“Sorry,” Randolph said, turning his attention back to me. “There is so much to do and people pouring in every minute, begging for lodgings. I recall, at no time, any of this ever being written among my duties. The queen attempted to oversee it all at first, but she hadn’t the stamina for it.”
“What’s this all for?”
“You haven’t heard? A betrothal. Walter Stewart and Marjorie Bruce, no less.” His smile brightened, while mine slipped away.
So it was true, what Edward said. I had wanted to believe it was only talk, that nothing would come of it. Or maybe that Edward was merely tormenting me for sport.
Randolph grasped my shoulder as if to steady me. “Are you all right, James? You look a bit down in the mouth.”
I rubbed at my back, feigning an ache. “Just in need of a bed, is all. I say you’ve too much energy.”
“Too many responsibilities, more like. I should learn to delegate. Perhaps you’d like to organize the menu? Then again, maybe not. You’d be content with watered ale, stale bannocks, and a pot of venison stew without so much as a pinch of pepper.” Randolph cuffed me on the side of the head hard enough to make my ears rings. “You’ll tell me about the campaign when you’re rested?”
“Aye, I will.”
“Good, I’d much rather hear how you sent the English running in fright than spend one more hour” – he waved a hand in the air – “overseeing this. Between the two of us, I’ll be happy when it’s over.”
I, however, could not say the same.
***
The feast celebrating the betrothal of Walter and Marjorie was a grand affair. In all my life, I had not seen the likes of it. Indeed, Scotland likely had not witnessed such extravagance since the times of King Alexander. It left one to wonder how much of a spectacle the wedding would be.
Trumpets blared as another course was laid upon the tables. Boyd conducted a virelay in mangled French. Tumblers stood upon each other’s shoulders and flipped themselves into the air to gasps of amazement, followed by rounds of applause.
The only time Robert and I had spoken since my return was at a meeting earlier that day, when I reported about the raid into northern England. Edward Bruce was there as well, but he was noticeably irritable and sporting a black eye. The whole time he said nothing, staring at Robert in an uncommon, brooding silence, with his feet tossed up on the table of the council chamber and his arms crossed tightly. After giving my report, I withdrew to lighter company, sharing my exploits with Randolph as promised.
As the guests ate themselves into a state of indigestion, the night wore bitterly on. When Robert raised his glass to the newly betrothed couple, I could not help but notice that Marjorie failed to smile or look at Walter when he snatched up her hand and kissed it. She was dutiful, if not indifferent, while Walter was suffused with cheerfulness, dashing about the hall to receive compliments and congratulations.
Beside Robert, Elizabeth sat uninvolved, looking spent and frail, with barely a blush to her cheeks. Edward, imbued with the confidence found at the bottom of his cup, went from sullen to argumentative. Christina diplomatically buffered the exchanges that had begun to fly between Edward and Randolph, who unlike me, had never learned to shirk the younger Bruce’s malicious comments as simple arrogance.
“Oh, come,” Randolph began, as he flicked a ringed finger at the base of his goblet, “we would put ourselves in senseless peril by straying there and to what end? We’re threadbare in the middle as it is. We should tend to our own for now. Conquest is for the greedy.”
“But when you’re the object of that greed, nephew,” Edward Bruce said loudly, “you have to slam your aggressors at the back of the knees. Bring them down when and where they don’t expect it. In this case: Ireland. It’s been a base of English supply lines for far too bloody long. And once we have a foothold there ...” – he grinned to himself, nodding smugly – “it will be the beginning of the end to English rule everywhere.”
For a moment, Randolph was utterly speechless. He leveled an incredulous gaze squarely on Edward. “You’re mad.”
Edward pushed his chair back, his fists clenched before him. “Am I, then? Mad, you say, for thinking the Irish would have anything to do with us? Mad for thinking we could gain any future advantage from the venture? Is that what you say?” He slammed his fists on the table, rattling cups and bowls so that their contents splashed over their rims. “Is that what you say?!”
