‘Of course.’ Edward smiled. ‘You are not just a rebellious Scot! How could I have forgotten the escapades of your youth? And how could I have forgotten how thickly the blood of Welsh rebels runs in your veins? Perhaps I should arrest you, madam, and send you to join your nephew Owain in Bristol Castle, or to the Tower with the pathetic Scots king who seems to have your enthusiastic allegiance. If I had considered allowing your husband to return north, now I know I am right to keep him in London, safely away from his rebellious wife. You have one last chance.’ He shot his head forward and glared at her coldly. ‘You take the oath or you spend the rest of your days in my dungeons at the Tower with him.’ He folded his arms. ‘Let us waste no more time. Decide.’ He held her eyes steadily.
It was Eleyne who looked away. The threat of Edward’s dungeon was too real and too terrible to contemplate. And what use would she be to Donald or the children or to Scotland if she were a prisoner? Cursing her own weakness, she forced herself to kneel on the hard dais before him and put her hands between his. She repeated the oath through clenched teeth and saw the triumph in his eyes at the humiliation of her public defeat. She could barely hold back her tears.
She went to the chapel. Kneeling in the near darkness, she looked at the statue of Our Lady. She was tired, so tired. Her back straight, her hands gripping the edge of the prayer desk, she tried to pray. The image of the Virgin was indistinct, blurred by her tears, the flame of the candle at her feet shimmering, beckoning, a tiny speck of fire in the cool darkness of the great chapel.
She wasn’t aware of standing up or of moving towards the altar. The only sound was of the light shushing of her skirts on the paving slabs as she was drawn towards it. The heavy carpet was shadowy in the candlelight, the embroidered Virgin and Child unmoving, their eyes fixed emptily on infinite distances. She stooped, her hand going involuntarily to the heavy fabric as she began to pull it aside. It was as though someone else was directing her actions; someone else guiding her hand. She was not thinking as her stiff, gnarled fingers touched the tiles. She did not realise that she was pulling at them, scrabbling with her nails, working one of them back and forth until the ill-mixed mortar crumbled and cracked and the tile came free of the floor, loosening its neighbours. She was not aware that she had lifted the loose board, groped beneath it, taken out the dusty box, and tucked it into the bosom of her gown. Replacing the board and tiles she allowed the heavy carpet to fall back into place. Even when she knelt again at the faldstool, she was unaware of what she had done.
For the two days King Edward spent at Kildrummy, Eleyne kept to her solar, and he did not insist that she appear again. Access to one of the richest and best-stocked castles in the north of Scotland was sufficient for Edward; he saw to the replenishing of his packhorses and the feeding of his men at Mar’s expense. Only when he was satisfied that all were rested and replete did he give the order to move on. Before he left, he commanded Eleyne to attend him once more in the great hall.
She kept him waiting long enough to put on her best gown and call for a jewelled chaplet for her hair. When she walked at last into the hall, tall and stately, attended by four of her ladies, it was as a princess of the royal blood, and it was as a princess that she curtseyed gracefully before him, her aches and pains forgotten.
He acknowledged her arrival with a curt nod.
‘I am about to take my leave, Lady Mar. A word before I go.’ She heard the silence echoing in the rafters of the hall as every man, woman and child held their breath. ‘Kildrummy will be held for me by your son, Lord Gratney. I shall direct my master builder to strengthen your defences. Scotland’s castles, like those in Wales, will provide me with the bases I need to keep the country obedient. And its people.’ He paused. ‘Don’t, ever, defy me again, madam. If you do, you will pay dearly for it. Do I make myself understood?’
She forced herself to smile. ‘Indeed you do, cousin.’ The mockery in the ultimate word brought a spot of colour to his cheeks but without another word he turned and strode towards the great double doors to the courtyard. No one else moved until at a sharp command from one of Edward’s knights the men-at-arms stood to attention, rapping their lances on the stone floor and, turning, marched out.
Eleyne felt herself sway slightly, then a hand was on her arm and another and another. Kirsty and Mary and her ladies sur rounded her. The household was closing ranks once more. In a few minutes the king and his men would be clear of the gatehouse and on the long road south.
