The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “What has any of that to do with me? I’ve a home to build. Tell Robert to call on Randolph. Between us, he is the diplomat, not I.” The first buds were on the trees. Given a stretch, I could have the place habitable by fall. Jumping back and forth to Edinburgh would put that goal at a greater distance. Not to mention the little problem of whom I might run into there.

  Lamberton arched a dove-gray eyebrow at me. “Have you taken to doling out orders to your liege, then? The Earl of Moray is with Edward Bruce in Ireland, as you know. I think you best come, James. Aside from the correspondence from the pope, there is another matter the king wishes to settle.”

  I plucked up my axe again, as if I had no intention of leaving and would return to my work. “That being?”

  “The naming of a guardian for his forthcoming heir. With things in Ireland being as precarious as they are and Edward Bruce being gone – for now, perhaps for some time – King Robert wishes to establish an order.”

  Sweet Jesus, I hardly wanted to go back to Edinburgh just now. I had not gone a day without thinking of her. Going there at this moment, with her belly growing and Walter Stewart fawning at her arm ...

  How does a man walk in the field of lies that he has sown with his own doings and hold his head high?

  “Well, James,” the bishop prompted, “am I to return to Edinburgh alone? The king will not take kindly to you refusing him.”

  Gripping the axe handle, I turned, brought it up over my shoulder and swung downward with all my might, burying the head deep within the notch of a timber.

  I had been bid by my king. And so, I had to go.

  ***

  Edinburgh, 1316

  A few miles from Edinburgh, the bishop and I were met by messengers from King Robert. The distinguished envoys from Pope John had already arrived and been kept waiting by the king at Holyrood Abbey some three days now. Built two hundred years ago by King David, Holyrood Abbey was where the black rood of St. Margaret had been kept before Longshanks stole it. To the east of the abbey and its adjacent palace sprawled a wooded park. The king often rode and hunted there. Beyond the wood, the hills of east Lothian rose to greet each day’s rising sun. And to the west stood Castle Rock, upon which the old stone walls of Edinburgh Castle lay broken and jumbled from Randolph’s razing.

  When we arrived at the abbey, Bishop Lamberton was escorted away to meet with the envoys briefly, while I was directed to a small meeting room within the chapter house. As I stood before the open door, my stomach churned as it never had before any battle. My sword hung coldly at my hip.

  A figure moved slowly across the light that spilled from within. I entered to find Robert looking absently out the middle of three green-tinted windows. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back, his spine stiff as an iron rod. I pulled the door shut behind me and acknowledged those present: Gilbert de la Haye, Sir Robert Keith, Bishop David of Moray, Earl William of Ross, Walter Stewart, and the king, who barely glanced over his shoulder at me.

  Robert’s voice bore a strained edge. “Be seated, James.”

  Walter gave me a look as icy as hailstones, then returned his attention to the king.

  I began to suspect that Bishop Lamberton’s summons had been a trumped up premise – and instead of a reception for envoys from the pope and the naming of a guardian for Robert’s heir, this was to be my inquisition.

  Two rows of benches lined either side of the cramped, austere room. Rolls of parchment, sharpened quills and pots of ink lay atop a small side table, where the abbey’s records were transcribed. I sought a seat on the same side as Walter, so that I would not have to meet his accusing eyes. Robert continued to gaze out the window into the distance as the others hung their heads sleepily. No one took any particular note of me. They had become accustomed to my comings and goings and Randolph, who might have greeted me most heartily, was suffering Edward’s company somewhere in Ireland.

  Next to me, Gil stifled a yawn and stretched his legs. “Where is it that you’re building?” He sounded as bored with the gaping silence as I was uncomfortable with it.

  “Lintalee.” I laced my fingers together and tried not to fidget. If I could have conjured an excuse to leave just then, I would have. “Near Jedburgh.”

  Gil scratched at the fine, silvery stubble beneath his jaw. “Bit close to the English for me, but I imagine it suits you.”

  I shrugged. “It does. For now.” Someone had to work at keeping the peace – shoving it down English throats, as it were.

