Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (6 page)

“Judgmental, Alexander. But if you are so sure to say it, I will take it to heart. Besides, this kingdom is already in danger... and it has been for twenty years.”

“But not lost. Not yet lost.”

“So I hope.” I lifted my cup to Angus Og, who was leaning back in his chair as he laughed raucously at the jokes being shared. “Tell me, any word from Ulster?”

“Naught but silence,” Alexander said. “But no protests of revulsion at your actions, either, if you want to look at it that way.”

“Ah, our misfortune.” I pointed to the end of the table. Boyd was standing on it. “He’s about to sing. The kingdom may collapse after all.”

“Can you be serious a moment?”

“Completely. You missed my performance at Perth. Very convincing.”

“Pembroke was not convinced, I hear.”

Even after swearing to meet us in battle the following morning, Pembroke had ridden out from Perth under cover of darkness with his army. We had nearly all been slaughtered while still in our blankets. What a fool I had been to trust him.

“It wasn’t intended for Pembroke. His mind was already decided.” I pulled my cup to me, swished the last of its contents around, and drained it. “But I don’t want to talk about Perth. Not now.”

My gaze drifted to Angus Og. A servant bent toward him and whispered in his ear. He left the room, purpose evident in his step.

Alexander’s left brow arched. “You were the one who mentioned it.”

“Forget I did. Shall we talk of something else then?”

“Very well.” Alexander was now shredding the loaf. He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Christiana of the Isles has never hidden her attraction for you.”

 “Duncan of Mar’s widow?” Christiana of the Isles had been the wife of my Isabella’s brother Duncan. “What of her? She was far from faithful even when he was alive.”

Alexander stroked his beard. “But very powerful. She has many islands in her possession: Uist, Eigg, Rum, Barra. Hundreds of galleys at her whim.”

A silence gaped between us. Christiana was indeed the most powerful woman north of Carlisle and Berwick. And she had precisely what I was in need of. I found myself drumming my fingers on the table. If I fell in battle tomorrow, Alexander might have made an even finer king than me. A pity that Edward was born before him. “A foothold in the islands,” I said.

“A stepping stone to the Highlands.” He smiled pleasantly. “Lands where Edward’s laws will never hold sway.”

“And where loyalties change whenever the wind shifts.”

Angus Og shoved his way behind the head table, his tankard of ale sloshing as he plunked it down. Golden ale splashed onto the shining rings on his wrist. He flicked the wetness from his arm. “Word from the mainland. English forces led by Sir John Menteith and the Prince of Wales will arrive here within the week. No rest for the weary and worn. Pack your gullets. Then up and away with you. You’re crowding my hall.” He dipped his head and added as an afterthought, “My lords.”

“I expected a more lengthy welcome, Angus,” I teased. “Always memorable when we meet, but far too brief.”

Brief it was. Less than two full days in Dunaverty and my men and I were on our galleys again headed off into the channel. The weather held with us this time and we landed on Rathlin off the northeast coast of Ireland. A mile long and six times as wide – this, my kingdom. Ahead of us lay Ulster. Behind us Kintyre. Half a year since the crown had rested on my head at Scone and it had all but toppled from there.

Thrice I sent word to Elizabeth’s kin in Ulster, asking, and then pleading for refuge. The first time I received no answer. The second time the reply was that they could not at that moment accommodate us. The last was a blunt suggestion that we go back to Scotland. That gave me small faith that Elizabeth and Nigel had arrived there and been able to argue my case. For now, I could but wonder and worry about the world beyond.

Ch. 5

Robert the Bruce – Dunaverty/Castle Tirrim, Garmoran, 1306

There are some who tire of fighting. Some who might plunge into a hole, who remember only the fall and the pain of landing hard. I could only look up to the light and ask myself how to reach it.

To do that, I needed two things: money and men. An abundance of one without the other was useless. But how to acquire them, and in large enough amounts, was a rather troublesome matter.

Boyd was sent to Carrick to collect rents due. Alexander was dispatched to the north of Ireland to muster recruits. Thomas and Edward wanted to go with him, but I ordered them to stay on Rathlin. Since the place was stone-dry of drink by then and had a thousandfold more birds than women on it, I reckoned there was not much harm they could do. All the same, if there was trouble to be found, they would find it, and so I encouraged Neil to watch over them.

