Robert! she said.
What is this? You are burning hot. Your skin. I can feel it. And rough. Broken. What is this?
Only my old trouble, lass. You know of it. This itching…
But this is worse. Harsher. She peered, in the dim half-light,
trying to inspect him. Then she jumped up and hurried, wholly naked
as she was, to an aumbry near the door, where was kept a lamp and flint and under. Lighting it, she came back to him.
Hold it up, he instructed.
No-to yourself, not to me. That I may see. I faith, woman-you are magnificent!
And you are not! Robert-you are patched red! Patched like an old hide. Great marks Rough. Flaking. My dear, my dear! And so thin, so desperately thin. Oh, my love-what has become of you?
Nothing that your presence and your fine feeding will not cure, he asserted strongly.
I have been in the saddle for months, lass. Eating poorly. And
living less cleanly than I would. Give me time…
No! This is more than that. More than you say. Here is no mere chafing of the skin: No simple dryness. You are sick, Robert.
Sick.
He was silent.
This is worse than it has ever been, is it not? she demanded,
holding the lamp close.
Even the time you told me of. At Inverurie.
And at Melrose. I think it was less harsh, less angry than this, was it not? It is a scurvy!
It is only the skin. I was more ill then. Weaker, more fevered.
It is but this skin affliction that is worse. Nothing of grievous
So-o-o! she said slowly.
It is as I thought. You conceive yourself to be sicker than you say.
You admit it, Robert? You fear it.
Aye, I fear. I fear that my sins have caught me up! His voice was tense now.
Fear that I am not to escape the price of murder, of presumption before God, of excommunication!
She stared.
What… what do you mean?
Elizabeth. He gripped her with both his hands.
You do not think …? It is not…? It could not be … leprosy?
She drew a quick, gulping breath, speechless, appalled.
Sweet Christ-am I a leper!
As still the woman did not answer, save to wag her head, he sank back on the bed. But not in despair. Suddenly he was less tense. It was out, at last. This ghastly secret dread, this spectre that had haunted him for so long. He had put a name to it now, said the dire words, shared the fearful weight of horror with another. He knew a kind of relaxation.
No, Robert! No! Elizabeth cried, when she could find words.
Not so. It is not true. Never think it. This is not leprosy. I
swear it.
You are wrong, wrong!
It… it is my daily prayer that I am. But I fear … He paused.
It could be Gods will. His punishment.
No. You torture yourself. Just as you blame yourself too much.
You punish yourself, Robert. For what was no fault. Or little. The death of a fore sworn and dangerous traitor. The assumption of a crown that was yours by right both of blood and conquest. You punish yourself. God is less harsh, I vow!
Yet He punished full harshly others for less fault. For my fault.
My brothers. My sisters. Marjory. Christopher Seton. Atholl.
Isobel of Buchan. Your own self indeed …
Was that God? Or but the savagery of a man, a man crazed with hatred?
Edward Longshanks is not God! She shook her head.
Besides-this is not leprosy. The lepers skin is white, not red, is it not?
I believed so once, told myself so. But in a lazar-house at Cashel, in Tipperary, I saw two men with skins as red as mine. Saw them, forced myself to speak with them. I tell you, they itched as do I!
Were fevered. One of them vomited. Not the other …
But were they lepers? You are sure?
They were in a leper-house. Believed themselves to be so.
Tended by the Brothers of Saint Lazarus.
That need mean little. Ignorance. The folly of neighbours. Have you
spoken with a physician, Robert? I have spoken with none. Until
you. I… I dared not.
And you were right, in that. I say you were right to speak of this
fear to none. This is not to be spoken of. None must hear of it
If I am unclean, my dear, shutting our eyes and ears to it will not cleanse me.
Merciful Mary-you are not unclean! Oh, Robert, my heart-never say it, never think it! It is a folly, a sin! This is no more leprosy than is a rash of the fowl-pox, or the ruby-pox. Say nothing of it to any, Robert. Or all the world will have you leper by the next day, as good as dead and buried! Men shunning you. You, the King!
And yet I must know, lass. For certain. I cannot live with this sore secret, uncertain. I have done so for too long as it is, gnawing at my mind …
But I tell you it is not leprosy. That you are wrong …
Because you wish it so, Elizabeth. You are my wife, my other part.
You cannot judge, I think, more truly than do I. I need another to tell
me, another who loves me less. But who will not noise it abroad. With
that I do agree. It must not be spoken of, until, until… God help
me, until I am sure it is true! Or the rule of this my kingdom will
become confusion impossible. A leper king! Already dead under the law! Banished the presence of clean men. Who would succeed me? There is none. This also I have thought on, through the long nights, and over many a weary Irish mile. None must learn of this-until it is sure …
Myself, I would tell no man, Elizabeth said.
But if you must, ask William Lamberton. He is wise, knowledgeable and discreet He would be best.
AyLamberton. I will tell Lamberton. He should know, too, for he is my confessor, my spiritual adviser. He will tell me truly.
