Child of the Phoenix

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

  IV

  September

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  V

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  VI

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

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

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

  ‘Through the winter?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Bethoc entered the room and stood looking at her mistress’s back, silhouetted in the window. In the bright red-gold rays of the rising sun, her hair, hanging down over her shoulders in a wild tangle, looked deep auburn again; her figure straig
ht and girlish, the slim active figure of a young woman, up early to run down the long winding staircase and jump on her horse to ride in the bright cold dawn.

  The face Eleyne turned to her faithful waiting woman was radiant. ‘I dreamed we were going to win, Bethoc. I dreamed King Robert is on his way to save us.’

  ‘Oh, my lady!’ Bethoc had complete faith in Eleyne’s predictions. ‘Oh my lady, thank the Blessed Virgin! And the queen and her ladies got away? I knew they had! But it’s not easy, not knowing for sure.’

  ‘They got away. They are safe. All of them. And the queen will have a son.’

  Neither of them doubted for a moment that her dream was true.

  By the time those in the castle who were not needed to defend the walls were assembled in the great hall for their breakfast of oat cakes and ale, the entire garrison knew of the countess’s dream. The effect on morale was astounding. Faces which had been weary and depressed were full of smiles. There was a spring in the step of the men on the walls and their taunts, hurled at the besiegers below, had a new defiance which was not lost on the men in Edward’s camp.

  At midday the prince sent for Sir John. ‘I want you back in that castle. Find out what has made them so confident suddenly. And bring me the name of the man who will get us in there.’

  Sir John was ready within the hour with his standard bearer and the white flag of truce. And he was ready with his message. As the small passdoor in the great gates opened, he ushered his standard bearer in ahead of him and followed, stooping stiffly in his mail. In the courtyard he paused. The countess’s aged steward was there once more to greet him. There were a dozen or so men and women busy about their activities and on the walls the usual quota of armed men, looking outward, uninterested in the enemy’s envoy. Sir John missed nothing: the corn was piled high still – enough for several months if properly rationed; there were no signs of distress. He could see the heaps of stones and lead balls for the catapults. The castle was ordered and calm.

  Sir Nigel met him once more in the great hall. This time he was alone. There was no sign of the Countess of Mar.

  Sir John bowed stiffly. ‘Have you given thought to my offer? If the castle surrenders, we will spare the lives of the ladies and children.’ He had seen a small child playing near the smithy in the courtyard.

  ‘And the men of the garrison?’ Nigel looked him in the eye.

  Sir John looked uncomfortable. ‘That is for the king to decide.’

  ‘Not a reassuring thought.’ Nigel grinned at him amiably. ‘And one which thankfully I do not have to contemplate. The end of the siege is indeed at hand. Our information is that a large army is on its way with our relief in view.’

  Sir John gaped at him. ‘A large army? Whose army, sir?’ He laughed, an unexpected bark of humour which rang around the hall.

  ‘My brother’s army,’ Nigel said quietly. ‘And with my brother are the ladies who give him so much support, his queen, his daughter, the Countess of Buchan.’

  ‘But they are here …’

  ‘No.’ The quiet certainty with which Nigel spoke brought Sir John’s blustered denial to an abrupt halt. There was a moment’s silence.

  Sir John narrowed his eyes. ‘If that is true, sir, God help you and Lady Mar when the king finds out. Your lives won’t be worth that!’ He snapped his fingers under Nigel’s nose. ‘For pity’s sake, give in, man. Your life may be forfeit, but won’t you think about that old woman? Are you prepared to see her dragged to London in chains? Do you think King Edward would spare her anything?’

  Following the sudden change of direction of Nigel’s eyes, he swung round and found himself facing Eleyne who had entered the hall as he spoke. She bowed to him coldly. ‘I am grateful for your concern for my welfare, Sir John, but I am confident it’s not necessary. I have no intention of allowing Edward the satisfaction of having me as his prisoner. Kildrummy will soon be free. And if the man who dares to call himself Prince of Wales wants to save his skin, I suggest he raises this siege and returns to England as soon as he possibly can.’

  Sir John scowled. ‘And just what makes you think this great army is on its way to help you?’ His voice was full of sarcasm. ‘You’ve had a message from them, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’ Eleyne smiled serenely. ‘We’ve had a message.’

  ‘That’s not possible. No one could get in or out of this place. It’s sealed as tight as a drum of butter.’ Sir John fingered the empty scabbard which hung at his sword belt. His weapon, according to the conventions of the flag of truce, had been left behind in his tent.

  Neither Nigel nor Eleyne spoke, but both looked too sure, too pleased with themselves. For the first time he had a real qualm of doubt. ‘Very well, I can see you’re not going to listen to reason. On your own heads be it.’ He bowed curtly, first to Eleyne then to Nigel, and turned on his heel.

