The Pearl of France

by Caroline Newark

  ‘What awfulness has happened here?’ I asked the captain of the guard.

  He eyed me impatiently as if I ought to know.

  ‘Our army came through in the early winter, my lady,’ he said. ‘The villagers sheltered the enemy and our men made an example of them - burned their houses, hanged their leaders. You have to teach these people a lesson.’

  ‘But nobody has shriven them and they should be buried. And what of the others? The women?’ I asked, my voice faltering. ‘And the children?’

  ‘Killed. Gone. Disappeared into the hills or starved. Who knows?’

  It was clear I irritated him with my questions. I pulled my thick cloak more tightly around my body. The cold wind had sneaked under the furred lining and was chilling my bones.

  Just then I caught sight of a child. He stood by the ruined church watching us. He was ragged and small, thin and bare-legged, about the same age as Thomas with something of the same look about him. It must have been the dark hair and eyes because in no other way could he possibly have resembled my son. There was no sign of the other villagers. In truth we had seen no-one since we had left Dunfermline.

  ‘What about that child?’ I pointed to the boy.

  ‘Vermin,’ said the captain dismissively.

  We rode on but I couldn’t get the thought of the swinging corpses and the silent, watching child out of my mind. I didn’t realise it then, but I was noticing for the first time, truths which I should have known all along.

  I had thought of war as men fighting on battlefields. I hadn’t known it touched the lives of ordinary men and women going about their daily business, and I hadn’t known it left children abandoned in the middle of a wasteland with no food or shelter and no-one to care for them. I was foolish and blind. My husband had said as much to me that day at Carlisle when we had quarrelled after Thomas was born. He said I had no idea what the world was like, how brutal it was. And he was right.

  As we rode on, I wept for that child and all those, like him, who were alone and afraid. I wept for the women who had seen their men strung up in front of their eyes and their homes destroyed by my husband’s army. And last, and least of all, I wept for myself and my pitiable folly and ignorance.

  We had come to St Andrews for the parliament and for the submission of the rest of the Scottish landowners. Last year, in the damp and chill of a Scottish autumn, the English army had marched into the heartland of the Comyn clan, and forcefully persuaded the lord of Badenoch, John Comyn, and his friends to cease fighting and make their peace with us.

  Wisely, my husband was merciful, but he decided that every Scot must now bend his knee and swear fealty to their overlord. No matter how little land they held, no matter how small and mean their house, homage must be done. There was to be no-one left outside my husband’s peace except for the traitor Wallace, and he was to be hunted down like the dog he was.

  The second day was bright and sunny but the cold persisted and patches of snow still lay in crevices on the bare hillside above the town. The sea out to the east was the colour of amethyst with silver streaks where sunlight caught the swell. White foam frothed over the foreshore, slipping away leaving gleaming black rocks behind in its wake. The gulls shrieked and wheeled, swooping for riches as the sea retreated.

  I stood just outside the castle walls, looking down at the harbour where dozens of ships bobbed about in the water. Casks and boxes which had been off-loaded onto the quay were being stacked in piles, ready for bringing up the track for the feast later in the week. The town was crowded and this parliament was going to be a long one because my husband said there was much work to be done.

  ‘Is it wise for you to be here, my lady?’

  My heart fluttered in surprise and I turned round. The voice seemed familiar but it was two years since I’d seen the earl of Carrick at Falkirk and I barely recognized him.

  ‘Sir Robert!’

  He bowed and straightening up, smiled at me.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady. Did I frighten you? I was concerned at you being out here, unattended except for your women.’

  ‘But I am quite safe, Sir Robert. We are at peace now, are we not?’

  He looked beyond me, towards the north, to where I could just make out hills in the distance, a long snow-covered line of blue and grey.

  ‘Peace?’ he said quietly. ‘Yes. We are at peace. We need to stop fighting. A land soaked in blood is no good to any man.’

  ‘I agree,’ I replied. ‘I’d not seen war before this and didn’t know how cruel it could be.’

  He paused a moment before replying.

  ‘My grandfather would weep were he alive.’

  ‘Was he a fighting man, Sir Robert?’

  ‘He should have been king of the Scots, my lady. He pitted himself against the others because he knew his claim was stronger.’ He stopped again. ‘But they chose Balliol.’

  ‘He must have been a disappointed man.’

  ‘They were like cocks on a dunghill both wanting the crown. But we made a terrible mistake.’

  ‘What mistake was that?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘When you are a cock in the chicken coop, my lady, it is unwise to invite the fox into your house. We asked the fox to help us decide who should stand on top of the dunghill.’

  ‘My husband?’

  ‘It was the bishops. They feared a bloodbath and thought the king of England would prevent one. Instead he rewarded us with an endless subordination of Scottish pride.’

  I fell silent. It occurred to me that, no matter that he had made his homage at Falkirk, the earl of Carrick was not wholeheartedly one of my husband’s men.

  ‘And what of your father?’

  ‘My father is a good man but not one for fighting. He doesn’t have the stomach for it.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  His eyes softened.

