Post by King Adam Aberdeen I on Mar 30, 2009 15:12:30 GMT -6
The Return to Scotland
Shaden would not be attending the fair, this was the day that the household of the Bruce had chosen to leave Turas Lan.. the Royal Coach of the King of Scotland, departed MacRauri Castle and winded along the roads of Turas Lan... bedecked in flowers and garlands, sheltered within a dying King, his companion Lady Aramoire.. they did not seek the processional.. for even the love they bore the children of Turas Lan, and both the Duke and Duchess could not sway them from the importance of the visit.
To the Cathedral they moved... the aged King helped from the carriage by his men.. Shaden shadows by her guard Sir Nicholas, close at hand as always... into the cemetery where a new headstone, some few months old, was raised; at its foot an angel. This was their destination.. for a King to say goodbye to a daughter he had never knew... and for a Mother to honor the love that reached past the grave to pull a good man back from the brink of madness... Slowly her eyes turned to Nicholas... and locked... for a long moment, it did not diminish his love for the child... to have the King state his love... And for a moment, there were no Kings, Courtesans, or Knights... just three people with a common love for a child, buried without ever having a breath.
He could barely stand, much less walk... Assisted in every action any normal man would find easy, to him it was a battle in its self... As he approached the statue, his vision began to blur, as tears soon held his sight captive... "Help mae daewn, Ah wish tae kneel..." and as his knees met terra firma, he did the sign of the cross. Silently he prayed... with no sign of his thoughts, except to God.
Beside him she knelt while he prayed, the moment one that would remain with her thru her days... her hand reached for his. Once only violence shared between them now a common bond that had made enemies family.. of a sort... "Come Robert... it's time to go home to Edinburgh... " she whispered softly as she moved to help him rise... the servants bearing him back to the carriage.. a flash of green skirts as she followed and the door was shut... thru the leaded glass windows she captured a look at her secret husband.. passing him a soft smile.. It would be days before they were alone and could talk… she missed him already.
After he had said his peace to a lost child, he looked to Shaden and nodded, a crooked smile offered her... his hand motioned to his aides... The King rose and feebly walked back to the carriage... the courtesan at his side... one last glance over his shoulder as he was helped into the carriage.... As he rode away, he knew it would be the last time he saw this land....
Shaden, her Guard, and her lady’s maid, Emma joined the procession of Robert the Bruce from MacRauri Castle, to the Docks at Turas Lan. Then over the sound to the Mainland, across the moors, and to Edinburgh. The Castle, the Bruce called home, it would be the place hundreds of years from now, the national hero and King of Scotland would be memorialized in stone, and history; but for now, it was the end of a journey for a dying King. The place where he would meet his maker, and make his peace. To that end, he had extended the invitation to accompany him to a Courtesan, whom he shared a violent past with, a vision of the future for Scotland, and a daughter, already awaiting him in the everafter.
Edinburgh Castle was steatite upon a high promontory of ancient volcanic rock. Hard as glass the obsidian shards jutted upward toward the sky and in its dormant Caldara was built a wonder of engineering and craftsmanship. That was Edinburgh Castle.
It was in the royal carriage of the Bruce that Shaden rode. Fitted for the ailing King, one side had been specially made into a bed, the other a bench seat where she rode. The days from the docks to Edinburgh, and the time inside the carriage, had been filled with the sweet sound of her voice, as she read to him, from both literary books and the Bible.
As it seemed, the weaker he grew the more he needed the comfort of God and the woman at his side. Nicholas rode atop the Carriage with the driver, never far from his Lady’s side... And Emma rode with the Royal servants in a coach behind the Kings, and his legion of escorts… Finally the Gates of Edinburgh were passed and the cadre disassembled... The King was home at Last.
Over the next weeks, the household would be introduced to the Bruce’s new Lady… the Lady Aramoire… his constant companion and caretaker. Even the Royal Healers and Physicians would report and defer to her as did the King... Clergy and Royal Cabinet members, long lost cousins and family, now flooded the Castle like carrion crows, awaiting the feast that his death would bring, riches wealth power... all up for grabs; titles to be passed on… These were the ones who waited and watched in the halls. Rumors spread like wildfire…
Would the King marry the fire-haired wench before his death, leaving her as Queen? Some rumored it was already a done deed… some plotted her death before the King… and some...merely watched and waited… while one… was ever diligent... ever near… Sir Stryker... the Lady’s Personal Guard.
The room was dim, only the flicker of a few candles near the bed, as well as a glowing banked fire. The royal bed canopied and swathed in the dark blue the Bruce favored, with gilded cord and fringe. Behind his head the gold field emblazoned with a crimson Lion that would forevermore symbolize the Royalty of Scotland, he lay propped amid a veritable bank of pillows, blanket held to his chest as he watched her with eyes once harsh and hateful, now full of regret and tenderness for the woman who had given him the gift of her forgiveness and friendship.
Seated beside him, she held a small lap harp. Dainty delicate fingers plucking the strings to an old sweet swell of tune that carried with it the promise of freedom and love. Copper curls once shorn short by his hand now, fell past her shoulders, catching the light of the fire, dipped downward in earnest task of remembering the strains of the melody. There was no singing, for of all her talents, that was not one of them… her voice long lost to a tragedy of childhood, while sultry and seductive in speaking, was tuneless and off key when put to the test of song. Though she hummed rather well, it was this soft sound that accompanied the harp, as she played into the night, soothing the Lion.
Soon enough her fingers slowed, easing the harp to a side table, she poured him a cup of wine... and eased onto the bed beside him... “Here Robert… will help with the pain…” a small bottle of powder was lifted and stirred into the cup, left by the apothecary, for his pain, the wine hiding it’s bitter aftertaste.. “You need to rest” she smiled settling on his bedside helping him to drink… with a tenderness that most family did not afford him.
As soon as the wine was finished and the cup set aside, she would move into the bed beside him, settling in the pillows; her hand lightly on his shoulder… “Shall I read to you some more? Perhaps the story of Bathsheba... It seems to be... appropriate considering the circumstances...” she joked, and teased, something not many were are liberty or want to do with a dying King… and yet here she was... as at ease with him as if she belonged at his side, his companion, and friend…
The next few days, after the journey home, seemed almost pleasant, despite the unseen enemy inside his body. His “Ailment” constantly eating away at the man’s inner core, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. When he would begin to feel less than import as he was, she was there; providing water when he was thirsty, reading when he could no longer see, and to smile, when he no longer had a reason.
In a feeble voice, one that lacked the bass thunder it once had before audiences of soldiers or parliamentarians, his hand covered hers. “Lass… wae dae yae stay ‘ere… yae bae sae full o’ youth, baet yae stay in this house wit a dyin’ man… Tis nae healthy faer….” His coughing interrupts him much now.
In came daily reports of the war, reports of men dying, lands charred… still the old man would listen to what was being reported… “Damn the Ainglish… mae they rot in ‘ell…” then when reports of Skye ventures came, he would gain a smile that would nearly break his wrinkled face. “Ah gotta hand it tae the Gryphon lassie… ‘e bae daein’ right bae the people…”
A lone tear rolled along the wrinkles of his skin… a hand feebly finds hers as she sat upon the bed reading God’s words to him. “Say a prayer faer me… ask God tae grant me tae see Scot’land free… Ask ‘im tae give Adam guidance true to path…” the sighs were hard as he tried to gain a breath… “Ah fear Ah dun ‘ave much time left lassie…” he coughs… “Nae energy left tae stand… Ah cannae see... Haew kin yae stand by and watch me die… lest tis tae see yer vengeance doen…” looking away.
