Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

He further moistened those lips.

“You could scarcely … do otherwise! But, but…”

“Yet you stand abashed like any callow youth! Or less man a proper man. I vow your brother Edward would not be so backward!”

“Edward has not a wife. Whom he has brought to ruin. To dire danger, and sorrow. Would you have me further to betray my wife?”

She let the drawn-back folds of her robe fall together again, and shook her head.

“Betray, no. Christina of the Isles is no betrayer of men, or women.

Nor would lead others to betrayal. This is … other.”

“What, then?” he demanded, more harshly than he knew.

Holding her robe closed before her, she came forward to him.

“Robert-how long since last you lay with a woman?” she asked.

Blinking, he ran a hand through his hair.

“God knows! Two months. Three. I cannot mind …”

“Yet you are of a lusty habit, they say. No half-man.”

He did not speak.

She seated herself carefully on the edge of his bed, her own bed.

“Why think you I have come here, this night? To your chamber?” She added, as an afterthought and almost tartly, “Sire!”

“You tell me, lady,” he said.

“Very well. I have not come because I am panting for you!

Neither for your manhood nor yet your king’s Grace! Nor is this my

habit. Nor even have I come out of my gratitude, you save dme and

mine born the Rossmen. I came because I believed that you needed a woman. A woman’s body, and a woman’s comfort and tenderness. And since, it seems, you will not of yourself take a woman, I provide one. And since you are the King, and my guest, only I will serve. Christina. No other, I swear, would be sitting here, on your bed, putting all into words for you!”

“That at least is true!” he agreed, less stiffly.

“What makes you think that I so greatly need a woman?”

“Because I am a woman, and have watched you. The signs are not lacking. Because a lusty man, and married, with time on his hands, is less than himself when deprived. And when the King is less than himself, many may suffer. More than those many should.

Moreover, because in your fretting waiting in my house, you make but ill company. For me, and for your friends.”

“You say so? For that I am sorry,” he told her, stiff again.

“So are all who love you.”

He stared down at her, frowning. What she said was true, of course almost every word. He knew it, had long known it, without acknowledging it Was he a fool, then…?

He flushed, as he realised that his man’s eyes were busy, however sluggish his wits-for, leaning a little towards him, the woman’s robe gaped open, so that both breasts were entirely evident, one exposed to the nipple. Her breasts were not large, but strangely pointed, firm, hard-seeming for a woman who had borne a child, as she had done. She had not fed the boy herself, it seemed. But if the breasts were not themselves large, the aureoles were larger and darker than any he had seen, and notably rousing admittedly.

Moreover, the furred folds had fallen aside from one leg, and the white thigh and bent rounded knee were only a little less stimulating than the bosom. Indeed, sitting there, half-covered, she was altogether more tellingly desirable than when she had stood opposite him, wholly displaying her nakedness. More than his. face flushed.

Probably she perceived something of these reactions, for she drew the robe back over her leg, though not very effectively, but raised her other hand to his sound arm.

“Come, sit, Robert,” she said.

“Tell me of your Queen.

Your Ulsterwoman. Is she very beautiful? I have heard that she is.”

He sat, since standing he was the more distracted. But to sit and ‘discuss Elizabeth with this all-but-naked Isleswoman was less than suitable.

“She is, yes,” he agreed shortly.

“Beautiful, and leal.”

“And she would have you monk, during this long parting?”

“Would not any wife?”

“Not any, no. Some, yes. I would not. With months, possibly years, between. My man’s heart I would have cleave to me. His manhood, his body, denied me, I would not deny Aim.”

For a moment that bedchamber of Castle Tioram in Moidart gave place to another room, darker, smaller and no bedchamber, whatever had taken place therein-the little rustic garden-house on the island in Linlithgow Loch where, four years before, Elizabeth de Burgh had yielded herself to him in passion and love.

After that joyful, cataclysmic union, she had spoken to him very much as this Christina spoke now. What was it she had said? That she would be a jealous wife. That if she married him she would require him to be faithful. In his heart. That he might amuse himself with other women, even lie with them. But if he gave his heart to another, she would turn from him and never forgive him.

Even might kill him, she had said. Those may not have been her words, but that was the gist of it.

And now, this.

“Your Queen and I, then, are of a different sort,” she went on.

“So be it.”

“Different, yes. In much. But not… but not…” Absurdly, he felt that he had to be fair to Elizabeth in this.

Speculatively she eyed him. But she rose, pulling the robe close again.

“I will go, then-since I cannot serve your need. Remember hereafter, Robert, that it was your need that brought me. Only that.”

He looked up at her, biting his lip. They said that there was no hatred to rival that of a woman rejected. This woman’s aid, cooperation, influence, he greatly required. And she was indeed beautiful… “Do not go,” he said.

Their eyes met, and held.

“Do you not know your own mind, Sire?” she asked.

“Or is it your body you do not know?”

“As to my body, there is no doubt, woman!” he told her.

“Nor indeed in my mind, I think. It was my heart that gave me pause.”

“We are not concerned here with your heart,” she declared levelly. But she looked away.

He had a flash of insight there, that perhaps she lied. But he put the thought from him.

“Then give me … what you came to offer. And find me … grateful.”

Grateful? “”Aye grateful.” He stood up, and stepped forward to

her.

“And more than that. Desirous. Demanding. Needful. Hungry.” He reached out an ungentle hand to wrench back her bed-robe from her white loveliness.

“So-you are a man, after all!”

“Let me prove it, Christina of the Isles!”

“You have all night to do that, Sir King!” She flung the robe away.

“Let us see if there is a saga to be made of this also!”

If thereafter Robert Bruce suffered twinges of a new sort of guilt, at least he made better company, and for more than just his hostess. None failed to perceive the change in the King-and few failed to find a reason for it.

It was a strange development, manifesting itself not in any new zestfulness, triumphant masculinity or obvious satisfaction; rather in a relaxation of manner and temper, a greater friendliness towards his companions, a kind of lowering of guards. Clearly he felt less cut off from his fellow men and women, more in need of what others had to offer in sympathy and personal support. Indeed, although humility was not a word that was ever likely to be associated with the Bruce, a sort of modesty grew on him. He had never been arrogant or overbearing but there had been perhaps a certain un approachability a reserve. Always there would be something of this, but now there was a distinct easement.

He even spoke frequently, to others, of the Queen and her perilous situation, as of his own helplessness, something that he had not done before. That she was much on his mind, whatever his current recreations, was evident to all.

Of course the affair with Christina did not limit itself to a single engagement. Living in such close proximity, occupying adjoining rooms, that would have been almost impossible. And there was no question as to their mutual physical satisfaction; neither had cause to complain of the other’s adequacy or accomplishment. No coy teasings or lovers’ tiffs were there to punctuate their association.