Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce Chapter 12.6

                                                                                                       VI

Scotland

Kildrummy Castle

September 1302

Isa, dear heart,

Mary and I wished we could have made the journey with you. Gliding up a fjord suits me well enough, but I think Mary would prefer to be at the helm steering the ship, telling boastful tales to the crew. Your adventures in Norway hold great appeal for our wild and unruly sister. Sometimes I catch an edge of envy in her voice. Mary sees herself as a warrior queen, but it could never end well. More likely, her forthright opinions would fuel a war and her head be loosed from her shoulders.

By comparison, our life is mundane. I cannot recall my last visit to the market in Aberdeen. How I miss Garnait's presence at my side. So often, Isa, I yearned for a strong and virile husband. I see now how much we talked and laughed together, making light of irksome tasks. Each week now, accounts must be sorted through and decisions reached. Our administrator tuts and purses his lips, just so, and seems to frown over much. I am sure he believes me to be a wastrel, but I attend to every penny. Perhaps I shall have Mary attend to him next time! That might hurry his deliberations.

Our country's complex affairs cause many visitors to pass this way, some of whom we must entertain in style. I tread warily with those whose support lies with Balliol and his kinfolk. They come seeking news of our brother, but cloak their queries in sly banter and jests. All of this comes on top of managing the household. Floraidh is unable to keep pace with the sickness – belly cramps and the like, brought in by their servitors. Now it spreads amongst our own. You can tell I have not slept well of late. Irritable words form so quickly upon my tongue I am hesitant to speak freely lest they offend.

Garnait's passing brings other pitfalls, about which I must keep my wits. Five-year old Donald is argumentative and resentful, unable to comprehend how his father could leave him. A child's ill-formed sense of betrayal burns in his small chest. Under the sad, careful eyes of the guards, he watches from the battlements for his father's return. Ellen is too small to know any difference, but it pains me to think she will not remember Garnait's easy smile or the way his eyes softened at the sight of her. Marjorie spends most of her time down in the stables with Talorc, avoiding me, as if I have secreted Garnait away out of spite. I truly have done nothing to deserve her ire, irrational and passionate as it is. Perhaps, in time, I may be forgiven.

Cocooned in the warmth and comfort of the great kitchen, Margaret is cosseted by Mhairi and the maids. Several years her senior, Aodh is an undemanding companion. As a much smaller lad, he stood in the huge fireplace turning the roasting meat on the long spits. His turn-brochie hands bear the scars of many burns. Now, those hands show Margaret how to whittle soft wood into the shapes of animals; a skill he learned from old Aonghas. In the sewing chamber, Mathilda finds solace in the peaceful company of Seonaid who has been altering gowns and tunics to fit a newly blossoming body.

With the passage of time, the bulbs I planted on my dear husband's grave blossom beautifully, as if fed from beneath by the goodness of his spirit. Being of a practical nature, Mary helps me a great deal. We sort through Garnait's manuscripts and letters and put away his precious objects and clothing into chests up in the attic. In doing so, some of the heaviness lifts from my heart. Life goes on, Isa, as you know full well.

In Midsummer, Scottish magnates, both here and in France, grew disheartened at the news of a battle lost by the French against Flanders. At Courtrai, so many French knights died that they are calling it a massacre. No longer will King Philippe be in a position to offer aid to Scotland and he may well seek a truce with England. For the good men who have striven at home and on the continent to manoeuvre a peace with England, all has been in vain. Thank the Lord that Garnait is not here to see this. It would have put him in a vile temper. Of late, a delegation of barons and bishops departed on yet another mission to Paris to see what can be salvaged from this debacle. Pray they find a solution.

In the distance, the gilded leaves of the forest shine in a rare patch of sunlight. Snow dusts the mountain-tops. Whilst the autumn air is crisp and pure, my throat tightens at another season's passing. Before the weather changes, we pitch in to gather the harvest. In the fields, scarecrows made by the children look strange, devoid of purpose. Crows – their black, upright shapes in sharp contrast against the golden stubble – strut and lurch, warbling their ancient songs of death and destruction.

Outside the castle walls, a small hamlet develops as families, farmers, traders and craftsmen move closer for our protection. We now have an additional tanner, carpenter and ironmonger. Structures of thatch and daub have been erected by those who lost homes and farms due to the high taxes imposed by the English when their power extended to the north. A fisherman hawks smoked fish and fresh salmon, whilst a brewer makes batches of welcome ale. Nearby, a cooper set up a stall selling barrels and pails. Few bother to make the journey over to the midden and the grounds around the castle stink with carcasses and refuse left lying about. The tanner, in particular, will be moved on soon enough, if he does not comply with my requests.

A while back, you asked about Rob's new wife. I still have not laid eyes upon her, but he sent news. They set up home in London at our manor house in Tottenham. Father softened and offered it as his wedding gift. Through one of the traders at Aberdeen, I sent a set of fine Flemish linen as well as blankets made by the household. It was part of our precious store, but it seems we may be safe for a while with Rob's successful attempts to gain King Edward's patronage. Some days ago now, I received a few words of thanks from Elizabeth, our new good sister. The missive was brief, but gracious, inquiring after the well-being of our families; she hopes to come north to Scotland to meet her dear husband's family. We look forward to such a visit.

As ever

Kirsty