The Guardian

by Jack Whyte

  He stood up abruptly and went to the work table, where he bent to look at the documents lying there, passing his open palm over them as though expecting one of them to leap up into his grasp. He quickly found what he was searching for. He came back to the fire and handed me a rolled scroll. It was a letter of some kind, unimpressive and lacking any elaborate seals.

  “You wish me to read it?” I asked.

  He smiled gently. “No, I can tell you what it says. It is from Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.”

  I glanced over at the bishop, but his lordship’s eyes were closed, the leaping flames now reflecting on his hawk-nosed face, though I doubted he was asleep. I looked back to Lamberton. “And why would you show me a letter from Lord Carrick? Is he still in Annandale?”

  “No, he is back in Carrick, having dealt effectively, I understand, with Clifford’s raiders. I brought the letter to your attention because he will be here tomorrow. He is coming to consult with me on something that has nothing to do with any of what we are discussing.”

  I felt a frown tugging at my brow. “And so? Forgive me, Canon, but how is this relevant?”

  “It’s relevant because it bears directly upon the thing we must talk about next—Wallace’s greatest fear, that he will be scorned and shunned by the nobility. There is some truth in that perception. He is a commoner, after all, and the nobility are unaccustomed to regarding commoners as people with minds and opinions, let alone gravitas.” He hesitated. “As a vessel for holding a fluid idea, though, his opinion on that matter is as full of holes as a brazier basket. The magnates may not like having to deal with him, but they cannot simply shun him or shut him out, because he has the trust and support of the common folk, the source of the fighting men they all need. In addition to that, given that the Church itself will demand that everyone in the realm support Wallace actively, in his capacity as commander of the armies of Scotland, it will take an arrogant, defiant nobleman indeed to risk the Church’s displeasure. Besides, there are many among the nobility who will have no difficulty at all, despite Will’s fears, in working with a champion of his stature. You may start with Lord James, the High Steward, and throw in several of the earls and chiefs.” He shrugged. “I can’t name too many names with absolute certainty at this point, but there are many magnates, including Gaelic mormaers, who will work with him, even if some of them do so reluctantly. The benefits they stand to gain are too large and too impressive to permit them to stand off on principle.”

  “And what does any of that have to do with the Earl of Carrick in particular?”

  “Nothing at all, on the face of things, though Bruce is one of the men I had in mind when I said there are some who will not hesitate to work with Will. But I’ve been thinking about Carrick—the earldom, I mean—from another direction altogether. Politically, rather than militarily.”

  The bishop’s eyes were still closed.

  “Politically,” I said slowly, thinking about the word and what it meant in this context. “Can you explain?”

  “Of course.” He shrugged. “The earl is in a difficult position, I believe.”

  “With regard to Will, you mean?”

  “No, with regard to himself, to who he is and what he represents.” He hesitated, cocking his head. “Forgive me, Father, but I have to ask this and I have no wish to offend you. You do know what I mean by what I just said, do you not?”

  “Of course I do—is there a man in Scotland who might not? If there is, he must be a newcomer, for the Great Cause left its mark on everyone who was here while it was being debated.” I stopped abruptly, on the point of adding something more, something that might have been considered treasonous in some circles, and Canon Lamberton eyed me strangely.

  “Isn’t it fortunate,” he said, “that His Grace should have fallen so deeply asleep? He has had a long day and is obviously overtired.” I glanced towards my employer, utterly convinced in my own mind that he was as wide awake as I was.

  “Aye, it is,” I said with a nod. “It will do him no harm to sleep a little, providing he is comfortable, which he appears to be.”

  “I agree,” the canon said. “Forgive me, though, for interrupting you. You were about to say something further on the matter of the Great Cause, I believe … something about the mark the debate made on everyone who was in Scotland at the time. It would please me greatly to hear more of what you really think of that, in the light of all that has occurred since then.”

  There it was, an invitation to transgress. I caught my breath, yet barely hesitated before answering him honestly, in tribute to his openness and proven friendship.

