The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  I tuck my whiskered cheek against the gentle slope of her shoulder. I don’t want to think about it – only about her and this moment, wishing it would go on forever.

  “My lord?” James trots toward us. “The abbot says we should move out soon. Our scouts have word that the English passed close by not two days ago.”

  “Thank you, James. I’ll join him shortly and we’ll be on our way. But first... first ask the abbot to take us by St. Fillan’s shrine, so I may ask God’s forgiveness. In the meanwhile, I shall beg for my wife’s, if she will give it?”

  Elizabeth’s arms tighten around me and in that rare moment, I know I have never loved anyone or anything more.

  Perhaps, though, that isn’t true. For if I loved her more... I would not be who I am. I would not be king.

  And we would not be here, in the wilds, running for our lives, hurting and hungry.

  Make her believe it is so, Robert. Make her believe she is your world and reason for being. Ah, but she knows, she knows better. She knows you and you cannot fool her into believing otherwise.

  I hold her, not wanting to let go. As I lay a kiss on the crown of her head, I hear my grandfather’s voice, as clear and strong as if he were standing here beside me:

  “Reach out your hand, Robert. Touch the horizon.”

  Aye, Grandfather, I know. I barely heard you then, but now your voice echoes like the thunder over the moors. ‘Tis a grievous burden you have left to me. Many are the days when I wish that I could hand it back and follow you instead.

  “Up with you,” Boyd says to a pair of soldiers, who were lazing beneath the low-hanging boughs of a pine. He is used to bellowing, but under orders to keep his voice low, he resorts to prodding and kicking to get them on their feet. “On our way now. If you can’t walk, crawl. Unless, that is, you want to stay and let those bastard English bleed the misery out of you.”

  Groans and grunts, then weary silence. They stagger to their feet and melt into the bedraggled column as it forms along the trail. The creak of leather as riders shift in their saddles. The weary plod of horses’ hooves. Marjorie leads a black pony. She strokes its muzzle and speaks gentle words of reassurance. My sisters Mary and Christina lean upon each other, their eyes roving broadly, like a pair of hens who’ve caught wind of the fox.

  The sun, already, is high and hot. We’ve as many miles yet to go as we’ve put behind us. South through the pass, then on to the coast and over the sea. Tomorrow morning we’ll rise again, more tired and hungry than we are today, but God willing still alive and whole.

  Ch. 1

  Robert the Bruce – Lochmaben, 1290

  The autumn wind was murderous cold. Small gray clouds raced like mountain hares above a drab and muddy billowing of land. Leafless limbs clattered in complaint against the onslaught of wind. My grandfather and I rode to the highest hill around, me muttering under my breath at the rude awakening while my insides churned with every bounce and him sitting stiff-mouthed, but steaming, on his mount.

  On the crest of the hill, we stopped. For a long while, he did nothing but gaze across the land, pensive, agitated. Then he said, “Look around you, Robbie. What do you see?”

  I hesitated to speak. My mouth tasted of vomit and stale drink. Late last night I had downed four tankards of first ale, followed by a dose of cider strong enough to knock me from my stool. My cause for celebration had been a private one – wildly, delightfully private. I scraped my tongue beneath the edge of my front teeth and spat, but the taste remained. Lochmaben, from which we’d ridden out less than an hour ago after he’d tossed me from my bed, was hidden beyond a stand of trees. Against the glare of morning sun, I squinted and twisted around, my eyes finally stopping to rest on the long, endless, shifting ribbon of blue in the valley beyond. “I see the River Annan.”

  I thought it a fitting observation. Grandfather was the Lord of Annandale. Fourth by the name of Robert Bruce – and I the sixth.

  “And where does it lead?” He snapped his hood over his thinning silver-black hair and tugged it forward to shield his face from the relentless wind.

