Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (25 page)

“No, no.” She shook her head, the glint of a tear in her eye. “It’s only that... I have heard that it hurts – the first time.”

“That is what they tell young girls to keep them virgins,” I said, half-laughing at her childish fears. So, she had thought herself prepared for this moment and when it was upon her, she became the diffident little girl again. Time to make a woman of her. Put a child in her and give her a purpose. Create my own perpetuity.

“Then...” – she dabbed at the corner of her eye with a fingertip, sniffling – “there is no pain?”

“If there is, it will pass quickly.” I let go of her jaw, drew a finger down her neck, further down until I lightly circled the areola of her breast. The nipple tautened. I put my mouth to it, my tongue lapping at the firm nub, my teeth nipping soft flesh. She turned her head away and exhaled. Once more, she drew her legs apart, though not wide. My hand wandered to her hips, the joining of her thighs, the downy pile of hair modestly concealing her maidenhead. “Besides, if there was no pleasure in coupling, why would it be such a temptation to so many?”

She flinched as I penetrated her. Slowly, I moved deeper, then withdrew and waited before thrusting again. Her eyes closed, she bit at her lip so hard I expected blood to stream from her mouth. My thrusts quickened, her constriction hastening my rhythm. As I did my work, she lay beneath me like a rock at the bottom of the ocean.

The wave of my release was so swift and disappointing, that I rolled onto my back and tied the cord of my hose before the last of my fluids had been expelled. Some time passed before I noticed that Isabella was shivering.

“You’re cold,” I said.

“I’m unclothed,” she mumbled, pulling the blanket over her body. Her arms and hands disappeared beneath the covers and, legs clamped tight, she turned over onto her side, away from me.

“Did it hurt?” I asked, trying to show some concern.

She responded with an unconvincing shake of her head.

“Did you hate it so much then – with me?”

Shoulders hunched forward, she sighed. Her words, although muffled in the pillow, cut to my soul. “Perhaps if you were not so ready to assume everyone hated you, Edward, it would not be so. Our child will love you, if you let him.
I
could.”

Could you truly love me, Isabella my queen, even as I am? Could anyone?

I rolled over, far enough away that our backs did not touch. The moon had barely moved from its position as it stabbed its shaft through the glazed window to fall upon the same spot where she had stood in disinclined nakedness, offering her body as fulfillment of her duty. Our act had consumed little time. Pray she was fertile and we would not have to repeat it often.

The next evening, not having seen Piers about all day, I stopped at his bedchamber.

“Wait here, Jankin.” I took the lantern from him, knocked once and hearing no answer nudged the door open. It was dark within. It stank so strongly that I drew back a moment before forging ahead.

“Brother Perrot?”

Hearing no reply at first, I entered the chamber and raised the lantern to throw light across the room. Normally, Piers was obsessively orderly, but there were clothes strewn about, plates of half-eaten food on the floor and an untouched goblet of wine on the bedside table.

“Here.”

I turned toward the sound of a thin, leaking voice. Piers was slumped in a chair, his winter cloak still wrapped about him. He shivered. I stepped closer. His hair was soaked. I swept aside some articles of clothing and put the lantern on top of the Spanish chest I had given him as a gift many years ago. He had taken it everywhere with him. To Brabant, even.

“You are ill.” I wiped his face with the nearest clean-looking garment I could find.

A long, thin sigh escaped from his barely moving lips. “Yes, I think I am. Maybe this will be the death of me and all your troubles will vanish the moment they turn up the first shovel-full of earth for my grave.”

I did not leave his side for five days, until he was recovered. But even worse than watching Piers suffer was the news that Lancaster was at last heading north. Time was running out. What escape was there for us now? What hope?

Humbled by despair, I wrote to my enemy: Robert the Bruce.

Ch. 24

Robert the Bruce – Forest of Selkirk, 1312

England was in upheaval. Whether fate or fortune, we took full advantage of it.

The Northumbrians, who were short of defenses and shorter yet of funds, agreed to a truce to last the winter. No sooner had it expired, than we attacked Norham. They hastily and wisely paid another indemnity. Reparations for reprieve, perhaps, but little difference to what had been done to us in the past. Not only could I now feed my men, but I could pay them as well.

