The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  Matilda Bruce, now twenty-one and full of spirit, sensed her brother’s doubts.

  “Let him fight, Sire,” she pleaded.

  “He will carry my glove to victory!”

  “Much good that will do him!” To allow him time for thought, the King turned to his nephew, Thomas, Earl of Moray, who stood behind, and who was friendly with Ross.

  “How think you, Thomas? You know Segrave. You worked with him, once. His was a hated name, when he lorded it here. Is he one whose challenge we should accept?” He could hardly ask Moray outright whether he thought Ross fit and able to do battle with the Englishman; but his nephew would not wish to see his friend bested too easily. The Earl had sided with the English for a while, against his uncle, and probably knew both possible contestants better than any other man there. Thomas Randolph was a tall, dark, splendidly handsome young man, possibly the best-looking man in Scotland, despite his serious expression and noble brow. It was strange that he was not more popular; he was one of the heroes of Bannockburn -but he lacked humour, and was too patently upright for many lesser mortals. Bruce had come to esteem him highly.

  “He is a stark fighter, and a hard man to best, Sire. And sore over our victory, I think. Sorer than some. But he will fight fairly” “M’mmm. Hugh-do you think …?” The King was interrupted by a shouting from all around, mixed with laughter. Down in the arena the wrestling seemed to have come to an end at last, with three of the brawny fighters in various recumbent attitudes, the victors either sitting upon them or otherwise expressing exhausted triumph. The last pair were down on their knees, growling at each other like angry dogs but doing no more than growl, in the interests of economy. The scene was comic rather than dramatic, but the laughter was occasioned mainly by the fact that one of the victors was seen to have had his scarlet drawers torn right off him in the proceedings and was now standing, reeling, and grinning sheepishly, stark naked but notably well endowed, while the English knight, Sir Anthony de Lucy, had grabbed the said scarlet rags for want of better banner, to wave in exultation. It did not demand great arithmetical prowess to establish that, despite this misfortune, the red pants team had won, with two of the prostrate bodies blue, one kneeling, and only one Scot on his feet.

  A trumpet fanfare preceded the Master of Ceremonies’ declaration that England had won the wrestling match. The winning team should proceed to the royal gallery to receive the congratulations of the Queen of the Games.

  While not a few Scots were consoling each other to the effect that wrestling had never been really a Scottish speciality, as it was in England, and some of the ladies were giggling wondering whether the winning team would in fact present themselves up here in the precise state of undress they were in at the moment, Hugh Ross reiterated his request to the King.

  “You cannot deny me the joust now, Sire!” he exclaimed.

  “To reject the English challenge now would seem as though we feared another defeat.”

  Aye. No doubt.” Bruce shrugged.

  “Very well. But, Hugh-arrange it with Segrave that there be more bouts than just the one. Lest all stand or fall by the one throw.”

  That seemed to be the best that he could do in the circumstances.

  De Lucy and the four grinning, panting and strongly-smelling champion

  sone with a towel of sorts hastily wrapped round his middle, to the

  manifest disappointment of some of the company-were conducted to the

  royal box, where they bobbed down to the Queen and King and were

  presented with red roses by Elizabeth. They were receiving suitable

  praise and admitting that the conditions of their captivity had at

  least not emasculated them, when another trumpet neighed imperious summons from down in the lists, drawing all eyes.

  Two mounted men had ridden out into the centre of the arena, a gorgeously tabarded herald wearing red and gold arms quartered with red and silver, and lowering a trumpet; and a magnificent figure in shining black gold-inlaid armour part-covered by a colourful surcoat of heraldic ally-embroidered linen and carrying in the bend of one arm a great jousting helm sprouting ostrich plumes. This eye-catching personage, bareheaded, dark-haired and smiling from a narrow tense hatchet face, sat on an enormous destrier or warhorse, also black-armoured and with flapping mantling of the same colours as the herald.

  The King drew a deep breath.