  Bishop Lamberton joined us. On his heels was a shrewd-looking man in robes far more ornate than what our Scottish bishops wore and a sallow-faced cleric with hunched shoulders, who wheezed through a pinched nose. Bishop Lamberton introduced them as Bishop Corbeil and the Archdeacon of Perpignan. The king settled in his chair at the head of the room, slouching over one arm as though wearied by troubles. Bishop Lamberton took the seat beside him.

  King Robert flipped an open palm at the envoys. “Your business?”

  Corbeil drew his jaw into his chest. He indicated a roll of parchment curled up in the archdeacon’s tightly clenched hand. “A letter from His Eminence, sire.”

  “And to whom,” the Bishop of Moray said, “is that letter addressed?”

  At that Corbeil drew his thin lips into a smile and nodded to his companion.

  The archdeacon flicked a tongue over dry lips and read the name penned on the outside: “To Robert Bruce ... acting as King of Scots.”

  He looked up to find Robert staring at him intently. Like a mouse suddenly exposed when the straw under which he was hiding had been lifted by a pitchfork, the archdeacon shrank in consternation.

  Robert drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and squirmed like a young lad at Mass. “I crave your pardon, but would you kindly read that again?”

  The archdeacon, twisting the roll in his hands, began to stutter incoherently.

  At length, Corbeil spoke up for him. “It says: To Robert Bruce, acting as King of Scots.”

  “Aye, that’s what I thought I heard.” Robert propped his jaw against his fist, as if weighing a thought. “It would be highly rude of me, I believe, to receive a letter addressed as such. You see, your grace, there are several men in Scotland by that name alone. None of them, as far as I know, merely acting as King of Scots. If His Eminence wishes to correspond to me in particular, then he shall have to address his letter in a more specific manner.”

  Bishop Corbeil snatched the parchment from the wilting archdeacon and took two swift steps closer to the king, then halted as abruptly as if he had walked into a stone wall. “More specific manner? What exactly do you mean?”

  Robert rose from his chair to loom at his full imposing height above Bishop Corbeil. “Robert Bruce, King of Scots,” he said, placing particular emphasis on the word ‘king’.

  There was nothing of anger or threat in his words, just authority – and it rankled the priggish holy man.

  Lips twitching, Bishop Corbeil’s face reddened. “Sire, that is to be presumed on your part. His Eminence could not commit to such openly because – and please comprehend if you will – to do so would be to abandon his impartiality in the matter of your kingship. Edward of England still disputes it and a resolution is yet to be reached. The pope, also, does not at present wish to favor one side over another. I assure you this letter is in your best interest.” Corbeil thrust the letter forward.

  Robert crossed his arms resolutely. “His Eminence has chosen a side, your grace, by electing to ignore that which is plainly evident: that it is not Edward of Caernarvon balancing the Crown of Scotland on his head, but Robert the Bruce, to whom you are at this very moment speaking so discourteously. The resolution was found on the fields of Bannockburn. Outside of Berwick, there is nothing left north of the Tweed that Edward of England can say is his: not one stone, one scrap of land, or the loyalty of any man who calls this land his home. So when you return to the Holy See, relay to His Eminence that it would be in his best interest to proper
ly acknowledge my rights by both lineage and conquest and in his next correspondence to title it correctly. No less courtesy would I extend to him. Now,” – he clasped his hands behind his back again and strode toward the window as a shaft of weak sunlight was chased away by clouds – “I’ll arrange an escort and passage for you. A good day to you ... and a safe journey.”

  Indignant, Corbeil slapped the roll in the palm of his hand and stomped out with the archdeacon scurrying after him.

  Bishop Lamberton’s chair groaned as he leaned forward. “Do you think that was wise, Robert?”

  Robert laughed dryly. “I don’t know. But I’m bloody tired of Scotland being looked upon as some bastard spawn of almighty England. It was, though, precisely what I meant. Why do you think I kept them waiting for three days? Besides, have I anything to lose when dealing with the Church? I’ve already been excommunicated.”

