Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

“Ha!” he said.

“You should have allowed me to escort you here in person, my dear.”

“Oh no, Sire. That would have been unseemly!” That was said with a giggle. And, though the voice was softly Highland-it was not Christina’s.

“On my soul…!” Bruce stared, as the woman turned round. It was the MacGregor girl. She had discarded her helmet, but the long cloak, hanging open, revealed that she was still dressed approximately as before-if dressed is the word.

She sketched another curtsy.

“I hope that I please Your Grace?”

that was just slightly uneasy.

“Save us, girl-how did you get here?”

The Lady Christina brought me.”

“She did? And… where is she now?”

Again the giggle.

“Gone, Sire. To her own chamber. In the Gatehouse. She said that she thought that she would not be required further! Tonight.”

“So-0-0!” Plunging, his mind sought for reasons. Why had Christina

done this? They had not bedded since Aberdeen. Because of the letter

from Elizabeth. He had indeed bedded no woman since then. A long

time. Could it be …? She sensed his need-that would demand no

Highland second-sight! But had divined also that there was a bar

between them in this matter, an obstruction to break down? And had chosen to break it down by means of a stranger, this MacGregor wench! A young lusty, compliant creature whom she could scarcely doubt had taken his eye, taken every man’s eyes. Was that it? This Marsala was to prepare the way for.

Christina again. If he slept with her, could he deny the other his bed, once more?

It was the best that Bruce’s somewhat bemused mind could do at this hour and with that piece of uncomplicated and quite distracting womanhood before him.

She had moved over to the fireside, and was holding out her hands to the blaze, though the room was warm enough, one booted foot on the raised fender-which meant that much of a white thigh and bent knee projected from the folds of the cloak, as well as the two bare arms. She smiled at him over her shoulder in simplest invitation, and shrugged the cloak a little, so that the cloth slipped further. Nothing could have been less subtle-or more effective.

Grinning, Bruce went over to her.

“The Lady Christina is thoughtful and probably wise,” he said.

“We must not disappoint her! May I take your cloak? Marsala, is it not?”

She unfastened the clasp with alacrity, and stood revealed in her extraordinary but provocative costume. Her giggles were, in the circumstances, suitable, unexceptionable.

“You played your part well,” he told her.

“In the masque. But this heavy steel must irk your fair flesh sorely?”

“It does,” she agreed, “I will be glad … to be quit of it!”

Nodding, he proceeded to unbuckle the strapping at her bare back-and found the contact with her soft, warm and firm skin set his fingers trembling; which, for a mature man, experienced and a monarch at that, was a sorry commentary on prolonged celibacy.

Marsala MacGregor aided him.

The clumsy breastplate fell away to reveal breasts quite breathtaking in their shape and size. Too large, no doubt, in proportion to the rest of her, and likely in a few years to get quite out of hand and make her one of those top-heavy, quickly-ageing women. But that was no man’s concern tonight. He found no fault as she turned towards him so that the thrusting points of her brushed his damnably quivering hands. It crossed his mind that she was better at this than he had been with Christina, earlier in the evening.

“You are … all delight,” he said throatily.

“This chain mail

How is it secured…?”

She had anticipated him there, and at a little more than a touch from him the heavy if brief skirting fell to her feet with a satisfactorily solid crunch. Whatever may have been under it previously, there was nothing now save generous swelling womanhood, suitably framed and garnished.

Even as he looked down her white belly seemed to ripple and wave-or was that his own eyesight, affected by the liquor he had drunk? Or another symptom of his humiliating youth-like excitement and urgency?

She came close, to press all that undulating femininity against him, warm arms encircling his neck, red lips raised and open. The boots could wait. He would have picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, as the situation more or less prescribed -but the relics of sanity remained to him. She was after all a large creature, and would weigh more possibly than his dignity could survive. Moreover, he would be wise, almost certainly, to harbour his strength for his own immediate warfare. The priority now was to get some at least of his own splendid apparel off before the lower nature triumphed.

He strode for the bed, tugging off his magnificent tabard. She was not far behind, prepared to help in this also.

“It … has been long,” he panted, warning her.

“I am not perhaps … sufficiently a king tonight! Bear with me, girl.

At first!

And I will serve you … royally!”

“I am MacGregor,” she answered simply.

“And my race is royal!” It was her clan’s motto.

For a moment he paused, to stare at her-but only for a moment.

Chapter Sixteen

Parliament was to open at noon, and the King to ride in state to the cathedral where it was to be held. About an hour earlier, dressing for the occasion and going over in a mind which had in its time felt fresher, more alert, the projected programme for the day, Bruce made frequent glances at and out of the window. The smirr of thin, cold rain off the North Sea, with which the morning had started, could spoil the procession. Not that this was so very important;

yesterday had been the time for the play-acting, and today’s business was on a different level, serious, formal, but vital.

Nevertheless, the thought of a lot of wet, chilled men in that great cold church, sitting hour after hour in debate, was not one to which he could look forward. Perhaps he was a little testy this morning.

Gibbie Hay and young Irvine certainly gave the impression that they

thought so, tip-toeing about and keeping eyes averted. That could be guilty consciences, of course. He had slept less than usual last night, admittedly-but so probably had they, and for similar reasons.

A brief gleam of watery sun, coinciding with a commotion down;

in the castle courtyard below, took him to the window once more, A small party of cloaked men had ridden in under the Gatehouse arch, horses steaming. The visitors were now dismounting stiffly as from long riding. There was nothing unusual about this, with the quality of most of Scotland descending upon St. Andrews these days; but that they should come straight to this castle was perhaps significant. And something about one of the travellers caught the King’s attention.

This man was tall, gaunt seeming and stooping a little, but strongly-built, and by the skirts of his habit below the folds of his long travelling-cloak, dressed in the style of a Benedictine friar.

Nothing extraordinary about that. Yet, something about the man even viewed from this tower-top angle … Suddenly Robert Bruce emitted a cry of astonishment, and dropping the gold belt he was in the process of donning, and brushing past the surprised Sir Gilbert, he actually ran to the door, threw it open, and went down the winding turnpike stairs two or three steps at a time.

Out in the wet courtyard, past the startled guards, the King hurried towards the travellers, who were now moving in the direction of the main keep.

“William!” he cried, “William, my friend!

My lord Bishop-God is good!”

William Lamberton turned, stern and bony features lighting up.

He came longstrided. He seemed about to drop on one stiff knee before the monarch, but at the last moment thought better of it and instead threw his arms wide and took the younger man into his embrace.