spoke of maturity far beyond his years.
Margaret giggled. ‘Do it, Donald, I beg you. You have my permission to dedicate your next hundred poems to Lady Fife. I already have far too many.’ She rose, bustling cheerfully, and did not notice the crestfallen look in the young man’s eyes. ‘Come on, let’s go to the stables. I’m bored with so much talk.’
As they turned to follow King Alexander from the dais, Lord Mar stepped forward. He knew his son was the object of much admiration among the ladies of the court and he had encouraged his friendship with the young king and queen and watched it flourish with a benevolent eye, but as he saw Donald raise Eleyne’s hand to his lips he scowled. He drew his son to one side as the party made its way towards the stables.
‘Keep away from Eleyne of Fife, my boy,’ he murmured. ‘She causes nothing but trouble wherever she goes.’
‘I only offered to write her a poem, father. I serve the queen, you know that.’
William of Mar looked heavenwards, and Lord Buchan, next to him, grinned sympathetically. The boy was obsessed with the notion of courtly love. Let be. A few months in the cold northern mountains with a sword in his hand and the icy highland rain pouring down his neck would soon cure that.
VI
Eleyne was sitting in the window of the chamber at Dunfermline, staring south across the silver Forth. While Malcolm was involved in yet another round of talks with Menteith, Mar and Durward, becoming more angry and frustrated daily, she was expected to sit with the queen and the other ladies, but this time she had pleaded a headache. She was missing her children. Colban at three and a half an adorable puppy of a child, and little Macduff, only three months old and now in the care of his wetnurse and of Rhonwen, had remained at Falkland. Besides, since Queen Marie and her new French husband had joined the court the atmosphere had chilled rapidly. The carefree giggling coterie had changed into a solemn, hostile group whose eyes seemed to watch her whenever she entered the queen’s presence.
The castle was quiet, their chamber deserted. The servants were elsewhere and she had sent her own ladies down to the hall. For the first time in a long while she was completely alone.
She looked behind her into the silent room and felt a sudden catch in her throat. He was here: Alexander, her Alexander. She always felt closer to him at Dunfermline than anywhere else, but he had never come to her here. Not like this. She felt a breath on her cheek, the slightest brush against her breast and a whisper in the shadows. Obediently she rose and walked towards the bed, sleepily, languid with the autumn heat, already opening the front of her gown.
The quiet knock seemed part of her daydream, no more. She glanced lazily across the room and smiled.
The knock came a second time, louder. As suddenly as it had come, the presence in the room had gone. She was once more alone. Hastily adjusting her gown, she called to come in.
The door opened and Donald of Mar peered round it.
‘My Lady Eleyne? They told me you weren’t well. The queen said I should bring you my poem…’ He blushed, still holding the ring of the door handle.
Eleyne’s irritation vanished. With a smile, she beckoned him in. Alexander – her own tiny dead Alexander – would be this young man’s age now if he had lived. ‘As you see, I am quite alone and very bored. I should love to hear your poem, sir.’ Her ghostly visitor was forgotten. She did not feel the anguish in the room, or sense the chill as she gestured Donald towards a stool. It did not occur to her to call for a chaperone.
He came into the chamber and closed the door with care. The roll of parchment was tucked into his girdle, but although he brought it out he did not need to read it. He had his poem by heart.
Eleyne listened. His voice was deep and musical and the words had power and beauty. She listened, amused and touched, unaware that her near encounter with her phantom lover had left her eyes huge and lustrous and brought a colour and softness to her skin which reminded Donald of the innermost part of the delicate petal of sweet eglantine.
After he finished there was a long silence. The words had been in places stylised and clumsy, but running through them was a note of sensuousness which made her catch her breath. ‘You are a true poet, Donald,’ she said at last. ‘Such men are greatly honoured in my country.’
He smiled gravely. ‘As they are in Scotland, Lady Eleyne, though not if they are the eldest son of an earl.’ The bitterness in his voice did not suit his handsome face and clear grey eyes.
‘Your father does not like having a poet for a son?’ she asked, surprised.
‘It’s not that. Squires are supposed to write poetry and play court to their lady. Only – ’
‘Only they should not be so good at it, perhaps,’ she prompted.
He laughed, half embarrassed, half pleased. ‘I don’t enjoy the lists or the quintain. You’ll think me a girl for that.’ He went on shyly: ‘You ride better than most men, my lady.’
‘I’ve never ridden in a tournament though,’ she teased. ‘I don’t think I should acquit myself well there. Please, recite another poem.’
‘Really?’ He tried to hide his eagerness.
‘Really,’ she insisted.
He came often after that. New poems in her honour followed hard upon one another’s heels and then, shyly presented, gifts. A rose; a ribbon; a ring of gold and sea pearls.
Malcolm roared with laughter. ‘The pup is besotted! Have a care, my dear, or the queen will be jealous. He has stopped writing for her, you know! In fact he barely looks at her now.’
Ridiculously, Eleyne felt herself blushing. Donald was no pup. Youthful though he might be, he was a man and she was half shocked, half intrigued by her reaction to him. His attraction was tangible and the more she saw of him, the harder she found it to resist him.
‘The boy is a poet,’ she said defensively. ‘He would recite poems to anyone who listens and the queen is too busy.’
‘And you are not.’
They looked at each other in silence: the usual gulf had opened between them. Malcolm looked away first. ‘I am returning to Falkland when the court moves to Stirling,’ he said abruptly. ‘There is business which requires my attention. The king and queen have asked that you remain with them; no doubt they want you to write to Prince Llywelyn or speak to his ambassador, who I understand is on his way, so I shall leave you to your poet.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Be gentle with him, my dear. Remember, he is only a boy.’
He was still laughing as he vaulted on to his horse and rode away.
VII
In the great hall at Stirling Donald sought her out. As usual, there was a group around the young king, and the Earl of Mar was amongst them. Eleyne saw him look across at his son and then at her; his expression was thoughtful.
‘Your husband has not come to Stirling?’ Donald’s voice was painfully eager; he did not like Malcolm’s teasing.
Eleyne shook her head.
‘And you are not going to follow him?’ Suddenly the reason for the anxiety in the young man’s eyes was apparent.
Impulsively Eleyne laid her hand on Donald’s sleeve. ‘No, I am staying here, I don’t want to be parted from my poet.’ She was aware suddenly that she spoke the truth; she was becoming dangerously fond of this young man. He represented so much that her soul craved: poetry; chivalry; charm. He was young, romantic. What woman could resist such a combination after years with Robert and then with Malcolm? ‘I shall command that you attend me faithfully and wait on my every whim.’ Her voice took on a note of mock sternness. ‘When we go tomorrow with the king and queen for our banquet in the forest, I shall want you to be my squire.’
