Robert the Bruce--A Tale of the Guardians

by Jack Whyte

  As the three came together, exchanging greetings, Bigod swung around in his saddle to address the knight called Hazelrig. “Get the men ready to leave. We’re finished here. Send us word when you’re ready, but in the meantime leave us alone. We are old friends here.”

  It had been three years since the three had last seen each other, the morning of the day before their knighting, when Bruce had ridden home to his mother’s sickbed, and they behaved as old friends long parted always do, exchanging jibes and reminiscences while appraising the changes that had marked them all since last meeting.

  Henry Percy, Baron of Alnwick, pulled off his heavy helmet and slung it from his saddle horn before pushing back his mailed cowl, baring his head and scrubbing at his matted scalp as he eyed Bruce’s doublet and the lace trimming at the neck of his white shirt. His gaze slid down his friend’s velvet-clad legs to the soft, brushed leather but thickly soled riding boots he wore.

  “I’d heard rumours that you are become a ladies’ man, Bruce,” he said, “but I hadn’t believed them until now. Do you always ride out dressed like milady’s favourite minstrel?”

  Bruce smiled. “On my own lands, and in the company of ladies, aye, I do. Much of the time, anyway. And my lands lie across the river there.” He gestured over his shoulder.

  “Of course,” Percy said. “Writtle is Bruce land. It’s been so long since I was here that I’d forgotten. Our grandsires’ estates touch here.”

  “Aye. It was my grandfather’s. But he died these three months since, may God rest his soul, and left it to me.”

  “The Competitor is dead? That grieves me to hear—though now that I think of it, I had believed him dead long since. He was a legend when we were boys, though he was not the Competitor then, not until after the death of King Alexander. I’ve always thought the new name suited him. How old was he?”

  Bruce shrugged. “Older than anyone I’ve ever known. Eighty, or thereabouts. He was ready to go, he told me last time I saw him. But I missed his death by days. They had sent to summon me from the north but I was already on my way here and must have passed the messenger along the way. The old man was laid out for burial by the time I arrived and I didn’t even know he had been sick. His second wife, the Lady Christina of Ireby, still lives here, under my protection.” He waved a hand towards the finery of Percy’s surcoat. “And what about you? I know the blue and gold are the colours of Warrenne, but a rampant lion azure? Where did that come from?”

  Percy smiled smugly. “My wife. I was wed last year. Name’s Eleanor, daughter to the Earl of Arundel. Their crest is a rampant lion, in gold. I adopted it in honour of my lady wife and changed it to the blue of Earl Warrenne. With the approval of both earls, of course.”

  Bruce nodded. “Of course, not to mention the King. And it is … striking. Makes a statement of authority.”

  “I believe it does … Why do you smile?”

  “Because it’s like my own.” Bruce kept his voice low. “Or rather my grandfather’s, which I have adopted. The ancient Bruce arms—a red saltire on a field of gold, surmounted by a red chief, with a blue rampant lion in the left corner.”

  Percy sat still, the colour draining from his face, and then he barked, “Damnation, Bruce. You jest with me.”

  Bruce shrugged and held up his hands, palms outward. “Harry, I would not do such a thing. I speak the truth. Those are the Bruce arms, though they’re seldom seen today. My grandsire preferred the plain blue lion rampant. That was his personal standard. But those are Scots arms, Harry, not English, so few Englishmen will ever see my version. No need, then, to make a fuss about it.”

  “I am not fussing.”

  Bigod glanced at Percy, attracted by the sudden tension in his voice. Bruce and Percy both schooled their faces, betraying nothing, and after a moment Bigod grinned, and his eyelid flickered in the merest wink to Percy. “Ladies, you said, Bruce, did you not?” he drawled. “I see no ladies.”

  Bruce grinned again. “I sent them on ahead when I got word that there were strange doings afoot on the far side of the stream … What happened here today?”

  Percy made a grimace of distaste. “What happened here was retribution, in the King’s name and at his command. You know about the Welsh rebellion, this past year?”

  “Aye, who doesn’t?”

