by Jack Whyte
He did not wait for Wishart to respond. “And to this man, this King, I fear we may have made a gift of Scotland, to add to Wales and swell the bulk of his Crown. We have acknowledged him as overlord of Scotland. Our highest nobles have resigned their positions as Guardians of the realm to him and then accepted those same positions back from his hand as that same overlord. Paramount, Robert—we named him lord paramount of this realm. Think of what that means, or could be held to mean. His English garrisons now control our royal Scottish castles—Edinburgh, Stirling, Roxburgh, and all the others. They hold them. For another certainty they say they hold them for our own protection—against ourselves— but they man our castles this day, and all we can do is pray they will return them to us as they promised. We have placed ourselves in Edward Plantagenet’s hands and now we are forced to hope and pray that he will do his best for us with no consideration of his own desires and wishes. That, too, is a certainty, and it frightens me.”
Wishart mulled that over for some time before raising his head again. “And you believe he has selected Balliol for hitherto unsuspected reasons of his own, reasons that bode ill for this realm?”
“He had two options open to him—to elect a man he could influence and control to his own ends, or to pick one whom he knew would never submit to being bullied.”
Another long pause followed that before Wishart shook his head. “That is your own opinion, Robert, and not without bias.”
Lord Robert shrugged. “Perhaps, but it’s not without logic, either. Of the two options, he chose the former.”
“And Balliol will be a feckless king, you fear. On what basis—?”
“No, my lord bishop, I do not fear that. I know it. All my fear now is for this realm of ours. I believe Edward covets this land, as another jewel for his crown, like Wales. He had his goal achieved, if you’ll but think of it, when his son was to wed our new young Queen. But when the lass died, his plans died with her, and Edward Plantagenet does not tolerate denial of his wishes, even when God’s own hand is evidenced. You watch—he will seek now to govern through John Balliol.”
“To govern? This realm? Do you have any concept of how mad that sounds, my friend?”
“Aye, Robert, that I do. But the madness is not mine. The madness is that no one else in Scotland cares to—or dares to—see the truth of it.” He glanced at his son and Rob. “Look at these two, listening without a word to say. They and I have argued loud and long on every aspect of this thing and I was hard put to win them to my view. Now, though, they believe me, at least sufficiently to trust that I will not lead them into danger henceforth.”
“Hmm. So what will you do?”
Lord Robert thumped a fist into his open hand. “I will do my duty to the realm and I will recognize Balliol as the rightful, anointed King of Scots, once he is crowned. But Edward of England is my feudal overlord by right, and I will do anything on his behalf that he legally requires of me as his loyal vassal. You heard what I told you of the need I see to keep him honest by directing the eyes of the world upon his behaviour. To do that, and to maintain my feudal duty to him, I will remain close to him, as will my son and grandson. Young Robert’s presence in England will provide us with a listening post. Edward thinks highly of him, and I believe that esteem might serve us well in the days ahead.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Your part, old friend, will be to ensure that the other powers in this realm—the community of which you are so proud—work together diligently to ensure we do not suffer at Edward’s hands in the time ahead. Every man of them, magnates and mormaers and the earls and nobles of the land, must work with Church and commons to ensure the realm’s welfare comes first, ahead of their own. Will you do that?”
The bishop pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side, gazing back at Lord Robert through narrowed eyes. “Aye,” he murmured eventually. “I will. And I’ll be watching closely from now on, for I confess you’ve given me much to think about. And so … Supposing for the moment you alone, in all of Scotland, have the right of this, how much time is left to us, think you?”
Lord Robert shrugged. “Years, but not many. Five years, perhaps six. Edward himself will see to that. He’s growing old like the rest of us.”
“But no more than that? Six years?”
“No, no more. Balliol will have shown his weakness by then, or Edward will have shown his strength to the same effect. The magnates will not tolerate it, no matter which be true, and there will be trouble. But what about you and Mother Church? What will you do if you see things moving as I predict?”