  He walked slowly through the hall, his eyes darting here and there in the crowd of staring men and women: villagers, crofters, servants, a few of the castle garrison, resting between spells of duty. Perhaps he had miscalculated. His man was not there. But then he saw him, lounging near the door, his leather apron stained. He was chewing a stem of straw.

  Sir John stopped and deliberately caught the man’s eye. Then he turned, addressing the whole hall. ‘The man who burns this place to the ground and delivers Kildrummy Castle to the King of England will win the safety of his wife and children and a bag of gold so large he cannot carry it away!’ His ringing tones carried the length of the great hall.

  From the dais Nigel roared back: ‘There isn’t a man in this castle who would take up your offer, Sir John. Don’t waste your breath, my friend. Go back to your camp and keep your gold!’ A subdued murmur of support came from the hall around them.

  Sir John bowed silent acknowledgement of Nigel’s words and turned on his heel.

  ‘Did he really think any of our people would betray us?’ Eleyne was tight-lipped with anger as she gripped the handle of her walking stick. ‘Foolish man.’

  ‘He’s desperate. Edward of Caernarfon won’t like the news that his mission has failed, or the titbit about the imminent arrival of Robert’s army.’ Nigel stopped. ‘I suppose … No, no, of course there’s no doubt. He is on his way.’

  She smiled at him serenely. ‘There is no doubt, Nigel. Trust me.’

  VII

  Hal Osborne was standing at the entrance to his smithy. The fire was out, the bellows silent. His small sons were playing in the dust on the floor. The eldest, Ned, was old enough to work those bellows for short periods, heating his father’s roaring furnace to white heat. If the castle fell, the men would die. Ned might die. He was old enough for a man’s work; he was old enough to use a catapult; perhaps he was old enough for a man’s death.

  He looked sourly across the courtyard, where Sir Nigel Bruce was talking to one of the men-at-arms near the bakehouse. But for Bruce he would have gone with the queen, and if it wasn’t for the countess’s ill-tempered horse, his leg would be whole. Christ and all his devils curse them both to hell! He could have gone. It was her fault he was here, her fault that if the castle fell, he would die. What loyalty did he owe her? He folded his arms, his eyes going back to the two boys as they scuffled in the dust. None. What chance was there of the siege being lifted? None.

  And think of the gold.

  VIII

  Eleyne was already undressed, wrapped in her bed gown, when Nigel was ushered into her bedchamber by Bethoc, who poured them each a goblet of spiced wine and then left them alone. He sat down opposite her and cradled the hot goblet between his hands. ‘Can you summon your visions at will?’ he began without preamble.

  Eleyne stared down at the empty hearth. ‘Sometimes.’ She gave an involuntary shiver.

  ‘Could you do it now?’

  She didn’t answer for a long time. ‘Perhaps. I need fire.’

  ‘Fire?’ He looked at the single candle burning on the table near them.

  ‘Fire. I see the pictures in the
flames; in the embers. There are things I can sprinkle on the flames which help; dried herbs. What do you want to know?’

  ‘I need to know how long.’ He stood up in a sudden lithe movement, nervy as a cat, and began to pace the floor. ‘I have a bad feeling here.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Something is wrong.’

  ‘With the castle?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m just worried. Supposing they don’t come! Supposing your dream was just that – a dream?’ He rubbed his cheek with the flat of his hand. ‘Supposing Kirsty and the others didn’t make it. Supposing Robert decided to leave Scotland and go to Ireland for a while. Supposing we are alone!’

  ‘You can suppose any number of things, my dear,’ Eleyne said gently. ‘We all have our nightmares as well as our dreams.’ She took a sip from her drink. ‘Did you check the night guard?’

  He nodded. ‘They’ll change when the chapel bell rings.’ He resumed his pacing. ‘If I were to have a small fire made up here – we can say it’s because of your age and aching bones –’ He gave her a mischievous look, gone as soon as it had come to be replaced by a look of infinite weariness. ‘Would you consider looking into it for me?’

  ‘Of course I will. But I can promise nothing. I’ll go down to the stillroom and find the right herbs.’ She was groping for her stick when she sat back in her chair, her head cocked to one side, listening.

  ‘What is it?’ He was watching her tensely.

  ‘I thought I heard something. A horn …’

  He was at the window in two strides, leaning out, staring down the glen. The silence in the room was intense. Then he turned back to her, disappointment clear on his face. ‘I can see nothing.’

  ‘He will come,’ Eleyne said firmly.

  IX

  In the silence of the stillroom she peered around, her candle held high. The room was so full of memories; so many deaths: Donald, Gratney, William, Elizabeth, Muriel; so many illnesses cured: childhood snuffles and croups, broken bones, earaches and headaches and wounds. So many visions, conjured from the flames with the aid of mugwort and apple and ash and rosemary and lavender and thyme. The air was heavy with the fragrance of dried herbs, the beams hanging with this year’s crop. Taking a small linen bag from the hook beneath the high workbench, she went deftly from jar to jar collecting what she needed. Then she blew out the candle.