news, hummed to the rumours that the Countess of Mar had foretold the king’s death. Isabella sent for Mairi to come from Falkland and between them they nursed her from the brink of insanity.
It was several weeks before she was well enough to return to Kildrummy, leaving Mairi once more with her charge, and sending Isabella to be with the queen. There in the lonely northern hills she rode and paced and ran in the wind and rain, railing against the uncaring gods who had allowed the death of the king. All her life she had seen what was to happen, but it could not be prevented. Alexander’s death, like every other death, had been written in the stars. Nothing had been allowed to change the course of destiny.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I
‘So. That is that!’ Donald flung himself into the elegantly carved X-chair before the hearth in the solar of the Snow Tower. ‘The parliament at Scone has elected a group of guardians to rule Scotland until she has a king again, and I am not amongst them. No doubt the fact that my wife made a public spectacle of her foolishness helped them make their decision.’
‘Donald.’ Eleyne could not hide the pain in her voice. ‘Please. Don’t you think there’s enough on my conscience without adding this to it?’ She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the storm of emotions which welled up within her. ‘Where is the queen now?’
‘She is at Stirling Castle. And Isabella is with her. God help Scotland! What a choice of rulers we have! The king’s grandchild, a slip of a girl in Norway under the thumb of a foreign king, or an unborn babe. Who would have thought such a disaster could strike this kingdom?’ He paced the floor. ‘Duncan of Fife is to be one of the guardians, you’ll be pleased to hear, in spite of his youth.’ He scowled. ‘And Alexander of Buchan and James Stewart, with a brace of bishops to keep us all holy.’
‘And Robert of Carrick or his father?’ Eleyne asked, trying to concentrate on the implications of what Donald was saying. She had grown very thin and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.
Donald shook his head. ‘Bruce and Balliol are eyeing each other like gamecocks ready for the fight. They both remember their royal descent, remote though it is. Your nephew, old Robert Bruce of Annandale, is strutting round reminding everyone that he was once named heir to the throne in the old king’s day.’ He studied Eleyne’s face, but it remained shuttered with strain and exhaustion as the memory of the late King Alexander and their own private terror hovered in the air between them.
‘How could I forget that?’ she sighed. ‘It was when John died. Poor John, he was so sure he would one day be a king.’
Donald nodded. ‘Well, the lords of the realm decided in their wisdom that neither a Bruce nor a Balliol should be amongst the guardians. If the queen loses this baby – if there is a baby -’ he added cynically, ‘and if anything happens to Margaret of Norway who is the present acknowledged heir and to whom we have all now taken an oath of fealty, one of those two men will no doubt one day be our king.’
Eleyne caught her breath. ‘And our daughter is betrothed to the Bruce heir,’ she whispered.
Donald smiled grimly. ‘Don’t start seeing crowns on Isabella’s head yet, my love. There are four lives at least between young Robert Bruce and the throne of Scotland, his father and grandfather being two of them, and probably an ocean of blood if John Balliol has anything to say in the matter.’ He stood up. ‘Where is Gratney?’
‘He and the twins took their hawks out this morning. I doubt if they’ll be back before dark.’
Donald walked across to Eleyne and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Forgive me, my darling, it’s not your fault I’m not named a guardian. They know we are close to the Bruces and so have already, in a sense, declared our hand. Young Duncan was only chosen because they revere the earldom of Fife’s old traditions and acknowledge that the Earl of Fife, above all men, has the right to crown the next king.’ He paused. ‘Or queen, God help us. I suspect it is that, rather than Duncan’s talent as an administrator, which has caused his elevation to these dizzy heights.’ He grimaced sourly. ‘Has he told you his latest plan for his little daughter?’
‘No. She’s only a baby, Donald, he can’t have made plans yet.’
‘You were married as a baby, my love.’ He folded his arms. ‘Lord Buchan has approached him, it seems. He would like the Fife alliance and he proposes little Isobel for his eldest son. Duncan agreed with alacrity.’
Eleyne closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘John of Buchan is already a grown man. Surely he won’t wait for her.’ She stared down at the hearth where the wolfhound, Sarra, lay asleep, head on paws, and she pushed the sudden feeling of apprehension aside. Never again would she listen to the voices inside her head, or heed the Sight when it came. Fate could not be side-stepped. What the gods ordained, they carried through ruthlessly and without mercy. There was nothing any puny man or woman could do to save themselves from the destiny which awaited them. Knowing about it beforehand just made it harder to bear.
She walked across to the window and looked out. On the ridge behind the castle, against the brilliant spring sky, she saw the silhouettes of a herd of hinds as they made their way east. In a moment they were out of sight on the far slopes of Garlat Hill.
Turning, she saw her husband looking at her, and she shrugged. ‘So be it. If it’s what Duncan wants. One day the child will be Countess of Buchan. I can only hope she is strong enough for whatever lies ahead.’
II
With Isabella still in attendance on Queen Yolande, her hideaway was empty and Eleyne found her way there more and more often. She was growing tired. Gratney and Donald quarrelled endlessly, mainly over the intentions of the King of England. To Donald he was a danger, ever present on their border. Gratney, on the other hand, admired Edward enormously, proud of his close kinship with the King of England; they were after all first cousins once removed. His two brothers, Alexander and Duncan, supported their father and Marjorie, outspoken beyond her years, joined in the family quarrels with alacrity, her hair flaming, her thin face screwed up with passion, supporting her eldest brother whom she adored unreservedly. Sometimes Eleyne felt the castle would never be free of the passionate, ringing voices of the young Mars, or of the slamming doors as one or another of them stormed out of the latest quarrel.
In the autumn Isabella came home, with tales of Queen Yolande’s tearful admission that she was not – and never had been – pregnant; that there would be no direct male heir to the ancient line of Scotland and that now without a doubt little Margaret of Norway, King Alexander II’s great-grand-daughter, was their queen.
‘Yolande is to go to France, to remarry, no doubt,’ Isabella said sadly. ‘So she has sent all her Scottish maidens home. Look, she gave me a gift.’ She held out her hand and showed them the ring which sparkled on her third finger. Made from twisted gold wire, it was set with a crystal which caught the firelight as it moved.
‘Poor lady.’ Eleyne sighed.
Isabella looked pityingly at her mother. ‘She found it hard to forgive you at first, mama, but she did in the end. She said you had no way of knowing what would happen…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘But you did know, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I knew.’
‘Why didn’t you do something, mama?’ It was a whisper.
‘Because I didn’t know
