The Price of the King's Peace

The King gripped the other’s thin hand.

“Then, I rejoice,” he said, deep-voiced.

“With you. No mourning, William. I have never heard greater sense spoken. For you, then, all is well. You go on, joyfully. Prepared. But-you have not murder on your conscience, my friend! What of me? I murdered Comyn, at God’s own altar.

What of me?” There was intensity there also.

“What of you, then, Robert? Are you different from other men-save in that you have had greater testing? That was sin, yes-although the man deserved to die if ever man did. But it is repented sin. And paid for a thousand times in the years since. I say, without that sin, and the need to expiate it, who knows-would Robert Bruce ever have achieved what he has done? For a whole nation? Would this character you have built up be so sure, so sharp and tempered a sword for God’s use in His purpose hereafter? I think not.”

“I would that I could be so sure of God’s forgiveness!”

“Then use your wits, Robert! Use them. God is purpose, order, power. But, forget it not-love, also. Else where comes love? Love, the force which drives all else. Love is compassion, understanding.

If you can forgive-and you have forgiven many, too many for your nobles-then do you deny it to God? Dare you?”

“No-o-o …”

This time the Bishop’s eyes remained shut for long; and thinking he slept, Bruce lay back, thinking, thinking.

But then the weak-strong voice spoke on, as though there had been no pause.

”If life has taught me anything, Robert, it is that love is of all

things great, powerful, eternal, the very sword of God.

Not weak, soft, papas some would have it! Love is God, therefore it is eternal. Cannot die-God’s, or yours, or mine. Here is the greatest comfort in all creation. Love cannot die with the body. It must go on, since it is eternal. See you what this means, my friend?”

“I think I do, yes. Elizabeth…!”

“Aye, your Elizabeth. She is loving you still. As you love her.

Scorning, straddling this hurdle we call the grave! And not only she. Your Marjory. Your brothers. All those who have loved you, to the death. Whom you mourned for, un needing And I, who have loved you also-I take it with me. But its chain will link us still.

And God’s love, of which it is a part, will see that it grows and burgeons. In the fuller life to which we are headed. This … this is what I had to say to you, Robert Bruce. Thank God … He has left me time … to say it.”

Those last words were barely distinguishable, spoken beneath the shallow breath, yet with a certainty to them that spoke of strength not weakness-William Lamberton’s last service to his two masters.

Bruce remained beside the bed for some time thereafter, but there was no more talk. Once the dying man moved his lips, but no words came; a faint smile, that was all. They were content. When, presently, the other closed his eyes, the King pressed his hand for the last time, and walked slowly from that room, leaving his friend to the hush of the waves far below, and the seabirds’ crying.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Gibbie,” the King said, a little thickly, “it is time. There is not

long now. Bring me these three. And thus. Thomas Randolph.

Angus of the Isles. And James Douglas. These three only do I wish to see, now. And, man-of a mercy, lighten your face! Have you vowed never to smile again? Here is nothing so ill. Another pilgrimage, and a lighter one-that is all. Less wearisome than that we have just completed. William Lamberton taught me how to die, a year ago. Now, get me my nephew Thomas-and not on tiptoe, ‘fore God!”

Bruce’s voice was surprisingly strong, however thick, and as vehement as ever-when he could speak-even though scarcely any of the rest of him could move. When, at times, overwhelming pain at his heart blacked out all things for him, he knew fear-not fear of the next step, but that it should come upon him before his tongue could enunciate what still had to be said. This had been Lamberton’s fear, and then final relief—time to give his message to his friend.

So, while Hay fetched Moray, Bruce lay in the great room of Cardross,

bathed in the bright June sunshine, and prayed that the roaring

blackness would hold off sufficiently long, and that nothing should tie

and hamper his tongue. He was the King. Pray God he could remain the

King to the end-until he became just another new pilgrim… Moray came

quickly, with the Constable-for none of them was far away. All knew

the end was near; indeed most of his friends had not expected their

liege lord to survive the long pilgrimage to St. Ninian’s shrine at

Whithom, at the tip of Galloway, and back, the astonishing epic

itinerary of a dying man, out of which none had been able to dissuade him, litter-borne indeed as it had had to be.

“It is Thomas, Sir,” his nephew said.

“I am not blind, man!” his uncle asserted.

“Not yet. Come close.

Do not go, Gibbie -you shall listen to this also. As witness.

Thomas-hear me. You have good shoulders. You will require them. On them I now place my burden. Of rule and governance in this land. I leave a bairn as king-a child of five. An ill thing. For a dozen years, God willing, the rule of Scotland must be yours, in his name. You are regent, with James Douglas as co-regent. But yourself chief est Jamie is the greatest fighter-but yours is the wisest head. I have instructed Bernard de Linton, and signed all that is necessary. You understand? From this day, Thomas, this hour, you take up my burden.”

“This day, Sire … ?”

“This day. The gate stands wide for me. I will not hold back now, I think. Not of my will. But, be that as it may, from now, Scotland is in your strong hands. I thank God for them. You know my mind, what I would have for my son and his realm. See you to it.”

“That I will. You may rely on me. And … I thank your Grace.

For all things. But, above all, for your faith in me. I, who betrayed you once …”

“You never betrayed me, Thomas. Only set too high a standard, to which I could not aspire-and feared to betray yourself. Since you learned that kings, and yourself, are but men, and men are finite, you have served me better than any. Now the decisions are no longer mine, but yours.”

“It will be my endeavour to make them as you would, Sire…”

“No! Not that. You have a better head than I, in some matters.

And a stout heart. Make your own decisions now. And for my son.

They will often enough be hard decisions, and men will not love you for them. You will have a King’s work to do, yet not be a King.

I do not envy you your task, Thomas.”

“I take it up willingly, proudly, Sire.”

“Aye. Only, remember this, Thomas. All men have not your stature, your integrity of spirit. Be merciful. Particularly towards a fatherless and motherless laddie, who sits in a lonely throne-God knows how lonely! That alone I counsel you-be less unbending.

Much proud uprightness, such as yours, must be swallowed for a realm’s unity. I learned it, and so must you. That-and trust not the English. In matters of statecraft. However fair-seeming.

Now-let us say God-speed. For my time runs out…”

Moray knelt by the great bed, to take and kiss his uncle’s swollen, stiff hand.

“Your servant, now and for ever,” he said simply, and stood.

“Aye, lad. See, Gibbie -here is a man who knows how death is to be treated! No moping and long faces. No tiptoes!

Now-Angus. Farewell, Thomas …”

The Lord of the Isles came in, greying but still the stocky, assured figure on which Bruce had always relied so heavily. He eyed his friend with his accustomed calm and practical gaze, his reserve innate even yet.

“I said that foolish pilgrimage would kill you,” he observed