The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy)

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  The trebuchet towered over every house in Stirling. To think I had some part in it. But as I had told myself on so many occasions, I had merely followed orders. Its verge, or main arm, was hewn from a single, gigantic tree trunk. The frame itself, which supported the pivot point atop a staunch set of trestle legs, was a massive work. His engineers had already loaded the counterweight and hooked the end of the verge and were laboring at the windlass to winch it back. Most of the time, the damned contraptions missed their mark, but when they hit, they could leave a hole the width of a tithe barn door. I thought of the people inside, women and children among them.

  “But... I said Oliphant is prepared to surrender,” I repeated, desperate to get through to him. “On your terms, sire. Unconditional. There is no need to put it to use.”

  God be kind, how does one stand back and watch your own people battered and butchered for amusement? How could I persuade him to mercy... if he had any at all within him?

  “Oh, but there is, earl. I do not believe in leniency. If a subordinate wishes to display obedience, he should do so long before the whip is brought back for the first lash. I intend to leave a mark or two – as a reminder.”

  As I gazed into his transparent eyes, I realized I was looking into an empty soul. Fed by half a century of bloodshed and carnage. How easy to rule by fear. How much harder to forgive and embrace.

  “Is there something else?” Like a cat that has cornered its prey, he still wore that cruel grin of pleasure. He returned to his page, who was now securing him within his armor shell.

  “What?” Deep in my own thoughts, I had not moved my eyes from his face.

  “Something else, I asked. You may escort me while they load the first stone. They are further along than I expected and we may yet have a show of it today. I can hardly wait to hear the first crash and see how much damage one machine can do.”

  “Uh, I beg your pardon, sire... but, I have other things to...” I broke off and shook my head. “There is something I must know, sire.”

  “Ask if you must.”

  For weeks I had stood by and watched the stones and arrows fly, knowing that within the castle walls my own folk suffered and trembled in fear as they watched the great war machine assembled and loaded for its virgin volley. I was tired of keeping my peace. Tired of following orders. Tired of complacency and groveling. Longshanks had tested my loyalty to its fullest by demanding my presence at Stirling. But I would not be content to try to prove it interminably. He, too, had made promises.

  “The crown of Scotland,” I broached. “We entered into an agreement – that you would support me when I laid claim to it. Stewart and several others are abroad. Comyn has capitulated. I see no better time.”

  His laughter shattered the air like a rock hurled through a pane of glass. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than win kingdoms for you?”

  Not so long ago my impetuousness would have won the better of me, but I had learned since then – learned to hold my tongue and to wait. I had assumed the role of the beggar, and beggars learn patience or die of blighted hope. For now, if I wished to return home to Elizabeth, if I wished to one day be of such a might and mind to take on this cruel, soulless bastard or overcome his milksop of a son, then patience must be my preservation.

  Bowing as I backed away, I left.

  For three bloody days, Longshanks battered the walls of Stirling Castle with his treasured toy like a small boy taking aim at birds with his slingshot. It was not enough for him to gain the surrender of his enemies. He meant to grind them into the ground so they would never rise again.

  Glasgow, 1305

  I met with Bishop Lamberton at Cambuskenneth Abbey. We put our names upon a document with only God as our witness. He would support me, he swore, in whatever fight for freedom I might take up, because that would remove the chains that linked Scotland’s church to England’s, a burdensome cross he could no longer bear in silence.

  King Edward was ill again. They said he could barely rise from his bed. For months it went on like that. My time was drawing closer.

  Early the following winter, I met with Red Comyn at Bishop Wishart’s home in Glasgow, supposedly on the king’s business. There, I made him an offer: support my claim to the crown and have my lands or take the crown himself and give me his lands.

  Comyn did not need long to ponder on it. “Are you some kind of blathering fool, Bruce? What good is a crown without possessions? A title, little more.” He leaned back in his chair and studied me, then snorted loudly. “Call yourself ‘king’, if you like. Annandale and Carrick are proper compensation for that.”

