Child of the Phoenix

  Most of the ladies at the English court played at love. They encouraged their admirers to write them poetry; they accepted gifts. They flirted and sang and laughed with their adoring swains, and wore their favours at the tournaments. It meant nothing; husbands turned a blind eye; it was the accepted way.

  Here in Scotland it was the same, surely, though the court was less light-hearted. The factions which had torn the government this way and that for the last ten years were reflected in a certain grimness which permeated the atmosphere. It was that which had upset the little queen and distressed her father King Henry when he heard of it, and which Lords Menteith and Mar and their advisers were trying to alleviate with parties like this one. Eleyne saw the royal pair seated on their chairs beneath an oak tree, from which was suspended the royal canopy of state. Queen Marie was with them, her husband a little apart. The little queen was too thin, her face pinched and white. Eleyne felt a shiver of unease as she looked at her.

  Something touched her hand and she glanced down. Donald’s long sensitive fingers lay over her own, then he moved his hand. ‘Your food, my lady,’ he said softly, ‘it grows cold.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You were staring at the queen as though you saw a ghost,’ Donald went on. He had seen the colour drain from her face.

  Eleyne shook her head hastily. ‘I was thinking of other things. Come, distract me. You must pay with a poem before I permit you to eat!’

  She watched him as he recited, picking only lethargically at her food. The planes of his handsome face had not yet hardened into full manhood. Above the beard his cheeks still had the soft bloom of youth, unmarred by the acne which disfigured some of his contemporaries, and she found herself longing to touch the curve of his cheek.

  His poem done, he threw himself down beside her on the rug and reached for his food. There was nothing pale or romantic about his appetite. He ate like a horse, addressing his meal with enthusiasm. Eleyne hid a smile and pushed her own helping towards him. It was a shame to waste the succulent pieces he had chosen with such care.

  When the meal was done many settled themselves to sleep in the shade as the harper stroked his instrument into a lazy lullaby. Eleyne felt restless, and scrambling to her feet, she held out her hand to Donald. ‘Shall we walk amongst the trees? It’s cooler in the forest. I have no desire to sit and listen to a hundred people belch and then lie down to snore.’

  She didn’t wait to see if he had followed. The cool shade of the forest closed around her almost at once and within a few paces she was out of earshot of the music. The silence of the afternoon was suffocating; tangible. Every creature in the forest slept. Running her hand around the back of her neck, she lifted the weight of her hair in the snood and veil which covered her head, and turned to smile at Donald close behind her. She had left the phoenix tucked into the bottom of her coffer.

  ‘I imagine you would rather be swimming naked in the burn than walking here with me.’ She leaned against a tree trunk, aware of the damp perspiration below her breasts.

  ‘No, I would rather be nowhere else on earth.’ He stepped towards her. ‘My lady. Eleyne – ’

  ‘No, Donald.’ Aware of the expression on his face, she raised her hand. The intensity of passion in the young man’s eyes frightened her.

  What would you have done if your lover had beckoned you one night and kissed you in the shadows beneath the moon? What if he beguiled you away from everyone else on a ride and you found yourself alone with him …

  From somewhere at the back of her memory came the echo of the conversation she had had with her mother all those years before when Joan had spoken to her about William de Braose. At last she understood her mother’s terrible plight. Oh yes, at last she understood.

  ‘Eleyne, please.’ Donald’s voice broke through her reverie. ‘I love you so much. Surely you can grant me one small kiss?’

  ‘No, Donald.’ She ached to reach out to him. ‘No,’ she repeated, more softly this time. This was no longer a chivalric pretence of love. ‘It would not be right; I’m old enough to be your mother.’ Neither of them noticed that she had not mentioned her husband.

  She pushed herself away from the tree and ducked past him, running a few steps down the grassy ride.

  ‘You will never look old to me, my lady,’ Donald called after her. ‘On the day you are a hundred, you will be as beautiful as a new budded rose and I shall kiss your eyelids and your lips as velvet petals in the sunlight.’