Christina, eyes closed, pressed herself against the back of her chair as her brother raged above her.
Serenely, Randolph held his uncle’s gaze. “I do.”
With a gloating smirk, Edward eased down into his chair. “Then perhaps you should share that sentiment with your king. The idea was his.”
Even though the musicians played on, the talk in the great hall of Holyrood had diminished to whispers. Edward snagged a passing servant and stole a flask of wine. After pouring his cup to overflowing, he did the same for his sister, who promptly departed from the table rubbing at a wine stain.
All eyes turned to Robert.
“We’ll speak of this tomorrow, Thomas ... Edward.” Robert held the flat of his palm upward to indicate to the musicians to change to a livelier tune. Then with the same hand he gestured for the tumblers to clear the floor. Robert gave Randolph a fleeting look that cautioned him to silence. “This is a joyful night, not to be sullied with prattle of politics or warfare.”
The soul-stirring drone of the pipes drifted on the air, notes rising, then undulating. The drummer thumped a languorous beat, the rhythm building to a brisk cadence. Robert rose from his seat and led Marjorie by the hand onto the floor. A peaked Elizabeth observed wistfully as more couples rushed forward to join in the ring dance. Soon, the fiddler’s bow danced over the strings to strike up a lively rotundellus. As Robert whirled his daughter about the floor, Marjorie glanced at me, her eyes swimming in sorrow.
I would rather have been jilted and seen her happy, than to think it even possible that she regretted this happening as much as I did.
***
Nigh on evening the next day, Randolph and I were walking slowly through one of the palace’s corridors. An hour ago in the great hall over cups of mulled wine, I had been sharing tales of my raids into northern England, but the talk had soon turned to Robert’s plans to send Edward on campaign to Ireland. Aware that we could too easily be overheard, we left the hall.
“Do you think,” I said, “that he is carrying this out merely to pacify Edward in some way?”
Hands clasped behind his back, Randolph paused beside a wavering torchlight and gazed at me sincerely in the half-darkness. “I’ve heard Edward say Scotland is not big enough for both him and Robert. And Robert would just as well prefer his contentious brother go elsewhere. We all would for that matter. But what is Robert to do with him? The plan is far-fetched, I agree. It gambles valuable resources and men that are needed here, particularly at our borders.”
Hearing footsteps around the corner, I lowered my voice. “Should this come to pass, where will it leave either of us?”
Randolph shook his head. “A hundred times I’d have given my life on Scottish soil, but I deign not to die in Ireland, God willing. Curse my loyal head, though, I’ll go where Robert sends me. But think not for a moment that I’ll go without protest.” He sighed and rubbed at bloodshot eyes. “Ah, I’m weary of thinking. Good even, James.”
Shoulders slumped, he left. Shadows passed him ahead in the corridor. As the forms shifted into the light, I made out Christina’s serene face and beside her ... Marjorie. Her eyes widened in surprise. Immediately, I looked at the floor. As they brushed past, I muttered a greeting. Their footsteps faded away, but just as I braved a look back at them, Marjorie pressed a hand on Christina’s arm.
“Go on,” she said to Christina. “I forgot to light a candle for my father’s brothers.”
Christina kissed her on the cheek and went. Marjorie waited until she was out of sight before approaching me
.
A halo of light shone from behind her as she stepped closer. “Would you escort me to the chapel?”
“I ... w-w-would not consider it proper,” I replied, stuttering to my embarrassment.
“Please.” She tilted her head at me and looked at me with such depth and tenderness, that I could not have denied her any request.
I gave her my arm, but kept my eyes forward as we went to the chapel. The corridor was so narrow that her skirt brushed my leg. We turned a corner and went down a short flight of stairs. There, the door of the little chapel stood before us, iron studs arranged in the shape of a cross.
She turned to me and opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when snatches of conversation and broken laughter drifted through the tunnel of the corridors. After the voices ceased, she said to me, “Edward wishes I had never come back. Least of all does he wish for me to be married and having children.”
