Child of the Phoenix (158 page)

Once the siege was under way and the inhabitants of the castle had become used to the sinister presence beyond their walls, the days settled down to a routine once more. Food was carefully rationed, and the storerooms locked, though so much food filled the castle that much of it was openly available to those who wanted it. But there was good discipline amongst the people. Conscientiously they regulated themselves and obeyed the rules which Eleyne and Nigel had drawn up.

After the first onslaught, it was several days before the siege weapons were in use and a sense of almost peaceful anticipation filled the men and women in the castle. It did not last long. As the huge ballistas and trebuchets swung into action, hurling massive missiles at and across the walls, they had their first casualties. Two men from the Garioch died as they crossed the open courtyard. Roofs within the curtain walls collapsed; chunks of masonry flew from the massive walls and the walls of the chapel and the great hall both sustained hits which cracked the stone. After that people became more cautious.

A week later Prince Edward sent the first of many messengers to the castle gate under a white flag of truce to negotiate with Nigel and, they soon discovered, to try to establish if the Queen and Princess of Scotland were still at Kildrummy.

The castle flew two banners. The royal lion of Scotland and the cross-crosslets of Mar. On his first visit the messenger, Sir John Appleby, found out nothing save that they were well stocked with grain, and that Sir Nigel Bruce and the dowager Countess of Mar at least were there behind the granite walls and that they were confident and defiant.

On his second visit, three weeks later, he had another mission besides his message for Sir Nigel. As he walked across the courtyard beneath his white flag, his eyes were everywhere, scanning the faces of the men and women who stared at him from the shelter of the outbuildings. They were looking to see if the rumour that Englishmen had tails was true. He was looking for signs of a different kind: rebellion, frustration, avarice – the bag of jingling coins openly bouncing at his belt might possibly speak to one of the people who were watching him now.

Carefully trained by King Edward’s negotiators, the messenger looked to left and right, scrutinising the faces around him, and as he left the castle, ostensibly disappointed by his defiant reception, he smiled. He reckoned he had spotted his man.

IV
September

The dream came again. Not the battle, but the fire. Eleyne woke sobbing, to find Bethoc shaking her. ‘My lady, please, what is it?’ The woman was frightened.

Eleyne felt her pillows damp with her tears. The dream had gone. Elusive as a shadow, it had been there at the edge of her consciousness, then it had vanished into blackness. She stared across the room, lit only by the one tallow candle, and frowned. ‘The fire is out.’

‘It hasn’t been lit for weeks, my lady,’ Bethoc said gently. ‘Only the cooking fires are lit and those only during the day.’

‘Of course, I had forgotten.’ Eleyne closed her eyes. ‘Is it nearly dawn?’

‘Near enough, my lady.’ Bethoc glanced towards the window. The glow outside came from the great fires which burned all night in the camp around their walls, openly defying the cold darkness of the castle in the first rawness of autumn.

Bethoc tucked the covers around Eleyne once more and crawled back into her own bed, shivering. In minutes she was asleep.

Eleyne lay looking up at the grey shadows on the ceiling as imperceptibly it grew lighter. Without realising it, her hand had gone to the phoenix lying over her thin, bony chest. The enamel was warm, vibrant between her fingers; his hands, when they touched her shoulder, were gentle and persuasive, soothing her pounding heart, stroking away her fear, making her forget her aged, treacherous body. Beneath the warm covers of her bed, she began to smile.

V

Edward of Caernarfon was sitting in his pavilion when Sir John Appleby returned to the camp. At twenty-two, Edward was tall, cool, uninvolved, like his father in many ways, and yet different – a paler, weaker version. Always there was that soft centre, that lack of resolution, which meant he would never be the king his father was. It showed even now amongst his men. He sat back on his stool and looked at Sir John’s face. One glance told him what he wanted to know, and he threw down his quill. ‘You found someone?’ He stretched his legs in front of him with a groan. He was bored with the siege; he wanted quick results. And glory.

