Child of the Phoenix (154 page)

Eleyne saw Isobel bite her lip suddenly. ‘I have no doubt that by now he knows, sire.’ She glanced up at Robert under her eyelashes. ‘I hope this time you won’t tell me to go back to him.’ It was as if the two of them were alone in the great hall, oblivious of anyone else; Eleyne strained her ears to hear his quiet reply: ‘Not this time, my lady. This time I shall keep you with me.’

The new queen scowled furiously. She pushed back her heavy chair and stood up. ‘My lord, it is time for us to retire,’ she said sharply.

‘It is too soon, madam. Please sit down,’ Robert replied. ‘All of you, sit down and make a place for Lady Buchan. It seems our celebrations are only half over after all.’

* * *

Eleyne slept badly. The tent was noisy; their neighbours had no intention of cutting short the celebrations just because the feast was over, and the whole field was full of music and laughter throughout the night, the sound carried on the wind, augmented by the wildly flapping tents and banners.

She had crept away from the feast early, too tired to remain longer, taking Donald with her and handing him over to his nurses. Isobel too was tired; she could see her exhaustion as she sat next to Robert, but she was buoyed up by her excitement. Not once had she taken her eyes off Robert; not once had she acknowledged by so much as a smile that her great-grandmother was there at the table with her. She had seen no one but her king. Eleyne buried her hurt sternly. This was Isobel’s moment of glory, her destiny. The scene she had foretold in her dream. Her own time was past: the moment for which she had lived so long had come, but she was not to be at the centre of the stage.

She tossed uncomfortably on the camp bed and willed herself unsuccessfully to sleep.

By the king’s orders in deference to her eighty-eight years, they provided her with a chair the next day, close to the sacred place of enthronement on the Moot Hill outside the abbey. It was a brilliant clear day, bitterly cold, and she huddled, shivering, in her furs as the ceremony got under way.

A new stone had been found for the occasion, hewn from the heart of the mountains to be blessed by the bishops and sprinkled with holy water and anointed with oil. In England the king himself was anointed at his coronation, but in Scotland’s more ancient ceremony the crowning and enthronement were the important acts.

Finishing their part, the bishops stood back and Isobel stepped forward. She was richly dressed in borrowed velvets and furs, and on her dark hair there was a diadem of Scottish silver, provided by the Bishop of Glasgow who had kept what survived of the Scottish regalia hidden from the invading armies, producing it proudly for Robert’s coronation. Nearby the king waited quietly, resplendent in his own hastily assembled robes and finery.

Isobel knelt down on the grass before the stone and put her hands upon it reverently. Around her the watching crowds fell silent. For several moments she did not move, her concentration entirely on the cold grey granite, then at last she stood up and turning towards Robert she took his hand as behind them the Abbot of Scone devoutly spread a cloth of gold upon the stone.

When Robert was seated, she took the crown from the waiting bishop and held it for a long moment high in the air. Then at last she lowered it and placed it on Robert’s head and the crowd, massed around the flat-topped man-made hill which was Scotland’s most sacred site, roared their approval and their assent.

Near Eleyne, the queen was standing with John of Atholl and Marjorie watching the ceremony, tight-lipped. ‘This is asinine,’ she whispered to Lord Atholl in a tone which was perfectly audible to Eleyne and probably to a great many people around her. ‘We shall be king and queen for the summer if we are lucky! Robert cannot defeat Edward of England. No one can!’

Lord Atholl hid his irritation with difficulty. ‘The king will reign for longer than a summer, madam. Be sure of that!’ he retorted sharply. Noticing Eleyne’s quizzical expression, he gave her a grim smile. ‘Much longer,’ he repeated fervently, ‘with God’s good grace.’

VII

There was no time for a parliament after the coronation. Robert planned to march back to the south-west immediately and with him went all his supporters. All save Eleyne. She saw him alone the night before he left and knelt to kiss his hand.

