The Price of the King's Peace bt-3 Page 2

  joy, indeed …”

  “Jamie! Dear Jamie-my good friend! My true knight still!”

  Elizabeth said a little unsteadily.

  “I might have known that you would come to meet me. And … and looking scarce a day older, I vow!”

  “A laddie still,” the Bruce’s voice commented quietly, deeply.

  “But, by his deeds, a man!”

  “I have heard of the deeds of Sir James Douglas, never fear,” the Queen agreed.

  “All England has! The Black Douglas has been a name to tremble at these past years.” Smiling, she released her hand from the younger man’s eager grip. But she gave his own a little stroke in the process, that brought a flush of gladness to those almost delicate boyish features which so many men feared, as she turned to Gilbert Hay.

  That man, ever quiet, a little hesitant of speech, retiring save in the face of the enemy, took that hand silently. But his grey eyes, upturned to hers, were full.

  “Sir Gilbert-Gibbie Hay, my friend! You also. Another paladin!

  Renowned Lord High Constable of Scotland, no less! My two most fond and favoured knights. I thank you-in the name of sweet Jesu I thank you both. Not to have … forgot me!”

  “Forgot!” Hay all but choked.

  “Did you think…?”

  “No, no, friend. But it has been so long. And you with so much else to consider than an Irishwoman captive in a far land …”

  “You might well have believed yourself forgot!” Bruce interrupted, almost harshly.

  “That in eight long years these paladins, your husband and your so leal knights, could not come for you!

  Could not, in all their warfare and victory, lead an expedition into England to release their Queen! God knows, we thought of it, talked of it, enough! Sought to plan it. But…”

  “My dear—how could you! Think you I did not know it was impossible? I am a soldier’s daughter, you will recollect” “And yet-you must have hoped, lass? I swear you did. Even I did that! Deceived myself. When we won as far south as Durham two years ago…”

  “I knew! I knew it could not be. Even then. To get so far as Durham was a wonder. And a terrible hazard. How it warmed my heart to know you so near. If more than a hundred miles be near!”

  “If they had not held Your Grace so far to the south,” Douglas said.

  “On the Humber. All great Yorkshire in between. A populous land, of great lords, great castles, large cities. Northumberland, Cumberland, even Durham itself-these are different. But great Yorkshire to cross. We would never have won back to Scotland.”

  “Do not vex yourselves,” Elizabeth pleaded.

  “All this I knew. As did the English! That is why they placed me there. Just beyond your reach. Yet sufficiently near to Scotland to tempt you. So that perchance you might attempt a rescue-and be trapped. That is why I was not sent to London, to the Tower, like Marjory. Is it not so, Sir Roger?”

  Northburgh, the English hostage knight, prisoner at Bannockburn and sent south by the Earl of Hereford, England’s High Constable, and the vast company of captured lords, to effect this part of the exchange, shrugged.

  “His Majesty scarcely takes me into his royal confidence, Madam,” he

  “This William Lamberton told us,” the King acceded.

  “But even so …” He sighed.

  “I was sore tempted, many times. But-I was a king. Not just a husband. With a realm, a people, to free. Not just a wife!” That was said hardly, deliberately.

  “You understand?”

  “I understand,” she agreed quietly, but as firmly as he.

  “I heard you swear your coronation oaths, you will mind. As I swore mine.”

  “Aye. Well, then-enough of this. It is fifteen miles to the Border. Thirty yet before Annan, where we lie tonight. Time we rode.” He turned.

  “You, Sir Roger Northburgh -you have other duties to perform. A-many. My daughter. My sisters. The Countess of Buchan. Bishop Wishart of Glasgow. All these captives to bring to me, before your lords at Stirling go free. See you to it. And quickly.”

  The Englishman bowed and took his leave, to ride on alone downhill towards Hotham’s waiting company.

  To ringing cheers and acclaim the royal group rode up to the main body of the Scots, the most lovely Queen bowing and smiling.

  When the remaining knights and captains had been presented and had kissed the Queen’s hand, many of them renowned veterans of savage warfare, and all of whom had sought eagerly for the honour of making up this escort, impatient to be off, the King signed to a trumpeter.

