by Jack Whyte
“True, and I can attest to that myself. Your father and I have always liked each other. He did well by my niece and he mourned her deeply, and for that I will always admire him. He is a fine man, Robert, as you say, and a decent one. But his father, your grandsire the Competitor, was a great man, and that’s a very different thing.” He sighed again. “And it is greatness, men are saying, that our realm has need of at this time.”
“And so these people—you among them, Nicol—have decided that my father is unfit to rule? Tell me,” he said, making no attempt to hide his hurt, “how did you come to be in Durham with my father at this time, as he was preparing to leave?”
“I was not. I came south with the Earl of Mar. When he heard that Domhnall was coming south to England, Wishart sent me to join him, bearing a message.”
“A message to my father, bidding him stand down?” The grin that accompanied the words was bitter, more rictus than smile. “I find it difficult to imagine what words would be required to couch such an order and make it appear like a request. What did it say, and how did my father react?”
“The message was not for your father. It was for Domhnall of Mar, to be relayed to you at the proper time.”
“To me … ” He remembered the old earl saying that they had much to talk about, and his own dismissal of the comment as mere sickbed pleasantry. He frowned again. “And my father knows nothing of this?”
Nicol MacDuncan shook his head.
“God’s holy teeth, Nicol, how could you do this to me, giving me information that my father does not have, and on something that concerns him directly? D’you expect me to put up with that? You expect me not to tell him what you’ve said?”
The older man raised his hands, palms outward. “I expect nothing, Nephew, one way or the other. I am merely the bearer of tidings. Whether those be ill or not depends upon the viewpoint of their interpreter.”
“No! That’s a false argument and you know it, Nicol MacDuncan. What you have said puts an end to my father’s expectation of ever becoming King of Scots.”
“He has no such expectation and has made that plain, Robert. And you give credence to that, merely by remaining here in England. Scotland has a king. The question of whether he be a good king or no is immaterial. He is the King’s grace and we are all his subjects, sworn to stand behind him until death. There can be no other king while King John lives.”
“What about this council of Guardians? My father knows about that. From Wishart himself.”
“Aye, I know he does. That was a necessary step. The forming of the council, I mean. Twelve good men and true, dedicated to assisting King John in the administration of the realm.”
“By holding his hand and pointing him wherever they want him to face.” He tossed his head impatiently. “Four earls, four barons, and four bishops, two of each from north of Forth and two from south. All very equitable and politic, and all designed for the protec-
tion of the King. Tell me, is my father in danger?”
“Danger? Good heavens, what kind of danger?”
“Danger of death. Is he perceived as a threat? Are there people up there who fear that he might plot to seize the throne?”
Nicol sat open-mouthed, and then brought his hands together as though in prayer. “I’ll answer that by telling you exactly how your father is perceived ‘up there,’ as you call it. Robert Bruce the Sixth, Lord of Annandale, is judged to be like many another great man’s son—a weak reflection of his father’s puissance. Your father is regarded by most as what he is, a Scots magnate who has chosen to absent himself. He is seen as being too close to England’s King in sentiment, and England’s King is proving himself to be no friend to Scotland. On the other hand, though, in answer to your question, his life is in no danger. He lacks the following now to make himself a threat to Scotland and its King. At most, were he to make any attempt, he might raise the remnants of his folk in Annandale, although their loyalty at this stage still clings to the memory of his father. Beyond that, he’d find no sympathy for the cause he would be proclaiming. It would cause civil war, and Scotland has enough grief to face without the threat of that. Your father is seen, at best, as a toothless lion, posing no danger to King John or the realm … and thus his life is safe.”
Bruce sat silent, keenly conscious that he could not refute a word of what his uncle had said. He became aware of his uncle’s steady gaze and raised his eyes to meet it. “A toothless lion … That’s a harsh judgment, Uncle, whether it be true or not. And it sets me clearly in my place, too, does it not?” He smiled again, though only one side of his face twisted to show it.