  “The most noble, puissant and renowned Sir Edward Bruce, Lord of Galloway and Earl of Carrick!” the herald cried, into the hush his trumpet had achieved.

  The black knight raised his steel gauntleted arm.

  “I, Edward of Carrick, hereby declare,” he shouted in ringing tones, “that the English are thinking to try their skill, in tourney if not in war! I do hereby challenge to single combat any soever they may put up.

  Hear you, English -I challenge your best!”

  Hugh Ross’s spluttered curse resounded in the pause thereafter.

  Bruce drew a hand over his mouth and chin, uncertain whether to curse also or be relieved. Probably his brother, more experienced, would make a better showing than young Ross. And now the challenge came from the Scots, as was more suitable. But the thing raised other problems. None so lofty as the King’s brother ought to be involved-it gave such contest altogether too great a prominence.

  Edward had not sought the Queen’s permission, as he ought to have done yet to forbid him now, before all, would be an intolerable affront, and to one of the most popular figures in the realm, a bad start for the so-long-absent Queen’s new image. Moreover, his super cession would be bound to give great offence to Ross-where offence could well be done without, for he was heir to one of the greatest earldoms in the land, and already Edward was in bad odour in that quarter, having recently abandoned the Lady Isabella Ross after getting her with child-as he had indeed previously abandoned the Lady Isabel de Strathbogie, Atholl’s sister, thereby throwing that powerful earl into the English arms. The Earl of Carrick was a brilliant commander of light cavalry, and courageous to a fault-but he gave his elder brother more headaches than he relieved.

  “Sire-I sought this first!” Ross was protesting.

  “I told Segrave that I would fight him. If I gained your permission”

  “My lord of Carrick has not named Segrave,” the King pointed out.

  “But it was he who challenged …”

  A new stir heralded the appearance of another figure, only partially armoured, who strode out into the arena, waving arms for silence.

  “I, John, Lord Segrave, accept the Earl of Carrick’s challenge,” he shouted.

  “He, or Sir Hugh the Ross, or any other. By lance, sword, mace or axe.

  To the fall, or a l’outrance!”

  “A plague on him!” Ross growled.

  “Hear that?”

  “Not & l’outrance!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  “Not that. No killing.

  Has there not been enough of death?”

  “I agree,” her husband said, grimly.

  “My brother and I do not always see eye to eye. But I am not prepared to lose him yet! Nor am I prepared to forfeit Segrave’s ransom! They must be told so.”

  “But, Sire …!” Ross objected.

  “Do you rule against me?”

  “I have no choice, lad. Can you not see it? To deny my brother, now, in front of all, is inconceivable. He does amiss in this but he is still the second man in this kingdom. I am sorry.”

  Matilda made a most unsuitable face at the monarch.

  The Master of Ceremonies, after some brief instruction, made loud announcement that the Queen of the Tourney graciously permitted, despite improper procedure, that the Earl of Carrick and the Lord Seagrave ride a joust together, Sir Hugh Ross having nobly yielded a prior right. The joust to be for a fall, an unseating only, and no a l’outrance. There would be no righting to the death at this tournament. Let the champions prepare themselves, and might the best man win.

  In the interval of waiting, and while sundry presentations were being made to the royal
pair, a new sound above all the cheerful clamour caught Bruce’s ear-the thin high squealing of bagpipes.

  In a flash he was transported back to that day six weeks before, when, in so very different circumstances but only a mile or so away from here, he had listened for and relievedly heard that same sound coming from the west round Stirling Rock. He raised his head.

  “Hear that!” he cried.

  “It is Angus, for a wager! The Lord of the Isles arrived to greet

  you.”

  “Scarcely to greet me, I think,” Elizabeth said.

  “From all accounts your Angus of the Isles rates women but lowly! It

  will be your Council he comes for-to make sure that his peculiar

  interests do not go by default!” A great Council of State had been

  called for two days hence, to plot and steer the nation’s course in the new circumstances. A parliament would have been better-but a parliament constitutionally required forty days’ notice of calling, and Scotland had matters to settle which could not wait for six weeks.

