Bruce would have preferred to hold his first parliament at Scone, the ancient Celtic capital. But unfortunately the English still held Perth, near by, although two attempts had been made to dislodge them. Stirling and Edinburgh, with all the SouthEast, likewise were in enemy hands. But St. Andrews was the ecclesiastical metropolis of Scotland, and had been cleared of the invader.
Moreover, the Churchs share in what had been achieved for the freeing of Scotland fell to be recognised. So St. Andrews it was, thrusting out at the very tip of life into the North Sea.
The actual parliament was by way of being only the necessary excuse and
setting for the entire programme. This was to be a show, a
demonstration, a play-acting as Edward accused-but fat, a vastly
greater audience than could ever crowd into the grey episcopal city by
the sea. And St. Andrews was certainly crowded, that March, as never
before. It was a strange town, unlike any other in the land in that
an actual majority of its population consisted of clerics and churchmen of one degree or another. Nowhere else was there such a concentration of abbeys, priories, monasteries, nunneries, churches, chapels, cells, shrines and colleges. While the huge cathedral, triple-towered and still a-building, dominated all architecturally, and the castle, which was the primates palace, did so administratively, every street, square, wynd, lane and alley within the lofty enclosing walls was in fact a huddle of handsome ecclesiastical building, so cheek-by-jowl as to be bewildering, almost ridiculous, the close proximity tending to cancel out the frequently rival magnificence. Bruce, seeing St. Andrews for the first time, perceived something of how the extreme trait in the Scots character, and its fondness for religious and metaphysical argument, had led to this concentration; also, how it was that Lamberton, master of all this, had been able, through Balmyle, to continue to subsidise him so munificently-for here obviously was every indication of accumulated wealth such as even the nobility could only gape at with incredulous envy. The English had of course taken what they could, and done much damage to the city; but it was off the beaten track of invasion, and the churchmen were clearly much wilier at protecting their own than were the mere laity-and probably, so many of Edwards alien administrators being themselves clerics, had helped to save St. Andrews. At any rate, the King found here a city which seemed to belong almost to another world from that in which he had warred and campaigned for so long; and one with resources available to his hand, and for the moment freely granted-since it seemed that Master Bernard, who it transpired had succeeded Bishop Balmyle in the office of Official and Receiver, had a grip over central purse-strings much more effective than that of more highly-titled prelates.
The King, therefore, did not lack the wherewithal, the premises, or the personnel, to set his scene-for churchmen at this level were quite the finest organisers, showmen, pageant-masters and providers of good living. And they and theirs were here in abundance.
The session of parliament-to which all entitled to attend, throughout the realm, of whatever faction, had been summoned -was proclaimed to occupy the two days of the 16th and 17th March, with Lent ended-a matter of some importance in the circumstances. But the previous evening had been set aside for the more dramatic and significant if less constitutionally important events. These were to be staged in the largest available premises in the city, other than the cathedral, the Guest Hall of the Augustinian Priory, one of the greatest and richest monasteries in the land. The lead of its roof had been carried off by the late King Edward for his battering machines at the siege of Stirling, and other damage done, but temporary roofing had been improvised.
To this huge hall, officially de-sanctified for the occasion by Bishop Balmyle, just returned from his consecration in Rome, the King made his way in splendid procession through the narrow crowded streets, from his quarters in one of the undamaged towers of the castle. He went on foot, beneath an elaborate purple-and-gold velvet canopy held above him on poles by four lords-Douglas, Hay, Campbell and Fleming-dressed at his most magnificent in cloth-of-gold and ruby trimmings, under the spectacular Lion Rampant tabard, a slender open gold circlet with strawberry-leaf points around his otherwise bare head. He was preceded by the cathedral choir of singing boys chanting sweet music; then by a covey of the fairest daughters of the nobility, dressed all in white and carrying garlands; and followed by no fewer than five bishops Moray Dunkeld, Brechin, Ross and Dunblane -and a great company of mitred abbots, priors, deans and the like, all in their most splendid vestments. Then came an almost more colourful cohort of Highland chiefs, chieftains and captains of clans, led by the Lord of the Isles, all in fullest Highland panoply, including Christina of Garmoran actually wearing a helmet and chain mail for the occasion. An illustrious and unnumbered array of lords and knights, lairds and sheriffs and other notables, with their ladies, composed the central body of the procession; and the provost of the royal burgh, with the magistrates, brought up the rear, another contingent of choristers finishing things off. Happily the threatening rain forbore, although there was a frolicsome wind off the sea. More than 500 people took part in that procession-and all had to be got into the Priory Guest Hall, with sufficient space left centrally for what was to follow.
