Robert the Bruce--A Tale of the Guardians

by Jack Whyte

  The old man’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “That Edward is inclined to favour Balliol.”

  “But how can that be, Father? Yours is the stronger claim.” The earl’s voice was high pitched, almost querulous, and his father nodded, curtly, Rob thought.

  “It is, if you cleave to the ancient law of Scots succession through the female side. But you were there in Perth and heard what Wishart said about the old Scots tanist law being out of favour. This new law, this primogeniture, passing the rights to the firstborn son, rules out the female claim, and it appears it has been widely adopted throughout Christendom, as Wishart said. And particularly so in England. Edward and his delegates now favour it, and that bodes ill for me and mine.”

  Neither of the two younger Bruces responded, each of them thinking deeply on what those words entailed.

  Lord Robert breathed in deeply. “The damnable part of that is that Edward’s no’ alone in his thinking. Some of our own bishops within the court agree with him, and of course the Comyn crew is eager to back his judgment therein, as you might jalouse.” He frowned. “There’s more to it than that, though. At least so I hae come to believe after weeks of thought on the matter. And that’s why you are here. I have made a decision—decisions, in fact—that will affect you and young Rob directly.”

  “Based upon your thoughts?” Earl Robert’s emphasis was barely discernible.

  His father nodded. “Aye. That’s what I said.”

  “And are we to learn what those thoughts are?”

  Again Rob thought he saw a flash of irritation in the old man’s eyes, but the moment passed and Lord Robert stood silent. “Aye,” he said eventually. “You are … My thoughts are these. I now believe Edward will give the nod to Balliol, for diverse reasons, not all of them without prejudice. By favouring the law of primogeniture, he undermines my entire claim and he can argue legally that he is right to do so. God knows his English clerics will support him there, and they, with the added weight of the Balliol and Comyn faction, will outnumber the pro-Bruce voices in the proceedings.”

  Earl Robert was frowning. “‘Not without prejudice,’ you said. What do you mean by that?”

  The old man frowned. “I have suspicions, nothing more—nothing on which I could rely for proof. But I believe now that Edward believes he might make more use of Balliol than he could of me, were I the King of Scots.” He glanced at Rob, then swung his eyes back to his son the earl. “You’ve met John Balliol, Robert. He is a good man, douce and pleasant, but he will never make a strong king. He needs too much to be liked … craves the good opinion of everyone. And that is fatal in a king, if not to the man himself, then surely to the realm he governs. John Balliol is too weak for kingship. And I suspect Edward knows that well, and plans to use it for his own designs.”

  “What designs, Father? If Balliol becomes the King of Scots, he will be sanctified as such, anointed and crowned and unbeholden to any man or any other King. How then could Edward use him?”

  This time the irritation broke through. “In God’s name, Robert, are you deaf or simply stupid? Weak, I said. The man is a weakling, and because of that his kingship will be feckless, too. Edward Plantagenet now seeks to place a puppet on our throne. His puppet, on our throne.”

  “Never! The Guardians—”

  “The Guardians stand as guardians in the absence of a king!” Lord Robert roared, his forbearance exhausted. “The absence of a king! Think about that, for the love of God!” He stopped and drew a long, deep breath, held it before releasing it. He spoke again, this time in a calmer voice. “Their function as Guardians expires once a new king is crowned, and they return to being mere advisers to that king, as they have ever been. And advisers can be ignored by a king who has no wish to listen to them. Thus rejected, they have no recourse within the law. They may bite their gums in fury but they can do nothing against their rightful monarch. Can you not see that? All they can do is advise, and if their king chooses to listen instead to the advice of another, somebody more powerful, more pleasing, more manipulative—somebody like Edward Plantagenet—then the Guardians may fume and fret but they will be impotent. That. Is. The truth. So let there be an end to this protesting. Given a choice between Balliol and me in furthering his own kingship, Edward Plantagenet will never choose me, because he knows he’ll never dominate me.”

  The earl stared into the fire for a while, and then asked, “Have you suspected this outcome from the first, Father?”