  “In the light of all that has occurred since then, Canon, I believe a man could present a valid argument in favour of the idea that the King of England acted in bad faith when he decided to uphold the Balliol claim over that of Bruce. What’s done is done, of course, and throughout all of Christendom the ruling of Edward’s court of auditors in settling the matter of the Scottish succession has now enshrined the precedence of primogeniture over the ancient Celtic laws of tanistry and royal descent through the female side. But I find myself wondering, nonetheless, how the personalities of the two claimants affected Edward Plantagenet’s perceptions of what lay at stake in his decision. He was the kingmaker—oh, I know his was an arm’s-length involvement and it was the auditors themselves who brought down their verdict.

  “But truly, Canon, in the light, as you yourself said, of all that has occurred since then, is it not unlikely that this King, as strong willed and domineering as he always is, could remain aloof and not make some attempt to influence the minds and opinions of the auditors who looked to him constantly for favour and for guidance? And is it far-fetched to consider, knowing what we know now, that he might even then have had plans in mind to undermine and traduce the Scottish monarchy and subsume the realm of Scotland as he had previously done with the Principality of Wales? And if we nod our heads in agreement to even one of those thoughts, must it not then follow that the choice between the claims of Bruce and Balliol must have been, to Edward, one between black and white?

  “In the black choice, he had Robert Bruce of Annandale to deal with, a man of seventy years of immaculate probity and iron will, who had never bowed the knee in servility to anyone throughout a lifetime rich in valour, integrity, and flawless honour. The white alternative on the other hand, John Balliol of Galloway, was, and remains, essentially a weakling, a man desperate to please and to be liked, incapable of making a decision without consulting whoever might be around him at that moment, irrespective of their qualifications to advise him in such matters and regardless of what those matters might involve.”

  I was well aware by then that I had said far more than I intended to say when I set out, but it was the truth, and hearing myself speak the words was exhilarating and liberating, no matter that I might be held to account later for saying them. But even as I was thinking that, I recognized a flaw in my own argument.

  “Of course there are folk, even here in Scotland, who will tell you half the auditors were Scots, and that as Scots they could not, and would not, have been influenced to such a great extent by England’s King. And I agree, Edward had far less influence upon the Scots auditors than he had over their English counterparts. They might have been open minded and disposed to be friendly towards him, but they were all Scots and loyal to this realm, and he simply could not have bent them all collectively to his will. But he didn’t need to browbeat them, because he had help from us. The Church itself was working on Edward’s behalf, albeit unwittingly and in all innocence. That may horrify us today, years later, but it is a consideration in light of what we have since learned. At that time it had not yet occurred to anyone other than a few folk to doubt Edward’s goodwill, and few would ever have suspected that he might harbour designs upon the sovereignty of our realm. Bad faith on his part was simply unimaginable then. And we, the servants of our Holy Mother Church, had axes of our own to grind.” I paused, looking at him, and he qui
rked one eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

  “You mentioned politics earlier,” I said, “in talking about Carrick politically rather than militarily. Well, let’s raise that thought of politics again—Church politics in this instance. In the days before this realm’s Great Cause, the entire question of primogeniture versus succession claims from the female side—the Salic laws of France, for instance, and our own tanic laws are but two examples— had been disrupting countries within Christendom for decades, and the Church had decided, in the years leading up to the start of the Great Cause, to champion primogeniture in settling matters of royal succession. This dispute in Scotland was to be the defining example, and acting upon instructions from the curia in Rome, the Church authorities in Britain—for the activity took place in England, too, as well as Scotland—decided to militate actively in favour of primogeniture—descent through the male bloodline.”

  I glanced towards Bishop Wishart and could have sworn I saw his eyes flick shut.

