by Jack Whyte
“King John fled northward, to beyond the River Forth, demonstrating to the world that he was even less effective as warrior and leader than he had been as monarch. He sued for peace terms soon after the fall of Edinburgh and was finally brought to trial for his crimes, at a place called … Brechin? Does that sound correct to you? My memory is not what it used to be and these alien Scots names can be devilish.”
“Brechin Castle. Aye, it’s in the east, in Fife, close to Montrose on the coast there. What happened at Brechin?”
“King John was arraigned there, no more, by Bishop Bek. And your memory is correct. He was then moved to the nearby burgh of Montrose. On July the seventh, he annulled and abjured the French alliance publicly and formally—his last act as a King. He was then legally deposed and taken into custody the following day, stripped of his royal arms, his seal broken, his monarchy abolished and annulled.”
“Good God! And the Scots stood by for this?”
The old man spread his hands, palms up. “What else could they do, with their army defeated and the front rank of their nobility in custody? But privily I have been told that they were massively relieved to see the end of him and his unfortunate reign.”
“July the eighth, you say? That was mere weeks ago. The news reached you quickly.”
“It had to, for the good of England’s realm and government. But the news is not yet widely known. That was the content of the meetings I have been conducting these past two days. Strictly speaking, I should not have informed you of any of this, but it will be common knowledge within the week and there will be great celebrations when King Edward returns home.”
Bruce began to thank Sir Robert for his time but then hesitated, struck by another thought. “Berwick,” he said.
“What about it?”
“I heard a tragic tale from a seaman who was offshore there on the day of the King’s attack. He spoke of great loss of life and the town being burned. I found that scarcely credible, but he was there, he said, and insisted he had seen what he had seen. Was slaughter done there? And if so, why?”
FitzHugh shook his head solemnly. “The King commanded there in person, my lord of Carrick. I can only report what I have learned from his dispatches. The townsfolk resisted, believing themselves secure behind their walls, but once again they were overconfident. The walls fell and the defenders were overcome. Merchants and burghers were killed and there were some fires, but the town is now being rebuilt and will be the headquarters of a new administration for Scotland. A team of able officers and administrators is being assembled even now. Berwick will flourish in the coming years.” It was his turn to hesitate then, and he smiled as though at a passing thought. “As will you and yours.”
Bruce frowned briefly. “What mean you by that, Sir Robert?”
FitzHugh’s smile widened. “Why, you will regain your own, of course. The King who dispossessed you is no more, and the family to whom he gave your lands is here in London, in disgrace and safely penned up in the Tower.”
“Buchan is here?”
“He is, and with many of his Comyn kin. The Badenochs, father and son, to be sure. Thus Annandale and Carrick are both redeemed and will be returned to you by a grateful King when he returns.”
“My God, the Earl of Buchan in the Tower of London!”
“And not alone. We have four earls in residence: Buchan himself, and the earls of Athol, Ross, and Menteith. Indeed there are Scots magnates and … what is their other word? Mormaers, that’s it—magnates and mormaers under lock and key throughout the length and breadth of England. Will you be returning to Writtle tonight, my lord?”
Bruce jerked upright. “I will, if there be time. I do not care to leave my wife alone at night nowadays if it can be avoided. But I had lost track of the time.”
FitzHugh gestured with a finger for Bruce to remain where he was and then crossed to the door, where he leaned out into the neighbouring room to speak to someone there. He returned immediately. “Between the second and third hour of the afternoon, so you have plenty of time, with the sun setting so late. Is there anything more you might require of me?”
It was a dismissal, but of the kindliest kind from a man so obviously pressed for time. Moments later, Bruce was in the outer yard again, making his way towards the barracks where Thomas Beg would be awaiting him.
* * *
“They deposed Balliol.”