  “Point taken, my lord. But the Scottish Church has already suffered for its estrangement from the Holy See. You’ll in no way bring yourself closer to having that burden lifted from your shoulders by this act. There’s still time, if –”

  “Rubbish, William. Complete and total rubbish. They’re a couple of boorish puppets who’ve had their pride slapped, strangled and tossed in the midden. They thought to stroll into Edinburgh and have a feast thrown in their godly honor – forgive me, William – thinking I’ll accept some trifling epithet as I fall to my knees in thanks.”

  “It is a step, Robert,” Lamberton urged. “A small step.”

  “It is the mention of a step, nothing more. So long as the pope ignores what the rest of the continent has already acclaimed, then he sides with England. And that will not make things any the better for the Church in Scotland, but more of the same and worse. Is it the duty of a pope to cast aside his religion and play at politics? I believe not.”

  “Robert, it is a much more complex matter than that and certainly not solved by rejecting a harmless gesture. Diplomacy is about making the other side believe that they have won a concession, however meaningless.”

  The king shook his head and knotted his hands in his hair. “I have so many, many times, your grace, taken your advice to heart, against my own leanings, and never regretted following it. But in this I stand firm. The Church has discarded me already. If they are to receive me back, it will be on the clear terms that they declare me as Scotland’s king and that,” – he raised a finger – “that act will most definitely secure Scotland’s right to freedom.”

  Lamberton rose from his chair and, bowing graciously to the king, took his leave. The rest of us were still sitting there, wondering why we had even been called upon.

  Walter breached the silence. “You said, sire, there was another purpose to this gathering? An announcement of some sort?”

  The proud determination on Robert’s face at once faded, giving way to sullen gloom. He leaned against the window sill. “Indeed. A blessing it would be should I have a son or grandson and live to see another fifteen years on this earth so that he might come into his own to hold his ground against this Edward of England or the next. But what if I don’t live so long? What if I never have a son, nor you, Walter? What then?”

  “Then your brother Edward will inherit the throne,” Walter admitted. “But Marjorie is near to her time. We will know soon. And she and I will have ...” he broke off, realizing he had blown air into a festering wound for Robert. It was certain of Walter – he was not ill-mannered enough to speak of the queen just then or his fortune in having a fertile wife.

  “Aye, time will tell. Perhaps I ponder upon what may never be, but I do believe it would be good to prepare. I’ve no desire to leave my country drowning in the same lake of troubles that I grew up in when King Alexander died. Scotland needs an heir to the throne and for now, today, that right belongs to Edward. I’ve convinced Marjorie to waive any claims that she might hold in –”

  “My lord!” Keith broke in, bolting up. “Are you mad? Although it may not be customary for a woman to rule in Scotland, it has been established before that it can be done. Had King Alexander’s granddaughter not died on her voyage here from Norway –”

  “Then perhaps,” Robert said plainly, cocking an eyebrow at him, “I would not be king.”

  “What he’s trying to say, my lord,” the Earl of Ross intervened, “is that any of us here would prefer her enchanting grace and pleasantness to Edward and his irrational temper.”

  “I’m quite certain that’s true, but hear me out, all of you. I wish Randolph were here to explain this more properly. His skill for arranging words far exceeds my bluntness in wielding them. But I needed him to make things go over well for Edward in Ireland. For as much as my brother has inconvenienced me, to put it most kindly, he would give his life keeping the English from our land. I acknowledge his loyalty and his love for Scotland, but I also know his ambition. Should an heir – my son or yours, Walter – come to the throne before he is of an age to rule independently, Edward would again be thrust back. Denied. Do any of you believe he will concede to that willingly? I doubt so, especially given that his appetite for power has now been whetted. I shall, in an official document, declare my nephew Thomas Randolph as regent for my heir, be it my son or grandson.” He turned toward me and I, at once, cast my gaze to the patterned tiles beneath his feet. “After him, you, James, if you’ll accept?”

  I did not look up, even though I felt everyone’s eyes on me.

