by Glen Craney
Blessed accoutrements of death.
Summoned north from his hunting excursion with Gaveston, he had been promised that his father, delirious with rheumatic fever, was near the end. He had ruined two horses in his haste to arrive in time to witness the glorious last breath, stopping only to send orders to London to have his coronation robe spun and his wedding to that French bitch arranged.
Now, as he inched closer to the bed, he signed his breast in renewed hope. Below him lay the king, horribly blotched and immobilized between two pig’s bladders filled with ice, his prodigious legs elevated with pulleys to drain the malignant fluids into his bowels. Desperate for a confirmation, the prince perked his ear to hear the whispers around the room. He had been disappointed too many times, but the sullen faces of the physicians suggested that this indeed was the hour of his ascension to the throne.
Sensing a hovering presence, Longshanks opened his eyes. “The Borders?”
Caernervon passed a hand across the scabbed face to test his father’s sight. “You should never have let that scofflaw Scot go free.”
Longshanks beckoned his son nearer with a turn of his shaking hand. “My hearing is weak.” When Caernervon leaned down to repeat his admonishment, the king erupted from his pillow and snared his son’s collar with a choking hold. “By God, I will take you with me to Hell before I leave England to your folly! I did not ask your counsel! Answer me!”
Caernervon shrieked as if bitten by an asp. “I’ve not been in the North!”
The king reeled back with a choking spasm. The physicians rushed up flashing their scalpels, but he repulsed them with wild swipes.
Caernervon was horrified. His arrival had only served to revive the old man.
Longshanks rasped, “You think I don’t know where you’ve been?”
“Why was I ordered here if you are not—”
“Your incompetence is the best medicine at my disposal!” The king dug his cracked fingers into the melting slabs of ice and brought a handful to his burning forehead. “You said I should not have let someone go.”
“That day at Berwick, when the Douglas cur refused to joust the Bruce. His defiance has emboldened the heathens, from what I hear.”
“From what you hear? You gather your reconnaissance from where? Those sodomite brothels in London?”
From the shadows, Clifford step forward with caution and reported, “I fear the Prince speaks true, my lord. My spies in Lanark report that Robert Bruce has inherited his grandfather’s lust for the Scot throne. And there is talk about that the Border rebels are being stirred up again by this son of the Douglas traitor that we disposed of in London Tower.”
Longshanks gargled lemon water and spewed it across the room, dousing his attendants in a shower of disease. “Then we must call Bruce’s bluff before he gains strength.”
“Father, grant me command of the army. I will bring Robert Bruce back in chains and raise his head next to Wallace’s on London Bridge.”
The king sucked furiously on a chunk of ice to soothe his throat. When that remedy proved only temporary in its relief, he threw the bowl of frozen shards against the wall, ricocheting it contents off the heads of his retinue. “Appoint him sheriff of Lanark.”
The prince whined, “Why would I want to be in charge of that swine sty?”
Longshanks searched for anything in reach that would serve as a cudgel. “Not you! Clodplate! Bruce! Appoint Bruce!”
Caernervon insisted to the physicians, “He is delirious.”
Longshanks struggled and grunted until he finally managed to lever his elbows. “When Bruce accepts the commission, send an order under my seal for him to raze Castle Douglas.”
Clifford had been enjoying the prince’s torment, but now, finding his own interests at risk, he protested weakly, “My lord will recall that Douglasdale was granted to me for services rendered to the realm.”
The king’s fevered eyes blazed. “And you, sirrah, will recall that you keep your commission and your head at my pleasure!”
Chastened, Clifford bowed. “Shall I deliver the order to Bruce?”
Gulping another difficult breath, Longshanks gasped, “Nay, send a courier. I have another task for you. Where are Red Comyn and his brood of grass snakes nesting these days?”
“Near Dumfries, by last report.”