  With the bugle-notes neighing, the whole company turned to face

  Scotland. And biting her lips, Elizabeth de Burgh looked back over her

  shoulder for a last look at the land which had held her captive for

  what should have been the best years of her life and the productive

  years of her marriage. In the much-battered redstone castle of Annan

  that night, Robert Bruce, waiting with such patience as he could muster for the hour when he could decently announce his own and his wife’s retiral from the convivial but maddeningly protracted scene was unexpectedly involved in another reunion. The clatter of many hooves in the courtyard below intimated the arrival of another party, thus late in the evening. And a little later, two figures appeared in the doorway of the Great Hall, weary, travel-worn but glad-eyed- a man and a woman.

  Had it not been for the fact that the dark, saturnine man was Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe, chief of his clan, whom he had sent to collect her, the King would scarcely have recognised the woman as one of his own sisters. Eight years had dealt a deal more drastically with the appearance of the Lady Mary Bruce than with that of the Queen. He had last seen her, a plump, laughing tomboy of a girl of seventeen, in the woods of Strathfillan, after the rout of Dail Righ; now he saw a haggard, thin, great-eyed woman of fine but ravaged features, obviously desperately tired and leaning on her escort’s arm.

  “Dear God!” her brother breathed, rising.

  All others rose, likewise, in that crowded hall. But though it was the

  monarch who moved towards the pair at the door, his wife out paced

  “Mary!” the Queen cried, and ran to the other woman, arms

  outstretched, all formalities abandoned.

  The two women were embracing, murmuring in coherencies as Bruce came up. He glanced at the Highlander, brows raised.

  “The accursed English!” Campbell all but snarled. He was ever a man of strong feelings and few words.

  “Mary, lass!” the King said.

  “What… what have they done to you!”

  “Robert! Robert!” His sister turned to him, still clutching

  “Praise God! I never thought… to see you … again.”

  “Praise! Praise, you say?” her brother barked. And then softened his voice and forced a smile.

  “Aye, praises be, lass. Welcome home, Mary.”

  “Home, yes.” Her voice cracked and broke on the simple word, and with them she was in his arms, sobbing.

  “Home, Robert! But where… where is Nigel? And Alex? And Tom?”

  He swallowed, and found no words. Annan Castle was indeed home to Mary Bruce. Here, third daughter of the fifth Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, she had been brought up, and when, with endless invasion and terror come to Scotland, her Celtic mother having died, her rather feckless Norman-Scots father exiled to die in England, and her three older brothers away at the wars, she had kept house for her two youngers brothers, Alexander and Thomas, a gay and youthful establishment despite the constant alarms, assaults and intermittent nights to safety elsewhere. Now she was back to where she could see, just across Solway, where those two young men had been hanged and disembowelled by Edward of England, following all too exactly in the footsteps of the third brother, Nigel a year or so before.

  They led Mary Bruce to the table between them, as she sought to staunch and dry her tears and it was notable how close Neil Campbell stayed to her, gently taking her travelling-cloak. While his sister recovered herself, t
he King questioned his friend.

  “You had no trouble, Neil? No challenge to your mission?”

  “None, Sire. Since Bannockburn, a hundred of them run from a couple of Scots! Our hostage, Heron, was well known in Newcastle, and made his own and his lord’s needs very clear! Henry Percy himself delivered the Lady Mary into our hand. And … as God is my witness, I near cut him down there and then at the sight of her!”

  “Aye. Well I can credit it! They … they still illused her?”

  Mary Bruce herself answered that, having pulled herself together with a major effort.

  “No. No, I was no longer illused.

  After … after Roxburgh, they shut me up in the Gilbertine nunnery at Newcastle. I was kept alone. By myself. For near four years there. But treated not unkindly. The sisters were not harsh. After Roxburgh it was … a kind of heaven!”