“No, Nephew, it does not. You could be a threat.”
The younger man’s mouth fell open. He shook his head, then looked about him helplessly. His hands fastened on the arms of his chair and he began to push himself to his feet, but his weakened legs would not support him and he subsided, scowling in angry frustration. “Help me up, if you will. I need to stand.”
Moments later he was clinging stubbornly to the high back of his chair and forcing his quivering legs to bear his weight against the stabbing pain in his bruised hip. He ground his teeth as he waited for Nicol to sit down again and then he counted slowly to ten, inhaling deeply with each count and giving himself time to exhale fully before beginning again. On the tenth count he leaned his weight into the chair back and moved his feet farther apart, feeling them respond more naturally than they had moments before.
“So be it, then,” he said. “I could become a threat.” He paused. “Do you truly believe that? And if you do, would you object to telling me how I might do so?”
His uncle shrugged. “Why would you need to ask me that? You have already given me the answer.”
Bruce inclined his head, slowly. “But I have no slightest idea of what it was … Can you explain it to me?”
“I can, but you should know the opinion was not mine. It came from Bishop Wishart. All I did was hear your confirmation of what he said.”
“And what did I confirm?”
“That you are mentally prepared—and even anxious—to take up your sword in support of Edward Plantagenet.” He nodded towards the great sword hanging from its peg. “You were fretting over how your friends had drawn ahead of you, fighting in Wales and winning glory while you have yet to swing your blade in earnest.”
“That’s true, I was. But how does that construe to make me a threat to Scotland?”
“Oh, Robert! In God’s name, listen to yourself! Edward Plantagenet is the threat to Scotland. And those young friends you think so highly of are the weapons he will bring against us—the younger sons of England’s great families, all of them hungry to win lands and glory for themselves in Edward’s wars. When he calls you to serve him, you will be one with them, part of them, and part of the threat he brings against us. Can you doubt he will make prominent use of you, if only as a figurehead? A Scots earl, a senior Scots earl with an ancient title—a Bruce, no less—fighting in England’s vanguard. That holds the seeds of dissension and defeat for everyone to see.”
“Everyone except me, it seems. It would never happen. The King would never set me against my own like that.”
“Sweet Jesus! Are you addled, boy? This is Edward Plantagenet. His sole concern is kingship. He cares for nothing more than his own realm—its welfare and condition—and nothing, nothing, be it man or ideal or fear of God Himself, will come between him and what he has determined will be that realm’s destiny.”
A timid knock sounded at the door and one of the household servants pushed it open and leaned in, opening his mouth to speak, but Nicol rounded on him. “Out!” he roared in English. “Leave us.”
The hapless servant withdrew quickly, closing the door securely, and Nicol turned back to his nephew, speaking again in Gaelic. “This is the man your grandsire warned us of when Queen Eleanor sickened and died, years ago—the man who had been held in check for decades only by her good counsel and his love for her. With her gone, he lost
all restraint, and no one dared gainsay him. And now it is plain he wants Scotland and seeks to rule it by browbeating and abusing Scotland’s King, driving the poor, weak man mad and riding roughshod over everything with no regard at all for the demands of decency or courtesy. Do you truly think he will be swayed by your tender feelings if he thinks he has a need of your support, or that you’ll be the only man alive whom he will not manipulate and put to use? Spare me!”
Bruce turned away and began to walk, very slowly and deliberately, towards his bed. It took three steps, and by the third one he was swaying dangerously, reaching out with both hands. He made it, though, and half turned, allowing himself to drop onto the bed’s edge. He sat there, blinking his eyes against the dizziness he felt.
“I do believe that,” he told Nicol then. “I believe it deeply. Edward Plantagenet is the very soul of honour. He would never make such a demand of me.”
His uncle expelled breath loudly. “Well, then, if that’s what you believe, I’ll pray you’re right, but I’ll not be surprised if you’re proved wrong. D’you want to hear Wishart’s message?”
