The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  This businesslike statement had the effect, as intended, of calming tempers and damping down histrionics. There would undoubtedly be much debate and many hot words in the various abbey apartments thereafter; but meantime, and in the presence of the monarch, order prevailed.

  As de Linton, finished, looked towards the throne, Bruce raised his hand again, to still the murmur of talk.

  “My lords, my friends, my comrades all,” he said, in a different

  tone.

  “Before you disperse about this business, there is another matter which requires your attention. A matter of great import. As all know, our neighbours of England, whom we have given cause to heed our love of liberty and freedom, have turned in their extremity to the Pope for aid in their assault on our realm. Unfortunately His Holiness, insufficiently informed as to our history, our ancient kingdom and our independence, has believed the lies told him by King Edward, and …”

  His voice was drowned in the growl of men, a menacing sound.

  “Hear me, my friends. His Holiness, I say, believing these things against us, has pronounced his anathema against us, as a people and nation. I say, hear me! Your turn comes. While my lord Bishop of St. Andrews makes due and proper enquiry as to the present Pope’s appointment and authority, it is nevertheless necessary that he should be fully informed of the truth as to Scotland’s state.

  Therefore the Chancellor has drawn up a letter, a declaration, to send

  to His Holiness. It is long, but resounding. And I, and the Primate,

  have heard and agree every word. Now it is for you to hear it. And,

  if you agree, to append your names and seals. All of you. For this

  letter is from you, the temporality of this kingdom, to inform the Pope

  of who you are and what you are, and who you have freely chosen as your

  king. But, above all, what you will pay for liberty, freedom, the

  freedom to live your lives according to your own land’s laws and

  customs, and to choose your own rule and governance…”

  The crash of acclaim and applause and feet-stamping shook the abbey, and continued.

  Bruce gave them their head. “My friends,” he went on, at length,

  smiling a little, “I perceive our temper agrees. We demand to be allowed to belabour each other-but woe to him who seeks to belabour us from outside the realm! This we have sufficiently demonstrated. Now it is your turn to enlighten, to declare. My lord Chancellor will read out this letter. Heed it well. Each word has been well chosen. It is my hope but not my command-never my command-that all here will subscribe to it. That it may go as a united declaration from this Scottish nation, since you, in your persons, represent all the people of the kingdom. But if you wish not to subscribe, to lend your names to it, you must not do so. If our vaunted freedom means anything, then each is free not to agree. No steps will be taken against any who abstain. This on my royal word. My lord Chancellor-pray read your letter.”

  Never, undoubtedly, had so many hardened warriors and men of action listened to so long a composition and with such close attention.

  But after a few snarls at kissing the Pope’s feet and suchlike, there was a notable and complete silence. That is, until the item about expelling even the King himself, should he fail to uphold Scotland’s liberty, was reached, when there was a considerable commotion, exchange of comment, staring at the throne, and nodding of solemn heads; and when that dealing with their willingness to die for freedom came up, and the refectory throbbed with vehement chorused assent. The final indictment of the Pope himself, should he ignore all this, raised not a few eyebrows, but the majority swallowed it without objection, some with glee. At the end, a positive storm of affirmation broke out, and maintained. For a non-letter-writing and not very literate company, the enthusiasm for this lengthy epistle was extraordinary.

  Exchanging glances with Lamberton, Bruce at last raised hand.

  “Who, then, will lend his name and seal to this letter?”

  A forest of hands shot up, many with fists clenched, and a roar of “I will! I will!” resounded.

  “Those of contrary mind, to declare it.”

  No single arm or voice was lifted.

