Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“Angus!” The King went forward, hands outstretched, to greet him.

“So again you come to Stirling! To my joy, if not this time my rescue!

Greetings, friend. And to all your company, friends all.

Come-here is my lady-wife. Elizabeth-this is Angus, son of Angus, son of Donald, Lord of the Isles and Lord High Admiral.”

“The Lord Angus is known to me, as to all Christendom, by repute,” the Queen said gravely.

“King Edward kept me far from his coasts, I vow, lest the Lord of the Isles should come to rescue me!”

The other considered that, and the speaker, unhurriedly for a few moments, before inclining his dark head. He reached out to take her hand and kiss it.

“Would that had been my lot, lady,” he said, then, equally gravely, and despite all the fierceness of his entourage, the West Highland voice was soft and gentle.

She smiled.

“So do I! Though, mind, I am Ulster’s daughter.

And we in Ulster have not always had cause to welcome the Black Galley of the Isles!”

“Had I known of you, lady, you would not have remained in Ulster long, Richard de Burgh’s daughter or none!”

“Save us!” Bruce exclaimed.

“If that’s the way of it, then I needs must keep an eye on my queen, now!”

The Islesman gestured, to include every male present.

“That would be the act of a wise man, my Lord King,” he agreed.

“And no trial, at all!”

“As Queen of this Tournament, I give Your Grace leave to depart,” Elizabeth mentioned.

“I am sure that something requires your royal attention somewhere! My Lord Angus and I have matters to discuss.”

Bruce was about to reply, in kind, when the words faded from his lips as he perceived who was standing amongst the press of Angus’s men, a tall striking-looking woman, raven-haired, handsome, dressed none so differently from the others, in saffron tunic, short skirt and soft doeskin thigh-high riding boots.

Elizabeth, noting his expression and following his glance, spoke

silkily

“You have a lady in your train, my Lord Angus. Not your wife?”

With a look shot at the King, that man shook his head.

“No, lady-my cousin. The Lady Christina MacRuarie of Garmoran: , chief of that name.”

“I have heard of the Lady Christina also,” the Queen said quietly.

“Acquaint us, sir.”

Bruce recovered himself.

“My privilege,” he said.

“Christina -welcome back to my Court. You greatly grace it. Elizabeth, my dear-this is she of whom I have told you.”

The two women eyed each other, while all around held their breaths and wondered what this totally unexpected confrontation might portend.

Elizabeth held out her hand.

“His Grace’s friends are my friends,” she said.

“I have heard that we both owe much to the Lady Christina.”

The Isleswoman came forward to dip a deep curtsy.

“Your Grace is kind as you are fair,” she said.

“As His Grace told us all. But even he could not say how kind, how fair! Accept my duty and esteem, Madam.”

It was an odd speech from a female subject, but the Queen found no fault with it. Raising her up, she searched the other’s dark eyes with her blue ones.

“Yes,” she murmured softly, slowly, “I understand much. Now.”

“I came unbidden. Believing it my duty. To pay my respects to you, the Queen. Believing that I perhaps owed it to you.”

“Yes. I am glad that you came.”

Bruce endeavoured to disguise his sigh of relief.

“I also am glad, Christina. Angus-present your company to Her

Grace”

Soon the trumpets drew all eyes to the lists again, as the two mounted champions came trotting out from either end, to meet in the centre, turn their beasts side by side to face the royal enclosure, and to raise their pennoned lances high. Understandably the Lord Segrave was less splendidly turned out than Edward Bruce, and his charger, though fine, was less heavy; on the other hand it would probably be the more nimble. After bowing formally to each other, they turned and trotted back each to his base, where esquires waited with spare lances, equipment, towels and the like.

“Your brother looks sure of himself, Sir King,” Angus Og MacDonald declared. He was no friend to Edward, who despised Highlanders and was not at pains to disguise the fact.

“Edward is always sure of himself!” Bruce grunted.

“Would I had his single mind. Or yours, Angus!”

“You are sufficiently well with your own,” the other returned.

“My lord of Carrick’s sureness of mind is that of a captain, not a

prince.” He did not comment on his own.

“Yet, my friend, that is one of the important matters before this

Council,” the King said, low-voiced.

“Edward is determined that he be appointed, formally and before all, heir to my throne. I cannot longer withhold it, I think.”

“So much the worse for that throne, then. And your kingdom.”

“What choice have I? Placed as she is, could Scotland survive with a young woman as monarch?”

“A regency? To rule in your daughter’s name. Your brother not Regent, but one of a joint regency.”

“This land has had its belly full of joint Guardianship. It will not serve, Angus. Jealousy, intriguing for power, a divided realm. And think you Edward would be content to be one of two or three? He is a man who must dominate, or be kept under by a strong hand.

Whose hand would be strong enough, in Scotland, to dominate the Queen’s uncle? He would rule, whatever his title. I fear my daughter would live happier with Edward king than with Edward regent. And, my sorrow, there is now no other heir to the throne.”

“Dia -you talk as though you were a man dying!”

“No-not quite that. But… I am not the man I was, Angus…”

The single bugle-blast interrupted him, as the two knights below drove forward into action. It would be dramatic and telling to say that they hurtled forward at full gallop. But great des triers do not go in for galloping, especially when burdened with many hundredweights of their own armour-plating, to say nothing of their riders’.

A heavy lumbering canter is as much as they can rise to-and even that takes a little time to achieve.

But at least they thundered towards each other, the ground positively shaking at the weighty hoof-beats. Lances levelled, the visors of their helmets closed, the contestants urged tons of steel and flesh on a collision course. In this sort of fighting there was little room for finesse; iron nerve, almost equally iron muscles, superb horsemanship and split-second timing-these were the prerequisites.

And no weakness towards claustrophobia.

Since all might well end with the first headlong encounter, neither

wasted any time on feints and gestures. Straight for each other they

pounded, eyes busy behind the visors’ slits. The least movement,

change of position or attitude, cock of the head even, could give some

indication of the vital information-just where the lance-point would

be aimed-and great heraldic-designed shields over left arms were ready

to react. They met with a splintering crash which made even seasoned

watchers wince. It seemed impossible that either of the mounts, or riders, could survive that impact. The horses struck at a slight angle, but near enough head-on to bring them both to an immediate standstill. But split-seconds before that the lance-tips had crossed and in that instant both men rose in their stirrups for better control and avoiding action, altering the pitch of the said lances. Edward’s, shrewdly aimed, struck home full at the other’s breast-but by that time the Englishman had his shield up. It took the blow solidly, and the lance’s timber shaft snapped clean in two, with the force of it. Segrave’s own point, in the clash, missed the Scot’s shoulder by a hair’s breadth.