“Aye, I do.” Both of their voices were subdued now.
“He is aware, he said, of your duties to your family and loved ones, and he knows you will fulfill them ably. He is appreciative, too, of how your family’s fortunes have been undermined by the politics of our land, the enmity of the Comyns and the ill will—or ill judgment—of our King, John Balliol. But he fears the pressures that your chosen King will bring to bear upon you to assist him in his handling, his mishandling, of the affairs of Scotland’s realm. Should you be persuaded to set foot in Scotland, bearing arms for England, the bishop says, it would be taken ill, not merely by himself but by all loyal Scotsmen everywhere. Knowing, then, that a time will come when Edward seeks to use you, he bids you bear in mind two things: that Edward of England is growing old and will not live forever, and that there might—and he says only might— come a day when Scotland itself has need of the House of Bruce. He bids you hold yourself in readiness for such a time and be prepared to return into your own.”
“Is that all?” The scorn in Bruce’s voice was palpable. “No more than that? That I should hold myself in readiness to play the poltroon and betray my sworn liege despite all his kindness and consideration, returning to a land that has belittled and dispossessed me and mine, casting us into exile for the sin of being who we are? You must be sure to inform the bishop, when you next meet with him, how honoured and pleased I was to receive his message, with its suggestion that my honour and my loyalty can be traduced and bought and sold with empty promises of someday and perhaps.”
“I can’t do that,” Nicol said firmly. “The message is not mine to deliver. It’s Mar’s. I told you of it solely to save time, never thinking you might disagree.”
“Damnation, then I’ll tell Mar the same as I tell you. I won’t be bought. My name is Bruce, and Bruce does not bite the hand that feeds him.”
“Ach, sweet Christ! God weeps at the pride of rash young men. No one is asking you to betray Edward, Robert.”
“No? Are they not?”
“No, damn it. You’re but being asked to hold yourself in
readiness.”
“Aye, in readiness to betray Edward and perhaps, someday, to sneak back home to Scotland with my tail between my legs. Tell my lord bishop to find someone else to suborn. I will not betray Edward’s trust and turn renegade simply because someone in Scotland expects it of me. Not for any man, and not for any scheming bishop.”
“Renegade? You? In Christ’s name, Nephew, think about what you are saying! It is not … You are not the one at fault in any of this, and no one is suggesting you should renege on anything. Edward of England is the renegade, if anyone is. He has reneged on every promise and commitment he has made to Scotland since this sorry mess began. He is the one who is blameworthy here, not you.”
The younger man shook his head, his expression flinty. “I cannot see that, Nicol. I can see where it might seem so, to certain men whose ambition might prefer things otherwise, but I myself have seen no signs of any perfidy on Edward’s part.”
“Of course you haven’t! That goes without saying, Rob. You’ve never looked for any, never thought of it. You refuse even to conceive of it. And yet the evidence is there, plain to be seen by any eyes but yours.”
“Any eyes that choose to see it or want to see it or need to see it, you mean. Aye, that part of it I can understand, and I’m not fool enough to think there’s any lack of such eyes in Scotland. But I’m not going to be swayed by such one-sided thinking—no matter how obvious it might appear to be to the thinker, be he bishop or magnate—and I’m damned if I’ll bow my head meekly and submit to anyone’s will who hasn’t spared a thought for me or mine in the past eight years.”
Bruce’s voice had risen steadily as he spoke, the anger in it squeezing caution and discretion aside until he was almost shouting, and now Nicol, to whom Rob Bruce had never raised his voice before, waved him down, frowning. “Hush now,” he said, his voice low and intense. “There could be ears pricked up, even here. And even speaking in the Gaelic, what you’re saying might be overheard and used against you.”
The younger man glowered fiercely, though he still breathed hard.
“Fine,” Nicol said quietly. “In great part I agree with you. I can’t argue against your logic, save on one front.” He paused, frowning again, then rose and pressed a finger to his lips. He crossed quickly and silently to the door, where he grasped the handle and pulled it open, stepping outside to peer up and down the passageway to make sure no one was hovering out there. Reassured, he came back inside and pulled the door shut at his back before returning to his seat.
