The Honor Due a King (3 page)

Shifting on his feet, Ralph nodded. “Gilbert was a fine soldier. As good a son as any stepson ever was. I wish you could have known him better. You would have liked him well. You were on different sides, that is all. Men die in battle. He was one of them. I hold no grudge on you, Robert. You’re a good man. A good king.”

“You’re the first Englishman to call me that.”

“‘King’ ... or ‘good’?”

“Either. Stay as long as you like, Ralph. Forever, if you care to. I’ll see to it that you’re comfortable and cared for. I do imagine it has already been a thorn under King Edward’s saddle that you’ve been in Scotland so long, since I put no ransom on your head. You’re a free man. Stay or go, as you please.”

A gust of wind blew in as the front doors swung fully open and men began to come in.

Ralph readjusted the bothersome edge of his mail coif again. “I’d like to dry out by a fire for now, m’lord. I do want to stay, share stories in your hall some more, but with Gilbert gone there will be business to attend to in Gloucester. He has children and a wife that need looking after.” He sniffed. His lips were blue and every vein on his face stood out starkly. Ralph was two decades my senior and still he had gone to battle at the bidding of his king. If I felt old myself, one look at him and I ceased my complaining.

“A fire first, though,” I said. “And a decent night’s rest. I’ll give you an escort to Berwick on the morrow.” I looked toward the door, where the clop of hooves caught my ears. “Ah, Walter, here!”

Walter Stewart led my gray pony toward me, casting glances left and right as he did so.

James strode beside them and shook his head in disbelief. “If it’s a blessing you want for the beast, my lord, I’m guessing the abbot would prefer to meet you outside for this occasion.”

“Hear?” I put an ear to the great beast’s ribs. “There’s a rattle in his chest. He needs to be dried off. Then I want the warmest place for Coll you can find.”

“Coll?” James gave me a quizzical look. The pony, whose head had been hanging low until then, perked his ears at the name and lifted his muzzle. “Wasn’t that the name of your dog?”

“A name befitting the bravest of creatures, mind you.” Seven years ago, while we had been lying in wait above the road to Cumnock for an approaching column of English led by the Earl of Pembroke, the Lord of Lorne’s forces threatened to entrap us. I divided my men and soon found myself being trailed by my own dog, Coll. To silence the hound, I had been forced to put an arrow through his heart. In doing so, I had demanded the ultimate sacrifice of my loyal companion: his life. There had been no alternative. The pony turned his head to gaze at me through a black fringe of eyelashes. I reached out and stroked his nose. “This one carried me through Bannockburn. I’ll not lose him to neglect.”

“The stables are down closer to the river,” Walter said, “by the pastures there.”

“Too far. He’ll stay here until the rain passes.”

James and Walter exchanged glances. Walter shrugged.

“Find some blankets.” James nodded toward the door that led to the cloister. “Madness comes with greatness, so they say.”

I raised my eyebrows at him.

“I would think,” James said, “you’d care to see to your men first.”

“It would be a slow journey back to Edinburgh on foot, wouldn’t it?”

Before he could return the gibe, a little man burst from a doorway and ran limping toward us, frantically waving his arms. The chains dangling from his neck clanked with each hobble. To avoid tripping, he eventually dropped his hands and plucked up the hem of his robes. When he landed in front of us, it was with an angry stomp of both feet in unison.

“You have no right to bring that unclean creature in here!” He recoiled as Coll blew steaming breath at him. “Take him to the stables. As for you and your hobelars, my lord, the byres are spacious enough.”

“Byres?” I laughed at the suggestion. “Would you put your king to bed with a heifer, Father?”

At once, the little man’s jaw unhinged. His gray eyes widened as he took in the ornaments of my clothing: the emerald brooch pinned upon the cloak slung over my arm, my surcoat and its lion emblem, the small coronet upon my helmet. He bobbed in an apologetic bow. “Sire, I did not know it was you. No word of your arrival was sent in advance.”

“For good reason, Father –”

“William Peebles, my lord. I am the abbot here.”

