Child of the Phoenix

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

  SLAINS CASTLE

  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

  KILDRUMMY CASTLE

  ‘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

  26 July 1297

  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 coug
hed 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.