Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce: Part 2; Chapter 6.6&7

                                                                                            VI

England

Newcastle

October 1312

Mary Bruce continued her verbal battle with the diminutive Gascon captain. She badgered him into allowing her a daily walk under guard along the battlements of the castle; it was something to look forward to in a long, dull day and, from the castle's walls, she could see down into the town along the narrow, festering lanes and across to the harbour. Her health would suffer if she was not permitted exercise. To emphasise the point, she had waved the crippled joints of her hands at him, wincing in pain. Her feet she assured him were similarly damaged and needed to be exercised to reduce the swelling.

Et voila! It was agreed. Mary was well-pleased and congratulated herself. For his part, the wily commander believed the prisoner might prove useful to him in the future if the wild men from the north came raiding south. Then, the harridan would find herself most useful tied up on the battlements. Indeed, had not the brigand, Wallace, attacked Newcastle many years ago? Now, the depredations at Hexham and Durham had been the talk of the market place. Should he need to negotiate his own escape, the prisoner's improved wellbeing and good opinion of one, Guillemin Fenes, might prove a distinct advantage.

All this manipulation and folly came to a sudden end. Piers Gaveston, the captain's kin and mentor, was executed by King Edward's recalcitrant barons. Pale and sticky with despair, the little Gascon was sent to Roxburgh Castle, ever closer to the Scots' hordes.

The prisoner would miss the prickly little man, but she did not know how much until the next garrison commander arrived. A brutish stickler for rules, the blunt Yorkshire man would not tolerate any discussion or leeway with the prisoner. Like Kirsty, Mary was put to work in the infirmary. Had she been placed in the stables, as she requested, she would have seen to the horses quite happily, but the captain was no fool and would not allow her the opportunity for escape near any of their fine animals.

Mary loathed having to treat the men, injured in raids by Scots to the north and west of them. It repulsed her to wash lice-ridden bodies and dress pus-encrusted wounds, which later turned black and evil-smelling before the wretched men died in agony. She loathed leeches and the sight of their engorged bodies made her gag. The image of fat maggots feeding on rotted flesh haunted her dreams and, in the half light of early morn, when white, shrouded bodies began to wriggle towards her from the shadows, she began to scream.

                                                                                                VII

Scotland

Dingwall Castle

December 1312

Dearest Isa,

We have missed you. Will crawls into your chamber and hoists himself up, hanging onto the bed's counterpane. Then, his wee face crumples. I want to join in his despair. Marjorie, too, is lost without your devoted attention.

I have much news to impart. Our brothers returned from the south. Rob led a raid upon Berwick Castle. They were doing well, he said, creeping in the dead of an icy night up to the walls and using grappling irons to hoist ladders up onto the ramparts. A hound barked, disturbing the dozing guard, and our folk had to run for their lives. It was a close call, indeed, and they returned here badly in need of our care. With the men away, food has been scarce, that is until last week, when Edward and Hugh hunted with Earl William over near his lodge bringing back several fine deer and two massive boars. Thus we will eat well over Yuletide and have enough to share with the villagers.

The weather matches my mood: the skies are bleak and the rutted tracks filled with puddles. At night, hot stones in our bed are most welcome. Until the fires are lit in the morning, the castle chambers are frigid and I am tempted to lie abed for longer.

A subtle increase in warmth this morning brought a covering of snow. Looking out through the arrow loop, I can see the village below; it looks pristine – crisp and white – rather than the usual mess of muddy walkways and dark habitations. Staying by the hearth is by far the best option for now. My embroidery keeps me busy. The coverlet for William's bed is almost complete. You were right about those colours: they look much better. My maids, Janet and Mirin, are working on a similar one for Marjorie. How fortunate you are living in Bergen with choice of fabric and thread. Little comes our way here apart from the most basic of goods. English ships at Banff continue to waylay many of our trading vessels.

Hugh oversees the building of new stables; snow weighed down the roof of the old one and it was close to collapse. The bailey is in greater disarray than usual. Horses stand about while repairs continue. The men have gone out today to find a Yule Log. Over the next few days, supervising all the preparations for the feast will keep me well occupied. It will be a happy time with our brothers here.

Edward and Isabella are besotted with each other. Much of the talk is about when they might marry. Though it comes via the church, I feel sure the countess has posed this consanguinity issue to halt the marriage plans. Perhaps she believes Isabella will come to her senses if given enough time. I do hope the pair will join in the festivities and Rob is well enough to do so. His rash has returned which is unsettling for all of us who bear the brunt of his temper. The physicians apply the leeches, but this makes him tired and wan. He fights an overwhelming desire to scratch and paw at the crusty lesions on his skin. At such a time, public life is a terrible ordeal for him.

Bishop David and his entourage are expected by week's end. Rooms must be aired, new rushes laid down, cressets renewed and pallets set up with fresh heather mattresses. Last time he complained of fleas, so all bedding had to be thrown out. The cook was here not long ago to discuss the menus. I recalled the bishop was most partial to roast swan, so Hugh and Edward plan to go fowling with him on the marshes.

Marjorie loves to feel the rolling movements of the babe. William is convinced otherwise, for one of our wolfhounds has just delivered a squirming set of six, and he expects I shall do the same! Hugh choked on his wine when I told him. Rolling over at night is getting more difficult and going to the garderobe so often is most tedious. My belly craves sustenance at all hours and will not let me rest. Nothing will satisfy but the strangest concoctions – poached heron and savoury possets in the dead of night! Hugh is not impressed, I have to say. Neither are the cooks or servitors, when shaken from their warm cots. We all send our love.

Mathilda