by Glen Craney
“You are no longer my sister!”
Her reply shook the heavens. “I was never your sister in heart!”
Enraged by her defiance, Ian drew his sword.
James unsheathed his weapon to counter the attempt to stop the coronation.
With the zing of blades sounding all around her, Belle lowered the crown onto Robert’s head. “Robert Bruce, a MacDuff crowns thee King of Scotland.”
The northern lights flashed through the rain clouds across the night’s horizon, and thunder crashed across the moors.
Robert was struck momentarily speechless by Belle’s bold act. Only now did he fully comprehend the sacrifices that she and James had accepted to see him reach this summit. He nodded a concession to Lamberton, who had been proven prescient in his insistence that the ghosts of the ancients would come to Scotland’s aid. Then, he stood for the first time as King Robert the First of Scotland and raised the hands of Belle and the bishop to the heavens, affirming that it was a Pict princess and a secret Culdee, not a Roman pope, who had helped bring him to this hour of his destiny. “Spread the word!” he shouted. “This night, I call a wapinshaw! All able-bodied men shall report to Stirling within the week. Armed and provisioned for war!”
XV
SEATED WITH THE OTHER LADIES of the royal retinue, Isabella of France peered over the railing of the clerestory balcony above London Temple and shook her head in disgust as she watched three hundred esquires, the pampered progeny of England’s nobility, trample one another in a drunken stampede to reach the dais in the crowded nave below.
Attired in ceremonial robes, Longshanks limped into the octagonal church of the Knights Templar and tapped the shoulders of the kneeling Caernervon with the sword that he had used to subjugate Wales. Two months after receiving news of Robert Bruce’s coronation, the ailing monarch had decided to initiate the largest class of knights in the history of the realm for another invasion of Scotland. He had also recalled his son from exile on the Continent to join in receiving the collective knighthood, an act of clemency that she had greeted with great chagrin, for Caernervon’s absence had given her an excuse to return to France that spring. With her fiancé's return to England, she too had been called back to London for yet another visit, this time ostensibly to choose the maids who would serve as her attendants here when she was finally married. In truth, she knew the real reason for this enforced invitation was that Longshanks did not trust her father to comply with the terms of the marital treaty.
Aside from the king, the only sober men in attendance were the involuntary hosts of the ceremony, including Peter d’Aumont, the Auvergne crusader monk. The Templars maintained a marked distance from the debauched initiates, forced to stand by and watch their hallowed sanctuary be fouled. Longshanks had commandeered their headquarters on the excuse that Westminster was not large enough to hold the proceedings, but Isabella knew that the king was merely testing the loyalty of the Temple before he departed for York.
The Bishop of Canterbury tried to stammer an invocation, but the inebriated roars drowned out the oration, and the feeble cleric gave up his effort.
Outraged by the sacrilegious conduct of the initiates, the old king stumbled down into the midst of the startled esquires and flailed his long arms at them like cudgels. “By Christ, I will have silence!”
The debauched esquires floundered heaving and retching to their knees.
When the king had finally regained what passed for decorum, he commanded the doors be opened, and retainers carried in gold platters laden with white swans tethered under chains of gold.
“Before God and these swans,” Longshanks announced. “I swear to avenge the death of John Comyn! I welcomed Robert Bruce into my household! And he repays me with treachery!”
“To war!” the esquires warbled. “Scotland must heel!”
Longshanks was flushed with renewed vigor, having miraculously risen from his deathbed with the anticipation of another military campaign. “We have temporized with these heathens long enough! I will raise the largest army ever assembled on this Isle! The garrisons at Carlisle and Berwick are being provisioned! I have assigned command of the western advance to my son, with Henry Percy at his service! And I shall take personal command of our eastern advance!”
Cued to his grand moment, Caernervon staggered to his feet, belching from the wine. “I swear by all I hold sacred that I shall not sleep two nights in the same bed until I bring Bruce’s head back to London on a pike!”