  I was skeptical not because he accepted my offer, but because he did it so easily. If he hated me, though, he hated Longshanks and the threat he posed to his welfare even more. “You’re in agreement, then?”

  “Put your oath to paper,” Comyn demanded in a voice that rumbled even when he kept it low, “so that I might remind you of it when the time comes to exact payment.”

  I glanced at the amber flames wavering in the hearth of the stark meeting room that the bishop had set aside for us. A cross of driftwood on the wall opposite the fire was the only object of significance in the room. Four plain chairs, unadorned by intricate carvings or velvet cushions, sat about a small table, its surface worn smooth by decades of use. Everything so in contrast to the lavish homes of English bishops, with their crosses of gold studded with pearls and tapestries of the Garden of Eden, where I had on many occasions been housed while at Edward’s beck and call. If I claimed Scotland’s crown, it was not to gain wealth.

  “Come now,” Comyn chided with a quake of laughter. “You should want the same of me. What are we but men, whose memories fade and blur with time? Let us put it to ink, Lord Robert, so we forget nothing.”

  His smile shot a chill up my spine. But he was right. Neither of us fully trusted the other. I pushed back my chair, opened the door and called for a servant to bring us parchment and ink. I smoothed out the parchment on the table and dipped the goose quill in the inkhorn. When I was done, I passed it to him for approval. “Your support for my lands.”

  Comyn nodded, signed his name and pushed the contract back to me.

  I drew the quill across the parchment to mark my name. Its tip skipped and caught, the ink blotting messily. My stomach lurched.

  “Done,” I breathed.

  I hated Comyn. Hated the ground he walked on. But I would rather have him as an ally than as an enemy.

  For years after the Battle of Falkirk, William Wallace had lain low, often as far away as Paris or Rome, before finally returning home where he kept quietly to himself. Then one day, he was lured to the house of a fellow Scotsman in Glasgow. There, agents of the King of England took him prisoner. They tied him beneath the belly of a horse and transported him all the way to London. The English gave him what they called a ‘trial’ at Westminster Hall, but he had no lawyers and was never allowed to speak in his own defense until the very end. When they asked him if he admitted to the acts of which he was accused, it was then that he finally spoke.

  “I have never been a traitor to King Edward of England,” he said, a crown of laurel leaves placed crookedly on his head and his hands and feet oozing pus and blood beneath the ring of rusty shackles, “because I never swore allegiance to him.”

  A simple truth.A condemning one. But no matter what his words, there could only have been one fate for him.

  Bound about his wrists, they tied him to the tail of a horse. Then the horse was whipped smartly, so that it took off at a canter, dragging him behind. The skin was scraped raw from his legs so that he bled from hip to heel. His relief came when the horse halted before a tall gallows. There, they dangled him by his neck until he lost consciousness… and then they cut him loose. If he was not dead by then, they made certain of it by taking off his head and quartering his body.

  William Wallace had never stood for anything but Scotland. Never loved anything more than the land where he was born – and
for that, he gave his life.

  If Longshanks had wanted to crush the memory of Wallace from Scottish hearts, he only served to make it larger and greater.

  Ch. 20

  James Douglas – Stirling, 1304

  From Berwick to Stirling, we journeyed on swaybacked hill ponies over winding roads, first taking the coastal road north, then cutting across the green Lammermuir Hills before we skirted the Firth of Forth.

  A noisy escort of seabirds glided above us. I inhaled the salt air, drank in the view, and closed my eyes as I twisted my fingers in my pony’s shaggy mane, wondering where Hugh was now or when I might see him again. So many years had passed since I had seen Archibald, I doubted if I would even know him were he to appear before me.

  A handful of the bishop’s immediate household accompanied us. They elbowed each other and laughed at me when I spoke, so I soon learned to keep my thoughts to myself. Although I had forgotten neither my Gaelic nor my English, seven years in Paris, surrounded by students from a dozen or more kingdoms, had burdened me with a strange accent of which I fought to rid myself constantly.

