by Jack Whyte
He had no idea how long he had been sitting there mulling, but the day was gentle, the sunlight warm and pleasant, and the air about him was silent, not even a skylark’s song breaking the stillness. He pushed himself up from his seat and turned to look behind him, seeing how the low-hanging sun set the late-autumn colours of the woods there in a blaze, and as he stared in admiration a distant flash of light in the open country beyond the trees caught his attention. He straightened, attentive now, and waited for the gleam to be repeated, knowing it had been reflected from metal—from a weapon or a piece of armour or harness. He folded his arms on the top of the parapet in front of him, eyes narrowed as he scanned the distant fields.
A quarter of an hour passed before he saw a far-off dot that soon resolved itself into three tiny specks. Three mounted men, coming from the southwest, along the road from London and Westminster. He checked an impulse to alert his people below, since there was nothing they could do but hurry to make ready and then wait thereafter; besides, there was nothing to fear from three men, armed though they were. The single flash that had alerted him was now repeated constantly from all three sources, undoubted evidence that the approaching men were not merely armed but armoured, which indicated in turn that their business must be official. Whoever they were, they were wasting no time, approaching now at a gallop.
He lost sight of them as the woods between them blocked his vision, but he knew now how far away they were. He crossed the flat roof to the other side of the building, overlooking the gates, where he leaned over the battlements and shouted to the guard below, warning him that people were approaching, then strode towards the stairs and went down quickly to his chambers.
Isabella was there alone, white faced and subdued but no longer weeping, and she rushed towards him as he entered, starting to tell him she was sorry, but he laid a finger on her mouth to silence her, kissed her fleetingly on the brow, and told her what was happening, bidding her make ready. He changed his simple tunic for a more elaborate one and shrugged into a supple leather jerkin, belting it about his waist. He ran his hands flat over his crown to straighten his hair, then made his way downstairs to meet the newcomers.
They had arrived and dismounted by the time he reached the inner yard and went out to meet them. All three were armoured officers-at-arms. Two wore the bronze emblems of corporals on their cuirasses and helmets, and their leader, a rock-faced veteran with the unmistakable bearing of a man who had commanded other men for many years, wore the insignia of a senior sergeant of King Edward’s personal guard.
The leader snapped to attention and brought his clenched fist to his left breast in salute. “Lord Bruce,” he said in a voice as hard as his expression. “The King requires your presence in Westminster without delay.”
Bruce nodded. “Then he shall have it, Sergeant. A moment to alert my wife and we will join you.” He turned to Thomas Beg, who had materialized by his side. “Thomas, Lady Isabella’s carriage, quick as you like. You heard the sergeant.”
Thomas nodded, but before he could turn away the sergeant stopped him with an upraised hand, though he spoke directly to Bruce. “Your pardon, milord. Your lady wife was not included. Without delay means what it says. We will be riding hard and we don’t have sufficient men to guard your lady. His Majesty made himself clear. Not milady Bruce. Just you, with no delay.”
Bruce frowned, but nodded again, tersely. “Very well. But I must still explain, and change my clothes.”
“No, my lord, begging your pardon. You may explain your summons, certainly, but you are to come just as you are. At once, sir. There is much urgency.”
The frown deepened. “That’s plain enough,” Bruce growled. “I will be quick, but even so you will have time to snatch a bite of food while I am gone. Thomas will take you to the kitchens before he brings my horse. I will be ready to leave within the quarter-hour.”
The sergeant saluted again, then, leading his horse, he went with Thomas Beg, the two corporals behind him.
Isabella’s dismay at the tidings was distressing for Bruce to see, for this was the first time the call of duty had intruded upon their peace, but she recovered quickly and helped him stoically as he threw some additional small clothes into a saddlebag. He pulled on a pair of thick-soled, well-worn riding boots, exchanged his light jerkin for a more substantial, fleece-lined one, then slung his sword over his shoulder to hang at his back. No shield, no armour, nothing much of anything, but at least he would have his sword and dagger. He kissed Isabella one more time, fiercely, and then snatched a heavy riding cloak from its peg on the wall as he swept out, calling farewell to her over his shoulder.
