Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“But a cautious man. Did not the Queen say so?”

He sensed the smile behind the words, though he could not see it. He could see only the vague cloaked shape of her—but he was very conscious of her woman’s presence, her nearness, in that confined space.

“I would not say that caution has been my guide in life, till this,” he told her, a little breathlessly.

“Any more than yours, I think.”

“I have been sufficiently cautious where you have been concerned, at least. Have I not? Until now, perhaps.”

“Elizabeth-you have been kind, most kind. Your letters—I do not know how I would have done lacking them. They saved my reason, I think. Apart from the word of Edward’s plans, which so greatly aided me. For that, I thank you. But the letters their words, their warm, kind words. I have read them and read them. I carry them always. Indeed I have them here, in my doublet now …”

“Then that is very foolish of you, sir! I believed you to have burned them. For my name is on them. If they fell into wrong hands, were shown to the King … I Besides, I would not have thought it of you. Of Bruce, Lord of Carrick, who was Guardian of Scotland. A warrior, a man above such soft toyings. No callow youth—indeed, a married man, with a daughter …”

“A man who needs a woman the more, then.”

“Ha! A woman? But Bruce can have any woman. Almost!

Can he not? Can have many women. Lord of great possessions.

Of men—and of women! He needs not to cherish poor paper and ink to his bosom.”

“No,” he said. His hands reached out to grasp her arms, through the cloak.

“No. Not now.”

She did not draw away from him; but nor did she come closer.

“You have not forgot that I named you witless dolt. And masterful ape!”

no,” he agreed.

“Nor ever shall.” He pulled her to him, his lips seeking her face in

the hooded cloak. The young woman turned her face away a little, so

that his lips met only the damp fur-trimmed broadcloth.

“My Lord Robert,” she objected, “if a woman you so greatly need, perhaps I might even find one for you. There are many at this Court who would serve you willingly, even hotly, I swear! For myself, I am … otherwise.”

“What do you mean? Otherwise?”

“I am no… serving-woman, sir. I am Elizabeth de Burgh.”

“You think I do not know it, woman? Think you I would be thus with any other? It is Elizabeth de Burgh I want, have ached and pined for, have dreamed of, sought and awaited. Aye, and prayed for. All these years. You—your beauty and proud spirit.

Your adorable person and Comeliness.” He had pushed aside her hood now, and was gasping this into her hair and against her ear, her soft turned cheek.

“So it is my body you want, my Lord Robert? Not just any woman’s.

Here is advance…!”

“Aye, your body, girl. But your love, also. Your love, your heart…”

“Ah, but love is a different matter.” She turned to face him again, but held her head well back, almost pushing from him, as though she would search his face there in the darkness.

“Love is not just hot desire. Such as I can feel in you. As I have felt in other men. The heart is more than the body…”

“Do I not know it! My heart has beat for you, and only you, for long grievous years. My body longed for yours, yes. But the body that holds your heart, my love. I want, desire, need both.

My love for you has been eating me up. These many, many months. When I despaired ever to see you again. Yet still loved and hoped. And now—to have you, hold you, here I It is more than flesh and blood can stand … “Ah, Robert—so it is love! Then, my dear, I yield. Sweet God, I yield me!” Suddenly, fiercely, she was pressing forward, against him.

“And, save us—I conceive your flesh and blood to be standing very well, my heart…!” she got out, before his mouth closed on hers, and their lips and tongues found greater eloquence than in forming foolish words.

The man’s hands were almost as busy as his mouth—nor were the girl’s totally inactive, either. He shrugged his own cloak to the floor, and hers quickly followed it. Then he was tugging at her gown, while still he all but devoured her with his kissing.

Her defter touch came to aid him, and the taffeta fell away from her shoulders. The pale glimmer of her white body was all that he could see, but his urgent fingers groped and stroked and kneaded the smooth, warm, rounded flesh of her, serving him almost better than his eyes, her nobly full, firm breasts filling the ecstatic cups of his hands to overflowing, as they overflowed the cup of his delight.

Suddenly he was down, kneeling, his lips leaving hers to seek those proud, thrusting breasts, the exultant nipples reacting with their own life and vigour. She bent over him, crooning into his hair, her strong arms clasping him to her, rocking.

But their need was a living, growing thing, a progression, and quickly even this bliss was insufficient. He drew her down to him, pulling at the gown’s folds which a golden girdle held around her waist; and willingly she came, loosening it. The spread cloaks on the floor received them, and with swift, sure cooperation she disposed herself, guiding his clamant manhood and receiving him into her vital generosity.

The man fought with himself to control the hot tide of his passion, to give her time. Blessedly she required but little, and together their rapturous ardour mounted and soared to the high, unbearable apex of fulfilment. With blinding, blazing release, and a woman’s cry of sheer triumph, they yielded themselves in simultaneous surrender into the basic, elemental oneness, a profundity of satisfaction hitherto unknown to either.

So they lay there in the darkness, in blessed quiet and joyful exhaustion.

Presently Elizabeth spoke, murmurously, stroking the man’s sweat-damp hair.

“To think … that I… was cold!”

“Cold? You!” His speech was a little slurred.

“My adored and adorable. My heart and soul. My joy. My, my woman!”

“Your woman, yes. And my man. Mine, Robert Bruce!”

“Aye. Yours. It had to be. From the first. Elizabeth.” He turned her name over from slack lips, savouring it.

“Elizabeth, my Elizabeth. You gave yourself as you do all else, my Elizabeth.

With all your heart. And person. No laggard, sluggard lover!”

“You think me bold? Shameless? Unwomanly?”

“Bold, yes. Shameless, yes. For where is cause for shame? And were

you not bold, brave, strong, a woman of your own mind, you would not be

Elizabeth de Burgh of Ulster. But unwomanly . I’ faith, my dear,

could there be anything more womanly than this, in all creation? I

swear not.” And he ran strong, possessive, enquiring hands over all

her rich voluptuousness, lingering, pressing, probing.

“Woman!” he sighed, burying his face between her breasts.

“This body, yes. Oh, yes—that is woman. But I at times wonder whether I am sufficiently woman in my spirit. My father declares me more man than my brother! Perhaps I think too like a man.”

“Have a man’s passions…”

He chuckled.

“As you have just shown me?”

“Even so, it may be. In that I joyed in it, so! Is that not the man’s part? Is not the woman said to be the giver? The man the taker? I… I take, I fear. As much as I give!”

“Aye, you took me into yourself with a right goodwill, lass, I’ll not dispute!” He grinned, kissing and fondling, “As woman.

All woman. Taking me, and giving yourself, in most female fashion, by all the powers!”

“There is a difference. Between taking and giving. In this. I cannot take without giving. But—I cannot give without taking.

Some women can, must. I cannot. I am taking you, my heart, my man.

Mine I I warn you—mine! Elizabeth de Burgh shares with none.”