Sir John nodded. He bowed formally, then took the stool Prince Edward indicated and drew it forward. Above their heads, the sun threw dappled shadows on to the canvas of the pavilion. He could smell the crushed grass beneath the floor coverings. Outside, the brazier burned merrily; a page was feeding twigs into the flames. ‘Yes, sire, I think I’ve found my man. Strong, but disabled. Frustrated; angry and resentful. I saw his eye follow me, and I saw it linger a long time on the gates as they opened for me. My bet is that he noticed my purse and he’d sell his own grandmother for it.’

Edward smiled. ‘Good.’ He picked up his pen again and tapped it on the folding table where he was sitting. ‘This siege begins to bore me. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I’ll be pleased. Did you see the Bruce’s family?’

‘I spoke to Sir Nigel. They’re there all right.’

‘But did you see them?’ Edward’s eyes narrowed.

‘No one but Sir Nigel and the Countess of Mar. The old girl looked daggers at me.’ He shivered. ‘I wouldn’t like to be the one to put chains on her. Quite a nest of vipers we have holed up here, my lord. Once you have them the Bruce will be hamstrung. Wife, mistress, child! What a gift for the king, your father!’

‘What a gift indeed.’ Edward stood up and strode to the tent’s doorway. He stood gazing at the curtain wall of the castle, so high and thick his siege engines could make no impression on them. Kildrummy would never fall to them. He smiled cynically. Those walls and that gatehouse had been reconstructed under his father’s orders at the direction of Master James of St George. They were impregnable! He gave an ironic little laugh. Then his face sobered. Only treachery would bring Kildrummy to its knees.

VI

Sir Nigel spent a great deal of time now in the solar in the Snow Tower. He had grown fond of Eleyne and they talked and played chess and backgammon to while away the long hours when he was not patrolling the walls and supervising weapons practice amongst his few men. It was hard to keep morale high; harder to keep them from the boredom which would miss the scaling ladder in the dark. Women as well as men were being trained to use any weapons which came to hand and to take their turn on the walls.

‘What will happen, Nigel?’ Eleyne had put down her sewing. Her eyes tired easily now. She rubbed them and blinked. Even on the sunniest days, and with the window glass removed to give light – and so that the lead could be melted down to make shot for their catapults – she found it harder to place the intricate stitches.

He shrugged. ‘Prince Edward looks set for a long siege.’

‘Through the winter?’

‘I suspect so. He can only guess how much food we have here, but he knows we can last a long, long time. No doubt we’ll have more proposals for terms of surrender soon.’

Eleyne shuddered. ‘Sir John made it clear there would be little quarter given.’ He had promised the women their lives, no more. And he had promised to return for their reply. ‘I suspect that quarter would be withdrawn when he found there was no one here he wanted but you and me.’ She smiled grimly. ‘I would be a grave disappointment to my dear cousin, who’s hoping for far more exotic pickings.’

Nigel was silent for a while, then he sat down opposite her. He leaned forward and picked up her embroidery. She had stitched a bird into the linen. An eagle? An osprey? It looked as though it were sitting in a nest of fire. ‘You, of all of us, have the most royal blood, you know,’ he said with a laugh.

‘And Edward cannot wait to shed it.’ Eleyne took the sewing from him and tucked it neatly into her sewing basket. She sighed. ‘How strange. I was once so sure that my royal blood would bring me to a throne and now it looks as though it will bring me to my death.’

That night she dreamed again. This time the dream was triumphant. She saw Robert crowned; she saw Elizabeth and Isobel at his side and Marjorie tall and radiant, and at her side another child – a son; a prince for Scotland. She lay awake a long time thinking about it the next morning as, slowly, the chamber grew light. Had she dreamed truly or was the dream just the form of her longings? She could still see in her mind the faces of the men and women who had walked through the bright halls, and the boy – Elizabeth’s son – the son who would take away her grand-daughter’s right to the crown, and the chance of her own blood succeeding, ever, to the throne of Scotland.