  “It is well. Very well. The clerks will take names, and instruct in the business of sealing. Two copies. To work, my friends. This convention stands adjourned …”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Egged on by Elizabeth, the King was planning both a new house and a ship. He was less than keen on either, to tell the truth, but the Queen was urgent and persuasive. She was anxious to have his mind occupied with forward-looking projects, plans assuming that there were many long years of active life ahead of him yet. For the fact was that, when the pressures of national emergency and immediate crisis of one sort or another lessened, as now, and Bruce had time to brood, his attitude to the future tended to become dark and cloudy. Indeed, whether it was the need for action which kept his recurrent sickness at bay, or the lack of it which made of his mental state more apt breeding-ground for the distemper of body, such times as he was not occupied with vigorous activities and urgent demands on his attention, his illness regularly grew worse.

  Not merely in the mind. The red itch spread in ever larger patches on his skin, vomiting and shivering became more frequent and violent, and the accompanying lassitude and weakness grew. It was Elizabeth’s concern, therefore, to keep her husband involved in activity-since it was equally true that, the more demanding the problems, the more was required of him, the less evident became his bodily troubles. She could not engineer crises of state; but at least she could try to entangle him in domestic preoccupations.

  She used the fact that Bruce had never really taken kindly to Dunfermline -although she herself liked it well. Brought up amongst hills, by the more colourful Western Sea, he found life too green and tame for his liking. Moreover, the older he grew, the more Celtic in sympathy he became, his mother’s strain getting the upper hand. And life, like Lothian, was scarcely Celtic in its aura.

  He could hardly be said to pine for the Celtic West; but undoubtedly his preferences lay there. Shrewdly, therefore, Elizabeth fostered them.

  He should build a new house. Not another great castle-since his policy still was rather to demolish all such, in case they might be used against him-but a comfortable house to live in, graciously, by the Western Sea, where he could look out over the colourful skerry-strewn, weed-hung bays and sounds rimmed by blue mountains, where he could hunt and fish and hawk, and talk with the seannachies and bards and story-tellers of the Celtic environment.

  She was at pains not to make this programme seem like that for an

  ageing man-for he was, in fact, still not forty-seven years old. So

  she stressed the activities which could conveniently be carried on from such a base-the sailing amongst the Western Isles and Highland coasts in especial, for it was one of Bruce’s great dreams to fully integrate his Highland and Low! and divisions within the realm. He should have a special ship built, large enough to carry him and a small court including herself-in reasonable comfort; yet small enough and suitably designed to wheel across the narrow isthmuses and tarberts with which that seaboard abounded. In it he could sail all the Hebridean seas he loved, keep in closer touch with Angus of the Isles and other island chiefs -even with Christina MacRuarie. She was cunning, was Elizabeth de Burgh.

  Because he was still the monarch, however, such western domicile of delight could not be too far away from the core and centre of his kingdom, the Stirling-Scone-St. Andrews triangle. At need, he must be able to travel quickly thence, and others from there reach him readily. Therefore, with mountain passes, rushing rivers, winter snows and the like to consider, the nearest Highland seaboard was indicated. Bute, his son-in-law the Steward’s island home in the Firth of Clyde, was thought of, and its Rothesay Castle was in better state than most; but actually to be confined to an island was risky, and the King could be storm-bound at some most inconvenient moment. Nearby, howeve
r, on the northern mainland shore of Clyde, looking towards the mountains of Cowal, Gareloch and the Kyles of Bute, might serve. This was Lennox territory-and his old friend Earl Malcolm eager to cooperate.

  So, this July evening, four men sat on the platform roof of one of the flanking-towers of Dunfermline Palace, overlooking the deep, steep, tree-filled ravine of the Pittendreich Burn, as the sun sank over the Stirlingshire hills far to the west, and discussed designs for house and ship both-Angus of the Isles, greying now, Malcolm of Lennox, and Walter Stewart, with the King. The house, it had been decided, was to be Cardross near Dumbarton, where the royal fortress, of which Lennox was Hereditary Keeper, could protect it; for it was to be no stone castle or stronghold, but a rambling,

  pleasant manor-house, perhaps within a far-flung stone wall of

  enceinte.

  Bruce had always had a nostalgic fondness for Christina MacRuarie’s house of this sort, at Moidart, and was seeking to have the new building modelled on such, Lennox and Walter Stewart suggesting modifications and improvements. Angus Og was not interested in houses, only in ships, and was impatiently, indeed scornfully, pressing claim for a design of his own.

