either side of her nose, tracing the network of fine lines wrought by the weather and time on her face.

She felt the stomach-churning beginning of terror, and her arms tightened around Donald’s gown.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t come for me now. I’m not ready, not yet.’ Her back was pressed against the stone wall behind the seat, she levered herself to her feet, her eyes wide, peering into the blackness of the room as she clutched Donald’s mantle to her chest.

Still wrapped in its dusty lambswool, the phoenix lay in its box in a coffer near the bed. She had no memory of having put it there.

She backed away from the window, her eyes straining in the darkness. ‘Go away. Please,’ she breathed. ‘Go away.’

She was working her way steadily towards the table where the candelabra stood. Nearby a small rush lamp burned, its light so weak it illuminated no more than a tiny circle on the table around it. Her heart was beating loudly in her ears as inch by inch she edged across the room.

Still clutching Donald’s mantle like a talisman with her left hand, she stretched out her right towards the table and felt her fingers brush another hand. Somehow she bit back the scream which rose in her throat. ‘No, please. Go away.’ She stood still, trembling. ‘Please. Let me light the candles – ’

She stepped forward into the darkness and came up hard against the edge of the table with a gasp. Dropping the gown, she groped blindly for the candles and felt her hand close over the rush light holder. Her fingers were trembling so much she could not bring the feeble flame to the candle wicks. A sob escaped her as again and again the shaking flame flickered. For a moment one of the candles caught and in the flare of light she glanced behind her. The room was empty; she could see no one. Then as quickly as it flared the candle died. She was weeping openly now as she felt a hand close over her wrist. Donald’s robe slid to the floor and she felt herself pulled gently away from the table. The rush light fell from her fingers and extinguished itself on the floor. She was lost in the pitch darkness.

She could feel his breath on her cheek, his hands on her wrists. She tried to pull away, but she was held fast and then his arms were around her and she could feel his lips upon hers.

There was no sound as she was drawn towards the bed. She did not struggle. She found herself obeying. If it were time for her to die and go to him, so be it. His hands were on her body now, his mouth on hers, and she pulled aside her gown herself to bare her flat withered breasts to his lips.

‘Alexander.’ She breathed his name out loud. ‘My love.’ She could not fight him; Donald was a part of the past. She felt her thighs falling open, her body for so long dry and old, moist again with longing acquiescence. The cry of joy and release she gave at last was the cry of a young woman in the arms of her lover. The woman who curled warmly into the bed beneath the covers as he drew away was young again and content as she drifted into a heavy, exhausted sleep.

XII

She awoke to find the room full of the faint light of early dawn. She lay quite still, half dreaming, a slight smile on her lips. Then she remembered, and sat up, her body heavy with guilt. A candle had been knocked unlit from the candelabra, the rush light lay on the floor, its little pottery holder smashed, and in the corner, crumpled in a pile, lay Donald’s robe. She climbed out of the bed and with a shiver she walked across and picked it up.

‘Alexander?’ The room was empty. There was nothing to show what had happened save the warm tingling of her body. She went to the window. The countryside beyond the walls was colourless, as yet untouched by the sun. Mist curled between the battlements and wreathed the trees. She walked back to the bed and, groaning, hauled herself into it, Donald’s robe in her arms. When Bethoc came to wake her, she was fast asleep.

XIII

Robert had brought gifts for his wife and daughter, and a small ivory casket, bound with silver, for Eleyne. His face was grey with fatigue and worry.

‘Poor Scotland.’ He sat on his wife’s bed, holding Isabella’s hand. ‘That it should come to this, that he should take the Stone of Scone! It’s an outrage no one will forgive. But at least, now he has gone, the country will have time to consolidate. We have to find a new leader to tide us over.’ Unspoken was the implication that one day there would be a permanent leader, and that that leader would be him. He knew he was criticised; he knew his loyalty was being questioned as he hung back from supporting Balliol. Only a few, a very few people – his wife and mother-in-law amongst them – knew that he had to play for time.

He frowned as Isabella clutched at his hand. ‘Does your leg still hurt, my love?’ He had been astonished and worried to find her still in bed so many weeks after the birth.

She nodded, biting her lip. Her strength had still not returned enough for her to get up and now there was a strange pain deep in her leg. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s only a cramp.’ She pulled herself up on the pillows. ‘Don’t worry about me, I want to hear about your plans. How will the next King of Scots be crowned without the coronation stone?’ Her eyes were fixed adoringly on his face, her fingers wound in his. She knew that in the dreams of both of them he would be that king.

She had been as disappointed that the baby was not a boy as he was, but they had promised themselves that next time it would be all right, that next time Eleyne’s prediction would come true. They talked together late into the night, making plans, dreaming of the future, choosing names for their next six children. At last he kissed her goodnight, pulled the covers over her and tucked her in before turning to go down to the great hall.

He was asleep when they came for him at dawn. The pain in her leg had moved inexorably upwards through her body to her chest. By the time he arrived, she was coughing and gasping, unable to catch her breath.

‘Isabella?’ Robert cried out as he saw her. ‘Isabella? My darling, what is it? Where’s Lady Mar? Fetch her quickly.’

Father Gillespie, sitting by the bed, kissed his cross and tucked it away in his robes. He shook his head sadly. ‘She’s going, my lord. I’m sorry. It’s God’s will.’

‘What do you mean?’ Robert was white with shock. ‘She’s not going to die? No! It can’t be God’s will! We had such plans.’ Bending over Isabella, he took her hands in his. They were cold as ice. She lay white and drained, a wraith on the pale linen sheets, her hair spread out around her on the pillows dampened by the water with which they had been sponging her face.

‘Sweetheart.’ He put his lips to hers, trying to will her eyes open. ‘Please, don’t leave me. Isabella!’ His voice rose in panic.

‘It’s no good, my lord.’ The remaining midwife stepped forward. ‘She’s gone.’ The other had packed her bags an hour before when it became obvious that their charge was dying. Given the duty of fetching Robert to his wife’s bedside while Isabella was still capable of recognising him, she had instead fled into the dawn.

Robert would not believe it. ‘She was all right. She was laughing. She was to be my queen…’ His voice broke and he buried his face in the bedclothes, trying to coax warmth back into her body with his own.

Behind him Kirsty and Eleyne had arrived at last. They stood huddled together in disbelief, both with tears pouring down their cheeks. Eleyne was numb. Isabella could not be dead; her daughter had been so vital, so alive, so precious. The shock was so total, so complete, she could not understand what had happened. There had been no sign, no premonition, no warning. Yet again the gods were punishing her for her presumption in thinking she could foretell the future. Her daughter’s son would not beget a line of kings; her fate and that of those around her were as random and as arbitrary as the throw of a dice.

She sank to her knees as her tears dried, leaving the sharp bitter taste of defeat and the overwhelming taste of disappointment. Her own, but above all Isabella’s. The marriage, so long awaited, so long anticipated and at last so happy, had lasted barely three years.

It was a long time before she moved. Rising stiffly, she went to the bed. Bending, she kissed her daughter once on the forehead, then she turned away.

In the crib in the corner little Marjorie slept on, blissfully unaware that her mother was dead.

Eleyne went to the stables.

Hal Osborne, the blacksmith, was shoeing some dray-horses. Lamed by a kick from one of Eleyne’s brood mares, the farrier, an Englishman who had come to Kildrummy two years before with Gratney’s followers, was unable to fight and was one of the few men who had remained at Kildrummy throughout the war. He acknowledged her with a curt nod as he hauled a heavy hoof into the lap of his leather apron. She watched him for a few moments, her wolfhound Senga at her side, then she sought the sweet-smelling dim light of the stables. Her favourite mare, Starlight, was pulling greedily at a bag of hay. She acknowledged her mistress with a whicker of welcome and a shake of the head, then went back to her food. Eleyne put her arms around the horse’s neck and wept.

