The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  Bruce and Walter Stewart had been sent for immediately after Marjory’s fall from the horse which had touched off this emergency.

  She ought not to have been riding, of course; but she had all her family’s stubbornness, and found a horse’s saddle one means of attaining the solitariness which she seemed to crave. If anything could be called fortunate about the entire unhappy business, it was that she had been thrown not far from the castle, and her fall seen from a cot-house; otherwise she might well have been dead by now.

  The King and her husband, as it happened, were not so very far away as they might have been, since they were soldiering again—besieging Carlisle, some ninety miles away, at the request of James Douglas, who was finding its English garrison a thorn in the flesh for his campaigning over the Border. Carlisle and Berwick were now the only enemy-held fortresses north of Yorkshire.

  Walter, if not the King, would almost certainly leave all and come hot-foot the moment the news reached him; but even the fastest and best-founded horses would take many hours to cover 180 miles across the Border hills and mosses. A galley would have been quicker-but not in these March equinoxial gales. Riding all through the night as they probably would, they could scarcely be at Turnberry before daylight.

  Elizabeth was intensely weary, anxious and at a loss. She had never left that bedside since the younger woman had been carried to it, still in her disarranged riding attire. But she would not, could not, abandon her vigil. She would not even lay down the child.

  Endlessly, patiently, she walked and watched, hushed and murmured.

  The long desperate hours passed. On the bed, Marjory Bruce did not stir, scarcely seemed to breathe.

  How many inspections of that slight, motionless figure the Queen had made she did not know, when she noticed the single gleaming tear-drop on the pallid cheek. The sight of it moved her almost intolerably. It was long since Marjory had been seen to weep. Hers had been a dry-eyed ordeal and agony. Elizabeth sank down on her knees beside the bed, child still in her arms, and sank her head on the soiled coverlet.

  Almost she beat it there.

  “Oh, lassie, lassie!” she cried brokenly.

  “How they have hurt you! Injured you. Men! Men, with their evil passions, their blind pride, their selfish folly! They have spared you nothing!

  Nothing!”

  Long she crouched there, the baby part-supported by the bed.

  Perhaps, in time, she dozed a little. For when she became aware again it was with a jerk. The tear-drop was gone, evaporated. But the eyes were open. So was the mouth, slightly.

  She stared, as her mind grappled with what her eyes told her-the ashen pallor waxen now, the dark glance fixed, glazed, the parted lips stiff. And looking, she knew, and a great convulsive sob burst from her. She clutched the morsel of humanity in her arms almost to suffocation.

  After the first onslaught had worn off, Elizabeth’s impulse was to run

  for the others, the physicians, midwives, courtiers, anyone to take the

  burden from her shoulders, the burden of what she alone now knew. But

  she told herself that was folly. Marjory was dead, undoubtedly No one

  would bring her to life again. And, for herself, she wanted no

  strangers intruding on her grief.

  She closed those glazing eyes, but otherwise did not handle the body. For a while she could not bring herself to lay down the baby, moaning over it in an extravagance of sorrow for the motherless mite, saying to it what she could not say to Marjory Bruce. But at length she placed it in the handsome cradle Stewart had had made before he went to the wars. Then she went and sat, crouched, gazing into the smouldering fire. She tried to pray for the departed, but could not. Her mind sank away into a grey vacancy of regret and fatigue.

  It was thus that Robert Bruce and Walter Stewart found her when, between five and six in the morning, they came storming into that fetid chamber out of the blustering night, covered with mire and the spume of foundered horses, urgent, vehement, demanding, sweeping aside the servitors and others who cowered outside.

  The hush and atmosphere of that room, with the drawn, almost blank face that the Queen turned to them, hit them like a mace stroke. Each halted, drawing quick breaths.

  There was no other sound but the snuffling from the cradle.

  The men reacted differently. Stewart strode straight to the cradle. Bruce, after a long look at his wife’s strained and warning face, went to the bed.

  For long moments he stood staring down, fists clenching. Then a great shuddering groan racked him.

  “Dead!” he cried.

  “Dead! Oh, God, oh, Christ-God- dead!” And he raised those clenched fists high, up above his head, towards the ceiling, beyond, towards heaven itself, and shook them in a raging paroxysm of grief terrible to behold.

  Elizabeth came to him then, to reach out a tentative hand to him. Walter Stewart came, faltering-stepped, gulping, looking askance at the bed, his normally ruddy face suddenly pale.

  Bruce saw neither of them.

  “I am accursed! Accursed!” he ground out, from between clenched teeth.

  “All that is mine, rejected of God! Now my daughter, my only child.

  Dead. Slain.

  Slain by myself! Who forced her to marriage! One more. One more to pay the price of my sin. My brothers. My kin. My friends. Now, my daughter.” He gazed around him wildly, although he saw none of them.

  “Why these? Why not myself? God, in Your heaven-why not myself?”

  “Not your sin, Robert,” the Queen said, level-voiced.

  “If this was for the sin of any, it was Edward Plantagenet’s sin. Who ruined her young life in hatred and vengeance. Vengeance on you. Here was the sin.”