‘I’m too old to follow the drum, Robert,’ she said with a grimace. ‘Would that I could, but I’ll be with you in spirit, my dear. God speed. Isobel is going with you, I suppose?’ She looked him in the eye.

He nodded. ‘She can never go back to her husband now. She stole his horses and half his men, God bless her, and left him to run bleating to Edward. I think there’s little doubt that he would kill her if he got his hands on her again.’

‘Then take care of her, Robert. She has more courage in her little finger than many men have in their whole bodies. Don’t hurt her. Don’t fling her love back in her face.’

He shook his head. ‘I would never do that.’ He smacked his hands together in frustration. ‘If only I could have married her! Think what a queen she would have made! But we never had the chance. I’ll take care of her. I’ll take care of all of you, with God’s help.’

She sighed. Would she once have made a queen of whom a king could be proud? Like Isobel, she had somehow missed her place in history. Her thoughts went back to her beloved daughter, Isabella, who had dreamed of marrying a prince, who had been so sure that one day she would be the wife of a king. For her, too, time had been out of joint and it was Eleyne’s grand-daughter, Marjorie, Isabella’s child, who was the princess – little red-haired Marjorie, with her temper and her passion. Perhaps it was she who would inherit the prophecy and one day be a queen. She sighed again. Was Alexander here, somewhere in the shadows? Had he come to watch the crowning of his distant cousin? If he had, he had given her no sign.

She turned back to Robert. ‘I shall relieve you of one small charge. I’m taking Donald back to Kildrummy with me. Kirsty wants to stay with you and Christopher, but I think the Earl of Mar is too young for war.’ She paused. ‘If ever an old woman can help you, Robert, remember me. And remember Kildrummy, which will always be a refuge for you and yours should you need it. I flatter myself it could withstand any siege, strengthened as it has been at Edward’s expense,’ she smiled grimly, ‘and I shall see that it is stocked and ready.’ She took his hand and raised it to her lips. ‘God speed, Robert. God save you, my king.’

VIII
KILDRUMMY CASTLE
April 1306

There was a visitor waiting for Eleyne when she arrived home. The sky was a dazzling blue, streaming with soft white cloud as her litter took her at last across the drawbridge over the ditch, and through the massive new gatehouse into the familiar courtyard. Behind her, a second litter carried Donald’s nurse and the child himself, fast asleep in her arms after all the excitement of the last few days.

Stiff and weary Eleyne climbed out and smiled at the wildly leaping young wolfhound who greeted her. Grizel’s only pup, Eleyne had named him Donnet after his ancestor, knowing in her heart that this would be the last dog she would ever own. She greeted the remaining senior members of her household who had stayed behind and turned at last towards the entrance to the Snow Tower. Overhead a buzzard circled, its yelping cry echoing over the countryside beyond the walls. She shivered, and pulling her heavy cloak around her she began stiffly to climb the staircase, followed by her ladies.

At the door to her solar she was met by one of the women who had remained behind, Gillot, who, finger to her lips, motioned her to one side.

‘You have a visitor, my lady,’ she whispered. She gestured over her shoulder. ‘She’s been here a week, but she won’t tell us her name.’

Eleyne reached up to the brooch which fastened her cloak and fumbled at it with stiff fingers. ‘I’ll speak to her, then I think I must lie down. I am so tired I can hardly move.’ She handed her cloak to Gillot and turned towards the fireplace where several ladies sat talking and sewing by the light of a dozen candles.

She had already identified the stranger, a tall woman in her late fifties or early sixties seated straightbacked in Eleyne’s own chair by the fire. She wore a plain gown of rich dark blue velvet and a mantle held by a silver brooch shaped like a boar.

As Eleyne walked into the room, Donnet at her heels, the woman rose. She was staring at the dog. ‘Lyulf,’ she murmured.

Eleyne stopped dead, her knuckles white on the handle of her stick, aware of the inquisitive eyes of her ladies on her.