  All that company, listening keenly, was silent. None would dare ask this gaunt woman of twenty-five years of the fifth of her life which she had passed at English-captured Roxburgh Castle near the Border. There, on the late King Edward’s command, she had been immured in an open cage of wood and iron, day and night, summer and winter, hanging over the outer walls of the castle, like a wild animal for all to see and mock-as also had the young Countess of Buchan at nearby Berwick Castle. How these two women had survived such appalling and long-continued savagery, none knew-and could by no means ask, yet awhile.

  Neil Campbell growled in his throat.

  “God be thanked, all that is now past, Mary,” the Queen said.

  “We can start anew. A new life. Prayers answered. At last. Free again. As is Scotland. Thanks to … thanks to …” She looked at the sternly-frowning man who was husband and brother.

  That frown, so permanently there these last long, terrible years,

  faded momentarily to a smile of great warmth, almost sweetness, strange in that rugged face, the blue eyes gleaming-for Robert Bruce had been a gay and laughing character once, whom not only his enemies had labelled irresponsible.

  “Thanks to every man in this hall,” he finished for her.

  “And so many others. Living and dead. I have been blessed in my friends.”

  The deep murmur from all around was no mere polite and courtly acknowledgement of a royal compliment. There was not a real courtier present-and the Bruce did not pay compliments.

  “God be thanked indeed,” Mary agreed.

  “I grow hoarse thanking Him, and all saints. But … Christian?” she asked, after her elder sister.

  “And little Matilda? And Edward? Aye, and your poor Marjory, Robert?

  How is it with them?”

  “Edward you will meet in Stirling. He is well. And, it seems, contemplating marriage at last! Of all women, to Ross’s daughter, Isabella. The man who betrayed you to the English, at Tain!” A shrug, and another brief smile.

  “Pray God she may tame him somewhat!

  Maltida is well also-and none so little now. Indeed, she looks for happiness already-and towards that same family, strangely. To Sir Hugh Ross. Who has proved a better man than his father! Christian and Marjory are still in England, prisoner -but likewise to be exchanged for these English lords at Stirling.

  Of whom we have a-plenty! I have sent for them. But they are held further south …”

  Although it was not long before Elizabeth led her sister-in-law away to

  see her bedded, it was a deal later that, at last, the King could take

  his wife’s arm and withdraw in becoming fashion from the bowing,

  excited company. Wordless, they climbed the winding turnpike stair together. In the lofty but modest tower chamber which had been his bedroom as a boy, the King closed the door behind him with a sigh,

  though of something other than relief.

  “By the Rude-to be alone!” he said.

  “It is easier, I swear, to lead an army, to win a battle, than to gain a little solitude! For one who wears a crown. Always others there, thronging.”

  “That has scarcely been my burden, Robert,” she observed.

  “Ah-forgive me, my dear. Of course. You have been kept solitary.

  Fool that I am! Years alone …”

  “Years, yes. So that now, Robert, you will understandI am a little strange. In company.”

  “To be sure. I should have thought of it, lass. But now, at last, we are alone. That is by with. The company. Care for nothing…”

  “I will try. But the company I spoke of is not just those … others, I fear. You must be patient with me, my heart.”

  “You mean …? That I—I myself trouble you? You find me … find me other than you did?”

  “Dear Mary-Mother- no! Oh, Robert bear with me. I am become a weak and foolish woman …”

  “That, I vow, you are not! Weak you never were. Or of us two, the fool! Do not fear, Elizabeth. I shall not trouble you …”

  “Oh, Robert-hear me. What have I said? It is nothing so. This, I think, is the most happy day of all my life! It is but that… eight years is a long time. With no man near my bed. Scarce a man to speak to, but some sour gaoler. Or a priest. And, on occasion, William Lamberton. My dear, I have longed for this night. And yet dreaded it. Lest … lest I fail you, in some measure. No longer please you.”

  He went to grip her arm.

  “Save us-is this Elizabeth de Burgh!

  Is this the woman I took, yon time, by Linlithgow Loch? Aye, and who took me! And the hundreds of times thereafter, through years of marriage?”

  “I was younger then, my dear. And … and a nun since! Whereas you you will have had women a-many.”