Longshanks sopped streams of the fever sweat from his forehead. “Young Bruce will not be any easy carp to hook. The Competitor will make certain of that. While we keep those two cornered, we’ll slip a second line into the water.” Wearied from the exertion, the king waved Clifford and the physicians from the room. The prince hurried to take his leave with them, but Longshanks captured his son’s wrist and, pulling him down to the bed, caressed the back of his balding head. “Eddie, is there something more you wish to tell me?”
“More?”
The king clamped the nape of Edward’s trembling neck. “I am told you and Gaveston broke into the Bishop of Coventry’s park and poached his deer.”
The prince yelped, his chin stretched to its limit. “What does that matter? His grounds are subject to royal inspection.”
Longshanks kicked his legs from their restraining straps, knocking the ice bladders across the floor. He flailed tottering to his feet and dragged the prince toward the door. “Where the Devil are my councilors? Planning my funeral?” When Gloucester and the guards burst into the chamber, the king shouted, “Remove this reprobate from England!”
Horrified, Caernervon slid to his knees. “You cannot exile me!”
Longshanks stomped and thrashed with his heels, trying to beat his son senseless, but the fever’s blurring prevented him from finding his target. “No more funds to him, by Christ! And see to it that Gascon coxcomb is also sent across the Channel! The Rhineland’s not far enough!”
Caernervon cried. “Not Piers!”
Longshanks ripped off his soaked nightshirt and drove the prince on all fours toward the door by urinating on his back. “I’ll piss on your grave before I see you squander all I’ve gained! Out, damn you! A daughter would have had more balls! A blade, damn it! Bring me a sword!”
Saturated in piss, Caernervon crawled sobbing over the ice. “I will be king! There is nothing you can do to stop it!” He found a boot and hurled it. “If I am malformed, it is from your seed!”
Longshanks took the plated toe of the boot against his nose. Now even more livid, he charged blindly and nearly had the prince in his grasp when he staggered, coughing up gobs of clotted blood.
Caernervon, aghast at finding his shirt splattered, escaped the room.
“God help us,” the king muttered as Gloucester assisted him back to the bed. “If the branch grows so perverse when green, what crooked form will it take when seasoned?”
Still on his knees just outside the door, Caernervon prayed the old man would choke on the purging of his lungs.
ROWED IN A BARK TOWARD the canal entrance of Lochmaben Castle, Robert Bruce sat captured in thought, beset by a thousand memories. Impatient with the pace of their approach, he leapt into the loch and waded toward the mist-shrouded banks where his grandfather had taught him to hunt and fish as a boy. Reaching high ground, he ran to the ancient Bruce stronghold that guarded the Solway Firth and raced up the steps. At the door to the last room, he hesitated and took a deep breath, then forced himself to enter.
The Competitor lay on his deathbed, surrounded by many of his old comrades, including James the Stewart and Bishop Lamberton. The cleric gripped Robert’s shoulder for courage and, finishing the last rites, led the others out.
Robert grasped his grandfather’s frail hand, choking off a cough in grief.
“Robbie … lad, is that you?”
Robert finally found his voice. “Aye, grandpa.”
Stirring, the Competitor drew back the blanket to reveal their clan’s ceremonial broadsword at his side. “It is yours now. You must gain what I could not.”
Robert turned to hide tears. “I’m not ready.�
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“You are ready.”
“Wallace is dead.”
“Wallace was your Baptist. He was sent to prepare your way.”
“I fear Longshanks suspects our plan.”
The Competitor pursed his lips to beg for water, and when his thirst was slaked, he drew a long sigh and warned, “Longshanks won’t long survive me. You must remain uncommitted until his wastrel son gains the throne.”
“And if I my hand is forced?”
“Time is your ally,” the Competitor counseled. “Longshanks knows he must bring the game to a head soon. Do not fall for his trap.”
“Caernervon may be irresolute, but Lancaster and the earls are not.”
“The English lords are drained dry by these wars. Play upon their enmity with the Plantagenets. Divide them, as they have divided us. Learn whom you can trust amongst our own. Earn their loyalty and never betray it.”
Robert tried to think of whom he could rally to his side. “There is Edward, but Nigel and Tom are too young, and Alex is only a gownsman. I know of no one else I can call upon.”
