She felt Donald’s arm around her shoulders. ‘What is it, Nel?’
Her knife had fallen on the table. Gravy from the roast peacock had soaked into the linen cloth. Her hand went unconsciously to her throat, to the silver pendant she wore there, Donald’s pendant. The phoenix lay within a circle of power, imprisoned beneath the floor in the chapel of Kildrummy, sealed under the tiles with rough lime mortar.
It was Alexander. She had known that at once. But he had not come to Jedburgh to see her: he had come to be with his son.
The candles flickered and she was aware suddenly that a strange hush was falling over the great hall as table by table the hundreds of guests fell silent. Beside her the king had half turned in his seat and was staring into the wildly flickering candlelight, his normally ruddy complexion grey.
‘Holy Mother of God!’ She heard his whispered gasp. ‘Who are you?’
She could see something now, a shadow, tall and indistinct, hovering over the king, feel the anguish around them.
Below the high table every face had turned to stare. The new queen was as white as a sheet as she too saw the tossing shadows.
Beware.
Eleyne heard the words in the howling wind.
Beware, my son, beware.
Alexander swallowed, and Eleyne realised that his hand had gone automatically to the ornamental jewelled dirk he wore at his girdle. She saw his knuckles white around the cruciform hilt.
In the quiet one could have heard a pin drop, then from the shadowy body of the hall a woman screamed. The sound tore through the silence, echoing up into the carved roof beams as she pointed towards the high table. It was a signal for total panic. Screams and the crash of overturning tables and benches almost drowned the words.
Too late.
He was fading.
Too late, my son.
The wind in the chimneys reached a crescendo and showers of sparks and ashes blew back into the hall from the two hearths.
* * *
Only a scant handful of people actually saw the ghost at the wedding feast of King Alexander III and Yolande of Dreux, but within days the story had spread around Scotland and beyond the border, south. Only three of them – Alexander himself, and Eleyne and Donald – knew who he was, but two whole nations knew that such a spectre was an omen of doom.
X
‘It’s all right. Please, my dear, calm yourself.’ Eleyne cradled the hysterical queen’s head in her arms. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing.’ She turned the queen’s face gently towards her. ‘He came to give you his blessing. He came to be with his son.’
Yolande lifted a tear-streaked face. ‘But everyone is saying the ghost spoke of death …’
‘No.’ Eleyne shook her head. ‘No, I heard him. He made no mention of death. He came to bless you both.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Forget him, your grace, be happy with your husband.’
While you still have him. The words hung in the silence between them until Eleyne shrugged them away.
She quickly became very fond of Yolande. The new queen made a confidante of her in the loneliness of her new country, explaining how apprehensive she had been, especially in the care of her solemn, humourless escort of Scotsmen. Her French companions, there for the wedding only, had nearly all departed, leaving only a handful of ladies with her. ‘But Alexander, he is different,’ she said in her heavy accent. ‘He laughs and he makes me laugh and he is kind.’
Eleyne smiled. ‘I’m glad. My godson is a good man.’
‘Soon I shall give him a son. And then another and then another!’
Eleyne laughed. ‘That will please him, my dear, but at the moment he seems perfectly delighted with you.’
Yolande looked away, embarrassed. ‘I know how to make him happy.’
‘I can see that.’ Patting the young woman’s shoulder, Eleyne hid a smile.
‘And you, you will stay my friend?’ Yolande became anxious. ‘Alexander says you live in the far north.’
‘I do indeed. But I spend my life in the saddle,’ Eleyne said, touched at the loneliness the remark betrayed, for all the queen’s outward happiness. ‘I shall come and see you often, have no fear.’
XI
KILDRUMMY CASTLE December 1285
Isabella had brought cushions and a thick tapestry to her eyrie in the Snow Tower while her parents were at the king’s wedding. One servant had been allowed into the secret and now there was a fire up there, beside which Isabella read her books by candlelight.
‘You’ve turned it into a real bower.’ Eleyne admired it, pulling her cloak around her. In spite of the merrily blazing little fire, the vaulted chamber was dark and cold, the roughly plastered walls unpainted. Outside, heavy sleet lashed the castle walls and turned the heather on the hills to a black sodden mass.
