Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  Wrenching her hand away, she tried to pull free and flung her palm at my cheek, but I caught it before she marked my face with her temper and left it to sting.

  “What I do,” I said, wringing her wrist between thumb and forefinger, “is not to sate some fleeting desire. It is to secure a kingdom.”

  She snarled at me. “To secure your own crown.”

  “Ah, indeed. But better on my head that it should rest than on the puddle of character called John Balliol.” I let go of her wrists, slid both hands down her waist and pulled her firmly against me. “If you would rather not have Norwegian longships invading your shores, then you –”

  “Longships? From Norway?” Her large eyes suddenly became very, very small. For the first time, I noticed the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and the lines that finely etched her forehead, reminding me we had both grown shrewder with the years. Testing me, she provoked, “Are you king of that country now, too?”

  “My sister is Queen Dowager of Norway, I remind you, and if you do not agree to my offer, then I will call upon her to send her ships to raid at will.”

  “If you have such powers, why not use them against England?” Arching an eyebrow, she lifted her chin triumphantly. “Hah, you don’t and thus you cannot. Besides, if you dared to attack my lands, every clan from Kintyre to Orkney would come to my defense.”

  Laughter rumbled from my throat. “Oh, I doubt that, but if it comforts you to think it, then have your fantasies, dear Christiana. Truth is, you have as many enemies as I do in those lands. So hear my offer.”

  Waves crashed on the rocks below, filling the pause as she considered it. As if sensing an opportunity, she melted against me. “Then offer.”

  Cold wind nipped sharply at the rims of my ears. Even under the layers of clothing, I could feel the heat of her body and her hip bones digging against my thighs. Sweet Jesus, she was like a cat in constant season. Did she never tire of herself? “As long as I am king, no man shall take from you what is yours. Your men and galleys for my protection.”

  “And have I need of your protection? With what army shall you defend me, oh king? I think I liked my offer better.”

  I threw back my head and laughed again. “Yours would have left you breathless for a night. Mine will keep you well and safe all the days of your life, until you are old and gray.”

  “I shall never grow old and gray, my lord. When men will no longer have me I will hang myself in the stables. But, I will give consideration to your so-called ‘offer’.” She drew apart from me and called to her horse. It twitched its ears, tapped at the snow, then ambled slowly toward her, dragging its lips over the ground to nibble along the way.

  I helped her mount, then took to my own saddle. We rode the distance back in silence. Every once in awhile she tossed me an appraising look. The wind gained force, making the day seem colder, despite that the clouds had raced off to the horizon. Finally, as we approached the castle gates, she said to me, “How many?”

  “Of what?”

  She reined her horse to a stop and looked at me with one eyebrow raised, as if I were ignorant of the obvious. “Galleys. How many do you need?”

  “How many do you have?”

  “That, my lord, would depend on whether or not you accept my offer. I can spare four, maybe five. More than that... You know where my chambers are?” With a cluck of her tongue, she signaled her mount forward.

  I let her ride on ahead without answering. I knew.

  The night was half gone when I rose from my bed, crept up the tower stairs in darkness and raised a fist to rap on the door. My heart raced, sending blood rushing through every vein of my being, urging me on. Before my knuckles touched the aged wood, it opened partway.

  Christiana peeked through the crack. An aurora of candlelight burnished her hair in bronze. From her shoulders, a sea-blue brocaded robe hung carelessly loose. She ran bare fingers through the swirling mass of ringlets that draped over her right breast. As if perplexed by my appearance, she tilted her head. “You are in need of something, my lord? Shall I send for my chamberlain – or will a servant do?”

  I wedged a hand through the narrow opening and pushed against the door. “If I may...”

  The moment I stepped within, she curved around me, rubbing against my leg like a cat seeking attention. The bar clicked into place and I turned to see her leaning against the door. “You may have whatever you –”

  I wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her to me, my mouth seeking hers. She whipped her head aside with a murmur of protest. Lightly, I kissed her neck, flicked my tongue over her earlobe.