  ‘A wonderful woman, a Scot through and through, unlike my father who is more of an Englishman than Scot with his southern manors and his books. She was the daughter of an earl and I take my title from her, not my father. If it would please you and you have the time, my lady, I would like to tell you the story of how they met. It may not be the truth but it pleases me, and she and my father would never say.’

  ‘Tell me your story, Sir Robert. I am content to listen.’

  He smiled at me. Yes, he was undeniably a handsome man and I could imagine what was said about him was true.

  ‘There was my mother all alone living in her castle at Turnberry. It was many years ago and she was waiting impatiently for her husband to return from the Holy Land. He had taken the cross and gone to fight the Saracens. She waited a long time but he didn’t come back. Instead my father returned bringing sad news of her husband’s death to the lady of Carrick. They say she took one look at this handsome young knight, for my father was a good-looking man in his youth, and having given him hospitality, she kept him in her castle until he agreed to marry her.’

  I thought if Sir Robert’s father was anything like his son it was no wonder the lady of Carrick was determined to have him in her bed.

  ‘I like to think it is true,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘It is how I remember them together: my mother wild and impetuous, my father decent and honourable. Having been compromised by the fascinating young widow in her castle by the sea, naturally he married her. What else could he do?’

  I laughed. ‘What else indeed? I think if I were you, I too would want to believe the tale, and maybe it is true.’

  He laughed with me, his eyes sparkling like sunlight dancing on the sea.

  ‘My mother was a woman of the western seashore,’ he said dreamily. ‘They are different, you know, the people of the west. They think differently to the men of the east; they are wilder, fiercer and less forgiving and yet kinder, softer and more mysterious.’

  ‘And you?’

&
nbsp; ‘Oh me?’ he laughed. ‘I am part my mother and part my father. I have the stomach for a fight, my lady, and the heart for it but I also have the sense the Good Lord gave me. And good sense tells a man there is a time to fight and a time to make peace.’

  ‘And now is the time for peace.’

  ‘Yes.’

  All of a sudden he looked sombre.

  ‘Too many have died and too much blood has been spilled. And for what? I sometimes wonder what my grandfather would have made of this. Poor man. He was sadly disappointed in my father. He wanted a fighter for a son.’

  I thought of Ned and my husband.

  ‘Men are often disappointed in their sons, Sir Robert. They wish for a replica of themselves, someone to fight the fights they have left unfought, and are frustrated by what they have. But that does not mean the sons are worse than the fathers, merely different.’

  ‘You are right, my lady. Of course you are right.’

  He looked thoughtful, and I wondered if he was thinking of his father or of my stepson. Seeing my husband impose his will on these people, I could not imagine Ned doing so, and I suspected the earl of Carrick thought the same.

  We walked a little way along the grassy cliff, side by side. It was very companionable. I was curious about Sir Robert Bruce. He was clearly a man who loved his country but I sensed there was more to him than a simple soldier.

  ‘Are you married yet, Sir Robert?’ I asked, remembering he had been unwed last time I had seen him, and thinking it would be a lucky woman who had him in her marriage bed.

  ‘Yes, my lady. These two years past.’

  ‘And your bride?’

  ‘The daughter of Lord Richard de Burgh, the earl of Ulster. The one they call the Red Earl.

  I was surprised. The Red Earl was one of my husband’s staunchest allies. Sir Robert smiled, knowing instinctively what I was thinking.

  ‘His grace’s man,’ he agreed. ‘A wise move for me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I returned the smile. ‘A good marriage for you both. I trust you are content?’

  ‘Content enough, my lady. My wife is a pleasant young woman and she cares for my daughter.’

  ‘You have a daughter?’

  ‘Yes. Marjorie. From my first wife; she’s nearly nine.’

  It was hard to imagine him the father of a girl-child. He was turning out to be very different from the man I had supposed him to be.

  ‘And you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘We are a large family. As I told you, my mother was very enamoured of my father and would seldom spare him from her bed. One of my brothers serves in the prince’s household and I have a sister married to the king of Norway. We are close-knit yet spread far and wide, but one thing we have in common - we would give our lives for each other. See, my lady, we have almost reached the caves.’

  I suddenly realised how far we had walked.

  He smiled at me, showing his white teeth. ‘I think we should return before your husband believes I have run off with you, or worse.’

  I looked at him considering his words carefully. Less handsome than either Humphrey or my stepson, yet Sir Robert Bruce, the man of the western shores, possessed something they both lacked, something I could not readily identify but which I thought might well be prove to be dangerous. He was the kind of man a young woman could easily fall in love with, a man who would throw you across his saddle and ride off with you into the night, a man over whom a foolish woman could break her heart. I was no foolish woman but I did wonder if he was faithful to his wife.

  My husband took my hand in his.

  ‘What do you think of your new quarters?’

  The pretty little pavilion with its fluttering flag looked sturdy and I felt sure it was big enough. I peered inside. The floor was covered in fresh heather and rushes, and there was plenty of room for my bed. I looked up to make sure there was no gap in the roof. I’d heard tales from Lady de Lacy of leaking tents and rain pouring through in the middle of the night, but my pavilion appeared sound. I turned to my husband.