  Eleyne suppressed a smile. She had to stop this now or he was going to get hurt. ‘Donald –’ she said.

  He shook his head sternly. ‘Only one kiss, my lady, that’s all I crave. You wouldn’t deny me that, surely?’

  She know that however much she enjoyed his company and his gifts and his poems and his compliments, however much fun it was to be courted and wooed and worshipped with such open admiration, however attractive she found him, she had to put a stop to it now. ‘No, Donald, we should go back to the others.’

  ‘Soon.’ He was standing between her and the path which led back to the clearing. ‘First I demand a forfeit for cutting short our walk.’ His voice was light but his eyes were serious as he stepped towards her.

  ‘Donald,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Ssssh!’ He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him. ‘Just one forfeit.’

  His lips were cool and firm on hers. There was nothing boyish or diffident about him now. The hands which held her were those of a man. Shocked, she was overwhelmed by the wave of longing which swept through her, the temptation to abandon herself to his embrace. When she pushed him away, she was trembling. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Donald. We must go back to the others.’

  The forest had suddenly become very cold. The sun had vanished and a small spiteful whirlwind had whipped the dead leaves into spinning, dusty vortices. Uncomfortably Eleyne looked round. She could feel the anger in the air like a lightning charge, and she was afraid. ‘Donald,’ she said, ‘we flirted, you wrote me beautiful poems and I am flattered. But it can never be more than that.’ She tried to make her voice gentle, to cover the raw ache he had awakened in her. ‘Be sensible. It’s too dangerous. You must find someone to marry.’ A girl your own age, she was about to say, but the words stuck in her throat. She turned from him and began to walk back towards the clearing, conscious that the atmosphere was lightening.

  ‘Eleyne.’ Donald had not moved. He didn’t even raise his voice. ‘One day you will change your mind.’

  She didn’t look back.

  The following day, with the king’s permission, she rode back to Falkland.

  VIII

  FALKLAND CASTLE October 1257

  The moonlight falling through the narrow window poured across the bed. Eleyne stared at it sleepily, listening to the steady breathing of the man who slept beside her. Malcolm groaned as though he felt the moonlight with pain and he shrugged the shadowy covers over him. Eleyne lay still, waiting for him to settle again.

  Alexander … she was calling the name in her head.

  Alexander, where are you?

  She stirred restlessly, her fingers reaching for the phoenix beneath her pillow, feeling the moonlight lapping over her, seductive, secret, touching her body with warmth and longing.

  Alexander.

  But the shadows were empty.

  IX

  November 1257

  Robert Bruce, since his father’s death Lord of Annandale, and since his mother’s death two years before vastly richer for her share of the great Chester estates, arrived at Falkland a week later.

  ‘Aunt Eleyne!’ He kissed her fondly, his irrepressible humour and energy a tangible aura around him. ‘How are you?’ He noticed her pale, tired face. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Getting married, having babies, getting old, nephew,’ she replied tartly.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘A new husband already? Have you grown tired of poor old Malcolm, then?’

  She laughed in s
pite of herself. ‘It was poor old Malcolm I married – again.’ She sighed. The story had not become general gossip. Robert de Quincy’s death had gone unremarked in Scotland. She had heard none of the rumours which had swept London after his vicious murder until they had been replaced by some other newer scandal. ‘Enough, Rob, it’s a long story. Tell me, how are you? How is your beautiful wife?’

  Robert was married to Isabel, a daughter of the Earl of Clare and Gloucester and niece of the earl marshal. Fifteen months after their marriage in 1240, she had produced a son. Mother and child were, between them, Robert’s pride and joy. ‘She’s well, and Robbie thrives, though I could wish he had a bit more energy and spirit. You must come and stay with us at Lochmaben, Aunt Eleyne. I know they would love to see you.’ He paused. ‘You haven’t been there since mama died, have you? You must miss her.’

