Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

They led Mary Bruce to the table between them, as she sought to staunch and dry her tears and it was notable how close Neil Campbell stayed to her, gently taking her travelling-cloak. While his sister recovered herself, the King questioned his friend.

“You had no trouble, Neil? No challenge to your mission?”

“None, Sire. Since Bannockburn, a hundred of them run from a couple of Scots! Our hostage, Heron, was well known in Newcastle, and made his own and his lord’s needs very clear! Henry Percy himself delivered the Lady Mary into our hand. And … as God is my witness, I near cut him down there and then at the sight of her!”

“Aye. Well I can credit it! They … they still illused her?”

Mary Bruce herself answered that, having pulled herself together with a major effort.

“No. No, I was no longer illused.

After … after Roxburgh, they shut me up in the Gilbertine nunnery at Newcastle. I was kept alone. By myself. For near four years there. But treated not unkindly. The sisters were not harsh. After Roxburgh it was … a kind of heaven!”

All that company, listening keenly, was silent. None would dare ask this gaunt woman of twenty-five years of the fifth of her life which she had passed at English-captured Roxburgh Castle near the Border. There, on the late King Edward’s command, she had been immured in an open cage of wood and iron, day and night, summer and winter, hanging over the outer walls of the castle, like a wild animal for all to see and mock-as also had the young Countess of Buchan at nearby Berwick Castle. How these two women had survived such appalling and long-continued savagery, none knew-and could by no means ask, yet awhile.

Neil Campbell growled in his throat.

“God be thanked, all that is now past, Mary,” the Queen said.

“We can start anew. A new life. Prayers answered. At last. Free again. As is Scotland. Thanks to … thanks to …” She looked at the sternly-frowning man who was husband and brother.

That frown, so permanently there these last long, terrible years,

faded momentarily to a smile of great warmth, almost sweetness, strange in that rugged face, the blue eyes gleaming-for Robert Bruce had been a gay and laughing character once, whom not only his enemies had labelled irresponsible.

“Thanks to every man in this hall,” he finished for her.

“And so many others. Living and dead. I have been blessed in my friends.”

The deep murmur from all around was no mere polite and courtly acknowledgement of a royal compliment. There was not a real courtier present-and the Bruce did not pay compliments.

“God be thanked indeed,” Mary agreed.

“I grow hoarse thanking Him, and all saints. But … Christian?” she asked, after her elder sister.

“And little Matilda? And Edward? Aye, and your poor Marjory, Robert?

How is it with them?”

“Edward you will meet in Stirling. He is well. And, it seems, contemplating marriage at last! Of all women, to Ross’s daughter, Isabella. The man who betrayed you to the English, at Tain!” A shrug, and another brief smile.

“Pray God she may tame him somewhat!

Maltida is well also-and none so little now. Indeed, she looks for happiness already-and towards that same family, strangely. To Sir Hugh Ross. Who has proved a better man than his father! Christian and Marjory are still in England, prisoner -but likewise to be exchanged for these English lords at Stirling.

Of whom we have a-plenty! I have sent for them. But they are held further south …”

Although it was not long before Elizabeth led her sister-in-law away to

see her bedded, it was a deal later that, at last, the King could take

his wife’s arm and withdraw in becoming fashion from the bowing,

excited company. Wordless, they climbed the winding turnpike stair together. In the lofty but modest tower chamber which had been his bedroom as a boy, the King closed the door behind him with a sigh,

though of something other than relief.

“By the Rude-to be alone!” he said.

“It is easier, I swear, to lead an army, to win a battle, than to gain a little solitude! For one who wears a crown. Always others there, thronging.”

“That has scarcely been my burden, Robert,” she observed.

“Ah-forgive me, my dear. Of course. You have been kept solitary.

Fool that I am! Years alone …”

“Years, yes. So that now, Robert, you will understandI am a little strange. In company.”

“To be sure. I should have thought of it, lass. But now, at last, we are alone. That is by with. The company. Care for nothing…”

“I will try. But the company I spoke of is not just those … others, I fear. You must be patient with me, my heart.”

“You mean …? That I—I myself trouble you? You find me … find me other than you did?”

“Dear Mary-Mother- no! Oh, Robert bear with me. I am become a weak and foolish woman …”

“That, I vow, you are not! Weak you never were. Or of us two, the fool! Do not fear, Elizabeth. I shall not trouble you …”

“Oh, Robert-hear me. What have I said? It is nothing so. This, I think, is the most happy day of all my life! It is but that… eight years is a long time. With no man near my bed. Scarce a man to speak to, but some sour gaoler. Or a priest. And, on occasion, William Lamberton. My dear, I have longed for this night. And yet dreaded it. Lest … lest I fail you, in some measure. No longer please you.”

He went to grip her arm.

“Save us-is this Elizabeth de Burgh!

Is this the woman I took, yon time, by Linlithgow Loch? Aye, and who took me! And the hundreds of times thereafter, through years of marriage?”

“I was younger then, my dear. And … and a nun since! Whereas you you will have had women a-many.”

That was a statement and no question. Nevertheless it gave the man pause. Still holding her, he eyed her from under down-drawn brows.

“Tell me, Elizabeth-what do you desire?” he asked.

“Believe me, it shall be as you say.”

“You are kind. And I a fool, as I said. It is only this, Robert-woo me a little, this night. As though … as though I was a virgin. Your bride. Though I was no virgin when you wed me, to be sure! A little patience, my love. Of your mercy.”

“Mercy!” he repeated.

“You do not know what you say, lass. I it is who should ask for mercy.

Of you. Since I have been no monk!

Have known other women. Have failed you…”

“Do not say it, Robert. Let us have no talk of failure. Lest I seem to fail you now.”

“Foolish one indeed! How could Elizabeth de Burgh fail Robert Bruce!

You love me still?”

“I do love you. Not still, but more than ever I dreamed possible.

And want you-want you with all my heart. Only-only this body I am afraid of, a little …”

He took her arm in his arms, then, and ran a gentle but strong and

knowledgeable hand over her comprehensively, from the smooth crown of

her flaxen head, down the tall white column of neck, over the rich,

bounteous swell of bosom, down to the long flanks of hip and thigh, and

felt her quiver as comprehensively to his touch. “This body,” he

said, deep-voiced, “need not be feared for, I warrant! Now, or ever. It is the most splendid, the most challenging, that any man could ever have under his hand. Under his whole person! What ails you at it, woman?”

“I do not know.” She sounded, and felt to his touch, breathless.

“Only lack of use, it may be. And years. I am thirty-five, Robert.

And feel… more!”

“Now? Do you feel so old, this moment? With my hands on you?”

“No-o-o. But …”

He stopped her mouth with his own. And after only a second or two, her lips parted.

Even as they kissed, his hands were busy with her gown, probing, loosening, sure hands, confident as they were unhurried, masterful but yet coaxing.