A cad quipped an aside to another esquire, “Easily done, considering Eddie hasn’t slept in the same bed twice since he sprouted whiskers.”
The tottering king, too deaf to hear the jests directed at his son, called forward the esquires to receive their knighthoods. At his signal, the scullions released the chains on the platters, and the swans took flight with a loud flapping, unleashing their droppings on the assembly.
Caernervon prattled on while the esquires slipped and fell on the bird dung in their rush to be knighted. “I am your Arthur, my good knights! And you are my Round Table!”
“To the tables!” the new knights shouted, elbowing for the doors.
As the other female observers on the balcony descended the stairs to cross the grounds and join the Westminster feast, Isabella was left forgotten on her perch high above the main floor. Grateful for this respite from the three-day debauch, she decided to linger a while longer.
After a few minutes of rare quietude, she reluctantly raised her head above the banister in preparation to leave. Below her, in the empty nave, she saw a tall monk lurking in the shadows near the rear of the church. She ducked to avoid being seen, fearful that the cleric would report her transgression of the Templar bylaw against women remaining alone in the sanctuary. She risked another peek and only then recognized him to be the Abbot of Lagny, the cold fish who had served as papal prelate in her father’s court in Paris.
What was he doing here in England?
Watching through the banister’s brocade, she saw Caernervon double back into the sanctuary from a side door. Her husband slithered aside to the monk and asked in a frantic voice, “Is there word from Gaveston?”
The Dominican glanced around the nave, making certain they were alone. “We have lodged him in Bon-Repos abbey in Brittany. As near the Channel as prudence allows.”
“He knows of my plan?”
The Dominican hesitated. “The king’s health appears to have steadied.”
“This Scotland campaign will put an end to him,” Caernervon promised. “Tell me of Piers. I cannot bear his absence.”
The Dominican lowered his voice, forcing Isabella to place an ear to the floorboards. “I am uncertain how much longer I shall be able to serve as intermediary for your correspondence.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are aware of Gaveston’s … inclinations?”
“Tell me he has not taken another favourite!”
The Dominican tried to calm the excitable prince. “I have learned that his mother was burned for Albigensee witchery.”
“You would damn him for his mother’s sins?”
“There are rumors that the Gascon is proficient in the black arts. I only advise you of these matters for your protection.”
“I cannot lose communication with him.” The prince turned calculating in his tone. “What is it you want? Gold? A bishop’s ring?”
The Dominican folded his hands in a gesture of piety, affecting dismay at such an offer. “Perhaps I should take up the matter with your father.”
“I will be king within the year.”
When their voices trailed off, Isabella crawled along the boards to follow their movement.
“King Philip has been presented disturbing information,” the Dominican reported. “The Temple in France is rife with heresy. We suspect the commanderies here in England are also infected. The Holy Father is examining the evidence as we speak.”
“The Templars? Heretics? That is absurd!”
�
��I too dismissed the possibility,” the Dominican said, “until I was presented with the testimonies of the monks arrested and brought to Chinon.”
Caernervon’s voice turned suspicious. “The French king has never given a whit about theology.” His voice suddenly leapt an octave with discovery. “The Temple’s treasury would be a windfall for him. And you Dominicans would be rid of a rival order.”
“My lord does me an injustice.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?” Caernervon demanded.
The Dominican bowed, hiding an astringent smile. “I wish only to keep you informed of possible traitors in your midst. I will continue to strive to serve His Excellency in all ways. All I ask in return is that you remember me in your prayers.”
As the two men slipped out of the sanctuary, Isabella finally felt safe enough to release a held breath.
XVI
AS AN ENGLISH COLUMN RODE out from Perth castle under a flag of parlay, James inched his fingers toward the sword at his side.
Mounted next to him, Robert reached over to restrain his arm.