We were barely within Scotland’s borders again when an urgent message arrived from my old friend, Bishop William Lamberton of St. Andrews: Edward of England wished to bargain.

A blanket of snow, so thin as to appear threadbare, stuck in clumps to the blue-green pine needles and mottled the ground where shadows lay. Puddles of slop in the road marked the tracks of the party that had come before ours, not long ago. We numbered twenty, the rest having been left behind in Lochmaben to guard the cattle while they grazed the scant winter grass along the River Annan.

Directly in front of me rode Gil de la Haye, his slight shoulders hunched against the cold. Randolph rode abreast of me. More than three years had passed since he had sworn himself to me. Not once since then had he given me cause to doubt his loyalty. Still, I often kept him close, not because I mistrusted him, but rather for his company and his counsel. He had a keen mind for politics and we passed the hours by speculating on the ever-perplexing stance of the Church. My nephew also had an intimate knowledge of the stratagem of many English commanders, which had quickly proven invaluable.

“You were right, Thomas,” I said.

Straightening in his saddle, he narrowed his eyes attentively. “Right? Your pardon, Uncle?”

I flexed cold fingers on the reins of my horse as our line crested a ridge and began the descent into the glen. “About Northumbria. As unprotected as motherless lambs on an open hillside.”

“Lancaster is gathering men in the south. That’s no secret. Tournaments, he says, but the numbers grow with each one. I don’t think it’s us that he’s after. Not yet, anyway.” He gave me a wink. “Besides, he probably reckoned that even if you did venture across the border, you’d not risk staying long.”

“Aye, a filching lot of rogues we are. There and gone before he even gets word of it. He’ll either learn to regard us with more respect or reconcile with King Edward – an unlikely prospect. Two enemies is one too many, even for him. So right again you are. We are but flies about his ears – and Edward the rat gnawing at his ankles.” Above the moaning of the wind, I heard only the squelching of hooves through mud. Even through the dampening cover of the forest, frigid air stung at my cheeks. Our line slowed as the path meandered ever downward. Off to the right and below, the trees parted, revealing a grassy clearing. “Over there, Thomas, do you see that circle of ground amid the fallen logs?”

Rising up in his stirrups, he peered past me. “Aye, Uncle, I do. But what of it?”

A pang struck my heart. I waited for it to pass before I spoke again. “That is where I knighted William Wallace and proclaimed him Scotland’s Guardian. More than twelve years it’s been. Struggling to sweep England’s footprints from our doorstep. So long a time and yet...” – pellets of sleet hissed through the brittle air and stung my eyes – “yet why are we not any closer? Despite so many small successes, it seems we are ever sliding down the mountain.”

Gil, who had been silent until then, tossed a facetious grin over his shoulder. “Perhaps we need to look for a different foothold?”

“Devil take you, Gil. You think I have not thought of that? I say our ‘foothold’ is Edward of England himself. Soon enough, I wager, we’ll purchase ground by his accidental grace.”

The path leveled out, growing broader but muddier as we came onto low ground. Ahead, a black-caped figure, his hem trailing over dirty snow, emerged from the trees. Beside him stood a younger man – noble, judging by his ornately woven cloak. His hauberk was of an older style, yet gleaming from a fresh scouring of sand and vinegar. The undented helmet tucked beneath his armpit indicated his inexperience in combat. The older man snapped back his fur-lined hood to reveal a full crown of white hair. He bowed his head to me and sketched the sign of the cross in blessing.

I slipped from my saddle and bounded over the decaying logs, scattered now in the loose semblance of a circle.

“My lord,” Bishop Lamberton hailed, “good day and welcome to Selkirk.”

“Your grace, a good day it is.” I clasped him in a brief embrace, then cast a glance at his companion. “And who is this?”

“David of Atholl, my lord.”

The young nobleman knelt, his knee sinking into soft mud. He peeked up at me through thick brown locks, then looked quickly down, as a dog does when submitting to its master. I was never comfortable with such rote obedience, for it arose from fear, not respect. Fear was what I preferred to strike in my enemies, not my subjects.

“John’s son? The last I saw you, you were no taller than my hound. You used to walk underneath him, as I recall.” His father John of Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, had fought alongside me at Methven when the Earl of Pembroke surprised us that night and so brutally crushed our forces. It had rent my heart to hear of Atholl giving up his neck to the noose after being captured at Kildrummy with my brother Nigel. Brave and honest men should not die such ignoble deaths. I touched David’s mail hood, wishing I could summon the soul of his father back to me somehow. “Rise, Lord David. Your father was ever faithful to me. I trust you will be, as well?”

