Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (26 page)

“My lord,” Bishop Lamberton said calmly, drawing a hand to the side, “a moment alone... please?”

He tucked the letter beneath his fur-lined cloak. Already great smears of ink were bleeding through the parchment and had stained his fingers.

His hand upon my arm, we walked toward the trees. “While I understand your reluctance in this, I think it prudent to consider it more carefully. He is offering a truce and to acknowledge you as King of Scots, surely that is worth –”

“He offers naught but lies!” I spun before him, halting him. “Your pardon, your grace, I do not mean to slough off your advice, but I know it in my heart that I am right in this. A man is to be measured by his actions alone. Words only convey intent if one’s behaviors prove them so. To expect King Edward to act differently than he has in the past, to believe that he would uphold his word for any longer a time than what suits his own interests, is to play the fool. I believed his father when he said Scotland’s throne would be mine and what did that get me? Nothing but the disdain of my own people. It took me years to prove I was no longer his servant.
Years
of acting as I believed, no matter the price. Not a mere few words spewed out in desperation.”

“Then what would it take to make peace with England? Am I to tell him you are declining?” He let out a long sigh, as if to give me time to think on it. “Robert, I have been with you every step, through all your struggles. If not in body, in spirit. When I could not advise you directly, I prayed to God every day to grant you the patience and the wisdom to see your vision realized. Every time word came to me of your exploits – the battles at Brander, Glen Trool and Slioch – I knew that you were the one to question what has always been and bring about change. You inspire courage in others, you are a benevolent leader and a godly man. But your greatest gift is not your tenacity or your bravery, it is mercy. You forgave Thomas Randolph and the Earl of Ross and gave them another chance, when others would have taken their lives out of revenge.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I haven’t the luxury of spare bodies. Every Scotsman dead is one less to fight alongside us. Forgive, rather than punish, and others will join of their own volition – like the wet-eared Atholl there. But there is a difference between those men and Edward of England, your grace. And it is no small difference, but a very large, very egregious one. I trust I need not explain it to you?”

Looking down, he slid his hands beneath the wide sleeves of his vestments to clasp his forearms. “Remember when you called me to Turnberry? You gave me letters, two of them. You curried favor with both Philip of France and Longshanks...” As he raised his eyes to me, his voice took on a very solemn tone. “Because you wished to have Scotland’s crown
and
marry Elizabeth. You have the crown now, but your wife, along with your daughter and sisters – they are still in England. The King of England controls their fate. If you forego this offer, however spurious it may seem to you, then you will be no closer to seeing them anytime soon again.”

The sleet had turned to rain, slicing at my cheeks like daggers of ice. I felt the chill upon my flesh all the way down to the marrow of my bones. “Relinquish pride for love, you’re saying?”

He shook his head at me. “I know it’s not as simple as that, Robert.”

“Indeed not. Because, you see, if I harbor Edward’s beloved Gaveston, I’ll have every discontented baron and grasping knight of England on my threshold, upturning every stone and torching every timber to flush him out. What would it matter, then, to have King Edward’s word? It would matter not at all. Likely, it would make things even worse for us.”

“Robert, I beg you to –”

“Beg, shout, throw yourself on the ground and wail if you want. If he cannot keep his word from one day to the following, why even begin to believe he has anything of lasting honor in him?”

Bishop Lamberton could not respond fast enough. Pulling a hand down over my face and beard, I flung frigid droplets at the ground. “Besides, he said nothing of releasing Elizabeth or Marjorie, did he? My answer stands. I will not parlay on a perjurer.”

“What
will
it take then?”

“A document signed by every hand of parliament and” – I turned and began to walk away – “the blessing of the pope!”

“You will not get it, Robert!”

“I know, your grace! I know! But a man can dream.”

Ch. 25

Edward II – Tynemouth, 1312

When Lord David of Atholl knelt before me in York’s bailey and delivered the Bruce’s reply, I threatened to remove his head if he ever showed his face before me again. More than a mere refusal, Bruce’s words were provocative. Who was he, a murderer and a traitor, to say that
I
could not keep my word? Did he not understand the munificence of my offer and how greatly it stood to benefit us both? God’s teeth, he was impossible! Pray I lived to see the day when I could make him pay for this arrogant mistake.