Bridling at being forced to stand down, James suspected that Robert still held out hope that Longshanks would recognize his right to the Scot throne in exchange for another oath of fealty. But that was a fool’s fancy, he knew, for the response to their call to arms at Scone had been disheartening. The clans, cowed by the arrival of English galleys near Carlisle, had sent only a tenth of their wapinshaw allotment, a setback that Clifford’s spies certainly would have reported to London. He had pleaded for a quick attack on Perth before the main English army could come north, but Robert had temporized for two weeks, citing every excuse from a lack of siege guns to his expectation of more reinforcements from Carrick.
“Keep rein on that temper, Jamie. There is no harm in hearing what Pembroke has to say.”
“Do you forget that he is kin to the Comyns?”
“Pembroke is an honorable man.”
“An English man. And one who takes counsel from that scar-faced cur.”
“He will hold Clifford in check, as I must hold you.”
James set his jaw in protest as Robert moved his steed several lengths away to draw him out of earshot of their five hundred volunteers.
“The men watch my every move,” Robert reminded him under his breath. “I cannot have you always questioning my decisions.”
James looked over his shoulder at their thin ranks. These few who had joined them were hard-bitten veterans of the Wallace campaigns, aged from years on the run but still itching to give battle. Their uncertain glances betrayed their doubt that Robert had the mettle to hold the crown that he had so impetuously grasped. Each of these patriots had lost a brother or father to Clifford’s terrors. Simon Fraser, the grizzled bear of a man who had fought on Stirling Bridge, was the eldest. And at his side, as always, stood ancient Alexander Scrygemour, the tall, sloe-eyed standard-bearer whose family had long held the honor of carrying the royal banner. The last member of this triumvirate of nobility was the Earl of Atholl, the rotund castellan of the northern Bruce keep at Kildrummy, affectionately called the “Falls of Atholl” because he sweated so profusely even in winter. Accompanying these lairds stood several men in their service, including Christopher Seton and Robert’s young nephew, Thomas Randolph.
The rumbling of a second column riding up from the south stirred him from his troubled contemplation. He reconnoitered the new arrivals and found Edward Bruce escorting in not the promised force of two thousand, but a paltry party of thirty that included Bishop Lamberton and several cloaked women. Lashing up to confront Edward, he searched the horizon behind the riders. “Have you ridden ahead of the main force?”
Edward Bruce ignored him, insisting on speaking to Robert first.
Slowly it dawned on James that the hotheaded Bruce brother had failed to convince even Robert’s vassals in Carrick and Annandale to take up the cause. He rode to the rear of the entourage and discovered the hooded women to be Elizabeth Bruce and her court, which included Robert’s married sisters, Mary and Christine, and Robert’s daughter, Marjorie. He did not recognize the last lady in the queen’s retinue—until she shed her cowl.
His face hardened. Why in God’s name had Edward brought her here?
He thought Belle had long since returned to Dalswinton. She met his glare with her own quizzical glance, until he broke off their silent sparring. Did she expect a warm greeting after abandoning him for Tabhann Comyn? She had crowned Robert, but she remained married to his sworn enemy. He turned from her and cracked at Edward, “Perhaps you’ll arm the women. Ah, but that is well nigh impossible, since you’ve also failed to bring more weapons.”
Edward dismounted in a red heat, champing for a fight. Eager to accommodate, James leapt from his horse and drove a shoulder into his chest. Wrestling Edward to the ground, he was about to land a fist when Lamberton reined up to break them apart.
“Enough!" the bishop ordered. "You only embolden the English with this scrapping!”
On the far ridge, Pembroke—so pale that Piers Gaveston had nicknamed him Joseph the Jew—sat with a bemused smile while watching the Scots bicker. Finally, tiring of the entertainment, the English earl led his officers forward and met Robert with a look of affected insouciance, as if he deemed this entire exercise beneath him. “Surrender, Bruce, and I will treat you with mercy.”
Remounting, James rode up to remind Pembroke, “You speak to a king!”
Clifford snorted at that conceit—until James’s blade came zinging to his chest. He brushed it aside with his forearm. “You will pay for that, Douglas!”
“It is your account that is overdue!”