  “To the Solway Firth, then on to the sea.” I tasted bile again and held my breath until the wave passed. I would give him any bloody answer he asked for right then. All I wanted was to go back to bed and think of what it would be like to have Aithne there beside me for a whole night. A quick frolic in the stall yesterday had left me not only with a whetted appetite for my sister’s new handmaiden, but smelling faintly of manure and plucking bits of straw from my hair and clothing at dinner while my father glared at me reproachfully. I had smiled at him as I thought of her – not so much her, really, but the physical thrill of her. I was well beyond boyhood now. I could drink as heartily as any of the older knights and I’d had a woman. I’d have her again if Grandfather would just get this over with, whatever it was about. As much as I admired and cared for him, I resented this intrusion on my daydreams.

  “Beyond that?” he said.

  “Ireland lies beyond. But they say there is more land even further off than that. Places where the Norsemen have been and come back from.”

  “Look the other way now, lad. What do you see?”

  I yawned. “The forest. More land.” My thoughts drifted back to Aithne. Damn, I wanted her again, even as tired and wretched as I felt just then.

  “Beyond that?”

  I shrugged, vague as to the point of this all. “England?”

  Within the thousand folds of his leathered countenance, he smiled, although it appeared not so much a smile as a crumpling of stiff cloth. “Reach out your hand, Robert. Touch the horizon.”

  Feeblemindedness, I was certain, had nested in his skull and woven a cocoon there. Soon enough he would imagine himself a child.

  “Reach!” he bellowed.

  I extended my arm to placate him. The wind brushed at my bare fingertips. “But Grandfather, how can I touch what is so far away? How can any man?”

  “Just move your feet, lad. There’s far more out there than what is here, within your sight. More tomorrows than yesterdays. More men in the world than just you. Knowing that is the difference between being an ordinary bore, forgotten before you’re dead, and being remembered.”

  “What has all this to do with why we’re here right now? I need to get back. My fingers are slowly freezing and I’ve someone to –”

  “Hear me out!” I thought for a moment he would strike me for my insolence, but he merely squinted at me. “There are things beyond your ken right now, Robbie. Things that, in time, will come to mean more to you.” He looked down at his gloved palms and flexed his stiff, old fingers, nodding to himself. “We’ll go back, then. But gather your belongings with haste. You’ll accompany me to Perth. We leave at noon.”

  My whole young, giddily blissful world shattered. Leave Aithne and go to Perth? I clenched my knees against my mount’s ribs. My pony nickered and flicked its ears, eager to move off the windy promontory and into some sheltered glen. “No, I won’t. I can’t.”

  “You will. It’s time you begin the work you were bred for. Forget her for now. There will be other lasses willing to bed with a comely young nobleman like you, Robbie.”

  Others? Perhaps, but none like Aithne.

  “Aye, I know who she is,” he said with a nod. “All of sixteen and you think your whole bloody world exists under a lass’s skirts. Men your age have sired sons upon their wives, ruled over entire kingdoms... killed men in battle, conquered complete armies, even. Being a man is not about gulping down ale until you pass out. And any dullard with a stiff pole can shove it into a knothole for pleasure. Time you woke up, Robbie, and realize what it means to be a Bruce. Council is convening at Perth this very moment. The nobles have been gathering there in anticipation of a coronation. As it happens, our infant queen, the little Margaret of Norway, is dead. You and I have a claim to remind them of. The Balliol kin will be there fighting for theirs.”

  Council? Claims? The Balliols? I had no care for any of those
things.

  Grandfather gathered his reins and nudged his horse in the flanks. It started with a jolt and he began to ride on down the slope, cautiously, as his old bones did not yield to forces like they once did. He raised his voice above the wind. “Your father need not know you’re that coming with me, though I doubt he’ll care.”

  I shook my head and shouted after him, “But why not Father? Why me? Why can’t I stay here? What have I to do with any of this?”

  He halted partway down the hill and slammed his fist onto his hip. His blue lips twisted into a ragged snarl. “You have everything to do with this. Don’t you understand, lad? We’re talking about who will be king one day – whether it should be a Bruce or a Balliol.” He wagged a crooked finger at me. “As far as your father goes, I have wearied of trying to push a rope. You’re different, young Rob. You can’t see it yourself, but in time, you’ll know it.”

  Who will be king one day...