  “But you were not involved?”

  “No, I was in Ireland, acting as a liaison between Edward and de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster.”

  Percy nodded thoughtfully. “I heard something of that posting. It made quite a stir, I recall. The King forgave all your debts, did he not?”

  Feeling his face flush slightly, Bruce shrugged his silk-clad shoulders. “Aye, that’s true,” he said. “But they were debts incurred in his service. And in taxes that fell due when we moved to England. When we failed to attend his coronation and swear our fealty as quickly as he and his Comyn friends wished, King John of Scotland sequestered—” He thought about that for a moment, his brows furrowed. “Aye, that’s the word Edward’s lawyer used—he sequestered our holdings. Didn’t snatch them away from us completely, but withheld their revenues and rents, declared us forsworn to justify his doing so, naming us … not treasonous, exactly, but something of that ilk, designed to make our name stink in the nostrils of our countrymen. Defectors, that was it. He named us defectors when we came to England as Edward’s vassals. That moved Edward to publicly forgive my debts to him, in recompense, since I was new-arrived and had never lived in England prior to that time, other than as a visiting knight in training.”

  “Hold you!” Percy stared at Bruce, his brows drawn into a deep furrow. “Your own King named you forsworn for coming to England? How can that be? You own lands here, as does he himself.”

  “Aye, but there was more involved than meets the eye. There are two great houses in Scotland, dominating all others between them, and one of those is Bruce, so for Bruce to be absent from his crowning displeased the King greatly. And when we moved south to England, still without declaring fealty to him, he—or more likely his Comyn kinsmen—decreed that we had defected to England and forfeited our rights within his realm.”

  “Why didn’t you take the oath and stay in Scotland?” Bigod sounded mildly perplexed.

  “What, and forswear ourselves and our patrimony, John? Mouth allegiance to a man I know to be less able than my own grandsire, whose rightful crown he wears? The oath would have been insincere, and Bruce does not deal in lies. That was my grandsire’s watchword throughout his life, and no man doubted him. I intend to follow his example.”

  “But Balliol is King there, declared so legally, at Norham. Do you dispute Edward’s judgment and the verdict of the auditors?”

  Bruce grinned at him, shaking his head. “No, not the verdict—merely the tenor and good sense of it. But then I am a Bruce, and I believe my grandsire had the better claim, besides being the better man. That’s why we are here in England, John. We consider our fealty to Edward to be of greater import than our loyalty to Balliol and the Comyns. For make no mistake, the Comyns rule in all but name in Scotland nowadays, and John Balliol is closely bound to them by ties of blood and marriage.”

  “But what of the realm, your loyalty to Scotland?” Bigod asked.

  There was no trace of humour in Bruce’s reply. “What realm? England is a realm, John, in the true sense of the word. A realm needs a strong king—a powerful leader whom all men will gladly follow to the death in that realm’s cause if need arises. There is none such in Scotland today. The land is ruled by one dominant house nowadays and that house dictates to all the others. Some are content with that. Others not so. But as things stand there is no place in Scotland today for Bruce to live and prosper without bending the knee to Comyns everywhere. The sole alternative would be rebellion and civil war.”

  Percy grunted, bored with the topic. “So what did Balliol do then, when you came south?”

  “Exactly what I would have expected him to do. He gave the oversight and governance of my
grandsire’s holdings in Annandale—though they were in truth my father’s by then—and of my own earldom of Carrick to a royal kinsman, the Comyn Earl of Buchan. He did not grant them outright ownership, but they hold them none the less, albeit in the King’s name.” He gave a half-smothered, ironic chuckle. “Comyns running Bruce estates … We Bruces have never loved the Comyn breed, nor they us.” He raised an eyebrow at Percy, then added, “You met one of them when he came to Westminster with Bek, you might recall, when we were there the last time. Came down with him from Scotland, that day he rode in with Robert Clifford in tow, what was it, six years ago? The heir to the Red Comyn lordship of Badenoch. There are two branches of the Comyn family, the senior being the Red Comyns of Badenoch and the lesser the Black Comyns of Buchan.”