The two men were more than halfway home to Writtle, having passed the sign of the Spotted Cow a good hour earlier, and were cantering easily, knee to knee along the soft verge of the road to save their horses’ hooves. The sun had just passed the midpoint of its descent and would fall more quickly now, but they were making excellent time and were optimistic that they would be back in Writtle, if not in time for supper, at least in time enough to find the food still warm enough to be palatable. Bruce had been reviewing his talk with FitzHugh and wondering for some time whether he ought to tell Thomas Beg what he had learned, and now that he had delivered the news he began to think that the other man was not going to respond at all.
“Aye,” the big man growled eventually. “A good word, that, deposed … Sounds genteel, does it no’? It’s no’ the word I would hae used.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean that, frae what I heard, the man was gutted. They stripped him o’ everythin’, and I dinna mean just his dignity, his good name—however little he might hae had left o’ that. They brought him up in front of Edward in his full regalia, the poor, benighted whoreson, an’ then they stripped him o’ everythin’. Ripped the royal coat o’ arms off his tabard and threw it on the floor for folk to trample. Broke his royal seal. Took his crown and ither jewels as trophies, everythin’ they could lay hands on. They even broke his sword so he could never wield it again. As if he ever had! The preenin’ prince-bishop, Bek o’ Durham, was in charge o’ every bit o’ that and he milked the whole thing like a swollen udder … And him supposed to be Balliol’s friend and kinsman. Pious whoreson hypocrite!”
“Where did you hear all this?”
Thomas Beg eyed him scornfully. “Where d’ye think? It was the talk o’ the sergeants’ barracks. Half the men in there today are new back from Scotland, and believe me, they hae some tales to tell … Two o’ the fellows there—King’s Guard, like Beltane—had been on duty when Balliol was shamed and saw it wi’ their own eyes. They just got back here yesterday and they’re still talkin’ about it as though it was yesterday. One o’ them said it was the worst thing he’d ever had to stand and watch. Like watchin’ a dog gettin’ whipped, he said.”
“Jesus! And Edward took the crown and jewels?”
“Aye. Shipped them back to London. But that’s no’ even part o’ what he took.”
Bruce looked sideways at him, frowning. “What’s worth more than Scotland’s crown and jewels?”
“The rest of the realm’s regalia and the royal plate. They emptied the treasure house. And then there’s St. Margaret’s own Black Rood, Scotland’s holiest relic, and the Stone o’ Destiny itself. The rood lifted frae Edinburgh and the other frae Scone Abbey, both to be shipped to Westminster Abbey for veneration by the English.”
Bruce had reined in his horse, his face blank with shock. “That is blasphemy, Thomas Beg.”
“Aye, it is, but don’t glower at me. I wasna there and I’m no’ responsible. But blasphemy it is, right enough, to steal one country’s holy relics for the adornment o’ another.”
Appalled was not a word that would have come to Bruce at any time, but that was how this news affected him. The Stone of Destiny was the literal seat of Scottish kings. Every Celtic king from time immemorial had been seated upon it when he was crowned. The thought of its being taken to England, and as a trophy, in that moment made nonsense of all Edward Plantagenet’s claims of judicious tolerance and strictly legal and constitutional deliberation. Scotland was now without a king, and by removing the physical trappings of kingship—crown, sceptre, robes, and treasury—and
seizing the Stone of Destiny, obliterating centuries of tradition and ritual, Edward of England was plainly determined to ensure that it would remain without one.
“I heard somethin’ else in there, too, and ye’re no’ goin’ to like it.”
“Tell it to me quickly, then. What else did they take? What else could they take?”
“No.” He sensed Tam shaking his head, and as he turned to look at him the words came at him. “It’s nothin’ like that. It’s about your father.”
That brought a sudden dull ache to Bruce’s midriff, despite FitzHugh’s recent assurances. “What about him?”
“He wis in Scotland, just after the fight at Dunbar. But Edward sent him back to Carlisle wi’ a flea in his ear.”
“In Scotland…? No, you’re wrong, Tam. You have to be. FitzHugh would surely have mentioned it.”
