Child of the Phoenix (139 page)

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
FIFE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VII
COUPAR ANGUS

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

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

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
LOCHMABEN CASTLE
1290

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.’