‘Tell me about the wedding.’ Isabella sat cross-legged on the tapestry which she had spread on the floor. ‘What did the queen wear?’
Eleyne described the queen’s gown, her mantle, the jewellery she had worn and the golden chaplet in her hair, which had hung loose, brushed until it lay like polished ebony over the scarlet samite of her wedding gown.
‘It must be wonderful to marry a king.’ Isabella put her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin wistfully in her linked fingers.
She dreamed often of the man she would marry. He would be tall and handsome – a prince – like her heroic cousin Llywelyn – a poet like her father; gentle and kind and above all loving. Her father had promised her as much but no one who had yet sought her hand, and there had been many, was good enough for his beautiful Bella.
Eleyne looked away from her daughter’s face. ‘Isabella, while we were at Jedburgh, your father and Robert of Carrick had a long talk.’
‘About Gratney and Christian? Have you fixed a date for their betrothal?’
Eleyne nodded, and held out her hand. ‘They were also discussing young Robert’s future marriage.’
‘Oh?’ Isabella was studying her mother’s face.
‘He is an exceptional young man: charming, intelligent, full of courage …’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘We have always liked the Bruces. I have known Robert’s grandfather for fifty years and his mother and I were once very close – ’
‘So?’
There was a long silence.
‘I always thought you liked Christian’s brothers,’ Eleyne said at last.
‘Mama!’ Her daughter jumped to her feet. ‘You don’t mean it! You can’t mean it! Robert is a boy! He is years younger than me.’
‘Not so much younger,’ Eleyne coaxed. ‘Only five years. Your father is twenty years younger than me.’
‘That is different!’
‘How is it different?’
‘Because it is.’ Isabella’s voice rose passionately. ‘Mama! It will be so long. When he’s ready for a wife, I shall be … old!’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘You promised! You promised that I should love my husband! You promised, mama!’
Eleyne flinched at the accusation. ‘You will grow to love Robert Bruce,’ she said softly. ‘I do promise. He will make you a good husband; and he will one day be an earl.’
It must be wonderful to marry a king. Isabella’s wistful words rose between them for a moment. Eleyne repeated, ‘You will love him, my darling, I do promise it.’
That night in the bedchamber Eleyne sat beside the fire brushing out her hair slowly, watching the reflection of the flames throw glints into the curls. There was more white now, but it still crackled with energy as she pulled the comb through. ‘I hope we have done right.’
Donald was poring over some documents by the light of the great candelabra near the shuttered windows. Behind him they could hear the sleet rattling against the glass.
He did not look up. ‘She will get used to the idea. He’s a fine boy. He’ll grow up soon enough.’
‘It is a big gap, though.’ Eleyne put down her comb.
‘You say that?’ D
onald grinned mischievously and she nodded vehemently.
‘Yes, I say that. You were a man when I met you. Isabella has to wait for him to grow. And she will have to wait while her blood is yearning for a lover.’
Walking across, Donald put his arm around her shoulder and dropped a kiss on her head. ‘If she were destined for the convent, she would have to wait forever,’ he said gently. ‘It will do her no harm at all. Take her with you when you ride to Fife and take her with you when you go to court; present her to the queen. Give the girl some fun, some distractions, and the time will soon pass. I’ll bet that boy could father a child in a year or two given half a chance!’ He laughed. ‘Who knows? Maybe the marriage will come sooner than she thinks.’
XII
FALKLAND CASTLE March 1286
Mairi at seventeen was a tall, shy girl with huge eyes. To Eleyne’s surprise Joanna seemed happy to hand her daughter over to the girl’s care at once.
‘She looks strong and competent – that’s all that matters. The nurses here are old.’ The Countess of Fife wrinkled her nose. ‘And they obey my mother-in-law rather than me!’ She paused, a puzzled look on her beautiful face. ‘Why should you want to give the child a nurse from Mar?’
Eleyne touched the baby’s cheek with her fingertip. ‘I think one day she’ll have need of a friend.’