I

Donald of Mar was standing at a window in the White Tower, staring down into the cages of the king’s menagerie below. He shuddered. He hated the sight of those poor thin caged beasts – the leopards, the mangy lion and the bears. They reminded him too sharply of himself. He turned wearily and went back to his seat at the table. He had grown painfully thin during his year of captivity and his body was racked with pains. The king had sent a physician to tend his cough, but the medicines seemed to have done little good. He sighed. If only he were at home. Eleyne would know how to cure the pain in his damn chest.

He bitterly resented his captivity and every precious second it kept him away from home and from his wife. He resented the fact that when she had needed him most, when his beloved, beautiful Isabella had died, he had not been there. He resented the fact that he had not had the chance to say goodbye to his favourite daughter, that he would never see her again. He resented that his new little grand-daughter was growing up without him there to see her, and he resented above all else that time was passing. Each day he and Eleyne were apart meant that less time was left to them. His frustration was enormous. He reached for the flask of wine on the table, then pushed it aside impatiently. That wasn’t the way. It was too easy to find oblivion there; besides it was at the bottom of the wine goblet that his worst fears lurked: that while he was a prisoner Alexander had returned; that even now he might have claimed Eleyne for his own.

Sandy was a welcome distraction from his dark thoughts. His son too had lost weight. His handsome face was drawn and his skin had a transparency which had he but known was reflected in his own.

‘How are you, papa?’ During the day the Scots captives wandered freely about their floor of the White Tower. The royal apartments had now been removed to the Wakefield Tower, built by Edward’s father, which left more room in the vast old keep. Only at night were they consigned to their cells and locked in.

‘Not good.’ Donald scowled.

‘Then I have news to cheer you up. A letter has been smuggled in – look.’ He brandished a small piece of parchment. ‘The revolt against Edward in Scotland has spread. It’s being led by Andrew Moray and Sir William Wallace. Robert has ceased prevaricating and, claiming he cannot fight for a Balliol, has joined us at long last. Macduff has brought out the men of Fife!’ He slapped his father on the shoulder. ‘The tide of luck is turning.’ He paused, glancing quickly at his father’s pale face. ‘While you were ill, the Scots amongst the prisoners here have been negotiating with Edward,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘There’s a way out because he’s worried and he’s offering us a deal.’

Donald looked at his son, not daring to allow himself to hope. ‘What sort of deal?’ He turned away, trying to suppress his cough, aware of his son frowning.

When he had recovered, Sandy went on. ‘He’s talking of allowing us home if we agree to help suppress the revolt – ’

‘Never!’ Donald interrupted.

‘Wait.’ Sandy put his finger to his lips. ‘The Scots lords are being asked to attempt – only attempt -’ he grinned – ‘to put down the revolt. So, if we fail, too bad. He also wants us to pledge to serve in the war against France. There’s a new campaign in Flanders, it seems.’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘Edward is under pressure, and he’s unsure of the future. He needs our co-operation. He needs our men.’

Donald said thoughtfully, ‘It would be a way to get out of here.’

Sandy nodded.

‘Soon.’

‘So I hear.’ Sandy reached forward and drew the mug of medication across the table. ‘You’d better drink this and get your strength back, papa. It could be you’ll need it sooner than you ever hoped.’

II

‘No.’ Donald was staring at the king. ‘I will not return to Scotland without my son.’

‘Then you will not return to Scotland.’ Edward sat in his carved chair in the great chamber. ‘I need Sir Alexander here – as insurance.’ Edward’s smile was tight-lipped. ‘Just to make sure you abide by the conditions of your release.’

‘I have given you my word. That is enough!’ Donald glared at his wife’s cousin with open dislike.

‘I’m afraid it isn’t.’ The king’s tone was silky. ‘I shall require assurance from all the lords of Scotland before I release them. Once you have fulfilled your part of the bargain, your son will be returned to you.’

Sandy’s face paled when Donald told him, but he forced himself to smile. ‘It doesn’t matter, papa. What is important is that you go as soon as possible. For mama’s sake as well as yours.’ He hugged his father and turned away quickly, so that Donald did not see the disappointment and despair in his eyes. ‘It won’t be for long. We’ll all be released in the end, you’ll see.’

Not to smell again the cold fragrant air of the mountains; not to ride across the moors; not to hawk and hunt and laugh with his twin. He could feel himself weeping deep inside himself as he embraced his father and said his final farewells. Then he turned away. The sense of impending doom which swept over him was like a black cloud from which there would be no escape.

III

Eleyne waited on tenterhooks; the castle was en fête, a banquet planned for the earl’s arrival. But there was no sign of him. She was in her solar looking out across the hills when Duncan came to find her. He and Gratney were both at Kildrummy with her.

‘I think I should ride south to meet him, mama,’ Duncan said. ‘He could have been delayed for any number of reasons.’ He shivered. For all its warmth and the band of sunshine thrown across the floor from the window, the room was cold and brooding. It was as though something lurked there, unseen. His mother must have noticed too. He saw her glance behind her as she came to kiss him. ‘I’ll hurry him up, never fear.’ He hugged her affectionately. ‘We can’t have him philandering in the borders while we plan a feast for him here!’

Dismissing her attendants, Eleyne went later to sit on the grass bench in her garden. Wanting to be alone, she frowned and hesitated as she realised that someone else was already there until she saw that it was Kirsty. She sat down next to her daughter-in-law. For a long time neither of them spoke. Their silence was companionable. Around them the flowers were full of bees and butterflies and the warmth of the sunshine was soporific.

It was Kirsty who spoke first. ‘Have you noticed something strange in the air?’ she asked. Her tone was diffident. ‘Something almost frightening, as though someone or something is watching us all.’ She snapped off a piece of lavender and rubbed it nervously between her fingers. In the clear sunlight of the garden where no shadows lurked, it seemed a foolish question.

Eleyne closed her eyes. For a moment Kirsty thought she wasn’t going to answer. She watched a bee bumble amongst the flowering heads of the marjoram on the bank behind them.

When her mother-in-law spoke at last, she was appalled by the pain in Eleyne’s voice. ‘There is someone here, and he doesn’t want Donald to come back.’

‘Who?’ It was a scandalised whisper.

‘You would never believe me if I told you.’

‘Why?’ Kirsty scanned Eleyne’s face. The woman was incredible; in her late seventies, she was still as active as someone half her age. The hair beneath her veil was, Kirsty knew, still predominantly the rich auburn of her youth, streaked with bands of silver. Her eyes were as sharp as ever, her mind agile and acute. Only her body now betrayed a certain stiffness which Eleyne went to great pains to deny. She looked at Eleyne’s face. The high cheekbones, the fair skin, so finely networked with the thousand lines of old age, were still beautiful and still proud. And suddenly Kirsty didn’t want to know the answer to her question. It was too ridiculous, the sudden conviction that her mother-in-law, a woman of nearly eighty, had a lover.

His presence was everywhere – in the solar, in the bedchamber, in the stables and the stores, in the great hall and even in the chapel with its triple lancet window, where she would go sometimes to sit alone in the cool parti-coloured light. And Kirsty was not the only person to have sensed it; on more than one occasion she had seen people shiver and look over their shoulders as the brooding cloud which seemed to hang over Kildrummy deepened.

Eleyne was torn; half of her wanted to hide from him, to send him away, to exorcise him from her life so she could welcome Donald back with uncomplicated and unreserved love; the other half, the treacherous side of her, wanted to give in, to stop fighting him, to welcome to her bed a lover who saw her still as a young woman and who coaxed from her body the responses of a young woman.

‘Have you heard from Robert?’ It was Eleyne who changed the subject.

