Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

He found her in a hollow of the broken cliff-face, dabbling her feet in a clear rock-pool, and gazing out across the sparkling Clyde estuary to the blue, shadow-slashed mountains. She withdrew and hid her white foot hastily at sight of her father. Bruce shook his head at that automatic, almost guilty gesture, but restrained his tongue.

“I used to know every inch of this shore,” he told her, casually.

“I played here, as a boy. And found it a deal more kindly kingdom than that I now cherish!”

“Yes,” she said.

He sat down near her, and began to loosen his boots.

“A pool, replenished by the tide, is a world in itself, is it not? A different order, of time, strength, beauty. A starfish for king! These winkles, in their shells, for knights and lairds in their castles.

Clinging little limpets who cleave to their patch of stone, for the

humble folk-for it is all they have. Scurrying, fearful creatures

that hide in the waving forests of weed. Hunters or hunted? All

conforming to some laws and order we know not of. Until some uncaring, heedless god puts in his great foot-so! And all seems changed.

For a moment. And only seems so. For all is everlastingly the same.”

And he dabbled his bare foot in the cold water.

She did not comment, nor ventured her own foot back again.

“Each creature’s world is, in the end, what he makes of it,” he went on.

“The heavy feet of fate disturb the surface, yes. But underneath, the inner life is our own. To make or to mar. I have marred much of mine. Shamefully, terribly marred. But I have made something, also.”

“Yes.”

“You lass, esteem this world but little, I think? And would make your own? Withdraw from the one, into the other. Is it not so?”

The inclination of her head was barely perceptible.

”That is well enough. As an escape, a refuge. But not as a world to

live in, my dear. We must live in the world into which we were born.

And make what of it we may.”

“What are you seeking to tell me?” she asked then, level-voiced.

“That I must do better? That I must laugh and sing and dance?

That I must find all men a joy and a delight? And all women, too?”

“Scarce that, lass. I would but have you to understand that your life can still be full and rich. Rich, for you. That although you have suffered grievously, that time is past. You are young, and have most of your life to come. You can still make much of it. Being my daughter is not all trial and sorrow. You can have … almost anything that you ask for. Anything you may wish.”

The look she turned briefly on him, then, shocked him.

He bit his lip.

“Marjory—I know that, for my sake-or because you were my daughter you suffered intolerable things. Were for years shut up, alone, first in that Tower of London, then in a nunnery.

Kept alone, spoken to by none. God knows I do not, cannot, forget this. Part of the price I paid for this kingdom! But… you must seek to put the ill past from you. As I seek to do. As the Queen seeks to do. And your aunts. I have much to put behind me, sweet Christ! I, who murdered a man at Christ’s own altar. Who have condemned three brothers, by my actions, to death most shameful-three brothers, and friends innumerable. The guilt of it comes to me, often. In the night, especially. But, see you, I do not, must not, dwell on it. You have no guilt; the guilt is mine. But the weight of woe is ever with you. You must put it from you, lass-I say, you must!”

Marjory only shook her head.

“You do not understand,” she whispered.

“Then tell me. Tell me, your father.”

Helplessly she spread her hands.

“How can I? It is not possible.”

Her eyelids drooped.

“I wish that I had died. In the Tower.

Almost I did. They wished that I would. As did I. But I did not die.

It would have been better …”

“Dear God, girl-never say it! Not that.”

“Why not. When I think it, know it. What is wrong with death?”

Almost he groaned, as helplessly he looked at her.

“What … what have they done to you?” he said.

She made no answer.

Bruce fought down the rising tide of anger, frustration,

apprehension.

Determinedly he steadied his voice.

“See you, daughter-I ask you to turn your mind to this matter. This matter of the realm. Of today’s parliament. It is necessary that we speak of it Now. I have tried to speak with you on it, so many times. But you would not. The succession. Today it will be decided. You are listening? Today’s parliament must decide the matter.”

“Is it not already decided?” she returned listlessly.

“My Uncle Edward is to have the succession, is he not?”

“It is less simple than that, Marjory. Edward desires it, yes. And I hear must have it. Many will support him. But he will not make a good king. He is rash, headstrong—and his very rashness poses a further problem. For he is unmarried, and has no heir-however many bastards! He is, indeed, more like to die a sudden death than I am! The wonder is he has not already done so! Leaving none to succeed him. The succession could scarce be in worse hands.”

She shook her head, as though deliberately disassociating herself from responsibility.

“Any Act of Succession, therefore, by parliament, must declare a second destination. Should the first heir to the throne die without lawful issue. It must, can only, be yourself, Marjory. After Edward.

Whether you wish it or no. There is none other.”

“What are you telling me, Sire?”

That word sire rankled. Bruce frowned.

“This, girl. That the throne’s succession is of the greatest

importance for the realm. A continuing succession. If it is to be

saved from internal war and misery, and the evils of rival factions fighting for the crown. It is my duty, as monarch, to ensure that succession to the best of my ability.”

“Therefore, Marjory, since it seems that you will make no move in the matter, I intend to announce to this afternoon’s parliament at Ayr that it is my decision to give your hand in marriage to Walter Stewart, High Steward of Scotland. And that, failing other heir of my own body, the succession, after Edward, shall devolve upon you, my daughter, and thereafter on any issue from such marriage.” Robert Bruce did not realise how sternly, almost harshly, he had made that difficult pronouncement.

The young woman, after an initial catch of breath, made no comment whatsoever.

“You hear? Walter Stewart.”

“Yes.”

“Save us-have you nothing to say, girl? When your husband is named for you?”

“Only that I guessed it would be he.”

“You did? How so?”

“From the way you spoke to him, these last months. Looked at him.

Left us together.” “So! And what have you to say? Of Walter

Stewart?”

“As well he, as other.”

“Of a mercy! Is that all?”

“What would you have me to say?”

“At least, how he seems to you as a man, a husband. He is handsome, well-mannered- but no pretty boy. Younger than you, but able with a sword, sits a horse well, can wrestle. He is a great noble, with large lands, head of one of the most illustrious houses in my kingdom.”

“Yes. So you would have him for your good-son. Have his child heir your throne.”

“No! Or … I’ faith, girl-you are sore to deal with! It is necessary that you wed. You know that. You could have your choice of any in the realm. But you would not. Would choose none. So I must needs choose for you. Walter Stewart asked for your hand. I know none better. Do you?”

“I have said, as well he as other. What more do you want from me? I shall obey you.”

“From my daughter, my only child, I look for more than obedience.”

“Your only child born in wedlock,” she corrected.