“Papa called him the King.”
“The King o’ what? He murdered Red John Comyn in the verra sicht o’ God, and noo he has half o’ England an’ Scotland thirstin’ fer his head! He’s a godless man, Donal.”
“What will I tell Papa, Mama?” asked Donal.
Calming, the woman thought a moment. “Weel, sit ye doon an’ eat your gruel,” she said after a moment, “and let me think. I dinna guess I can keep ye frae what yer father asked o’ ye. Still, I dinna like the thought o’ my son around a man that would take another’s life on the verra altar o’ God’s kirk an’ then make himself King, though it cost his family their life an’ freedom—no, no, he’s no righteous man in my eyes, Donal.”
Though he hadn’t an idea what she meant, the boy had already taken his mother’s words to heart and was sitting at the humble table to await the gruel she proceeded to slop into a wooden bowl as she spoke.
In time he would understand everything his mother was talking about, and far more, about the man who would be King called Robert the Bruce.
Six
1297
Steadily the embers of resentment smoldered in Scotland against Edward of England and his occupation forces, which filled the north.
Yet the Scots had no one around whom to rally. The elder Bruce was dead. His son had taken up arms for Edward. The disgraced King, John Balliol, sat prisoner in the Tower of London.
A new leader was needed to fan the coals into life.
In 1297 such a man appeared. His name was William Wallace.
The anger of the Scots broke into flame when young Wallace, the son of a Scottish knight, became involved in an argument with the English sheriff of Lanark. The dispute ended with the sheriff dead and Wallace on the run. He was immediately declared a murderer and an outlaw against the English crown—and he willingly took on the rebel’s role.
Suddenly all the pent-up resentment against England gathered and rallied around Wallace. Outlaw bands of rebels flocked to join the insurgency against Edward’s rule and the English occupation.
Within months, Wallace and his rebels were raiding English-held castles and striking against garrisons of English soldiers. Using guerrilla tactics, they hit the enemy quickly, then disappeared into the Scottish wilds.
In time, more and more recruits flocked to the cause, intent upon freeing Scotland from English dominion. Scottish lords joined the fight along with peasants. James the Steward, James Douglas, and Bishop Wishart of Glasgow gathered men and arms. Andrew de Moray led forces in the recapture of many key castles in the north.
In July of 1297, less than a year after Edward had squashed the whole of Scotland, he received notification from Hugh Cressingham, his treasurer in Scotland, that the whole land was in turmoil and that the Scots were ousting English officials everywhere.
Edward did not believe the reports of Scottish insurrection could be as serious as Cressingham reported. Hadn’t he dealt with the Scots last year and received fealty oaths from thousands of Scots lords and nobles? Besides, he was busy fighting the French and did not want to be bothered at the moment with the irksome northland. The next month, Edward sailed for the Continent.
But nothing could stop the war for freedom that Wallace had begun. He and his supporters continued to storm triumphantly through Scotland, eventually taking back most of the significant castles from English hands. In the King’s absence, Cressingham amassed the English forces and marched to meet Wallace and Moray.
The armies met at Stirling Bridge, where Wallace’s rebels completely routed the English. Cressingham was killed, the castle of Stirling surrendered, and the government of Scotland was back in Scots’ hands. On behalf of Lord John Balliol, King of Scotland, the Scottish nobility appointed William Wallace as guardian of the kingdom of Scotland and commander of its armies.
Edward returned from the Continent, learned what had happened, and in a fury immediately marched north.
Wallace awaited this renewed assault near Falkirk. He deployed his army in four large oval groupings called schiltrons, in which the men were drawn tightly together in bristling hedgehog formations, standing or kneeling two or three deep and pointing eight- to ten-foot spears outward so as to make penetration into their ranks impossible.
At Falkirk, however, though the formation succeeded in blunting the initial attack, English archers were able eventually to exact a heavy toll on the thickly grouped spearmen, and the tight formations were broken apart. English horsemen rode in, killing and disbursing the confused Scots. Wallace’s own cavalry, placed to the rear of the schiltrons, proved ineffective. Falkirk resulted in a disastrous defeat for the Scottish rebel forces.