He had a few minutes alone in the yard, for his horse was not yet there and the sergeant and his men had not emerged from the kitchens, and he used the time to think about this summons. Its urgency was self-evident, but he was unlikely to know anything of the reasons for it until he reached Westminster. Normally, his summoner to an audience—if any such summons could be considered normal—would be a knight, and there would be nowhere near this urgency. And a knight, in common courtesy, would have been able to give him some inkling about what might be involved. The sergeant and his two corporals were royal guards with seniority, which meant they were both competent and trusted by the King; Bruce could trust them to escort him safely and quickly to Westminster, but he had little hope of conversation along the way.
A clatter of hooves on cobblestones brought awareness of everyone arriving at the same time, but rather than merely leading Bruce’s saddled courser, Thomas Beg was mounted, too, on his great bay gelding, and neither the sergeant nor his companions appeared to have any objections to his riding with them.
They were on the road within minutes, watched by a forlorn Isabella from the tower roof, and by the time Bruce turned back in his saddle to wave at her for a second time, she and the house had vanished behind the screen of trees.
They travelled fifteen miles before the short November day ended, and spent the night in a roadside inn, the same one the soldiers had used the night before on their way down. It had been mid-afternoon when they were dispatched the previous day, the sergeant told Bruce, and the setting sun had overtaken them ten miles out from Westminster, close by the inn called the Spotted Cow. The place was clean, though primitive, and the food was edible. The five men went to bed early, for lack of anything better to do, and were up and on the road by dawn, with ten miles left between themselves and Westminster and no real traffic to impede their progress, so that by mid-morning they arrived at the palace.
Bruce was surprised to see Sir Robert FitzHugh pacing anxiously on the flagged area fronting the main entrance when they clattered through the gates, and from the way the seneschal grew still at their approach it was plain he had been waiting for them. No sooner had Bruce dismounted and thrown his reins to Thomas Beg, leaving him to stable the horses at the guards’ barracks and await him there, than FitzHugh signalled for him to follow. Bruce had to move quickly in order to keep up with the old man, and that did little to dispel his misgivings over this summons. They had swept through the anteroom of the Great Hall and into the warren of passageways that surrounded it before either spoke a word.
“This way,” said FitzHugh, heading diagonally across a wide junction.
“What’s amiss, Sir Robert?”
The seneschal did not even glance at him. “The King is vexed” was all he said.
“With me?”
That earned him a sideways glance and the hint of a wintry smile. “No, my lord,” FitzHugh said. “With your countrymen.”
“With my countrymen! I don’t follow you.”
“You will, in moments. The King is with the barons—as many of them as were here to find. Others are coming.”
“The barons. I see.” But in truth he saw nothing. “Why send for me, then?”
Another sardonic, sideways glance. “I am the seneschal, Lord Carrick, not the King. Here we are.” He led the way up a wide flight of shallow steps that Bruce ha
d climbed before.
“The Painted Chamber?”
“The King awaits you.”
The entrance to the Painted Chamber was an enormous set of double doors guarded by six pikemen under the command of a sergeant, and before they had reached the top step the guardsmen’s pikes were already in motion. The two men on the ends maintained their weapons upright; the pair inside those brought theirs forward at an angle as the bearers straightened their arms, pointing their weapons towards the newcomers; the pair in the middle changed their grips and drew their weapons inward across their bodies, forming a cross and barring entry. FitzHugh nodded to the sergeant in charge without slacking his pace and a quiet word of command brought the guards to attention again as they stepped aside, two of them opening the doors. Directly beyond those, in a narrow foyer lit by a brace of torches mounted on the walls, lay another set of identical doors, these unguarded. FitzHugh paused, his gaze sweeping Bruce from head to foot before he nodded and knocked with the side of a clenched fist, then pushed the doors wide and stepped inside.