Wishart sniffed, and then in a subdued voice he responded, “We will do what we have to do for the protection of the realm and its community.”
Rob noted the words and the tone of them but had little time to think more of it at the time, for Lord Robert rose to his feet immediately.
“Grand,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to hear. And now we must—I must—make haste. There’s much to do before tomorrow.”
He called for Bellow, and from the moment the factor came in, all was urgent activity. The talking had all apparently been done, and the arrangements to flesh it out and make it real would be set in place thereafter.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SILVER SPURS
Rob Bruce would remember that month, November of 1292, because it was the second consecutive month in which his life changed entirely, transforming him, when he looked back on it, into another creature altogether, enabling him to see that his first eighteen years had been the caterpillar stage, the formative and vulnerable years that had moulded him towards manhood and had ended with the death of his mother in October. November, and the months that followed hard on its heels, on the other hand, encased him in the drab and protective shell of a chrysalis, enabling him to stay hidden in plain sight and to remain relatively insignificant during the following four years, while steadily increasing storms and political upheavals threatened to bring the free kingdom of Scotland to an ignominious end.
On the seventh day of the month, Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, one of Scotland’s greatest and most active magnates for more than half a century, formally renounced his claim to the Crown of Scotland on the grounds of advanced age. At the same time he transferred to his son, Robert Bruce, the sixth of his name, Earl of Carrick, and to his heirs the right to pursue that claim in future. He presented himself in person to Edward of England in Norham Castle that day, renewing his feudal oath of loyalty and fealty to the monarch as a vassal of the English Crown, beholden to Edward for the vast territories he held there at the King’s pleasure. Edward, despite his surprise at this unanticipated turn of events, was mollified by the dignity and propriety of the veteran lord’s behaviour and deigned to accept the Bruce capitulation, assuring Lord Robert that his lands in England would continue to be at his disposal whenever he so wished.
Two days later, in an informal ceremony that was duly witnessed by a number of distinguished observers, the younger Robert Bruce, now the legitimate Lord of Annandale, resigned his own title to the earldom of Carrick in favour of his son Robert, the seventh consecutive Bruce of that name.
For Rob, that day brought some of his life’s most enduring memories, uniquely his own, though they involved his grandfather Lord Robert.
The first of them began in the late afternoon of the previous day, when Rob presented himself, slightly out of breath, at the den in answer to a summons from Lord Robert. He stopped at the threshold, though, seeing that his grandfather had company and wondering if he should interrupt, but as he hovered there the patriarch looked up and beckoned him inside, and the three churchmen he had been speaking with all turned to look at Rob. He recognized one of them as the young priest he had last seen accompanying Bishop Wishart, less than a week earlier, but he had seen neither of the other men before. His grandfather quickly made all three known to him.
The young priest was Father William Lamberton, of Glasgow Cathedral. He was here representing Bishop Wishart, who was detained in Norh
am, Lord Robert explained. The delegation of authority to represent a senior bishop was not idly bestowed, and Rob knew the young priest must have earned Bishop Wishart’s trust, but Lamberton looked barely older than Rob himself. The other two men were both mitred abbots, John de Morel of Jedburgh Abbey and Robert de Selkirk of Melrose Abbey, two of the most august religious houses in the realm.
When they had all exchanged solemn greetings, Lord Robert explained that their purpose here, at his personal invitation, was to escort Rob through the rituals of the knightly vigil, which he would undertake immediately. He would go with the visitors directly to a private chamber where they would lead him through the steps of ritual bathing and purification before dressing him in the full suit of heraldic armour that had been made for him three months before, in preparation for his knighthood ceremony in England that was then postponed. Rob was justifiably proud of that armour, for it was a masterpiece tailored in steel and mail to fit him perfectly, but he had never worn it since the day he had taken delivery of it from the English master armourer who had made it for him. Tradition, and superstition, demanded that it must not be worn until his knightly initiation. Now he would dress in it and be conducted by the three churchmen to Lochmaben’s private chapel at nightfall, and there he would spend the night as a supplicant, standing before the altar in ritual prayer and supervised at all times by one of the invigilating clerics, beseeching God to grant him the strength of character he would require to be a worthy, devout, and dedicated knight.