Eleyne straightened. Somehow she found the strength to stand upright and smile. ‘Thank you all,’ she said in ringing tones which carried to the farthest corners of the hall. ‘Let us try to forget this interlude. Let us all return to our duties, securing Kildrummy, strengthened or not, for Earl Donald and holding it safe for his return. And let us all remember,’ she looked proudly around her, ‘that whatever oaths your earl and countess may have been forced to take by our self-appointed overlord, we are all by birth or by marriage,’ she paused with a smile, ‘Scots!’
XI
Her bedchamber was cooler now it was fully dark. Wearing only a light linen bed gown, her hair brushed loose down her back, Eleyne sent her ladies away at last. She walked into the garderobe. On a rail there hung her winter furs together with some of Donald’s; his fur-trimmed mantles, his heaviest woollen gowns. Unhooking one, she gathered it into her arms and buried her face in its folds, smelling faintly the scent of her husband.
She crossed to the window and sat stiffly on the cushioned window seat in the cool depth of the embrasure. Far away to the south, was Donald too staring out of a window thinking wistfully of his home? The tears began to trickle down her cheeks, unchecked in the darkness. It was the first time she had broken down since his capture, the first time she had acknowledged even to herself how desperately she missed him, and how hard it was for her to carry on alone.
For a moment she didn’t notice the gentle touch on her cheek – featherlight, hesitant, no more than a whisper against her skin. Still hugging Donald’s robe, she turned her head towards the window. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees in the back den below the castle wall or opposite the ravine, above the quarry. The pale sky was sewn with a myriad stars and even as she watched a shooting star, trailing its tail of luminous green, hurled itself across the heavens in the throes of its fiery death. The second touch was firmer, brushing aside the tears which trickled down on either side of her nose, tracing the network of fine lines wrought by the weather and time on her face.
She felt the stomach-churning beginning of terror, and her arms tightened around Donald’s gown.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t come for me now. I’m not ready, not yet.’ Her back was pressed against the stone wall behind the seat, she levered herself to her feet, her eyes wide, peering into the blackness of the room as she clutched Donald’s mantle to her chest.
Still wrapped in its dusty lambswool, the phoenix lay in its box in a coffer near the bed. She had no memory of having put it there.
She backed away from the window, her eyes straining in the darkness. ‘Go away. Please,’ she breathed. ‘Go away.’
She was working her way steadily towards the table where the candelabra stood. Nearby a small rush lamp burned, its light so weak it illuminated no more than a tiny circle on the table around it. Her heart was beating loudly in her ears as inch by inch she edged across the room.
Still clutching Donald’s mantle like a talisman with her left hand, she stretched out her right towards the table and felt her fingers brush another hand. Somehow she bit back the scream which rose in her throat. ‘No, please. Go away.’ She stood still, trembling. ‘Please. Let me light the candles – ’
She stepped forward into the darkness and came up hard against the edge of the table with a gasp. Dropping the gown, she groped blindly for the candles and felt her hand close over the rush light holder. Her fingers were trembling so much she could not bring the feeble flame to the candle wicks. A sob escaped her as agai
n and again the shaking flame flickered. For a moment one of the candles caught and in the flare of light she glanced behind her. The room was empty; she could see no one. Then as quickly as it flared the candle died. She was weeping openly now as she felt a hand close over her wrist. Donald’s robe slid to the floor and she felt herself pulled gently away from the table. The rush light fell from her fingers and extinguished itself on the floor. She was lost in the pitch darkness.
She could feel his breath on her cheek, his hands on her wrists. She tried to pull away, but she was held fast and then his arms were around her and she could feel his lips upon hers.
There was no sound as she was drawn towards the bed. She did not struggle. She found herself obeying. If it were time for her to die and go to him, so be it. His hands were on her body now, his mouth on hers, and she pulled aside her gown herself to bare her flat withered breasts to his lips.