  “No, not a bit. It came to me but weeks ago as I was returning here from Marjorie’s funeral. It began with something I remembered Robert Wishart saying, something about the way men are talking of the changes in Edward since Eleanor died. That led to other memories, of things I had heard tell of England’s King but had ignored because I thought them demeaning to him, and to me for listening to them. But I am now convinced I have the right of it.”

  “I see…” Earl Robert scratched his chin for several moments. “You said you had come to some decisions that would affect all of us.”

  Lord Robert nodded. “I have.” He moved away from the front of the fire and angled the vacant chair to where he could sit and look at both of his listeners, and when he spoke again, in formal English, his voice was low and solemn.

  “I am convinced that, one way or another, John Balliol will fail as King. He might stand up to Edward of England for a while, and I suspect he will try at first, but he is no match for the man in any sense. Edward will bully him, browbeat him, harass him, and keep him under constant pressure until he eventually controls him. And when he does, then Balliol will fall and we will go to war with England. The Guardians might regain their powers then, but mark me and take note … It might also be too late by then. Their position—their very puissance in defence of this realm—could be set at naught by time and circumstance if Edward has his way. I now believe, deep within myself, that Edward of England, unchecked, will seek to garner Scotland to his Crown as he did Wales, by war and conquest if need be. And Edward, left unconstrained, will perceive such a need, you mark my words.”

  Mark them they did, for both sat staring at him wide-eyed as he continued speaking.

  “Our sole protection against that will be constant vigilance from this time forth, for though I said he will seek that goal, he will not be able to achieve it unless this entire land and everyone within it simply bends the knee to him and permits it. And therefore this realm of ours must remain strong, and we must be diligent to keep it so. The Plantagenet has but one weakness that I can see, but it is a large and public one, and our task will be to exploit it and keep it in plain sight of everyone. This is a King who must ever be seen to abide by the law—his own and God’s—for he has built his kingship upon that. But England’s law is for England’s realm, and it makes no allowance for Scotland, and Edward’s barons will be slavering for our lands. Therefore we Scots must work to keep the outside world—the Pope, his cardinals, and all the crowned kings of Christendom—aware of what is happening in our land. If we do that, and take great pains to do it properly and constantly, we might, just might be able to retain our freedom.

  “But even so, if Balliol is chosen and he fails, for whatever reason, this whole debate on succession will open up again, and that is where I must count myself beaten.”

  “How so, Grandfather?” Rob’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, and Lord Robert tilted his chin and narrowed his eyes.

  “Because I am too old, Grandson. Balliol will have years ahead of him before he falls, if indeed he does. By then I will probably be dead … I should have died long ere now. And so I have decided to resign my claim to the throne, now, while I yet live, in favour of my son.”

  “No!” Rob protested. “You can’t do that. There has been no decision! What if the court rules in your favour?”

  The old man flashed a grin that was full of wickedness. “Then everything will change and I will be the King of Scots, and God knows I have heirs aplenty. But I doubt that is likely to happen. Besides,
there’s an alternative consideration, should Balliol be selected over me. If I do not renounce my claim in favour of your father, I’ll be left as Lord of Annandale, a vassal of the King. That means I’d have no other choice than to bend the knee—on pain of treason—in humble obedience and servitude to Balliol, and to his Comyn cousins, and that does not appeal to me. I might bend the knee anyway, but that will be my own choice as my own man, and it could not easily be forced upon me under threat of death. So I’ll resign and go to live in England, on my lands in Essex, and there’s the end of it. No Comyn can tell me what to do there.” He glanced at his son. “Robert, what will you do, now that you are no longer Earl of Carrick?”

  The earl blinked. “But I am, Father. I am earl in truth. It has been ratified by the council of Guardians.”

  For a long moment Lord Robert remained motionless, and then a smile slowly lit up his face. “Excellent,” he said, elongating the vowels. “That is truly excellent, for it gives additional weight to what I propose to do. But mind you make no mistake on what your new title means, my son. Half of the council of Guardians, by design, are Comyn and Balliol men. They would never have approved a new Bruce earldom—particularly here in the southwest—were they not absolutely certain of a Balliol victory. For with their own man crowned King, no Bruce will be a threat to them, no matter what his rank.