  “He will not rate you lowly, I swear! Or he ceases to be my friend,” her husband declared dutifully.

  She smiled.

  “Am I then to be kind to him? Generous? Aloof?

  Proud? Or cautious?”

  “Be but yourself, lass-and you will have Angus in the cup of your hands in short minutes! He is very much a man, and so the more in danger from you!”

  “I wonder! But I am agog to meet this Hebridean paladin who denies you his due fealty while accepting your friendship! This rebel whom you have made your Lord High Admiral.”

  “Angus Og is no rebel, Elizabeth. He but reserves his position as an independent Prince of the Isles. For which who am I to blame him? I have suffered sufficiently from would-be Lords Paramount of my realm! I owe Angus more than I can ever say. Without his great fleet of war-galleys we could not have freed Scotland. He gave us control of our seas, when none other could.”

  Now everywhere the throng was making way for the newcomers-who obviously accepted all passage and deference as their right. And if the company had been colourful before, it was doubly so now. For the piper-escorted party which came stalking up was so vivid in every respect as to bemuse the eye. About twenty strong-for Angus MacDonald, though a strangely modest man in his person, never moved abroad without his own court of chieftains, captains, seannachies, musicians and the like-these all were clad in saffrons and tartans and piebald calfskin jerkins, bristling with arms, glittering with barbaric jewellery, their heads mainly covered with the great ceremonial helmets that bespoke the Scandinavian background superimposed on their Celtic blood, outdated casques which sprouted at each side either curling bull’s horns or whole erne’s pinions, symbols that these were the representatives of a Norse sea-kingdom and no integral part of the Scottish realm.

  Most of this alarming company were huge, rawboned, rangy men, affecting long hair, only rudimentary beards, but lengthy down-curving moustaches reaching to the chin, which imparted a notably cruel and savage impression. But he who strode a pace in front was quite otherwise, a stocky man in his late thirties, dark, almost swarthy, but of open features, clean-shaven, and dressed most simply in a long saffron kilted tunic gathered at the waist by a heavy belt of massive gold links, from which hung a jewelled ceremonial dirk. Bareheaded and otherwise unarmed, he scarcely looked one of the boldest and most ruthless warriors Scotland had ever thrown up, a man whose name spread terror round every coast of England, Wales and Ireland-and not a few of Scotland’s own, also.

  “Angus!” The King went forward, hands outstretched, to greet him.

  “So again you come to Stirling! To my joy, if not this time my rescue!

  Greetings, friend. And to all your company, friends all.

  Come-here is my lady-wife. Elizabeth-this is Angus, son of Angus, son of Donald, Lord of the Isles and Lord High Admiral.”

  “The Lord Angus is known to me, as to all Christendom, by repute,” the Queen said gravely.

  “King Edward kept me far from his coasts, I vow, lest the Lord of the Isles should come to rescue me!”

  The other considered that, and the speaker, unhurriedly for a few moments, before inclining his dark head. He reached out to take her hand and kiss it.

  “Would that had been my lot, lady,” he said, then, equally gravely, and despite all the fierceness of his entourage, the West Highland voice was soft and gentle.

  She smiled.

  “So do I! Though, mind, I am Ulster’s daughter.

  And we in Ulster have not always had cause to welcome the Black Galley of the Isles!”

  “Had I known of you, lady, you would not have remained in Ulster long, Richard de Burgh’s daughter or none!”

  “Save us!” Bruce exclaimed.

  “If that’s the way of it, then I needs must keep an eye on my queen, now!”

  The Islesman gestured, to include every male present.

  “That would be the act of a wise man, my Lord King,” he agreed.

  “And no trial, at all!”

  “As Queen of this Tournament, I give Your Grace leave to depart,” Elizabeth mentioned.

  “I am sure that something requires your royal attention somewhere! My Lord Angus and I have matters to discuss.”

