‘Scotland’s destiny was in my hands, but I could change nothing,
‘Who was Einion?’ Isabella asked.
Eleyne considered for a moment. ‘A wise man, a descendant of the ancient Druids. But even he made mistakes. He saw my children as kings…’ She paused.
Isabella grimaced. ‘My Robert’s grandfather will claim to be king if anything happens to little Queen Margaret.’
She went to look out of the high narrow window. The sky was a clear washed blue, cold and harsh above the mountains. ‘That means Robert might one day be king. Then your Druid’s prophecy will come true, if I am his wife.’
Eleyne gave a small smile. So Isabella too had seen a crown in her dreams. ‘Did you see more of your betrothed when you were at Stirling?’
Isabella tossed her head. ‘He is always at Turnberry or Lochmaben. But he came with his grandfather to see James the Stewart and Duncan last week.’
‘And do you like him better now?’ Eleyne asked the question lightly.
Isabella considered for a moment. ‘I suppose he’s quite handsome,’ she said at last, reluctantly. ‘And he’s as tall as I am. And at least now he is a squire.’
Eleyne smiled. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It seems he’s improving.’
III
John of Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, twenty-two years old, with dark wavy hair and handsome regular features, shook hands solemnly with Donald and smiled.
‘I’ll take care of her,’ he said firmly. ‘And I’ll make her happy.’
‘You make sure you do,’ Donald said gruffly. Then he grinned. ‘She’s a handful, mind. It’s all that red hair. And she’s like her mother. Determined!’
Atholl laughed. ‘So am I, my friend, I assure you. I’ll cope.’
He and Donald had just signed the marriage contract drawn up by their respective advisers. Two months hence, on John the Baptist’s Day, the twenty-fourth of June, Midsummer, Lord Atholl would marry Marjorie, youngest daughter of the Earl of Mar.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Isabella raged at her sister. ‘That’s not fair. You’ll be married before me. And he’s older than you. Much older than Robert, and he’s an earl. I’m the eldest! He should have married me!’
‘It was me he wanted!’ Marjorie performed a little twirl of excitement and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her sister. ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t break off your betrothal to Robert. I thought you liked him.’
‘I do like him, but he’s a boy still.’ Isabella sat down abruptly. Her face crumpled. ‘You’ll be a countess.’
‘So will you, one day.’
‘But not for years and years and years!’
Marjorie frowned. Suddenly her triumph didn’t look so fine after all. ‘He’d have chosen you if you’d been free,’ she said coaxingly. ‘I’m sure he would. I wasn’t his first choice, after all. He’s been married before and his wife died.’ She bit her lip. ‘She was only eighteen. She died in childbirth.’ Both girls were silent for a moment, then Marjorie shrugged. ‘I’m sure that won’t happen to me. I’ll give him lots of sons,’ she said. She did not sound altogether convinced.
Only weeks after Marjorie’s betrothal came another. Duncan the twin was to marry Christiana, the only child and heir of Alan Macruarie of the great lordship of Garmoran in the Western Isles.
‘So, the brood are taking wing at last.’ Fondly Donald put his arm around Eleyne’s shoulders.
‘It’s wonderful to see them so happy.’ All three sons had been knighted by the king, Gratney on his twenty-first birthday, and the twins on theirs a year later.
‘Sandy hasn’t said much about his twin’s marriage,’ she commented.
‘He’s a strange young man, that one. He’s determined not to marry himself, you know.’ Donald shook his head, and there was a moment of tension between them. It was always there, the uncertainty, even after all these years. Donald fought it constantly, and if anything showed Sandy greater favour than the others, ashamed of his doubts. Sandy reciprocated with a special shy affection for his father, without ever realising the cause of his father’s extra warmth.
Eleyne took Sandy to walk with her in the herb garden and made him hold her basket while she cut lavender and marjoram and new shooting fennel.
‘Your father tells me you’re not upset that Duncan is going to be married,’ she said gently. ‘Is that true?’
Sandy smiled. He took the shears from her hands and began to cut for her, expertly choosing the right shoots. ‘Of course I’m not upset. I shall miss him when he goes off to the Hebrides, of course I shall. It’s a long way. But he and I don’t have to be together to be close, you know that.’
Eleyne smiled. ‘I know. And he’ll come back and see us often, I’m sure. Sandy, about your marriage…’
‘No, mama.’ Sandy put the shears and basket on the grass and took her hands. ‘It’s right for Gratney to marry. He’s the heir. And it’s right for Duncan as the youngest to marry an heiress, so his son will be a great lord one day too. But not me.’ He held her gaze with his strangely fathomless eyes. ‘There’s no place for my children in history.’
Eleyne felt pinpricks of cold tiptoeing up and down her spine. ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. Her mouth had gone dry.
‘Let’s just say I know.’ He raised her hands and kissed her fingers lightly. ‘And now, little mama, I suggest we go in. The wind is cold and I can feel you shivering.’
Later, alone in the chapel, she stood looking at the Holy Rood and then down at the floor beneath the tall lancet windows. The tiles were covered now by a richly woven carpet. Beneath the carpet, incarcerated in wood and cement and clay, inside its ivory box bound with a web of prayer, the phoenix lay wrapped in lambswool and silk. Around it, when Father Gillespie was elsewhere, she had woven a circle of power to hold it prisoner until it was time for her to join her king.
She was puzzled as she stood in the cool shadows of the chapel. Did Alexander visit his son within the great walls of Kildrummy? Was the hand of destiny resting on Sandy’s head? He had been so certain, so sure that it was not to be. It was almost as though he knew his future already and that it was bleak. She walked to the prayer desk near the chancel steps and knelt, then she buried her face in her hands and wept.
IV
It was early autumn when Eleyne had her first serious illness, lying in bed tossing feverishly day after day without the strength to rise.
Morna came, fetched from her bothy by Sandy when Eleyne refused to see a physician.
Her bones ached; her body felt tired; she had no desire to leave the room in spite of the call of the brilliant smoky day outside, and she scowled at Morna who had brought her a new infusion of herbs. Donald was away in Perth, Sandy had ridden to visit the Countess of Buchan at Ellon, and Marjorie had gone to her handsome earl, leaving Gratney in charge of the castle and Isabella to fuss endlessly over her mother. It was the fussing which eventually forced Eleyne from her bed.
‘Help me to my chair. If that child sponges my forehead once more, I shall scream.’ She leaned on Morna’s arm and walked the few steps to the chair by the hearth. ‘Bless her, I love her dearly, but she’ll fuss me into my grave.