  Even though our journey seemed all too long and tedious, I think it was more the dread in my heart than the distance that made it so. We drifted past Edinburgh and Linlithgow, pausing only long enough to rest and take a hearty meal or two, then pressed on our way again. When I could, I wrote to Lady Eleanor and my brothers. Hopeful, I then sent the letters off tentatively in the hands of nameless messengers with a few pieces of silver and the promise of more if they returned a letter from one of my family to me. My joy at coming home, however, dissipated with each day. I was grateful to the bishop for his generosity toward me, but I was as alone as ever. Bishop Lamberton kept his eyes on the road and his conversation sparse. I sensed that he had business to tend to far weightier than the dispossession of my family lands.

  Finally, we neared Stirling. For hours, I watched the castle on its high, stony hill grow larger and larger. We rode along the Roman road, past the low-lying Bannock Burn. I swatted away the midges diving relentlessly for my ears and squinted against the dazzling light of a summer sun as it bowed from its zenith. We climbed the steep road from the burn to the town, our ponies snorting with the effort.

  Stirling buzzed with industry. Wagons loaded with rough-hewn stones rumbled by, throwing clouds of dust into the air. Scaffolding ran the length of the southern wall of the castle, where masons labored. Hammers and chisels pinged discordantly. Workers dug at shattered and chipped stones with their picks. At the end of a groaning rope supported by a huge winch machine, a cut stone swung dangerously.

  As we waited at the castle gate, my stomach knotted. I could not take my eyes from the shambled wall, nor cease to wonder at the purpose of pummeling it to pieces only to reconstruct it later at great expense. An hour or more passed. The masons and laborers toiled on, even as dusk settled. Everywhere, women carried buckets of water and loaves of bread to the workers. Our ponies were led away to be fed and looked after. I leaned against the wall of the gatehouse to keep myself from falling over from hunger.

  “Is it an English custom to keep a bishop waiting?” I mumbled loud enough to be overheard.

  Bishop Lamberton surveyed the progress studiously. “We have requested an audience with Edward Plantagenet, King of England. He will see us at his convenience, not ours.”

  I rolled my eyes and tucked my hands under my armpits. Loose mortar littered the ground and I kicked at it. A flake of stone skidded across the gate opening in front of an English soldier who scowled at me. Despite the fancy clothes the bishop had forced upon me as his squire, I was aware of my rough looks and insolent smirks. Bishop Lamberton did his best to correct me, but in the company of Englishmen it was ever a struggle.

  “Your grace,” the English captain addressed with a jerking bow, “the king will see you now.”

  As the captain turned on his heel to lead the way, the bishop grabbed my arm and uttered in a low voice, “James, leave this to me. Say not a word. Be mindful that there is more than your inheritance at stake here.”

  My life, perhaps? What would King Edward have cared about striking the breath from me? Who was I to him?

  I was a Scotsman. Filth. Trouble. All the worth of pig shit scraped from English boots. Once before, I had struck out against Longshanks. He would hear my name and he would remember. My tongue went to the place in my mouth where the tooth had been knocked loose – a hollow reminder of that day. I remembered the bench smacking against my jaw, the tang of blood, the tooth wet in my palm.

  We entered the great hall of Stirling Castle. Great beams of oak glowed golden in the fading light of sunset. A row of tall, narrow windows lined one wall and on the opposite were intricate paintings of the earth’s bounty: plump clusters of grapes and golden bundles of wheat. A handful of English lords and barons parted before us as Bishop Lamberton made his way down the center of the hall; I stayed ten paces back. King Edward of England sat rigidly upon his throne on the dais. He, too, looked as if he were painted there. Or perhaps carved from stone, for surely that is what his heart was made of.

  Bishop Lamberton had given me clear orders earlier: do not speak, keep my head down, do not look at the king and if spoken to defer all responses to the bishop.

  The first thing I did was raise my head and gaze into Longshanks’ icy eyes. The look he returned was one of annoyance mixed with indifference. He had no idea, as yet, who I was.