Kirsty shook her head sadly. ‘Not lately. He’s still devastated. He won’t even talk about Isabella. He spends all his time with his friends, plotting and scheming. I suppose that is something: that he commits himself more and more to Scotland’s cause.’ She smiled the indulgent smile of an elder sister. ‘He adores Marjorie, though, so he’ll always come back to us, to visit her. He spoils her terribly.’ Robert had left Marjorie at Kildrummy to be brought up by his sister.

There was a long silence. When she looked at Eleyne there was a defensive expression on her face. ‘You never ask why Gratney and I have no children yet.’

Eleyne sighed wearily. ‘I have learned to mistrust my visions of the future, but I am certain all will be well for you. There is no hurry. When God wills it, you will have a baby.’

God.

Did she no longer believe then in the gods of her native hills?

Kirsty was frowning. ‘I hope so, but at the same time I’m afraid. Poor Isabella. It was so terrible for her…’ Her voice trailed away.

Eleyne took her hand. ‘Isabella didn’t die in childbirth, Kirsty. Whatever unkind fate killed her, it could not have been that. There is nothing to be afraid of, child. Look at me. I have borne eleven children and survived to an irascible old age.’ Apart from her two babies – Alexander’s babies, taken from her by the jealous gods – all her children had lived to grow up. Was she greedy to wish for more? Her children had lived to grow up, but she had seen too many deaths, too soon. Her eldest son, Colban, and his son and grandson. And Isabella. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought again about her beautiful daughter and she turned her head away sharply so that Kirsty could not see.

IV

Morna regarded her daughter in horror. The girl had spoken very softly, her voice lost in the crash of the sea on the cliffs around the lonely castle on its wild shore, but what she had said was devastating.

Isobel of Fife, married now to her childhood betrothed, the Earl of Buchan, was rebellious, unhappy, untamable. The fact that there was no child of this disastrous, incompatible marriage was no accident, it seemed. ‘Years ago, mama, I promised Iseabail there would be no baby.’ The soft Gaelic name was a musical whisper on her lips. ‘I have taught her everything I know, everything you taught me -’ The girl smiled her shy, wide-eyed smile. ‘My lady has vowed never to bear Lord Buchan a child. Never.’ She looked behind her into the shadowy corners of the room. ‘And she will stay barren or die.’

Morna closed her eyes in horror. ‘Why have you never told me this before?’ It was her first visit to her daughter in all the years Mairi had been with Isobel.

‘Iseabail made me swear not to. She is terribly afraid.’ Mairi stepped closer to her mother. ‘There are other things, terrible things, things I cannot tell you.’

But Morna, when she had seen the beautiful face of the Countess of Buchan bruised from her husband’s fist, had already guessed that she had heard only part of the story. She could read it in Isobel’s eyes: the young Countess of Buchan had a lover. And if her husband found out, he would kill her.

V

The parched earth sucked up the rain greedily, filling the air with its rich warm scent, and in her bedchamber Eleyne sat at the window watching it grow dark.

‘Shall I light the candles, my lady?’ Bethoc was moving with her slow stooped gait around the room, tidying away Eleyne’s clothes. In her seventies herself now, Bethoc refused resolutely to retire, and Eleyne was glad of her companionship. So many of her old friends and servants had gone, it was good to have someone who remembered the past.

Morna was with her, seated at the table. There was no sewing, no spinning in her hands. For once she sat unmoving, her fingers idle. Morna too was growing older. In her late sixties now, her hair was snow-white beneath her veil.

‘I don’t want lights yet. They will bring in the moths. I’ll call one of the pages when we’re ready.’ She smiled indulgently as the old woman shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind her. With her creaking joints, her swollen legs and her endless quiet grumbling, Bethoc was the only person at Kildrummy who made Eleyne feel she was still comparatively young.

‘I’m sorry to bring you such news, but you had to know.’ Morna had waited until Bethoc had gone, then as Eleyne sat opposite her friend at the table she had begun to talk. She shook her head sadly as Eleyne sharply drew in her breath. ‘Lady Isobel has no one to turn to but Mairi and now you.’

Eleyne, sitting with her elbows on the table, put her face in her hands. ‘Blessed Lady! How could I not have known how unhappy she was? I must ride and see her.’

‘She will be with the earl at Stirling by now. They were leaving as I set off home. But I haven’t told you everything yet. There were things Mairi would not tell even me, so I’m guessing.’ Morna hesitated. ‘I think Lady Buchan has a lover.’

Eleyne looked up quickly. ‘And does her husband suspect this too?’

Morna shrugged. ‘Mairi is too loyal to her mistress to discuss such things, even with me. She is protective, like a mother hen.’ She smiled indulgently. ‘You made a good decision when you sent her to take care of your great-grand-daughter.’

Eleyne nodded. ‘I love the child. And for her father’s sake and her grandfather’s I wanted to watch over her. Her mother never cared. I can’t forgive that woman for leaving for England the way she did, abandoning one child while she took the other with her.’ It was the cause of some resentment in Scotland that the young earl was being brought up as an Englishman.

‘Lady Buchan is a brave lass; spirited, beautiful.’ Morna smiled. She had fallen completely under the spell of Isobel’s charm. ‘Mairi will take care of her as far as she can, but if Lord Buchan finds out…’ The two women were silent as they contemplated the earl’s fury if he should discover that his wife was unfaithful. ‘I think it would be a good thing if you could speak to her. Let her know she’s not alone. Tell her to be careful.’

Silence fell on the room again. Suddenly Morna wondered if Eleyne were listening. Her attention had been withdrawn; she seemed to be hearing something far away. Her eyes were fixed blankly on the far wall of the room. Morna studied her expression, puzzled. It wasn’t the first time she had seen that look on Eleyne’s face, that strange luminous quality which shone from her eyes.

Into the silence of the room came the distant sound of a horn, but Eleyne did not seem to hear it. She was half smiling, a thousand miles away.

Outside the rain fell in a heavy curtain; the sound of it filled the air and in the empty hearth a succession of stray raindrops hit the flags.

Morna pulled her shawl around her, then she gave a little cry of fright as a cold wind swept through the open window. A rolled parchment on the far end of the table fell to the floor. It was suddenly very dark.

Eleyne felt her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest.

Go away. The words were unspoken, but it seemed to her that she had screamed them out loud.

‘Please, go away.’ This time the whisper was audible and Morna’s eyes became enormous.

‘Who are you talking to?’

But even as she spoke she knew.

The tall, broad-shouldered figure standing immediately behind Eleyne was so indistinct he was scarcely more than a shadow, but she could see him clearly enough to make out the flaming hair and the beard, and the intense expression as he looked down at the woman seated in front of him.

From the gatehouse came the sound of the watchman’s horn again, strangely muted by the rain. Neither woman heard it. Morna held her breath. The spirit, if that is what he was, seemed oblivious of her presence. His eyes were fixed on Eleyne as though trying to will her to turn round and face him.

Eleyne had not moved; she seemed frozen to the spot and her fists were clenched.

Morna reached out towards the flint and steel which lay on the empty table at the foot of the candlestick. As her hand inched towards them, her eyes were fixed on the figure behind Eleyne. He had leaned forward slightly now and put his hands on her shoulders, a touch so light she showed no sign of feeling it.

The flint was in her hand. Slowly Morna raised her fists and brought it down on the steel with a snap. The spark flew into the box of tinder and in a second a spiral of blue smoke was rising and a small clear flame showed itself in her cupped hands.

She glanced up.

The figure had gone.

Standing up, she put the flame to the candles, watching Eleyne’s face illuminated by the steadily growing circle of light.

‘He must love you very much,’ she said quietly.

Eleyne seemed to accept that Morna had seen him. ‘I am a lucky woman. To have had two men love me is a great honour, I suppose.’

‘Even though they are now rivals for you?’ Morna walked around the table and put her hand on Eleyne’s shoulder where the shadow hand had been. ‘To choose a dead man would be to deny life,’ she said softly.

