Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“We have a compact, do we not William, that you name me by my name when we are alone? Have you forgot?”

“Not forgot, Robert. It is a graciousness I treasure but can scarce bring myself to invoke. But at least I can still cross a few miles of Scotland to welcome home her monarch-even though I do it in a bed of sorts!” The hollow, lantern-jawed features creased to a smile.

“Mind, I would be better pleased to come less far than to Turnberry and the Ayr coast. Not for my old bones’ sake, but in that I believe you would be better seated nearer the centre of your realm, Robert. Where your people can see you and savour your royal presence. Now that you need not watch the Border like a hawk. And Galloway and the Isles likewise. No Kings of Scots have made Ayr, this Carrick, their chosen seat heretofore. You are not, surely, to be a warrior all your days, my friend? Dwelling in an eagle’s nest of a fortress. A royal palace in a kinder place, amidst your people, at Stirling or Dunfermline or St. John’s Town of Perth? Where you may put aside your well-worn armour and live more gently. Besides being nearer to your old done William Lamberton!” He looked at the other keenly.

“I think that such time has come, Robert. That you need such

easement.”

The King frowned.

“I would remind you that there is still no peace treaty with England. Nor is our campaign in Ireland like to bring it much nearer. They are still set on conquering Scotland.”

“Set-but now in the dogged, obstinate English fashion. And a deal less sanguine of success.”

“Perhaps. But-you have been on this matter to me before. I fear that I am in no state, no frame of mind and body, to start building palaces, to settle to this easement you speak of. That is not to be for Robert Bruce, I think.”

“Frame of mind and body?” the other took him up quickly.

“What mean you, friend?”

Bruce shook his head, actually fearful, afraid to put this matter to the test, afraid of the possible sentence that spelt doom, afraid even of the impact of his revelation on their cherished friendship.

Holy Church was stern in its measures towards lepers, men rejected of God. He sidestepped, put off, weakly.

“I ailed somewhat, in Ireland. It is a hard country to campaign in.

There was much famine. I have been … less than myself.”

“Aye, Robert-I saw it with my first glance at you. And felt a stoun at my heart. Here is sorrow, pain, trouble for us all. For all Scotland. A plague on it that you ever went to that unhappy country. That my lord of Moray convinced you …”

“A

plague, truly! But I went of my own will. We cannot blame Thomas. The failure of judgement was mine. And many have suffered for it. If I must suffer a little, it is but due.” He faltered, at the sound of his own words. And then pulled himself together.

“Forgive me, friend. I talk like a sickly woman, concerned with her health. When you, you sit before me, crippled and in pain, from hurts, wounds, privations, gained in my service. I crave pardon.”

“Not so. I am bent, yes. I creak like an old door. But I am none so

hard-used. I can still serve my time, serve my liege and his realm. I

am still fit for my tasks. Although, God be thanked, my task, my true

life’s tasks, are near fulfilled now. I have been privileged in a

small way to aid you in saving this realm. I have held the Church, in

Scotland, free from domination. And I have near finished the

rebuilding of the cathedral. At St. Andrews. Only months now, and it

should be done. And very fine-even though I wickedly boast. A house

to God’s glory, which I believe Scotland may be proud to have raised in

her prostration. Thanks to you who made it possible-as you made so

much else. I make no complaints. “ “You never did, man. But I am

glad that your cathedral is near done. A noble work to have conceived, and concluded, while the realm was still fighting for its life. Only a man of your spirit, your faith, would have done it, could have done it.

I rejoice for you, and with you, William.”

“Bishop Arnold it was who conceived it, 150 years ago. I but finish his work. But, it is my hope, Sire, that you will come to St.

Andrews and rejoice indeed with me, with all the Church, with half Scotland, to celebrate the work’s completion. It will scarce be ready for St. Andrew’s Day. But St. Rule’s Day, perhaps. Next mid summer. God being willing, we will make a great jubilation, a solemn consecration. Not only to crown the long task, but to demonstrate to all, to all Christendom-and especially to His Holiness in Rome-that we are not just a small quarrelsome folk, as I fear he thinks us. Nor murderous rebels as King Edward seeks ever to teach him. But a proud and independent nation, concerned, even in our extremity, with God’s work. We will invite embassages from far and near, Sire. From Romeaye from England itself.

We will make sure that they see a realm united and strong, which can turn its mind to other concerns than war. With a sovereign lord whose fame rests on more than winning battles…”

Brace’s finger-tips had began to tap-tap on the stonework as the other propounded his great and politic conception. The frown had come down again.

“Do not build on it,” he interrupted harshly.

“Or, not on my presence thereat. A year hence. I may be … other

where

“Eh …? Not, not another campaign? You are in no state, Robert, for more soldiering, meantime. I swear it. Do not say that you contemplate more warfare?”

“Not warfare. The warfare I fear is different-a battle I am not like to win! If it is as I fear.” He was gripping the stone now, knuckles white.

“William-if I was a leper, I could scarce attend your celebration!”

That was rapped out.

“A leper! Saints have mercy-what mean you by that?”

“What I say. I may be a leper. Unclean.”

“Dear Saviour Christ! She-you do not mean this? You cozen me…?”

“I cozen none. But nor would I cozen myself. This sickness of mine-I

fear that it may indeed be leprosy. Of a sort. I have feared

something of this for years. But, in Ireland, I saw others. As

myself. Lepers …”

“Robert-Your Grace’s pardon. But this is folly. Beyond all

belief!”

“Why? Think you kings must needs be spared the ailments of lesser mortals? Say you I could not take this evil? Because of my anointing, perhaps…?”

“No. But…”

“Hear me, man. Before you are so sure …” Voice subconsciously lowered, Bruce leaned forward to tell the other the reasons for the dread that nearly came between him and his sanity.

His first shock over, the Bishop heard him out without interrupting, however often he shook his grizzled head. When the other had finished; he reached out and took the King’s hand to place and hold it between his own two palms, a gesture as eloquent as it was simple.

It was Brace’s turn to shake his head.

“You are good, William.

Kind. But your kindness will not serve,” he rasped.

“It is the truth I need, not kindness. I need to know. Know my fate.”

He withdrew that hand.

Lamberton was silent for a little.

“You have spoken of this to a physician?” he asked, at length.

“No. I have spoken of it to none. Save Elizabeth. And now you.”

“That at least is wise. Heed me, Robert-and say nothing to any. I am no physician. But I cannot believe that what you have told me truly signifies leprosy. A skin ailment, yes-but there are many. The true leper is much more wasted, stricken. His sores remain, they do not come and go. They grow worse. You have suffered this sickness, at times, for years. Ten years. That cannot be leprosy. When I took your royal hand between mine, Sire, it was not only in token of continuing fealty and love, whatever sickness you may have. It was that I do not, cannot conceive your person as unclean, not to be touched. I truly conceive your fears to be groundless.”