‘And a nursemaid will be her friend?’ Joanna sounded scandalised.
‘My nurse was my friend.’ Eleyne paused. ‘If anything she loved me too much,’ she added almost inaudibly. The thought of Rhonwen still hurt; still haunted her dreams. ‘Mairi will not make that mistake but she will be there when Isobel needs her.’ She frowned. ‘I only hope she will be strong enough when the time comes.’
The girl’s calm acceptance of her fate had worried her slightly. There had been no tears at the thought of leaving her mother; no obvious fear at the thought of the long journey to Fife and the strange household she would be joining, so different from Morna’s small lonely cottage. Mairi had taken the journey well; she was shy, and she spoke only Gaelic, though she understood some French and English, but she had picked up the baby with affection and nodded contentedly when she was shown the nursery quarters and introduced to the other nursemaids. By some strange instinct they seemed to know that they were to be superseded by this quiet northern girl, yet they seemed to regard her without resentment.
Eleyne was watching Mairi bustling competently around the nursery when Isabella came into the room. On the eve of their departure she had had qualms about taking Isabella to Fife. It had been there again, the warning at the back of her mind, the fear that something was wrong. But what could be wrong? What possible danger could a baby be to a girl of seventeen?
Her daughter, tall and pretty, her long hair the colour of ripe corn, held back by a chaplet of woven silk, stood in the doorway. ‘Mama! you’re here, I’ve been looking for you.’ She moved forward, a slight graceful figure, and looked down into the cradle. Without realising it, Eleyne was holding her breath. The baby looked back at Isabella steadily from dark, smoky eyes and the girl smiled uncertainly. ‘What a pretty little thing.’ She put her hand down towards the baby, then withdrew it without touching her. ‘Are you coming, mama?’
‘Of course.’ Eleyne was watching little Isobel. The solemn small face was still watching her daughter as if fascinated by the girl. Eleyne turned to Mairi. ‘My dear, you’ll be happy here. And Isobel is your responsibility, you understand that?’
Mairi nodded gravely. ‘I’ll take care of her for you, my lady, I promise.’
XIII
17 March 1286
From Falkland they rode to Kinghorn where Queen Yolande was staying. She greeted Eleyne warmly, kissed her on both cheeks and smiled at Isabella, before ushering them into her bower. In the doorway Eleyne stopped: this was the room Alexander had used as his own – her Alexander. The hearth was heaped high with crackling driftwood and the small room was hot and stuffy. The windows had been glassed in now and were heavily shuttered.
Seating herself on a cushion Yolande held out her hand to Isabella. ‘So, this is your daughter, Lady Mar. Is she going to come and serve me as one of my maidens?’
‘Would you like that, my dear?’ Eleyne asked Isabella. She had not planned it, but the queen was offering her a great honour; one which could not be refused and one which would help to pass the time until a boy became a man.
She held her breath, seeing the shyness in her daughter’s eyes turning to terror as the implications of the queen’s warm-hearted invitation hit her. Isabella shook her head. ‘I don’t know, mama …’
‘I think she would be honoured, your grace,’ Eleyne replied gently. ‘My daughter will serve the queen with all her heart.’
Yolande smiled. ‘She will soon become accustomed to the idea. Tell me, child, are you betrothed?’ She leaned forward, still holding Isabella’s hand.
Isabella was speechless and again Eleyne answered for her. ‘She is, your grace, to Robert Bruce, the eldest son of the Earl of Carrick.’
‘Ah,’ the queen nodded, ‘I have met the Lady Marjorie, his mother. A formidable lady!’ She laughed good-naturedly. ‘Now, let us call some of my other maidens. They can take Isabella away while I talk with her mother.’
Eleyne ignored Isabella’s pleading look as two young women came in answer to the queen’s call and bore her off. As the door closed behind the chattering girls, a strange silence fell on the room. Eleyne turned from the queen towards the fire, feeling a cold draught playing on her spine. The fire had died; the embers glowed weakly where only moments before a cheerful blaze had crackled up the chimney.