Lancaster, now on the move from London, was amassing considerable numbers. Thus, we went from York to Newcastle to Tynemouth, ever northward. But what good that would do us now I could no longer see. Piers’ health went from bad to good to worse, sometimes all within a few days’ time. Although my physician could not give a name to his malady, he declared it was not life threatening and said that my beloved Piers simply needed to rest. Small chance of that, wanderers that we were.

Gradually, my unions with Isabella became less gruff and more rehearsed. We were sequestered in the abbot’s palace at Tynemouth when – exhausted from our forced travels – I had been with her one night and fallen asleep in her bed. Dawn pried its thin, pink fingers between the shutters. With a groan, Isabella threw back the covers, stumbled weakly across the floor and vomited before she could reach the washbasin on the other side of the room. Afraid that she had contracted Piers’ illness, I bolted upright to stare at her, as she retched an ocher stream of bile onto the floor. The bits of rosemary and lavender strewn at her feet did nothing to cover the stink. Finally, she made it the last few steps, poured herself a cup of water to rinse her mouth, and spit into the basin.

“I am late,” she uttered groggily, clutching her belly and crawling back into bed.

“Late?”

Amid a ghostly pale face, dark circles rimmed her eyes. She turned her head toward me, golden hair falling across her cheeks and lips. “Our child is the cause of it.”

Relief washed over me.
Finally, an heir
. Naked, I rose and went to the window. Nudging open the shutters, I inhaled the faint scent of salt air coming in from the east on a light breeze. May was drawing near. Rain and warmer days had painted the land in lusher tones. Tynemouth was too small to contain all of us for any longer. “The day is perfect for hawking, don’t you think?”

“I think I am not well enough to go with you.”

I went to her and, gently, so as not to create a wake, I sat on the edge of the bed next to her. “Of course, you should rest. Eat well. Keep my son healthy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is a girl.”

“The
next
one can be a girl.” I brushed aside a stray tendril of hair from her cheek. Yes, one offspring would not be enough. Sons could fight for me. Daughters could be married off to build alliances at home and abroad. I would need those things in years to come. I more than needed them now. Perhaps this was the beginning of better times, but first – “As soon as Bromtoft says that Piers is well enough to travel again, I will be sending you –”

She clutched my arm fiercely. “No! You cannot send me away. Not now. Not as I am.”

“What? You want to keep me near? Since when, good wife?” I gave her hand a squeeze. “Come now, we put up with each other for a purpose and it is, for now, done. You should not be near Piers in your condition. I will not endanger my heir...
our
child. And I want you safe, as well. You’ll go to York and wait for me there.”

“You’ll be staying here at Tynemouth then?”

“Heaven knows I am weary of running, but I must take Piers elsewhere. Somewhere I pray they cannot get to him.”

“Where?”

I pressed a finger to her lips. “You needn’t know. That way, you have nothing to hide. If Lancaster finds you, tell him you are with child. He will not dare touch your pretty head then.”

She grabbed my hand, kissed my palm, then slid further beneath the covers and closed her eyes, sighing. “How long before you return to York, Edward? A week? A month? More?”

“I will come as soon as I can.” Her lashes fluttered as I kissed her on the forehead, but she did not glance up at me or say anything more. I know not if she believed me, but I truly meant it. She carried my child now and I would not let Lancaster or anyone bring harm upon her. Gathering up my clothes, I dressed and went to the door. I looked at her one last time before leaving. Her chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm. Her eyes remained closed.

I found Piers standing at the foot of the stairs, the door behind him gaping open. Although still pallid, he stood unwavering, appearing stronger than he had in many days. Dressed in fine clothes borrowed from me, his fingers worried at the lion pendant dangling from the chain of gold about his neck. There was something of surprise – or was it alarm – expressed in the wideness of his eyes, the slack mouth.

“Brother Perrot!” I held my arms out, ready to embrace him in reassurance as I hurried the last few steps.

