‘So, little one.’ She took Isobel on her knee and looked at Mairi. ‘Are you happy to have a little brother?’
Isobel shook her head dumbly.
‘Why not?’
‘He’s already more important than me.’ Isobel buried her face in her great-grandmother’s gown. ‘Even Mairi went away to be with him.’
‘Is this true?’ Eleyne asked the girl; Mairi nodded her head unhappily.
‘They made me attend the countess, my lady. No one knew what to do.’
‘I see.’ Eleyne pursed her lips and turned back to the child. ‘Surely you don’t begrudge your mama the help she needed when she was ill?’
‘She was having a new earl.’ Isobel screwed up her small fists. ‘And I hate him!’ She glanced up to see what effect the words would have on her great-grandmother. ‘I shall never, ever have a baby. Not if it hurts so much it makes you scream, like mama did.’ Her voice trembled and Eleyne tightened her arms around the child. ‘Having babies kills you.’ Isobel went on in a whisper. ‘One of mama’s ladies told me. It might kill mama!’ She burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to have a baby, ever!’
‘Hush, my love.’ Mairi sank to her knees and pulled the child into her lap. ‘Your mama is safe and well. I told you last night. And you won’t have to have babies if you don’t want to.’ Her eyes met Eleyne’s challengingly over the child’s dark curls. ‘I’ll show you what to do to stop them coming, then you’ll never need to cry like your mama.’
Joanna looked wan and exhausted when Eleyne sat on her bed in the vaulted guesthouse and took the tiny red-faced swaddled baby in her arms.
‘I’ve called him Duncan for his father,’ Joanna said, her voice croaky and faint.
‘I’m glad.’
‘And I’m sending Isobel to Buchan. It’s all decided, Elizabeth de Quincy will have the job of bringing her up.’ Joanna lay back on the heaped pillows, her face pallid and damp with perspiration. ‘No, don’t argue, grandmama, please.’ She had seen the shocked surprise on Eleyne’s face. ‘I can’t cope with the child; it would be better for her to be brought up by her future husband’s family.’ Eleyne saw tears sliding slowly down her cheeks. ‘It’s what Duncan wanted, and it’s best for everyone. Then I can go home. To England.’ She turned her head away. Eleyne stood up. She gazed down for a moment at the small puckered face of the baby in her arms and sighed, then she handed him to one of Joanna’s maids. At least she could insist that Mairi go with Isobel to Slains. Beyond that she could do no more.
VIII
Gratney married his fifteen-year-old bride, Christian Bruce, at the end of September the following year. Christian, known as Kirsty to her adoring family, was attended by Isabella and Marjorie of Atholl, by her own two sisters, Mary and Isobel, and by Duncan’s wife, Christiana Macruarie. She brought as her dower the lordship of the Garioch, a huge area of land which abutted the eastern side of the earldom of Mar.
The day after the wedding the first of the rumours reached them. Old Robert Bruce of Annandale stormed into the great hall at Lochmaben waving a letter above his head. Seventy-two now, like Eleyne, and like her as active as ever, his eyes glittered above a red-veined nose.
‘So. It has happened. I knew it! I knew it! Little Queen Margaret is dead!’
There was silence as shocked eyes turned to him.
Donald stood up, looking at his son-in-law, John of Atholl. Only moments before they had been discussing the little queen’s imminent arrival in Scotland. ‘Where did that news come from? If it’s true it’s a sad day for this country. How did she die?’
Robert Bruce shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But if it’s true…’ His eyes gleamed with excitement, ‘I am heir to the throne. That makes me Scotland’s king!’
He glared around the great hall. ‘Oh, I know I’ll have to fight for the crown. And fight I will, make no mistake. John Balliol is not going to take the crown with his claims. It’s mine! I was confirmed as his heir by King Alexander II, and I am the most senior of the descendants of David of Huntingdon, we all know that.’
‘There are more claimants than John Balliol, papa,’ Robert of Carrick put in mildly. In his view John Balliol, the grandson of the elder sister of John of Chester, had more claim than his father, who though one generation closer to John was the son of the younger sister. ‘There are at least two others; probably more. For Scotland’s sake we should pray your informant is mistaken and that Margaret is still alive. At least her succession has been confirmed by everyone and the preparations are under way for her coronation.’
Robert smiled. He winked at his grandson, who was waiting nearby, wide-eyed with excitement. ‘So be it. We shall go to Scone as arranged. We shall all go.’ His gesture took in the Earls of Mar and Atholl. ‘And we shall take a goodly contingent of men, to show our support for the little queen. And if by any sad chance this news is true and she has died, we’ll have the advantage when it comes to establishing our claim.’ He laughed softly. ‘We’ll have a great advantage: several hundred fully armed men.’
IX
Eleyne, tired after the long days of feasting for the wedding and the precipitate journey, was lying down in their bedchamber when Donald brought her the confirmation that the little queen was truly dead. There were no details of her illness, but it appeared that she had succumbed to some childish ailment. She, like her mother and her two uncles, had never been strong.
‘So.’ She sighed, putting her arm across her eyes to try to suppress the throbbing headache which assaulted her temples. ‘What happens now?’
‘You tell me.’ Donald sat down beside her and took her hands. ‘It is you who sees Scotland’s future.’
Eleyne turned her head away sharply. ‘I see blood and fire.’
Donald’s face was lined with worry. ‘I fear you may be right,’ he said drily. ‘I gather that the guardians of the realm are resolved to ask King Edward for his advice. They are not prepared to give the throne to either a Bruce or a Balliol or any of the other claimants, at present. They don’t seem to be able to make up their minds what to do.’
Eleyne sat up. ‘And so it starts. Do they really think Edward will give impartial advice? Do they think he will stand by to see a strong king set up on his northern border?’ She put her head in her hands. ‘Persuade them, Donald, persuade them to see how foolish they are being. They are handing Scotland to Edward on a platter.’
There were many who agreed with her, but it seemed that Bishop Fraser, one of the guardians, had already written to Edward. It proved too late to hold back his letter and by May the following year King Edward I of England had claimed overlordship over Scotland and demanded fealty from her nobility before announcing whom he had chosen as the country’s next king. His decision fell on John Balliol, in his view, the view of the lawyers and of a substantial majority of Scots the senior claimant to the throne as grandson of John of Chester’s eldest sister. On St Andrew’s Day 1292, King John Balliol was crowned at Scone, the crown put on his head not by Duncan, Earl of Fife, who was but a baby, but by Sir John de St John in the young earl’s name. It remained to be seen what kind of a king he would make.