  Bruce was about to reply, in kind, when the words faded from his lips as he perceived who was standing amongst the press of Angus’s men, a tall striking-looking woman, raven-haired, handsome, dressed none so differently from the others, in saffron tunic, short skirt and soft doeskin thigh-high riding boots.

  Elizabeth, noting his expression and following his glance, spoke

  silkily

  “You have a lady in your train, my Lord Angus. Not your wife?”

  With a look shot at the King, that man shook his head.

  “No, lady-my cousin. The Lady Christina MacRuarie of Garmoran: , chief of that name.”

  “I have heard of the Lady Christina also,” the Queen said quietly.

  “Acquaint us, sir.”

  Bruce recovered himself.

  “My privilege,” he said.

  “Christina -welcome back to my Court. You greatly grace it. Elizabeth, my dear-this is she of whom I have told you.”

  The two women eyed each other, while all around held their breaths and wondered what this totally unexpected confrontation might portend.

  Elizabeth held out her hand.

  “His Grace’s friends are my friends,” she said.

  “I have heard that we both owe much to the Lady Christina.”

  The Isleswoman came forward to dip a deep curtsy.

  “Your Grace is kind as you are fair,” she said.

  “As His Grace told us all. But even he could not say how kind, how fair! Accept my duty and esteem, Madam.”

  It was an odd speech from a female subject, but the Queen found no fault with it. Raising her up, she searched the other’s dark eyes with her blue ones.

  “Yes,” she murmured softly, slowly, “I understand much. Now.”

  “I came unbidden. Believing it my duty. To pay my respects to you, the Queen. Believing that I perhaps owed it to you.”

  “Yes. I am glad that you came.”

  Bruce endeavoured to disguise his sigh of relief.

  “I also am glad, Christina. Angus-present your company to Her

  Grace”

  Soon the trumpets drew all eyes to the lists again, as the two mounted champions came trotting out from either end, to meet in the centre, turn their beasts side by side to face the royal enclosure, and to raise their pennoned lances high. Understandably the Lord Segrave was less splendidly turned out than Edward Bruce, and his charger, though fine, was less heavy; on the other hand it would probably be the more nimble. After bowing formally to each other, they turned and trotted back each to his base, where esquires waited with spare lances, equipment, towels and the like.

  “Your brother looks sure of himself, Sir King,” Angus Og MacDonald declared. He was no friend to Edward, who despised Highlanders and was not at pains to disguise the fact.

>   “Edward is always sure of himself!” Bruce grunted.

  “Would I had his single mind. Or yours, Angus!”

  “You are sufficiently well with your own,” the other returned.

  “My lord of Carrick’s sureness of mind is that of a captain, not a

  prince.” He did not comment on his own.

  “Yet, my friend, that is one of the important matters before this

  Council,” the King said, low-voiced.

  “Edward is determined that he be appointed, formally and before all, heir to my throne. I cannot longer withhold it, I think.”

  “So much the worse for that throne, then. And your kingdom.”

  “What choice have I? Placed as she is, could Scotland survive with a young woman as monarch?”

  “A regency? To rule in your daughter’s name. Your brother not Regent, but one of a joint regency.”

  “This land has had its belly full of joint Guardianship. It will not serve, Angus. Jealousy, intriguing for power, a divided realm. And think you Edward would be content to be one of two or three? He is a man who must dominate, or be kept under by a strong hand.

  Whose hand would be strong enough, in Scotland, to dominate the Queen’s uncle? He would rule, whatever his title. I fear my daughter would live happier with Edward king than with Edward regent. And, my sorrow, there is now no other heir to the throne.”

  “Dia -you talk as though you were a man dying!”

  “No-not quite that. But… I am not the man I was, Angus…”

  The single bugle-blast interrupted him, as the two knights below drove forward into action. It would be dramatic and telling to say that they hurtled forward at full gallop. But great des triers do not go in for galloping, especially when burdened with many hundredweights of their own armour-plating, to say nothing of their riders’.

  A heavy lumbering canter is as much as they can rise to-and even that takes a little time to achieve.