Spirit of Fire

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Book excerpt

Prologue

This is not a diary; this is proof that my father was a hero.

A retelling, if you wish to call it that. But not a diary. I was young, and I still am, but sitting by the hearth now surrounded by what is left of my family, I ken the mistakes I have made, and I need you to understand what exactly happened to us, the Scottish, during the many years of English occupation. 

My mother died in childbirth. I never got the chance to meet her because I was too busy screaming my way into this war-stricken world. I may have cried out for her, but my memory does not span that far back into my past. My father certainly cried for her, either in his sleep or in his mind. I might not have been able to see it, but I knew he was grieving. Every time he glanced at me.

Talk of the village was that I was the spitting image of my late mother. If anything, for much of my earlier life I was sure I resembled a rodent. My large front teeth were mostly to blame, but once my blossoming began my face moulded around them. If I remember correctly, that began around the age of three and ten years.

My father, Robert the Bruce, was laird of our clan at the time we joined the rest of the Highlanders in war. As a laird, he had been given the task of producing healthy male heirs to take his position once he passed. At the time of my mother’s death, I was the only child he had legitimately created. Elizabeth de Burgh became his second wife five years later, in a ceremony at a small parish church.

When we joined the war, I had not yet welcomed any brothers or sisters, although if the time came that Father was granted another title, my stepmother would have to dwell even further on the thought of giving him a male heir to secure the Bruce line.

Chapter One 

From the journal of Marjorie Bruce

26th of March, 1306

Today was such an exciting day. We left early this morning on horseback into Scone for my father’s coronation. Old Bishop William de Lamberton was there performing the ceremony that made my father the newly crowned king of Scotland. My stepmother Elizabeth was anointed as the king’s consort, and I was not forgotten either. I was the last to be crowned. I am finally royalty, like Aunt Isabel.

I was not born a princess, so I have not the vaguest idea of how to act. Supposedly we have to act proper and roam the courtyards with servants by our sides and guards protecting us from everything that causes us even a little harm.

Soon after the coronation, we received a letter from my father’s military advisor. It seems that he is to go to war very soon. I do hate it when he does, as it gets very boring in the household. There is no one to lighten up its doorways. As well, there is always a notion that he may not return, perishing in battle, and that thought is not appropriate for such a young girl like me to have.

Elizabeth, my stepmother, is seventeen. She has long, delicate red hair, much like that of a fox. Father always says that red hair is the trait of the Scots, and soon the world will be overrun with Scotsmen alike. Elizabeth’s body shape has not yet been ruined by the marks of childbearing, and everything about her is tender, gentle, and soft.

I cannot compare her to Mother as I had never met her, not once. I prefer to believe that she was as beautiful as Elizabeth is. It is quite upsetting. I was her only bairn, and I do not have friends except for the poor slave girl Emmeline.

I like not to think about Emmeline much, because when I do, it causes me a great deal of sorrow. The lass is sixteen years of age, yet she is bedded every night by the drunken men of my father’s army. They do not care about the women they bed; they just want their pleasure. Countless times she has been pregnant, and all but four of her children have died in infancy. The warriors each give her a few coins for her troubles and never speak to her again. They do not even spare a glance for their children.

My father is yet to enlighten me on my marriage arrangements, although I expect that I am to be wed to a son of one of the noblemen within my father’s court. I do not care much to dwell on the thoughts of my future and what it may have in store for me.

Although Emmeline has lost her pride, she still proves to be a dutiful mother to all four of her children. I enjoy aiding her by looking after her mischievous children as she spends her waking hours at task.

Marjorie Bruce

30th of March, 1306

Father left two days ago to meet his army at the holds in Irvine. In a month he is to go to war. Pray to the Lord that he will survive.

Emmeline is always happy when the army leaves Ayrshire. I mentioned to her yesterday morn that I would make it my personal quest to find her a suitable husband just after the household healer advised her not to fall pregnant again. The stress of another bastard child would be the death of her. A husband will take care of her, and she shall live in happiness.

Elizabeth had received orders from my father that we were to travel to Norway to visit my aunt Isabel and cousin Ingeborg. My cousin is a year younger than me, and her late father, King Eric II, died when she was two. We are to leave tomorrow, and I gather that my father had more in mind than a polite visit. Emmeline and her children shall sail on the same boat as I, and Elizabeth and I shall share a cabin, so Emmeline can have her own. I truly do not mind sharing, and neither does Elizabeth. I believe we shall both enjoy the trip together.

At this moment, I am sitting by the hearth in Emmeline’s quarters watching over her children, who are all fast asleep. It is late at night, and I should be getting some rest as well. The youngest, Sorcha, is prone to stirring in the night. Her small form is as beautiful as an angel’s; she has her mother’s soft, delicate hands, and a fiery spirit. Although I am only nine, I cannot wait to become a mother and hold a delicate infant in my hands.

Emmeline has just arrived home, and she has given me a parcel containing red berries to take home to Elizabeth. I shall not intrude anymore, and I shall leave her with her children for the night.

Marjorie Bruce

7th of April, 1306

The boat docked in Oslo just last week, and the trip was less than delightful. I had not realized that I was one of many who would get seasick repeatedly. Being cooped up in a cabin when the ocean was in turmoil did not help at all, and the food was less than grand.

