Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce 7.1&2

                                                                                                      I

Norway

Bergen

March 1297

My dear Kirsty,

Two weeks past my daughter entered the world. The wind howled and sleet battered the windows. I neither knew nor cared, caught up as I was with birth pangs. Sigrud, a haggard-toothed crone, coaxed her out with the most gentle hands boasting as she did so that she had delivered half of Bergen. With her was a lass whose infant had succumbed to a fever. Now the girl seeks relief from her swollen breasts and welcomes the coins her wet nurse tasks will bring.

Gundred ventured the babe looks like the king but she reminds me of Mother. Something about the firm, little chin stirs a memory. Her father named her Ingeborg after his mother. Though the name means 'beautiful one', it does not sit well upon my tongue, so I shall call her Inga. My lord husband withdrew after our child's birth. The councillors who were present showed their displeasure at my failure to provide a male heir. It angered me to hear he had gone hunting with them but yester eve he came and stayed awhile. A bleak smile creased his face. I feared his disappointment more than I can say and was relieved to learn his sadness came from the past: Inga reminded him of his little Maid so much that he shrank from contact. Memories of her loss and our son's passing reside with him still, though he speaks not of it. For a long time, he held our child and gave voice to a grief long buried. It was a special moment for us – a family, at long last.

It is the custom here to baptise royal babes in the Kristkirke. Bishop Narve warmed the baptismal water so Inga would be at peace when he bought her into the fold. When comments came afterwards that she was such a good baby gurgling with pleasure during the ceremony, he winked at me and smiled.

Forgive me for being so caught up in my own affairs that I have not made mention of your news. Our family mire thickens, though Rob may surprise all and break free to be his own man. My trust and affection for him remains steadfast, resolute as ever. I pray he and our brothers remain safe.

Your loving sister

Isa

                                                                                               II

Scotland

Kildrummy Castle

July 1297

Isa, dear heart,

Words cannot express how relieved we were to hear your news. I pray all is well these many months on.

It is midsummer; the hills, bathed in purple heath. The children ride their ponies around in the bailey or plowter about, floating leaves and sticks over the waterfalls in the ravine under the watchful eye of guards and the sonsy sisters, Marthoc and Seonaid. Somehow, the wee girls always come back up to the postern gate happily droukit. During a patch of bad weather, Tomas consented to teach Mathilda the rudiments of writing. She is clumsy still, unable to fashion letters: her hand, tiny around the quill. For the most part, she slaisters herself with ink or tickles her sister with the feather's tip. The old priest is a patient teacher, ignoring the giggles. He is somewhat hard of hearing; his sight, dulled with the years. Surely a blessing in this case!

Marjorie smiles often. She loves her bath and wooden toys, a bird and otter carved by Earchann. We watch her on the winding stairwell as she has had some tumbles crawling after the children. By now Inga will be sitting up and teething. How Bethoc must love having a bairn to sing to sleep with her lullabies. Margaret is besotted with Marjorie and follows her around, copying Morag who tuts and huffs if the child falls in the dirt. Whenever Morag is not looking, Mhairi smothers her with kisses and feeds her sweet possets. Ne'er have I seen two grown women vie so fiercely for the affections of a bairn. Isa, we are as happy as we can be given the times.

King Edward and his host have not come back - probably just a matter of time. In May, an insurrection began over in Lanark; the first blow struck by William Wallace, a giant of a man with a grudge against an English sheriff whom he slew in revenge for his wife's death. Oppressed and angry, a host gathers behind him. Even Sir William Douglas joined his band after his escape from Berwick, and Andrew Murray, another escapee, led an assault on Castle Urquhart.

Next, Robert wilfully failed to deliver Douglas's son to Edward's officials and then joined with Wishart - Glasgow's bishop, and Sir James Stewart. After breaking free of Father's tight reign, Rob found to his frustration that the two elder statesmen planned to capitulate to the larger English forces, allowing Wallace to create havoc in the east. This worked for a month or so until Percy and Clifford demanded Marjorie as a hostage. Under cover of darkness, Robert and his men departed in haste.

The Scottish leaders were taken into custody as sureties until Robert delivered up his daughter; the hapless group knowing hell would freeze over before this would happen. In the meantime, Edward pardoned the Comyns providing they not serve England's enemies over the sea. They returned north but did little to halt the spreading chaos. Insurgents seized a number of English-held castles.

As far south as Carlisle and Newcastle, Wallace carried out audacious raids but with little success lacking siege engines to batter massive castle walls. By the time Robert joined him, raids were smaller, harrying officials- sheriffs and bailiffs, preventing revenue-raising for Edward's French campaign.

Garnait is brimming with news. Our oppressors scurry back to England. Tomas stands by to take my parchment. With our area in uproar, he has waited until now for the dust to settle before venturing north.

As ever

Kirsty