The next morning, moving as though in a dream from lack of sleep, Rob followed the robed trio of clerics in a haze of incense as they led him to Lochmaben’s main hall, into the presence of the two Lords of Annandale, past and present, and the close-packed assembly of the Annandale knights with whom he had marched to Perth in his grandfather’s train and who called themselves the lairds of Lochmaben. It was an all-male gathering, but as he looked about him, slightly bewildered, Rob saw his mother’s face in his mind’s eye, wearing a tremulous but proud smile and hovering between him and the armoured ranks facing him. He was aware of kneeling between the two abbots, with the bishop’s young representative standing attentively at his back, and hearing the words his grandfather pronounced over him, but they barely penetrated his mind until a sharp double blow, once on each shoulder, snapped him back to reality and Lord Robert’s voice, commanding now, barked out, “Rise up, Sir Robert Bruce, knight of Turnberry.”
Rob rose, assisted by the abbots on either side of him, and was immediately surrounded by the assembled knights, all pummelling his back and shoulders and shouting in congratulation, welcoming him for the first time as an equal. When he could win free of them, he moved to embrace his father, whose eyes, he saw with astonishment, were brimming with tears, and then he turned to his grandfather, who awaited him with open arms. The fierce old warrior hugged him close for long moments, cuirass to cuirass, then held him at arm’s length.
“Your father has a gift for you,” he said, then beckoned Alan Bellow, who had been awaiting the signal and now stepped forward smartly, holding out a crimson cushion on which rested a beautifully crafted pair of ornate silver spurs. Earl Robert picked them up, one in each hand, and held them out to Rob. “You’ll wear these from now on,” he said, smiling through eyes that were still moist. “But you’ll have to learn how to put them on yourself, later … For the rest, well, now that you’re to be an earl, you’ll need a sword befitting your rank.”
He gestured with an open hand towards his own father, and Lord Robert slipped his thumb under the heavy leather sword belt that hung across his chest and shrugged it over his head, his left hand grasping the thick scabbard of the enormous sword it held. He had sheathed the weapon after knighting Rob, but now he seized the hilt and bared the blade again, holding the sword up for all to see. It was a massive thing, its hilt made from solid steel and bound with wirewrapped rawhide, and its great, broad blade reflected the lights that filled the hall, silencing every man there. Lord Robert hefted it, then stabbed it upward, thrusting it high above his head and gazing up at its gleaming point.
“It’s no’ a delicate thing,” he said to Rob in Scots, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Nor is it fancy. But men heed it and it has served me well for nigh fifty year and more.” He brought his arm down and held the blade horizontally across his body, bracing it with his left forearm and gazing down at it as he continued speaking. “Afore that, though, it belonged to your great-great grandsire on your grandmother’s side, William the Marshal of England himself, master-at-arms and teacher to King Richard o’ the Lion Heart.” He slid the long blade back into its sheath and held it out hilt-first to Rob. “I’m near too old to lift it now, never mind swing it, but if I’m any judge o’ what I saw the other day between you and Rab Elliot, it should serve you well, too. Wear it wi’ pride, Sir Robert Bruce. An’ should you e’er hae cause to swing it in earnest, swing it hard and clean.”
Speechless, and uncaring that his eyes were blurred with sudden tears, Rob tucked his new silver spurs awkwardly beneath his left arm and reached out to take the massive weapon in his right hand, feeling the solid weight of it threaten to drag his arm down as his grandfather released it. He tensed in time and shifted his grip, raising the sword to eye level with both hands on the scabbard, clamping his left arm hard against the suddenly superfluous spurs and holding the huge sword hilt uppermost like a cross between himself and the old man. He swallowed hard, forcing his tongue to form the words, and whispered, “I will, my lord. So help me God.”
