‘Indeed you were, and under your mother’s thumb.’ She gathered her cloak around her. ‘May the gods bless you, Alexander of Scotland. I shall wait in turn for an invitation to
II
Joanna de Clare was fair-haired and pretty, with large blue eyes, the daughter of one of England’s greatest earls and a close kinswoman of King Edward. Duncan was inordinately proud of her.
The wedding ceremony was held in St Andrews Cathedral, covered in wooden scaffolding still after the great storm which had brought down the whole west front a few years before. This was not a hasty ceremony in a side chapel lit by midnight candles but a full nuptial mass before the high altar in the presence of the king and all the greatest nobles in the land.
Among the guests were the Lord of Annandale and his wife, the bride’s aunt, and the Earl and Countess of Carrick and their eldest son and daughters, and it was here that Gratney met his bride-to-be, Christian Bruce, for the first time since they had been told of the plan for their betrothal.
‘I know she’s only eight years old,’ Eleyne said gently. ‘Remember, it will be a long time before you marry and if you don’t like each other when you’re grown up we can always change our minds.’
He scowled. ‘She’s just a baby!’
‘So she is, but in six years she will be of marriageable age.’
‘If we are betrothed, I can’t change my mind,’ he went on, determined to be awkward.
‘You can if you want it badly enough. But we won’t arrange a betrothal unless you are happy with the idea.’ Patiently, she gave him a little push. ‘Go on, greet her. She knows about the idea and she has always liked you.’
Smiling at Marjorie, Countess of Carrick, she stepped forward and the two women exchanged kisses. Behind her formidable mother Christian was tall for her age and slim with huge dark eyes and long ash-blonde hair held by a chaplet of gilded flowers. She was an extraordinarily pretty child.
Seeing Gratney, her brother Robert, youngest of the Robert Bruces, dug her in the ribs with his elbow. She blushed violently and Gratney found himself smiling. He liked all the Bruce children. Perhaps, after all, she wouldn’t make such a bad wife – one day.
III
Isabella was the first to hear of Duncan’s and Joanna’s baby. The messenger was telling everyone as he dismounted in the outer courtyard. ‘It’s a girl! The Earl and Countess of Fife have a daughter! The Fifes have a daughter!’
‘My first great-grandchild.’ Eleyne clasped her hands. ‘I must go to see her.’
‘May I come, mama?’ Isabella at sixteen had turned into a beautiful young woman. She had inherited only a little of her mother’s colouring. Her hair was red-gold, but her eyes were grey and her skin almost transparent in its fairness. They had still not arranged a marriage for her. Donald had talked to several families, but no one was good enough for his Isabella.
Eleyne frowned. ‘No, darling, not this time.’
‘Why not?’ Isabella’s eyes were so full of disappointment her mother felt a pang of guilt. There was no reason why she should not go. No logical reason for her refusal and yet in the back of her mind a warning bell was ringing. Isabella of Mar and Isobel of Fife. Somehow their destinies were linked, and the link was not a happy one.
IV
Anna, the Dowager Countess of Fife, was waiting for Eleyne in her bower at Falkland. ‘I do not want you to see my grandchild.’ Her eyes glittered. ‘You bring nothing but grief when you come here.’ It was a scene that had been played before.
Eleyne studied her. ‘After all this time can you not let the quarrel rest? It was your father and my husband’s father who had the fight. And even they in the end could let it go. Can’t you forget it?’
Anna scowled. ‘It’s not that stupid court case. It’s the bad luck you bring with you – ’
‘I bring no bad luck – ’
‘No?’ Anna’s voice slid up the scale. ‘My husband died when he was scarcely a man. My son died before he came into his earldom and now Duncan has a daughter – ’
‘You blame me for that?’ Eleyne said uneasily. ‘When I have not even seen the child?’
‘There is no need for you to see her. Bad blood will out.’ Anna was swaying her head from side to side. Still only thirty-six years old, she had all the mannerisms of an old woman. ‘It’s your fault, all of it.’
‘Rubbish,’ Eleyne said crisply, getting to her feet. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense. You,’ she turned on one of the staring ladies in attendance on the dowager in the crowded, stuffy room, ‘take me to the countess and her baby.’
Joanna was cradling the baby in her arms, propped up in the huge bed which had once belonged to Eleyne and Malcolm. Now it was painted and gilded and hung with bright, fresh curtains. She looked up eagerly as Eleyne came in and smiled. ‘Grandmama! Come and see my Isobel.’ She held out the baby.
Eleyne stopped beside the bed and gazed down at the baby. It was tiny: a delicate, faery child with dark hair and deep violet eyes. As Eleyne looked at her, she looked unwinkingly back at her great-grandmother. Then she smiled.
Sweet Blessed Bride! The air around the child was full of whirling shadows! ‘No.’ It was only a murmur, but Joanna heard it. She paled. ‘What is it?’ she asked, ‘what can you see?’
Eleyne didn’t hear her. She hugged the baby to her, burying her face in the woollen shawl. ‘No,’ she begged softly again. She looked at Joanna and there were tears on her cheeks. ‘She’s lovely,’ and she tried to smile.
‘And you see her doom.’ Joanna was as white as a sheet. ‘Is she going to die?’
Eleyne shook her head. ‘No. She will live to be a woman and to fulfil her destiny.’ A destiny which involved Isabella of Mar. She stared over the baby’s head at the fire as though seeking the answer there, then, hearing Joanna’s weeping, she looked at her grandson’s wife. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I’ve frightened you.’ She touched the baby’s face with her finger and smiled as the little face turned instinctively towards the gentle pressure. ‘Take no notice of the ramblings of an old woman. I saw shadows and they made me afraid. This child has the mark of the gods on her; she will one day serve her nation and her king and she will be glorious.’ She cradled the baby closer, pulling aside the swaddling bands so she could see the child more clearly. ‘And she is beautiful.’
‘And she is not a boy.’ Joanna had recovered from her moment of panic, but her voice was flat. ‘Duncan is very disappointed.’
‘Then Duncan is a fool!’ Eleyne’s voice was sharp. ‘No man could be what this child will be.’ She gave a sudden half-apologetic laugh. ‘I must be going mad, I talk in certainties yet I don’t know what I’m talking about!’ Gently she handed the baby back to Joanna. ‘That has been my curse.’ She stepped back. ‘My dear, I’ll leave you to rest. We’ll talk again later. Don’t let anything I say upset you. Isobel will grow up to be a beautiful, happy, healthy young woman and,’ she put her head on one side, ‘your next child will be a son.’
