The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  “I have brought the King. The Bruce. The Sassenach King.

  He is here, man. Tell him what it is. What troubles you. Tell him.”

  The dying man stared up at Bruce. His lips moved, but no sound issued.

  “Speak up, man …”

  Bruce knelt on the rush-strewn floor beside the sufferer.

  “You have word for me? Of my wife?” he demanded.

  “What do you know?”

  The other’s eyes rolled up, and his lids closed. But after a moment he opened them again, and whispered.

  “The sanctuary. I ,.. I swore … ill would … come of it. The sanctuary … violated.”

  “Sanctuary?

  What sanctuary? What do you mean? Tell me, man.”

  “Duthac,” the other muttered.

  “The saint. It was … ill done.”

  “Of a mercy! What is this of saints? What was ill done?” Bruce gripped the man’s arm.

  The old Murdo signed to the King to wait. He spoke more gently in the other’s ear.

  “Friend-heed you. Here is opportunity.

  To unburden your soul. You go to be with God. Soon. You said that your soul was heavy. A weight of guilt. I have no priest-but here is the King. You said it was God’s judgement-that you should be cut down by the Sasanach King. Here he is. Speak while you may.”

  In a fever of anxiety Bruce looked up at the woman. She touched his shoulder and shook her head.

  The Rossman stared past them all, up at the shadowy, smoke wreathed roof, un winking Then he spoke again, more clearly though no more strongly.

  “My lord commanded it. He cared nothing … for the sanctuary. We

  took the women … out of it, This Queen. And the child. Slew their

  men … there at the altar.

  My lord commanded it…”

  “Dear God-what are you saying? The Queen? And the child?

  My Marjory? Speak plain, man-for sweet Christ’s sake! What lord?

  What sanctuary?”

  “Saint Duthac’s. At Tain. My lord of Ross. Chief of our Clan Aindreas. William, the Earl. The other earl-Atholl. He was fleeing, with the women. North. To the Orcades, they said. The English king’s men after them. Fleeing through my lord’s territories.

  My lord sought to take them. They took refuge in the chapel. Of Saint Duthac. At Tain. A noted sanctuary. We caught them there …”

  “You caught them! Took them? You took the Queen? And my daughter?

  You slew … slew …?”

  “Only the men. Who would have stayed us, lord. At the altar.

  God forgive me! Not the women. Atholl, the other earl, wounded.

  My lord William handed him over. To the English. With the women. It was ill done …”

  “God! When? When was this?”

  But the other seemed to be seized with a bout of agonising pain.

  Only groans came from him.

  “Answer me, wretch!” Bruce cried, almost beside himself.

  “When was this infamy?” He shook the moaning man.

  There was no answer, no further meaningful words, just the grievous sounds of a man in his extremity. With a fierce effort Bruce sought to take a grip upon himself, rising to his feet.

  “So-Edward!” he panted.

  “Edward Plantagenet -he has my Elizabeth! And Marjory. By the damnable treachery of William of Ross. God Almighty’s curse upon him!” On a gasping intake of breath he paused, eyes widening. He was staring at Christina MacRuarie, but he did not see her.

  “No-God’s curse on me! Myself-it is myself that is accursed! Myself, I tell you. You heard? At the altar. Taken at the altar. At this Tain. As I took John Comyn’s life at the altar. At Dumfries. Jesu God! It is I who did this. I who betrayed my wife and daughter …”

  “Sire! My lord Robert-do not say so. You cannot blame yourself for this. For the villainy of Ross. Do not scourge yourself …”

  Blindly he turned away, making for the door.

  In the courtyard she caught up with him, reaching for his sound arm.

  “See-come with me,” she urged.

  “We will speak of this quietly, privately.”

  He removed his arm, though not roughly.