The sound of raised voices, which had become audible only after passing the outer doors, died away quickly as men turned to look at the newcomers. Bruce had a quick impression of great tension as he saw the crowd inside, some sitting, others standing, all of them glaring at him as though resenting the interruption. But then he realized how the soaring, brightly painted walls of the great chamber dwarfed its occupants, reducing them to less than human size. Now he took in the large, open-ended square of tables that had been drawn up at the midpoint of the vast room. The barons, a brightly coloured throng of them dressed in clothing that ranged from courtly dress to full heraldic armorial trappings, were arranged along the outside of the tables on two sides; the far side was occupied by clerics, all of them scribbling busily; and in the middle of them stood Edward of England, in flowing robes of saffron and pale purple and wearing his light workaday crown of solid gold with a solitary square-cut ruby at its centre. He had been speaking, evidently, haranguing his listeners if the storm of voices Bruce had heard was any indication, but now his gaze was directly set on Bruce.
“My lord of Carrick,” he barked. “We have been awaiting you. Come forward.”
Bruce wondered briefly at the use of that “we.” Was Edward referring to himself and the assembled barons, or was he being regally formal? Holding himself stiffly erect, he marched forward to the edge of the rectangular space where the King stood, then stopped and dropped to one knee, bowing his head.
“My liege, I came as quickly as I could.”
“We do not doubt it. Rise, man. How many men can you supply from Writtle?”
Bruce almost blurted, “From Writtle?” but caught himself just in time and frowned instead, calculating quickly. “Fifty at once, my liege. Perhaps a hundred, given time.”
Edward nodded. “Fifty will suffice for now. What calibre of men are they?”
“Fit enough to march and fight, my liege, when called upon. I have a force of thirty men-at-arms, armoured and equipped. The others would be tenants, variously equipped.” He carefully said no more.
“We have a task for you, my lord earl, one we can think of none more suited to perform. You will return to your home and raise those men. At the same time, you will send word to your closest neighbours—eleven knights whose holdings lie within a day’s ride of you. FitzHugh will give you a list of who they are. You will bid each of them, in my name and with my full authority—a writ to be supplied to that end by FitzHugh, too—to raise a similar force to your own and bring it to Writtle to join yours. Eleven knights with fifty men apiece. Then, in command of a force six hundred strong, you will execute my royal decree.”
He looked around slowly at the listening barons lining the tables, and it seemed to Bruce that there had been something approaching scorn in the King’s eyes as he turned to scan them.
“As you may see, we are in conference here, upon matters of state. And you must be confused about what we seek of you. Had word yet come to you of what has been happening elsewhere recently?”
“No, my liege. No word has come to us of anything new or unusual. Writtle is a quiet place where little happens and few men visit.”
“Hmm. Would I could take your place for a month or two … Scotland is in turmoil,” he continued, his tone suddenly harsh and hostile. “A group of troublemakers has emerged up there, though God Himself knows that is far from new. These call themselves the council of Guardians, or the council of Twelve, depending upon whom one listens to … What is it? If you have anything to say on that then spit it out. We need to hear it.”
“Forgive me, my liege, it but crossed my mind that there is nothing new about a council of Guardians in Scots law. Such a council has existed since the death of King Alexander, during the interreg—” He cut himself off, seeing Edward’s displeasure.
“The interregnum. Aye, we know that well,” Edward made no attempt to hide his impatience. “But at its strongest such a council comprised six of their so-called magnates. This newest body is made up of twelve, and all of them are traitors. They have usurped their King’s authority and now contrive to run the country. And Balliol, King though he calls himself, has ceded his power to them, submitting cravenly to their demands and dancing now to the tune they set for him. Faugh!” He stopped short, then resumed in a slightly moderated voice. “They came to prominence in October, though we know they had been plotting secretly for months. And when they did unmask themselves this so-called King stepped meekly to one side and let them do as they wished. To our great harm, be it said.