The woman took a hesitant step forward. ‘Mother?’ she said.

Eleyne could not speak. For several seconds she did nothing, then, her heart thudding with excitement and fear, she held out her free hand. ‘Joanna?’ It was a whisper.

The woman nodded. She did not take Eleyne’s hand. Instead she glanced, half embarrassed, around the room.

‘I’ve chosen a stupid time to travel. It appears Scotland is once again in revolt – ’

‘Scotland has just crowned her rightful king,’ Eleyne corrected gently. She turned to Gillot. ‘Please, fetch me some mulled wine, then I would ask you all to leave us.’

They did not speak until they were alone. Then Joanna took a seat opposite her mother. ‘Of course, it can’t be Lyulf.’

Eleyne shook her head. ‘One of his descendants. The last one I shall have; I’m too old for dogs.’ She sipped her wine, glad of the warmth of the goblet between her fingers.

For a moment neither of them said anything. Eleyne gazed into the opaque depths of the wine between her hands. ‘Where is Hawisa?’ she asked at last.

‘She died many years ago of a scarlet fever.’

Eleyne closed her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to leave you,’ she said at last in a broken whisper.

‘I know that now.’

‘Why did you come after all this time?’ Eleyne could still feel her heart thudding unsteadily between her ribs.

Joanna was embarrassed. ‘I hadn’t realised you were still alive. I think for me you had been dead for many years –’ She realised how cruel that sounded as she said it, but there was no taking it back. Her eyes on her mother’s face, she went on: ‘Then, one day, I heard you mentioned at court. It was when your son died. The Earl of Mar. They were talking about the dowager, and the king mentioned your Welsh blood – ’

‘Should I be flattered that the king persists in remembering it?’

For the first time Joanna smiled. ‘I doubt it. He did not intend it as a compliment. I reminded him that I was your daughter and he looked down his long nose at me –’ she paused to imitate her sovereign’s haughty expression, making Eleyne smile, ‘and he said: “you had better hope that I forget that fact, Lady de Bohun, lest I suspect you of being a rebel too!”’ She hesitated. ‘I am not often at court, in case you are wondering why the matter did not come up sooner.’

‘You had better hope that he does forget it, and immediately,’ Eleyne said crisply. ‘He does not care for the family of King Robert either and I am now part of that family. The king’s daughter and heir is my grandchild and your niece.’

Joanna grinned ruefully. ‘So I understand. I have had plenty of time while I was waiting for you to work out to whom I am related in Scotland, and I have decided to retire from public life as soon as I return to England.’

‘How soon must you go back?’ Eleyne looked at her wistfully. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider staying?’

Joanna shook her head. ‘Coming here was something I had to do, for both our sakes. But having done it I must go home. My life is there, and my loyalty.’ She returned Eleyne’s look and her face was sad. ‘We are of different worlds; different nations. We have nothing to join us together save a tenuous thread of blood.’ She stood up and putting her goblet down she came to stand by Eleyne’s chair. ‘My marriage lasted so short a time. Humphrey died of his wounds after the battle of Evesham. Did you know,’ she asked, ‘that Humphrey’s first wife was a sister of Isabella de Braose? He said she used to talk about you.’ She was rueful. ‘After Humphrey’s death, the king decided that I was no more use to him in the marriage market. I had little dower, and my child was dead.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Most of my life I have given to the Lincolns who looked after me when –’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Cousin Margaret was good to me. Hawisa and I were happy there. And we had Rhonwen for a while to provide the link with our old lives. What happened to Rhonwen?’

‘She died.’ Eleyne did not elaborate further and after a moment Joanna shrugged. She went back to her chair and held out her hand to Donnet who went and sat beside her, leaning against her knees. ‘I missed these dogs so much,’ she said after a minute. ‘But I never kept a wolfhound of my own. It reminded me too much …’ Her voice tailed away and she fell silent again.