Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

“Sire-this Murdo Leigh is the physician who looked to your wounds, you will recollect. He now attends to others. Amongst whom is one of the prisoners from the Ross galleys. A man of some substance, it seems. He talks of your affairs. Murdo fears that he is dying) but does not believe him deranged. He believes that you should see this man. For he speaks of your wife. The Queen.”

Bruce rose at once, frowning.

Together they followed the old man out and across the courtyard and into a reed-thatched lengthy bunkhouse, but dimly lit by a few flickering torches. Here many men lay on sheepskin litters, some groaning. They were brought to one, huddled very still beneath a ragged plaid, grey of face, eyes closed. They feared that he was already dead.

But presently the eyelids flickered, and the old physician kneeled, to speak in his ear.

“I have brought the King. The Bruce. The Sassenach King.

He is here, man. Tell him what it is. What troubles you. Tell him.”

The dying man stared up at Bruce. His lips moved, but no sound issued.

“Speak up, man …”

Bruce knelt on the rush-strewn floor beside the sufferer.

“You have word for me? Of my wife?” he demanded.

“What do you know?”

The other’s eyes rolled up, and his lids closed. But after a moment he opened them again, and whispered.

“The sanctuary. I ,.. I swore … ill would … come of it. The sanctuary … violated.”

“Sanctuary?

What sanctuary? What do you mean? Tell me, man.”

“Duthac,” the other muttered.

“The saint. It was … ill done.”

“Of a mercy! What is this of saints? What was ill done?” Bruce gripped the man’s arm.

The old Murdo signed to the King to wait. He spoke more gently in the other’s ear.

“Friend-heed you. Here is opportunity.

To unburden your soul. You go to be with God. Soon. You said that your soul was heavy. A weight of guilt. I have no priest-but here is the King. You said it was God’s judgement-that you should be cut down by the Sasanach King. Here he is. Speak while you may.”

In a fever of anxiety Bruce looked up at the woman. She touched his shoulder and shook her head.

The Rossman stared past them all, up at the shadowy, smoke wreathed roof, un winking Then he spoke again, more clearly though no more strongly.

“My lord commanded it. He cared nothing … for the sanctuary. We

took the women … out of it, This Queen. And the child. Slew their

men … there at the altar.

My lord commanded it…”

“Dear God-what are you saying? The Queen? And the child?

My Marjory? Speak plain, man-for sweet Christ’s sake! What lord?

What sanctuary?”

“Saint Duthac’s. At Tain. My lord of Ross. Chief of our Clan Aindreas. William, the Earl. The other earl-Atholl. He was fleeing, with the women. North. To the Orcades, they said. The English king’s men after them. Fleeing through my lord’s territories.

My lord sought to take them. They took refuge in the chapel. Of Saint Duthac. At Tain. A noted sanctuary. We caught them there …”

“You caught them! Took them? You took the Queen? And my daughter?

You slew … slew …?”

“Only the men. Who would have stayed us, lord. At the altar.

God forgive me! Not the women. Atholl, the other earl, wounded.

My lord William handed him over. To the English. With the women. It was ill done …”

“God! When? When was this?”

But the other seemed to be seized with a bout of agonising pain.

Only groans came from him.

“Answer me, wretch!” Bruce cried, almost beside himself.

“When was this infamy?” He shook the moaning man.

There was no answer, no further meaningful words, just the grievous sounds of a man in his extremity. With a fierce effort Bruce sought to take a grip upon himself, rising to his feet.

“So-Edward!” he panted.

“Edward Plantagenet -he has my Elizabeth! And Marjory. By the damnable treachery of William of Ross. God Almighty’s curse upon him!” On a gasping intake of breath he paused, eyes widening. He was staring at Christina MacRuarie, but he did not see her.

“No-God’s curse on me! Myself-it is myself that is accursed! Myself, I tell you. You heard? At the altar. Taken at the altar. At this Tain. As I took John Comyn’s life at the altar. At Dumfries. Jesu God! It is I who did this. I who betrayed my wife and daughter …”

“Sire! My lord Robert-do not say so. You cannot blame yourself for this. For the villainy of Ross. Do not scourge yourself …”

Blindly he turned away, making for the door.

In the courtyard she caught up with him, reaching for his sound arm.

“See-come with me,” she urged.

“We will speak of this quietly, privately.”

He removed his arm, though not roughly.

“I thank you. But I would be alone. I go to my room. I thank you but this is for myself, apart. Go back to your guests. Say that I am wearied. That my wound pains me. Goodnight. And … and say a prayer, lady, for Robert Bruce! Of your mercy …”

Chapter Five

The days that followed were as grievous as any that Robert Bruce had had to bear, despite the comforts of his present refuge, the goodwill of his hostess, the sympathy of his friends and the beauty of his surroundings. He had thought that he was armoured now, hardened, against further fierce hurt and sorrow, that he had plumbed the depths of suffering; in ten years of war and destruction and Edward Plantagenet’s malice and Comyn’s hatred, in the ruin of his fortunes, the frustration of his hopes, the living with treachery and defeat; in the terrible deaths of his brother Nigel, his brother-in-law Christopher Seton and so many of his supporters and friends; in the torture of a whole people. But it was not so. His despair over Elizabeth was beyond all that had gone before, his agony of dread almost enough to send him out of his mind, his utter helplessness a crucifixion. Worst of all, perhaps, his sense of guilt, that never left him, day or night, the general background of guilt in that all surely stemmed from his murder of John Comyn before the altar at Dumfries; and the more immediate and personal guilt in that he had refused Elizabeth’s pleas to let her remain with him, had sent her away-to this. While he himself remained safe, secure.

His heart ached also, of course, for his daughter Marjory, so young, at twelve, to be suffering for her father’s sins, failures and ambitions. And for his sisters Christian and Mary, Isabel Countess of Buchan who had crowned him, and the rest of his womenfolk.

What English Edward would do to them all, God alone knew-but chivalry and mercy played no part in either his warfare or his statecraft. Bruce had only one faint gleam of hope-in Elizabeth was the daughter of Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster, Edward’s closest friend and companion-in-arms. For de Burgh’s sake he might conceivably stay his hand from the worst, from the most unthinkable atrocities. But, knowing the King of England, he did not delude himself with false optimism.

Bruce did not spend those days sitting in idle brooding, of course. He

forced himself to activities in which he had neither satisfaction nor

interest, grateful only when these tired him out sufficiently to dull

the pain and fears that haunted him. Which was, indeed, quite

frequently, for this was the season of the stags roaring on all the

mountainsides around Castle Tioram, when the deer-hunting was at its best-and Christina MacRuarie determined that nothing which she might do to distract and entertain her guests should remain undone. There was great hunting almost every day, of wolves and boars and even seals, as well as deer;

salmon-spearing in the river narrows; hawking for the multitudinous wild-fowl, and especially the long skeins of geese that ribboned the sky at dawn and dusk. There was feasting, music, storytelling, and the vigorous Highland dancing, until far into the night, evening after evening. Love-making too, for those so inclined-although Edward Bruce appeared to achieve no real success in his frank pursuit of their hostess herself. The King sought to act his part in all this, and not play the skeleton at the feast-though none were deceived.