‘I know.’ Stiffly Eleyne rose and walked to a coffer on the far side of the room. She brought out a small casket and found what she wanted. ‘I don’t know how this got here.’ She put the flashing jewel on the table. ‘I had hidden it in the chapel.’

Morna looked at it without touching it. ‘The phoenix.’

Eleyne picked it up by the chain and held it so that it swung in the candlelight. The bird’s ruby eyes and fiery feathers gleamed and rippled. ‘I have tried again and again to be rid of it, but always it returns. But if Donald is to come home it must go.’ For a long moment she stared at it, then she turned to Morna. ‘Come with me.’

The sentry on guard at the postern gate stared after the two women as they walked out into the wet night. Within seconds they were lost to sight. The steps which led down into the back den were steep and rough beneath their feet. In the total darkness, Eleyne felt her ankle turn and she gave a gasp of pain, but she forced herself to go on.

‘It’s only a few steps further. Here, where the burn goes over the waterfall, before it gets all marshy.’ She strained her eyes and gave a false laugh, strangely loud in the silence. ‘I must get them to cut back the scrub here. If ever we should be attacked, our enemies could come up the burn here and get too close to the walls.’

Morna, who could see in the dark as well as a cat, was following her, sure-footed. ‘Kildrummy will never be attacked. The very idea! Here, in the heartland of Mar?’

‘I had to entertain an enemy here, in the heartland of Mar, Morna,’ Eleyne reminded her sharply. ‘If Edward can come in peace, he can come in war.’

‘You think he will return?’ Morna could feel the hairs on the nape of her neck stirring.

‘Who knows?’ Eleyne’s voice was non-committal. ‘But if he ever did, I would be ready for him.’

‘Where are we going?’ Morna stopped to catch her breath.

‘Not much further. Here, look, see how the burn tumbles over the rocks?’ Eleyne had stopped on the edge of the water. Below, it disappeared into the darkness, falling into the bottom fo the shallow marshy gorge. At its foot the water was deep.

Eleyne stood for a moment looking down. She could see nothing. The sound of the water filled her ears. For a long time she did not move, forgetting completely her companion, who stood out of sight in the darkness near her. Then slowly she raised her hand. In it the jewelled pendant gleamed as though it had a light of its own.

Release me. Leave me for Donald.

The words were not spoken out loud, but they rang inside her head as she raised her arm and threw the phoenix as hard as she could out over the small waterfall. She smiled grimly to herself. ‘So. Water extinguishes the fire at last. My gift to the gods once more. I hope now they are satisfied.’

Around her the night was empty.

For a moment both women stood staring into the darkness, then with a shrug Eleyne turned back towards the castle.

They were soaked through by the time they had scrambled back up the track and regained the arched door in the wall. The guard opened it to Eleyne’s knock and they slipped through beneath the small portcullis, into the dark inner courtyard.

Several horses stood, riderless, near the entrance to the great hall which was open, spilling light on to the wet cobbles. Eleyne walked towards it, refusing to allow the slow-burning excitement inside her to surface. It might not be him. She had been disappointed so often in the last few days. But the phoenix had gone and with it the malign force which had kept Donald away. Her shoes squelched uncomfortably as she moved quickly towards the steps and began to climb them.

‘My lady, thank the Blessed Virgin.’ A face appeared in the doorway. ‘She’s here!’ The figure shouted over his shoulder. ‘The countess is here.’

‘What has happened? Who is it?’ Furious at her breathlessness, Eleyne forced herself almost to run up the steps, willing her stiff bones to move faster.

The far end of the great chamber was lit with a dozen candles and someone had stoked up the fire in one of the hearths despite the thundery warmth of the night.

She barely recognised him. It was fifteen months since she had seen him, and in that time he had changed out of all recognition. Her robust, handsome husband had become a living skeleton. He was seated, exhausted, near the fire as she came in, still wrapped in his wet riding cloak. His face was grey, his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets. Beside him stood Duncan. There was no sign of Sandy.

‘Mother of Christ! What has Edward done to you?’ Eleyne could not move, her dismay was so intense.

Donald smiled. With an effort he rose to his feet and, throwing off the cloak, he held out his arms to her.

‘Nel, my love, don’t look like that. They have done nothing. I was treated with great courtesy. I’ve not been well, that’s all. Edward’s own physicians attended me and now I’m better. Some good Scots beef and some of your magic strengthening potions and I shall be a new man.’

He folded her into his arms and they stood close for a few moments. Eleyne could feel the brittle thinness of his body as she clung to him, and the cold dryness of his wasted flesh. Desperately, she tried to warm it with some of her own vitality, willing her strength into him.

‘Have you called for food and wine?’ she scolded as she extricated herself from his arms. ‘And dry clothes? Look how chilled you are.’ No, she could hear herself crying inside. No. Don’t let him be taken from me. That’s not fair. It is I who am old. It is I who should die first.

She took his hands and kissed them; then she kissed his forehead again. Only then did she look around for Sandy.

‘Where is he?’ Her mouth was suddenly dry with fear.

‘Still in the Tower.’ Donald shook his head. He had been afraid to tell her, dreading this moment. He looked at Duncan and saw the twin’s distress, swiftly veiled as his youngest son put his arm round his mother’s shoulders.

‘Why?’ Eleyne’s voice was husky.

‘Surety for my good behaviour.’ Donald was very bitter. ‘Edward is a clever unscrupulous man. He gives with one hand and takes with the other. He keeps a guarantee that I will serve him even as he releases me.’ He broke off in a fit of coughing. ‘And of course it will work. I shall have to obey him.’

‘Papa, enough talking for now.’ Duncan took his father’s hand gently. ‘Come and rest. We’ll talk later and think then what to do.’ Did his mother too feel the raw bleeding wound inside which was Sandy’s pain? Seeing her face, he knew that she did.

Somehow Donald found the strength to reach their private rooms in the Snow Tower, to eat a little of the fragrant chicken broth the cook had warmed for him and to drink a goblet of good red wine, but the effort exhausted him. It took Eleyne and one of his men to undress him and almost carry him to the great bed. Only then could Eleyne dismiss the servants and be alone with her husband.

‘I’ve sent for Gratney and Kirsty. They have been waiting for you here, but they rode to the Garioch today. They’ll spend the night at Inverurie and be back tomorrow,’ she said as she sat on the bed. ‘Oh Donald, we’ve missed you so much.’ Almost shyly she touched his hand.

He smiled. How often had he dreamed of this moment. How could he have remembered Eleyne as an old woman? Drowsy with the wine and his exhaustion, he could feel his eyes closing. He must tell her how much he loved her. Now, before he fell asleep – but already his hand had fallen limply at his side and he had drifted into a fitful doze.

When Donald awoke, Eleyne was lying beside him staring up at the tester above their heads.

‘Did you sleep well, my dear?’ She hadn’t meant to share his bed; it was so long since she had done that. She had just meant to lie beside him for a few minutes, to feel the comfort of his presence.

He moved slightly, feeling for her hand. ‘It’s so good to be home.’

‘And you weren’t ill treated?’

‘As I told you, King Edward sent me his own physicians when I fell ill, and special gifts of food and wine. I’m on the mend, Nel. I’ll soon be my old self.’

‘Of course you will.’ She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. ‘Oh, my love, I’m so pleased you’re home.’ She did not mention Sandy and neither did he.

Gratney and Christian arrived back later that morning. Donald and his eldest son hugged each other for a long, silent moment, then Gratney punched his father gently on the arm. ‘So, what news of King Edward?’ The moment of emotion was over.

‘He has sent us a master mason and a team of builders to strengthen our fortifications.’ Donald smiled grimly. ‘Do you remember Master James of St George at Rhuddlan?’ He glanced at his wife. ‘He is to supervise the building of a new gatehouse for us, it seems, and see to the strengthening of our walls.’ He coughed weakly. ‘The king leaves for Flanders within the month. I have undertaken to go with him.’

