Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

James Douglas slapped his saddle-bow gleefully. But Moray shook his upright handsome head.

“I do not like it, Sire,” he said.

“Of course you do not like it, Thomas! It conflicts with your honour—well known to us all! But it could, nevertheless, save many lives. Thousands, it may be. Perhaps this city itself.”

“It was your honour, Sire, that I was considering-not my own,” his nephew answered stiffly.

“This they would hold to your blame. Not mine. Or the Douglas’s.”

“I could thole it! Jamie-I fear this must be your especial task,

then. Unless you also scruple?”

“It shall be my delight. I have heard that the lady is …

generous!”

“Aye.

That is why I jalouse that her husband will hasten south when he hears!

But, on your return, remember Lancaster. He may seek to cut you off.”

The King paused.

“There is another matter that might bear on this. William Lamberton tells me that Archbishop Melton is now holding some great gathering of his priests at York-synod, convocation, chapter, I know not what. Churchmen have much sway with Edward. This may also help to bring him south.”

“We shall attend on their deliberations, with pleasure!” Douglas

nodded, grinning.

“How many men do we take?” Moray asked, rather emphasising the pronoun.

“Take all. I will go with you as far as my lordship of Tynedale.

To Wark Castle. It is important that I treat it as part of my realm of Scotland. Receive fealties and homage, conduct an assize, show my writ to run there, as monarch. Something to bargain with, when I bring Edward to the peace-table. From there, I shall return to Dunfermline. And expect you both to rejoin me within the month.”

“So soon, Sire …?”

“So soon. I want Walter Stewart relieved quickly-since the English have these especial siege-engines. He may not be able to withstand them. So what you do must be done swiftly, or it may be to no profit. It is not a campaign that I send you on, but a single stroke. You are not going south to fight battles, only to draw Edward of Carnarvon away from Berwick. I am weary of bloodshed -even English blood. I want these thousands of stout lads back, my friends. Is that understood?”

The great mounted force moved on, quietly, down to the ford of Tweed.

Two weeks and a day later, again at midnight, in the bedroom which had been Queen Margaret’s above the plunging ravine of Pittendreich, where her four fine sons had been born, all to be Kings of Scots, her descendant watched his wife in labour, and suffered each pang with her. He would not leave the chamber though she urged him to, and cursed the physicians and midwives as bungling incompetents. Emotionally wrought up, he equally cursed his own uselessness-and possibly, by his sheer helpless invalidity may have somewhat aided Elizabeth by distracting her from her pains.

When, after a moderately short labour, the child was born, a boy, and dead, Bruce was a stricken man. He left the bedchamber at last, set-faced, and went to lock himself into his own room.

Something had told him that this would be the son on which he had set

his heart. Head in hands now, he crouched at the window, staring out

into the blue night. Accursed, excommunicate, rejected of God, the

refrain beat in his brain. And behind it all the still more ominous

word, leper, leper… It was that word which presently sent him

hurrying back to his wife’s chamber. It was not to Elizabeth’s side that he went, however, but to the cot where the pathetic bundle lay inert, silent.

Snatching up his son, he tore off the blood-soaked wrappings and carried the tiny, wrinkled, naked body over to a lamp, there to peer and examine.

From the great bed Elizabeth raised her voice, tired, husky.

“What… what do you, Robert? I am sorry, sorry, my love. Again I have failed you. But-why torture yourself so?”

“I look … to see … if the finger of God … is on him also!” her

husband grated.

“The mark of my sin! To see if … if there is …”

“Hush Robert!” Despite her weakness and the sweat that started from her brow, Elizabeth de Burgh sat up.

“Say it not, I charge you!” That was as good as a command. She looked

warningly towards the women who still remained in the room. And as he

paid no heed, and went on muttering, she deliberately swept down a goblet of wine which stood untasted on a table beside her bed. It fell with a crash.

That startled him. He transferred his stare to herself. Then curtly he dismissed the women, and laying the child down came to her side.

“I am sorry, lass,” he said, his voice sane again.

“Forgive me.”

He took her hand.

“Robert-you must watch your words,” she chided, sinking back on her pillow.

“You might have let out, before all, your fear, your wicked fear!” For that strong woman, there was near-hysteria in her voice.

“It is not so, I tell you. This has become a madness with you. Let the evil word once fall from your lips, into the ears of others, and hell itself will engulf Scotland. Hell, I tell you!”

“Hell, perchance, is here already!” he answered grimly. Then he shook his head.

“But I will not say the word, Elizabeth my heart.

Content you. God forgive me-if He has any forgiveness for such as Robert Bruce-I will act this out, keep silent. And thereby, it may be, further burden my soul. With others smitten, perhaps, from me.”

“No! No, my dear-it cannot be so. Do not rack yourself so. If you were indeed … unclean, would not I now be so also? I, who share your very bed? Could I have escaped? And are others like to be smitten when I, your wife, am not? I tell you and tell you-your sickness is not what you fear. It is but a scurvy, an affliction of the skin, or some such. It cannot be the evil thing. You have been better these past months. Much better…”

“The redness is still there. I still sweat…”

“Yes. But in yourself you are stronger. More as you were. Think you I do not watch you? You cannot deny that you are better.

Could it be so if it was what you dread?”

“I do not know. I am no physician. But those that I saw in Ireland were just as am I.” He looked towards the cot.

“And the child was born dead.” Flatly, tonelessly, he said it.

“And are not other children born dead, Robert, and their sires in good health? Your own sister Mary bore one such. And my brother Richard. Oh, my dear-I am sorry, sorry for this death. Your son. Our son.

After so long.” She was panting with exhaustion.

“But there was no mark on the child? No flaw? Was there? The women said it.”

“No,” he admitted.

“No mark.”

“You must see that you are wrong, my dear. Our daughters-they are both well. Perfect. Fine children. Yet they both were born since you have had this sickness. I pray you, put it from you. This fear …” Her voice tailed off, and her eyes closed, wearily.

He looked down on those heavy-lidded, blue-circled eyes, with sudden great compassion, and kneeled there beside her bed.

“Oh, lassie, lassie,” he said.

“Here I cark and lament-while you suffer.

You are worn, done, my sweet, needing my help, my strength. And I but make moan! Forgive, Elizabeth …”

“I … I am not done, Robert,” she whispered.

“Not yet.” Her hand came out to touch his hair.

“I will give you a son, yet-God willing. A living son. You will

see”

James Douglas and Thomas of Moray failed to conform to orders by exactly one week-which was accounted for by the vast amount of booty they brought back with them from Yorkshire, which had delayed them. Apart from that, they could claim that the expedition had been a success, indeed a triumph-even though they had not managed to capture Queen Isabella.