‘No.’ The quiet certainty with which Nigel spoke brought Sir John’s blustered denial to an abrupt halt. There was a moment’s silence.
Sir John narrowed his eyes. ‘If that is true, sir, God help you and Lady Mar when the king finds out. Your lives won’t be worth that!’ He snapped his fingers under Nigel’s nose. ‘For pity’s sake, give in, man. Your life may be forfeit, but won’t you think about that old woman? Are you prepared to see her dragged to London in chains? Do you think King Edward would spare her anything?’
Following the sudden change of direction of Nigel’s eyes, he swung round and found himself facing Eleyne who had entered the hall as he spoke. She bowed to him coldly. ‘I am grateful for your concern for my welfare, Sir John, but I am confident it’s not necessary. I have no intention of allowing Edward the satisfaction of having me as his prisoner. Kildrummy will soon be free. And if the man who dares to call himself Prince of Wales wants to save his skin, I suggest he raises this siege and returns to England as soon as he possibly can.’
Sir John scowled. ‘And just what makes you think this great army is on its way to help you?’ His voice was full of sarcasm. ‘You’ve had a message from them, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’ Eleyne smiled serenely. ‘We’ve had a message.’
‘That’s not possible. No one could get in or out of this place. It’s sealed as tight as a drum of butter.’ Sir John fingered the empty scabbard which hung at his sword belt. His weapon, according to the conventions of the flag of truce, had been left behind in his tent.
Neither Nigel nor Eleyne spoke, but both looked too sure, too pleased with themselves. For the first time he had a real qualm of doubt. ‘Very well, I can see you’re not going to listen to reason. On your own heads be it.’ He bowed curtly, first to Eleyne then to Nigel, and turned on his heel.
He walked slowly through the hall, his eyes darting here and there in the crowd of staring men and women: villagers, crofters, servants, a few of the castle garrison, resting between spells of duty. Perhaps he had miscalculated. His man was not there. But then he saw him, lounging near the door, his leather apron stained. He was chewing a stem of straw.
Sir John stopped and deliberately caught the man’s eye. Then he turned, addressing the whole hall. ‘The man who burns this place to the ground and delivers Kildrummy Castle to the King of England will win the safety of his wife and children and a bag of gold so large he cannot carry it away!’ His ringing tones carried the length of the great hall.
From the dais Nigel roared back: ‘There isn’t a man in this castle who would take up your offer, Sir John. Don’t waste your breath, my friend. Go back to your camp and keep your gold!’ A subdued murmur of support came from the hall around them.
Sir John bowed silent acknowledgement of Nigel’s words and turned on his heel.
‘Did he really think any of our people would betray us?’ Eleyne was tight-lipped with anger as she gripped the handle of her walking stick. ‘Foolish man.’
‘He’s desperate. Edward of Caernarfon won’t like the news that his mission has failed, or the titbit about the imminent arrival of Robert’s army.’ Nigel stopped. ‘I suppose… No, no, of course there’s no doubt. He is on his way.’
She smiled at him serenely. ‘There is no doubt, Nigel. Trust me.’
VII
Hal Osborne was standing at the entrance to his smithy. The fire was out, the bellows silent. His small sons were playing in the dust on the floor. The eldest, Ned, was old enough to work those bellows for short periods, heating his father’s roaring furnace to white heat. If the castle fell, the men would die. Ned might die. He was old enough for a man’s work; he was old enough to use a catapult; perhaps he was old enough for a man’s death.
He looked sourly across the courtyard, where Sir Nigel Bruce was talking to one of the men-at-arms near the bakehouse. But for Bruce he would have gone with the queen, and if it wasn’t for the countess’s ill-tempered horse, his leg would be whole. Christ and all his devils curse them both to hell! He could have gone. It was her fault he was here, her fault that if the castle fell, he would die. What loyalty did he owe her? He folded his arms, his eyes going back to the two boys as they scuffled in the dust. None. What chance was there of the siege being lifted? None.
And think of the gold.
VIII
Eleyne was already undressed, wrapped in her bed gown, when Nigel was ushered into her bedchamber by Bethoc, who poured them each a goblet of spiced wine and then left them alone. He sat down opposite her and cradled the hot goblet between his hands. ‘Can you summon your visions at will?’ he began without preamble.
Eleyne stared down at the empty hearth. ‘Sometimes.’ She gave an involuntary shiver.
‘Could you do it now?’
She didn’t answer for a long time. ‘Perhaps. I need fire.’
‘Fire?’ He looked at the single candle burning on the table near them.
‘Fire. I see the pictures in the flames; in the embers. There are things I can sprinkle on the flames which help; dried herbs. What do you want to know?’
‘I need to know how long.’ He stood up in a sudden lithe movement, nervy as a cat, and began to pace the floor. ‘I have a bad feeling here.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Something is wrong.’
‘With the castle?’
‘I don’t know, I’m just worried. Supposing they don’t come! Supposing your dream was just that – a dream?’ He rubbed his cheek with the flat of his hand. ‘Supposing Kirsty and the others didn’t make it. Supposing Robert decided to leave Scotland and go to Ireland for a while. Supposing we are alone!’
‘You can suppose any number of things, my dear,’ Eleyne said gently. ‘We all have our nightmares as well as our dreams.’ She took a sip from her drink. ‘Did you check the night guard?’
He nodded. ‘They’ll change when the chapel bell rings.’ He resumed his pacing. ‘If I were to have a small fire made up here – we can say it’s because of your age and aching bones -’ He gave her a mischievous look, gone as soon as it had come to be replaced by a look of infinite weariness. ‘Would you consider looking into it for me?’
‘Of course I will. But I can promise nothing. I’ll go down to the stillroom and find the right herbs.’ She was groping for her stick when she sat back in her chair, her head cocked to one side, listening.
‘What is it?’ He was watching her tensely.
‘I thought I heard something. A horn…’
He was at the window in two strides, leaning out, staring down the glen. The silence in the room was intense. Then he turned back to her, disappointment clear on his face. ‘I can see nothing.’
‘He will come,’ Eleyne said firmly.
IX
In the silence of the stillroom she peered around, her candle held high. The room was so full of memories; so many deaths: Donald, Gratney, William, Elizabeth, Muriel; so many illnesses cured: childhood snuffles and croups, broken bones, earaches and headaches and wounds. So many visions, conjured from the flames with the aid of mugwort and apple and ash and rosemary and lavender and thyme. The air was heavy with the fragrance of dried herbs, the beams hanging with this year’s crop. Taking a small linen bag from the hook beneath the high workbench, she went deftly from jar to jar collecting what she needed. Then she blew out the candle.
As she did every evening, she stopped in the nursery to say goodnight to her grandchildren. They were asleep together, bathed and in clean nightgowns, two small dark heads on the pillow. She stood looking down at them,
