Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“Is that your wish? Your considered wish? And … must you Sire me, girl? Can you not name me Father?”

“Yes. Yes-I am sorry.”

“No, no. But-I would take it more kindly, lass. Now, this of the

throne. All it means. Have you thought well on it?”

“I do not know. All that it means. Save that I have no wish to rule a nation.”

“What do you wish for, Marjory?”

“Only… I think… to be left… in peace.”

He sighed, and looked at Elizabeth, who spoke.

“How can she know, Robert? Think you for her. She has been home only

two days If you can name this home. She has had no home, ever. No

father, no mother. A captive for eight of her nineteen years. Long years held solitary, confined in London Tower. None permitted to speak with her. Then in a nunnery, alone again. Shut away from the world. If I near lost my reason, I, a grown woman, how would she, a child, fare? How can she tell you what she will wish, as heir to the throne?”

“To be sure, yes…”

“I had time and enough to think of it, Madam,” the girl said.

“This I do know-that I have no wish to rule. Is there no other?

Must it be I?”

“Aye. Your uncle. Edward would have it, if he could. But yours is the right.”

“Let him have it. I want nothing of it.”

“It is less simple than that, girl. Edward, I think, would make but a poor king for Scotland. He acts first and thinks after.”

“My dear-must we talk of this? Now? As though you were as good as dead!” Elizabeth protested.

“You are but forty. Twenty years hence, perhaps, such might be needful. Not now.”

“With a realm at war, see you, the succession is important. And we are still at war, more’s the pity. Edward demands a decision.

The matter will come before the next parliament. It is necessary that I know my mind, in this. And Marjory’s.”

The great-eyed girl looked from one to the other.

“You … you could yet have a son, could you not?”

Her father drew a long breath.

“That is in God’s hands, lass.”

Elizabeth spoke quietly.

“It is our prayer, Marjory. But it seems less than likely. At my age. When no children came before. I fear that I am … barren!” What it cost Ulster’s magnificent daughter to make that declaration, Bruce could only guess at.

“Say it not, my dear!” he exclaimed.

“One so strong, so fine, so lusty as you! Here is nonsense. We have been parted long. But there is time yet.”

“Perhaps. But I think we should not cozen ourselves. The chance of a prince is small. From me.”

Her stepdaughter bit her lip.

“Then … do you mean … would you have me … to marry? To beget a prince?”

Bruce cleared his throat.

“That would be best. Advisable. A blessing for all. But-we would not push you. Into marriage.

There is time.”

“I do not wish to marry.”

“Perhaps not. Yet. But, in time. It is expected. In your position.

You know that” “I am sorry …”

“And for all saints’ sake, do not keep saying that you are sorry for everything! You are a Bruce …!”

“Robert,” Elizabeth intervened, “the hour is late. We are all tired. Another time. This great matter of the succession need not be settled tonight?”

“No. That is true. Time enough …”

Later that night, Bruce and Elizabeth lay in each other’s arms in the sweet exhaustion of love.

“By the Rude,” the man murmured, running a caressing hand over the rich satisfactions of her person, “what ails us that we cannot make a child, sweeting? Between us. Our flesh is as one, if ever man’s and woman’s was. Is it so much to ask? That we achieve a son? A thing any scullion and kitchen-wench can do, with all the ease in the world! What ails us? When a son would banish so many of our troubles.”

“Nothing ails you, my dear. That is proven! Other women have not failed you in this respect!” That was true. More than one of the ladies with whom he had consoled his manhood during those long years had produced sons which they proudly claimed were the King’s.

He shrugged.

“Is it that we are not suited, then? Each to each?

“Fore God-I feel suited to you, woman! As to none other.”

“It is a strange thing. I could not feel more truly a woman, and giving.” “Giving yes. None give as you do. Nor take! Bless you.”

“Giving. Taking. But not making!”

“At least, the giving and taking is no burden, no hard task, lass!”

“Ah, no. No! The trying is joy! Joy!”

“Joy, aye. Then, shall we try once more, my love? Try …?”

“With all my heart!”

Chapter Four

It was surely as strange a sight as those quiet, green, south-facing Cheviot valleys had ever witnessed. As far back as eye could see, along the narrow winding floor of Upper Redesdale, was a dazzling mass of colour and stir in the mellow autumn sunlight of an October early afternoon. The place was in fact packed full of men and horses, richly caparisoned, armour gleaming, painted shields, heraldic surcoats and trappings, banners by the hundred. Women too added to the colour-for although the men greatly predominated, and mostly wore breastplates of steel or shirts of chain mail they were none of them in full heavy armour. At the head of this so strangely located and holiday-minded host, facing into the wider reaches where the Rede suddenly opened out of its hill bound constrictions just north of Otterburn, and Lower Redesdale expanded into more populous territory, was still more colour and brilliance; for here the King and Queen and almost their entire Court waited and watched, while an impromptu archery contest proceeded. Bruce was anxious to encourage archery and bow between her fingers. Marjory was never alone; yet somehow she gave the impression of being alone. Men eddied around her, young and not so young, the most gallant in the land. She was quietly civil towards them all and equally-but that was all.

None received encouragement to linger.

Three months had done much for Marjory Bruce, physically.

She has filled out not a little, the hollow cheeks and bent shoulders were largely gone. Indeed she was by no means unattractive.

But the great eyes were still anxious, wary, her whole attitude tense, reserved. Men she obviously distrusted; women she kept at a distance. And she still had grievous coughing bouts.

“Walter is attentive,” the Queen said, following the direction of her husband’s gaze.

“Of them all, he is the most… determined,” “And gaining little

advantage, I fear!”

“Fear? Would you wish Walter success, then?”

“Why not? He is young. Honest. And looks well enough. I think he would be kind. And he is already kin. To you, at least.” Walter Stewart was indeed Elizabeth’s cousin, his father, James, the previous High Steward, having had to wife the Lady Eglidia de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster’s sister.

“She shows no fondness for him.”

“She shows no fondness for any! Is he ambitious, do you think?”

“To be more than Steward? Who knows. At least he is loyal, and always has been. And of as good blood as any in Scotland.” She paused.

“Keith, there. The Marischal. What of him? He also dances

attendance.”

“A sound man,” Bruce acknowledged.

“Sober. But older. And less illustrious of lineage. And was not

always my friend. I would prefer young Walter.”

“And Marjory? Which would she prefer?”

“Neither, it seems. None, indeed. I fear that if she is to marry, we will have to choose her husband for her. It is strange-the Bruces were ever a lusty race. The Mar blood it must be.”

“Or the life she has had to lead. You must bear with her, Robert.”

“Aye-but something must be contrived. I had hoped this adventure would have brought her out.”

A shout of acclaim indicated that once again Sir Neil Campbell had won the archery by a clear lead; and none was louder in praise than the Lady Mary Bruce-nor more demonstrative in her wholehearted kiss of approval. Her brother grinned.