  “I thank you. But I would be alone. I go to my room. I thank you but this is for myself, apart. Go back to your guests. Say that I am wearied. That my wound pains me. Goodnight. And … and say a prayer, lady, for Robert Bruce! Of your mercy …”

  Chapter Five

  The days that followed were as grievous as any that Robert Bruce had had to bear, despite the comforts of his present refuge, the goodwill of his hostess, the sympathy of his friends and the beauty of his surroundings. He had thought that he was armoured now, hardened, against further fierce hurt and sorrow, that he had plumbed the depths of suffering; in ten years of war and destruction and Edward Plantagenet’s malice and Comyn’s hatred, in the ruin of his fortunes, the frustration of his hopes, the living with treachery and defeat; in the terrible deaths of his brother Nigel, his brother-in-law Christopher Seton and so many of his supporters and friends; in the torture of a whole people. But it was not so. His despair over Elizabeth was beyond all that had gone before, his agony of dread almost enough to send him out of his mind, his utter helplessness a crucifixion. Worst of all, perhaps, his sense of guilt, that never left him, day or night, the general background of guilt in that all surely stemmed from his murder of John Comyn before the altar at Dumfries; and the more immediate and personal guilt in that he had refused Elizabeth’s pleas to let her remain with him, had sent her away-to this. While he himself remained safe, secure.

  His heart ached also, of course, for his daughter Marjory, so young, at twelve, to be suffering for her father’s sins, failures and ambitions. And for his sisters Christian and Mary, Isabel Countess of Buchan who had crowned him, and the rest of his womenfolk.

  What English Edward would do to them all, God alone knew-but chivalry and mercy played no part in either his warfare or his statecraft. Bruce had only one faint gleam of hope-in Elizabeth was the daughter of Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster, Edward’s closest friend and companion-in-arms. For de Burgh’s sake he might conceivably stay his hand from the worst, from the most unthinkable atrocities. But, knowing the King of England, he did not delude himself with false optimism.

  Bruce did not spend those days sitting in idle brooding, of course. He

  forced himself to activities in which he had neither satisfaction nor

  interest, grateful only when these tired him out sufficiently to dull

  the pain and fears that haunted him. Which was, indeed, quite

  frequently, for this was the season of the stags roaring on all the

  mountainsides around Castle Tioram, when the deer-hunting was at its best-and Christina MacRuarie determined that nothing which she might do to distract and entertain her guests should remain undone. There was great hunting almost every day, of wolves and boars and even seals, as well as deer;

  salmon-spearing in the river narrows; hawking for the multitudinous wild-fowl, and especially the long skeins of geese that ribboned the sky at dawn and dusk. There was feasting, music, storytelling, and the vigorous Highland dancing, until far into the night, evening after evening. Love-making too, for those so inclined-although Edward Bruce appeared to achieve no real success in his frank pursuit of their hostess herself. The King sought to act his part in all this, and not play the skeleton at the feast-though none were deceived.

  Not that any there looked upon this sojourn in Moidart as any sort of holiday. It was only a breathing-space, wherein time fell to be filled in. This Hebridean interlude, though forced upon the King and his friends by sheer necessity, as the only area of Scotland where he could be safe from his enemies, and respite from being hunted fugitives essential, nevertheless had a positive and never forgotten objective the obtaining and marshalling of men, once more to prosecute the war. How these men were to be won, whether cajoled, bargained for or merely hired, was less than clear-but these Highlands and Isles were in fact teeming with men tr
ained to arms, whose main delight indeed was to fight Somehow, some proportion of them must be harnessed to the King’s cause. That they were in theory all his own subjects was something of a grim joke. But any success in such harnessing depended upon information, tidings, knowledge in some measure of what went on elsewhere-otherwise, for Bruce to be isolated in these remote fastnesses spelt defeat indeed. So Christina of Garmoran was prevailed upon to send out messengers, enquirers, spies, north and south, by sea and mountain-track- and while her visitors waited for results, this entertainment.

  In all this, Christina’s attitude to Bruce himself was of a warm understanding, a care and concern that was noteworthy in so vehement and proud, not to say imperious, a young woman. It would be fair to say that she cherished him, who was scarcely of the cherishing kind. He sought nothing of the sort, of course, and, in his preoccupation with his anxieties and guilt, may have seemed less than appreciative. But he was well aware, too, that this woman might well be brought to play an important pan in his eventual strategy, both as a supplier of men and as a link with other chiefs, even to work on Angus of the Isles himself. So he by no means wholly rejected her attentions. Besides, she was a woman, and handsome-and he not un impressionable even in these circumstances.

