Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce Chapter 16.1&2

                                                                                                I

Norway

Bergen

February 1306

My dear Kirsty,

Our brother's life is filled with danger and uncertainty. How difficult it must be to watch these events unfold. Stay strong, dear one.

Some weeks back, Erling offered to take us up to the snowline to skate on a frozen loch and go on to the boggy plateau where reindeer herds roam. His sister has a farm there. At the longhouse, we received a warm welcome. During the afternoon, Inga played with Jorunn's daughter, Arnora, over in the barn where several small reindeer, rescued from heavy drifts of snow, were receiving care. The girl's brothers were out collecting fuel, but would return soon. For supper, a platter of roast reindeer and spiced cabbage was followed by stewed moltboer, delicious berries which grow on open, swampy ground. A winter storm crackled overhead.

In the warm glow of the central hearth, Hrolfr Haraldsson relished telling the old tales, often finishing with a loud slap on his thigh and a rumbling belly laugh. Jorunn had long since given up trying to quieten her husband and the children slept through these sessions. Inga was not so fortunate. She dozed on a pallet with Solas, alert-eared at her side. Over time, I have learnt about Odin. Now, the story of Thor – the noisiest god of all – was told by barrel-chested Hrolfr, whose mass of fiery hair acted as a flare within the smoky darkness.

Armed only with his magic hammer, the god of thunder rode upon his eight-legged steed, killing giants – deceivers all – wherever he went. He was straightforward and reliable, as well as being game for anything. In a drinking contest, some giants gave him a horn – concealing the fact that its tip lay in the sea. Regardless, he outdrank his companions, draining the sea so much that the tide ebbed. During battles, the thunderer claimed the lower echelon of society, slaves and the like. Thus, he became every man's hero. A memory surfaced of the amulet Hauk wore around his neck. At the same time, it was clear the huge impact Christianity had upon these farming folk. A wooden crucifix hung loosely around Jorunn's neck. In darkness and in light, fearful horrors lay in wait. All protection was welcomed.

Next morning, Jorunn's prized berry patch, set some distance from the longhouse, was our destination. Under a clear sky, the high plateau glistened with crystalline patches of snow. Soon, it was time to depart for home with myself in the back of the cart. Inga lay asleep beside me, whilst Solas curled his snug, little body around my feet. Beneath the light of the swaying lantern, Bethoc sat with Erling, huddled against the chill. In the dusk of early afternoon, the craftsman began to hum his country's ancient songs – his voice, deep and melodious. Bethoc's notes came as sweet and pure as the crisp, clean air.

In time, only the sound of the horse's hooves striking rocks on the path broke the silence. Somehow, I slept. My dreams took me to Turnberry under a pale, moonlit sky with silver-shot waves rolling onto the rocky shore. From somewhere deep within, a searing pain surfaced. Bitter tears stung my eyes. My fingers sought the warm comfort of the gold crucifix at my neck, but upon my lap, a tiny metal hammer, a gift from Hrolfr, lay enclosed within my palm.

Isa

                                                                                                        II

Scotland

Kildrummy Castle

February 1306

Isa, dear heart,

Good news at last! Alexander, has been appointed Dean of Glasgow with the whole-hearted approval of Bishop Wishart. Braving snow and sleet, our clever brother came to tell us himself. Mhairi was especially pleased to see him and made his favourite dishes for the banquet. Mary is back to her old self. She went out hunting with Christopher, bringing down a hind for the celebration. Needless to say, the long respite has done all our guests good as spirits were at breaking point.

A few days past, Rob and Alexander took the children skating on the Dee and thence to the slopes where they carried old sleds and careered down. Donald and Marjorie collided, and the outing ended with scraped skin and damaged pride. Rob carried Marjorie home on his back, cradling her injured knee with his warrior's hands. Despite the weather, he and his troops plan to go south soon. He seeks to confront the treacherous Comyn.

Of his own plight, Rob spoke with ill-deserved harshness. "Grandfather would have raised merry hell by now, but I – Earl of ancient Carrick and a contender for the Scottish throne – sit here in fine comfort, allowing fear to curdle belly and soul; much like Father would have done!" Since then, his men have begun a punishing regime of training to regain their fitness for whatever challenges lie ahead.

On his way home, Alexander stopped at Guisborough to pay his respects to Grandfather. At Holm Coltram Abbey, he stood by a lonely grave. In the borderlands of Scotland, the charred ruins of the old abbeys – Melrose, Dryburgh and Jedburgh – lay empty. Some of the monks fled to the hills; others were not so lucky. Not that England escaped either with Scottish raids into Northumberland and Yorkshire wreaking havoc. Even so, it was the destruction of our homeland that caused Alexander the most despair. He visited friends only to find farms burnt, homes destroyed or in grave disrepair. Starvation and illness have finished what the war started. His beloved abbey, Crossragruel, had not escaped desecration. Soldiers stabled their horses in the church. In the melee, some of the monks died – even Father Dughlas, our old tutor – in a vain attempt to prevent the destruction of the library by fire. With his journey home, our brother travelled more than miles. His youthful beliefs fractured and were forged anew.

With great affection, we joined in celebrating Alexander's success and bowed our heads at the banquet as he blessed the abundance set out before us. When he departed to take up his new role as Dean of Glasgow, we wished our brother well.

Yours aye

Kirsty