  “I defiled God’s altar, woman! I slew John Comyn, in passion, in the holy place. I, excommunicate, who presumed to this unhappy throne, with a murderer’s hands. I desired an heir from my own loins. I, not Edward Plantagenet. I slew my daughter as truly as I slew the Red Comyn!”

  The woman shook her head, but attempted no further comfort.

  Her weariness and pain were such that she drooped as she stood, the proud de Burgh.

  Walter Stewart turned and strode to the window without a word. He stood blindly staring out into the darkness, his face working.

  He had not so much as touched the bed.

  The King’s wide shoulders seemed to sag and droop, likewise.

  He sank forward on to the bed, arms outstretched over that still,

  slight body.

  “Marjory! Marjory!” he whispered.

  “Can you forgive me? Where you are now. Can you forgive? The father who brought you to this? Can you, girl? Of your mercy!”

  Silence returned to that chamber, save for the child’s little noises.

  At length, heavily, Bruce rose, and looking round him as though a stranger there, paced across to his son-in-law who still stood at the window like a statue.

  “I am sorry, lad,” he said. He laid a hand on the other’s shoulder.

  “Sorry. It may be that I need your forgiveness also. I ask it of

  you.” Though his voice quivered, all was quiet and sane again.

  The High Steward of Scotland shook his fair head, helplessly.

  “Have I … Your Grace’s permission … to retire?” he got out.

  And without waiting for an answer, turned and hurried from the room.

  Bruce looked over to his wife by the fire.

  “How was it?” he asked, evenly.

  “How did she die?”

  Slowly, carefully, Elizabeth told him the grievous tale of it. But she spared him not a little.

  He heard her out, silent. But he asked no questions. Indeed, he scarcely seemed to listen, his mind plumbing depths of solitary despair.

  Finishing, she took his hand and led him over to the cradle.

  “A

  boy,” she told him.

  “A boy, perfectly formed. A fine boy. And well.

  Your … grandson.”

  For lo
ng he looked down at the shrivelled, red-faced little creature.

  “Aye,” he said, at length.

  “This … this is all! All for this. This puny scrap is destiny! The

  destiny for which I have fought and schemed and struggled. For which

  countless men have died. For which a realm waits. The destiny for which my brother seeks to conquer Ireland, MacDougall languishes in Dumbarton’s dungeon, Douglas hammers Durham city and I besiege Carlisle. For this handful of wrinkled flesh!”

  Elizabeth opened her lips to speak, but could not. She busied herself instead with smoothing the baby’s coverings, and sought to still her quivering mouth.

  “Carlisle?” she got out, aside.

  “Is it well, there? The siege? Does all go well? Sending for you was no hurt?

  That you should leave …?”

  “No. It mattered nothing. I was gaining nothing. This siege is a folly. Carlisle will not fall. It is too strong. Its walls and towers.

  Without siege-engines we can do nothing. We sought to make a sow, to take us close to undermine the walling. But it sank into the earth made soft by these rains. Too heavy. They indeed have better machines than have we. Their governor, Harcla, can snap hit fingers at us. I should never have begun it. But I promised Douglas.

  The least I could do, when he was hazarding all, deep in England To protect his rear. But I will raise it now. End it. Assail Berwick instead, where we have more chance …” His voice tailed away, and the soldier was quickly superseded by the man again.

  “But what matters Carlisle! Or Berwick either. With what this room portends. Destiny is here, not in Carlisle. Here is the prize!

  That!

  And here the price paid!” Bitterly he said it.

  She shook her head, and took his arm.

  “Your grandson,” she reminded.

  “And motherless. Helpless.”

  “Aye.” Nodding, he stooped then, to reach out and pick up the closely bundled infant.

  “So be it. This, then, is my heir. Scotland’s heir. One day this

  will wear my crown!”

  “Perhaps,” the Queen said, strangle-voiced.

  “Perhaps not, Robert.”

  “If God has any mercy for me, he will. Is it too much to hope?

  You say that he is well-made? Healthy?”

  She moistened her lips.

  “He is a fine boy, yes. But still, he may not wear your crown. Who knows? For I … I am pregnant, Robert! At last At my age! Sweet Jesu—I am pregnant…!” Her voice broke.

  For moments he could not so much as speak, lips parted. Then, “Dear God of all the saints,” the man gasped.

  “Christ, Son of me Father-pregnant! You! It is true?”

  Dumbly she nodded.

  “You are sure? Not some false sign? Some cozening of the body …?”

  “No. It is sure. Oh, Robert…!”

  Hurriedly but gently, then, he laid his grandson back in the cradle, and turned to take his wife in his arms.

  “My dear, my dear!”

  he said.

  “Here is wonder. Here is miracle. Here, here …” He wagged his head.

  “Lord Jesu, woman-what are we? What are we I say? The playthings of God? Playthings, no more …!”

  “Say it not, Robert-say it not!” she urged, chokingly. She turned her face and buried it in his chest, clutching him convulsively, half-sobbing, half-laughing.