Thomas Beg twisted his mouth and dipped his head to one side, managing to give the impression of an elaborate shrug of doubt. “Different frae what I heard, then. But what I heard was definite, and the man that spoke o’ it didna know me and didna know I kent anythin’ about what he was sayin’. He was a northerner an’ he named your father by name—the Lord o’ Annandale, son of that Auld Bruce whit was near made king instead o’ Balliol.”
A worm of dread was beginning to roil in Bruce’s gut. It didn’t seem unfeasible on the face of things. The distance between Carlisle and Dunbar was not too great to preclude a swift sortie for Bruce—fifty miles or so across his own former lands of Annandale by Hawick and Melrose to the Lammermuir Hills and the coast; three, perhaps four days of hard riding each way. But what could have possessed his father to go there, quitting his own strategic post on the border in time of war? Bruce had a growing conviction that he did not want to hear the answer, but he kicked his horse into motion again and asked for it, clenching his guts against whatever the response might be.
“Go on, then. What did he say?”
“That even the mighty, stupit at the best o’ times, could sometimes be as prancin’ daft as a droolin’ halfwit. An’ he was laughin’ at the thought o’ it. He said Annandale chose ill on every front—ill timing, ill judgment, and an ill-phrased answer to the question o’ why he was there at a’ when he should be in England tendin’ to his duties wi’ the Scots still up in arms.”
“Jesus God! The very question I would have asked him, too. And how did my father respond?”
“Ill, as I said. As poorly as he could have, in fact. He telt Edward to his face that he had come, now that Balliol was done, to claim the kingdom that was now his by rights.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Bruce kept his face rock still, though he wanted to grind his teeth at his father’s rash foolishness, seeing now, as Lord Robert had evidently been incapable of seeing, the reality of Edward’s hardening will to keep the throne of Scotland vacant. The Scots regalia had not yet been seized at that point, but his father’s provocation might well have been a determining factor, if not in fact the sole determinant, in Edward’s decision to proceed with it. “And what was Edward’s response to that? Did your fellow know?”
“Well, aye, he was standin’ right there, on duty, watchin’ and listenin’. He said Edward laughed, as though he couldna believe what he had heard. And then he went from laugh to rage in half a heartbeat an’ roared, ‘God’s hoary balls, man! Have I no more to do in the middle of a war than find kingdoms for every pulin’ supplicant who comes to me on his knees in search of favours?’ Somethin’ like that, anyway, though I’ve nae doubt the God’s hoary balls bit was word for word. That’s the kind o’ thing Edward would say an’ it’s the kind o’ thing folk remember.”
“Ah, Father, Father, Father…” Bruce closed his eyes in horror at the thought of his father’s humiliation. It felt like an age before he could continue. “And did my father have a response?”
“Shamed silence, was what I heard. No’ a word o’ protest or self-defence. He just knelt there, wi’ his head down. And Edward let him wait there on the floor while he attended to other things. Nobody spoke, save for the King himsel’, issuin’ orders here an’ there. But everybody was watchin’ your father like corbies starin’ at a dyin’ beast.”
“Oh, God … And how did it end?”
“The King ordered Sir Robert Clifford to tak a hundred men and ride at once wi’ the Lord o’ Annandale as far as Melrose, there to see his lordship safely an’ speedily on his way back to his neglected duties in Carlisle. An’ that was it. Your father left, wi’ his tail between his legs.”
“Clifford must have loved that, the arrogant pup. He’s even younger than I am—barely one and twenty. One more humiliation atop the rest…” A silence stretched between the two men, broken only by the sounds of their horses, until Bruce spoke again. “This is sad news, Thomas. And not merely sad but threatening, in its way. Edward is a great bearer of grudges, and I think my father might have placed us all in jeopardy with this folly. God! How can any son grow up to be so different from the man that fathered him?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LOCHMABEN REVISITED
“Carrick! There you are! I thought we’d have to start our parliament without you. Come forward.”