  “So there you have it, Canon. We ourselves, the servants of God’s Church in Scotland, aided Edward in placing King John on Scotland’s throne. And he is now our valid King, duly anointed and crowned in the eyes of God and man. It was Edward of England who proceeded thereafter to change the rules and throw everything into hazard … And I’ve been talking far too long and have, no doubt, said far too much.”

  The bishop slumbered on, not moving a muscle.

  “Valid,” Canon Lamberton said. “You said King John is now our valid King. I could dispute that, were I inclined towards semantics. John Balliol is our legitimate King, no doubt of that, for he was duly crowned and anointed, as you say. Validity, however, is a different creature in this instance. He was deposed and degraded, as all the world now knows, but that was an act of culpable human arrogance on the part of an aging despot who knows better but cares nothing for what anyone may do. It was a humiliation imposed upon one hapless man at the will and express purpose of another man, and it had no effect whatsoever upon the legitimacy of John Balliol’s status of King of Scotland.” He caught my swallowed comment at that. “I beg your pardon, Father. You said something I did not catch.”

  “It was nothing, Canon,” I said, shaking my head. “A mere reaction to the name you gave him, which was correct: the King of Scotland. I find that offensive, but my dislike of it is purely personal. Our kings have always been kings of the people, not the land. Alexander, our previous King, may God rest his soul, was King of Scots, as was Macbeth, and Malcolm, and David the First. Our current King is the only one, ever, who called himself King of Scotland. But that is neither here nor there.”

  “On the contrary, Father,” Lamberton demurred. “It speaks to the character of the man and to his personality. By naming himself king of the land, instead of the folk, he aligned himself with every other king in Christendom—a transparent attempt to ingratiate himself with his peers. But I was talking of validity rather than legitimacy. Abdication was forced upon John Balliol, as was his imprisonment in London, and there is nothing we can do at this time to change any of that.” He shrugged, a mildly distracted, throwaway gesture. “I have it on good authority, from someone I trust, that the Holy Father is moving heaven and earth to secure his release, and that Edward might be induced, given enough in the way of incentives and encouragement, to release the King into the custody of some other Christian monarch. But John himself has lost hope, in his prison there in London, and appears to have abandoned any plans he ever had of returning to Scotland to reclaim his throne. Edward has completely broken his spirit, it seems. But in the eyes of God he is still the King of Scotland and will so remain until he dies.

  “In the meantime, though, his absence has created a moral dilemma for all of those who seek to govern Scotland in his name, because this is now a realm without a king. Edward Plantagenet’s arrogance has created a yawning hole in the fabric from which this realm is woven, and by so doing he has thrust responsibility for the future onto the shoulders of patriots like your cousin, forcing them to undertake tasks and duties that should not be required of them.”

  “And is Bruce one of those same patriots?”

  “He is. But Bruce has a legitimacy that is all his own. If what you said earlier is accurate, and Edward Plantagenet plotted in advance to usurp this realm—for only a fool would doubt, today, that that is his intention—then everything that Edward did in this matter of the choosing of the new king is rendered suspect and invalid. And that makes Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick, a legitimate heir—you’ll note I am not saying the sole legitimate heir—to the Crown of Scotland. So let us look at Bruce’s situation. He has told me, and I believe him, that he has no wish to seek dominance while John is yet our legitimate King, but he has assured me, too, that he intends to look after his own interests in this matter, and he will consider advancing his own claim should the throne become vacant.”

  “The Comyns will have words to say on that,” I said.

  He nodded. “They will, but they will not be crowing as long or loudly as they did five years ago. They no longer rule the dunghill as they did then, once the old Bruce, Annandale, was out of the way. Since then, for five uninterrupted years, they have had things very much their own way, and yet for all their vaunted claims and loud crowing they have failed—spectacularly failed—to achieve anything in the way of victory or progress in protecting the realm against England’s bullying. Their record since 1292 has been one of relentless defeats and failures, culminating in the fiasco at Dunbar when most of them were taken prisoner. That record has not gone unnoticed, believe me, and people are far more dubious about House Comyn than they used to be.”