  Chapter Nine

  Two months later, almost reluctantly, the King was besieging Berwickon-Tweed instead of Carlisle. He was against siegery, on principle. Being almost wholly devoid of the necessary engines for the business—mangonels, trebuchets, ballista, rams, sows and the like where fortresses could not be successfully assaulted, stormed or infiltrated, or their water-supplies cut, he was left with the wearisome business of starving them out. And this was quite foreign to Bruce’s vigorous, not to say impatient nature. The siege maker has to have special qualities-and this man just did not have them.

  But pressure to invest Berwick had been strong. It was the only Scots soil still in enemy possession, and as such a standing reproach, a denial of their limited victory. Moreover, it had usually been the headquarters of the English administration over Scotland, and for it still to be in Edward’s grasp was galling in the extreme.

  Now that MacDougall was put down, this assault was the only action the King could take, within his own realm, to hasten Edward’s acceptance of the peace treaty. Also James Douglas, Warden of the Marches, saw Berwick as a perpetual challenge to his authority, and claimed that he could not go raiding deep into England with any peace of mind leaving this occupied stronghold, which could be reinforced by sea, behind him.

  Douglas, of course, had a sort of vested interest in Berwick. Here his

  father had been governor, in 1296, had gallantly withstood Edward the

  First’s siege throughout the terrible sack of Berwick town, had been

  tricked into terms by the English, and then shamefully betrayed and

  sent walking in chains, like a performing bear, down through England to

  imprisonment in the Tower. James was concerned to avenge his father.He was, in fact, the moving spirit in this siege, the King, though present, being less than well. Since his daughter’s death he had been moody, at odds with himself and others, dispirited for so purposeful a nature. It was not that he was actually and recognisably ill. He went about, if somewhat lethargically, and indeed denied that there was anything wrong with him. But those close to him knew well that he was not himself, and veterans like Gilbert Hay and Lennox claimed that they recognised the same symptoms that had laid him low at Inverurie in 1307, and at Roxburgh in 1313though, they admitted, with much less virulence. Certainly Bruce itched a great deal, his skin hot and dry, and of an evening was apt to be flushed with a slight fever. Elizabeth, who had little objection to camp-life and had accompanied her husband to Berwick, was anxious-but Bruce was not a man to fuss over and she had to content herself with small ministrations and watchfulness.

  This was the situation one evening of late May when the burly, grizzled and tough Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale was ushered into the royal presence, from long travelling. He found the King and Queen, with Lennox, Hay and Douglas, in the vicarage of Mordington a mile or two north-west of the walled town, which had been Bernard de Linton’s pastoral charge before he became royal secretary, Abbot of Arbroath and Chancellor of the realm. It was a small house for so illustrious a company, and plainly plenished, but the nearest stone and slated residence left intact near the beleaguered citadel.

  “Welcome, Sir Robert,” Bruce greeted him.

  “Here’s an unexpected pleasure. Have you fallen out with my brother? Or have you come to aid us in this plaguey siege? You have the soundest head for such matters in my kingdom, I vow.” News of late from Ireland had been good, and he had no reason to anticipate ill tidings.

  “Your siege I know not of, Sire,” the other returned.

  “I came at the command of my lord of Moray. And in haste. To outpace another. From your royal brother. Another courier, from the Lord Edward. My lord of Moray conceived that you should have warning.”

  “Warning of what, man? Not defeat? Only a week past we had word of victories, progress …”

  “No defeat, no. Quite otherwise. The Lord Edward has assumed the crown. Has been enthroned King of Ireland.”

  “Wh-a-t!” Not only Bruce but all other men in the room were on their feet at this bald announcement.

  “King, no less. Crowned and installed. At Dundalk. Ten days past.

  “But … great God-how came this? Is it some mummery?

  Some foolish playacting?”

  “Not so, Sire. It was a true coronation. He was solemnly led to the throne by O’Neil, King of Tyrone. And supported by many sub-kings and chiefs. All assenting. Crowned High King of All Ireland.”

  “It is scarce believable. My brother. To do this …”

  “Only Edward would do it!” Elizabeth said.

  “Only he would conceive it possible. The
bold Edward!”

  “Bold, woman! This is … more than boldness. This is folly, beyond all. Treason indeed-highest treason.”

  “You say so? How can it be treason, Robert? Against you? You are not king in Ireland.”

  “Do you not see? Edward went to Ireland as my lieutenant and representative. Leading an army of my subjects. On a campaign to advance the interests of my realm of Scotland. Now, he has thrown all that to the winds. He has made himself a monarch, and therefore no subject of mine. He thus rejects both my authority and my interests. The campaign to win a peace treaty.”

  “But may not this but aid in it? In bringing the English to treat?

  If he unites Ireland, as its king …”

  “Save us-you should know the English better! This will end all

  possibility of a treaty. For us to defeat their minions, in a

  rebellion.

  To drive many of their captains out of Ireland-that might have served our purpose. But to set up Edward as King of All Ireland-that is no mere rebellion. That is the greatest challenge to England’s might and pride. For to them Ireland is a province.

  They will, and must, treat this as fullest war. To the death. They will now muster all their power, to keep Ireland. And because this new king is my brother, with Scots troops aiding him, they will conceive me as behind him. And refuse to make any peace treaty.

  With this one stroke Edward has destroyed all we have worked for, since Bannockburn.”