X
Isabella was sitting in her bower, reading. The November wind was finding its way into the lonely chamber under the roof; she could hear it whistling and screaming up the stairs. It was a dismal sound. She shrugged herself deeper into her cloak, knowing she should be downstairs helping her mother supervise the accounts. Guiltily she turned the page of her vellum-bound book and read on. Only a few more minutes, then she would blow out her candle, put the book into her book chest and creep downstairs.
The door opening behind her brought her out of her reverie a long time later. The candle was nearly gone and her legs were an agony of pins and needles. She looked up, expecting to see her mother’s face.
Young Robert Bruce was standing in the doorway. He grinned at her. ‘I did knock but you didn’t hear.’
‘Robert!’ Isabella stared at her betrothed in confusion. The book slipped from her fingers and, squatting down, he picked it up and gave it back to her. ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming up here. Your mother told me where you were. She thought you’d not mind too much…’ He faltered to a stop and shrugged, his eyes full of laughter.
‘Of course I don’t mind.’ Isabella tried to hide how flustered she was. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting anyone.’
‘Grandfather and I came to see your father and Kirsty,’ Robert said.
She loved the way his eyes narrowed when he smiled, his strong face softening momentarily. And it was a strong face; there was no longer any sign of the unformed features of the adolescent, or of the slightly gauche shyness he had displayed last time they had met. As he sat near her on the dusty floor his tunic and surcoat fell gracefully round his knees as he crossed his long legs clad in soft leather boots; he was totally composed.
‘What are you reading?’
She glanced down at the book lying in her lap on the azure velvet of her gown. ‘It’s the story of Branwen, the daughter of Llyr.’ It was her favourite.
There was an awkward silence. ‘I was sorry to hear that your mama had died,’ Isabella said at last.
She looked up in time to see the intense sadness in his eyes.
‘I shall miss her very much,’ he said. ‘It’s strange. It’s as though I’d lost a best friend. I got on far better with her -’ He left the sentence unfinished, the words ‘than with my father’ unsaid, hanging in the air between them.
‘And you’re the Earl of Carrick now,’ Isabella went on. ‘Does your papa mind very much?’
Robert’s father had been Earl of Carrick only in right of his wife. Now that she had died the title was no longer his. It had passed to her eldest son, leaving her husband, only heir himself to the lordship of Annandale, without a title.
‘I don’t think he minds much,’ Robert replied, ‘and he can go on using it if he wants to. I don’t mind. But my father is totally without ambition.’ He tried to keep the scorn out of his voice. He was fond of his father, but the two found each other mutually incomprehensible. It was with his ambitious, fiery, romantic grandfather, Robert Bruce of Annandale, that Robert identified. Completely.
He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his chin on them, watching her. ‘Aunt Eleyne said I should bring you down to join her and my sister in her solar before you freeze to death,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘I’ll come now.’ Scrambling to her feet, she put her precious book into the coffer by the wall and, turning back to him, she let out a little squeak of surprise. He had risen swiftly and silently to his feet and was standing immediately behind her.
They looked into each other’s eyes, all shyness forgotten as he raised his hands to her shoulders and drew her to him. His kiss was firm and sure and she was taken by surprise by her own reaction to it. Her legs began to grow weak as she found herself sliding her arms around his neck, drawing his face down for a second lingering kiss.
It was a long time before they drew apart and she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. She was trembling all over.
‘I came up here to ask you something,’ Robert said softly. He reached for her hand. ‘I wanted to know if you thought I was old enough yet to get married.’
She caught the irrepressible amusement in his eyes.
‘I’ve tried so hard to grow up quickly,’ he went on, teasing. He pulled her towards him again and looked down at her. Her head was level with his shoulders. ‘What do you think?’ His voice had dropped to a husky whisper.
Her breath was catching in her throat; her hand was shaking in his; all she wanted in the world was for him to take her once more into his arms.
She frowned, hesitating, seeming to give the matter serious thought, and was grateful to see a moment of uncertainty in his eyes. Trying very hard to hide her eagerness, she reached out her other hand and took his.
‘I think you’re old enough, my lord,’ she said.
XI
‘Macduff of Fife has been arrested by King John Balliol and thrown into prison!’ John Keith, still one of the most trusted administrators of the beleaguered earldom of Fife, stood in front of Eleyne, his face white with anger. ‘Is there no end to the iniquities this man is prepared to authorise!’
‘Macduff?’ Eleyne’s embroidery shears fell unnoticed from her fingers. ‘Arrested?’
‘Yes, my lady. He has been pursuing the restoration of his lands – the lands your late husband, his father, left him in Creich and Rires. With the earldom for so long in minority he has been deprived of what was rightfully his. And now Balliol denies him his claim and throws him into a cell for his pains!’
Eleyne’s lips tightened. ‘John Balliol oversteps the mark all too often. He is a weak man, playing the strong.’ She stood up. ‘This is not to be borne. Macduff must be released. Where is he being held?’
Keith shrugged. ‘At first at Kinross. Then he was taken before the king at Stirling. My lady, you should seek help from the Bruces and their friends.’
‘And stir the cauldron?’ Eleyne said softly. ‘Is that what you would like?’
‘I, and many others. Balliol is not the king for Scotland.’
‘He is the chosen king.’
‘Chosen by God or by man?’ Keith paused. ‘What will Lord Mar do, my lady?’
Eleyne looked up, searching his face. ‘That will remain to be seen, my friend, when I have told him about Macduff.’
XII
Turnberry Castle stood on a promontory, the sea protecting it on three sides. It was an ancient stronghold, the seat of the Earls of Carrick. Standing on the high walls which surrounded the castle, Eleyne looked out to sea, stunned by the overwhelming homesickness which had hit her. This was her sea; the sea which washed the shores of Gwynedd; the sea which had echoed in her ears as a child. She could smell the cold, salt freshness above the warmth of the land, the sea spice vying with the sweetness of thyme and roses and whin, the hint of vast distances
