In all her nineteen years he would not have totalled three passed in her company, more was the pity. But this sad, pallid, ravaged and unhealthy-looking young woman-this to be Marjory Bruce, the chubby child he once had discovered to be a poppet… She was gnawing her lip, her huge eyes never leaving his face.
Not realising himself how stern was Robert Bruces face now, in repose, they confronted each other.
It was Elizabeths open hand, upraised and held out, that saved him.
Marjory! Marjory, lass! he cried chokingly, and strode towards her, arms wide.
At the last moment, stumbling, features working sorely, she ran into that embrace, coughing.
Girl, girl! he got out, clasping her frail shaking body.
Lassie-my own daughter! Dear God, Marjory -together again!
At last. Och, och, lass-alls well now. Its all by with. You are
safe. Safe again.
A young-old bedraggled waif, the Princess of Scotland wept on her fathers splendid shoulder, wordless.
Elizabeth came to them. Her quiet strength helped them both.
They managed to master their painful emotion.
Here is another you should greet, Robert, Christian said.
Who crowned you once!
Again Bruce would not have known that the emaciated, rawboned, hard-faced woman who waited there was Isabel Mac Duff Countess of Buchan, the sonsy girl-wife of his late enemy Buchan, who had played truant to place the gold circlet on his brow at Scone, at his coronation, as was the Mac Duff privilege. The years in the cage on Berwick walls had left their indelible mark. Unlike Mary Bruce she had toughened to it, coarsened, become a lean, stringy woman of whipcord and iron, instead of the eager, high coloured laughing girl.
As she dipped a stiff curtsy, he raised her up, taking both her
hands.
Isa, he jerked.
What can I say? What words are there?
To greet you. To welcome you back. What words are there for what lies between us?
None, Sire, she answered, level-voiced.
Words are by with.
Only deeds will serve now. As ever. Deeds.
He eyed her a little askance, at her tone of voice.
Aye, deeds. It has to be deeds, in the end. It took… too long,
Isa. Aye, But there is still time.
For what, mean you?
Vengeance, she said.
I want vengeance.
Mmm. To be sure. Some vengeance you have had already, I think
Not sufficient.
No. Perhaps not, Isa. But-we have had more to do than just seek vengeance. He turned, gesturing.
At least I have been humbling one of their arrogant lords, their
Constable …
That is not how the English humble their prisoners! the Countess said thinly.
No. No-I am sorry. He moved back to his daughters side.
You will be tired, lass. With your long journey. This is no place for you-a tournament! No place for any of you. Come-we will go in. We are very grand, in Stirling Castle now! Elizabeth, my dear?
I shall stay, Robert. A little longer. Queen it here. Many would be disappointed if we both leave now. Go you. With Marjory.
I will come later.
My thanks. Holding his daughters arm, he looked at the other
returned prisoners, set-faced.
Thomas! he called.
Where is my lord of Moray? Ah, Thomas-those English lords. The captives. I will not have them near me, now. Hereford and the rest. Send them away. Ransom paid or no. I would be quit of them. Before I am constrained to use them as they have used these! You understand?
Off back to England with them.
But-much of the money is as yet unpaid, Sire. The return of these your captives was but to be Herefords ransom. The rest…
Money! Think you I care for their money? Now! Seeing my daughter! Get them away, I say. Before I further stain my honour and do them the mischief they deserve. See to it, my lord.
Is this the King of Scots vengeance? Isabel Mac Duff demanded.
It is the King of Scots royal command! he returned. And then, more kindly.
We shall pay our debts otherwise, Isa. Never fear. Come you, now, Marjory …
Chapter Three
The vast Council Chamber of Stirling Castle, true seat of government of the realm, was fuller than it had been for many a year. It was the first Privy Council that Bruce had held here-the first full Council that he had ever held, many as he had attended, one even in this great hall, summoned by John of Brittany, Edward the Firsts nephew and Governor of Scotland, to hear, amongst other things, the ghastly details of William Wallaces death at Smithfield, London. A number then present were here again now, and, like the King himself, must have been very much aware of the shadow of that great and noble man whom the Plantagenet had butchered in his insensate hate, and who had contributed so much to make such Council as this possible.
Not all there, however, would have the man Wallace at the backs of their minds. Indeed, not all present were inclined to look upon todays as at all any sort of celebratory occasion; but rather as a making the best of a bad job. For this was the first Council of a united Scotland-and the Scotland which had fought the English for so long had been far from united. Whether it was so now, for that matter, remained to be seen: though the monarch had done all in his power to make it so-more in fact than most of his close associates, of the mass of the people even, deemed either prudent or right. The unity of the kingdom was almost entirely Bruces own conception; just as the idea of patriotism, the love of Scotland as an entity, a nation, for its own sake, had been almost solely Wallaces. If the ancient realm now stood free, and facing the future with at least a semblance of confidence and unity, it was the work of these two very different men with their differing visions.
It had never been easy, any part of the forging of those visions into reality. And it was not easy now. Since other men, through whom it all fell to be achieved, saw the visions only dimly or not at all. The clash of outlook, temperament, interest and will was unending. The Scots were ever a race of inveterate individualists and hair-splitters. With men such as the Earl of Ross, Sir Alexander Comyn, Alexander MacDougall of Argyll and Sir John Stewart of Menteith -all of whom had fought against Bruce, seated round a table with such as Edward Bruce, the Earl of Lennox, the Lord of the Isles, Sir James Douglas and Sir Neil Campbell, it required a strong hand to control them. But a great deal more than merely a strong hand.
Do I have it aright? Angus of the Isles was demanding.
Edward of England, despite his defeat, refuses a treaty of peace on all terms? Or just the terms we offer?
On all terms, my lord. Bishop William Lamberton of St. Andrews, Primate of Scotland, had just returned from a brief embassage to London.
He still names us rebels. His Grace an imposter and will consider no
treaty. I did what I could to persuade him, and his Council, but to no purpose. To my sorrow.
The war, then, goes on?
In name, yes. Since they will not make peace.
Our terms were easy, generous, Lennox said.
Too generous! Campbell jerked.
I said we should have invaded England after the battle-not sought to treat. Given them no rest. We had the advantage.
We still have, the King pointed out, from the head of the long
table.
Nothing is lost. But… I had hoped that they would have learned their lesson.
The English never learn, old, blind Bishop Wishart of Glasgow said.