“William Peebles, you say? Bishop Lamberton speaks highly of you.” Lamberton had mentioned the abbot many times and had encouraged me to trust and call on him, should I ever need to. That is why I had chosen this place. “He pushed to have you in this position, you know? Didn’t like that Henry of Dunkeld that York was pressing for. Entirely too English, no matter what he called himself. Court politics have nothing over that of the Church, I tell you. But if Lamberton admires you, so do I. Anyway, as I said, it was for good reason we didn’t announce our coming. I trust you have not been visited by any English of late?”

“No, no, sire. Not since they passed through after the battle. The damage they inflicted was small, thanks be to Our Lord. It cost us heavily, though, to set them on their way again. As you can see, our relics, our silver – all gone. We had to empty the reliquary to appease them. The cross on the altar came to us from a passing Scottish knight on his way back to Galloway. Said he took it from an English priest attending King Edward’s soldiers in exchange for safe passage through these lands.”

Abbot William blinked repeatedly and then suddenly flew back toward the door through which he had come. He beckoned to the monks hanging there in trepidation and in a fluster began to direct them to attend to my company. When that was done to his satisfaction, he rushed back to us. “My house is at your disposal, my lord. Not luxurious quarters, but –”

“Better than the byres, I trust?”

“It is my opinion they are, although our byres and flock are the best this side of the Tweed. You did not say what brings you here. Will you be in residence long?”

“We won’t put you out, Abbot William, for longer than is convenient. And you’ll be duly compensated for your losses, I swear to you. As for our purpose, I pray it will become evident soon enough. Until then, I’ll say naught. Fate is a fickle mistress and I prefer not to command her, lest she take offense.”

The abbot chuckled as he winked at me, and then scurried off to arrange our quarters.

Neither the remainder of that day nor that night brought us the evidence of the cause for our visit. My horse improved rapidly and was moved to the best stable the abbey had to offer, much to the abbot’s relief.

After a bland but filling meal in the refectory in the scrutinizing company of mistrustful monks, we were all allotted sleeping arrangements. Most of my men were given space in the nave itself and as there were not enough blankets to be had, so many fires were struck up on the church floor to warm the men and dry out their clothing that the place soon reeked of smoke, rotting leather and damp wool.

In a room of the abbot’s house reserved for passing visitors, I shed my armor, trusting that no English would have ridden through these storms after us, and laid my garments over a chair to dry by the brazier. Although the room was more than comfortable – austere though it was, with its mattress of stuffed straw and meager peat brazier in place of a real hearth – sleep eluded me, even though I was dry and fed and beyond exhausted. Worry had a way of gnawing at my soul.

As I lay in bed, my eyes flicked from the dusty ceiling, to the knotty door, to the small altar that doubled as a table. The candles in the room had burnt themselves to pools of runny wax. I did not notice that their flames had gone out until I glanced at the single, small window along the crumbling east wall and saw a faint, pale crescent of sunlight on the horizon.

With a cold hand, I smoothed the creases from my pillow, imaging that tomorrow would find Elizabeth’s head there next to mine.

***

J
ames roused me just as the bells rang terce.

My fingers pinching the edge of my blanket, I glared at him. “It had best be good news, James Douglas. Tell me it is.”

He grinned faintly. “They’re coming. Over the hills, along the southern road.”

I drew a hand over my eyes and inhaled the smell of my palm: rusted metal, earth, moldy straw and damp stones. The lingering traces of a soldier’s life. Soon, I would trade all that for a more settled existence – with Elizabeth beside me. I shoved my blanket aside and leapt to my feet, only to be reminded by aching bones that the years spent living out in the open, always battle-ready, had taken their toll and I could not move quite so quickly anymore.

“Eight years, my good James.” I straightened and clapped a hand on James’ arm so fiercely he reeled sideways. “Eight. Long. Years!”

In minutes, I had donned my musty clothes and followed him from the abbot’s house, through the transept door and back into the nave. A flood of light rushed in from the main door, reflecting dully off the tiled floor to obscure the figures who now made their way toward the altar where we stood waiting. They were nearly to us before I recognized my nephew, Thomas Randolph, his fair hair darkened by rain and his heavy wool cloak hanging lank and sodden from his shoulders.

“Make way. Make way!” Randolph pushed the palms of his hands wide to clear a pathway down the middle of the nave. Groggy soldiers yawned and rolled aside. Those closest to the middle staggered to their feet and scampered back to avoid being stepped on.