‘Alexander.’ She breathed his name out loud. ‘My love.’ She could not fight him; Donald was a part of the past. She felt her thighs falling open, her body for so long dry and old, moist again with longing acquiescence. The cry of joy and release she gave at last was the cry of a young woman in the arms of her lover. The woman who curled warmly into the bed beneath the covers as he drew away was young again and content as she drifted into a heavy, exhausted sleep.
XII
She awoke to find the room full of the faint light of early dawn. She lay quite still, half dreaming, a slight smile on her lips. Then she remembered, and sat up, her body heavy with guilt. A candle had been knocked unlit from the candelabra, the rush light lay on the floor, its little pottery holder smashed, and in the corner, crumpled in a pile, lay Donald’s robe. She climbed out of the bed and with a shiver she walked across and picked it up.
‘Alexander?’ The room was empty. There was nothing to show what had happened save the warm tingling of her body. She went to the window. The countryside beyond the walls was colourless, as yet untouched by the sun. Mist curled between the battlements and wreathed the trees. She walked back to the bed and, groaning, hauled herself into it, Donald’s robe in her arms. When Bethoc came to wake her, she was fast asleep.
XIII
Robert had brought gifts for his wife and daughter, and a small ivory casket, bound with silver, for Eleyne. His face was grey with fatigue and worry.
‘Poor Scotland.’ He sat on his wife’s bed, holding Isabella’s hand. ‘That it should come to this, that he should take the Stone of Scone! It’s an outrage no one will forgive. But at least, now he has gone, the country will have time to consolidate. We have to find a new leader to tide us over.’ Unspoken was the implication that one day there would be a permanent leader, and that that leader would be him. He knew he was criticised; he knew his loyalty was being questioned as he hung back from supporting Balliol. Only a few, a very few people – his wife and mother-in-law amongst them – knew that he had to play for time.
He frowned as Isabella clutched at his hand. ‘Does your leg still hurt, my love?’ He had been astonished and worried to find her still in bed so many weeks after the birth.
She nodded, biting her lip. Her strength had still not returned enough for her to get up and now there was a strange pain deep in her leg. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s only a cramp.’ She pulled herself up on the pillows. ‘Don’t worry about me, I want to hear about your plans. How will the next King of Scots be crowned without the coronation stone?’ Her eyes were fixed adoringly on his face, her fingers wound in his. She knew that in the dreams of both of them he would be that king.
She had been as disappointed that the baby was not a boy as he was, but they had promised themselves that next time it would be all right, that next time Eleyne’s prediction would come true. They talked together late into the night, making plans, dreaming of the future, choosing names for their next six children. At last he kissed her goodnight, pulled the covers over her and tucked her in before turning to go down to the great hall.
He was asleep when they came for him at dawn. The pain in her leg had moved inexorably upwards through her body to her chest. By the time he arrived, she was coughing and gasping, unable to catch her breath.
‘Isabella?’ Robert cried out as he saw her. ‘Isabella? My darling, what is it? Where’s Lady Mar? Fetch her quickly.’
Father Gillespie, sitting by the bed, kissed his cross and tucked it away in his robes. He shook his head sadly. ‘She’s going, my lord. I’m sorry. It’s God’s will.’
‘What do you mean?’ Robert was white with shock. ‘She’s not going to die? No! It can’t be God’s will! We had such plans.’ Bending over Isabella, he took her hands in his. They were cold as ice. She lay white and drained, a wraith on the pale linen sheets, her hair spread out around her on the pillows dampened by the water with which they had been sponging her face.
‘Sweetheart.’ He put his lips to hers, trying to will her eyes open. ‘Please, don’t leave me. Isabella!’ His voice rose in panic.
‘It’s no good, my lord.’ The remaining midwife stepped forward. ‘She’s gone.’ The other had packed her bags an hour before when it became obvious that their charge was dying. Given the duty of fetching Robert to his wife’s bedside while Isabella was still capable of recognising him, she had instead fled into the dawn.
Robert would not believe it. ‘She was all right. She was laughing. She was to be my queen …’ His voice broke and he buried his face in the bedclothes, trying to coax warmth back into her body with his own.