David of Atholl sprang to his feet, tottering sideways as he scraped the mud from his leggings. Nervous fingers fluttered at his belt to readjust the weight of his sword. He drew breath, pulled his shoulders back and looked at me squarely. “I vow to try, my lord.”

“‘Try’ will not suffice. You either will – or you won’t.”

His thin brow creased. “M-m-my loyalty lies with Scotland... and with you, my lord king.”

The lad, who could not have been more than sixteen, was no James Douglas, but he would do. “Good enough, then. One more lamb unto the fold. One less on the side of the English. Now, what brings you here as an escort to our dear Bishop of St. Andrews? It’s not a short while you’ve been in England – and you’ve not remained there against your will, as I understand.”

He glanced at the bishop, then back at me, his mouth agape. “I, um... I –”

I held up my hand. “You needn’t explain. I understand more than you know about the many pressures that bear upon us. And since you’ve come with the good bishop here, I trust you’re not here to spy on us?”

The question, although meant in jest, struck an uneasiness in him. In response, Bishop Lamberton pulled a letter from his wide sleeve. Sleet pattered lightly against the parchment as he extended it.

I inspected the royal wax seal and pushed it back at him. “If you would, your grace. The honor belongs to the bearer on this occasion. I prefer to imagine that Edward of Caernarvon is standing here before me, speaking the words. Go on.”

With slender fingers, more nimble than one would expect of a man of his years, he broke the seal and stretched open the roll to read aloud:

“
Our Dear Lord Robert, King of Scots
...”

His brows flitted upward. Above the top edge of the roll, I saw the crinkling of a smile at the corners of his eyes. He tilted his head quizzically and began again, the steam of his breath curling white around thin lips:

“Our Dear Lord Robert, King of Scots,

I call upon you as one who understands the implications of loyalty, or lack thereof. In my kingdom are those who challenge my authority to rule. The life of my dearest friend and truest advisor, Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, has been put in danger. It is these threats from which he must be protected, until a time that misunderstandings can be sufficiently and permanently resolved. In that, I beg your assistance.

I offer you a lasting peace, as well as the acknowledgement of the title you have assumed as ‘King of Scots’. My conditions are simple: that Lord Gaveston is given refuge in your kingdom, whensoever he shall have need of it. I ask no more in return.

If agreed, then I give to you, Lord Robert, the kingdom of Scotland, to whit, freely and forever. Peace be with you.

Edwardus Rex

Given at York

19
^th
of February, 1312”

“
Give
to me?” I echoed. “When was it ever his to give?”

Gil cracked a smile. “Generous of him.”

Laughter bubbled from my throat. Although I tried to construct a serious reply, my amusement poured forth uncontrollably. Gil and Randolph laughed with me. A perplexed David looked from face to face. I clapped him on the shoulder and he responded with a sheepish grin, obviously unable to work out what the joke was. My sides aching, I clutched at my belly to quell my amusement.

“Lord Atholl and I,’ Bishop Lamberton broke in, “are commissioned to return with your reply. How exactly are we to word it?”

Clasping the bishop by both arms, I laid my head on his shoulder for a moment. Finally sobering, I thrust him back to arm’s length.

“He agreed to banish Lord Gaveston from his realm, did he not?”

Bishop Lamberton nodded.

“And already Gaveston is returned, aye?”

He hesitated. “Lord Gaveston arrived in York to attend the birth of his first child.”

“And last I knew, York was still in England – unless they have uprooted every stone and dab of mortar and moved the whole city and its inhabitants to Flanders.” I turned to the young Earl of Atholl and poked a finger at his chest. He shuffled back, stiffening against my jab. “Give King Edward this message: How am I to believe even the tiniest utterance of a fickle,
fickle
man who breaks the very oaths that he puts in writing to his own liege men, who themselves have given their homage in good faith? No, I do not trust him. Nor will I ever. Thus, I will never be deceived by him, as his own people have been deceived, time and time” – I thrust my finger so hard that he stumbled backward – “and bloody
time
again.”