“The Hardi’s son?”
“He now holds me in low esteem.”
“No truer Scot than Wil Douglas ever drew breath. Go to the lad and make amends.” The Competitor clutched desperately at his grandson’s arm. “Rob, there is a matter that I have too long held from you.”
“You must rest.”
Old Bruce became more agitated. “Hear me on this! Decades ago, your great-great uncle committed an act of despicable judgment that has long plagued our clan. A holy hermit named Malachy came to this keep and asked for boarding. That night he was fed well enough, but during the meal, he learned that a robber was to be hanged before dawn. He begged our kinsman to spare the felon’s life in an example of Christ’s mercy. Our forefather granted him the pardon. But the next morning, the hermit found the criminal dangling from a tree, in breach of the promise.”
The bizarre tale caused Robert to suspect that the fever was ravaging his grandfather’s mind.
“The hermit was declared a saint! He placed a curse on us!”
Robert eased him back to the cot. “No saint would seek such vengeance.”
The old man’s swollen eyes were livid with fear. “That year a flood destroyed our castle at Annan. We have been denied the throne because of the saint’s anger. Robbie, I fear for my salvation … for the salvation of us all.”
Robert had never witnessed such weakness in him. “You took the Cross, grandpa. God will welcome you into His arms.”
“You must gain forgiveness for us, Rob. Promise me!”
“How?”
Weeping like a child, the Competitor tried to reveal the penance required, but his lips froze.
Robert had heard only one word of the request: Jerusalem.
THE NEXT MORNING, THE BRUCE brothers carried the Competitor’s casket to the clan necropolis overlooking the loch. Lamberton offered a few words in eulogy, which went unheard by Robert, lost in troubled thought.
The diggers were about to shovel the black Galloway loam into the grave when a courier rode up and threw a packet into the burial pit, then sped off.
Robert climbed into the grave and broke open the letter’s royal seal. He turned ashen as he read its contents. Looking down at the coffin, he would have given all he had inherited to ask his grandfather just one more question.
ACCOMPANIED BY THE THIRTY ENGLISH troopers placed at his command, Robert slowed his approach into Douglasdale and tried to think of a way to avoid the dilemma that Longshanks had devised by appointing him sheriff of Lanarkshire. As he and his small command spurred across the Douglas water, the ruins of the once proud tower stopped him short. A heap of neglected stone was overgrown with thistles and brush. Why had Longshanks ordered him to raze Castle Douglas if it offered no refuge for resistance? He turned to Clifford, who had been constantly at his side pestering him during the journey, and remarked dryly, “You’ve kept it up in fine fashion.”
“The rents pay my gaming losses,” Clifford quipped with a grin. “But the confines, I am told, are still infested with a few rats.”
Screams came from the village, a quarter-mile away.
Robert cantered closer and saw six of Clifford’s men rounding up the inhabitants for hanging. “I gave no order to gather prisoners.”
Clifford signaled for troopers with torches and grappling hooks to surround the castle. “You’ll see their usefulness soon enough. Issue the command.”
Robert rode up to one of the noosed Scots. “Sir, do I know you?”
The half-blind man turned toward his voice. “Thomas Dickson is my name.”
The color drained from Robert’s cheeks. He affected indifference to avoid revealing the identity of the man who had served as Wil Douglas’s attendant. “I am mistaken. I thought you were—” An arrow whizzed by his ear.
“You are mistaken.”
Robert looked up at the tower to find the source of that indictment.
On the wall, James stood with his bow reloaded. “Mistaken for a Scotsman by all who thought you one. This time, I will fight you.”
Robert now understood, too late, that Longshanks had set a trap for him, just as his grandfather had warned. He had assumed James was in Fife, under the watchful eye of Bishop Lamberton. He swung around in the saddle and demanded of Clifford, “Why was I not told James Douglas held this keep?”
Clifford reined a few steps back for safety’s sake while enjoying Robert’s consternation. “The new sheriff of Lanark needs to improve his surveillance.”