  The cap house door opened, and the Queen came out. The men rose from their benches, Stewart and Lennox each seeking her approval for suggestions of their own. But, smiling briefly, she shook her head, and looked at her husband.

  “Sire, we have a visitor,” she said.

  “A lady. The Countess of Stratheam.”

  “That woman! What of it, my dear? I do not greatly like her.

  Whatever she wants, she may wait a little.”

  “I think that you should see her, nevertheless,” Elizabeth said.

  “And … not here.”

  At the gravity of her voice, the King eyed her quickly, and nodded.

  “Very well. Await me, friends …”

  Going down the twisting turnpike stair of the tower, Elizabeth spoke.

  “Robert-I fear that there is trouble. Sore trouble. If what Joanna of Stratheam says is true. She comes from Berwickon Tweed. And talks of treason. A plot. Against you, my heart.

  Against your life.”

  “Joanna of Stratheam in a plot? That empty-head! I’ll not believe it!

  None would trust her with a part in a masque …!” He paused.

  “From Berwick, you say?”

  “Yes. Hotfoot, she declares.”

  “M’mmm. De Soulis! I heard that she had become his mistress.”

  “She was more ambitious, I think! See-I have her in my own

  chamber…”

  The Countess, a somewhat over-ripe and vapidly pretty woman in her late thirties, of slightly royal birth, only child of the late and weakly Malise, Earl of Stratheam, who had been so notable a weathercock during the late wars and died seven years before, was pacing the floor in evident agitation. She dipped a perfunctory curtsey, and burst forth without preamble.

  “Your Grace-you are in danger of your life. Of your life, I say!

  From a wicked, evil man. He plans to slay you. William de Soulis.

  To slay you, and seize your throne. He is a monster! You must move against him. With all speed. Take him. Hang him, the forsworn wretch! Rack him! No fate is too bad for him. He must die, I say….”

  “You may be right. But calm yourself, Lady Joanna,” Bruce

  interpolated.

  “Do not distress yourself so. I swear matters cannot be quite so ill as you fear…”

  “They are, I tell you-they are! He is a devil, a satyr! A

  betrayer.

  A betrayer of … of … of Your Grace, Sire. His King.”

  That last fell distinctly flat” And of you, I think? Which is perhaps

  more greatly to the point!”

  She bit her lip.

  “He … he plans to slay you, Sire. And then to mount your throne. It is the truth. I swear it. By all the saints of God!”

  “Then he is a bigger fool than I esteemed him!” Bruce snorted.

  “Fool he is, yes. But scoundrel more. Lying wretch! Ingrate…!”

  “How can this be?” Elizabeth asked, more to halt the other woman’s humiliating vituperation than for information.

  “What claim can William de Soulis have to the throne?”

  Bruce answered her.

  “His grandsire, Sir Nicholas de Soulis of Liddesdale, was one of the original fourteen competitors for the crown, in 1291. Before Edward. He claimed in the right of his maternal grandmother, Marjory, bastard daughter of King Alexander the Second, married to Alan the Durward. All knew her as bastard-but the Durward sought to have her legitima ted And when he failed, claimed her as legitimate daughter of King William the Lion, Alexander’s own father! On such claim, de Soulis made his stand, saying, in consequence, that he was indeed nearer to the main royal stern than either Bruce or Baliol! But he could produce no proof or papers of legitimation. And all agreed, besides-save himself-that no child born bastard, even though legitima ted later, could in fact heir or transmit the crown.”

  “He says that is not true. William de Soulis says,” the Countess

  declared, impatient of any diversion of interest from herself.

  “He says that is but the invention of others. He says that once Your Grace is dead, men will be glad to have him as King, rather than any pulling infant.”

  “Then he little knows his fellows!” Bruce commented grimly.

  “What support does he expect to gain? Who will rally to such a

  cause?”