  “And so it is confirmed—the die is cast and, as I thought, the throne will go to Balliol. It will take but days more, mark my words. And so as soon as I hear formal word of the court’s findings, I will renounce my claim and name you two my heirs, with full rights to the succession should the need ever again arise. And if anyone dares to ask me for my reason for so doing, I will tell them truly I am nigh on seventy-five years old and do not expect to live much longer. So you, Robert, will be Lord of Annandale from that day forth, and as soon as that is done, you, in turn, will do the same for young Robert here, renouncing your earldom and naming him Earl of Carrick. You’ll both have to kneel to Balliol, of course, but neither of you is as personally close to this as I am, and a bent knee from you will ensure your holdings.” He looked directly at his grandson then, still smiling. “You would hae no objection to that, lad, eh?”

  Rob shook his head, his eyes wide with excitement. “No, sir,” he said. “But I’m not even knighted yet. How can I be an earl?”

  “Hah!” Lord Robert barked. “By kneeling on the floor in front of me and being tapped upon the shoulders by my sword in front of an assembled body of my own knights. And the next step, from knight to earl, will be announced by your father, so put your mind at rest. It’s done, bar for the event itself.”

  “But what of King Edward, Gransser? Will he not be angry? He told me he would knight me himself next time we met. He might see your resigning of your claim for what it is, and he could take umbrage at what he might call your disrespect for his station. Is that wise, to provoke him like that?”

  “Wise?” The Lord of Annandale grimaced. “It is neither wise nor unwise, Grandson, nor is it provocation. Edward is King in England. Not in Scotland. Here he is regarded, at his own insistence, as feudal overlord to such as I, the nobles of this land who own English holdings under his royal grant. But I’ll give no offence to him in either case. I will but exercise my right as a magnate of this realm, and also as your grandsire, to raise you to the knighthood for which he himself has named you fit, and thereby to man’s estate, in honour of the memory of your dear mother. Apart from that, as his true liege-man and vassal, I will renew my oaths of loyalty and fealty to him as my feudal overlord. I have no difficulty there, for the ancient laws of feudal custom hold me to that course. Besides, I wish otherwise to remain as close to King Edward’s goodwill as may be, in keeping with the need for vigilance of which I spoke. D’ye follow me, boy?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “And so do I, Father.” Earl Robert’s tone was subdued, but he sat silent for a spell thereafter, nodding to himself as he mulled the thoughts in his mind. “So,” he resumed. “We do and say nothing until a verdict is pronounced by the Norham court, and if you are chosen, this entire matter will be forgotten and we will continue as before. But if the court elects John Balliol, then you will renounce your claim and name me your heir.” A sudden scowl darkened his brows. “You would not think to— You—” He cleared his throat roughly. “What of your reaction? In public, I mean. How will you respond if Balliol is chosen?”

  “As a loyal subject should. Can you doubt that? I may dislike the result and distrust the choice, but the process is valid and accepted by everyone concerned. When, not if, John Balliol is chosen, then I shall attend his coronation and bend my knee to him as my lawful King, for that is what he will be.”

  “And will you support him truly?”

  “No other man would dare to ask me such a thing and hope to keep the flesh upon his back. Of course I will support him—reluctantly, let that be acknowledged, but I will support him.” The old man grinned. “But now I think on it, I might take matters further—create some tension, perhaps stir up some panic, make them wonder what I’m about.”

  “How so?” the earl asked.

  “Today is what, the third day of November?”

  “No, it’s the fourth.”

  The patriarch’s brow furrowed as he thought. “I’ll have to talk with my spies in Norham again, just to be sure that nothing new is in the wind, but if they are intent upon choosing Balliol then we might as well let them get on with it. It will depend on what I learn tomorrow from Wishart. He’ll be here in the forenoon, for he’s in Jedburgh tonight, I know, and he’ll come here before he travels on to Norham. He’s no more keen on what’s happening there than I am and he will tell me the truth, as he perceives it, about what has been going on these past few months.”