  “They can’t all be incompetent,” I said. “I hear the youngest one, Comyn of Badenoch, is an able fighter.”

  “He is, apparently, though he is young and relatively unknown to this juncture. But have you heard, too, that he and Bruce—they’re of an age—detest each other?”

  “No. I didn’t know that … But it is interesting.”

  “Aye, or it could be, depending on what happens next. Anyway, Bruce is the greater unknown here, at least as far as public repute applies. His grandfather took him to England ahead of John’s coronation in ninety-two and they remained there until Carrick’s return here last spring. In the meantime, the old man died in Essex or Sussex—somewhere in the south—and his son, the present Lord of Annandale, became Edward’s constable of Carlisle, holding it, nominally at least, against King John, though in fact he was holding it against the Comyns, who had been rewarded with his forfeited lands of Annandale and Carrick. His son the Earl of Carrick, in the meanwhile, had become one of the pampered and spoilt favourites of Edward, who, like many another despot before him, believes in keeping his friends close and his enemies even closer.”

  “If that’s so, why is he here in Scotland now, a rebel against Edward?”

  “That, Father James, is the question troubling most of those in Scotland who pay attention to such things, but I have a theory that might cast some light upon it. Edward is Edward and, like all men who wield great power, he enjoys demonstrating his ability to exercise it.” He paused. “I was just about to say that I have heard something on that topic from someone in authority, someone I trust, but then I realized how often I say that, and how true it always is, and I felt a sudden surge of gratitude that I am a priest and that, in consequence, I have great privileges and unlimited access to information on a vast range of topics, all of which bear upon the Church and its mission here on earth.” He smiled again, little more than a grimace this time.

  “Be that as it may, the English King, I’m told, enjoys manipulating his puppets. And all who are around him, with remarkably few exceptions, are essentially his puppets. By applying pressure to a variety of his people at any time, he keeps the others on their toes and in fear of attracting royal displeasure. It was as part of one those manipulations, apparently, that he ordered Bruce north into Scotland, to burn Douglas Castle and take Lady Douglas into custody
in Edward’s name. The order was issued publicly, akin to rubbing a puppy’s nose in its own mess, save that Robert Bruce appears to be more his grandfather’s offspring than his father’s, and is no puppy to be manhandled and publicly abused. I have no doubt there was more to the affair than that, but whatever lay beneath young Bruce’s revolt, the order to bring back the woman to Edward’s justice was clearly one more thing than he would bear. So now he is here, back in Scotland, and saying nothing about his reasons for quitting England. And naturally, people are suspicious of his presence and his motives.”

  “But you are not.”

  “No, I am not. And that’s why I think his coming here tomorrow is providential in this matter of your cousin and our need for him.”

  “You think Bruce will support him?”

  “We—” He caught himself and glanced at Bishop Wishart, but the bishop had not reacted. “I believe he has no other choice. Consider: the folk here know not whether to trust Bruce or reject him, and they can see for themselves that his father’s people in Annandale will not follow him. That, mind you, is as it should be. The Annandale folk are his father’s tenants and their duty is to his father while the elder Bruce yet lives, but the bulk of the people don’t see things quite that simply. To them, the root matter is one of trust—is Bruce one of their own, or is he merely a half-baked Englishman, a spoilt favourite of Edward’s, playing the fool and waiting to be received back into the royal favour? That resolution will come only with the passage of time. Bruce will have to show his willingness to earn that trust and demonstrate his worthiness, and in the meantime he will have to wait. And while he waits, he’s going to need stability and a calm, lawful environment in which he and his folk can live and prosper. He won’t get that if the Comyns come to power again, so he must be reliant upon Wallace.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “It’s common sense. If Bruce is ever to have an opportunity to claim the throne, he must wait for King John Balliol to die, and while he is doing that he will need security and peace throughout the realm. Wallace will be his best hope of achieving those objectives, ergo Bruce will support Wallace, and enlist his Bruce allies to his cause.”