God aiding me, woman!
Oh, and I shall aid you also, never fear! With a locked door, no less!
He looked a trifle put out.
No need for that. You may trust me, I think. And no need to sound so keen!
You would have me temptress, Sire?
No-o-o. But you can still be friendly, Tina. It was his turn to
reach out a hand.
A chaste kiss now, would harm none…
I do not give chaste kisses, friend! I am Christina of Garmoran!
One way, or the other. Mind it, sirrah!
Why are women ever so difficult? he demanded, of the last rays of the sunset.
Women are women, she returned.
Not half-creatures. Not Isleswomen, at least! Come you, and I will show you to your lonely chamber.
He grinned.
Elizabeth, I think, would scarce believe this …!
Five days of hunting, hawking, fishing and sailing at Castle Tioram, and much refreshed-and still his own man-Bruce sailed south again. He would have taken Christina with him, to Gigha, but she declared that it would look a deal better if she appeared, a day or two later, in her own vessel.
In the event, Christina and the Queen arrived at Gigha on the same day. Elizabeth was enchanted with all she saw, falling in love with the Hebrides at first sight. Even Marjory appeared to be less abstracted and withdrawn than usual-although Walter Stewart took credit for that.
Gigha was much too crowded now, and a move was made to Angus Ogs
capital of Finlaggan, on Islay, where, on islands in the freshwater
loch of that name, he had a large castle, chapel, hall of assembly, and
burial-place. This was the seat of government of the Isles lordship,
princedom, or as it still called itself, kingdom -and Angus was at
pains to demonstrate to his visitors something of the princely state he
still maintained. He called a Council of Sixteen, consisting of four
thanes, four Armins or sub-thanes, four great freeholders or lesser
lords, and four knights; these, advised and guided by a large number of
people whose right it was-judges, seannachies, chiefs, the Bishop of
the Isles and seven senior priests, plus numerous hereditary officers
such as MacEachern the sword-maker; MacArthur the piper, MacKinnon the
bow-maker, and MacPhie the recorder, sat at stone tables round a
central flat rock on which sat Angus himself. All this on the not
very large Council Island, and in the open air, so that the place was already overcrowded before the distinguished visitors got a foothold. The proceedings were formal and merely ceremonial, a strange admixture of the purely Celtic and the Norse.
Thereafter, however, in his own house, Angus played host in truly princely and utterly ungrudging fashion, almost to the exhaustion of his guests. Every conceivable aspect and speciality of the Hebridean scene was exploited, and day after day of brilliant sunshine and colour was succeeded by night after night of feasting, dancing, music and story-telling. Practically every major island of both the Inner and Outer Hebrides was visited-and under the Lord of the Isles protection the holiday-makers were safe from the attentions of even the most notoriously piratical chieftains, like Mac Neil of Barra, Mac Math of Lochalsh and MacLeod of the Lewes. Iona was the favourite with the ladies; and Staffa, with its caverns and halls like cathedrals of the sea, a close second. So taken was Marjory Bruce with Iona that she insisted on being left on that sacred isle of the sainted Columba, with or without her husband.
Certainly it was beautiful, its white sands a dream, and its little abbey a gem; but the King feared that his death-preoccupied daughter was perhaps morbidly concerned with the serried tombs of her royal ancestors-allegedly no less than forty-eight kings of Scotland, eight Norse, six Irish and even an Englishman, Ecgfrid, King of Northumbria, lay here. Nevertheless, at least she had found an interest in something. Walter and she were left to work it out.
Nearly four weeks of this pleasant lotus-eating existence had passed, when one sultry August day the peace of it was shattered. A small fast galley arrived at Islay from the south, an Irish one this time, one of ONeils. It brought Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray.
Moray was an able, clear-headed, un excitable man, the last to raise hares or scares. That he should have left his command to come all this way was indicative of some major development.
Bruce, about to set out on a deer-driving expedition on neighbouring Jura, drew his nephew aside when he had raised him from knee-bent hand-kissing.
Well? he demanded.
Less than well, Sire.
Is it defeat? Disaster?
Not that. Not yet…
What, then? My brother-is he well?
Well, yes. Very well…
Then why are you here, man?
I was sent. The Lord Edward sent me. Commanded me to come.
You went to Ireland, Thomas, under my command. Not Edwards.
Aye, Sire. But-in Ireland he commands. Commands all.
He is master there. Much the master. And Your Grace is far away.
Keenly Bruce eyed his nephew.
This is not like you, Thomas, he said.
I sent you, as the one man whom my brother might not over-awe and browbeat. To curb and restrain him, should need be.
And I put all but Edwards own levies, from Galloway and Carrick, under your command. Yet you let him send you back?
Calmly the other nodded.
All true, Sire. But I come not only because my uncle sent me. I came because I believed it best. That you should know what transpires. With the Lord Edward.
Mmmm. Very well, Thomas. Say on.
It grieves me, Sire, to speak so. Of my uncle and your brother.