  Stunned, I watched him ride ahead of me back toward the castle. He didn’t stop to wait for me. He knew I would follow.

  Perth, 1290

  The wind had ceased for a time. The rain stayed away. Under a crisp, clear sky, our journey from Lochmaben to Perth went quickly. All along the road, men came out to join us. By the time we arrived, over four hundred rode behind my grandfather. The nobles and clerics there took notice. A full eighty years of age, he asserted his claim to the throne of Scotland in the middle of the council hall with all the eloquence and acuity of Plato or Socrates. As a son of the Earl of Carrick, I stood toward the front of the hall with other great lords and prelates. The tables and benches had been cleared away to allow as many representatives of Scotland’s noblest blood and holiest orders to fill it as could be packed into it. Toward the rear, lesser barons jostled elbows and stood on their toes for a view. On a short dais at the head of the hall sat the four Guardians of Scotland: Bishop Wishart of Glasgow, Bishop Fraser of St. Andrews, James Stewart and John, the Red, Comyn of Badenoch.

  In a voice strong and clear, Grandfather said, “It was the wish of our own gracious and noble Alexander that I should –”

  “Decades ago, Bruce,” Comyn interrupted. “The succession has changed since.”

  Something about Comyn disturbed me in a way I could not shape into words. Brother-in-law to John Balliol, he railed against my grandfather – against any Bruce – at every opportunity. That alone was reason enough to loathe him. But more, there was nothing about the man to admire. He seethed with anger and contempt. In looks he resembled a goat, with his tapered rusty beard and wiry hair. Even toward his own kinsmen he was gruff and demanding, showing neither respect nor tolerance. I had as yet to hear an intelligent word dribble from his sour mouth. Grandfather disregarded Comyn’s surliness, never indicating he was the slightest bit ruffled by him. I knew differently, however, having spent the entire ride from Lochmaben to Perth with my ears being filled by his curses for the Balliols and the Comyns.

  Bishop Wishart raised his cheerful voice. “Ah, it was indeed long ago, my lords. But on the succession... in that view you and I, and others here, may differ. That is why we have come together now, is it not? The matter is not entirely plain, as you both bear evidence to.” Publicly the mediator, privately he was an intensely passionate man.

  At the other end of the dais, James Stewart sat rigid and impassive, his eyebrows barely twitching as he studied each speaker in turn.

  “I thank you, your grace. What you say is very true,” Grandfather said. “Now, let us go on, good men, and get straight to the point of this all. We come together, here today, because we all care to know who will wear Scotland’s crown. If we all believed this was not about blood or power, who would rise and rule and who would wither into obscurity, we would all have come here with open minds, and open hearts, and abundant love for our fellow Scots. But I see not embraces and well wishes. I see in your glances suspicion, envy, and mistrust... old affronts resurrected, as if the ghosts of our grandfathers were here beside us, inciting us all to right the wrongs of spilled blood long since turned to dust. Each of you count up your relations and you weigh how heavily you lie on one side or the other and reckon which side will benefit you more, do you not? And some among you would hand the crown, our crown, to the King of England and allow him to decide? Come now... where is the sense in that?” He was now speaking not to the Guardians, but to all those assembled in the hall behind him. “When, I ask, do we each thrust aside our own ambitions and think not ‘What is best for me or my kin?’ but ‘What is best for Scotland?’”

  “A Bruce!” someone cried out. More shouts rumbled off the rafters.

  At that, the patriotism Grandfather had elicited was just as quickly swept away. He shook his head and waved his arms up high. “No! No! You speak too soon, man. And from your heart, not your head.”

  Bishop Fraser, an ardent supporter of John Balliol, rose from his seat. He held up open palms to push back the ardent stream of Grandfather’s words. “Your arguments are persuasive, Lord Annandale. But the law is as it is, and for sound reason. In the absence of a male heir, the crown shall follow down through the eldest daughter to her eldest son.”