The man paused, looking at her, surveying her, all her naked
loveliness, and frowning.
Elizabeth, he went on, from stiff lips, as though forced to it.
And you? What of you, lass? If indeed I am a leper. What of you?
What of me, Robert? I am your wife.
You … you could not remain so.
I am your wife, she repeated.
Your other part, as you said but then. Said truly. For we are
one.
But… no, lass. I could not be. Tied to a leper. It is against the law, besides. You know it. All marriage ties are dissolved, the Jaw declares. The leper is dead, in the eyes of the law. A leper may not cohabit with a clean woman …
Robert-be silent! How can you say such things? I wed you for better or for worse, did I not? Before the altar in Linlithgow did we say aught about leprosy? Besides, you are no leper, I tell you.
But if you were, think you I would leave you? I, Elizabeth de
Burgh!
My heart-heed you. Would you become a leper too?
Already-already it may be too late! Already I may have given you this evil thing. Lying here with you tonight. I should not have done it, I was weak, wickedly selfish. By fouling this dear flesh …?
Mary-Mother- hear me! If you are leper, think you I would wish to be other? I waited eight years in English prisons-when I would not have cared whether I was leper or clean. Only waited for this, to be with you, you, once more. United with you. Your wife. Now, we are together-and I thank God daily. Think you that anything, anything under heaven, will part us now, save death itself? I, Elizabeth, am wife to Robert Bruce. I told you, on that island in Linlithgow Loch, that I would be a jealous wife. In this, more than in your casual taking of other women. Those whom God hath joined together let no man put a
sunder! No man, Robert Bruce-even you!
And the law of the land, woman?
You are the King. The law itself, and above the law. And even if you were not, I would say the same. Gods law is above mans law, is it not?
He sat up again, to take her in his arms.
My dear, my dear, he said.
Clean or unclean, they lay in each others arms through that night, although there was no more of passionate coupling.
Strangely, it was not long before the man slept, a sleep which he had been desperately needing. Hour after hour the woman lay at his side, staring up at the painted ceiling, an arm about his jerking, twitching troubled body. The cocks were crowing before her eyes closed.
The Primate, Bishop of St. Andrews, arrived there three days later, days in which a constant stream of visitors descended upon Turnberry, lords, sheriffs, councillors, officers, in great style or no style.
William Lamberton came in a litter, not because it became his dignity,
as did some clerics, with musicians and choirs of singing boys to mark
their presence, but because he was now partly crippled with arthritis
and found sitting a saddle almost as trying as walking. He had, in
fact, walked the length and breadth of Scotland too much, in too much harsh weather, slept under too many dykes, suffered too much hunger, exhaustion, for even such a powerful frame as his; so much that now he, who was Wallaces friend before he was Bruces, and whose service with both had brought pain and sorrow as their main reward, though not yet fifty, had to travel in a litter slung between pacing jennets-even though the pace, for jennets, was apt to be forced and uncomfortable.
But if the great rawboned, lanky body somewhat failed the man, the spirit within, like the shrewd, searching, patient mind, did not.
Primate and King, in a corner of the parapet-walk that overhung the beach and the white lacework of the tide, sat on the rose red, sun-warmed masonry and looked out across the sparkling waters to the dramatic skyline of Arran and the Highland hills behind Bute -that is, when they were not considering each others appearance a little askance.
It grieves me to see you so sore stricken in the joints, old friend, Bruce declared.
A hard burden for a doing man such as yourself. It should not have been for you to come all this way, from St. Andrews. Rather I should have come to you. I would-but Elizabeth had sent for you …
And think you I would have my liege lord waiting on me like some suppliant for a vicarage? I am not so far done that I cannot fulfill my duties, however halting my gait, Sire.
We have a compact, do we not William, that you name me by my name when we are alone? Have you forgot?
Not forgot, Robert. It is a graciousness I treasure but can scarce bring myself to invoke. But at least I can still cross a few miles of Scotland to welcome home her monarch-even though I do it in a bed of sorts! The hollow, lantern-jawed features creased to a smile.
Mind, I would be better pleased to come less far than to Turnberry and the Ayr coast. Not for my old bones sake, but in that I believe you would be better seated nearer the centre of your realm, Robert. Where your people can see you and savour your royal presence. Now that you need not watch the Border like a hawk. And Galloway and the Isles likewise. No Kings of Scots have made Ayr, this Carrick, their chosen seat heretofore. You are not, surely, to be a warrior all your days, my friend? Dwelling in an eagles nest of a fortress. A royal palace in a kinder place, amidst your people, at Stirling or Dunfermline or St. Johns Town of Perth? Where you may put aside your well-worn armour and live more gently. Besides being nearer to your old done William Lamberton! He looked at the other keenly.
I think that such time has come, Robert. That you need such
easement.
The King frowned.
I would remind you that there is still no peace treaty with England. Nor is our campaign in Ireland like to bring it much nearer. They are still set on conquering Scotland.