He took a step back and braced his hands against the doorframe, shaking his head. “You must come to the priory chancel at once, Edward. There is a messenger.”

No need to ask if the news was urgent or grave. I feared I knew it before I heard it. I laid a hand on his shoulder and inclined my head. “Come then. We’ll bear this together.”

We strode quickly across the open courtyard between the buildings, Piers’ breathing labored by the exertion. A Benedictine monk, the front of his black cassock powdered with flour, emerged from the refectory and remarked on the beautiful morning God had blessed us with as we passed. Were he me, he might not say such a mindless thing an hour hence. The morning air was yet crisp, even though the sun was already burning brightly overhead. Gulls glided in slow circles out beyond the sea cliffs, dipping crescent wings to catch the wind. I slowed as we reached the steps to the chancel, wanting to delay the inevitable as long as possible. Then, I dragged my feet up the few steps as the guards flung open the doors and turned to wait for Piers.

His shoulders sagged. His eyes were sunken and his lips bloodless. The sickness had done this to him, I told myself. He would recover.

“Together,” I said, extending my hand.

Head down, he trudged up after me. He kept his hands at his sides and, slowly raising his eyes to meet mine, said dolefully, “It will not always be so, Edward.”

Bars of golden light pouring in from the tall, lancet windows dissected the expanse of the nave. From somewhere unseen, the sound of chanting drifted. Novices perhaps, learning. The nave was empty, but for a lone monk on his knees in a far corner, washing the tiles with a rag and bucket. I glanced behind me to make certain Piers had followed. He was there, but he had not followed closely, as though the distance would somehow shield him. When I turned back, the messenger had emerged from behind a column and was already on his knee.

“You bring word?” I asked.

His eyes flicked up, then back down. His appearance was that of road-weariness: the flesh beneath his eyes gray from lack of sleep, his hair knotted by the wind and his leggings and short cloak splattered with mud. “The Earl of Lancaster and his army approach on the road from Durham, my lord.”

“How far?”

“Not more than four leagues hence by now.”

Four leagues? Less than a full day’s march. By nightfall, Tynemouth would be surrounded. I raised my face to the ceiling, as if I might find miraculously revealed there some answer amidst the vast expanses that stretched between the vaulted ribs. At the far end of the nave where the altar was, a cloud passed behind the great rosette window, throwing shadows across the openness and a seeping cold dread upon my soul.

“I’ll see that you are paid well for your service,” I told the messenger.

“But there is more, my lord,” he said. “The Earl of Lancaster has taken Newcastle.”

No! Margaret and her child were still there. I clenched my fists at my sides. “Piers, we must –”

A draft blew in as the door opened and Piers disappeared outside. Abandoning the messenger, I followed Piers and found him on the steps, head in hands. I squatted beside him and pulled him to me, burying my face in his tawny hair.

He clasped my forearm and began to rock on his heels. “It begins.”

“What begins?”

A roaring wind and the crash of waves below the cliffs nearly swallowed his words. “Our end.”

Ch. 26

Robert the Bruce – Carrick, 1312

So much. I asked so much of God. Too much for one lifetime.

Although by logic I knew I was justified to refuse King Edward’s proviso, it did not lessen the nettle of Bishop Lamberton’s reminder that my womenfolk were still being held captive. Not for a moment did I believe that taking Gaveston in would lead to their release. No, there was too much in the way, too far yet to go. It would take an event far greater than some rash bargain meted out in secret.

This year Marjorie would turn sixteen. Dear God,
sixteen
. No longer a child. A woman. Would I recognize her if she stood before me? Aye, I would. She would be her mother’s very likeness. She always had been. Barely old enough to speak when I sent her to Rothesay for safety, Elizabeth had quickly become the mother she had never known or had.

Elizabeth, my wife, my beloved... Why did I find it so hard anymore to conjure her face in my mind? Remember the shade of her hair? The softness of her skin beneath my roving hands? Ever since Dalry, I had been plagued by guilt. Guilt that I had not protected her, better seen to her safety, sent her to Ireland when I should have. Regret now filled her absence, not fond memories. I had nearly lost those, too. It was all so long ago. And who knew how much longer lay ahead of me?