  “By that logic,” my grandfather argued, standing alone but resolute between the agitated mass of nobles and the eclectic tribunal of Guardians, “Scotland should be ruled by Count Florence of Holland, your grace, being descended from the eldest daughter of King David’s son. Yet, I see not a man here upholding his right. The count himself did not even bother to come to stake his claim. For that matter, where is John Balliol? Not here. So, a pox on your reasoning, I respectfully say. My grandfather was –”

  “Grandson to King David,” Red Comyn finished for him, leaning forward with one elbow planted on his knee and his head hunkered down between his rounded shoulders. “We all know. Why not spare us the rhetoric and state your case? There are others besides you waiting to be heard from today.”

  “Fair.” Grandfather ambled toward the crowd of nobles, catching eyes with his supporters and nodding respectfully toward his adversaries. As he reached my side and took my arm for support, he scratched at his bulbous nose and said, in an unmistakable taunt, “But with John Balliol as your brother-in-law, may we assume you argue for his cause and spare ourselves that weary bluster? I’m eighty, my lord, and wish this resolved before they put the nails to my coffin.”

  Grumbles of resentment and ripples of laughter collided. Comyn gnashed his teeth. He dug his fingernails into the arm of his chair. Only a swift glare from Bishop Fraser subdued him.

  In the end, logic presided over nothing. They had all come to uphold the interest that best promised to advance them and their own, as in Comyn’s case. But of those who held no familial connections with either a Bruce or a Balliol, those men leaned toward my grandfather. They admired and venerated him and pledged their support to him, including the earls of Atholl and Mar.

  I learned something that day, something that I would never forget: that when men give their loyalty willingly, they give it with conviction.

  Lochmaben, 1295

  Before begetting his own sons, King Alexander had named my grandfather as his heir. Grandfather would have made a passionate king, brusque perhaps, to the point of provoking annoyance, but always fair in his honest way. In that year of 1290 at Perth, he was already an old man and not well. His body had begun to fail him. For the next five years he fought with his rotting teeth for the throne that was his. Longshanks’ contrived courts decided against him at Norham, against my family. Balliol took the throne. My father, complacent, accepted various offices doled out by Longshanks to requite his loyalty, among them the governorship of Carlisle.

  Although my father never contested the coronation, for in truth he never yearned to be king because to him the crown only invited trouble to whomever wore it, neither would he pay homage to Balliol. Conveniently, he sailed for Norway, where he married my older sister, Isobel, off to the King of Norway himself. If he would not risk his head for a crown, he at
least knew how to ply opportunity through diplomacy. He had not yet returned when in the early spring of 1295, Grandfather was struck by apoplexy. I arrived at Lochmaben and rushed to my grandfather’s chambers, where I found him propped up stiffly in his favorite window seat, sagging heavily to one side. The shutters were open and a chill breeze enveloped the room. A storm had passed over earlier that morning, soaking the air in a dampness that I could feel in my clothes.

  “Grandfather?” I snatched a blanket from the bed and crossed the room in four strides. He stared blankly out the window. His right shoulder slumped and the arm below dangled limply across his lap. His eyelid on that side hung so far down that I could barely see the blue of his eye beneath the drooping flap of skin. I laid the blanket across his legs and right arm and even as I did so he gave no recognition that he was aware there was anyone with him. Then I slid onto the seat across from him, placing a hand upon his knee. “Grandfather, it’s me – Robbie.”

  He tried to turn his head, to smile, to reach out with his hand, but the palsy, which had troubled him the past few years only to the point of embarrassment, now was uncontrollable. How difficult it was to see this once proud man, esteemed by so many, laid low by infirmity.

  “Robbie? Is that you?”

  “Aye, ‘tis me.” I took his trembling hand. It was stone cold.

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

  His words were slow and slurred, but they made me laugh. “Up north, in Kildrummy. With my new wife, Isabella.”

  “Mar’s daughter? You devil.” He half-smiled and chortled. A choking sound gurgled from his throat. I started forward, but just as quick he went quiet. He tried to swallow, but it was an effort for him and a thick line of spittle ran from the corner of his mouth. I wiped it away.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  “Very. We’ve been wed a month now.”