Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

That I promise you. But why should she be your enemy?”

“When a woman loves a man, she will fight for him. Husband or other.

Does this woman love you, Robert?”

He frowned.

“No. Not as you mean love. As we mean it. We have never spoken of love, Christina and I. When … when she first came to me, at Castle Tioram, after we had rescued her from the Rossmen. When she came, she said that I had need of a woman. A woman, not a lover. That, being deprived, I was showing it. Less than the man I should have been therefore less the king also. I came to accept that as true. And … and she could lend me many Highland broadswords, as well as her body!”

“Aye-that is one way into a man’s bed! But it could also be the way to his heart. Was she content with the bed, think you?”

“I believe so. I was, at least. She was a woman of experience.

Widow of Gartnait of Mar’s brother. Your own age, or older.

Proud. Hot of temper. A fighter …”

“As Elizabeth de Burgh once was! And as beautiful?”

“No. By no means. Different in all ways. But kind. When I needed kindness. And you not there. She said … she said that one day you would thank her. For me. That you would want a man returned to you.

Not a half-man. Or an ailing cripple She said that, did she! I see.I think I have something of the measure of your Christina now! The Lady of Garmoran. And shall deal with her accordingly!” She gave a little laugh.

“But, in this she was right, at least. It is a man that I have

returned to-no half-man. I can feel it now!”

“Aye-enough of Christina! And enough of talk…”

And now Robert Bruce did not have to hold back. Nor yet to coax and gentle. Elizabeth, it seemed, was thus abruptly herself again, vehement, zestful, far from passive. Joyfully, the man proceeded to lose himself in her returning passion.

In time, drowsily, he spoke.

“What ails you at, Elizabeth de Burgh? Myself, I find no fault. Now you it is who makes me feel my years!”

“Years …?” she said.

“What then are years? Time? In these last minutes you have given me more of true time and being than in all those lost eight years. I have begun to live again, my Robert …”

Chapter Two

Stirling so throbbed with life and activity as to all but burst its

bounds. The great castle on top of the towering rock; the grey, red

roofed town that clustered and clung round all the folds and skirts of

that rock; and the handsome Abbey of Cambuskenneth with all the spread

of conventual and domestic buildings that filled the wide near-island

in the coiling, shining Forth below both-all were so full that lords

and ladies roosted in attics, knights and lairds were thankful to share

cot-houses, and bishops and mitred abbots must perforce occupy holy

men’s bare cells and the like which they had long since thought to have

outgrown. Even the host of English prisoners from Bannockburn still un

ransomed were packed and herded still more tightly into deeper pits and

prisons, even dove cots that their vacated accommodation might house

their captors. Scarcely within living memory had the royal court of

Scotland taken up full residence in this its so royal and ancient

citadel-though King John Baliol had held a hurried and furtive

convention here in 1295. That August of 1314, Stirling was the centre and heart of Scotland in more than geography, after being an enemy-held canker for eighteen years.

The atmosphere quivered, as it were, with more than just the numbers and the noise and the August warmth. There was a great sense of celebration, of relief, of achievement, in the air. After all these years of outright war, invasion, and usurping tyranny and terror, the land was free again, with no single English garrison remaining. After almost thirty years of weak rule, near anarchy, or foreign domination, Scotland had a strong king again, a firm hand at the helm. There was a vast amount to be done, a whole nation to build up from the ruination and savagery of the past; but the way seemed reasonably clear ahead, the task their own to handle or mishandle. Six weeks after one of the greatest and most significant battles of history, this was the celebration of victory.

Strangely enough, it was with the victor himself, and those closest to him, that this attitude of celebration was least evident.

For Robert Bruce realised as did few others that, substantial and seemingly overwhelming as was that victory, it was in fact inconclusive, partial, even dangerously illusory. A round had been won in this tourney, that was all. And there were still all too many in Scotland, and of the ruling class, who wished him less than well, and bided their time.

Nevertheless, it was right to celebrate, even wise, so long as the hazards were not lost sight of or minimised. This programme indeed was all of the King’s own devising. But he hoped that even in its festive activities the lesson might be brought home in some measure-that the enemy was bloodied but unbowed.

The afternoon’s tournament and games could be made fairly apt to his purpose. The theme and background was still warlike, competitive, challenging. And deliberately Bruce had made it more so by freeing, temporarily and on parole, not a few of the English prisoners, to take part. Some of the most renowned knights in Christendom had fallen captive at Bannockburn. The victor would use them, not to make any sort of Roman holiday, but to remind his own people that the foe was still potent, a force to be reckoned with.

The huge tilting-yard that lay just below and to the east of the castle

proper, on a broad terrace of the rock, was the scene of the day’s

major activities. The English garrison had long used it for

horse-lines and even cattle-courts, for the maintenance and

provisioning of some hundreds of men. Bruce had had it cleared and

cleaned up, and great quantities of dried peat brought from the nearby

Flanders Moss to carpet it thickly. Lists had been enclosed, a great

railed-off jousting-ground and arena, surrounded by hoardings and

tiered timber seating, with a handsome royal box and gallery, the whole

brilliant with colourful heraldic achievements and decoration,

standards, flags and banners flying everywhere, by the hundred.Gaily-hued and striped tented pavilions had been set up, as undressing and arming rooms, and all around saints’ shrines, and the booths and stalls of pedlars, chap men hucksters and entertainers proliferated. The clamour was deafening-minstrels played, merchants proclaimed their wares, mendicant friars touted supposed relics, children screamed, dogs barked and horses whinnied, all against the roars of acclaim, advice or disgust of the watchers towards the contestants in the arena.

Robert Bruce loved it all, for this was the heady, rousing clamour of peace, not war, something which had not been heard for long in this land. Up on the royal dais beneath the huge Lion Rampant standard of Scotland, where he stood beside the ornate throne, he gazed round on it all with satisfaction, if tempered with a kind of caution.

That the Bruce’s place was to stand beside the single throne, today, not to sit in it, was because this was Elizabeth’s day. In that throne she sat, radiant, Queen of the Tournament as well as the realm’s queen. Dressed all in white and gold, golden circlet around her heavy flaxen hair, she looked regal, supremely lovely and supremely happy-and the man at her side as often glanced down at her for his satisfaction as at the stirring scene and activities, proud to pay her his own tribute. Occasionally she reached over to touch his arm lightly, and their eyes would meet.

As well that the Queen’s beauty was thus supreme and quietly assured this day; for she was surrounded by beauty and good looks which might have proved a sore embarrassment to one less well endowed than Elizabeth de Burgh. A goodly selection of the fairest in the land were present today, and a surprising number seemed to have managed to insert themselves into the royal gallery. Moreover, all had somehow contrived to dress themselves, after long deprivement, in the height and extreme of fashion, so that the enclosure was a blaze of colour and pulchritude, with the women for once rivalling their knightly escorts, whose brilliant heraldic surcoats and coat-armour was so apt to steal any such scene.