Barbara Erskine - Child of the Phoenix

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?’ Donald 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.’

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.’

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 lined, 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!’