I wanted to ask her if that was what she wished for, to marry and have Walter’s children, but I was too angry. Angry at things being the way they were. Angry at myself for not having said more to her or to Robert. But ... what if I had been wrong? What if she cared nothing for me at all beyond friendship?
“He’s convinced Robert to let him conquer Ireland and claim it as his own. But he won’t be content with that. Do not cross him, James. And if you can’t support him, stay out of his way.”
Voices struck up again somewhere. They were far away and not coming any nearer, but at once she pulled me into the chapel and closed the door. Candlelight danced across her features, painting every line and surface around us in molten gold. A small altar, draped with a cloth of red silk embroidered in silver thread, stood at the far end of the tiny room, but I felt no calling to go toward it and commune with the Holy Spirit. I could only stand there and gaze at her – flesh and blood within my reach – wanting to ask her a thousand questions. In the end, I could only dare one:
“Why have you confided this to me?”
The narrow space between her eyebrows creased in bewilderment. She drew back and spun toward the altar. “Is it not plain? Oh, James, how can you be so ... so daft?”
I moved to stand behind her, close enough that I could have put my arms around her. Over her slight shoulder, I said, “I could guess a hundred things, but it would save time if you would say it outright.”
She kneaded at her skirts, chin lowered toward her breast. “Because it is you I love.”
How I wanted to lay my hands on her, turn her by the waist and pull her into my arms. Before Dalry, she had ridden mile after mile on the back of my saddle, her arms wrapped about me and her head resting on my back. I had known her touch well then, but differently. I was her protector, her guide and escort. She had returned a lady of marriageable age, in full womanly bloom, and that small seed of affection that we had nurtured for one another had somehow in a drastically short time sprouted and taken root. I had imagined nothing after all. But still ... it was maddening. I began to mull over Edward’s advice: ‘Wait till after she’s married.’
She went to the altar and leaned against it. Wringing her hands, she brought them to her lips, as though she were about to pray.
“Haven’t you anything to say? Anything at all?” Marjorie paused a few seconds before turning back to me. “How can you just stand there, looking at me like that?”
I shook my head, sorting through a flood of thoughts, feelings and urges. “I don’t know what to say or –”
“Say that you love me. Or say that you hate me. Say that I am nothing but a confused little girl with her head in the clouds who ought to do what her father tells her.” She wrapped herself in her own arms, as if to contain her troubles. “Walter is like a brother to me. I would not hurt him for the world, but I don’t love him. I want to be with you. I always have. The very first time I saw you, when you came to look for my father at Lochmaben, I knew there was something about you, something that drew me to you. And I swear unto God that I have no wish to marry Walter and yet ... yet I am told this is what I must do – for Scotland. Even though I care not one whit for thrones or who sits upon them. All because of some pact made long ago with Walter’s father. If my choice is to be taken from me then I wish my father had never become king. I wish ... I wish that you and I needn’t care about what anyone else thought or said – that we could just run from here, together, and be alone for once.”
The light from flickering wicks glowed behind her, outlining each subtle curve. The tight tendrils of her hair crowned an angelic face with trembling lips.
“We’re alone,” I said, “now.”
Her hands fell to her sides. “Then say something.”
I went to her and took her hands in mine. Gently, I pulled her to me. “Why say anything at all?”
And I kissed her.
***
The touch of her lips sent a wave of passion pulsing through every limb of my being. I kissed her harder. Her hands fluttered over my upper arms, up around my neck, tickling the hairs there. Light fingers wound deep in the tangle of my hair.
I explored her mouth, my tongue flicking in and out in a yearning rhythm. Caressing her back, my hands slipped gradually lower. In response, her body molded against mine so that I felt every curve and hollow, every angle and the suppleness of her. I drew her more firmly against me. She stiffened slightly, feeling that part of me which desired her most. But as our kiss lengthened, I felt her soften, then yield, then wanting more. There was still much of the little girl in her – untouched and pure and bursting with the joy of life – and I would take nothing from her that was not given freely.
Between breaths that I fought to control, I drew back slightly to lean my forehead against hers. “Or would you rather I simply told you that I loved you?”
