red already in his eyes. The weight of his sword carried it lethally back and forth on either side. He felt it hit bone and heard a scream of agony, but he did not know if it was horse or man. The air was thick with dust; behind his helmet he could see little now. Sweat coursed down his face and into his eyes. He was no longer thinking, no longer aware of his surroundings beyond the great swinging arc of his sword blade. Once he heard his eldest son, Jamie, shout, ‘A Macduff! A Macduff!’ and he grinned wildly, echoing the cry as he hacked on through the surrounding enemy.
He never saw the man who felled him. He felt a sudden massive blow against his ribs beneath his sword arm, and tipped sideways in the saddle. He tried to brace his left leg into the stirrup to save himself, but he could feel nothing. His whole body had gone numb. He saw his sword fall from his fingers, but a black haze had already filled his visor. He had a moment to wonder why he felt so cold. Then he was falling. He was dead before he hit the ground.
XV
The news of the Scots defeat at Falkirk and of her son’s death was brought to Eleyne by the Earl of Buchan.
‘Macduff died a hero, as did his sons. His name will go down in history,’ he said formally. He hated having to do this, but he had been there, close to the ranks of the men of Fife who had proved themselves so brave. It was right that he should tell her.
To his surprise she did not seem as distraught as he had expected. It was as though she had known what he was going to tell her. Wearily Eleyne sat down and gestured at the chair opposite her. ‘So. It comes at last.’ She looked up with a deep sigh. ‘And what of Scotland now?’
‘Wallace must go of course. He led Scotland on sufferance – a lowborn soldier who has lost all credibility.’ He gave a grudging shrug. ‘Though one must give him his due. He was there when his country needed him, but now others must take over the leadership. My guess is that it will be Robert Bruce of Carrick and my cousin John of Badenoch.’
Eleyne scanned Buchan’s face thoughtfully as he mentioned Robert’s name, but his tone had remained neutral. ‘Where is King Edward now?’ She shivered.
‘He stayed a while at Stirling and there were rumours that he was wounded, but if so he has made a quick recovery, for I hear he has marched west after the Bruce. Our men are scattered. We are in disarray, God help us, but we will regroup. Scotland is more united now than she has been for a long time. Edward Longshanks knows how to make enemies here, and those enemies will stand together against him.’
She smiled wanly. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The pain, the grieving would come later. Macduff had been a soldier, destined to die in battle. But in defeat? Surely it was not meant to be in defeat? And with his sons?
Fiercely she pulled herself together and concentrated on her great-grand-daughter’s husband. ‘Tell me, how is Isobel?’ He hadn’t mentioned his wife since his arrival.
His face darkened. ‘A trial, as always. My beloved wife accused me of cowardice for leaving the battlefield alive!’
‘The girl has an indomitable spirit; it makes her wayward – ’
‘She is no longer a wayward girl!’ he snapped. ‘She is my wife, a grown woman. She should be a mother. She must learn to grow up and learn her place. Things will go very badly for her if she does not learn to respect me as her husband. If you have any influence with her, Lady Eleyne, you should tell her so.’
Eleyne did not say anything for several seconds. ‘I will do so, of course I will, but you must make allowances and you must help her a little. She is still very young and she is very courageous. She will be a valuable friend to you, if only you will let her.’
XVI
She stared into the fire, her eyes long used to the strange leaping shapes, the licking flames, the crack and hiss of logs and twigs which turned without warning to pictures and as swiftly back to smoke. The room behind her was silent; she often sat there, alone by her own choice, lost in her memories. So many people gone. So much love. So much hate. And still it went on. Still there was no release to join Donald and Sandy and Macduff and all the others she had loved so much. She sighed. Alexander no longer visited her. He had not come even in her dreams, since the night Donald had died. Probably he had only ever been a dream. The phoenix was lost. Wales was lost. Scotland was lost. If her destiny had been to play any part in a nation’s history it had slipped past her with the years and been lost as well.
Gratney closed the door silently and looked fondly at his mother. She seemed to be dozing and he sighed. He had brought her yet more news to hurt her and he wondered whether he should keep it from her if it would save her more pain. He sat down quietly in the chair facing hers across the hearth.
Her eyes opened. ‘More news, I see? Tell me, Gratney.’
He reached forward and took her hand between his own. ‘King Edward has made his son Prince of Wales, mama,’ he said gently.
She closed her eyes. ‘So. Poor Wales.’
He sat watching her for a few moments. Her face was very pale and thin, her skin networked into a thousand fine wrinkles, framed by the snow-white wimple and veil she wore. She was still a beautiful woman. The passing years seemed to affect her little. The high cheekbones, the broad forehead, the firm mouth, all had remained. He found himself grinning wryly. He was pretty sure she still had every one of her teeth; he himself had had a tooth drawn only a few days before and his jaw still ached from the pain of it.
Only her hands gave away her age. When other women pampered their hands with rose water and buttermilk and kept themselves out of the sun, his mother had worked in the stables like a peasant and it showed. Her hands were rough and coarsened, disfigured by freckles and by old ugly scars. She still insisted on going down to see her horses almost every day, in spite of the pain it gave her to walk. She no longer rode; she might never ride again, though he knew she would rather die than admit it.
He realised suddenly that she was looking at him. ‘As you know, in my opinion Edward of England is an evil man,’ she said slowly, ‘but he is clever. You have to give him that. He never puts a foot wrong!’ She was suddenly blazing with fury. ‘The Welsh will be pleased he has given them a prince. He has let them think no doubt that he is doing them a favour and poor Wales, without a strong man to pull all her princelings together, will wag her tail like a petted dog and run to heel.’ She dropped a hand over the edge of her chair and immediately Grizel, yet another generation of the descendants of old Donnet, was there to nuzzle her fingers. ‘I’ve lived too long, Gratney. I don’t want any more of it. I don’t want to live to see young Edward Plantagenet pronounced King of Scots as well!’
‘That will never happen, mama.’ Gratney straightened with a groan and stood up shivering, his back to the fire. ‘Scotland is larger and stronger than Wales and far more united.’
‘Is it?’ She grimaced. ‘When Bruce and Comyn are at each other’s throats year after year, and one man after another is made guardian of the kingdom, and Edward returns again and again to southern Scotland to torment us. No, it will be Scotland’s turn next.’ She scowled as she eased herself back on the cushions of her chair. ‘I don’t want to see it happen. It’s time for me to die, Gratney. I want to be rid of this treacherous old body of mine!’
Gratney frowned. It was unlike her to sound so defeated. ‘Mama, don’t say such things. A few days of warm weather and you’ll be down supervising the foaling and bossing the grooms about as usual! Hal Osborne doesn’t know what to do without you there to bully him.’
‘I’d like to think so. I want to keep an eye on those stables. You should get after them, Gratney.’
‘I know.’ He shrugged, his eyes alight with humour, and she felt her heart turn over suddenly, he looked so like
