She stepped forward into the darkness and came up hard against the edge of the table with a gasp. Dropping the gown, she groped blindly for the candles and felt her hand close over the rush light holder. Her fingers were trembling so much she could not bring the feeble flame to the candle wicks. A sob escaped her as again and again the shaking flame flickered. For a moment one of the candles caught and in the flare of light she glanced behind her. The room was empty; she could see no one. Then as quickly as it flared the candle died. She was weeping openly now as she felt a hand close over her wrist. Donald’s robe slid to the floor and she felt herself pulled gently away from the table. The rush light fell from her fingers and extinguished itself on the floor. She was lost in the pitch darkness.
She could feel his breath on her cheek, his hands on her wrists. She tried to pull away, but she was held fast and then his arms were around her and she could feel his lips upon hers.
There was no sound as she was drawn towards the bed. She did not struggle. She found herself obeying. If it were time for her to die and go to him, so be it. His hands were on her body now, his mouth on hers, and she pulled aside her gown herself to bare her flat withered breasts to his lips.
‘Alexander.’ She breathed his name out loud. ‘My love.’ She could not fight him; Donald was a part of the past. She felt her thighs falling open, her body for so long dry and old, moist again with longing acquiescence. The cry of joy and release she gave at last was the cry of a young woman in the arms of her lover. The woman who curled warmly into the bed beneath the covers as he drew away was young again and content as she drifted into a heavy, exhausted sleep.
XII
She awoke to find the room full of the faint light of early dawn. She lay quite still, half dreaming, a slight smile on her lips. Then she remembered, and sat up, her body heavy with guilt. A candle had been knocked unlit from the candelabra, the rush light lay on the floor, its little pottery holder smashed, and in the corner, crumpled in a pile, lay Donald’s robe. She climbed out of the bed and with a shiver she walked across and picked it up.
‘Alexander?’ The room was empty. There was nothing to show what had happened save the warm tingling of her body. She went to the window. The countryside beyond the walls was colourless, as yet untouched by the sun. Mist curled between the battlements and wreathed the trees. She walked back to the bed and, groaning, hauled herself into it, Donald’s robe in her arms. When Bethoc came to wake her, she was fast asleep.
XIII
Robert had brought gifts for his wife and daughter, and a small ivory casket, bound with silver, for Eleyne. His face was grey with fatigue and worry.
‘Poor Scotland.’ He sat on his wife’s bed, holding Isabella’s hand. ‘That it should come to this, that he should take the Stone of Scone! It’s an outrage no one will forgive. But at least, now he has gone, the country will have time to consolidate. We have to find a new leader to tide us over.’ Unspoken was the implication that one day there would be a permanent leader, and that that leader would be him. He knew he was criticised; he knew his loyalty was being questioned as he hung back from supporting Balliol. Only a few, a very few people – his wife and mother-in-law amongst them – knew that he had to play for time.
He frowned as Isabella clutched at his hand. ‘Does your leg still hurt, my love?’ He had been astonished and worried to find her still in bed so many weeks after the birth.
She nodded, biting her lip. Her strength had still not returned enough for her to get up and now there was a strange pain deep in her leg. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s only a cramp.’ She pulled herself up on the pillows. ‘Don’t worry about me, I want to hear about your plans. How will the next King of Scots be crowned without the coronation stone?’ Her eyes were fixed adoringly on his face, her fingers wound in his. She knew that in the dreams of both of them he would be that king.
She had been as disappointed that the baby was not a boy as he was, but they had promised themselves that next time it would be all right, that next time Eleyne’s prediction would come true. They talked together late into the night, making plans, dreaming of the future, choosing names for their next six children. At last he kissed her goodnight, pulled the covers over her and tucked her in before turning to go down to the great hall.
He was asleep when they came for him at dawn. The pain in her leg had moved inexorably upwards through her body to her chest. By the time he arrived, she was coughing and gasping, unable to catch her breath.
‘Isabella?’ Robert cried out as he saw her. ‘Isabella? My darling, what is it? Where’s Lady Mar? Fetch her quickly.’
Father Gillespie, sitting by the bed, kissed his cross and tucked it away in his robes. He shook his head sadly. ‘She’s going, my lord. I’m sorry. It’s God’s will.’
‘What do you mean?’ Robert was white with shock. ‘She’s not going to die? No! It can’t be God’s will! We had such plans.’ Bending over Isabella, he took her hands in his. They were cold as ice. She lay white and drained, a wraith on the pale linen sheets, her hair spread out around her on the pillows dampened by the water with which they had been sponging her face.
‘Sweetheart.’ He put his lips to hers, trying to will her eyes open. ‘Please, don’t leave me. Isabella!’ His voice rose in panic.
‘It’s no good, my lord.’ The remaining midwife stepped forward. ‘She’s gone.’ The other had packed her bags an hour before when it became obvious that their charge was dying. Given the duty of fetching Robert to his wife’s bedside while Isabella was still capable of recognising him, she had instead fled into the dawn.
Robert would not believe it. ‘She was all right. She was laughing. She was to be my queen…’ His voice broke and he buried his face in the bedclothes, trying to coax warmth back into her body with his own.
Behind him Kirsty and Eleyne had arrived at last. They stood huddled together in disbelief, both with tears pouring down their cheeks. Eleyne was numb. Isabella could not be dead; her daughter had been so vital, so alive, so precious. The shock was so total, so complete, she could not understand what had happened. There had been no sign, no premonition, no warning. Yet again the gods were punishing her for her presumption in thinking she could foretell the future. Her daughter’s son would not beget a line of kings; her fate and that of those around her were as random and as arbitrary as the throw of a dice.
She sank to her knees as her tears dried, leaving the sharp bitter taste of defeat and the overwhelming taste of disappointment. Her own, but above all Isabella’s. The marriage, so long awaited, so long anticipated and at last so happy, had lasted barely three years.
It was a long time before she moved. Rising stiffly, she went to the bed. Bending, she kissed her daughter once on the forehead, then she turned away.
In the crib in the corner little Marjorie slept on, blissfully unaware that her mother was dead.
Eleyne went to the stables.
Hal Osborne, the blacksmith, was shoeing some dray-horses. Lamed by a kick from one of Eleyne’s brood mares, the farrier, an Englishman who had come to Kildrummy two years before with Gratney’s followers, was unable to fight and was one of the few men who had remained at Kildrummy throughout the war. He acknowledged her with a curt nod as he hauled a heavy hoof into the lap of his leather apron. She watched him for a few moments, her wolfhound Senga at her side, then she sought the sweet-smelling dim light of the stables. Her favourite mare, Starlight, was pulling greedily at a bag of hay. She acknowledged her mistress with a whicker of welcome and a shake of the head, then went back to her food. Eleyne put her arms around the horse’s neck and wept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