“Say no more, James, my love. Only hold me. Kiss me.”
I pressed my mouth down upon hers. Low in her throat, she moaned. I kissed her cheeks and chin, trailing my way wetly down her neck and onto the white slope of her shoulders. Gently, I slipped my fingers beneath the collar of her garment and shifted it aside, so that her one shoulder lay entirely bare. Her head lolled invitingly as I kissed her more, from shoulder to neck, to the base of her throat, damp with perspiration, to the ridge of her collarbone.
“Then I will tell you that I love you, whenever I am near.” I slipped my hand beneath the collar of her gown and brushed fingers over the peak of her breast, my palm curving beneath the tight cloth to cup its fullness. “And if I cannot say it with words, only look at me ... and know. Somehow, we –”
Light knuckles rapped upon the chapel door. Marjorie spun from my hold and bumped into the altar. The candles struggled to keep their light, then fed by a draft of air as the door creaked slowly open, they sprang to life again. Hurriedly, she straightened the neckline of her gown.
“Who is there?” came an old, frail voice. Gnarled fingers wrapped around the edge of the door and nudged it open. Bishop Wishart stood in the doorway, one gnarled hand on the door for support and the other clutching a walking staff. He squinted and turned his head from side to side, more to keen his ears than anything, for he could no longer see except for faint light. “Please, who is there?”
Marjorie motioned me toward the wall, then readjusted her garment so that it hung properly. She swallowed and said, “Marjorie, your grace.”
Wishart smiled and hobbled forward, leaning on his stick with each footfall. He tottered momentarily, then steadied himself and put out a hand. Marjorie took it and led him to the altar, looking back nervously at the doorway. I crept to it, then shook my head to let her know there was no one else there.
Wheezing, the bishop leaned against her. “I thought I heard voices. When I lost my sight altogether I felt no loss, because at the time I could still hear quite well. But now even my ears begin to fail me. I cannot hear what is said to me and I hear what is not there.”
“I was saying prayers for my father’s lost brothers.”
“Fine lads. Thomas had gift
s that would have made a fine knight of him. And Alexander – ah, what brightness he shed upon the world. A genius and yet ever so humble and gracious. Nigel spoke to me once of joining the church. It would have been good to have one of Robert’s brothers take my place one day.”
Robert’s three younger brothers had each died as a consequence of Scotland’s war with England. Nigel had been captured at Kildrummy Castle and was later hanged and beheaded at Berwick. Thomas and Alexander, ambushed in Galloway, met a similar fate at Carlisle.
“Let me close the door, your grace,” Marjorie said. “Perhaps you can say a prayer on my behalf? These are complicated times and I have need of guidance.”
“Of course, of course. If you would but place my hand upon the wall or some furnishing, to keep me upright?”
Carefully, she led him to the wall across from where I had stood and put his hand upon the stones.
“There. A moment.”
I waited for her at the doorway, then left her with a fleeting kiss. Stepping out into the dim corridor, the door groaned shut behind me.
Ch. 6
James Douglas – Selkirk Forest, 1315
I fingered the goose-fledged arrow at my belt and slid it free. Snow crunched underfoot as I shifted my weight. I grimaced. The stag raised his head, flicked his ears and looked about. Clouds of steam billowed from his black nostrils. I stood as rigid as the tree against which I leaned, my bow stave gripped in my left hand. A long minute later, he lowered his great, pronged crown and wandered forward a few steps. With a black hoof, he dug at the ground and began to nibble.
Recently, Robert had stirred with fever for a hunt. The winter had been both too long and too trying, and so we were all as eager as he was to escape the city. On the first March, we rode southward – the king, his brother Edward, Walter and I – only to arrive in Selkirk Forest and be reminded that winter was not yet over with. For two days we huddled in an abandoned woodsman’s hut, tending a meager fire while snow fell thick and fast. The third morning, we rose to the steady drip of snow melting through the decaying thatch of the roof.
The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy) Page 6