  That was a statement and no question. Nevertheless it gave the man pause. Still holding her, he eyed her from under down-drawn brows.

  “Tell me, Elizabeth-what do you desire?” he asked.

  “Believe me, it shall be as you say.”

  “You are kind. And I a fool, as I said. It is only this, Robert-woo me a little, this night. As though … as though I was a virgin. Your bride. Though I was no virgin when you wed me, to be sure! A little patience, my love. Of your mercy.”

  “Mercy!” he repeated.

  “You do not know what you say, lass. I it is who should ask for mercy.

  Of you. Since I have been no monk!

  Have known other women. Have failed you…”

  “Do not say it, Robert. Let us have no talk of failure. Lest I seem to fail you now.”

  “Foolish one indeed! How could Elizabeth de Burgh fail Robert Bruce!

  You love me still?”

  “I do love you. Not still, but more than ever I dreamed possible.

  And want you-want you with all my heart. Only-only this body I am afraid of, a little …”

  He took her arm in his arms, then, and ran a gentle but strong and

  knowledgeable hand over her comprehensively, from the smooth crown of

  her flaxen head, down the tall white column of neck, over the rich,

  bounteous swell of bosom, down to the long flanks of hip and thigh, and

  felt her quiver as comprehensively to his touch. “This body,” he

  said, deep-voiced, “need not be feared for, I warrant! Now, or ever. It is the most splendid, the most challenging, that any man could ever have under his hand. Under his whole person! What ails you at it, woman?”

  “I do not know.” She sounded, and felt to his touch, breathless.

  “Only lack of use, it may be. And years. I am thirty-five, Robert.

  And feel… more!”

  “Now? Do you feel so old, this moment? With my hands on you?”

  “No-o-o. But …”

  He stopped her mouth with his own. And after only a second or two, her lips parted.

  Even as they kissed, his hands were busy with her gown, probing, loosening, sure hands, confident as they were unhurried, masterful but yet coaxing.

  Soon her bodice slipped down, to uncover white shoulders. He left her mouth, to plunge his lips down into the noble curves of those magnificent breasts, urgent but tender.

  She moaned a little, but
neither urged him on nor held him back.

  He had to hold himself back, indeed, with a stern curb; but sought that no hint of it should evidence itself, even though his breathing deepened. As the rest of her gown fell to the floor, he stooped and scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to the bed.

  She was no light armful-but that would serve to account for his

  disturbed breathing.

  “There,” he panted.

  “Lie you there … and let me tell you how beautiful you are.”

  “As well the lamp is low!” she got out. But she stroked his face.

  “That is the second time this day that you have impugned my eyesight.

  Do you think me so old? At forty, woman?”

  “I think you … besotted. With love, it must be!”

  “So be it. I shall recount my love’s loveliness. Here and now. She is tall, see you-tall, and proudly made, comely of feature and of form.” Pressing her back on the bed, he ran a discerning finger down from head to toe.

  “Her hair is heavy as spun and shining gold, and has the colour of ripest corn.” He lifted a long coil of it and kissed it, running its strands through his lips.

  “Her skin is honey and cream admixed, yet softer than either and firmer than both.” He laid his rough cheek against her smooth one.

  “Her face is fine-wrought yet strong, clean-cut yet so fair as to break a man’s heart. And her lips-ah, her lips are kind and warm and wide and open to all delight!” He covered her mouth with his, and sank his tongue to hers.

  When she could speak, breathlessly, she gasped, “Since when … has Robert Bruce … turned poet!”

  “No poet,” he assured.

  “All this I have but rehearsed. On my bed so many nights. In camp and cave and heather. Going over every inch and line and joy of you. In my mind. So that I am expert.

  As thus.” He touched the tall column of her neck.

  “Her throat is smoothest marble, but alive, warm, strong. Her shoulders are whitely proud, turned to perfection. As for her breasts, they are all heaven in their twin loveliness, rich and round and rose-tipped, bold, beautiful, frank and firm.” He was moulding and caressing, thumbing, stimulating the awakening, rising nipples.