To seem the tale-bearer. But I believe the Lord Edward works against
your interests, not for them. Always he was headstrong, going his own
way. But this is different. Now he seeks power. In Ireland. Rather
than to defeat the English. And no longer talks of the threat to the
English South. Or of forcing a peace treaty. Now he talks of
uniting
Bruce, well aware of all the eyes that watched them closely, and the minds that would be wondering, putting their own construction on secret converse and grave faces, mustered a sudden laugh, and slipped an arm around his nephews shoulder.
Come, Thomas-you ever were a sober fellow! he exclaimed, loud enough for many to hear.
Heres little cause for gloom. So it ever was. Come-tell me of the campaigning. How far south you have won … And he linked the arm now through the younger mans, and led him away along Finlaggans loch shore.
Your Grace is pleased to laugh, Moray said stiffly.
But there is little laughter in Ireland, I promise you … !
Tush, man-that was for these others. The Kings voice was lowered
It will serve our purposes nothing to have men construing trouble. And women turning it into catastrophe.
Now-apart from this of Edward, what of the campaign? What of our arms?
Moray shrugged.
As to soldiering, we have done well enough.
But at a price. We have won many battles and lost none. In Ulster at least the Irish have risen well in our cause. ONeil, OConnor, MacSweeney are never out of the Lord Edwards presence. We overran the provinces of Antrim, Down, Armagh and Louth, even Kildare and Meath. We defeated many English captains and magnates, and many of the Anglo-Irish lords. But at Dundalk, in Louth, we turned back, instead of pressing on. Back to Ulster to Connor, in Antrim. From whence I came here, on my uncles command.
Back to Antrim? Giving up all that you had won in the south?
Why?
Well may you ask, Sire. As did I! But it was
the Lord Edwards decision. And he commands not only his own troops, but all the Irish also. Moreover, most of our Scots knights look to him, rather than to me. Even those supposedly under my command.
The King looked thoughtful indeed.
But this is not like Edward, he objected.
Edward was ever for pressing on, not for turning back. There must have been a reason. You were winningyet he retreated?
There was a reason, yes-but not sufficient. Not sufficient for me, let alone my headstrong uncle! There is famine in Ireland, see you. Living off the country is hard indeed. Our men were hungry, our horses weak, many dying. There is disease also. We have lost more men from sickness than from battle. Even so, better to have pressed on-for the famine is less grievous the further south you go, the country ahead less devastated than that we had already fought over. We could have taken Dublin, where the English have much food stored. We were but thirty miles from it, and the English there in panic. Said to be fleeing southwards. But-we turned back.
And Edwards reason? His proclaimed reason? He must have had one.
To consolidate Ulster, he said. To make the North a secure base for further drives southward. To gain reinforcements. More men. That is why I am sent here-that, and to get rid of me, I think! To seek more men from Your Grace.
Gods mercy! I told him. Three thousand only I would give him. Lend him. Said before parliament. No more. Less than three months past. And now he sends for more? Knowing my mind full well. Yet… you say the Irish have risen well? In Ulster, at least What needs be with more men, then?
He uses the Scots as his spearhead. Always. As would any
commander.
Our men, trained in the long wars against the English.
The Irish gallowglasses are brave, good fighters. But they lack
discipline, one clan at feud with another. They are less than
reliable. And they fight on loot. It is our light cavalry that ever
leads. And so suffers most.
Our losses have been heavy, then?
Not heavy, as war is reckoned. For what was gained. Half the men you sent are no longer effective. Either from battle, sickness or hunger. Horses worse.
I see. But, still-you have not given me reason for Edward, of all men, to retire. From Dundalk to Antrim. When he was winning.
That is why I consented to be sent home, Sire. I believe that the Lord Edward-and ONeil and OConnor with him-is winning Ulster for himself. Is more concerned in setting up a government for Ulster than for forcing the English to a treaty. He is summoning all chiefs and landholders, appointing officers and sheriffs, acting viceroy rather than commander.
Bruce shook his head.
You, Thomas, I could have conceived might act so. You-but not Edward. So-he now waits, for you to return with more men from me?
I do not know if that is why he waits, Sire.
What mean you?
Perhaps he does not expect you to send him more men, in truth.
Or me to return!
Ha! You think that?
I do not know. It may be so. Or I may be wrong. Certainly he wants more Scots light cavalry. But whether he truly expects it, knowing Your Graces mind, I know not. Any more than I know his true purpose in Ireland.
For long moments the King was silent. At length, he spoke
thoughtfully.
My brother is not a devious man. He ever prefers to act, rather than to plan. I conceive, Thomas, that you may be attributing to him something of your own mind and mettle. Seeing deeper into this than does he. You would not act so without careful intention and purpose. With Edward it could be otherwise. He could be merely gathering strength for a greater, stronger thrust to the south. And making sure of a secure base behind him, in truth.
It could be. I know it. So I have told myself many times. And yet-somehow, he has changed. He acts the governor, not the commander. For weeks I have been ill at ease. It came to me that I must tell you. I could not tell you all this in a letter. Nor by the lips of any messenger. Even my own lips falter over it. Perhaps I did wrongly to come, Sire-to leave Ireland. But…
No, Thomas-not wrong. You knew that I trusted you, relied on your
judgement. It was right to come to me. But this is all a matter of judgement, is it not? Of interpretation. Of one mans mind, by another and very different man.