  “And if he agrees with your conclusions?”

  “Then I’ll withdraw my claim in advance of the verdict and throw everyone into confusion. They’ll all be waiting for my reaction to the verdict, hoping for an excuse to set a formal watch upon me as a malcontent, and such a watch would include the two of you as well. But by withdrawing ahead of the verdict, claiming age and infirmity, I’ll draw their teeth before they can bare them at me, and at the same time I’ll establish my acceptance of Balliol.”

  “But what if Bishop Wishart does not agree with you, Grandfather? What if he believes you might win?”

  Lord Robert’s smile was wintry. “Then I’ll hide my astonishment and wait to see what happens.”

  Book Three

  Siblings

  1292

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A SURFEIT OF ROBERTS

  Rob was spent, gasping for air and aching from head to foot, when the visitors arrived at mid-morning the next day, the fifth of November. He grounded his heavy quarterstaff and pointed towards the party of men wending their way down from the tree-crowned hill to the west.

  Lord Robert looked, then nodded. “Wishart,” he growled, and strode away towards the entry gates, shouting for his steward. Rob wiped the sweat from his brows and grinned at the man who had been belabouring him without mercy.

  “I thank God he came when he did,” he said, “for I thought you were going to hammer me to my knees in front of my grandfather.”

  The man he spoke to, Rab Elliot, was in his prime—Rob gauged him to be in his early thirties—and he was Lord Robert’s senior sergeant, master-at-arms to Annandale. Rob knew him by repute as a dour, hard-muscled fighting man who had gained his rank through dedication to his fighting skills, his sworn duties, and his master’s service. Lord Robert had called Rab in early that morning. He had heard good reports of his grandson’s prowess, the old man told them both, but he had never seen him fight, and so he wanted to watch him pit himself against Lochmaben’s best and to draw his own conclusions.

  That had been an hour earlier, and since then Rob had been fighting the hardest mock battle of his life, for Rab Elliot took his master’s wishes literally and neither gave nor sought quarter.
For a full half-hour the two had fought without respite, beginning slowly as they felt each other out, and then standing toe to toe, their whirling quarterstaves spinning and striking so quickly that their blurred shapes were barely visible at times. Rob was bigger than his opponent, young, strong, agile, and well trained, and that had stood him in good stead for a long time, permitting him to set the pace at first and even to take the initiative from time to time. But the other man was a hardened warrior, oak-solid and indefatigable, and inevitably Rob found himself increasingly on the defensive and struggling to stave off his opponent’s never-ending and constantly changing attacks. He had been close to the end of his endurance when he skipped away from an unexpected lunge and caught the flicker of distant movement that had granted him respite.

  Now he stood panting, shivering with sudden cold and feeling the sweat on his brows cool rapidly.

  Elliot didn’t even appear to be breathing heavily, but he drew himself erect and flipped the heavy staff, catching it by the centre, then nodded at Rob. “No’ bad,” he said. “There arena’ many about here wha can stand that long agin’ me. I wadna like to fight you on a muddy field, and you wi’ a sharp blade. Ye’ll be fine, young Bruce. I jalouse that men willna be feared to follow, gin you lead. Lord Robert’s no’ unhappy wi’ ye.” He nodded towards where the old man was now walking out to meet the approaching group of newcomers. “Ye’d better go now an’ join him.”

  The party had arrived barely ahead of an incoming storm that brought icy, blustering winds and a scattering of snow from a bleak, lowering sky, and as Rob watched Bishop Wishart arrive, swinging down from his fine gelding to embrace Lord Robert, he knew from the solemnity of the prelate’s expression that he bore few welcome tidings for Annandale and Carrick.

  Wishart removed the close-fitting woollen cap that framed his face and covered his head and neck, and threw the folds of his heavy cloak back over his shoulders to free his arms, exposing the plain brown cassock he wore belted beneath a long scapula of dark green cloth. Then he held Lord Robert close, and the two men greeted each other by name alone.