  “Whatever you... want, but... I –” Her words faded with a shudder.

  With a mere finger, I turned her chin. Full lips parted at the pressure of mine. Hungrily, my tongue darted in and out, exploring. The robe slipped from her shoulders. She stepped from me, pulling me gently across the floor. White as virginal snow, her chemise clung to every full curve of her body as she moved, pert nipples jutting against the constraints of crisp cloth. My fingers tugged at the laces at the front as I followed her, loosening it.

  Then, as she stood before the massive bed, she peeled the chemise away. With a whisper, it fell to reveal the rapture that awaited me.

  Ch. 6

  Robert the Bruce – Rathlin, 1306

  For a handful of galleys, a score of fighting men, I willingly took what was given to me. Christiana of the Isles granted me the use of twenty-five sleek galleys. From Mackenzie of Kintail I received ten more. With those we already had from Kintyre, I now commanded a large fleet that could move armed men and supplies swiftly around the coastline. English ships could carry more men, but they were too bulky to maneuver far within the lochs like our galleys could.

  Crawford requested to accompany me to Rathlin. My first thought was that he’d murder me in a fit of jealousy one cold night and toss my body into the sea. But over a cask of wine, he confessed that it was Christiana he’d strangle if he spent another day in her presence. She released him without hesitation, no doubt ready to turn her attentions elsewhere the moment we were both gone from sight. In the few weeks I had been with her, she had gone from insatiable to insipid, her attentions wandering, her enthusiasm for mine dampened. Of late, she had been more irritable, prone to argue, and I sensed a pattern confirmed by Crawford’s confession. For Christiana, the thrill was in the hunt, not the having.

  The weather proved fairer on our return voyage, but shrieking gulls assaulted us all the way, no doubt expecting fish, which we did not have. The moment Rathlin’s bleak, gray cliffs cut across the horizon, a knife of loathing sliced through my gut. Months ago, it had spared us from our enemies’ pursuit and saved us from wandering upon the winter sea. Now, I saw it for what it was: an isolated, frozen slab of bird droppings. Oh why I had ever abandoned the intemperance of Christiana’s hall and the transient pleasures of her bed – never mind her fickle mood – to come back to this purgatory of ice and stone? Surely a man who had known such hardships as I deserved some indulgences – and time enough to refresh both body and spirit?

  My men were more pleased to see me back than I was to be among them, at least on this godforsaken island of forced asceticism, where a man could do nothing but pray and wait for winter’s end. Depleted, I dragged my aching bones up an ancient sheep path that wound through a breach in the escarpment. There, an abandoned church served as my quarters. Wind howled through the ever-widening cracks between its stones and, glancing up at the roof to where the winter’s gray light filtered down in patches, I could see no one had heeded my orders to repair the handful of buildings while I was away. I collapsed on a musty pallet next to the altar, sleep carrying me off to dreams of greater comforts before I had even pulled my cloak over me.

  I awoke shivering. A puddle of rainwater had collected on the floor close to me. As it spread, my straw pallet had begun to wick the frozen water up. I rolled over, onto damp flagstones that left me colder still. Hinges creaked and I looked to the door,
only to feel the frigid blast of a cold wind stinging at my eyes.

  “M’lord?” Torquil stretched out his hand to rouse me. He gasped for air in between words. “On the water... coming...”

  As I pushed myself into a sitting position, he pulled his hand back. Confusion fogged my mind. I rubbed at a neck so stiff I could barely look up. Torquil stooped over me, his pale lips buzzing with words that made no sense. Knees drawn up to my face, I cupped my head in my hands, grumbling at him in irritation.

  “Wood and flint,” I muttered into my forearms. “Any colder in here and I will damn well freeze to death.”

  “Later, you must... down to the shore... don’t know who –”

  “The shore?” I slid my arms down my shins to peer at him, letting his words slowly sort themselves in my muddled mind. “What’s down there?”

  “Who.”

  “Fine – who?”

  He shrugged. “Two galleys in the bay. One taking on water.”