It was several minutes before she felt a hand on her shoulder gently caressing her beneath the silk coverlet. She smiled and relaxed back on to the pillows, looking up at the hangings above her head as a stray beam of sunlight reflected into the narrow east window.
‘Can you see what will happen, my dear?
’ she whispered out loud. ‘
Will Robert win? Will he come to our rescue?
’ Slowly she sat up. That was it! That was what the dream meant. Robert was on his way. He was coming to rescue them. He had regrouped his men.

For the first time in weeks she felt a small ray of hope and it acted as a tonic to her stiff bones. Climbing from her bed, she picked up the bell and rang it for Bethoc, then she walked to the window, without the aid of her stick, and looked down the strath. A fresh wind was blowing and she could see the royal banner above Edward’s tent rippling merrily on its tall staff. There was little activity in the camp of their enemy. She could see the cooking fires, newly built, with smoking cauldrons of something hot suspended over them. Her stomach growled with hunger. She shook her head. They had enough to eat, and she of all the men and women in the castle needed least to sustain her old bones.

Bethoc entered the room and stood looking at her mistress’s back, silhouetted in the window. In the bright red-gold rays of the rising sun, her hair, hanging down over her shoulders in a wild tangle, looked deep auburn again; her figure straight and girlish, the slim active figure of a young woman, up early to run down the long winding staircase and jump on her horse to ride in the bright cold dawn.

The face Eleyne turned to her faithful waiting woman was radiant. ‘I dreamed we were going to win, Bethoc. I dreamed King Robert is on his way to save us.’

‘Oh, my lady!’ Bethoc had complete faith in Eleyne’s predictions. ‘Oh my lady, thank the Blessed Virgin! And the queen and her ladies got away? I knew they had! But it’s not easy, not knowing for sure.’

‘They got away. They are safe. All of them. And the queen will have a son.’

Neither of them doubted for a moment that her dream was true.

By the time those in the castle who were not needed to defend the walls were assembled in the great hall for their breakfast of oat cakes and ale, the entire garrison knew of the countess’s dream. The effect on morale was astounding. Faces which had been weary and depressed were full of smiles. There was a spring in the step of the men on the walls and their taunts, hurled at the besiegers below, had a new defiance which was not lost on the men in Edward’s camp.

At midday the prince sent for Sir John. ‘I want you back in that castle. Find out what has made them so confident suddenly. And bring me the name of the man who will get us in there.’

Sir John was ready within the hour with his standard bearer and the white flag of truce. And he was ready with his message. As the small passdoor in the great gates opened, he ushered his standard bearer in ahead of him and followed, stooping stiffly in his mail. In the courtyard he paused. The countess’s aged steward was there once more to greet him. There were a dozen or so men and women busy about their activities and on the walls the usual quota of armed men, looking outward, uninterested in the enemy’s envoy. Sir John missed nothing: the corn was piled high still – enough for several months if properly rationed; there were no signs of distress. He could see the heaps of stones and lead balls for the catapults. The castle was ordered and calm.

Sir Nigel met him once more in the great hall. This time he was alone. There was no sign of the Countess of Mar.

Sir John bowed stiffly. ‘Have you given thought to my offer? If the castle surrenders, we will spare the lives of the ladies and children.’ He had seen a small child playing near the smithy in the courtyard.

‘And the men of the garrison?’ Nigel looked him in the eye.

Sir John looked uncomfortable. ‘That is for the king to decide.’

‘Not a reassuring thought.’ Nigel grinned at him amiably. ‘And one which thankfully I do not have to contemplate. The end of the siege is indeed at hand. Our information is that a large army is on its way with our relief in view.’

Sir John gaped at him. ‘A large army? Whose army, sir?’ He laughed, an unexpected bark of humour which rang around the hall.

‘My brother’s army,’ Nigel said quietly. ‘And with my brother are the ladies who give him so much support, his queen, his daughter, the Countess of Buchan.’

‘But they are here …’

‘No.’ The quiet certainty with which Nigel spoke brought Sir John’s blustered denial to an abrupt halt. There was a moment’s silence.