Wallace and those who were able fled. The bright flame of independence was extinguished as rapidly as it had ignited. The power of the brilliant leader was destroyed, and Wallace went into hiding.
Seven
1297–1304
Biding his time throughout William Wallace’s rebellion had been a certain Robert Bruce, grandson of the former contender for the throne, and now, at twenty-three, the earl of Carrick in his own right.
His grandfather had died two years earlier, but the aging lord of Annandale had been convinced to the end that his right to the Scottish throne was just and legitimate. After Balliol’s selection he had drawn up a document transmitting his claim to his posterity, both to his son and his heirs, according them “full and free power to sue for the realm, and to prosecute the right which pertains to him in this matter, in the way that seems best to him.”
The old man’s son did not share his passion to pursue the throne. But the eyes of the young grandson gleamed with thoughts of the prize he believed was rightfully his. When the father resigned his earldom shortly thereafter, leaving title and headship of family to a son barely out of his teens, the flame of his desire began to burn more brightly still.
In 1297, with the nation in full revolt and with no King of Scotland on the throne, twenty-three-year-old Robert Bruce—the third successive generation of the old Norman family to share the name—awaited developments. He had not actively participated with Wallace, for Wallace was fighting to secure a return of John Balliol to the throne—yet he had been inspired by Wallace’s courage and intrigued by Wallace’s cause.
More than anything, he wanted to rule the land of Scotland. But now he was beginning to consider what kind of a nation he wanted to rule—not an occupied land humiliated by her captors and ruled by the whims of a southern King, but a proud and free nation of her own.
In the meantime, with Balliol still in England and Wallace in hiding, it seemed that young Bruce’s opportunity might be at hand. Increasingly he was being recognized as one on whom the mantle of Scots leadership might rest. And yet he was not without rival—for many nobles in the land considered the claims of young John Comyn, lord of Badenoch, called John the Red, to be equal to those of the earl of Carrick.2
Increasingly, in the eyes of the northland’s leading nobles, hope for the future leadership of Scotland had come to rest upon the shoulders of these two young men—the son and grandson of the two prominent contenders from 1286. Now, eleven years later, these two hereditary rivals were appointed as joint “guardians of the kingdom.”
It was an arrangement doomed to failure from the start.
Old feuds do not die easily. Not only were Robert Bruce and Red Comyn each jealous of the other’s potential power and resentful of each other’s claims, but they also quickly grew to hate one another personally. To make matters worse, each young man was possessed of a quick temper that easily flared to violence.
Their antipathy erupted during a council of war in 1299. Accusations of treason were made. Comyn seized Bruce by the throat, and the two men had to be pulled apart.
Partly as a result of this discord, the guardianship was reorganized. A bishop was added, then young Bruce was ousted the following year. Consequently he made a renewed peace with Edward. He saw it as politically necessary, though his heart was not in the arrangeme
nt.
For five years Scotland was in the hands of the guardians, and its army managed with occasional success to harass the occupying English troops. Robert Bruce, however, involved himself little in the northern kingdom’s affairs, though he watched developments with keen interest. As years went by, he felt more and more discomfort over his ties to the south. He was gradually coming to see himself, first and foremost, as a Scot. Part of him yearned to take up the cause of freeing Scotland. But hothead though he might be, Robert the Bruce also had a keen sense of strategy. It was clear to him that his wisest strategy for the moment was to watch and wait. So he bided his time, keeping eyes and ears open for his best opportunity.
By 1304 Edward had worn down the Scots. Many nobles were surrendering and making renewed submission to Edward. Then, after trips abroad to rally support, William Wallace suddenly resurfaced.
By now, however, circumstances had changed, and fate quickly turned against the man who so recently had rallied a nation. Wallace was arrested by English soldiers the following year near Glasgow, taken to London, tried for treason, and convicted.