  Boyd had taken two galleys when he left for the mainland.

  Into the darkening night I raced, down the treacherous cliff path and out to water’s edge. Boyd’s curses roared above the slap of rain turning to sleet. His boat crept into the little bay and lagged as they bailed the freezing water from it furiously. A vigorous wind pushed seawater over the gunwales and the boat pitched sideways, tossing two men over. Arms flailed above the surface. Someone grabbed a hand and pulled one of the men aboard. The other bobbed up and down, his body drifting further and further from the boat, even as he tried to swim back to it. A wave swelled up behind him, its crest rising in a ragged line of white like a lion’s gaping jaws. Then, the wave surged and broke, the sea swallowing him whole.

  Torquil and a few others were already pushing one of the landed galleys out into the water to go to Boyd’s rescue. The two boats touched and Boyd and his men tumbled one by one into Torquil’s vessel.

  James stood at my side, the sleet cutting at our faces as we squinted into the dark, cold wetness.

  Finally, swearing and stumbling, Boyd straggled ashore with a sack of money flung over his back. He slammed it at my feet and pitched forward. James caught him by the wrist and slipped beneath his arm to support him.

  Boyd shivered violently. “Your rents,” he muttered between chattering teeth.

  “A bit bedraggled you are, but alive.” I reached toward him. “Come. We’ll sit you by the fire and dry you out. Alexander has just returned from Antrim with the Irishman Malcolm MacQuillan and a fierce host. He brought ale with him, half a galley-full I swear.”

  “No, no. You’ll want to hear this first.” Boyd took several ragged breaths, then raised his chin. He spoke from blue lips in an airy voice, like some ghost risen from the grave. “The English laid siege to Kildrummy. Nigel was there. He held it a long time... bravely. The English, near to giving up, promised gold to anyone inside who would give them access.” He drooped. His knees almost gave way. James tightened an arm about his waist to hold him up. “Then, the blacksmith Osborne, who had tired of the hardship, set the stores of corn on fire. Everything burned. Even the castle gate. When they finally took the castle –”

  He broke off as Alexander darted through the stabbing rain and skidded to a halt beside me, kicking flakes of shingle out into the water.

  “They melted the gold and poured it down Osborne’s throat.” Boyd slumped against James, his eyelids flapping shut and then open, as though he struggled to remain conscience. “They took Nigel to Berwick, where he... was hanged and beheaded.”

  I dropped to my knees. My heart had turned to ice. “Elizabeth? Marjorie? What of them?”

  Boyd leaned into James and shook his head. “I don’t know. Only that the womenfolk left with the Earl of Atholl shortly before the English came. They never made it to Orkney.”

  “You don’t know? How can you not know?” I leapt to my feet and grabbed the front of his shirt, yelling into his face, “My wife and my daughter were with him! How can you not know what happened to them?”

  “Robert.” Alexander hooked my arm to drag me toward the nearest house. He gestured for James to follow. “Boyd wasn’t there. I’m sure he doesn’t know any more than what he told you. Let him rest for now. You need to get some sleep, too. We’ll go to Carrick soon. Find out what we can.”

  But how does a man find sleep when his brother is dead? When he sends his wife away and has no idea where she has gone to? Whether she is dead or alive or suffering in terror as they rape and torture her?

  Ah, merciful Lord... even as I try and try to weave this rag back together it frays between my fingers.

  Ch. 7

  Edward, Prince of Wales – Tower of London, 1307

  Metal creaked against metal, rising steadily to a groan as the wind nudged at the heavy cage, tipping it slightly. The contrivance hung from an iron hook, which extended from the wall of Wakefield Tower in the outer bailey of the Tower of London. Bone-thin fingers gripped the wooden bars. The girl peered down at me, her curling tresses twisted and snarled about a bloodless face. Even from the ground, I could see her lashes, as black as a crow’s feather, fluttering over eyes of gold-green. Shoulders heaving, she sniffed and rubbed a bare hand across her nose, then pulled the tattered hem of her gown around slippered feet.