With Torquil as my guide over the waters and twelve other men to man the galley, we sailed past Islay and Mull. The lordship of Garmoran clung like a forgotten growth to the western limits of the Highlands. Oars straining against the current, we traveled up the long arm of the sea loch. Deep green pines slashed by the silver-white of birches were reflected in the black water. As we went, the clouds sank down on us, as if they, too, were sluggish with grief, until at last they wept an icy rain. Sleet stung at our eyes, forcing our heads down.

Winter’s misery bit deep into every sinew of my being. I tried to unclench my fists, but they were frozen, aching in every knuckle and joint. All sensation was lost in my toes. Lengths of land slid by in a gray, foggy blur. Moments stretched into hours, with nothing but the pulsating jerk and splash of the oars to break the drawn-out hiss of rain upon the water. The rowers sucked brittle air between chattering teeth, shoulders drawn deep into sodden cloaks. No one moaned of their misfortune, but it was plain to see they were all as wretched as I was. Time to put ashore. To rest, if that was even possible. Although if we slept, we might not awaken.

Merciful Lord, what I would not give to sit by a fire and thaw my bones.

I looked up to see a squat, gray castle hunched above a low cliff on an islet ahead: Castle Tirrim.

The tide being low, we beached the galley on the shingle-littered shore opposite the castle and trudged across a muddy bridge of land to the base of the cliff encircling the islet. Sleet had faded to a spitting mist. Arms wrapped about himself, Torquil led us to a breach in the cliff wall. Stiff with cold, we ascended after him, taking care not to slip on the moss-slickened stones. When Torquil scrambled over the top, he dropped to his knees, small stones crunching with the impact.

Before him stood a noblewoman in a hooded cloak, gloved palms open in welcome, and at her shoulder a glowering lord, his feet braced wide and one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Bending at the waist, the lady spread her arms wide, so that her cloak of crimson parted to reveal a green gown embroidered with golden knotwork. As she straightened, a rope of loosely plaited red hair swung from her shoulder, the end of it hanging to the inviting curve of her hip. Tall and imposing in presence, I was one of few men above whom she did not tower. She tilted her head and smiled pleasantly at me, ignoring Torquil and the dozen men huddled close and shivering at the lip of the cliff.

“A thousand welcomes to Tirrim, my lord king,” Lady Christiana greeted. “I have watched for you from my window for weeks now.”

“You couldn’t have known I was coming, my lady.” I took her hand, cold-wet with rain, and kissed her fingers just below the glittering facets of her emerald ring. “I sent no word. I dared not. Scotland is as thick with my enemies as there are pines in the forest. I must keep my comings and goings a secret, as much as I can.”

She laid her other hand over mine. “There are some things a woman knows, even without being told.” With a gentle tug she drew me close, her lips grazing my cheek with a kiss, her breath cupping my ear like a puff of steam as she whispered my name, “
Robert
.”

With every breath she drew, her bosom swelled against my chest. Fine droplets of rain on my face warmed, like a perspiration that has sprung to the brow with gentle exertion.

“Has it been ten years, truly? Not a day gone, judging by your beauty, I vow.” I bestowed a brief kiss in return. “And you’ve still not found another husband? How can that be?”

When Christiana had barely been of marriageable age, her father, Alan Macruarie, had betrothed her to Duncan of Mar. Perpetually drunk and quarrelsome, she could hardly tolerate him and leapt at any distraction. I had been one of them. It did not matter to her that it was her wedding I had come to attend. But barely in my first full beard then, I was mad for Duncan’s sister, Isabella.

“I’ll not have just any.” She poked a finger at my chest playfully. “You don’t know how despondent I was when I heard
you
had married again. Did you not think of me? Cruel of you, it was. My heart has yet to mend.”

The black-bearded lord cleared his throat. As I cast a glance at him, he raised his jaw. Finally, he dipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Reginald Crawford of Kyle... my lord.” His hand drifted downward from his sword, indicating he would unsheathe it in a breath if given cause.

Christiana snaked a hand beneath my cloak and up my arm to cling seductively to me. “Come, my lord. Let me show you to a warm bed. But first, a fire, a full meal and a flagon of wine to bring you back to life, aye?”