Behind him Kirsty and Eleyne had arrived at last. They stood huddled together in disbelief, both with tears pouring down their cheeks. Eleyne was numb. Isabella could not be dead; her daughter had been so vital, so alive, so precious. The shock was so total, so complete, she could not understand what had happened. There had been no sign, no premonition, no warning. Yet again the gods were punishing her for her presumption in thinking she could foretell the future. Her daughter’s son would not beget a line of kings; her fate and that of those around her were as random and as arbitrary as the throw of a dice.
She sank to her knees as her tears dried, leaving the sharp bitter taste of defeat and the overwhelming taste of disappointment. Her own, but above all Isabella’s. The marriage, so long awaited, so long anticipated and at last so happy, had lasted barely three years.
It was a long time before she moved. Rising stiffly, she went to the bed. Bending, she kissed her daughter once on the forehead, then she turned away.
In the crib in the corner little Marjorie slept on, blissfully unaware that her mother was dead.
Eleyne went to the stables.
Hal Osborne, the blacksmith, was shoeing some dray-horses. Lamed by a kick from one of Eleyne’s brood mares, the farrier, an Englishman who had come to Kildrummy two years before with Gratney’s followers, was unable to fight and was one of the few men who had remained at Kildrummy throughout the war. He acknowledged her with a curt nod as he hauled a heavy hoof into the lap of his leather apron. She watched him for a few moments, her wolfhound Senga at her side, then she sought the sweet-smelling dim light of the stables. Her favourite mare, Starlight, was pulling greedily at a bag of hay. She acknowledged her mistress with a whicker of welcome and a shake of the head, then went back to her food. Eleyne put her arms around the horse’s neck and wept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I
TOWER OF LONDON June 1297
Donald of Mar was standing at a window in the White Tower, staring down into the cages of the king’s menagerie below. He shuddered. He hated the sight of those poor thin caged beasts – the leopards, the mangy lion and the bears. They reminded him too sharply of himself. He turned wearily and went back to his seat at the table. He had grown painfully thin during his year of captivity and his body was racked with pains. The king had sent a physician to tend his cough, but the medicines seemed to have done little good. He sighed. If only he were at home. Eleyne would know how to cure the pain in his damn chest.
He bitterly resent
ed his captivity and every precious second it kept him away from home and from his wife. He resented the fact that when she had needed him most, when his beloved, beautiful Isabella had died, he had not been there. He resented the fact that he had not had the chance to say goodbye to his favourite daughter, that he would never see her again. He resented that his new little grand-daughter was growing up without him there to see her, and he resented above all else that time was passing. Each day he and Eleyne were apart meant that less time was left to them. His frustration was enormous. He reached for the flask of wine on the table, then pushed it aside impatiently. That wasn’t the way. It was too easy to find oblivion there; besides it was at the bottom of the wine goblet that his worst fears lurked: that while he was a prisoner Alexander had returned; that even now he might have claimed Eleyne for his own.
Sandy was a welcome distraction from his dark thoughts. His son too had lost weight. His handsome face was drawn and his skin had a transparency which had he but known was reflected in his own.
‘How are you, papa?’ During the day the Scots captives wandered freely about their floor of the White Tower. The royal apartments had now been removed to the Wakefield Tower, built by Edward’s father, which left more room in the vast old keep. Only at night were they consigned to their cells and locked in.
‘Not good.’ Donald scowled.
‘Then I have news to cheer you up. A letter has been smuggled in – look.’ He brandished a small piece of parchment. ‘The revolt against Edward in Scotland has spread. It’s being led by Andrew Moray and Sir William Wallace. Robert has ceased prevaricating and, claiming he cannot fight for a Balliol, has joined us at long last. Macduff has brought out the men of Fife!’ He slapped his father on the shoulder. ‘The tide of luck is turning.’ He paused, glancing quickly at his father’s pale face. ‘While you were ill, the Scots amongst the prisoners here have been negotiating with Edward,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘There’s a way out because he’s worried and he’s offering us a deal.’