  It was ten days after the arrival in Moidart, and the night of the return of the first of the Gannoran couriers, that Bruce, far from cheered by this man’s tidings, made excuse to retire early from the feasting and entertainment, and went to his room. He did not immediately repair to his couch however, for unless very weary indeed, sleep did not come easily these nights-and it had been a wet and chill day, with no hunting. Part-undressed and wearing a bed-robe of the late Alan MacRuarie’s, he paced the skin-littered floor of his chamber.

  The messenger had come from the Comyn lordship of Lochaber and the MacDougall lordship of Lorn-useful listening-posts for spies, in that they were very much in the enemy camp. He had brought back word which no interpretation would make other than depressing. In Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, King Edward had obviously found a Governor of Scotland after his own heart.

  Terror stalked all the Lowlands. Not only in the south, below Forth and Clyde, where these past years terror had been more or less endemic; but in the north and east, or such parts as were not Comyn-dominated. Angus and Mar and Moray in especial were suffering-for in these great provinces Bruce had much support -and Pembroke was now wreaking his master’s will on Inverness. His, it appeared, was an effective and methodical terror, not weakened by blind hatred, and he left little in his tracks to resurrect.

  With the Earl of Ross now committed to Edward’s cause, the farther north was equally enemy territory, and Bruce’s adherents being rooted out ruthlessly. The only hint of consolation was that the Bishop of Moray, loyal est of the loyal, was said to have eluded the enemy net and was thought to be making for Orkney, with some few stalwarts.

  As to the Queen, the only word was that she had been taken, with her companions, straight to King Edward, who was settling down to winter at Lanercost Abbey, near Carlisle. There he had promptly hanged Atholl -and to protests that no earl had been hanged, in England or Scotland, within the memory of man, had answered by prescribing a higher gallows and a longer rope for Earl John de Strathbogie. What he intended to do with the women, none knew-but the rumours were many and dire.

  That Edward had chosen to set up permanent headquarters at Lanercost,

  remaining on the Border and not returning to London or even York, for

  the winter, was as grim news as any. It implied that though Scotland

  was to all intents crushed, and Pembroke’s campaign now no more than a

  mopping-up, the Plantagenet was determined to go further, and personally to superintend the process. Which could only mean that this time Scotland was to be ground into the very dust, and that the hunt for Bruce himself was to be continued, probably intensified.

  That man, pacing his floor, was going over all this, when a knock at the door revealed Christina MacRuarie herself. She was dressed in a furred bed-robe not unlike his own, her long dark hair hanging free.

  “Your Grace,” she said, “My lord Robert-I heard you walking and walking. This will not serve. Not in my house. Not for the hero who came to the rescue of Christina of the Isles. Who shed blood for her.” That was spoken as though rehearsed. She came in and shut the door behind her.

  It could have been true that she had heard him, for this was a timber-built house within the castle walls, and her room was next to his-indeed this obviously had been her own bedchamber, and she was presently occupying its ante-room. She must have left the hall very early, however-soon after himself, presumably-for the noise of pipe-music and dancing still sounded.

  He inclined his head, waiting.

  “Sire-it is not good. For a man to fret and gloom so. Not right.

  Your burdens are sore, heavy-but they are not such as to unman Robert Bruce.” She spoke a little breathlessly now” for her.

  “You hold too much to yourself, my friend.”

  “Perhaps,” he acceded.

  “But that is part of my burden. Being a king is lonely work.”

  “Need it be so lonely? I think not. For a king is a man first, with a man’s needs, a man’s temper and person. You do not renounce your manhood in your kingship, do you?”

  “You think that I do?”

  “I think it, yes. In part. That is why I have come. I have sought to bring the man out, from behind the king-on the hill, in the hunt, the fast, the dance. With little success. Now I come to your bedchamber, Robert. For I believe that you need a woman. Yet you have looked towards none that I have offered. So now …” She paused.