Robert pulled the royal order from his saddlebag and read it again. Razing the castle was its sole directive, couched in the usual language allowing discretion for unforeseen circumstances. He rode to the walls and pleaded with James, “I would have a word with you in private.”
Clifford lashed up to intercept him. “No negotiations, Bruce! You’ll be the one swinging if delay is your method!”
Ignoring the officer’s threat, Robert dismounted and hung his buckler on the pommel to indicate his peaceful intention.
James debated the request, then motioned him past the portcullis and led his old friend in silence through the shambled castle.
Robert turned a corner and found the ghostly specter of Eleanor Douglas lying near a sputtering fire. Cull and Chullan, now long-nosed mastiffs, snarled at him when he reached for the widow’s hand. She crawled away, screaming and fighting off his attempts to assist her to her feet. He realized to his horror that the poor woman had mistaken him for one of Clifford’s henchmen. He had barely managed to hold up under the pressure, and now this discovery of the suffering his own unwitting complicity had inflicted on James’s family was too much to bear. He dropped his hands to his knees, fighting back the emotion. “Jamie, they’ve given me no choice.”
James led him through the ruins into the old armory where they had vowed their friendship years ago. “I surrendered this castle to the English once. I’ll not do it again.”
“Clifford will string up the villagers if you resist. Give me governance of the tower. I will see you and your stepmother escorted away under safe conduct.”
“To where? An English dungeon?”
Having not slept for days, Robert half-staggered to the window and looked down at the approach to the tower. He gripped the stone sill while he watched Clifford abuse Dickson, pinning a target on the old servant’s shirt for a rock-throwing contest. “We could escape from the north wall. We’d be away before Clifford discovered us. Sail for the Holy Land, like we once said we would.”
“If it is God’s enemy you wish to fight, the Devil has come to you.”
Robert lowered to a perch stone to rest his legs. A moment passed before he remembered that this was the same block on which he had sat listening to Wil Douglas tell stories of his grandfather’s glory in the Levant. He could not bear to look at James. “You heard what they did to Wallace?” When James turned aside, Robert persisted in trying to draw him out, even thou
gh he knew that James’s father had likely suffered similar torture in London Tower. “Do you ever think about what Wallace endured? The bishop said the man never cried out. I don’t have that kind of strength.”
James kicked at the dying embers in the hearth. “Do you believe we live but once?”
Robert lifted his head-slung gaze from the ground, annoyed to find that his old friend still had the infuriating knack for going off on wild tangents. “Of course I do. The churchmen say we lie fallow until the Day of Judgment, when all unstained souls shall be raised.”
“The Culdees say different.”
“You give credence to the ravings of those madmen?”
“The Highland hermits may know more than you give them credit.”
Robert huffed. “I have no time for a discussion of theology, damn you!”
James drew a circle on the wall with a shard of stone. “What if we return to this world again and again? What if all that the priests have taught us is a lie?”
Robert stood to pace. “Jamie, for the love of Christ.”
James held a distant look, full of premonition. “The old ones are all dying off. They came into this world together. Now they’re leaving together. My father. Your grandfather, Fraser, Moray, Wallace … and soon Longshanks.”
“What in Finian’s name are you driving at?”
“The war is being passed on to us. To know our fate, the Culdees say we need only look to the character of our enemies.”
“You mean … Caernervon?”
James carried his sword to a whetstone set up near the wall. As he sharpened the blade, he watched Clifford through an archer slit in the wall. Bored with tormenting Dickson, the English officer and his mossers were now practicing for the razing of the tower by throwing their hooks into the trees and pulling down the limbs that he had climbed as a boy. “I can’t bring myself to believe that we were born to bow down to the likes of Caernervon and Clifford. Our time is at hand.”
Robert shook his head, dismayed by James’s heretical musings and weakness for the nonsense of the old ways about reincarnation and the circling of time. He himself was a religious man, not given to questioning the Church or dabbling in pagan mysticism. After near a minute of anguished debate, he stood and departed without another word.