  “James?” Robert neared me, hands held wide, inviting an embrace. “Never has any man known a greater honor than the friendship I’ve found with you. It’s much to ask of you. By now, maybe, you’re dreaming of another life – something beyond battlefields and courts. But there is no one I trust half as much as you to guard and keep Scotland whole. Accept, please.”

  This was ever my fate: to serve my king unquestioningly. My conscience warred with my love for him.

  He laid his hands on my shoulders. “My good James, don’t force me to beg. It’s unbecoming of a king, aye?”

  How could I deny my devotion to this man – he who had saved my life at Dalry, who had freely given his friendship, and marked me as a leader of men? I clasped his wrists and nodded. “Then I’ll spare you and accept, my lord. Though I should have let you go on a bit until you were down on your knees. Fond memory that would make.”

  He dismissed the meeting. Along with Walter, who would not meet my eyes, we left the abbey grounds and began up the road on foot toward Castle Rock to peruse the markets. While Walter brooded, Robert and I talked – of matters in the north of England and the borders, of the home I was building at Lintalee, of Edward’s triumphs in Ulster and the deceptive oaths tendered to him as Irish chieftain plotted against chieftain.

  The street from the abbey to the old castle was alive with industry as the warmth of spring had stirred the town to life. Sacks of grain to be sown in the fields were stacked high in carts. A fatling pig was being bartered over. Fish, freshly arrived from the docks at Leith, were heaped up in baskets, bringing the rank smell of the sea inland. Mutton carcasses still draining their blood swung from hooks at the butcher’s shop, while on the other side of the street bolts of cloth in hues of saffron, russet and sea blue were haggled over by highborn ladies and pennywise drapers.

  I found myself turning my nose to inhale whenever we passed a shop where the door had been propped open to let out the aroma of bacon dripping with fat, loaves of bread or pastries sprung fresh from the ovens, or casks of ale tapped and poured into sloshing mugs.

  Robert paused before an inn where the door had been propped open to let out the aroma of bacon dripping with fat, pastries sprung fresh from the ovens, and ale poured into sloshing mugs. “Walter, I’ve a fancy for a meat pie. Go inside and fetch us some, will you?”

  Scowling, Walter ducked inside. Several passers-by had by now recognized the king and were pointing fingers and whispering behind their hands. Robert did not seem to expect any deference. He was, in that moment, merely Robert the Bruce
of Carrick, browsing the shops of Edinburgh. I peered through the window at Walter, who was jingling the bag of coins at his waist to summon the owner.

  “He feels smote, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “He’ll recover. My daughter was treasure enough for him. He shouldn’t ask more until he’s proven himself – as you have. James, I owe you, more than I can ever repay. So much that there’s nothing I would keep from you.”

  But he had. The one thing I dared not ask of him.

  “All I want,” I said, “is to fight in your name against the English. And a good piece of land to call my own. I have that. I need no more.”

  While we awaited Walter’s return, a small crowd began to flock to Robert. A wonder they had all let him pass this far. Little children pressed in and reached out to touch the hem of his cloak. He laughed and ruffed the hair of a wee red-headed lass who could but stare up at him with her big, green eyes in amazement, the fingers of one hand stuck in her cherry mouth and her other arm clamped around a squirming pup.

  While most of the people in the street that day were on foot, the presence of a lady not a hundred feet away riding on her chestnut palfrey caught my eye – at first it was only the sun rich in her flaxen hair that I noticed, for her head was turned away and I could not see her face. But then I saw Sibylla behind her on another palfrey and my heart leapt inside my chest. Sibylla said something to her lady and Marjorie turned at the waist to search above the throng, her middle near to bursting with the child she carried.

  Robert was still enthralled in his host of small admirers. The gangly pup wriggled free of the red-haired lass’s hold and bolted through a tangle of legs. The girl went squealing after the pup, which yapped with excitement.

  Walter had just appeared from the shop, juggling an armload of steaming meat pies, when the high neigh of a horse distracted us. I saw nothing but a thrash of chestnut legs in the air, heard the thump and then stood in lost confusion as the crowd at once flowed away from Robert and toward the commotion.