  “Already many do. He has much support.”

  “I’ll not believe it! Name me names, woman!”

  “For one, your nephew, Sir David de Brechin.”

  “Dear God-no! Not he. He would never so betray me. My own kin. He is headstrong, but loyal…”

  “Then why, Sire, has he been accepting a pension from King Edward these last years? If he is so loyal!” Her face contorted.

  “As has the precious Sir William!”

  Bruce stared.

  “Not that! I cannot accept that…”

  “I have seen it. How, think you, can your Butler, Governor of Berwick, pay 360 esquires, in his own livery, to ride in his train? As he does today. Not on the rents of Liddesdale, I vow!”

  Shaken, the King looked at his wife.

  “De Soulis -of him I could believe it. But not my own nephew…”

  “And why not?” Shrilly the Countess spilled out her hate.

  “Many another is in the plot. Why not he? You have, it seems, offended many. By your assize of lands. There is Sir Gilbert de Malherbe. Sir John de Logic, Sir Eustace de Maxwell, Sir Walter de Barclay, as well. Aye, and Sir Patrick Graham likewise …”

  “Sweet Jesu! That these, my own lieges, men I myself have knighted, every one, should turn against me! For the sake of a few miserable acres of land.”

  “Sir William has promised them great things. In his kingdom.

  Great estates and high office. As he promised me …” The Countess caught her breath, and her words, blinking rapidly, as though that had slipped out unawares.

  “Ah, yes, Lady Joanna? And what did Sir William promise you?”

  The woman looked from one to the other, uncertainly.

  “Marriage, Sire,” she said, at length, almost defiantly.

  “Marriage, heh? So-you were to be the Queen!”

  “I, I never approved this plotting, Your Grace. I swear it.”

  “Of course you did not! Yet you would have married the Lord of

  Liddesdale, in despite of it?”

  “We … we have been close. In … in an association. For many

  months. Since he returned from Ireland.”

  “And you are no longer?”

  “He is a deceiver, I tell you! A miscreant! He has become embroiled with a chit of a girl. Daughter of some mere Northumberland squire! All paps and calves eyes! But she has him cozened and bewitched, the fool. Naught will do but that he weds her. A man old enough to be her grandsire …”

  “So this squire’s daughter is to be Queen in Scotland!”

&nb
sp; “Not if I may prevent it, by the saints!” That was almost a whisper.

  “Do not distress yourself, lady! I think the chances are but small.

  Sir William will have to dispose of Robert Bruce first!”

  “But you are to be slain, Sire. It is all plotted. He says that the Pope has accepted your letter. The great letter of Arbroath. And has agreed to recall his excommunication and to urge a peace upon the English. He is sending a messenger, an envoy-I mind not what they call them-to Berwick. To have a truce signed, preparatory to peace.

  Before yourself and the King of England…” “I faith-de Soulis is

  well informed! I myself but learned of this a week past. The coming of this nuncio.”

  “He learned it from the King of England, Sire. I told you, he serves England. On your way to Berwick, for this, you will be attacked and slain. In the Pease Dean, where the hills come down to the sea. It is all arranged for. Men chosen …”

  “Robert-the shame of it! The foul and filthy shame!”

  Elizabeth exclaimed, coming to grasp his arm.

  “Oh, my dear -that men, your own men like these, should be so vile!”

  “Aye. Shame, indeed. De Soulis never loved me. He was ever my brother’s man, not mine. But these others-David Brechin, Logic, Maxwell, Barclay, Graham-Graham whose father died gallantly fighting the English at Dunbar!” The King shook his head.

  “What is this evil of treachery, this canker that ever and anon grows in the heart of this people?” He drew himself up and pointed at the Countess.

  “And you, madam! You say this was all plotted. For long. You must have known of it, in part. The grasp for the throne.

  To be so advanced, it must have been plotted for long. Yet only now do you come to me! Because because you are no longer to be the Queen! This is the worth of your loyalty?”