  “I remember him,” John Bigod interjected. “Didn’t like him, either. An arrogant whoreson.”

  “Aye, that’s a family trait, I’m told. Anyway, his people now hold our lands in Annandale and Ayr, and so we—my father and my family—lived in England, at my grandsire’s estate of Ireby in Cumberland, until the King dispatched me to Ireland and the court of Richard de Burgh. And there I spent the entire year, in the wilds of Ulster, while Comyns ruled my earldom and collected my rents. It is … isolated over there. The Welsh rebellion was stamped out before I ever heard about it, let alone was able to take part in it.”

  “Don’t fret over that,” Percy said. “You were fortunate. Bigod and I were there, and it was no fit place for any man of honour. No glory to be had in Wales—nothing but filth and treachery, bloodshed and bitter hatred and the constant threat of pestilence. But while that sorry tale was being spun, the south here was almost wholly stripped of fighting men. And knowing that, malcontents everywhere believed themselves at liberty to live like their betters. There have always been outlaws in the forests—hard, broken men—but while we were away in Wales they grew bolder everywhere, even here, this close to London. Some of them became a public menace here in Essex, making free with the local people, looting, raping, and murdering.

  “When we came home from Wales at the end of April, the entire countryside around London was in chaos. Townspeople hid behind their walls, not daring to go out for fear of being robbed and killed. Edward was furious—never seen him so angry—and sent out groups in all directions—us under de Valence of Pembroke here in Essex—to scour the land free of the vermin. We’ve been harrying their nests now for more than a month.” He waved a pointing thumb towards the distant oaks. “These were the last of them left organized. We caught up with them yesterday. Of course they knew we were coming by then and most of them scattered into the deep woods. These few here were the diehards. And die hard they did.”

  Bruce blinked, rattled by the mention of the Earl of Pembroke’s presence nearby. It was de Valence’s own granddaughter, the beautiful and willing Gwendolyn de Ferrers, who was lustfully awaiting Bruce’s return to camp that night, and he felt a chill run over him as he imagined the old earl’s vengeful fury should he ever suspect such a thing. He could not conceal his reaction or the involuntary frown of concern it brought, but he managed to disguise its origins by glowering at Percy and asking, skeptically, “And you did all this with forty men-at-arms and four knights?”

  “And a score of archers. But no, we were more than that. Our group here is but the smallest of three. There’s a larger group under Pembroke himself—de Bohun’s among them, which might surprise you—conducting a sweep north of here, and a third force, larger again, commanded by Antoine La Pierre, one of Pembroke’s Frenchmen, is scouring our perimeters, mopping up the escapees…” He paused, almost squinting at Bruce. “Were you jesting? Do you really have women with you?” He laughed. “Of course you do. Why would I even bother to wonder?”

  Bruce nodded absently, ignoring the jibe as he considered what he had been told. “Where are you going now?”

  “To our rallying point, to meet up with Pembroke’s force. They should be coming in later today. Might even be there now, depending on what they encountered to the north. De Valence chose the spot himself, a hamlet on the main London road, with open land, fresh water, and good grazing nearby. It’s not far from here, about two miles north, along the riverbank. Why d’you ask?”

  “Because I do have ladies here, and I should rejoin them—and no, Harry, I cannot take you with me. That would be … indelicate, shall we say. I have a camp set up for them on my lands and have promised them a day of hunting tomorrow. It came to me, though, that I should see my guests fed and comfortable—they are well chaperoned and guarded, for despite my own unarmoured state I’m not completely irresponsible. Then later, when I am satisfied that all is well with them, I would like to join you by your campfire. Would that be acceptable?”

  Bigod smiled wolfishly. “Aye, but far more so were you to bring the women with you.”

  Percy smiled, too, but waved Bigod’s comment aside. “Into an armed camp, he means, to be frightened out of their wits by the sights and smells of half-wild men who have been campaigning for more than a month. But come yourself, by all means. We’ve an unweaned pig roasting on a spit—the unintentional gift of some farmer who failed to keep it carefully penned—so don’t eat before you come, and don’t waste any time. Your ladies will still be there when you get back, no?”

