Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  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

  19th 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.”

  “My lord,” Bishop Lamberton said calmly, drawing a hand to the side, “a moment alone... please?”

  He tucked the letter beneath his fur-lined cloak. Already great smears of ink were bleeding through the parchment and had stained his fingers.

  His hand upon my arm, we walked toward the trees. “While I understand your reluctance in this, I think it prudent to consider it more carefully. He is offering a truce and to acknowledge you as King of Scots, surely that is worth –”

  “He offers naught but lies!” I spun before him, halting him. “Your pardon, your grace, I do not mean to slough off your advice, but I know it in my heart that I am right in this. A man is to be measured by his actions alone. Words only convey intent if one’s behaviors prove them so. To expect King Edward to act differently than he has in the past, to believe that he would uphold his word for any longer a time than what suits his own interests, is to play the fool. I believed his father when he said Scotland’s throne would be mine and what did that get me? Nothing but the disdain of my own people. It took me years to prove I was no longer his servant. Years of acting as I believed, no matter the price. Not a mere few words spewed out in desperation.”

  “Then what would it take to make peace with England? Am I to tell him you are declining?” He let out a long sigh, as if to give me time to think on it. “Robert, I have been with you every step, through all your struggles. If not in body, in spirit. When I could not advise you directly, I prayed to God every day to grant you the patience and the wisdom to see your vision realized. Every time word came to me of your exploits – the battles at Brander, Glen Trool and Slioch – I knew that you were the one to question what has always been and bring about change. You inspire courage in others, you are a benevolent leader and a godly man. But your greatest gift is not your tenacity or your bravery, it is mercy. You forgave Thomas Randolph and the Earl of Ross and gave them another chance, when others would have taken their lives out of revenge.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I haven’t the luxury of spare bodies. Every Scotsman dead is one less to fight alongside us. Forgive, rather than punish, and others will join of their own volition – like the wet-eared Atholl there. But there is a difference between those men and Edward of England, your grace. And it is no small difference, but a very large, very egregious one. I trust I need not explain it to you?”

  Looking down, he slid his hands beneath the wide sleeves of his vestments to clasp his forearms. “Remember when you called me to Turnberry? You gave me letters, two of them. You curried favor with both Philip of France and Longshanks...” As he raised his eyes to me, his voice took on a very solemn tone. “Because you wished to have Scotland’s crown and marry Elizabeth. You have the crown now, but your wife, along with your daughter and sisters – they are still in England. The King of England controls their fate. If you forego this offer, however spurious it may seem to you, then you will be no closer to seeing them anytime soon again.”

  The sleet had turned to rain, slicing at my cheeks like daggers of ice. I felt the chill upon my flesh all the way down to the marrow of my bones. “Relinquish pride for love, you’re saying?”

  He shook his head at me. “I know it’s not as simple as that, Robert.”

  “Indeed not. Because, you see, if I harbor Edward’s beloved Gaveston, I’ll have every discontented baron and grasping knight of England on my threshold, upturning every stone and torching every timber to flush him out. What would it matter, then, to have King Edward’s word? It would matter not at all. Likely, it would make things even worse for us.”

  “Robert, I beg you to –”

  “Beg, shout, throw yourself on the ground and wail if you want. If he cannot keep his word from one day to the following, why even begin to believe he has anything of lasting honor in him?”

  Bishop Lamberton could not respond fast enough. Pulling a hand down over my face and beard, I flung frigid droplets at the ground. “Besides, he said nothing of releasing Elizabeth or Marjorie, did he? My answer stands. I will not parlay on a perjurer.”

  “What will it take then?”

  “A document signed by every hand of parliament and” – I turned and began to walk away – “the blessing of the pope!”

  “You will not get it, Robert!”

  “I know, your grace! I know! But a man can dream.”

  Ch. 25

  Edward II – Tynemouth, 1312

  When Lord David of Atholl knelt before me in York’s bailey and delivered the Bruce’s reply, I threatened to remove his head if he ever showed his face before me again. More than a mere refusal, Bruce’s words were provocative. Who was he, a murderer and a traitor, to say that I could not keep my word? Did he not understand the munificence of my offer and how greatly it stood to benefit us both? God’s teeth, he was impossible! Pray I lived to see the day when I could make him pay for this arrogant mistake.

  Lancaster, now on the move from London, was amassing considerable numbers. Thus, we went from York to Newcastle to Tynemouth, ever northward. But what good that would do us now I could no longer see. Piers’ health went from bad to good to worse, sometimes all within a few days’ time. Although my physician could not give a name to his malady, he declared it was not life threatening and said that my beloved Piers simply needed to rest. Small chance of that, wanderers that we were.

  Gradually, my unions with Isabella became less gruff and more rehearsed. We were sequestered in the abbot’s palace at Tynemouth when – exhausted from our forced travels – I had been with her one night and fallen asleep in her bed. Dawn pried its thin, pink fingers between the shutters. With a groan, Isabella threw back the covers, stumbled weakly across the floor and vomited before she could reach the washbasin on the other side of the room. Afraid that she had contracted Piers’ illness, I bolted upright to stare at her, as she retched an ocher stream of bile onto the floor. The bits of rosemary and lavender strewn at her feet did nothing to cover the stink. Finally, she made it the last few steps, poured herself a cup of water to rinse her mouth, and spit into the basin.

  “I am late,” she uttered groggily, clutching her belly and crawling back into bed.

  “Late?”

  Amid a ghostly pale face, dark circles rimmed her eyes. She turned her head toward me, golden hair falling across her cheeks and lips. “Our child is the cause of it.”

  Relief washed over me. Finally, an heir. Naked, I ros
e and went to the window. Nudging open the shutters, I inhaled the faint scent of salt air coming in from the east on a light breeze. May was drawing near. Rain and warmer days had painted the land in lusher tones. Tynemouth was too small to contain all of us for any longer. “The day is perfect for hawking, don’t you think?”

  “I think I am not well enough to go with you.”

  I went to her and, gently, so as not to create a wake, I sat on the edge of the bed next to her. “Of course, you should rest. Eat well. Keep my son healthy.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is a girl.”

  “The next one can be a girl.” I brushed aside a stray tendril of hair from her cheek. Yes, one offspring would not be enough. Sons could fight for me. Daughters could be married off to build alliances at home and abroad. I would need those things in years to come. I more than needed them now. Perhaps this was the beginning of better times, but first – “As soon as Bromtoft says that Piers is well enough to travel again, I will be sending you –”

  She clutched my arm fiercely. “No! You cannot send me away. Not now. Not as I am.”

  “What? You want to keep me near? Since when, good wife?” I gave her hand a squeeze. “Come now, we put up with each other for a purpose and it is, for now, done. You should not be near Piers in your condition. I will not endanger my heir... our child. And I want you safe, as well. You’ll go to York and wait for me there.”

  “You’ll be staying here at Tynemouth then?”

  “Heaven knows I am weary of running, but I must take Piers elsewhere. Somewhere I pray they cannot get to him.”

  “Where?”

  I pressed a finger to her lips. “You needn’t know. That way, you have nothing to hide. If Lancaster finds you, tell him you are with child. He will not dare touch your pretty head then.”