his father. But the humour was gone in an instant. ‘Robert is reputed to have repledged his allegiance to Edward, mama. I didn’t know if you had heard.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t he see how it must look to others when he changes sides all the time? Doesn’t he realise what it does to his credibility? I know he works to a plan, I know he believes that one day the throne will be his, but in the meantime the lords all see him vacillate and change with every wind. And now he is to marry again.’
‘Marry?’ She straightened in her chair, her thoughts going immediately to Isobel of Buchan and her impossible dream. ‘Are you sure?’
He nodded. ‘It appears it is to be Elizabeth, the daughter of the Earl of Ulster.’
Richard de Burgh of Ulster was a staunch supporter of the King of England. ‘So. He would even marry to please Edward!’ Groping for her walking stick, she pushed herself out of her chair, unable to sit still in her agitation. ‘I had such high hopes of Robert. The whole country had such hopes for him. I know he always has good reasons for why he changes sides, but I can’t believe he would do this!’ She poked at the fire irritably with the end of her stick. ‘I suppose he will want to take Marjorie away from Kirsty, and that will break your wife’s heart.’ There was a moment’s silence. There was still no heir to the earldom of Mar after eleven years of marriage.
‘Don’t think too badly of him, mama.’ Gratney put his arm around her. ‘I think he may still surprise us all. He’s playing a very complicated game, but he has not lost sight of his goal for one second. And that goal is an independent kingdom with Robert Bruce as its king.’
‘You still believe that?’ Eleyne asked wistfully.
‘I believe it. He is to come, I understand, to the meeting of the leaders of the realm at Scone. No doubt he will justify his actions there, yet again.’
Eleyne scowled. ‘I wish I could come with you.’ She said it half hopefully and Gratney laughed.
‘No, mama, you stay here at Kildrummy and help Kirsty take care of Mar for me. I’ll tell you everything that happens at Scone, I promise. And before you ask, you can be sure I will tell Robert what you think of him!’
XVII
Morna sat on the bank of the burn and, setting down her spindle, eased her back for a moment. Every winter now she moved into the castle; each spring, as the land warmed and the days lengthened, she packed her belongings into a bundle and set off on foot for the township and beyond it her bothy in the shadow of the hill. There she found the villagers had swept it for her and cut fresh heather sprigs for her bed and laid a fire in the hearth. Now that she was back, there would be milk each day and sometimes an egg or two in a twisted dock leaf or a plaited rush basket – little gifts from the men and women who found their way to her door when their troubles came upon them.
Leaning back, she stared up at the sky, listening to the quavering mournful cry of a whaup high on the hillside behind her. She shivered. It was the sound of sadness; the sound of loneliness; the cry of a soul in pain.
She shook herself like a dog; she had spent too long with the Countess of Mar. Eleyne had been uncharacteristically gloomy over the past few weeks and uncharacteristically pessimistic. The castle had been full of builders: masons and labourers under the direction of Master James of St George, strengthening the walls, building up the south-west tower, enlarging the gatehouse. It meant the thought of war was always with them, even when the spring fair was held in the grassy fields before the castle and the men and women of Kildrummy and Strathdon were
Morna stood up and gathered her spindle and the soft oily wool. She was tucking it into her basket when she heard the thud of hooves from the direction of the village. Whoever was coming was riding at full gallop, making no allowances for the rough ground. With a sudden sense of foreboding she glanced skywards again as the curlew flew over her house towards the east: the curlew – the whaup – the bird that carried the souls of the new dead to the next world.
Her heart thundering unsteadily in her chest she waited, her basket in her hand, while the riders drew nearer. She could see them now, two of them. A man on a lathered bay horse and a second on a mule. She recognised the mule; it belonged to Ewan, the miller. Reaching her, the two men flung themselves from their mounts. ‘Mistress, you must come to the castle. We have to fetch help,’ Ewan gasped.
‘What’s happened?’ Morna was staring at the stranger, noting almost absent-mindedly the shock of fair sweat- darkened hair, the brilliant blue eyes, the torn mantle, as she prepared herself for what was to come.
He tried to catch his breath. ‘It’s terrible, mistress,’ he gasped at last. ‘Lord Buchan has accused his wife of heresy and child murder and your daughter Mairi with her. The church has condemned Mairi to burn!’
Morna stared at him, frozen, her eyes enormous, riveted to his face.
Ewan stepped forward and put a burly supporting arm around her shoulders. He smelled of flour and sweat, and she leaned on him instinctively, trying to draw strength from his. ‘I’ll put you on to the beast,’ he said gently, ‘and run beside you. Lady Mar will know what to do.’
He lifted her on to the mule and she found herself being led at a trot towards the castle.
She was still numb with shock when the two men helped her into Eleyne’s solar in the Snow Tower. She stood, dazed, as they gabbled their story, not noticing Eleyne’s white face or the speed with which, forgetting her age and stiffness, the countess flew to the door and shouted for her squire.
Within half an hour they were mounted and riding east. They were a party of fourteen: six men-at-arms, two knights and two squires, and two ladies escorted the two elderly women. Only the sight of Eleyne being lifted on to a grey palfrey shook Morna out of her frozen silence. ‘You can’t ride all that way!’
‘Try and stop me!’ Eleyne replied through gritted teeth. It had happened at last. The explosion of hatred and jealousy and fear she had half expected for so many years. Poor Isobel! Sweet Bride, let them be in time to save her. She gathered up her reins and kicked the horse into a canter, refusing to acknowledge the pain which exploded through her frail frame as the horse’s hooves hit the hard ground. They rode without rest for more than twenty miles, then, exhausted, they stopped to eat and change horses as darkness fell. Neither woman could eat; both drank some ale, then they remounted and kicked their new mounts forward towards Ellon by the light of flaring torches.
The great Buchan castle stood in the elbow of the River Ythan, the beech trees around it swaying lightly in the breeze. From the road, in the pale dawn light, they could see the river, broad and fast-flowing between sandy dunes.
In the meadow below the castle walls there was a great blackened circle in the grass.
For several moments they stood staring down at it.
‘We’re too late,’ Morna whispered at last. Her hands were white on the leather rein of her horse, her face almost transparent with exhaustion. ‘Blessed Bride, we’re too late!’
Wordlessly, Eleyne kicked her horse on. They crossed the river and rode up towards the castle gatehouse, intensely aware of the raked, blackened circle by the water. Above them rooks circled in the beech trees, cawing in the silence which reigned over the castle. There were none of the usual noises: no horses, no cheerful clanging from the blacksmith, no shouts of children from the courtyard, and yet, above the central keep, the Buchan standard with the golden wheatsheaf rippled cheerfully beneath the high mackerel cloud.
‘The Countess of Buchan will receive you in her solar, my lady.’ The servant who came forward as they rode into the courtyard bowed gravely. Eleyne breathed a silent prayer of gratitude. So, Isobel at least was safe.
Almost too tired to stand, but spurred on by their terror, she and Morna followed the man up the long staircase to the second floor of the keep. There they found not Isobel but the dowager, Elizabeth de Quincy. She raised an eyebrow austerely at the sight of Eleyne.
‘Please sit down, you look exhausted.’
‘I am exhausted.’ Eleyne remained standing, her back ramrod straight. ‘Where is Isobel? And where is her nurse, Mairi?’ She heard Morna give a small whimper beside her, like an animal in pain, but Eleyne held Elizabeth’s gaze.
‘The woman Mairi was condemned as a heretic,’ Elizabeth said coldly, ‘and she died a heretic’s death yesterday morning.’ She broke off as Morna let out a piteous wail and collapsed on the ground.