While the two men hurled recriminations, Pembroke sat in the saddle casually examining his fingernails. He glanced over at Robert again and remarked dryly, “A king, it seems, who does not honor a flag of truce.”
Shamed at being called out for a breach of chivalry, Robert signaled for James to break off the confrontation. He asked Pembroke, “Where are the Comyns?”
“In Perth,” Pembroke said. “I have their word there will be no reprisals.”
While Robert debated the offer, James studied the reaction of the volunteers. Although outnumbered, they showed no stomach for capitulating to the treacherous Comyns. This low ground below Perth was ideal terrain for the larger English horses, all the more reason to question why Pembroke had delayed delivering his demand for submission until so late in the day.
“We will afford you an hour to mass,” Robert said, testing the earl’s resolve to fight. “This field is as good as any.”
For the first time, Pembroke’s hooded eyes flashed surprise. “Don’t be foolish, Bruce. We have twice your number in infantry.”
James blustered at him, “You’d best return to England and look after your estates. I hear Caernervon is shopping for a manor to gift his favourite.”
With a supercilious smirk, Pembroke played his trump card. “The Holy Father has excommunicated you, Bruce, and all who join in this insurrection. The anathema has been pronounced from every pulpit in England.”
Lamberton slapped his pony to Robert’s side to afford him time to regain his composure. “Longshanks must have put quite a dent in his treasury with that purchase. What does the pope charge for an excommunication these days? A week’s worth of feasting at Avignon? Let Clement come to St. Andrews, if Philip will allow him out of his sight. There he will receive a different account of who merits the Almighty’s wrath.”
“Blasphemous priest!” Clifford shouted.
Ignoring the bishop’s taunt, Pembroke insisted on addressing Robert only, as if they were both hampered by the crassness of the inferior men who served them. “The sun will set soon, Bruce. Give me your word that you’ll not abscond during the night, and we will engage you in seemly order in the morning.”
Looking relieved—too much so, for James’s preference—Robert asked the earl, “The dragon will be lowered?”
Pembroke nodded his ass
ent to the condition that all combatants would be protected under Christian rules of engagement.
James sensed that something was amiss. “Rob, a word with you.”
Robert displayed a flash of anger at being addressed so informally in the presence of the English. He requested a moment to confer with his officers.
As the Scots rode off, Pembroke muttered to Clifford, “Officers. His exchequer must be that halfwit with the sheep’s bladder on his pike.”
James led Robert and his councilors to a near hill. He turned and studied the English contingent from afar. “They’re using this truce to judge our strength.”
Robert circled his horse in a tight radius, his ritual when nervous. “More of our men may arrive by morning. We’ll face the low sun if we fight now.”
“They won’t follow us to the Isles.”
“Whose side are you on, Douglas?” Edward demanded. “I say we give them the blade on the morrow and end this now.”
“They hold the high ground,” James reminded Robert.
Edward was itching to finish their interrupted brawl. “My brother is king—”
“Then stop heckling him to act like some sow-headed clan lord!” James turned from Edward and grasped Robert’s pommel to drive home his plea. “We should draw them deeper into the Highlands. Let them starve crawling home.”
Rubbed raw by the tepid response to his muster, Robert now reacted harshly to any slight that even smacked of betrayal. “You’ve swiftly enough turned colors. An hour ago you were as hotfoot as Eddie to attack.”
“Clifford is up to some mischief,” James insisted. “Each passing day we keep the Comyns pinned behind those walls is a day closer to Longshanks’s death.”
Robert chewed nervously at his lower lip. “Aye, and every day that passes, another clan deserts me.”
James could not deny that sobering truth. Perhaps, for once, Robert was making a decision with a long-term strategy in mind. A retreat on the brink of their first battle might be tactically wise, but it could also destroy what little trust the clans still held in him, to say nothing of his own faltering confidence. To prevent the Comyns from turning the entire country against them, these Bruces needed a victory, and soon. Feeling Robert’s waiting stare, he reluctantly nodded his assent to reassembling on this field for battle in the morning.