Gratney looked at his mother and caught the flash of tight-lipped disapproval. He hid a smile. ‘Mama will forbid it if she can.’

Donald chuckled. ‘I know she will – and fight me tooth and nail for supporting her greatest enemy. But we have no choice.’ There was a tense silence, then he went on, ‘But in this case my lack of health may be on her side. At the moment I can barely sit a horse, I’m so accursed weak!’

As though to substantiate his words, he sat down heavily on a stool. His face was grey with fatigue though he had walked only from the bedchamber to the solar.

Eleyne bit her lip, trying not to show her dismay. ‘Some wine for your father, Gratney, to put some colour into his cheeks,’ she ordered cheerfully. ‘Not that I’m sure I want to put flesh on him to serve Edward Plantagenet.’

Her tone was sufficiently tart to bring a fond smile to her husband’s lips. ‘That’s my Nel.’ He took the wine from his son and drank it in one draught. Two spots of livid colour appeared on his cheekbones. ‘You know, I think I’ll go and rest for a little.’ He staggered to his feet with a tremendous effort.

Gratney stepped forward. ‘Let me help you, papa.’

Eleyne thought he would refuse, but Donald gave a curt nod and took his son’s arm. By the time they reached the door Gratney was almost carrying him.

VI

Kirsty smiled at the Dowager Countess of Buchan and accepted the cup of wine her hostess offered. ‘My mother-in-law was hoping to visit you herself,’ she said, ‘but as you know my father-in-law has just been released from the Tower. He is unwell and she didn’t want to leave him.’

Elizabeth de Quincy bowed slightly and raised an austere eyebrow. ‘Your mother-in-law does not make a habit of visiting me, Lady Christian. Besides, at her age I would have thought her past riding.’ She folded her arms inside her mantle. ‘If the reason for your visit is to see Isobel, I suggest you say so. That young woman needs a sound beating in my opinion. However, perhaps you can talk some sense into her. If you don’t, she will end up killing herself.’

Kirsty’s gasp of horror drew no more than a glare from the countess who, with an imperious click of her fingers, summoned a maid to take Kirsty to Isobel’s solar.

Isobel had just returned from a ride. Her gown was muddy and crumpled and her face streaked with dust. She looked exhausted.

Mairi showed Kirsty to the window embrasure overlooking the sea, and guided Isobel to sit opposite her; then she pulled a screen across the alcove and left them together. The air was full of the wild ringing cries of gulls.

‘Your great-grandmother is very worried about you,’ Kirsty began softly. ‘Mairi’s mother told her how unhappy you are.’ To her horror she saw Isobel’s eyes flood with tears. ‘My dear, is there anything I can do?’

Isobel pressed her lips together, shaking her head. It was several moments before she was sufficiently composed to speak. ‘Tell grandmama I’m all right.’

‘But you’re not.’ In spite of herself, Kirsty found her eyes straying to Isobel’s stomach. The girl was so thin the pregnancy showed even at this early stage.

‘I’m all right,’ Isobel repeated desperately.

‘And your baby?’

‘There is no baby!’ Isobel jumped to her feet, pulled her mantle around herself defensively, and stood staring out of the unglazed window at the sea.

‘I see.’ Kirsty bit her lip, not sure how to proceed. ‘Isobel – ’

Isobel swung round. ‘You’re Robert’s sister, aren’t you? How is he?’ There was a hungry gleam in her eye which Kirsty found almost frightening.

‘He’s well,’ she said guardedly.

‘And his wife’s dead,’ Isobel said quietly. ‘And his daughter is being brought up by you.’

Kirsty nodded, but Isobel had turned back to the window. Outside the sea was darkly heaving slate, relieved now and then by towering white horses which rode the swells and crested against the shore. ‘He must have a son,’ Isobel went on. ‘He must have a son. He will be king, you know.’ She swung round.

Kirsty smiled. ‘I believe so.’

‘And he must marry again.’

‘I suppose he must,’ Kirsty said thoughtfully, ‘but not yet, not while he is still grieving for Isabella.’

‘He’s not grieving for her, not really.’ Isobel’s voice was muffled.

‘I think he is,’ Kirsty said. She was beginning to understand the reason for this desperate tirade. As Robert’s eldest sister she had met too many girls who thought themselves in love with her glamorous brother not to know the signs. She sighed. ‘Eleyne told me to tell you she will come to see you when Donald is better. She said you must be courageous and patient and that she loves you and is praying for you.’

Isobel turned suddenly. ‘Have you ever had a baby?’ It was as though she had not heard a word Kirsty had said.

Kirsty shook her head.

‘You don’t want one?’

The question appeared to be artless, but Kirsty sensed there was more behind it than appeared. ‘Yes, I want one very much,’ she said wistfully. ‘But God has not yet seen fit to send us one.’

‘I see.’ There was disillusion in Isobel’s voice.

‘You’ll love it very much when you have one,’ Kirsty said cautiously.

‘I’m not going to have one.’

The tension in the thin shoulders, the angle of her head, the white, tightly clenched fists all proclaimed a denial of the fact.

Sadly Kirsty stood up. She held out her hands and took Isobel’s tense fists in hers. ‘Is Mairi looking after you?’

Isobel nodded. ‘Ask great grandmama to come,’ she whispered.

‘As soon as Donald is better, she’ll come, I promise.’ But Kirsty knew she couldn’t burden Eleyne with this further worry. Not now. Not yet.

VII

‘Mother. He’s dying.’ Gratney sat opposite Eleyne, holding her hands tightly in his. Two weeks had passed and Donald was worse. ‘Anyone can see it. You have to prepare yourself.’

‘No.’ She shook her head stubbornly. ‘He says he’s getting stronger. He wrote to King Edward today – ’

‘And he couldn’t hold the pen. His clerk had to take down the letter. He’s wasting away before our eyes.’

Kirsty and Duncan were standing together watching them. Duncan put his arm around Eleyne’s shoulder. ‘He’s right, mama. You must accept it. For papa’s sake. There must be things you want to say to each other…’ He shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. ‘You loved each other so much.’

‘You talk as if he were already dead.’ Eleyne stood up stiffly. Her heart was breaking, deep inside, but her brain refused to acknowledge what was happening. ‘I thought I would die first,’ she cried in anguish, ‘and I’m having to watch his pain – ’

She went back to Donald’s bedside and sat down. Outside, the short summer night was luminous with stars. The mountains were hunched shadows, heavy with the rich scents of blaeberry and thyme and the sharp tang of pine. Somewhere out in the darkness a vixen screamed to her cubs.

‘Nel?’ Donald had opened his eyes with difficulty. His eyelids were heavy, his breathing laboured.

She leaned across and kissed his forehead. ‘I’m here, my love.’

‘I need something, one of your potions.’ He found it hard to speak now. ‘Please.’

She turned towards the table where a shaded candle burned and reached towards the draught she had made him, but he shook his head. ‘No use. Something stronger. Please, Nel.’

‘Something stronger?’ Eleyne looked at him silently.

He nodded. ‘The pain is worse every minute. I’m dying, Nel. We both know it. Please, help me.’ He coughed a little and she saw the flecks of blood on his chin. She wiped his face gently. His breathing was rattling in his chest and every breath was an effort. His hands clawed at the sheets. ‘I love you, Nel. You’ve made me so happy.’ He tried to smile.

Eleyne forced herself to blink back the tears. She leaned forward and kissed him again. ‘I’ll call Bethoc to sit with you, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t be long. I promise.’

VIII

The stillroom was dark. Closing the door behind her, Eleyne stood for a moment without moving, holding her candle high. The pale light flickered along the shelves of jars and pots and clusters of dried herbs. The spicy scent of the room enveloped her, bringing with it a sense of peace and calm. She put the candle on the workbench and moved towards the shelves.

