Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

Oddly enough, this manoeuvre, which might have looked like the craven shirking of an encounter, did not; rather it gave the impression of cocky and quite insolent confidence.

The great shout of laughter from all around-which was partly what Bruce was playing for-revealed the appreciation of at least a majority of the company.

It was easy to keep just the right distance ahead of the challenger.

The King kept it up for just long enough to make it clear that he was in command of the situation. Then, spurring, he cantered away for seventy yards or so, before flinging his beast round once more and sending it headlong towards the other.

This time Hereford was more wary however angry. He slowed.

The other did not disappoint him now. Straight as an arrow he came, at full canter, almost a gallop. As the distance closed, at that speed it was clear that he could by no means repeat the previous manoeuvre and draw up. Hereford was poised, ready.

The King drove in. At the very last moment he achieved the unexpected in two ways. The first was not so very unusual; he twitched his mount’s head so that it bore down on the enemy’s left side, not his right, thereby spoiling the reach and stroke of both of them, since the maces were in their right hands. The second was altogether more dramatic; instead of standing, to gain height, he flung himself forward, almost flat along his gar ron outstretched neck, and so lying low, half-turned to his left, shield-up to take the other’s mace-blow.

The Englishman’s was a botched stroke, inevitably. He was too high, and his weapon on the wrong side-and in heavy armour a man does not twist and bend with any great suppleness. Only a glancing blow struck the swift-moving shield, and then they were past. Bruce slamming in an unhandy sideways swipe over his horse’s ears in the by-going, more as a gesture than anything. It contacted Hereford’s leg-armour- but only just.

Again the laughter rose in great waves. This was clowning rather man true jousting, deliberately making a fool of England’s High Constable.

If anyone doubted this interpretation of the King’s purpose, they did not do so for long. He proceeded to make circles round his less nimble opponent, without ever coming close enough for a blow.

Time and again the Earl had almost opportunity to use his superior height and range, and then was denied it. More than once, as the other swept past, he heard Hereford shouting wrathfully within his helm for him to stand and fight like a man.

Even the crowd grew a little tired of this, and offered some positive advice to both contestants.

Bruce had not come into the arena to fight in this way. But the Englishman’s arrogant words, his insolent naming of him as a rebel, demanded different treatment from sporting gallantry and knightly behaviour. He fell to be humiliated rather than just defeated.

So Hereford was made angry, resentful, outraged-and tired.

Tired as his heavy warhorse was already growing tired. And then, in

one of his innumerable darts-in and drawings-off, Bruce did not draw

off. Instead he swung round hard in a tight circle, his

garronrearing, almost walking on hind hooves, to come down immediately

at the rear of the other beast, all but pawing its back. And before either horse or rider could twist round, Bruce rose this time in his stirrups and stretching his fullest reach, smashed down his mace between Hereford’s armoured shoulder-blades. The Earl pitched forward, toppled from his seat, and fell in clanking ruin.

Without any of the usual flourishes and bows towards the royal box, or any acknowledgements of the crowd’s applause, the King turned and trotted out of the arena.

Armour discarded, with Irvine, he made his way back to the gallery, rather shortly rejecting the plaudits of those he passed. Sir Gilbert Hay came to meet him.

“Let that teach overbearing Englishery to challenge the King of Scots, Sire!” he exclaimed.

“Here was pretty fighting.”

“That was not fighting, man!” Bruce snapped.

“Mummery, playacting, call it what you will-but it was not fighting.

He required a lesson, that is all.”

“Nevertheless, it was notably well done.”

“You think so? I do not.”

Mounting to the royal enclosure, the King paused in his steps.

The gallery was a deal more crowded than when he had left it And markedly quiet, silent. He stared.

A new party had obviously arrived in the interim, dusty and travel stained, half of them women. All looked towards him, and none spoke.

He recognised his sister Christian. She was older, of course, with grey in her hair-but hadn’t they all? She was smiling, and though drably dressed, still looked remarkably unlike a nun despite all her years shut up in an English nunnery.

“Christian!” he cried.

“Praises be-here’s joy! For a wonder!

Welcome! Welcome home.” And he started forward.

Her smile fading, and the jerk of her head to one side, gave him pause. He glanced quickly towards where she had indicated. A young woman stood beside Elizabeth, thin, anxious, shrinking almost, great-eyed. Two great tears were trickling down the Queen’s cheeks.

“Sweet Christ-God!” Bruce gasped, and stood, for once utterly at a loss.

None there could find words to help the moment past. And Christian and Edward Bruce, at least, were seldom at a loss for words.

It could only be Marjory, his own daughter. His only child. And he had not known her. He had welcomed his sister, but not his child. But how could he have known? He had thought of her always as last he had seen her, a child of eleven. His mind knew that she would have grown up, in eight years; but his inner eye had still looked for the child he knew. Not that he knew her very well.

In all her nineteen years he would not have totalled three passed in her company, more was the pity. But this sad, pallid, ravaged and unhealthy-looking young woman-this to be Marjory Bruce, the chubby child he once had discovered to be a poppet… She was gnawing her lip, her huge eyes never leaving his face.

Not realising himself how stern was Robert Bruce’s face now, in repose, they confronted each other.

It was Elizabeth’s open hand, upraised and held out, that saved him.

“Marjory! Marjory, lass!” he cried chokingly, and strode towards her, arms wide.

At the last moment, stumbling, features working sorely, she ran into that embrace, coughing.

“Girl, girl!” he got out, clasping her frail shaking body.

“Lassie-my own daughter! Dear God, Marjory -together again!

At last. Och, och, lass-all’s well now. It’s all by with. You are

safe. Safe again.”

A young-old bedraggled waif, the Princess of Scotland wept on her father’s splendid shoulder, wordless.

Elizabeth came to them. Her quiet strength helped them both.

They managed to master their painful emotion.

“Here is another you should greet, Robert,” Christian said.

“Who crowned you once!”

Again Bruce would not have known that the emaciated, rawboned, hard-faced woman who waited there was Isabel Mac Duff Countess of Buchan, the sonsy girl-wife of his late enemy Buchan, who had played truant to place the gold circlet on his brow at Scone, at his coronation, as was the Mac Duff privilege. The years in the cage on Berwick walls had left their indelible mark. Unlike Mary Bruce she had toughened to it, coarsened, become a lean, stringy woman of whipcord and iron, instead of the eager, high coloured laughing girl.

As she dipped a stiff curtsy, he raised her up, taking both her

hands.

“Isa,” he jerked.

“What can I say? What words are there?

To greet you. To welcome you back. What words are there for what lies between us?”

“None, Sire,” she answered, level-voiced.