  ‘It is beautiful. Thank you. You have gone to a great deal of trouble.’

  He waved away my thanks.

  ‘I want you to enjoy the next few weeks. It will be a diversion for you. Our army will not be long in persuading the garrison here to surrender.’

  We were encamped outside the great castle at Stirling which stood fair and square in our path on the journey back to England. It was the only castle left to be brought under my husband’s control. Sir John Soules, the lord of Stirling, was in France and had declined to return and swear fealty, so my husband had decided to take Sir John’s castle for himself.

  ‘I have informed the commander of our intention to besiege the castle unless he surrenders forthwith,’ he said, rubbing his hands together with gleeful anticipation.

  The castle perched high on the hill at Stirling had guarded the crossing of the river for as long as anyone could remember. Other than by sailing the hostile waters of the Scottish Sea, an army wishing to gain access to the valleys and flat lands beyond the River Forth must cross the bridge at Stirling.

  Next morning as we broke our fast, a messenger arrived from the castle. My husband’s gaze ran down the parchment and as he read his frown grew deeper. He cast the message aside and said, ‘You can tell Sir William Oliphant that I am not inclined to allow him the enjoyment of a leisurely correspondence with his master as to whether or not he should defend his master’s castle. Tell him to make his preparations for tomorrow we shall attack.’

  And with that my husband fell to devouring his bread and cheese with great gusto.

  At first I thought little of what was happening. As my husband said, this was war and men knew what to expect. A castle which refused to surrender should prepare to be starved or bombarded into submission. It was barbaric but at least I didn’t have to watch as day after day our army used their war machines against the walls.

  ‘Where does it all come from?’ I said to Ned who had paused in his duties to pay me a visit.

  He laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  ‘We’ve stripped the lead off church roofs from here to St Andrews. There’s not an ounce left. We have the heaviest counterbalances and finest war machines anyone has ever seen. I’ve bet Piers a shilling we’ll get that south tower within the week. We’re using Beelzebub today. Don’t you think it’s the best of the lot?’

  I felt wearied from the noise and the shouting and the incessant banging and crashing.

  ‘Why do you give them names? They’re only machines.’

  ‘You are not in harmony with war, are you, lady mother?’

  ‘No,’ I said crossly. ‘I hate what it does to people.’

  ‘If you worry about that, you’ll have to make sure you are the victor.’

  ‘Even victors do not return unscathed. Men’s consciences are scarred by war,’ I said firmly. ‘It does them no good at all.’

  It was nearly the feast day of St Anthony and the walls were still unbreached. I tried to compute how many days the garrison had been without fresh supplies. Was there still water and what did they find to eat?

  My husband was thoroughly enjoying himself. He was like a small boy with new toys in the nursery and I felt a heaviness in my heart at his glorying of war. Before Stirling I thought perhaps I was beginning to understand him but now I realised I didn’t know him at all. It saddened me to see how he enjoyed destroying other men.

  Down the slope at the foot of St Mary’s Wynd a ferryman was dozing in the shade of a clump of willows, waiting for people who wished to cross to the abbey church of St Mary at Cambuskenneth. As I perched in his rickety craft, with the water running a bare hand’s width below the rim, the pretty bell tower came into full view. Behind me at the top of the hill our men were using every ounce of their might to reduce a single castle to rubble and destro
y those left inside, while here was this peaceful house of God.

  ‘Ye’re nae the first this morning,’ said the ferryman, helping me out onto the bank. ‘The brothers have a deal of visitors these days. And with fair women like ye, I’ve a mind to put on a robe and cowl myself.’

  I smiled politely and passed him a coin.

  The church was a fine one, much used in the past, so my husband said, by Scottish kings and queens when staying at the castle. It was smaller than our grand cathedral churches but well-decorated and pleasing to the eye, though beauty was not what I sought that morning. More than anything I wanted peace.

  I told my women to wait outside. They could wander the gardens at will or sit by the river but I would enter the church alone and they were not to follow. The oak door was heavy but yielded easily to my hand, the hinges well-greased no doubt by the ever-vigilant brothers.

  Inside all was hushed. Thin morning light filtered through the high windows but there were few candles lit, just two on the altar and another in the little Lady Chapel on my left. The floors were not tiled but stone-flagged with no wool rugs to soften the cold. I stood perfectly still, breathing in the familiar scent of beeswax and the lingering traces of incense, as the deepening silence settled around me like a cloak.

  Moving down the shallow step into the Lady Chapel I was aware of a profound sense of peace. I knelt in front of the statue of Our Lady and began to pray. Just at that moment I heard a noise. It was a chink, like the ring of a sword striking stone, followed by the muffled sound of a door closing. I didn’t move. I wasn’t frightened, at least not at first. I presumed it was one of the brothers entering on abbey business.

  There were no more sounds and for a moment I thought I had imagined them, but then I heard the whispers. There were two of them and they stood beyond the rood screen, near the altar. They must have come in by the side door but they were not brothers from the monastery, I could tell that from their voices.