The deep hush in the chamber lasted five heartbeats before the hall erupted again with shouts of approval.
The day proceeded from that point as planned, but much of what was said and done went over Rob’s head, for it was all policy and ritual and it held no further surprises for him. He heard his father’s announcement of his resignation of the earldom and the succession of Rob himself as Earl of Carrick, and he smiled in acceptance of the applause of the gathering, but for some time he had accepted that as being important but already in hand. Far more important to him was the solid weight of metal hanging from the wide, supple, hundred-year-old belt slung across his chest. He could hardly wait to take it out to the training yard, but hours were to elapse before he could find an opportunity to leave.
When the ceremonies and speeches were at last all over and the assembled throng had settled in to eat and drink, Rob whispered an excuse to his grandfather, telling him what he wished to do, and the old man gave him leave, pointing out that the November afternoon was fading quickly and he had best make haste. Impatiently aware of the truth of that, Rob made his way unobtrusively to the back of the hall, still clutching his new spurs, and slipped quietly out, making his way directly to the training yard just inside the main gates of the fortress.
The area was usually one of the busiest places in Lochmaben, but now it was deserted, for this was a day of celebration and Lord Robert had proclaimed a general holiday. But then he noticed the single fellow loitering alone in the distance, close by the open gates. The man was unknown to Rob, though, and too far away for him to take more than a passing interest.
He went directly to one of the solid oaken posts the garrison used for sword practice, chipped and slashed now by a hundred thousand hard-swung blows, and drew his new sword. But the act of unsheathing the weapon brought the new spurs back to his attention, for he still held them clamped beneath his left arm. He straightened his arm and released them to drop into his left hand, then gazed at them for a moment, knowing that he should put them on, for if he laid them on the ground by his feet he might step on them. He sheathed his sword and examined the spurs more closely, this time taking note of how beautifully made they were. He had worn spurs before, of course, but those had been simple jags—mere spikes of hammered steel. These ones were vastly different, made in the French fashion and finely worked and chased, the ends of their longish shanks split like the nocked end of an arrow and then riveted to hold ornate rowels that
spun freely when he flicked them with a finger. He looked around him for a footrest, and crossed to a low log where he spent some time—too much time, a part of him insisted— fastening the things securely over his heavy boots until they were properly in place and tightly strapped, and then he straightened up to return to the training post. As soon as he began to walk, though, he found the spurs forcing him to change his gait. Their long shanks and jingling rowels altered the natural rhythm of his walk so that he had to pick each foot up and place it carefully at every step. His booted feet now felt clumsy, and although he knew he would grow used to the sensation quickly, he was aware of a need to be careful at first.
Back at the practice post, he drew his blade again and began the preliminary exercises designed to loosen his arms, shoulders, and back muscles, moving slowly and concentrating on the range of motion involved before even considering swinging the blade in earnest at the post. He settled into the rhythm quickly, enjoying the feel of his new weapon and the way it changed at once from a heavy, inert weight of metal to a living, balanced force as he swung it, and soon he was belabouring the oak post, thrilling to the solid delivery of the keen blade and the way chips flew from the dense oak at every stroke.
Seeing how quickly he was shaping twin grooves into the sides of the target, he stepped to his right and began to circle it, varying the height and angle of his blows, and as he did so he found his new spurs hampering him. His right heel lodged solidly as its spur caught on a projection and threw him off balance; he lurched, and then fell sideways, landing with a crash that knocked the wind out of him. He lay on his back for long moments, mouthing curses until he regained his breath, and then he rolled over clumsily and pushed himself back to his feet, fighting for every inch against the unaccustomed weight and unyielding constriction of his armoured legs. He retrieved his sword with difficulty, bending awkwardly from the waist and managing to grasp it with scrabbling fingers, and then straightened up, breathing heavily and wiping the dust from the blade with his hand.