It took time for busy ushers, like clerical sheep-dogs, to marshal and arrange everybody approximately in position, while musicians played from the gallery and the King sat patiently on a throne-episcopal, but better than none-on the Priors dais at the far end of the huge apartment, backed by his lords temporal and spiritual and a selection of the ladies. At length, at a sign from the door, trumpeters sounded a rousing fanfare, and Bruce rose to his feet.
My lords and ladies, my friends, my people, he said, into the hush,
I greet you well, this fair and happy day, each and all. We have
waited long for it, and many have died that it might dawn for us who
remain-God rest and reward eternally all such. Few heredo not mourn
for some of these. As I do for three brothers, and friends beyond all counting. His strong voice quivered noticeably-and that was no play-acting.
With all my heart I mourn them. But likewise from my heart thank you all who have fought and survived to see this day.
There was a strange sound from the great company, that started as a mere murmur, swelled to a rumble, rose suddenly to a mighty shout of acclaim, and so continued until the Kings hand rose to quell it.
So I, and you, rejoice as well as mourn, and thank Almighty God, he went on, voice under control again.
But, though much has been attained, and we assemble here again in council and rule, as has not been in this realm for a dozen years, yet much is yet to be done. The invader still defiles parts of my realm and our land, lurks in many strong castles, and beyond our borders still turns malevolent eyes upon this kingdom. Today, my friends, is but a pause in the struggle.
The reaction now was a low muttering roar, like distant thunder.
But at least we can now face our enemy squarely, eyes forward, like our swords. Not for ever glancing back over our shoulders.
Hear you-I say enemy, not enemies! For that is the greatest joy and comfort of this day. Our enemy is now plain to discern. It is the English invader only, and no longer those of our own kin and people who were led astray, by error, offence or fear. That is past and done with. Today. my friends, the King of Scots is king of all Scots again-as has not been since the good Alexander died at Kinghom cliff twenty-three years ago. That was something of an exaggeration, but perhaps permissible.
In token whereof I now call upon the Lord High Steward of this my realm to carry out his duty and service.
There was a ripple of exclamation at this, for James Stewart, the Hereditary High Steward, had of recent years been lying notably low on his island of Bute in the Clyde estuary. He had, of course, been one of the leaders of revolt against the old Edward once, but, an elderly man and no warrior ever
, had sickened of war and come to terms with the English. He had used Bruces stabbing of the Red Comyn at Dumfries as excuse to disassociate himself-as had many another-and had not attended the coronation at Scone although he had sent his surviving son Walter. His last service to the King had been surreptitious, provision of the secret vessel which had taken the fleeing Bruce from the Clyde to Dunaverty and the Hebridean interlude. The son of his brother John, who had fallen bravely at Falkirk fight, Sir Alexander of Bonkyl, had openly taken the English part thereafter, and in fact had been captured with Thomas Randolph, and since held prisoner.
A single blast of a trumpet cut short the murmuring, and a side door of the hall opened to admit two men, one old and one young.
James, the fifth High Steward of Scotland, a tall, gaunt and gloomy man, dressed as usual all in black, but richly, had aged greatly of late. Always shambling and gangling of gait, he now moved fori ward stiffly, awkwardly, but with some dignity too, nothing hangdog about him. Nor was there any sign of guilt about his son Walter, a good-looking youth, arrayed in most handsome style and carrying himself proudly. If the concourse was looking for any kind of dramatic public humiliation, these two did not offer it.