Something to deaden the pain; something to help him sleep. That was what she wanted. That was all she wanted. The juice of the white poppy and the hemlock. Her hand hovered across the containers of dried herbs and the bottles of syrup. With shaking hands, she seized the pestle and mortar and reached down the first of her tightly stoppered jars.

When she returned to their bedchamber, Donald was lying back against the pillows racked with coughing. He could no longer leave the bed; no longer raise himself on the pillows. She stood in the doorway, her candle guttering, aware of the watching eyes in the room. Servants busied themselves while Bethoc dozed in the chair near the fire. By the bed Gratney had jerked awake as she opened the door. He gave her a wan smile; near him Duncan was dozing as he sat on one of the coffers.

Her eyes returned to her husband’s face. In the candlelight she could see the sheen of sweat on the grey skin, see the agony in his eyes which belied his attempt at a smile.

‘Nel.’ His whisper was so faint she did not hear it. She approached the bed and setting down her candle and the flask of thick syrup she had brought with her she leaned over and kissed him. ‘Donald?’ His skin beneath her lips was ice-cold and clammy. He looked up at her. For a moment she thought he didn’t recognise her. Then he gave her a faint smile. His fingers tightened over hers in a spasm of pain and she heard the breath rattle in his lungs. He coughed again and a fleck of bloody sputum appeared on his lip.

‘Gratney, would you and Duncan and Bethoc and the servants leave us alone for a little?’ Eleyne asked, smiling reassuringly at her son. He held her gaze, then slowly he stood up. He bent and kissed his father’s forehead.

‘Goodnight, papa.’

‘Goodnight, my son.’ Donald’s eyes focused with difficulty on Gratney’s face. ‘God bless you.’

Duncan followed. He too kissed his father, and Eleyne saw the tears streaming down his face.

She stood for a long time after the door had closed. She was staring at the candlelight.

‘Nel.’ Donald’s hand closed over hers. ‘The sleeping draught?’

‘I have it here.’ She turned and forced herself to smile down at him.

‘You’ve made it strong enough to take away my pain?’ His eyes were clearer than they had been for many days.

‘It’s the strongest draught I’ve ever made.’

‘Good.’ His hand fell back on the sheet and the room was silent save for his laboured breathing.

‘I could have wished for a more glorious death,’ he said after a long silence. He managed a wry smile. ‘One worthy of a romance perhaps.’ Another spasm of coughing shook his frame. ‘I’ve been so happy with you, Nel,’ he said when at last he could speak again.

She blinked back her tears. ‘And I with you, my darling.’ She took his hands in hers and kissed each in turn. His skin had the dryness of dead leaves.

‘Perhaps I shall return like Alexander.’ He gave a faint chuckle. ‘I’ll have something to say to him if we meet at the gates of purgatory.’ He winced as a new wave of pain tore him momentarily beyond lucidity.

Eleyne could not hold back her tears, and they coursed down her cheeks. Gently she released herself from his grasp and reaching for the flask she poured some syrup into the empty wine goblet which stood on the chest beside the bed.

‘Drink, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘It will take away the pain.’

‘Help me.’ He had no strength to sit up. Carefully she raised his head and put the cold silver to his lips.

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

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.’

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

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

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 precincts 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

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.

Macduff frowned. The vast English host was massed beyond the hill, in the direction of Linlithgow. He had been forward in the white mist of the pre-dawn two days before to peer through the trees towards the Burgh Muir where Edward had bivouacked, and he had felt his stomach clench with fear at the sight of the army camp there with its seemingly invincible cavalry – a cavalry feared throughout Europe for its massive strength. Even the Scots commander, Wallace, was afraid of that cavalry; it had proved itself again and again. He frowned. Well, they were as ready as they would ever be. The English might be superior in weight and numbers, but this time the Scots were ready.

Edward had returned from Flanders in March. Making it clear that the subjection of Scotland was now his top priority, he had made York his headquarters rather than London, and had summoned the host so that by the first of July he was ready for the advance into Scotland. The time for retribution was at hand.

Wallace had formed up his spearmen on the south-eastern side of the hill. They were grouped into tightly packed divisions, each massed behind a barrier of sharpened stakes and flanked by archers, with the Scots cavalry behind them in a solid mass. Macduff was proud of the men of Fife, with his own two sons at their head immediately behind him. They were smart and well trained and eager for battle. Somewhere beyond them, up the line, were the men of Buchan and Mar. Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, was there too, swallowing his pride to fight in the name of Balliol in this crucial confrontation. But not all the Scots nobles were there. It would be to their eternal shame that they were not behind Wallace today, keeping aloof because they did not wish to follow a mere knight, however well proven he was as a soldier in the field.

Macduff edged his warhorse forward a few steps, feeling its excitement as it plunged against the bit. Below them, beyond the spearmen and the archers, a broad shallow loch separated the two armies; he could see the first oblique rays of sunlight shining on the helmets and spears of the enemy and reflecting on the green water, every reed throwing a long black shadow horizontally before it. If only their spearmen could stand firm when the attack came, as it would come – soon. The men below were tensing, the English army closing formation. His mouth had gone dry. His gauntleted fist opened and closed on the hilt of his sword.

Wallace had addressed the army earlier: ‘Remember. Go for their horses,’ he had shouted to the assembled forces. ‘Without their horses, they are nothing.’ Then he had raised his arms, grinning at the spearmen, the men of Scotland who had come to fight for Scotland’s liberty. ‘I’ve brought you to the ring, my friends,’ he yelled with all the power in his lungs, as he gestured at the tight formation of the schiltrons, so like the formation of the popular dance. ‘Now, hop circles round them if you can!’ and the men had answered with a great roar of acclaim.

‘They’re coming, father.’ The voice on his right, tight with excitement, brought him back to the present with a jerk. He could see the two outer wings of the English cavalry wheeling towards them; dust rose in clouds and he heard the thunder of thousands of hooves.

‘Sweet Blessed Christ!’ He heard the awestruck, terrified cry somewhere to his left. ‘Oh, Sweet Jesus, we can’t fight that!’

‘Fight! Fight! Follow Macduff!’ Macduff hefted his shield more securely on to his arm and drawing his sword from his scabbard he raised it above his head with a flourish, then he drove his vicious, rowelled spurs into his horse’s sides. It leaped forward and charged straight down the hill. The men of Fife followed without hesitation, but beyond them men were faltering. The knight who had called out reined in his horse, fighting it as it tried to plunge after the others, then he swung it away towards the north. ‘It’s no good,’ he yelled. ‘It will be a massacre! Save yourselves!’

Macduff did not see the greater part of the Scots cavalry turn and flee. The bloodlust was on him, the glow of red already in his eyes. The weight of his sword carried it lethally back and forth on either side. He felt it hit bone and heard a scream of agony, but he did not know if it was horse or man. The air was thick with dust; behind his helmet he could see little now. Sweat coursed down his face and into his eyes. He was no longer thinking, no longer aware of his surroundings beyond the great swinging arc of his sword blade. Once he heard his eldest son, Jamie, shout, ‘A Macduff! A Macduff!’ and he grinned wildly, echoing the cry as he hacked on through the surrounding enemy.

He never saw the man who felled him. He felt a sudden massive blow against his ribs beneath his sword arm, and tipped sideways in the saddle. He tried to brace his left leg into the stirrup to save himself, but he could feel nothing. His whole body had gone numb. He saw his sword fall from his fingers, but a black haze had already filled his visor. He had a moment to wonder why he felt so cold. Then he was falling. He was dead before he hit the ground.

XV

The news of the Scots defeat at Falkirk and of her son’s death was brought to Eleyne by the Earl of Buchan.

‘Macduff died a hero, as did his sons. His name will go down in history,’ he said formally. He hated having to do this, but he had been there, close to the ranks of the men of Fife who had proved themselves so brave. It was right that he should tell her.