  Eleyne smiled sadly, ‘I was very fond of your mother.’ She put her head on one side. ‘Are you going to call me Aunt Eleyne when we’re both seventy, Rob?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, and you will call me nephew – and give me a penny on my birthday.’ He sighed. ‘And now to the reason for my visit. I have brought messages from the court for Malcolm. A great deal has happened since you both returned here and buried yourselves in the country.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘The factions around the king are at one another’s throats again. The Earls of Mar and Menteith have more or less captured him. Durward has fallen from power.’

  ‘When?’ Sternly Eleyne suppressed the longing which the name of Mar was able to induce. She did not allow herself to think about Donald. ‘Why haven’t we heard about this?’ She was shocked.

  ‘It happened last month.’

  ‘That won’t please Malcolm.’

  ‘No.’ Robert narrowed his eyes. Anything that befell the king was of especial interest to him. Since the birth of his cousins, Hugh and John Balliol, Dervorguilla’s sons, he was no longer heir presumptive to the throne. They were the grandsons of his mother’s elder sister, but he still harboured a secret ambition; he had come too close to the throne to lose sight of it now, and whilst Alexander was still childless anything might happen.

  Malcolm was, as predicted, angry at the news, but he had to accept the situation just as Durward himself had done. None of them had been with the king when Mar and Menteith had struck. Had they been there, perhaps things would have been different. He nursed his fury over the winter, but was somewhat mollified when Lord Menteith came to Falkland to see them, though not when he knew why.

  ‘The King of England has ordered his northern barons to prepare to come north and fight us,’ Menteith said curtly. ‘He wants to interfere in the regency again, making his daughter’s unhappiness his excuse. Not that she is unhappy,’ he interrupted himself. ‘My view is that there is no chance that he will do it – he has distractions enough in the south – but it is King Alexander’s wish that we form an alliance with our neighbours in Wales. We are entering into negotiations with your nephew, Prince Llywelyn, my lady.’ He turned to Eleyne as the true reason for his visit emerged. ‘Although your husband does not support our government, we know that you are both loyal to King Alexander. Would you be prepared to write in our favour to the prince?’ He eyed her cautiously: her face was tired, but he could see her beauty still; the beauty which had captivated a king. He had heard that she had been passionate in the Welsh cause once, and if he could enlist her help he would have a stronger hand.

  Eleyne returned his gaze. The man was tall, lean, his face grim. There was no attempt to charm her into supporting him. She suspected he had been one of those who had dissuaded Alexander from marrying her, yet she knew his request made sense for Scotland and for Wales. She nodded. ‘I shall write to him for you, Lord Menteith; such a union would have my complete blessing.’

  Menteith bowed slightly. ‘King Alexander will be grateful for your help, my lady. He …’ He hesitated almost imperceptibly. ‘Although he is only sixteen he is rapidly becoming his own man and it is his wish that the different factions in this country unite.’

  X

  ROXBURGH CASTLE December 1257

  When Malcolm was summoned to the king’s council at Roxburgh Eleyne went with him, leaving the boys with Rhonwen yet again.

  Donald of Mar was at the castle with his father; he was attending the council meetings, attentive, serious, and waiting once more upon the queen. The young man had grown taller; his shoulders had broadened and the beard which before had been thin now framed his face, giving it strength. Eleyne studied him covertly, shocked and half amused to find that her heart was beating faster than normal. He did not appear to have seen her, but that evening, as she sat with some of the other ladies, embroidering as they listened to the songs of a French trouvère, a note was pressed into her hand.

  The queen’s garden at the hour of vespers. It was unsigned.

  Donald had his back to her as he talked animatedly to Lord Buchan. She tucked the note inside her gown; there could be no question of doing as it asked.

  XI

  ‘You came.’

  The whisper in the darkness came from behind her. At first she had thought the garden empty. The narrow gravelled paths were raked smooth in the moonlight and the shadow of the castle wall cut a harsh diagonal across the regular beds of herbs.