The queen exclaimed crossly, ‘Call the boy to bring more wood!’ She shivered ostentatiously. ‘The fires at Kinghorn gobble fuel like greedy monsters. This is a godforsaken country when it comes to the weather!’
The spell was broken. Whatever had hung above the room had gone. Eleyne found she could breathe more easily suddenly and she laughed. ‘Our winters can be bad, your grace, but spring always comes – in the end.’
‘Good.’ Yolande folded her arms and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘May I tell you a secret?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘No one knows it yet, not even the king, but I have to tell someone.’ She patted the bench beside her and when Eleyne sat down took her hand in excitement. ‘I think I am with child.’
‘That’s wonderful, your grace!’ Eleyne smiled, but there was something wrong; her skin prickled a warning. The room had grown colder again. Standing up, she went to the door and called the page in attendance outside. ‘We need wood for the fire quickly. The queen’s bower is freezing.’
Turning, she looked at the queen. The room was shimmering with cold; the patterns on the wall hangings stood out in extraordinary detail; she could see every board in the painted shutters, dark though they were in the candlelight. She could hear the wind moaning over the Forth as it funnelled in from the North Sea. A haze of spume hit the small panes of leaded glass, running down on to the sills and streaming down the walls. She could not see it, but her ears, suddenly preternaturally sensitive, picked up the sound and interpreted it correctly.
Yolande was watching her. ‘What is it?’ she breathed. ‘What is wrong?’
Eleyne did not hear her. The air was full of danger. It crackled with the coldness of ice in the atmosphere of the stuffy little room. She heard the storm building until it was in the room with them. The howl of the wind; the crash of the waves and suddenly a knife blade of lightning, zigzagging through the air around the queen. Eleyne gasped and stepped forward, expecting to see Yolande drop, but the queen was still sitting exactly where she had been, her face a mask of astonishment.
‘Lady Mar? Eleyne, my dear? What is it?’
Eleyne was shaking from head to foot. ‘Didn’t you see it?’
‘See what?’ At last the queen stood up. ‘What’s the matter? Shall I call a physician? Or one of your ladies?’ She put her hand on Eleyne’s arm, seeing her as an old woman, her face lin
ed, her shoulders stooped.
‘The storm. The lightning touched you –’ Eleyne was confused.
Yolande smiled. She shook her head. ‘There is no storm. Listen.’ She gestured towards the shuttered windows.
Eleyne could hear the gentle moan of the wind, no more. Walking wearily over to the fireplace, she stared down at the hot embers. ‘Forgive me, I must be more tired than I thought.’
‘I’ll call for some wine,’ the queen said reassuringly, ‘then you must rest. Your daughter can attend you. Tomorrow if you’re well enough we shall travel together to Edinburgh, to Alexander.’
‘To Alexander?’ Eleyne was disorientated. ‘Alexander is dead.’
The queen went white. ‘What do you mean? Alexander is in Edinburgh with his council!’
‘No, no, I’m sorry.’ Eleyne shook her head. ‘I was muddled. I was thinking of his father …’
Yolande’s face had closed, and she turned away frowning. The woman was indeed growing old. ‘I think you should rest, my lady. Tomorrow we shall ride.’
‘No!’ Eleyne’s voice was suddenly sharp. ‘No, you mustn’t ride to Edinburgh.’ The air was spinning around the queen’s head, crackling with warning. ‘Please, you mustn’t. If you ride, something terrible will happen. Wait, you must wait here. Let Alexander come to you. You can tell him about the child you carry then. Tell him to come here.’
Yolande had swung to face her again. ‘Go and rest, my lady,’ she repeated. Her eyes were full of pity, mixed with not a little apprehension. ‘We can talk about it all in the morning. Here is the boy with the logs. Leave me now. Call your daughter and rest.’
Eleyne smiled sadly. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve frightened you. I didn’t mean to. It is just that I see things sometimes …’
‘You mean you are clairvoyante!’
‘Yes.’
‘And you saw danger for my baby?’ The queen put her hand to her stomach protectively.
‘I saw no baby, madame. But I did see danger. I saw danger all around you.’