As she led us over the rock-strewn path to the gate, her hip swayed against mine. I had come duly armed with my honor, but already it was proving a challenge. It would have been easier to leave altogether, than to stay and deny such an enchantress.

Years of soot had blackened the knotty beams overhead. Along the walls, sconces blazed to throw a dancing yellow glow across Tirrim’s broad hall. In the room’s center, a great fire roared, heating the flesh, and the tempers, of the over-drunk. Platters of beef and mutton were emptied, bones flung to the floor where lank, grizzled hounds gnawed at them, growling. The skirl of pipes reeled through the boisterous throng to stomping feet and clapping hands. In the furthest corner, a girl of fifteen or sixteen with honey-colored hair danced atop a table, her slender body swaying rhythmically to the song, her hands caressing the air in wide sweeps and gentle dips, as if they were following the contours of her lover’s body. At her feet, a young man reached out and ran his hand from her slim ankle to the curve of her calf. A dreamy smile spread across her lips and she sank to her knees to kneel above him. For a moment, her mouth hovered teasingly close to his. Impatient, he curved a hand around her waist and pulled her down into his lap. She swung a leg around to straddle him, his mouth devouring hers in a feast of passionate kisses. Cheers of encouragement and bawdy jests exploded around them.

Without warning, the crack of an axe splintered wood. The music tumbled into a maelstrom of discordant notes, until only a single, shrill keening stretched across the fractured air. Near them, a giant rose to his feet, shoulders hunched forward. His hair, with two long plaits framing his weathered face, was the same golden color as hers, but streaked with silver. He yanked the axe free, and with one sweep of it sent cups and bowls rolling to the floor in a great clatter. With his free hand, he hooked an arm around the girl and dragged her from the youth.

Except for an older man opposite them, cloaked in furs, the table emptied. The older man scraped the bench back over the planks and climbed on top of the table. “I’ll not give on it, Macruarie. I told you what I want.”

Macruarie shoved the girl behind him. Her bare feet tangled in her skirts and she crumpled to the floor, throwing an arm over her face. It was not until she peeked beneath her quivering forearm that Macruarie spoke to her over his shoulder, a scowl firmly pressed into the deeply creviced lines around his mouth.

“Remember, I have agreed to nothing yet,” he said to her, “so save your wantonness for the man you’ll wed, not some beggarly MacLeod who’ll barely keep y’clothed.” Then he climbed onto the table to face the older MacLeod. Timbers groaned with the strain of his massive weight. An arm’s distance, they stared at each other: one clutching an axe, the other a short sword that gleamed in the wan light.

In moments, a riot-hungry crowd ringed them. A man in a tattered black tunic tossed down his coin and placed a wager on Macruarie.

I slid closer on the bench to Christiana until my thigh touched hers. “They look like a pair of cocks about to spar. Will it come to a fight, you think?”

Two places down, Crawford glanced at us as he called for a serving woman. She scurried forth, lifted a jug of ale from her hip and began to fill his cup. Her attention wandered to the two men eyeing each other. Ale spilled over the rim of the cup. Crawford cursed at her, even as she pulled a rag from the cord slung about her waist and mopped the table dry.

Bemused, Christiana smiled. “Those two? Sioltaich Macruarie is my cousin. He speaks affectionately of Tormod MacLeod. Always has. They’ve been dear friends for twenty years and have
yet
to kill each other. This morning Sioltaich betrothed his daughter to Tormod’s son. This...” – she flapped her hand dismissively – “this posturing is nothing but a quibble over details, I assure you. Something about the number of cattle to be included in the girl’s wedding price.” With a wink, she slid her wine goblet to me in offer. “But I do think the entertainment will be, shall I say, ‘lively’ this evening. I suggest you slink shyly away if you don’t like blood.”

“I bathe in it regularly.” I lifted the goblet, nodding my head in thanks, and drank from it. Clove-spiced sweetness tingled on my tongue. I swallowed and took another drink, deeper, letting its warmth slide down my throat, flood my innards and flow into my limbs. Sleeping as roughly as I had these last months – cloaked in salt-spray in a galley’s belly, beneath the leaky roof a fisherman’s hut and out in the brittle-cold open on rocky ground – had settled a rheum in my bones. The comfort of a proper bed beckoned, stuffed full with goose feathers and scattered with pillows atop smooth sheets. What heaven that would be!