The brief hero of Scotland was dragged through the streets, hanged, cut down while still alive, sliced into quarters, his heart cast into a fire, the four sections of his body sent to Perth, Berwick, Newcastle, and Aberdeen. His head was placed on a pike and displayed above London Bridge.
Finally, thought Edward, his vexing and annoying troubles with Scotland must be over.
Eight
NOVEMBER 1307
The clanging of a massive hammer against a large iron anvil resonated with metallic ring throughout the small enclosure. While his father pounded the red-hot horseshoe into its final shape, young Donal, given new energy by the breakfast gruel in his stomach, vigorously pumped the bellows of the forge, keeping the fire hot, thankful on a cold day such as this to be inside the laird’s farrier’s shed.
“The man’s in rum condition, Donal lad,” sighed Fergus. “They say he mayna live the night.”
“But he’s the King, Papa,” said the boy, unable to place the two things in his mind at the same time—as if the fact of kingship insured immortality. Unconsciously he relaxed his hand.
“Pump, Donal,” exhorted his father. “I canna bend the iron gien the coals be not red.”
Donal’s tired arm swung back into motion.
“Kings has t’ die like ither folk, Donal,” said his father, now addressing his son’s former uncertainty.
“Will he die, Papa . . . while he is here?” asked the boy in a fearful tone. The fact that, across the court and high up in the tower a man lay so close to the unknown beckonings of eternity seemed to hallow the very walls off which clanked the sounds of his father’s hammer.
“I think not, Donal. They say he’s restin’ well an’ will be astride his horse again by Christmas Day.”
“Is what Mama said true, Papa?”
“What did she say?”
“That the man’s a murderer.”
“I canna say, lad. That he’s killed I dinna doobt, more than once. He’s a warrior an’ a fighter, a commander o’ armies, Donal. That’s why he’s King. ’Tis why oor ain laird went t’ join him, though some say it will cost him his life. The throne’s no won wi’oot fightin.’”
“Why, Papa?”
The man was silent a moment. The question was profound in its very simplicity.
“I dinna ken, Donal,” Fergus replied at length.
“But who’s he fightin,’ Papa?”
“John Comyn, earl of Buchan.”
“I thought you said it was the English King.”
“Edward o’ England’s been the enemy o’ Scotland fer many a year. But noo the lords in Scotland are fightin’ among themselves. Sometimes that’s the way it is.”
“Will it always be so, Papa?”
Again Fergus did not reply immediately. A long silence intervened. Both bellows and hammer fell idle from their respective duties.
“’Tis an auld legend, laddie,” the father said at length, “that comes from oot of the hills. It says that it will be so . . . until the white stag appears again in Scotland.”
“The white stag—what’s that, Papa?”
“Sit ye doon, lad. I’ll tell you aboot it.”
Fergus set down his hammer and took a seat on the edge of a rough rail of wood. Donal scrambled onto the makeshift bench beside him and gazed up into the blackened face of the father he loved.
“The legend is said t’ have begun years ago when oor distant fathers lived in the hills t’ the west, when the land wasna yet called Scotland.”
“What was it called?” asked Donal.
“Back then, it was known as Caledonia.”
Nine
1305–1306
At long last, in 1305, Edward I breathed with relief.
William Wallace, leader of the resistance, was dead. The King of England had received loyalty oaths from most of Scotland’s leaders. John the Red Comyn seemed favorably disposed toward peace. Robert Bruce had caused no trouble for three or more years. Scotland and its leadership again seemed to have been subdued.
Yet truly was Edward called “The Hammer of the Scots,” for as heavy as the ironworker Fergus’s mallet had been the blows by which he had attempted to subdue them. And though the land had seemed momentarily quiet, his harsh methods had not been forgotten.
The execution of William Wallace did not blunt Scottish resistance as Edward hoped. The spirit of Scottish independence would never die. And by now, unknown to Edward . . . young Robert Bruce had plans.
