Child of the Phoenix

  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

  KILDRUMMY CASTLE

  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

  1301

  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 h
er. 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

  Spring 1302

  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, not
ing 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.