  I now hated him more than I did that day in the hall of Berwick, when my father had knelt before him and spoken false promises. Father had died in the dungeons of the Tower, put there by Longshanks’ orders. He had been beaten and tortured to extract information. My stepmother had nearly been raped by one of the king’s men. My brothers sent into hiding. My lands taken from me. The pride and dignity stripped from my kinsmen. King or no, I hated the man. I felt a drop of blood on my tongue as I bit back my anger.

  “What business brings you to Stirling, your grace?” Longshanks questioned. “Word from the council at Berwick?”

  “No, sire. Another matter.” Lamberton dropped his chin. “I come to request a courtesy.”

  “In what matter?”

  “On behalf of my squire, my lord.” Bishop Lamberton turned and lifted a hand toward me.

  “The wheels of our kingdom do not grind to a halt to indulge mere squires. Put your request in the form of a letter and the matter will be addressed... as time permits.”

  “I beg you, indulge me but a minute sire. It will take no longer. The resolution of this issue is long overdue. Five years ago, Sir William Douglas died while under your arrest. His son, my squire James Douglas, was a minor at that time, pursuing his studies in Paris. His family lands were later granted to Sir Robert Clifford. I ask for the return of those lands, following the laws of inheritance. He is of age now.”

  Longshanks rested his jaw on the ridge of his knuckles. He looked down the length of the row of lords until his sight came to rest on one particular man there.

  “What do you think, Clifford?” Longshanks asked in a sardonic tone.

  Sir Robert Clifford came forward. His gaze swept over me, walking in a circle about me as I kept my head still. I watched his every movement from the corner of my eye.

  “I think not, sire,” Clifford proclaimed. “It would be dangerous to deliver such wealth and holdings into the hands of a traitor’s son. Fruit seldom falls far from the tree. This one, I say,” – he sniffed the air – “is already rotten.”

  Clifford was close enough to me that had they not taken my knife at the gate, I could have slipped my blade between his ribs before he ever saw my hand move. Another time. I smiled coolly at him. He took a quick step backward.

  “There is your answer.” Longshanks leaned more heavily on his fist, tucked his angular chin to his chest and swallowed back a yawn.

  Bishop Lamberton bowed, taking a few steps backward. “I thank you, sire, for your wise judgment.”

  He turned and as he passed me, put
a hand upon my shoulder to guide me from there.

  I pulled away. Lamberton reached for me again, but I darted from him, toward the king. The guards that flanked the ends of the dais gripped their sword hilts.

  I halted and said with a shrug, “How then?”

  “What? Speak up.” Longshanks’ lips curved into a snarl.

  I raised open hands. “How then... do I get my lands back? I am home and yet I have no home to go to.”

  He straightened his back and gripped the arms of his throne with fingers that flashed with jewels. “I am old, Douglas. But my memory has not slipped away yet. I remember your father’s treachery. Once – forgiven. Twice – dead. And I remember you. You have not changed, either. You are still the same surly, misbegotten spawn of that Judas Iscariot I tossed into the rotting darkness. Be happy you have your life, boy. If you want to keep it, stay out of my sight.”

  He brushed one of his ringed hands toward the door. “Take him away.”

  But before the guards could get to me, I had already turned and was on my way out with Bishop Lamberton stomping on my heels.

  In the courtyard, where the pink of dusk surrounded us, the bishop dug his fingers into my arm and shook his head fiercely.

  “I told you not to say anything.”

  “Then why did you bring me here?” I said.

  If he had an answer, he did not share it. “In the morning, I will be going to Cambuskenneth Abbey to meet with the Earl of Carrick. You will go back to Berwick, James. Wait for me there.”

  I could but stand there, wordless, as he turned his back on me and went to find his quarters for the night. I did not join him until much later. Instead, I climbed the tower stairs to stand upon the wall walk and look out over the darkening land. All the masons and laborers were done with their duties by then. I watched them stagger drunkenly through the streets of Stirling. Some were gathering around their flickering campfires in the city of tents scattered along the Roman road to the south, perhaps to share stories. To the east, the River Forth wove like a black ribbon through the land, yearning toward the open sea.