“He had agreed, long months before, to lend assistance to us for our war in France. Now he has reneged, refuses to fulfill his promise, for all he knows it to be his feudal duty. And the magnates are at fault, but not for that alone. Ever since they came to power last month, they have been cleansing their accursed land of Englishmen. Their bishops, working in collusion with this upstart council, have dispossessed no fewer than four and twenty English clerics—abbots, priests, and bishops—from their duly appointed livings. Those unfortunates have been forced to return here to England, heaped in ignominy, to seek new appointments. We have reports, too, of diverse men of station being removed—expelled—from their own lands, to be replaced by Scots. And now we have reports of English merchants being killed in the town of Berwick—murdered and robbed by Scots while in the prosecution of their own legal affairs.”
Edward turned away to address his next words to the listening barons.
“It is insufferable and it will be remedied. These damned Scots are now to find that two may play this new game of theirs.”
This was all news to Bruce. He had had no inkling of the speed with which affairs had developed. No word of any of this—clerics dislodged from their benefices; landowners dispossessed; merchants assaulted, robbed, and killed—had reached him.
The King was pacing now, his eyes moving from one to another among his barons. “The granting of lands within a realm lies in the purview of its king and no one else, and those lands, once granted, may not be rescinded without just cause. Scotland is a small realm compared with ours, and nowhere near as rich, with fewer worthwhile lands to grant. And that is a lesson we must hammer home to these ingrates. Our realm is full of Scots. We have whole towns of Scotsmen living in our northern domains. But as of this day, that changes!”
He swung back to Bruce, extending a pointing finger. “You, my lord Bruce, will, with your six hundred men, embark upon a circuit of this region, the very heartland of our realm. You will ride north through Essex and thence into the shires of Suffolk, Cambridge, and Northampton, whence you will return by way of Warwick, Oxford, Berkshire, and Middlesex—the richest lands in all our realm, mark you. FitzHugh will arm you with the documents and authorization you need, as well as clerics to record your passage. In every county that you pass through you will find fine estates—magnificent estates—held in the name of Balliol, the puling King of Scotland. But now as he treats me and mine, so sha
ll I treat him. You will haul down the standard of Balliol above each and every one of those houses and castles, replacing them with our own royal standard. I, Richard Plantagenet, now dispossess John Balliol and declare all his possessions in this realm forfeit to the Crown of England. His days of English wealth are at an end, and you, whom he himself betrayed and dispossessed, will be my instrument in demonstrating that.”
His brows twitched in a frown. “Mind you, I want no blood spilt, Bruce. The lands and houses therein may be nominally his but all their folk, from soldiery to servants and tenantry, are English. Once they see the way of things, they will cause you no trouble. But to be sure, you will leave a score or two of men—more, if you see fit—at each place you seize, replenishing your force from the people in place there, so that your strength will remain constant at six hundred. Is that clear?”
“It is, my liege.” Fighting to keep his face expressionless, Bruce dared say no more. His mind was reeling at the scope of the task he had been set, scrabbling to form some notion of the time it would take to complete the circuit Edward had described. And it had barely penetrated his awareness that the execution of his charge would incorporate his own profound revenge for the ill done to him and his kin by the very man he would now impoverish.
“And you accept the charge?”
“Of course, my liege.”
“Well then, go off and do it. A day of preparation here with FitzHugh, ten days to raise your own cadre and warn your fellow knights, ten more to assemble their five hundred. Within four weeks, by Yuletide, you will be on the road. Are we agreed?”
“Yes, my liege.”
“Excellent, then. We will be keen to hear of your success, and in the meantime we have much else to achieve. Go now with FitzHugh. He has everything in hand, and fare ye well, young Bruce.”