To his surprise she did not seem as distraught as he had expected. It was as though she had known what he was going to tell her. Wearily Eleyne sat down and gestured at the chair opposite her. ‘So. It comes at last.’ She looked up with a deep sigh. ‘And what of Scotland now?’

‘Wallace must go of course. He led Scotland on sufferance – a lowborn soldier who has lost all credibility.’ He gave a grudging shrug. ‘Though one must give him his due. He was there when his country needed him, but now others must take over the leadership. My guess is that it will be Robert Bruce of Carrick and my cousin John of Badenoch.’

Eleyne scanned Buchan’s face thoughtfully as he mentioned Robert’s name, but his tone had remained neutral. ‘Where is King Edward now?’ She shivered.

‘He stayed a while at Stirling and there were rumours that he was wounded, but if so he has made a quick recovery, for I hear he has marched west after the Bruce. Our men are scattered. We are in disarray, God help us, but we will regroup. Scotland is more united now than she has been for a long time. Edward Longshanks knows how to make enemies here, and those enemies will stand together against him.’

She smiled wanly. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The pain, the grieving would come later. Macduff had been a soldier, destined to die in battle. But in defeat? Surely it was not meant to be in defeat? And with his sons?

Fiercely she pulled herself together and concentrated on her great-grand-daughter’s husband. ‘Tell me, how is Isobel?’ He hadn’t mentioned his wife since his arrival.

His face darkened. ‘A trial, as always. My beloved wife accused me of cowardice for leaving the battlefield alive!’

‘The girl has an indomitable spirit; it makes her wayward – ’

‘She is no longer a wayward girl!’ he snapped. ‘She is my wife, a grown woman. She should be a mother. She must learn to grow up and learn her place. Things will go very badly for her if she does not learn to respect me as her husband. If you have any influence with her, Lady Eleyne, you should tell her so.’

Eleyne did not say anything for several seconds. ‘I will do so, of course I will, but you must make allowances and you must help her a little. She is still very young and she is very courageous. She will be a valuable friend to you, if only you will let her.’

XVI

She stared into the fire, her eyes long used to the strange leaping shapes, the licking flames, the crack and hiss of logs and twigs which turned without warning to pictures and as swiftly back to smoke. The room behind her was silent; she often sat there, alone by her own choice, lost in her memories. So many people gone. So much love. So much hate. And still it went on. Still there was no release to join Donald and Sandy and Macduff and all the others she had loved so much. She sighed. Alexander no longer visited her. He had not come even in her dreams, since the night Donald had died. Probably he had only ever been a dream. The phoenix was lost. Wales was lost. Scotland was lost. If her destiny had been to play any part in a nation’s history it had slipped past her with the years and been lost as well.

Gratney closed the door silently and looked fondly at his mother. She seemed to be dozing and he sighed. He had brought her yet more news to hurt her and he wondered whether he should keep it from her if it would save her more pain. He sat down quietly in the chair facing hers across the hearth.

Her eyes opened. ‘More news, I see? Tell me, Gratney.’

He reached forward and took her hand between his own. ‘King Edward has made his son Prince of Wales, mama,’ he said gently.

She closed her eyes. ‘So. Poor Wales.’

He sat watching her for a few moments. Her face was very pale and thin, her skin networked into a thousand fine wrinkles, framed by the snow-white wimple and veil she wore. She was still a beautiful woman. The passing years seemed to affect her little. The high cheekbones, the broad forehead, the firm mouth, all had remained. He found himself grinning wryly. He was pretty sure she still had every one of her teeth; he himself had had a tooth drawn only a few days before and his jaw still ached from the pain of it.

Only her hands gave away her age. When other women pampered their hands with rose water and buttermilk and kept themselves out of the sun, his mother had worked in the stables like a peasant and it showed. Her hands were rough and coarsened, disfigured by freckles and by old ugly scars. She still insisted on going down to see her horses almost every day, in spite of the pain it gave her to walk. She no longer rode; she might never ride again, though he knew she would rather die than admit it.

He realised suddenly that she was looking at him. ‘As you know, in my opinion Edward of England is an evil man,’ she said slowly, ‘but he is clever. You have to give him that. He never puts a foot wrong!’ She was suddenly blazing with fury. ‘The Welsh will be pleased he has given them a prince. He has let them think no doubt that he is doing them a favour and poor Wales, without a strong man to pull all her princelings together, will wag her tail like a petted dog and run to heel.’ She dropped a hand over the edge of her chair and immediately Grizel, yet another generation of the descendants of old Donnet, was there to nuzzle her fingers. ‘I’ve lived too long, Gratney. I don’t want any more of it. I don’t want to live to see young Edward Plantagenet pronounced King of Scots as well!’

‘That will never happen, mama.’ Gratney straightened with a groan and stood up shivering, his back to the fire. ‘Scotland is larger and stronger than Wales and far more united.’

‘Is it?’ She grimaced. ‘When Bruce and Comyn are at each other’s throats year after year, and one man after another is made guardian of the kingdom, and Edward returns again and again to southern Scotland to torment us. No, it will be Scotland’s turn next.’ She scowled as she eased herself back on the cushions of her chair. ‘I don’t want to see it happen. It’s time for me to die, Gratney. I want to be rid of this treacherous old body of mine!’

Gratney frowned. It was unlike her to sound so defeated. ‘Mama, don’t say such things. A few days of warm weather and you’ll be down supervising the foaling and bossing the grooms about as usual! Hal Osborne doesn’t know what to do without you there to bully him.’

‘I’d like to think so. I want to keep an eye on those stables. You should get after them, Gratney.’

‘I know.’ He shrugged, his eyes alight with humour, and she felt her heart turn over suddenly, he looked so like his father. But the humour was gone in an instant. ‘Robert is reputed to have repledged his allegiance to Edward, mama. I didn’t know if you had heard.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t he see how it must look to others when he changes sides all the time? Doesn’t he realise what it does to his credibility? I know he works to a plan, I know he believes that one day the throne will be his, but in the meantime the lords all see him vacillate and change with every wind. And now he is to marry again.’

‘Marry?’ She straightened in her chair, her thoughts going immediately to Isobel of Buchan and her impossible dream. ‘Are you sure?’

He nodded. ‘It appears it is to be Elizabeth, the daughter of the Earl of Ulster.’

Richard de Burgh of Ulster was a staunch supporter of the King of England. ‘So. He would even marry to please Edward!’ Groping for her walking stick, she pushed herself out of her chair, unable to sit still in her agitation. ‘I had such high hopes of Robert. The whole country had such hopes for him. I know he always has good reasons for why he changes sides, but I can’t believe he would do this!’ She poked at the fire irritably with the end of her stick. ‘I suppose he will want to take Marjorie away from Kirsty, and that will break your wife’s heart.’ There was a moment’s silence. There was still no heir to the earldom of Mar after eleven years of marriage.

‘Don’t think too badly of him, mama.’ Gratney put his arm around her. ‘I think he may still surprise us all. He’s playing a very complicated game, but he has not lost sight of his goal for one second. And that goal is an independent kingdom with Robert Bruce as its king.’

‘You still believe that?’ Eleyne asked wistfully.

‘I believe it. He is to come, I understand, to the meeting of the leaders of the realm at Scone. No doubt he will justify his actions there, yet again.’

Eleyne scowled. ‘I wish I could come with you.’ She said it half hopefully and Gratney laughed.

‘No, mama, you stay here at Kildrummy and help Kirsty take care of Mar for me. I’ll tell you everything that happens at Scone, I promise. And before you ask, you can be sure I will tell Robert what you think of him!’

XVII

Morna sat on the bank of the burn and, setting down her spindle, eased her back for a moment. Every winter now she moved into the castle; each spring, as the land warmed and the days lengthened, she packed her belongings into a bundle and set off on foot for the township and beyond it her bothy in the shadow of the hill. There she found the villagers had swept it for her and cut fresh heather sprigs for her bed and laid a fire in the hearth. Now that she was back, there would be milk each day and sometimes an egg or two in a twisted dock leaf or a plaited rush basket – little gifts from the men and women who found their way to her door when their troubles came upon them.