The Stewarts advanced a few paces, bowed low to the throne and then turned to look back.
I, as Steward of His Graces realm, summon William, Earl of Ross, and his household, to pay fealty to his liege lord, Robert, Kin of Scots, the old man called. He was not a good speaker for his tongue was too big for his mouth and he dribbled continuously. But the name he slobberingly enunciated was clear enough.
Now the comment in the thronged hall was not to be damped down.
Everywhere men and women turned to stare, agog.
They had something to stare at. The man who led in the group of half a dozen was eye-catching by any standards. Of middle years, huge, ponderous, fierce-eyed and heavy-jowled, clad in a curious mixture of Highland and Lowland garb, decked with flashing jewellery, William son of William son of Farquhar MacanTagart, Earl of Ross, chief of his clan and hereditary Abbot of Applecross, stalked heavily forward, a target for all eyes-and for vituperation also, for all knew well the part he had played in handing over the Queen and the royal ladies, and in the death of the Earl of Atholl.
Ross paced on towards the dais, looking neither left nor right.
Behind him came his two sons, Sir Hugh and Sir John, the former looking embarrassed, the latter scowling. Then three young women, the Ladies Isabella and Jean Ross, the former notably beautiful, and Sir Johns wife, the Lady Margaret Comyn, daughter of the Earl of Buchan. The King was insisting on women being very much to the fore this day; and since Buchan had no son, the presence of this heiress daughter was important.
The Rosses mounted the dais, and after a reluctant pause, the huge Earl went down stiffly on one knee before the throne.
My liege lord Robert, he said thickly, jerkily.
I, William of Ross, and my whole house, name and clan, do seek your
royal pardon. For deeds past done. I acknowledge error and seek
mercy, As agreed at the settlement of Auldeam, six months past. And
desire to be received into Your Graces peace.
If the older man was tense and strained, Bruce, sitting before him, was no less so. Although he had planned it himself, this was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. He saw, instead of the basically arrogant and only superficially humble face bowed before him, the reproachful loveliness of Elizabeth de Burgh and the childish innocence of his daughter Marjory. And seeing, he could have lashed out at those heavy features with the foot that tap tapped so close to them. Hands gripping the arms of the bishops throne so that the knuckles glistened whitely, he sought to control the surge of sheer elemental fury within him.
It was his brother Edwards denunciatory muttering at his back that saved him, ironically. He drew a deep breath.
My lord of Ross-since you chose to conclude our truce by making submission to my representatives at Auldeam in October, he said levelly, I have well considered the matter. I then, through others, accepted your subjection on terms I conceived to be generous.
Those terms still stand. But now you would make closer bond and fullest allegiance. Do you, my lord, and your whole house, swear to serve me as your sovereign lord, and my heirs on the Throne of Scotland, well and faithfully until your lifes end?
I do, Sire.
Then, Earl of Ross, here is my royal hand. It is my pleasure to extend it to you. And might God forgive him that lie, for it was only with an actual physical effort that he managed to bring for ward that hand!
That I do so is in no small measure due to the good offices and noble bearing of your son, Sir Hugh, while he was hostage for you.
The Earl took the hand between his own two, and kissed it briefly. He stood up, distasteful duty done.
His eldest son knelt, on both knees this time, and took the Kings hand.
Your Graces most leal knight and humble servant-if you will have me, Sire, he said.
I will have you, Sir Hugh-never fear. The you was slightly emphasised.
His brother, Sir John Ross, dropped only one knee and made his fealty only sketchily. Bruce eyeing him closely, silent.
The ladies dipped in deep curtsy-but the King did not miss the smouldering hatred in the glance of the dark-eyed, plain-faced Margaret Comyn.
My regrets that your father died, he told her formally. The Earl of Buchan had died in England at Yuletide, disgraced and dejected.