“But what you’ve been saying is one thing, Nephew, and what I’m trying to say is another altogether, so listen to me now.” His voice was heavy with urgency. “I’m not talking about what some faceless bishop or magnate thinks. I can’t govern what they think or how they behave any more than you can, and I can see how they might seek to use you for their own reasons, but that is neither here nor there. My thinking on this matter is far more concerned with our own welfare—yours and mine and our families’, Bruce and MacDuncan—and there’s more to it than your simple code of loyalty to Edward Plantagenet. The voice I’m hearing in my head, speaking of this very thing, is your grandfather’s, and I’ve been hearing it for weeks. He has been dead for years, God rest his soul, but his opinions on Edward were clear and well expressed, and free of any of the bias that is rife in Scotland today—that selfsame bias that led you to say what you have just said.”
Bruce’s glower had faded to a mere frown now. “So what are you saying? I’m not following you.”
“Think about what Lord Robert thought of Edward of England. Can you recall that?”
“Aye, but—”
“No buts, Rob. He warned us, did he not, to have a care to keeping Edward honest by making sure the world beyond our shores knew what he did, as opposed to what he said he would do. D’you remember that?”
“Aye, I do. But you were not there when he said that.”
“I know. He told me of it himself, later. He and I grew close before he left for England. I think he came to trust me because of your trust in me. He told me of how he warned you and your father to beware of Edward’s ambition. He said, and he believed, that Edward’s kingcraft overwhelmed all else. And that his obsession with that same kingcraft, allied with his growing sense of destiny, his own and that of his realm, would make nonsense of friendships and personal loyalties wherever and whenever Edward the King perceived them to be in the way of his grand designs.”
Bruce was nodding. “That’s true and I remember it.”
“Aye. And then he said we would have but one weapon left to us with which to control the man … the man Lord Robert recognized very clearly as not being the man with whom he had ridden out to war long years before. A changed man, dark and bitter since the death of his Queen, and oppres
sed by what he sees increasingly as the disobedience and obstruction of his wishes by his unbiddable barons. Here, he said, was a man who set great store on his need to be seen as a just and temperate monarch, acting in enlightenment in the eyes of God and man and inscribing his every law, commandment, and decree for scrutiny by anyone who cared to examine them. You recall that, too? Lord Robert bade us keep a wary eye on what Edward said he would do, and upon what he did in fact, and he warned us to be prepared to seek assistance from the other kings of Christendom and from the very Pope himself should the need arise.”
Bruce nodded again. “I remember. And so?”
“And so that need is here. We find ourselves where we are today, where Edward’s promises to Scotland are but empty noises. He has deposed our King.”
“No, the magnates forced his hand.”
“Horseshit. He deposed the King of Scotland where he had no earthly right to do so, God-given or otherwise. And he has invaded Scotland to such ill effect that our abused and harried people cry out to Heaven itself for succour against the depredations of England’s armies. Damnation, Rob, it’s hardly an exaggeration that there are more Englishmen than Scotsmen in Scotland today.”
“All of them are there legally.” “Legally? By whose law?”
“By Edward’s and by Scotland’s both. He is lord paramount of Scotland, by legal statute and the agreement of the Scots magnates, speaking for the people. And as lord paramount he has the right to make demands of those who owe him allegiance. There is no denying that—it is the law. And I can see no evidence of any legal wrongdoing on King Edward’s part, much as I may mislike what is going on.”
“In Christ’s name, Nephew! He has betrayed every promise ever made to us! He has reneged on every pledge, every assurance, every commitment into which he ever entered. That’s why I named him renegade!”
“God damn your arguments, Nicol! They are false.” Bruce was on his feet, a hand on the bed. “You are ignoring the obvious. He is the legal overlord of Scotland. Argument over that is futile.”