Leaning back, she stared up at the sky, listening to the quavering mournful cry of a whaup high on the hillside behind her. She shivered. It was the sound of sadness; the sound of loneliness; the cry of a soul in pain.

She shook herself like a dog; she had spent too long with the Countess of Mar. Eleyne had been uncharacteristically gloomy over the past few weeks and uncharacteristically pessimistic. The castle had been full of builders: masons and labourers under the direction of Master James of St George, strengthening the walls, building up the south-west tower, enlarging the gatehouse. It meant the thought of war was always with them, even when the spring fair was held in the grassy fields before the castle and the men and women of Kildrummy and Strathdon were en fête.

Morna stood up and gathered her spindle and the soft oily wool. She was tucking it into her basket when she heard the thud of hooves from the direction of the village. Whoever was coming was riding at full gallop, making no allowances for the rough ground. With a sudden sense of foreboding she glanced skywards again as the curlew flew over her house towards the east: the curlew – the whaup – the bird that carried the souls of the new dead to the next world.

Her heart thundering unsteadily in her chest she waited, her basket in her hand, while the riders drew nearer. She could see them now, two of them. A man on a lathered bay horse and a second on a mule. She recognised the mule; it belonged to Ewan, the miller. Reaching her, the two men flung themselves from their mounts. ‘Mistress, you must come to the castle. We have to fetch help,’ Ewan gasped.

‘What’s happened?’ Morna was staring at the stranger, noting almost absent-mindedly the shock of fair sweat-darkened hair, the brilliant blue eyes, the torn mantle, as she prepared herself for what was to come.

He tried to catch his breath. ‘It’s terrible, mistress,’ he gasped at last. ‘Lord Buchan has accused his wife of heresy and child murder and your daughter Mairi with her. The church has condemned Mairi to burn!’

Morna stared at him, frozen, her eyes enormous, riveted to his face.

Ewan stepped forward and put a burly supporting arm around her shoulders. He smelled of flour and sweat, and she leaned on him instinctively, trying to draw strength from his. ‘I’ll put you on to the beast,’ he said gently, ‘and run beside you. Lady Mar will know what to do.’

He lifted her on to the mule and she found herself being led at a trot towards the castle.

She was still numb with shock when the two men helped her into Eleyne’s solar in the Snow Tower. She stood, dazed, as they gabbled their story, not noticing Eleyne’s white face or the speed with which, forgetting her age and stiffness, the countess flew to the door and shouted for her squire.

Within half an hour they were mounted and riding east. They were a party of fourteen: six men-at-arms, two knights and two squires, and two ladies escorted the two elderly women. Only the sight of Eleyne being lifted on to a grey palfrey shook Morna out of her frozen silence. ‘You can’t ride all that way!’

‘Try and stop me!’ Eleyne replied through gritted teeth. It had happened at last. The explosion of hatred and jealousy and fear she had half expected for so many years. Poor Isobel! Sweet Bride, let them be in time to save her. She gathered up her reins and kicked the horse into a canter, refusing to acknowledge the pain which exploded through her frail frame as the horse’s hooves hit the hard ground. They rode without rest for more than twenty miles, then, exhausted, they stopped to eat and change horses as darkness fell. Neither woman could eat; both drank some ale, then they remounted and kicked their new mounts forward towards Ellon by the light of flaring torches.

The great Buchan castle stood in the elbow of the River Ythan, the beech trees around it swaying lightly in the breeze. From the road, in the pale dawn light, they could see the river, broad and fast-flowing between sandy dunes.

In the meadow below the castle walls there was a great blackened circle in the grass.

For several moments they stood staring down at it.

‘We’re too late,’ Morna whispered at last. Her hands were white on the leather rein of her horse, her face almost transparent with exhaustion. ‘Blessed Bride, we’re too late!’

Wordlessly, Eleyne kicked her horse on. They crossed the river and rode up towards the castle gatehouse, intensely aware of the raked, blackened circle by the water. Above them rooks circled in the beech trees, cawing in the silence which reigned over the castle. There were none of the usual noises: no horses, no cheerful clanging from the blacksmith, no shouts of children from the courtyard, and yet, above the central keep, the Buchan standard with the golden wheatsheaf rippled cheerfully beneath the high mackerel cloud.

‘The Countess of Buchan will receive you in her solar, my lady.’ The servant who came forward as they rode into the courtyard bowed gravely. Eleyne breathed a silent prayer of gratitude. So, Isobel at least was safe.

Almost too tired to stand, but spurred on by their terror, she and Morna followed the man up the long staircase to the second floor of the keep. There they found not Isobel but the dowager, Elizabeth de Quincy. She raised an eyebrow austerely at the sight of Eleyne.

‘Please sit down, you look exhausted.’

‘I am exhausted.’ Eleyne remained standing, her back ramrod straight. ‘Where is Isobel? And where is her nurse, Mairi?’ She heard Morna give a small whimper beside her, like an animal in pain, but Eleyne held Elizabeth’s gaze.

‘The woman Mairi was condemned as a heretic,’ Elizabeth said coldly, ‘and she died a heretic’s death yesterday morning.’ She broke off as Morna let out a piteous wail and collapsed on the ground.

Eleyne fixed Elizabeth with an icy glare. ‘This -’ she flung out her arm – ‘is Mairi’s mother.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Elizabeth said without a trace of remorse. ‘You should not have brought her here.’

‘We came to see justice done,’ Eleyne said softly. ‘To find out the truth. To save her life. Was there no appeal? Was there no time to reconsider? Was there no talk of clemency?’

‘None.’ Elizabeth walked slowly to a chair and sat down. ‘The woman was guilty.’ Her head shot forward aggressively. ‘She helped my son’s wife prevent conception – a mortal sin – she helped her to kill the child she carried and she worshipped the devil!’ Her mouth closed with a snap.

Morna looked up, her eyes huge and black, the tears pouring down her cheeks. ‘That’s a lie,’ she cried. ‘A terrible lie!’

‘Mairi would never do such a thing,’ Eleyne whispered in horror. ‘And you know it. How could you have allowed it to happen? Where is your son? And where is Isobel? What have you done with Isobel?’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘Oh, Isobel is safe. She is going to learn how to be a good wife at last. My youngest son, William, who is as you know provost of St Mary’s at St Andrews, has taken charge of her punishment and her penance, while her husband is helping to run the country. When she has learned her lesson, no doubt she will return to us. Until then, she must remain where she can do no more harm to others or to herself.’

‘And where is that?’ Eleyne demanded.

Elizabeth gave a supercilious smile. ‘Somewhere suitable,’ she said in a tone which implied she would brook no further questions. ‘Now, may I suggest you take that woman away. It will only be distressing for her to remain here. We’ll find fresh horses for you immediately.’

Morna was rocking silently back and forth on her knees, her arms clasped across her chest, her mouth working in a frenzy of grief.

Eleyne looked at Elizabeth once, despising her for her inhumanity, then she stooped and tried to raise Morna to her feet. ‘Come, there’s nothing we can do here.’

Morna rose and walked obediently to the door, then she snatched her arm from Eleyne’s grasp and turned back.

‘Where are her ashes?’ she cried. ‘What have you done with my daughter’s ashes?’

‘They were thrown into the river. By now I should imagine they are in the sea.’

Morna gasped. She took a step towards Elizabeth. ‘May God curse you and your sons forever!’ She pulled off her veil and threw it on to the floor, then she pulled the pins from her hair and let the yellow-grey locks fall around her shoulders. She spat on the heather floor covering. ‘May your house be barren; may all its children die before they draw breath! I curse you, Elizabeth of Buchan, and I curse the sons you bore in your poisoned womb!’