Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce: Part 2, Chapter 1.3

                                                                                  III

Scotland

April 1307

Seemingly from nowhere, sharp-edged rocks smashed against the bars of the cage attached to the walls of Roxburgh Castle. The latticed wood and iron structure began to sway and rock. The din was shattering. There followed the dull thud of last season's wizened apples. A bevy of rotten eggs exploded with force, covering Mary Bruce in the vile, sulphurous substance and, shortly after, a volley of excrement splattered across her face. This afternoon ritual took place as workers returned home from the fields. The bushes beside the path provided a screen but, often, Mary caught the jeering bark of laughter and was ready for them; crawling behind a curtained area where a makeshift privy hole had been cut into the wooden floor. It was the ideal place from which to scream virulent abuse. Today, she was caught dozing, dreaming of her grey palfrey on a hunt in the rolling hills around Kildrummy.

Mary was bone-weary. Caged now for almost a year, the extraordinary effort of will required to stay alive was taking its toll. All the previous night, a vicious north wind had blown, shaking the rickety structure. Fear and pain kept her awake. Thin blankets did little to keep out the bleak cold. Her limbs ached interminably. Her fingers and toes had begun to twist just as the branches of trees always exposed to strong wind. Strange lumps formed on the joints and no amount of rubbing eased their throbbing. She wished for a pot of Kirsty's salves. Lest bleak despair overtake her once more; Mary forced the thought from her mind. Blankness was the only way to deal with this evil.

For a long time, she cursed everything and everyone. King Edward and his armies took pride of place in her litany of hate, closely followed by the Earl of Ross. Her family did not miss out either upon her vitriol – Grandfather for his false dreams of kinghood and Robert for taking the Scots crown as his own, placing them all in such jeopardy. Spoken in anger so long ago, it seemed St Malachy's curse might have rent the curtain of time once more. Now, fate had brought the Bruce family to its knees; they would all wither and die.

Within her accursed cage, Mary focused her angst upon those enemies closest to hand. Lice crawled in her lank hair and over her body, finding homes in damp, dark places. Rough splinters in the wooden planking dug into her bones and sharp burrs in the woolen covers scratched at her skin. At night, the nipping, teasing fleas, which infested her bedding, made her scratch and rip at her skin and by morning her sores would fester and weep. Frigid air whistled up through the hole of her privy, piercing her most private regions with its icy, probing fingers.

In these, the middle years of her womanhood, Mary longed for the warmth of human touch and words, softly spoken, but her only friends now were the sparrows and other tiny birds which could fit between her bars. They came to eat the crumbs of dry crust from her dinner or the shattered pieces of fruit or egg. On the floor of her cage, Mary lay quite still with her face as close to the tiny creatures as possible to absorb the lightness of warm, feathered bodies and fragile legs. In their bright, beaded eyes, she saw the wild freedom of the skies. They were so dear to her, more familiar even than the faces of her own family. She named them all. Chittering and chirping, they spoke of trips made far and wide and gratefully drank the hot tears which dripped from the end of Mary's nose, pooling onto the rough furs.

Sometimes, sleet beat its fine, staccato rhythm on the iron bars and entered her small haven, sending icy darts to chill and pierce. When the sun shone, the stark beauty of the snow hurt her eyes and soul. Winter gales rocked the little house until it seemed it would be caught and taken into the belly of the howling tempest. She wished it would fling her far from this accursed fortress. Overhearing the muted conversations of her corpulent gaolers, Mary learnt they were under strict instructions to keep her alive. No more than that! Only in the fiercest weather did a few extra blankets and stinking furs come her way, shoved into her stiff, blue hands through the latched door on the side where a wooden landing had been built.

The prisoner had watched as the trees down beside the river faded from gold to amber. The leaves drifted and dropped to form a multi-hued carpet below, 'til only the delicate tracery of bare branches remained. Now, the branches were touched by the faintest aura of green: a new season was on its way. To escape the scant physical comfort, pain and misery, Mary's thoughts soared with the wind and rode the spirals and dips with her fellow travellers, the birds. Such freedom rendered her speechless with joy, but then she had little need for words.

Roxburgh had once been a Scots town. Now, English soldiers and their families were billeted throughout the area. From her vantage point, Mary watched smoke spiralling up out of the smoke vents of the cottages. Each day, a motley crowd straggled by the castle on their way to market. The prisoner strained her eyes scanning each passer-by. Perhaps there was someone familiar from whom she could garner information. One might even pass a message to her brothers so they might rescue her. Ever practical, Mary knew they would be killed if they came, but that did not stop the bitter poignancy of hope. At one time, on a nightly basis, she enacted her own escape in her mind. As the seasons passed, these imaginings dissipated. Out of necessity, Mary's longing to see home and family was banished to some remote corner of the soul where the sharp spikes of grief could be laid to rest, to mourn in peace. She would be here in her cage until death, her most likely rescuer, claimed her. Only then might her spirit find its way home.

From time to time, a physic peered through the bars, proclaiming all was well. She decided he must be near-sighted or well-rewarded to ignore such misery, for she had shown him her encrusted sores and stretched her bent and twisted fingers through the bars of the cage, whimpering in pain at the effort. Nevertheless, after each visit, she would receive an extra jug of sour vinegar which passed for wine. Meat and grains would appear in her broth. When he left the castle and returned to the town, once more her daily gruel would be watered down to a grey, rancid slime. The wine she could barely drink, but she put it to good use to bathe her wounds and pour onto the lice in her hair. Obscurely, what helped to keep her alive was the fruit in varying stages of decay, wilfully thrown at her cage.

Mary's joys now were small, but offered exquisite pinpricks of pleasure. The fleeting colours of sunrise held her spellbound. Across the crevices of the castle's thick, stone walls, tiny spider webs hung, festooned with dew drops which sparkled with the early morning rays. The ascending cries of larks high overhead or a tiny, perfect robin chirping beside her caused her breath to catch. At times, it seemed the air itself shimmered with sound. If the wind were right, she could make out the haunting melodies of blackbirds and nightingales in the thick belt of trees down by the broad, spreading river. With the immediacy of such beauty, Mary's spirit escaped her earth-bound sorrows.

The cage had been hung on the village side of the castle to place the prisoner within easy view, or aim, of passers-by. The intention was to cause maximum humiliation and distress, but this outlook offered Mary the unexpected benefit of the variety of sights that lay before her. Across the wooden bridge, great ox-drawn wagons lumbered past, laden with goods for the castle. Some, she noted, were filled with grain, indicating the end of harvest. With the onset of summer, wool shorn from the fat sheep in the lush fields filled the carts. Before long, she could recognise the villagers and soldiers and took an interest in their movements. She saw courting couples as they ran to hide behind the stooks of hay over yonder. In time, children grew from being babes-in-arms to brawling bairns within some oft-seen family groups. When some of the older folk no longer wandered by, she presumed illness or death had overtaken them. Such benign thoughts helped to fill the long hours.

Time meant nought to Mary and was measured only in the movement of the sun or the shifting of the dull, pewter-grey light to impenetrable darkness. Initially, she carved the days in the wooden planks of the floor but gave up that practice. Now, she only marked the seasons.