Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“You will not, sir. You, nor any. I go alone.”

“But, Your Majesty-it is not fitting. And these are my people.

I left them only to find you, to bring you to them. It is my

responsibility, until, until…”

“Quiet, man! Of a mercy! Wait you here-all of you. This is my concern.” And kicking his mount into action again, Robert Bruce spurred on alone down the south-facing slope, a brilliant figure in blazing gold and scarlet.

Now there was no holding back, no restraint. In this, at least, he could allow his pent-up emotions release. Beating his beast’s rump with clenched fist, he drove headlong down through the slanting grassland and scattered hawthorns, turfs flying from drumming hooves.

The company ahead was not so large as that he had left; but it was a

sizeable party nevertheless, of perhaps 100 men-at-arms, steel-girl, led by three or four gaily-clad leaders. No more than Scotland, Northern England was not a place where travellers might safely go less than well protected, in that first quarter of the fourteenth century.

When he was yet perhaps a quarter-mile from the oncoming party a rider left the group at its head, and came fast to meet him, long flaxen hair escaping from a fillet to fly in the wind.

As they neared, Bruce suddenly altered course somewhat. There was a clump of thorn trees a little way to the right. That man was still preoccupied with cover. The other rider followed suit at once.

The man reached the slight shelter of the scrub thorn first, and reining up abruptly, jumped down, so that he was standing wide legged, tense-faced, waiting, when the woman rode in. She drew up a few yards from him, panting a little, and so sat, staring.

For long moments they gazed speechless, hungrily searching each other’s faces with an intensity that was painful; the medium tall, wide-shouldered but lean man, with the ruggedly stern features and fiercely keen blue eyes; and the achingly fair woman, superbly mature in person, her facial lines at once delicate and strong, her beauty proud yet gentled with the lines of sorrow and adversity. So they stared, utterly lost in each other, until the woman slowly reached out her hands to him.

“My dear! My dear!” she managed to enunciate, chokingly.

He ran to her then, stumbling amongst the fallen cattle-barked thorn boughs, and threw himself against her flank, arms reaching up to her waist, face buried against her thigh, shoulders heaving under the gorgeous Lion Rampant tabard, emotion released at last in scalding tears.

Tears had never come readily to Elizabeth de Burgh. Often she had wished that they might. Now she stooped to kiss that bent head, her trembling fingers running through his thick wavy auburn hair. It was the sight of the few strands of silver in that thatch which caught her throat and let her weep.

“Oh, Robert, my heart!” she cried.

“The sin of it! The sin of it!”

He looked up, wet-cheeked.

“Forgive me, lass. I am sorry. It is joy, not sin. Not tears. Dear God-at last!”

Then she was down beside him, on the grass, in a single lissome movement that blotted out the years for Robert Bruce. Always she had been a magnificent horsewoman. They came into each other’s arms.

They had only moments, of course. Then the English party came jingling up, and though they halted at the edge of the hawthorn clump, its trees were small and scattered and privacy was gone.

Sighing, the man released her.

“Care nothing,” she whispered.

“We have the rest of our lives, my love.” She drew back just a

little.

“Wait, you.”

“I have waited … eight years… for this!”

“Two thousand, nine hundred and twenty-seven days!” she amended, nodding.

“And yet-you are more beautiful than even I remembered you. Or ever knew you.”

“My sorrow, my Lord King-your sight must be failing you!”

she got out a little unsteadily, smiling through her tears.

They took stock of each other a little longer, wordless, before the Queen turned and gestured towards the waiting horsemen.

“Here is Sir William de Hotham, who has been my … my host these many months. And who, with Sir Roger Northburgh, has conducted me to Your Grace safely and without delay.”

The handsome elderly Englishman inclined his grey head.

“You are kind, lady. I but did my duty.”

“Duty can be done in more ways than one, Sir William.”

“I have ever sought to do mine fairly, lady. Without fear or favour,” the other gave back stiffly, a little warily.

“Lady …?” Bruce barked.

“You are addressing a queen, sir. Do you address Edward of Carnarvon’s wife as lady? Do you?” The transformation in the King was quite dramatic.

“Er … no, sir. No.”

“And do you sit your horse, sirrah, when in your own monarch’s

presence, and he standing? Get down, man!”

As Hotham hastily dismounted, and his three stylishly-dressed companions with him, Elizabeth looked thoughtfully at her husband, and saw anew what eight years had done for him. The sheer authority of the man was almost frightening. She said nothing.

Belatedly Hotham doffed his velvet cap, for good measure.

“Your… Your Majesty’s pardon,” he muttered.

“I understand that you, none of you, have ever acknowledged Her Grace’s royal style. In all her years in England. You will do so now, sir, before you take leave of her.”

“We had our commands, Sire. From King Edward. The late King …”

“Aye. Well, you have different commands now. Make your proper duty to Her Grace, sir—and be gone!”

Frowning, the Englishman came forward and sank on one stiff knee before Elizabeth. He took her hand, to kiss it, though sketchily.

“Your Majesty,” he muttered.

“We say Grace in Scotland!”, Bruce said harshly.

“Your … Your Grace’s servant,” the older man amended, unhappily.

“Yes, Sir William,” the Queen acknowledged quietly.

“You may rise.”

As the other Englishmen came to follow their leader’s example, Bruce asked, coldly formal, “Has Your Grace any matter you would wish to raise before I let these go? These, your late gaolers?

Any matter for which you would have them held personally

accountable?”

The woman looked from one to the other, and shook her fair head.

“No, Sire. The times of my complaint are past and done with. Better forgotten. Go, Sir William-without ill will. There has been enough of that, God knows!”

It was Bruce’s turn to eye his wife keenly. That had been said mildly, almost gently-and Elizabeth de Burgh, whatever else, had never been a markedly mild or gentle woman. What had the years done to her, other than enhance her beauty?

“You may go,” he said to Hotham, with a brief gesture of dismissal.

“Come, my dear.” And he held out a hand to aid the Queen into her saddle again.

As the others bowed low, expressionless, the King vaulted on to his own horse with notable agility for a man of forty, and without a backward glance at them, led his wife at a quiet trot northwards.

Some way up the hill Bruce, spurring close, reached out a hand to squeeze her arm, unspeaking.

They smiled, and continued to ride closer together, and more slowly.

At the crest of the ridge a long line of bareheaded men awaited them, on foot, Douglas, Hay and Northburgh in the centre. As the pair drew near, two trumpeters sounded a long and stirring fanfare that went echoing over and around all the soft green hills. The trio in the centre came pacing forward. But still a dozen yards from the royal couple, Sir James Douglas could no longer restrain himself.

Abandoning the dignified pacing, he broke into a run, and flung himself onwards to the Queen’s side. He reached up for her hand, and at the same time sought to fall on his knee. This being something of a physical impossibility because of the height of her horse, he had to content himself with an odd bent-kneed posture while he clutched and kissed her fingers.