“We made it as far as Dryburgh yesterday,” Randolph said as he approached, the dark crescents beneath his pale blue eyes making him look more tired than any of the rest of us, “but we could go no further. I begged her to let me send for you, but she would not waste the time waiting.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging, and moved aside. “I fear the queen is gravely ill.”

Behind him, Gil de la Haye carried my Elizabeth in his arms. The joy that should have been in my heart fled when I saw her like that – her limbs as limp as wet cloth, all color gone from her face, her eyes lackluster and barely open. I took her from Gil’s arms and clutched her to my breast as I sank to the floor.

“Elizabeth,” I whispered into her cold ear. “My love, is it really you? What ails you? Oh, please, for love of life, say something so I may hear your voice again and know it is you I am holding and not your ghost.”

She stirred, weak as a fledgling fallen from its nest. Her eyelids fluttered as she turned her head toward me, but when she parted her lips to speak and drew a shallow breath, a fierce cough wracked her chest. I stroked the wisps of hair from her feverish face until it subsided.

“Robert?” she whispered.

“Aye, my love. ’Tis me. Dear, sweet Elizabeth, you really are home.” I pressed my whiskered chin to the top of her head and swallowed back bittersweet tears. Her heartbeat was weak. Every breath came as a struggle. She coughed again and curled tighter in my arms. I glanced at Walter. “Broth, please. A blanket. Something.”

Walter backed away, but his eyes were set on someone. I looked beyond Randolph to see the rest of the party. A young woman, slight and fair-haired and beautiful smiled at me with an aching familiarity. She came to me, knelt and placed a cool hand on my tear-moistened cheek.

“Father? I have so missed you.”

“Marjorie?”

She nodded. I turned my head and kissed her palm. Marjorie embraced me lightly, touching her head to my shoulder. There was so much I wanted to say to my daughter, so grown and comely now I found it hard to believe she was the curious little girl who I had last seen at Dalry, believing I had sent her on to safety, only to have her whisked away by my enemies when the Earl of Ross took them all at St. Duthac’s and handed them over to the English. Then, another voice from years past greeted my ears.

“Robert?”

I laid bleary eyes on my sister, Christina. She appeared older, worn from her ascetic and secluded life, but alive and well.

“By the time we reached Richmond,” Christina began, “she had begun with a cold in her chest. It worsened quickly. The fever comes and goes, but she weakens daily from the cough. She has barely eaten the past four days, but for some boiled cabbage and beans. When we woke at cockcrow, she insisted on riding with your man Gil. She wanted to see you. Gil had to hold her all the way.”

Christina, once the striking beauty that had drawn many a man’s eyes, had her dark hair hidden beneath a stiff, white widow’s wimple that covered her chin. Her kirtle was the gloom of slate and she wore no other adornment than a silver crucifix on a coarse, tarnished chain about her neck. The nuns at Sixhills, where she had spent her captivity in England, had imprinted her deeply. On her left arm, leaned the old, nearly blind Bishop Wishart. He tilted his head and squinted, as if trying to make out faces close by or recognize voices. His hands trembled and every hair was gone from his head, except for a few white strands at the back of his mottled skull.

Christina cast a look over her shoulder toward the door where a young man hid in the shadows. In the middle of the nave, my brother-in-law Neil Campbell started forward, tentative. Finally, Christina inclined her head toward the young man. “Colin was released from the custody of Sir Henry Beaumont and permitted to come home with us. He’s been eager to greet his father.”

Neil walked across the nave toward Colin, who hung back timidly. Neil touched his son’s cheek. “You have your mother’s eyes, lad.”

“I ... I ... don’t ...” Colin stammered and tugged at his own fingers. “I don’t remember much of you. I’m sorry.”

“There’s time enough now.” Neil put his arms around his son, a young man now and nearly as tall as his father. Stiff at first, Colin relaxed and then returned the embrace. Neil had taken the news of his wife’s death hard and if not for his son coming home to him, he would still have been grieving.

As much as my sister Mary’s loss pained me, it also made Elizabeth’s homecoming that much sweeter. I bent my head and pressed my cheek to Elizabeth’s as she moaned in discomfort. She was home ...
home
. And I was holding her in my arms. But oh, so ill, so weak ... her life so tenuous.