Set-but now in the dogged, obstinate English fashion. And a deal less sanguine of success.
Perhaps. But-you have been on this matter to me before. I fear that I am in no state, no frame of mind and body, to start building palaces, to settle to this easement you speak of. That is not to be for Robert Bruce, I think.
Frame of mind and body? the other took him up quickly.
What mean you, friend?
Bruce shook his head, actually fearful, afraid to put this matter to the test, afraid of the possible sentence that spelt doom, afraid even of the impact of his revelation on their cherished friendship.
Holy Church was stern in its measures towards lepers, men rejected of God. He sidestepped, put off, weakly.
I ailed somewhat, in Ireland. It is a hard country to campaign in.
There was much famine. I have been … less than myself.
Aye, Robert-I saw it with my first glance at you. And felt a stoun at my heart. Here is sorrow, pain, trouble for us all. For all Scotland. A plague on it that you ever went to that unhappy country. That my lord of Moray convinced you …
A
plague, truly! But I went of my own will. We cannot blame Thomas. The failure of judgement was mine. And many have suffered for it. If I must suffer a little, it is but due. He faltered, at the sound of his own words. And then pulled himself together.
Forgive me, friend. I talk like a sickly woman, concerned with her health. When you, you sit before me, crippled and in pain, from hurts, wounds, privations, gained in my service. I crave pardon.
Not so. I am bent, yes. I creak like an old door. But I am none so
hard-used. I can still serve my time, serve my liege and his realm. I
am still fit for my tasks. Although, God be thanked, my task, my true
lifes tasks, are near fulfilled now. I have been privileged in a
small way to aid you in saving this realm. I have held the Church, in
Scotland, free from domination. And I have near finished the
rebuilding of the cathedral. At St. Andrews. Only months now, and it
should be done. And very fine-even though I wickedly boast. A house
to Gods glory, which I believe Scotland may be proud to have raised in
her prostration. Thanks to you who made it possible-as you made so
much else. I make no complaints. You never did, man. But I am
glad that your cathedral is near done. A noble work to have conceived, and concluded, while the realm was still fighting for its life. Only a man of your spirit, your faith, would have done it, could have done it.
I rejoice for you, and with you, William.
Bishop Arnold it was who conceived it, 150 years ago. I but finish his work. But, it is my hope, Sire, that you will come to St.
Andrews and rejoice indeed with me, with all the Church, with half Scotland, to celebrate the works completion. It will scarce be ready for St. Andrews Day. But St. Rules Day, perhaps. Next mid summer. God being willing, we will make a great jubilation, a solemn consecration. Not only to crown the long task, but to demonstrate to all, to all Christendom-and especially to His Holiness in Rome-that we are not just a small quarrelsome folk, as I fear he thinks us. Nor murderous rebels as King Edward seeks ever to teach him. But a proud and independent nation, concerned, even in our extremity, with Gods work. We will invite embassages from far and near, Sire. From Romeaye from England itself.
We will make sure that they see a realm united and strong, which can turn its mind to other concerns than war. With a sovereign lord whose fame rests on more than winning battles…
Braces finger-tips had began to tap-tap on the stonework as the other propounded his great and politic conception. The frown had come down again.
Do not build on it, he interrupted harshly.
Or, not on my presence thereat. A year hence. I may be … other
where
&n
bsp; Eh …? Not, not another campaign? You are in no state, Robert, for more soldiering, meantime. I swear it. Do not say that you contemplate more warfare?
Not warfare. The warfare I fear is different-a battle I am not like to win! If it is as I fear. He was gripping the stone now, knuckles white.
William-if I was a leper, I could scarce attend your celebration!
That was rapped out.
A leper! Saints have mercy-what mean you by that?
What I say. I may be a leper. Unclean.
Dear Saviour Christ! She-you do not mean this? You cozen me…?
I cozen none. But nor would I cozen myself. This sickness of mine-I
fear that it may indeed be leprosy. Of a sort. I have feared
something of this for years. But, in Ireland, I saw others. As
myself. Lepers …
Robert-Your Graces pardon. But this is folly. Beyond all
belief!
Why? Think you kings must needs be spared the ailments of lesser mortals? Say you I could not take this evil? Because of my anointing, perhaps…?
No. But…
Hear me, man. Before you are so sure … Voice subconsciously lowered, Bruce leaned forward to tell the other the reasons for the dread that nearly came between him and his sanity.
His first shock over, the Bishop heard him out without interrupting, however often he shook his grizzled head. When the other had finished; he reached out and took the Kings hand to place and hold it between his own two palms, a gesture as eloquent as it was simple.
It was Braces turn to shake his head.
You are good, William.
Kind. But your kindness will not serve, he rasped.
It is the truth I need, not kindness. I need to know. Know my fate.
He withdrew that hand.
Lamberton was silent for a little.
You have spoken of this to a physician? he asked, at length.
The Price of the King's Peace bt-3 Page 26
