Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce Chapter 3.1

Norway

Bergen

August 1293

My dear Kirsty,

I write this missive seated at a trestle in my solar. Beside me, the window embrasure looks out over the harbour. Father's vessel nestles nearby. Across the grey expanse of water, the carved masts of so many Norse longships look like a strange sea-bound forest. Bergen is so wet, even in summer. I have yet to see the sun.

Our journey here was eventful. When we departed from Turnberry's shore, my heart felt as if it would shatter into so many pieces it could never find repair – much like Mhairi's precious salt urn Thomas knocked over all those years ago. As we gathered speed, I wrapped Mother's cloak close around me, hoping desperately it would offer both comfort and courage in equal measure. With so many eyes upon me, I did my best to appear resolute but as we passed around the southernmost tip of Kintyre, the view of our dear coastline was lost to me in the sea's deep swell. I felt crushed and looked to Father for support. His stern expression showed there was little point in bemoaning my fate. Swallowing my fear, I faced the chill wind and braced myself for our strange adventure.

To my shame, I acted out my own distress and cuffed Aoife for wailing that we would all die and the fish feast on our flesh. She stopped, but spent the best part of the voyage snuffling or churning her guts over the boat's edge. Such was her fear of the sea it seemed she might die by her own actions. Out of spite, I told her so. From then on, she made an effort to drink the ale Father brought with us. It seemed to give her some colour; the dried venison and salt cod needed to be washed down with something. What I would have given for a crisp-crusted pie steaming hot from Mhairi's huge ovens.

For a long time, sea creatures followed our vessel and I could not keep my eyes from their sleek forms and gentle eyes. I hoped they might travel back to you and whisper in their strange tongue that all was well; that these things indeed shall pass.

Beside us, the large galley belonging to the Lord of the Isles sank and rose with the swell. Edward shouted and waved to me, and for a fleeting moment it felt like old times when we used the sea to visit friends. Our first night was spent at the lord's castle. At first light, we left overland for the harbour. For a long time, Edward remained on Finlaggan's battlements until the haar stole him away from me. After this brief respite, our birlinn passed the Isle of Jura whose bare mountains, the Paps, reminded me of dear Mhairi's voluminous bosom. Bethoc laughed when I made mention of it.

Avoiding rocky shoals, we headed into deeper, darker waters. Fearghas, our captain, told tales of a giant whirlpool, Corryvrekan, where vessels and crew were sucked to their death by an enormous sea creature. I was so fearful that Father spoke sharply to him. We were far away from this dreadful place and so no harm would befall us, he said. Aoife did not believe him. Muffled from within the stinking shelter, her moans and pitiful retching went on for hours. Days were spent at sea sailing up the coastline past countless isles: some large with jagged, black mountains and high red cliffs. At smaller ones edged with white shell beaches, villages close to shore offered up fresh victuals and ale. Father was careful that we did not stop too long lest our enemies, the Macdougalls of Lorne, attack us.

With the deep rolls of the vessel threatening to empty us into the monster's gaping jaws, we endured the rough weather around the northwest cape. It was impossible to sleep, and with the barest minimum of privacy, attention to our physical needs before so many men proved a trial. Never have I been so relieved, as when we drew anchor off the low, treeless isles of Orkney. Father's friends welcomed us. Next day, we passed by the bay where the Maid of Norway died.