She made no acknowledgement, as the Rosses moved over to stand at the side of the dais.
At a sign from the throne, the trumpeter sounded once more, and the Steward again raised his peculiar voice.
Sir Alexander Comyn, Sheriff of Inverness and Keeper of Urquhart, to pay homage to the Kings Grace.
Buchans brother, a fine-looking soldierly man, grey-haired but upright, came in at the side door and marched firmly up. His bow was vestigial but when he kneeled to take the Kings hand he did so as firmly, frankly.
Your Graces true man, from henceforward, he said crisply.
You will not rue your royal generosity to me, at least.
I never doubted it. Rise, Sir Alexander-and play my friend as stoutly as you played my enemy!
That I will, Sire.
The Stewards next announcement drew more gasps.
Alexander, son of Ewan, son of Duncan, son of Dougall, of Argyll. And his son, John of Lorn.
The old man who came in now, white-haired, thin and stooping, looked notably frail to be the puissant chief of MacDougall who for so long had terrorised the Highland West. He was simply clad in saffron tunic, a belt of gold the only symbol of his rank. No son John came behind him, but only his hard-faced and somewhat overdressed wife. Bruce knew well that Lame John was still in England, and defiant, but had chosen this way of emphasising the fact.
MacDougall kept his eyes lowered in front of the King-although his lady did not.
I come to make my peace with Your Highness, he said thinly.
I offer my allegiance.
You give it, sir-give it! As is your simple duty. Bruce looked at this man who had hunted him and his over so much of the Highlands, his English enemies most active and consistent supporter.
That allegiance is belated. But… you acknowledge your error now?
Aye.
And your son and heir? John of Lorn?
I cannot speak for my son. I do not know his whereabouts, Were he with me, I have no doubt that he would say as I do.
But he is not here, sir. Despite my summons. So, although I accept
your fealty, and that of your name and clan, I hold you responsible for
John MacDougall of Lorn Until he submits himself to me, in duty and
service, I must hold some part of your lands and castles forfeit to the
Grown. What part is for parliament t
o determine. You understand?
The old man did not look up, but nodded.
Very well, sir. Here is my hand. Bruce looked into the eyes of the woman behind, the sister of the man he had stabbed to death at Dumfries. He saw no relenting, no hint of forbearance. The Comyn women would never come to terms with him. Were women always more implacable than men?
Or was it only in Scotland?
The MacDougalls moved over to join the Comyn and the Rosses, as the Steward proclaimed still another applicant for the Kings peace and mercy-Sir John Stewart of Menteith, uncle and guardian of the child Earl of Menteith.
For the Lowlanders present-the majority of the company, that isthough not to Bruces own entourage, the announcement of this name held more significance even than those of the Highland Rosses and MacDougalls, or of the northern Comyn. For this was perhaps the most telling recruit of all to Bruces side, the most clear barometer of the prevailing climate within Scotland, a prince of time-servers not conquered in war but choosing of his own judgement to change sides. This was the man who had handed over Wallace to King Edward, and death, in 1305, as Sheriff of Dumbarton;
who was Keeper of Dumbarton Castle, one of the keys of the kingdom, for the English interest; who had been given, in name, the allegedly forfeited earldom of Lennox by King Edward, and who until a few weeks before had been calling himself Earl thereof. That he should be here in St. Andrews this March day, with the true Lennox standing just behind the King, was not only dramatic but very eloquent of the situation.
For so expert a fence-sitter, Menteith was an unlikely type, nervous, tense, ill-at-ease always. He came hurrying towards the throne, a swarthy, slight, youngish man, with strained anxious expression and great eloquent Stewart eyes. Whatever he gained by his changes of allegiance, it did not seem to be satisfaction. He faltered and halted below the dais, more like a hunted stag than a powerful noble.
Bruce was contained to encourage him.
Come, Sir John, he said easily, the mockery behind his voice fairly well disguised.
The Path of the Hero King bt-2 Page 31