He was as convinced as his grandfather that the most legitimate claim to the kingship of Scotland belonged to the name Bruce. More than ever, Scotland needed a King—and he was the rightful heir to that throne. The time at last seemed ripe to step forward and take control of the struggle for independence . . . and at the same time make his bid for the crown.
If he was to be successful, however, he would need somehow to deal with his bitterest enemy. With Wallace dead, John the Red Comyn of Badenoch was the most powerful leader in Scotland.
Robert Bruce by now was a formidable man of thirty-one. Comyn was about the same age. The fathers of both had died two years earlier. They were thus now heads of families with vast holdings, and both were in earnest about their claims to the Scottish throne. Having already unsuccessfully attempted to share power, the two men were now archrivals, and all Scotland was aware that bad blood flowed between them.
Comyn, serving as one of Scotland’s guardians, clearly occupied the stronger position. The son of Balliol’s sister as well as in the direct descent of Malcolm III’s brother, who had succeeded him as the King, Red John saw himself the undisputed heir to Balliol’s ill-fated kingship.
Young Robert the Bruce realized that his own claim to the crown would have no chance of succeeding unless he could somehow negotiate with Comyn. But given their past history, would that be possible? What could he offer that might gain Comyn’s support—though the very thought of offering anything to that arrogant upstart made his skin creep? And Balliol had to be considered as well. The old King was now living in France and had not given up hope of a return.
Unlikely as the prospects seemed, thought Bruce, he had to find some way to swing Comyn to his side and out of Balliol’s camp. In the past few years he had become convinced that the only hope for Scotland’s future lay in ousting the English. And leadership of the cause against the English, to be effective, had to be united. They mustn’t fragment. Only united could they hope to defeat Edward.
He would set up a meeting with Comyn, Bruce thought to himself, to discuss the future. Both he and Red John were older now. Surely there was some way to patch up their differences and gain Comyn’s critical backing.
The meeting was arranged for the tenth of February, 1306. The place would be Greyfriars’ Church in Dumfries. So great was the mistrust between the two men, and so high the possibility of treachery, that only in a church might they perhaps be able to discuss
matters of such importance without fear for their lives.
Robert the Bruce arrived in Dumfries with a mingled sense of anticipation and unease. More than ever, he believed that the future of his kingdom depended on this meeting. But still he dreaded the prospect of trying to negotiate with Red John Comyn.
Red John and his contingent rode up to the chapel not long after Bruce and his own men had dismounted. The tension between the two groups was obvious. The two priests who had waited for them outside the chapel glanced around uneasily. The sounds and motions behind him told Bruce that his followers had stealthily unsheathed their knives.
Quickly he motioned to his men to stay where they were. He and Red John would enter the church alone.
Red John Comyn gave a similar motion to his nervous men. A quivering silence held while the two young heirs who would rule Scotland walked into the church alone to weigh the future of a nation.
Once they were inside, the discussion did not last long. Immediate disagreement flared.
“What would it take to win you over to my side, John?” Bruce asked. “I need your support.”
“My support!” laughed Comyn derisively. “What of my claim to the kingship? Do you expect me to simply abandon it?”
Bruce was silent.
“After all the loyalty oaths you have signed to Edward,” Comyn went on, “why don’t you go to him?”
The retort hit uncomfortably close to home, especially because there was some truth in it. But Bruce forced down his rising irritation and replied evenly. “You must understand how it is. One pledges loyalty when English swords are at his throat. It means nothing.”
“They were hardly at your throat when you and your father rode out to intercept Edward in ’96!” shot back Comyn. “Nor, I suspect, all the other times.”
“I was young and had little say in the matter. But I tell you, my loyalty is to Scotland.”
“Do you speak for your father and grandfather?”
“I speak only for myself.”
“And you now claim such pledges meant nothing?”
“I say only that expedience occasionally demands such measures,” answered the Bruce in a tight voice. The man seemed intent on needling him. “One makes peace in order to fight another day.”
An Ancient Strife Page 50
