Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce Chapter 3.3

Scotland

Turnberry Castle

December 1293

Isa, dear heart,

It is indeed a challenge to write this missive, huddled as I am beside the hearth in our solar - any closer and my gown may start to smoulder. The fuel is damp; flames, pitiful and the shutters do little to keep out the wild winds. One of the maids just brought a hot stone for my feet.

Yester eve, we welcomed the arrival of the captain's vessel – especially since we had begun to have serious fears for its safety. The galley encountered a gale. With its wool sail in tatters and walrus hide ropes lost overboard, the ship and crew were fortunate to make it to Orkney. Timber for repairs had to be brought from Norway. All the same, we are grateful Turnberry continues to be a part of the captain's trading route.

Fearghas appears so fierce with that scar upon his cheek. He reeks of tar and ale but has a kindly look to his eye. As you requested, he delivered your letters to my hand. So relieved was I to hear from you I both laughed and cried confounding the gruff old fellow. Strange as this may sound, a cold weight lifted from my chest. After you left, we were all so miserable and then the weather turned foul for weeks. When the boys left to go back to Dundonald, the corridors and stairwells, which had echoed with their laughter, were silent and empty. I could do nought but stare out to sea praying it would deliver you to your destination. Alexander stayed on to coax us out of our dark thoughts but even he gave up and went back on his garron to his studies and the strict routine of the abbey.

On the first sunny morn, Mary and I rode our ponies up to the hills. The fresh air was so crisp and clear it was possible to see far-off Antrim. Luag lifted off my gloved hand and his slate-blue feathers rippled in the sun. For some time he did not return until I began to fear he had flown off to find you. Then, his faint cry answered the groom's call and he returned with a young scaup duck – its crushed neck bloody in his beak. Mary's goshawk flew low and fast over the woodland to snatch its prey: a fat, grey pigeon in blundering flight. Both would please Mhairi.

Garnait was expected that night from Lochmaben having become Grandfather's squire and thus allowed the occasional visit to me, his betrothed. Indeed, we have known Garnait for so long, Isa, from his frequent visits with his father, it seems passing strange to imagine sharing a marriage bed with him. At least he is neither old nor toothless with foul breath and temper to match. Thank all the saints, he is gentle and kind, and his smile warms my heart. Sometimes his cough bothers him and I have taken to mixing him a honey salve. It will surprise you to hear Mother's morning room is still in use.

Do you recall Floraidh, midwife and healer from Lochmaben? Grandfather brought her over to help with the household's ailments. At her direction, Mary and I gather herbs from hill and shore. In a small closet we found Mother's notes. Now, when I pound and mix potions, I sense her standing nearby. The stillness and earthy smells of the chamber are much to my liking. From where I am sitting at Mother's trestle, I can see the sea and imagine it ebbing and flowing all the way to you, dear one.

We are in good health here apart from old Earchann who injured his back after slipping on a waxing cloth left on the stairs. He lies now on a cot beside the kitchen fire enduring the ministrations of Mhairi. She tends the poor man as if he were a helpless bairn feeding him wholesome broth and sweet possets.

When she can escape from our new maid, Mary prefers to be down in the stable grooming the ponies or out in the fields watching the tiny new conies run about their burrows. It bothers her not they will end up as supper. Yester eve she was late back having gone out with old Fionnlagh to check on some ewes up in the corries. Grandfather says she should be full of shame coming back covered with hay and muck, but he is secretly pleased, so like his Isabel – our grandmother, is she.

For her lateness, Morag gave Mary a good shoogle and a tongue-lashing she will not forget soon, and added an extra piece of embroidery to finish for good measure. What with lessons from Father Dughlas over from the abbey, our sister is always amidst some vexatious discord. Her Latin is slipping and he is ill-pleased with her wilful inattention to algebra, so ready is she to run off in search of adventure. You remember how much she detests the effort of writing, preparing vellum and sharpening quills. Never have I seen anyone make such a mess with our precious ink. As usual, Mary is content for me to be the one to write and sends her love.

Morag cannot comprehend why we have lessons at all and would rather we were tutored in music, dance and the like. She was a maid in Queen Yolande's court and carries an over-rated opinion of herself. When King Alexander's widow left to go back to France, the household was dispersed among the Scots' magnates. In a fit of largesse, Grandfather offered her a place at Lochmaben, but even he grew tired of her elevated ways and acerbic tongue. Now, she graces us with her presence. Such a face she pulled when I told her the countess requested her daughters have lessons. Admiring Mother's thoughtful assessments and her skillful way with words, Father often bent before her will and agreed his daughters would do well to develop their minds. Morag proceeded to goad me even further and gave an indifferent shrug. As she walked before me down the stairwell, the desire to give her bony shoulders a shove proved a sore temptation.

Tomorrow is Yuletide. I wonder how you will be spending this special time in your new life as queen. We will do as we have always done, share gifts on the eve of Christ's birth and burn the Yule Log. Mhairi will prepare mulled wine. Grandfather will drink far too much at the banquet and fall asleep snoring loudly in his chair. The children will stay up to see the entertainment– a traveling mummer's show with puppets and the like. The following morn, we will walk across the bailey, our leather boots crunching on frosted grass. In the small chapel, we will say prayers for our mother's soul, our father's safe return and your continued health and happiness.

I have read your letters to the children. Mathilda insists on keeping a handful of hay under her pillow, perchance Brandubh is hungry after his long journey! I have passed this missive to the captain. He will return to Norway as soon as the weather settles after trading the rest of his cargo of furs and timber down the coast to the Isle of Man and across to Antrim. God speed!

Kirsty