I was glad to rid myself of the boat. It smelt like sick, and Emmeline’s offspring were constantly retching over the side of the boat. For a lady who is used to a garderobe, I found the alternative quite unsettling and difficult to get used to.

It was embarrassing to ride into the capital in rags, hair all matted with grease and a face covered in dirt. After a short ride on horseback, our company arrived at Aunt Isabel’s palace and were greeted by several guards, all speaking Norwegian. I had no knowledge of this foreign tongue, and consequently my curiosity awoke.

I must say, the palace was majestic. The long corridors were illuminated with torches and music and I wandered down , running my hand along the walls and glossed furniture, luxuriating in the warmth. This Scandinavian household seemed to reflect a tranquil and placid persona, much unlike Turnberry Castle’s rough edges and bustling hallways. Never had I such a love for a house, and yet it was not mine.

My bodily reaction to the journey was so severe that it kept my stomach churning for two more days. I spent those hours in a large bed in a guest room. I slept and retched in a regular pattern, the nightmares of the tumbling sea taking over any rationality I once had. A fever came on the second day, but broke soon after. I was out of bed by the third day and ready to meet my relations.

There was to be a grand congregation of nobility that night in the main hall. I ambled towards my stepmother, shy of everyone else. I did not ken them, and they were all foreign figures to me. I had not been introduced to Aunt Isabel prior to our arrival, so you could only imagine my surprise when she laid a warm, delicate hand on my shoulder, interrupting my progress towards Elizabeth. I turned to see a tall, slender figure standing above me. Dressed in an elegant emerald green shawl and dress, Aunt Isabel looked down upon me with a quizzical look, obviously thinking about something that had crossed her mind.

I looked over to find Elizabeth’s face in the sea of nobility surging around me. I felt like a doomed ship stuck in a whirlpool of men and women alike. When I caught her eye, she noticed that Isabel was with me and hurried quickly over.

Curtseying politely, she smiled up at Father’s sister. “Dowager Queen Isabel, how pleasant it is to be in your presence.”

I curtseyed alongside, following Elizabeth’s actions. “And I am Princess Marjorie de Brus, your majesty.”

“My dear Marjorie, I am so pleased to finally meet you. King Robert has told me plenty in our usual correspondence!” Aunt Isabel exclaimed, grasping my hand and holding it in hers.

“Is cousin Ingeborg attending tonight?” I asked, curious about this cousin that I had not yet met.

The queen dowager smiled softly. “Ingeborg is, yet she knows little of the Scottish tongue so it may be hard to communicate.” At that moment Isabel gestured a well-dressed servant forward to the group we were standing in.

“Alvar, please show the queen and the princess into the drawing room, and we shall discuss the business we have intended to.”

Turning back to us, she smiled. "Alvar here is the only guard in my company to be fluent in the Scottish tongue. It is quite refreshing."

The dark-skinned servant moved forward and parted the crowd so we could follow him into a smaller room adjacent to the large hall. Aunt Isabel strode in soon after with a girl whom I assumed was my cousin Ingeborg. The small girl resembled her mother almost wholly, and her buck-toothed smile greeted me on arrival. The women sat down synchronously and folded their gloved hands across their laps as a sort of formality. I could not help but do the same.

“I have made plans for my dear daughter in the near future,” Isabel said slowly. “She is to wed an earl by the name of Jon Magnusson when she comes of age.”

Ingeborg sat there dumbly, not understanding a single word of the conversation unfolding in front of her. I wondered whether she had been told of these plans.

“We should get you married soon, young Marjorie,” Isabel proceeded. “You need a good man to break you in and teach you the ways of the housewife. In fact, I’ve got the perfect nobleman here. Royalty, he is.”

Before I could open my mouth, Elizabeth intervened. “She is only nine, Isabel. She will not marry until she reaches fourteen. Those are her father’s orders, and she is not even a woman yet.”

“And you are seventeen, Elizabeth,” she retorted. “Shouldn’t you be bearing children yet? Brother Robert will be getting anxious for an heir soon.”

Turning to me, she scowled. “Do you have any idea what this means for you, Marjorie?”

I shook my head, utterly confused. Elizabeth placed a hand on my shoulder and tried to reason with the queen dowager. “Marjorie is young. She does not understand the formalities quite yet. I do not understand why she should need to worry herself with them either.”

In Isabel’s eyes I saw pity, although I did not know whether to feel grateful or degraded. “You have the title of princess now, Marjorie, and you are the eldest child of the king of Scotland.” She paused her lecture to stifle a sigh. “However, what you do not understand is that as soon as Elizabeth married your father, your right to the crown was put into question. Any offspring by Elizabeth will have first priority, and you will have nothing.”

Elizabeth stood there in shock. Straightening her shawl, she stormed off, leaving me standing there in front of my aunt. I felt completely speechless and utterly terrified as I left the bright hall, no longer feeling the warmth that I was so sure I had felt before. I wanted Father so badly. Certainly he wouldn’t agree with Aunt Isabel.

I ran through the dim halls in search of either Elizabeth or Emmeline. Entering the guest room, I hoped someone would in there, but the room was dark and empty. The servants’ quarters were the next place I ransacked, the whole time my spark of hope fading. I knew deep down that I wouldn’t find anyone I knew in this massive palace.

Marjorie Bruce