Your Grace thinks me in error, then? In my judgement. Such as it is!
I do not know. You have been with Edward, close, these last months.
Heard him, seen him. But I know him better than you do.
Have known him since a child, grown up with him. And he has never been devious.
Save before the Ayr Parliament. When he admitted to secret
correspondence with these Irish chiefs.
True. True. That was not very like Edward, either, Bruce
shrugged.
It is difficult. What would you advise that I do, nephew?
Without hesitation the other answered, Send me back. With more men. Enough men, under my close command, to ensure that my uncle heeds my voice! With orders, strict orders, for me to prosecute the war southwards. With all speed.
Impulsively the older man clapped the others shoulder.
I
faith, lad-we may on occasion differ in judgement! But our minds think alike when it comes to strategy! That was my own design. You shall go back. And I shall send with you more men of substance. Lords, committed to your support. Now that we have disposed of MacDougall, men and captains are available. So be it, Thomas-you shall return to Ireland with another 2,000 men …
They turned back.
That finished holiday-making for Robert Bruce. In two days, most of his company were on their way southwards, leaving the painted paradise of the Hebrides to its own colourful folk. There was work to do elsewhere.
Chapter Eight
Elizabeth de Burgh stood beside the great bed, rocking the tiny
red-faced morsel in her arms as it snuffled and wheezed and
whimpered.
Softly she crooned to it, her voice alive with the aching longing of the childless woman. But her eyes never left the white, grey-streaked, strained face on the pillow below.
She had stood there for half an hour now, in the tower-room of Tumberry Castle, waiting, a prey to so many and conflicting emotions. The physicians, midwives and other serving-women she had long since banished from the chamber. Only the Queen herself, her stepdaughter and the new-bora infant remained in the tapestry-hung, over-heated apartment, with the flickering firelight and the smell of sweat, blood and human extremity.
Marjory Bruces breathing was quick and shallow, her lips blue, her closed eyelids dark. For long she had lain so, unmoving save for the light uneven breathing. Since the afterbirth indeed. It was nearly three oclock of a wild March night, and the waves boomed hollowly beneath Turnberrys cliffs, seeming to shake the very castle.
The Queens patience was inexhaustible, her cradling and whispering continuous.
Without a flicker of warning the heavy eyelids opened and the dark eyes
stared up, deep, remote, expressionless, un winking
Elizabeth held the baby out, and so that those eyes could see it.
They changed neither in direction nor in their lack of expression.
All is well, the older woman said quietly.
The other closed her eyes again.
There was another long interval, silent save for the muted thunder of the waves, and the creak of the dying log-fire as the embers settled deeper in the glowing ash.
When the girl opened her eyes again, the Queen was still there, and in the same position and attitude. Once more she held out the child.
After a while, and without turning her glance on the infant, the blue lips moved, almost imperceptibly.
Elizabeth leant closer, to hear.
I
t is … complete? the faint words whispered.
Sound? No … monster?
It is a fine boy. Small, but perfect. See. A boy. An heir. And
well. You have done so very well, my dear.
There was the tiniest shake of her head.
It is true. All is well, Marjory. Looksee for yourself.
Still the girl did not look at the child.
Shall I put him here? Beside you. In your arm?
No. That was certain, at least. She turned her head away, and the eyelids closed again.
Elizabeth bit her lip, and sighed, but waited still.
Presently, seemingly out of great depths, the other spoke, her voice little more than a breath.
A boy. He … will be … glad. As am I. Now … I can die … in
peace.
The older woman gasped, with the shock Ah, no, child-no! she
Do not speak so. All is well, now. You will see. You will soon be well again. And so very happy.
There was no least response from the bed.
Hear me, Marjory, the Queen persisted, strangely uncertain for that assured and beautiful woman.
You should rejoice, not talk of dying. Now that you have something to live for. A child. A man-child. And as an afterthought, And a husband. This fine boy-he needs his mother.
Silence.
He is yours. All yours. An heir, yes-but also a part of yourself.
To cherish and nurture. To watch grow into a man. To love and guard and guide. A man-child … The older womans voice broke.
Oh, God! she said.
She might not have spoken.
The Queen began to pace up and down the room, still holding the baby. Every now and again she came to stare down at the ashen face, so still, so death-like. And each time it was with a stoun at the heart. For here was the shadow of death indeed, called for, besought, and approaching near. Elizabeth de Burgh could feel its chill hand, there in that over warm chamber.
Her fears were not all fancy, an overwrought imagination born of weariness, distress and the small hours of the morning-just as Marjory Bruces talk of death was not just the near-hysteria of a young woman new out of the ordeal of childbirth. For it had been a bad birth, a terrible birth, with the child six weeks premature added to a breach presentation. It had gone on for fourteen evil hours, and Marjory, never robust nor inspirited, had screamed and begged for death. Grievously torn and with internal haemorrhage, she had lost a great deal of blood-was probably still bleeding under all the physicians bindings, for they had been unable to staunch the flow, try as they would. Death was no figure of speech in that apartment. And the girl had no wish to live.
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