  My sire’s heels clacked unevenly over the cobbles, slowing as he neared me. He tried to smooth the hitch in his stride, but his grimace betrayed the pain. The long, muscular legs which had earned him the name ‘Longshanks’ had withered to twigs of late. He had just returned from Lanercrost Priory near Carlisle, where he sometimes went when his health deteriorated. But instead of relief from his ailments, he had returned with an unlikely prize: the Bruce women and the Earl of Atholl’s head, now adorning a pike above London Bridge.

  “I sent you to Dunaverty,” he said accusingly. “Was he not there?”

  “Shortly after I left Berwick, I received word from Menteith that he had already fallen upon Dunaverty. Unfortunately, Bruce was not there, nor any of his brothers.”

  “So you accomplished nothing?”

  Why did he always seek to find fault with me? Even though I expected such upbraidings, I could never shield my heart from them. Worst of all was how he had persecuted me for my friendship with Piers Gaveston. His banishment had nearly undone me. If I wished to hurry my sire’s demise, it was not because I wanted his throne. Far from it. I only wished... no, craved to have Piers back at my side. Mother Mary, what torture it had been without him.

  “The Bruce appears to have fled Scotland altogether,” I said, hoping that would placate him, and added for further measure, “And you have, of course, heard of Pembroke’s success in taking Kildrummy? I myself saw the crows picking at Nigel Bruce’s head atop Berwick’s wall.”

  “It would please me more if you brought me Robert’s head.” A cough tore at my sire’s throat. He raised his fist to muffle it. The hacking startled a flock of ravens, sending them skyward in a whir of beating wings and petulant caws.

  Like the arrogant, doddering fool he was, my sire denied that frequent illnesses had taken their toll on him. Too often, he was outside on days like this when frost rimed the rooftops, just as his once glorious golden hair had whitened. With every outing his joints stiffened so severely he could hardly walk for days afterwards sometimes. His French wife Queen Marguerite, who was my stepmother, trailed behind him with a gaggle of damsels. We exchanged perfunctory bows: a rehearsed ritual of mutual tolerance. I had it on the solemn word of her laundress that he still bedded her, hoping to get her with yet one more child, as if my two barely weaned half-brothers, Thomas and Edmund, were not testament enough of his enduring virility. King now for more than half of his sixty-eight years, one would think my sire – whose portentous name I had been burdened with – would have given up youthful illusions years ago, but not so. Those who believe themselves born to fulfill greatness admit nothing of their own infirmities.

  “Fitting, don’t you think?” he said hoarsely. Glancing overhead, h
e pulled off his gloves and smacked them against his palm. “The Bruce’s own daughter – Marjorie. My captive now. A tiny wren, her world no bigger than the stretch of her clipped wings. Poor, flightless creature.”

  The waif wormed her way closer to the edge of the cage, closer to me. Mouth downturned, she wedged her dirtied cheeks between the bars. One of her feet slipped beneath a crossbar, dislodging a shoe. It swung from her toes but a moment, before tumbling earthward. I snatched it up and tossed it at a raven strutting across the frost-crisped grass, missing by an arm’s length. “Must we look upon her wretched face every day? The sight of her only reminds me that her perjuring father yet has his freedom.”

  His glove smarted against the side of my head. I sprang away, glaring at him.

  “Why do you think I put her there, you daff?” A smile of wicked glee creased his mouth. “Bruce’s sister Mary is dangling in an iron nest from the battlements at Roxburgh. Thrice a day she’s allowed the use of the privy inside. This one’s young; we’ll grant her four such excursions. I’ve forbidden anyone but the constable to speak to her. Dare not take the chance that someone will take pity on her, bastard-spawn though she may be. The other sister – oh, what is she called? Damn, I cannot think in this cold... Ah, yes! Christina, the one whose husband, Christopher Seton, lost his head after that routing at Methven. Sick with grief. Shut her up in a nunnery. No comforts for her but her prayers.”