Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

Not that any there looked upon this sojourn in Moidart as any sort of holiday. It was only a breathing-space, wherein time fell to be filled in. This Hebridean interlude, though forced upon the King and his friends by sheer necessity, as the only area of Scotland where he could be safe from his enemies, and respite from being hunted fugitives essential, nevertheless had a positive and never forgotten objective the obtaining and marshalling of men, once more to prosecute the war. How these men were to be won, whether cajoled, bargained for or merely hired, was less than clear-but these Highlands and Isles were in fact teeming with men trained to arms, whose main delight indeed was to fight Somehow, some proportion of them must be harnessed to the King’s cause. That they were in theory all his own subjects was something of a grim joke. But any success in such harnessing depended upon information, tidings, knowledge in some measure of what went on elsewhere-otherwise, for Bruce to be isolated in these remote fastnesses spelt defeat indeed. So Christina of Garmoran was prevailed upon to send out messengers, enquirers, spies, north and south, by sea and mountain-track- and while her visitors waited for results, this entertainment.

In all this, Christina’s attitude to Bruce himself was of a warm understanding, a care and concern that was noteworthy in so vehement and proud, not to say imperious, a young woman. It would be fair to say that she cherished him, who was scarcely of the cherishing kind. He sought nothing of the sort, of course, and, in his preoccupation with his anxieties and guilt, may have seemed less than appreciative. But he was well aware, too, that this woman might well be brought to play an important pan in his eventual strategy, both as a supplier of men and as a link with other chiefs, even to work on Angus of the Isles himself. So he by no means wholly rejected her attentions. Besides, she was a woman, and handsome-and he not un impressionable even in these circumstances.

It was ten days after the arrival in Moidart, and the night of the return of the first of the Gannoran couriers, that Bruce, far from cheered by this man’s tidings, made excuse to retire early from the feasting and entertainment, and went to his room. He did not immediately repair to his couch however, for unless very weary indeed, sleep did not come easily these nights-and it had been a wet and chill day, with no hunting. Part-undressed and wearing a bed-robe of the late Alan MacRuarie’s, he paced the skin-littered floor of his chamber.

The messenger had come from the Comyn lordship of Lochaber and the MacDougall lordship of Lorn-useful listening-posts for spies, in that they were very much in the enemy camp. He had brought back word which no interpretation would make other than depressing. In Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, King Edward had obviously found a Governor of Scotland after his own heart.

Terror stalked all the Lowlands. Not only in the south, below Forth and Clyde, where these past years terror had been more or less endemic; but in the north and east, or such parts as were not Comyn-dominated. Angus and Mar and Moray in especial were suffering-for in these great provinces Bruce had much support -and Pembroke was now wreaking his master’s will on Inverness. His, it appeared, was an effective and methodical terror, not weakened by blind hatred, and he left little in his tracks to resurrect.

With the Earl of Ross now committed to Edward’s cause, the farther north was equally enemy territory, and Bruce’s adherents being rooted out ruthlessly. The only hint of consolation was that the Bishop of Moray, loyal est of the loyal, was said to have eluded the enemy net and was thought to be making for Orkney, with some few stalwarts.

As to the Queen, the only word was that she had been taken, with her companions, straight to King Edward, who was settling down to winter at Lanercost Abbey, near Carlisle. There he had promptly hanged Atholl -and to protests that no earl had been hanged, in England or Scotland, within the memory of man, had answered by prescribing a higher gallows and a longer rope for Earl John de Strathbogie. What he intended to do with the women, none knew-but the rumours were many and dire.

That Edward had chosen to set up permanent headquarters at Lanercost,

remaining on the Border and not returning to London or even York, for

the winter, was as grim news as any. It implied that though Scotland

was to all intents crushed, and Pembroke’s campaign now no more than a

mopping-up, the Plantagenet was determined to go further, and personally to superintend the process. Which could only mean that this time Scotland was to be ground into the very dust, and that the hunt for Bruce himself was to be continued, probably intensified.

That man, pacing his floor, was going over all this, when a knock at the door revealed Christina MacRuarie herself. She was dressed in a furred bed-robe not unlike his own, her long dark hair hanging free.

“Your Grace,” she said, “My lord Robert-I heard you walking and walking. This will not serve. Not in my house. Not for the hero who came to the rescue of Christina of the Isles. Who shed blood for her.” That was spoken as though rehearsed. She came in and shut the door behind her.

It could have been true that she had heard him, for this was a timber-built house within the castle walls, and her room was next to his-indeed this obviously had been her own bedchamber, and she was presently occupying its ante-room. She must have left the hall very early, however-soon after himself, presumably-for the noise of pipe-music and dancing still sounded.

He inclined his head, waiting.

“Sire-it is not good. For a man to fret and gloom so. Not right.

Your burdens are sore, heavy-but they are not such as to unman Robert Bruce.” She spoke a little breathlessly now” for her.

“You hold too much to yourself, my friend.”

“Perhaps,” he acceded.

“But that is part of my burden. Being a king is lonely work.”

“Need it be so lonely? I think not. For a king is a man first, with a man’s needs, a man’s temper and person. You do not renounce your manhood in your kingship, do you?”

“You think that I do?”

“I think it, yes. In part. That is why I have come. I have sought to bring the man out, from behind the king-on the hill, in the hunt, the fast, the dance. With little success. Now I come to your bedchamber, Robert. For I believe that you need a woman. Yet you have looked towards none that I have offered. So now …” She paused.

“So now I have brought myself!” And she threw open the furred robe.

She was completely naked beneath it.

He stared, wordless, moistening suddenly dry lips.

The whiteness of her was startling, an alabaster white even in the mellow lamplight, only emphasised by the jet-black triangle at the crotch and the large dark circles which tipped her breasts. Compared with this woman Elizabeth was honey-coloured, almost golden, more rounded, more generous of hip and thigh and bosom.

Not that the man was conscious of any comparison between his wife and this who was offering herself to him. But the distinction was were, unbidden, inevitable, the contrast of two proud and beautiful women.

For Christina MacRuarie had her own beauty, however different, of form as of feature. And that she was very desirable no whole man could have gainsaid.

She stood so, for a little, eying him directly, only her visibly heightened breathing hinting that perhaps she was less bold and sure of herself than she appeared. She held out one hand.

“Do I please you, Robert?” she asked.

He swallowed.

“Aye. Yes, indeed. You … you are very fair.

Well-fashioned,” he said thickly, hoarsely. He kept his own hands to his sides.

“And … and do I stir your kingship’s manhood?”