Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“Yes, Robert-peace. But, see you-you blame Edward for flinching at a word. Your kingship, the realm’s independent name.

But are you not in danger of a like fault, my dear? This word treaty? What is but a word? It is not the treaty that is important, but the peace. The peace that Scotland needs. And what is a thirteen-year truce, but peace? Bannockburn was but twelve years ago.

So long a truce is as good as a peace, is it not? Since it is the peace you want not the treaty, let not your pride deny it, Robert.”

Biting his lip, the man stared at her.

“Moreover,” she pressed him, “Edward’s folly will not permit that he reigns for thirteen years. Or three, I think! Why wait for the peace which may follow, when you can have it now? Peace, whether in the form of truce or treaty, is the same, is it not? Both can be broken, or kept. I say, Robert-go to Berwick, and sign this truce. You will be none the less king.”

“It may be that you are right…”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Elizabeth de Burgh smiled into the early afternoon sunshine, at the

picture they presented, the man and the two boys, the stocky, sturdy

ten-year-old and the toddler of not yet three, walking up from the

shore together hand in hand, with the ribs of Robert’s fine new ship in

the foreground, and as background all the weed-hung skerries and

headlands of the Clyde estuary and the heart-catching, colour-stained

loveliness of the Western mountains. It was a fair and satisfying

scene-but there was pain as well as pride and love and satisfaction in

the woman’s smile. For the man who held the children hands walked

with a clumsiness that was far different from his accustomed sure stride, and held himself with a stiffness that was almost the posture of age-although he was in fact but fifty-three. These last years his legs had been tending to swell; and although she had not said anything, Elizabeth feared the dropsy.

The long years of stress, privation, hardlying and irregular eating, were telling on Robert Bruce.

But it was not only the sight of the man that affected her. The two boys, uncle and nephew as they were, brought a lump to her throat at times. The good God only knew what trials lay in store for those two. Their two-year-old David was the child of ageing parents, like to be a king long before man’s estate-no desirable fate. And Robert was an orphan now, Walter Stewart having died suddenly, unaccountably, five months before, at the age of thirty three, leaving this ten-year-old boy High Steward of Scotland.

Bernard de Linton, at the Queen’s side on the grassy terrace before the house, did not see the trio quite as did she.

“A fair picture, Your Grace,” he commented.

“The King and his heirs.

The succession assured. Concerned with the things of peace, not war.

These ships. It is well.”

“Well, yes.” Elizabeth agreed, whatever her personal reservations.

“I do not know who wins most delight from this shipbuilding-the princes or His Grace! Or, indeed, my lord of the Isles!

They are all children together, in this, I do declare. I hear nothing but talk of ships and shipping, of keels and bulwarks and draughts, of beams and timbering and cordage, from mom till night. Cardross, I vow, is no place for a woman, my lord Abbot-unless she be a Hebridean woman perhaps!” She said that with a smile.

The Chancellor coughed, wondering whether the Queen was indeed referring to the Lady Christina MacRuarie of Garmoran.

He did not concede, as he might have done, that Cardross was no place

from which to rule Scotland, either; and that he, the Chancellor, had

to spend an unconscionable part of his time traipsing between

Dunfermline and here, or Arboath and here, or Scone and here-less than

suitable employment for a mitred abbot and chief minister of the

kingdom. His unannounced arrival, this sunny afternoon, from

Dunfermline, was only one of many such occasions when events demanded that he should see the monarch personally rather than just send messengers and clerks, with papers for scrutiny, signing and affixment of the Privy Seal. Abbot Bernard was a patient and shrewd man, if inclining towards pomposity in a small way with the years.

”Your Grace this likes this new house?” he asked. “No I like it very

well. As a house. It is more comfortable than all the great stone castles. But I have scarce my Liege lord’s passion for the sea, these islands and mountains. Nor indeed for his Highlandmen!

They are well enough-but I cannot think that they conceive women to have any place in God’s world, and theirs!

Other than in their beds, to be sure!”

The Chancellor coughed again, rather disapprovingly for so stalwart a fighter. Where women were concerned, de Linton was slightly prim-and Elizabeth seldom failed to tease him, although mildly.

The two royal daughters, Matilda and Margaret, came running, laughing and shouting aloud, from the braes of Carman Hill behind the house, where they were tending to run wild, these days, with the herd-boys and milkmaids-unsuitable upbringing for princesses, but in tune with the King’s frame of mind. After the tragedy of Marjory, Bruce had vowed that no other child for whom he had responsibility should have his or her youth spoiled, and young freedom denied, for any trammels of state and trappings of royal position. About this he was adamant. All too soon the demands and coils of their high estate would entangle his offspring.

Meanwhile, let them have their fill of freedom, and learn to know their fellows, of all ranks and classes-especially these Highlanders.

It rejoiced the King’s heart that both girls, and Robert, already spoke the Highland Gaelic as well as they did French.

Elizabeth was less sure that this was the way to train princesses -but her own strength was not what it had been, for she had never fully recovered from David’s birth, and she tended to assert herself less.

“We need cakes. Cakes. And wine,” Matilda cried, now aged ten, and an eager tomboy, all arms and legs.

“It is a wedding-feast A great feast. Up in the sheep-stall yonder. I am marrying Seumas. Am I not lucky? He is the best! We are going to have seven children. All boys. Seumas says we will not have any girls.

Seumas says we must have cakes and wine. He would rather have uisgebe

atha but… wine will do. I said we would not get uisgebeatha”

“You did not! I said it,” Margaret, a year younger, and slighter,

prettier, objected.

“I said we would not get wine either. Only milk …”

“Milk is of no good for a wedding, silly! Only wine will serve, Seumas says …”

“I am marrying Ranald,” Margaret revealed, but with less pride than her sister’s announcement. Seumas Colquhoun was the head shepherd’s son, while Ranald was Angus of the Isles’ second.

“Ranald is not so strong as Seumas …”

“Hush you, hush you, shameless ones!” the Queen told them.

“Can you not perceive that you outrage my lord Abbot? Make your reverences to him-and then be gone. Or your sire will hear you. Here he comes. Tell Mistress Kate in the kitchens that you may have oat en cakes, and a little watered wine. Watered, mind you! Now-off with you …”

“Ha, Bernard-I never know whether to rejoice to see you, for your own sake, or to fear for what brings you!” the King exclaimed, as he came up. His voice was strong as ever, at least.

“Welcome to Cardross, whatever. These ones have been down with me inspecting the new trading galliot we build. They declare that she is too heavy and will surely sink. How think you?”

“I know not a galliot from a gallimash, Sire. I prefer God’s good firm land …”

“Like Her Grace. I grieve for you both! Well-where have you ridden from today, my friend? Dunfermline?”