  She turned slowly. ‘I came.’

  ‘I knew you would. Lord Fife doesn’t know?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She held her breath: what was she doing here, trysting with him in a moonlit garden?

  She had tried to put Donald out of her mind over the past months, but time and again the memory of his kiss had come back to her. She had burned his note – but she had come. Was it the excitement she could not resist? Or the thought of an illicit rendezvous? Or was it her longing for Donald himself, for his charm, his good looks, his consideration, his gentleness, and the memory of that kiss?

  Donald had exhaled audibly. He took a step nearer and she saw he was holding a frosted white rosebud in his hand. ‘For you.’ He proffered it and she took it with a smile.

  Donald looked down at the flower. He wanted to tell Eleyne that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen; she was so gracious, so lovely, so flawless in spite of the burn marks on her face and hands. He longed to kiss her, to feel her skin beneath his lips. She was so voluptuous compared with the maidens whom his parents paraded before him; so cool and composed compared to the queen’s ladies who giggled and simpered and ogled him behind their hands. Sweet Blessed Virgin, how he wanted her!

  He frowned, torn. He must not, could not, think of her like that, she was a perfect wife, chaste, pure, the mother of two little boys, yet here she was in front of him in the moonlight, here in obedience to his summons. He clenched his fists and raised his eyes.

  ‘This is madness.’ She could feel him, that other presence, her king, her phantom lover, nearby. He was angry. The air crackled with cold impotent fury.

  Donald smiled and nodded, holding out his hands to her. ‘I want you,’ he said helplessly.

  She almost went to him. She reached out her hand, then lowered it. ‘Donald – ’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He made a supreme effort to control himself. ‘I had no right, forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ She smiled. ‘What woman could be angry with you?’

  Reaching up she kissed him, once, lightly on the cheek, then, turning, she fled.

  XII

  William of Mar was pacing up and down the room when Donald appeared. He swung to face his son. ‘So there you are. Where have you been?’

  Donald took a step back at the anger in his father’s voice. ‘With the horses, father.’ His face coloured slightly.

  ‘The horses or the whore?’ William’s voice dropped to a hiss. ‘God’s blood! If what I hear is true I shall flay you alive, boy!’

  Donald straightened. ‘I am no longer a boy, father.’

  ‘Really? Did she tell you that?’ William’s voice slid into a sneer.

/>   Donald looked his father in the eye. He respected William and had always gone rather in awe of him, but now his temper flared. ‘I don’t know what you have heard, father, or who you heard it from,’ he said with enormous dignity. ‘But I have formed no liaisons of which I should be ashamed and I have done nothing to dishonour myself or any lady at this court.’ He had wanted to – Sweet Virgin how he had wanted to. But he had respected her wishes. He had not followed her; instead he had stood for what had seemed like hours alone in the icy garden, staring up at the moon.

  William took a turn around the table, his hands beating sonorous time, fist on palm, as he tried to regain control of his temper. ‘I understand your feelings, Donald, believe me. She is a beautiful woman. She’s almost led better men than you to their doom. You do know she was the old king’s mistress?’

  Donald scowled at him. ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘No, boy, it started before you were born. Before you were born,’ he repeated. ‘Sweet Jesu, Donald, the woman is twice your age! She carried Alexander’s bastard. There was a time when he wanted to marry her, to make it his heir. Thank Christ good sense prevailed and he married Marie. Have you never wondered why Queen Marie hates Lady Fife so much? Have you never wondered why Lady Fife is the king’s godmother?’ He regarded his son with sympathy. ‘She’s an attractive woman, Donald, damned attractive. But not for you. Not for anyone. She’s married, and Lord Fife would tolerate no one meddling with his wife. Up to now he has seen your attentions as a joke. He hasn’t taken them seriously. But if he hears the rumours I have heard, he will find it a joke no longer.’