The shout soared above the other voices, and many of the heads in the grand chamber of Berwick Castle that late-August day turned in response to it. Berwick town was swamped with people summoned to the parliament convened there by Edward Plantagenet to formalize his absolute victory over the Scots and to determine the matter of how the delinquent realm would now be ruled, since most of its nobility was under guard in England. Bruce had received his summons ten days earlier and had been riding for a week. He had arrived that same afternoon.
As an earl, he had been assigned quarters in the castle, and had stopped there briefly, taking only sufficient time to wash off the worst of the road dirt that had coated him and to exchange his smelly riding gear for clothing more suitable for greeting a king. He had been ushered into the royal presence as an honoured guest and had stopped just inside the door to scan the crowded assembly, looking for anyone he might recognize, and he had been there mere moments before the King’s voice came to him over the surrounding throng. He nodded as he caught the King’s eye, then wove his way among the densely packed bodies towards the high dais that gave the King, tall though he was, the extra height he needed to survey the monstrous chamber from where he stood.
Edward was being fitted for a new garment of some kind, for he stood in the centre of the platform between two kneeling tailors, with his arms extended to both sides as they fussed and tugged, inserting pins and adjusting drapes of cloth. As Bruce approached the dais, keeping his face expressionless and avoiding all eyes but the King’s, he was wondering what the immediacy and the autocratic sharpness of the summons portended. Edward had called him Carrick, not Bruce or Robert, as he sometimes did, and not even the more cordial my lord of Carrick. Did that mean Edward was angry with him? It might; it could easily mean that, though for what cause he had no idea other than the King’s lingering displeasure with his father’s behaviour. On the other hand, though, the size of the crowd and the din of conversation might simply have demanded a louder, sharper tone. The sins of the fathers, he thought, his mind still on his father’s folly as he slipped adroitly between two older men, idly noting that there were no women present at this assembly.
He was almost at the lowest step leading to the dais when the King spun in a fury, his arms still high in the air like a village dancer’s. “God’s holy arse, fool!” he roared. “Will you bleed me to death with your accursed pins? You’ve drawn more blood from me in half an hour than the entire Scotch army was able to in the course of a war! Get this thing off me and get out of my sight!”
The tailor who had pierced the royal skin was ashen faced, his mouth stuffed with pins and his eyes starting from his head as he sought to obey the royal command without provoking further wrath. Between him and his equally shaken companion, they managed to divest the monarch of his unfinished outer robe
and to scurry away to safety as Edward eyed the Earl of Carrick cannily, probing with one hand at the left side of the royal ribs where the pin had evidently pricked him. Bruce, bowing his head in greeting and preparing to either drop to one knee or mount the steps if bidden, tried to analyze that look and failed. He still could not tell if Edward was angry with him.
“Come up,” Edward said, extending his hand. Bruce mounted the three steps and dropped to one knee, kissing the large ruby of the ring on the King’s hand.
“My liege,” he said. “I rejoice to see you again, after such a long time.”
“Aye, and a long time it has been. You look well, young Bruce. And how is your countess, the beautiful Isabella?”
“She was well when I left her a week ago, my liege. Growing lovelier every day.”
The King’s mouth twitched. “Lucky man. And bigger, too, I suppose. How much longer now?”
“Two months, my liege. Early November, I am told.”
“Excellent. And she is well otherwise?”
“She is, sire. Wonderfully well, by the grace of God. But she looks as though she is carrying a foal, so big is the child and she so small.”
Edward nodded, but his eyes were already scanning the room again.
“Forgive me, my liege, but what is it that you require of me, to bring me all the way from England?”
The King came back to attention. “Your signature on the Scottish instruments of fealty.”
“On the what?” Bruce stood gaping at the monarch like a landed fish.
“The instruments of fealty—for Scotland! You have not heard of this in all the time you have been travelling? Then by God’s ancient bones that place of yours in Writtle is really far removed from the centre of things. How could you not have heard? No matter. You’re here now and I have no concerns about your willingness in this. You renewed your oath of fealty on your wedding day and since then you’ve demonstrated your commitment to our cause, so I’ll be brief.