  “So now I have brought myself!” And she threw open the furred robe.

  She was completely naked beneath it.

  He stared, wordless, moistening suddenly dry lips.

  The whiteness of her was startling, an alabaster white even in the mellow lamplight, only emphasised by the jet-black triangle at the crotch and the large dark circles which tipped her breasts. Compared with this woman Elizabeth was honey-coloured, almost golden, more rounded, more generous of hip and thigh and bosom.

  Not that the man was conscious of any comparison between his wife and this who was offering herself to him. But the distinction was were, unbidden, inevitable, the contrast of two proud and beautiful women.

  For Christina MacRuarie had her own beauty, however different, of form as of feature. And that she was very desirable no whole man could have gainsaid.

  She stood so, for a little, eying him directly, only her visibly heightened breathing hinting that perhaps she was less bold and sure of herself than she appeared. She held out one hand.

  “Do I please you, Robert?” she asked.

  He swallowed.

  “Aye. Yes, indeed. You … you are very fair.

  Well-fashioned,” he said thickly, hoarsely. He kept his own hands to his sides.

  “And … and do I stir your kingship’s manhood?”

  He further moistened those lips.

  “You could scarcely … do otherwise! But, but…”

  “Yet you stand abashed like any callow youth! Or less man a proper man. I vow your brother Edward would not be so backward!”

  “Edward has not a wife. Whom he has brought to ruin. To dire danger, and sorrow. Would you have me further to betray my wife?”

  She let the drawn-back folds of her robe fall together again, and shook her head.

  “Betray, no. Christina of the Isles is no betrayer of men, or women.

  Nor would lead others to betrayal. This is … other.”

  “What, then?” he demanded, more harshly than he knew.

  Holding her robe closed before her, she came forward to him.

  “Robert-how long since last you lay with a woman?” she asked.

  Blinking, he ran a hand through his hair.

  “God knows! Two months. Three. I cannot mind …”

  “Yet you are of a lusty habit, they say. No half-man.”

&nbs
p; He did not speak.

  She seated herself carefully on the edge of his bed, her own bed.

  “Why think you I have come here, this night? To your chamber?” She added, as an afterthought and almost tartly, “Sire!”

  “You tell me, lady,” he said.

  “Very well. I have not come because I am panting for you!

  Neither for your manhood nor yet your king’s Grace! Nor is this my

  habit. Nor even have I come out of my gratitude, you save dme and

  mine born the Rossmen. I came because I believed that you needed a woman. A woman’s body, and a woman’s comfort and tenderness. And since, it seems, you will not of yourself take a woman, I provide one. And since you are the King, and my guest, only I will serve. Christina. No other, I swear, would be sitting here, on your bed, putting all into words for you!”

  “That at least is true!” he agreed, less stiffly.

  “What makes you think that I so greatly need a woman?”

  “Because I am a woman, and have watched you. The signs are not lacking. Because a lusty man, and married, with time on his hands, is less than himself when deprived. And when the King is less than himself, many may suffer. More than those many should.

  Moreover, because in your fretting waiting in my house, you make but ill company. For me, and for your friends.”

  “You say so? For that I am sorry,” he told her, stiff again.

  “So are all who love you.”

  He stared down at her, frowning. What she said was true, of course almost every word. He knew it, had long known it, without acknowledging it Was he a fool, then…?

  He flushed, as he realised that his man’s eyes were busy, however sluggish his wits-for, leaning a little towards him, the woman’s robe gaped open, so that both breasts were entirely evident, one exposed to the nipple. Her breasts were not large, but strangely pointed, firm, hard-seeming for a woman who had borne a child, as she had done. She had not fed the boy herself, it seemed. But if the breasts were not themselves large, the aureoles were larger and darker than any he had seen, and notably rousing admittedly.

  Moreover, the furred folds had fallen aside from one leg, and the white thigh and bent rounded knee were only a little less stimulating than the bosom. Indeed, sitting there, half-covered, she was altogether more tellingly desirable than when she had stood opposite him, wholly displaying her nakedness. More than his. face flushed.