  Bruce nodded, amused. “Yes, they will. They will await my coming. And so I’ll leave you to your departures. Two miles from here, you say? And I’ll find you if I stay close to the river?”

  “Humphrey will be there by then,” Percy said, his teeth flashing in a savage grin. “So even if you can’t see our fires, you’ll hear de Bohun.” He stretched out his hand in farewell. “Until tonight, then.”

  * * *

  “Is that right? Ye’re goin’ back there this nicht, to their camp?”

  Thomas Beg’s question brought Bruce out of the reverie in which he had been riding, and he looked around him, surprised to see that they were approaching the base of the low hill on which his people had set up their camp and would be there in a matter of minutes.

  He nodded. “I am, for a while.”

  “An’ whit aboot the lady?”

  Bruce fought the urge to grin at the brusque impertinence of the question, which implicitly dismissed three of the four women they were riding to rejoin.

  “What about her?” No point, he knew, in trying to dissemble.

  The big man scowled. “She’ll no’ be happy gin ye up an’ awa, an’ her lookin’ tae spend the nicht wi’ ye.”

  “She’ll wait,” he answered, still resisting the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. “She has no choice. Besides, I’ll be gone but a few hours and the matter’s important. My need here is greater than her ladyship’s, I fear.”

  “Aye. Tell her that. Better you nor me.”

  Now Bruce did grin. “I will, Thomas, never fear. I wouldna ask you to do that.”

  “No, an’ a good thing, too, for I’d hae nothin’ to do wi’ it.”

  Bruce barked a laugh, marvelling again at the difference between Scots and Englishmen. None other among his people in Essex would ever dare to use such a tone to any of their so-called betters, let alone voice such questions and demand answers to them. The Scots, though, were vastly different in that respect—sternly intolerant of human foibles, without regard for rank or person. They might accord a nobleman the respect of a title, but only if they thought the man had earned it. They had no tolerance for bending the knee unwillingly or for paying lip service to a fool even if he was a titled fool. And they had no reluctance at all about cutting a fool’s pretensions down to size.

  Wee Thomas had earned every scrap of the authoritative familiarity that permitted him to take issue on occasion with his employer’s behaviour. The giant man had been the younger Bruce’s shadow—bodyguard, trainer, escort, and confidant—since the day the earl had committed the twelve-year-old boy to his care. Thomas Beg had been eighteen then, young for such a responsibility, but he had accepted it wholeheartedl
y, and since then the two had been apart only during Bruce’s two-year sojourn in Westminster, training for knighthood in the royal household.

  He spoke again. “So yon was Percy.”

  It was not a question, but Bruce treated it as though it had been. “It was. Sir Henry Percy, Baron of Alnwick and grandson of John de Warrenne, the Earl of Surrey. And with him another of the boyhood friends you’ve heard me talk about—Sir John de Bigod, no title, but firstborn nephew to the Earl of Norfolk. A third one, Humphrey de Bohun, heir to the earldom of Hereford, will join them tonight. He’s riding with de Valence of Pembroke, whom Edward charged with stamping out the bandits they hanged today. Those fourteen were the last of them, Percy said.”

  “Ye dinna like him, do ye?”

  “Who? De Bohun or de Valence?”

  “De Valence. I’ve heard ye say as much.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know the man at all, other than by name and repute. He’s French and unfriendly and he’s never given me a single nod of recognition, but he’s well respected, if not well liked. He’s one of Edward’s oldest allies, too. Fought with him at Acre. It’s his son, Aymer, I don’t like, but he’s not here, or Percy would have said so.”

  Thomas Beg harrumphed and pulled his horse to a halt, facing Bruce directly. “Right then,” he said, his jaw set pugnaciously. “Three good friends, no’ seen in a long time. But ye’ve a woman waitin’ for ye. What makes them mair important than her, this minute? I’ve never seen ye choose the company o’ a man ahead o’ a willin’ woman.”