The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

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The Price of the King's Peace bt-3 Page 6

by Nigel Tranter


  This time Hereford was more wary however angry. He slowed.

  The other did not disappoint him now. Straight as an arrow he came, at full canter, almost a gallop. As the distance closed, at that speed it was clear that he could by no means repeat the previous manoeuvre and draw up. Hereford was poised, ready.

  The King drove in. At the very last moment he achieved the unexpected in two ways. The first was not so very unusual; he twitched his mount’s head so that it bore down on the enemy’s left side, not his right, thereby spoiling the reach and stroke of both of them, since the maces were in their right hands. The second was altogether more dramatic; instead of standing, to gain height, he flung himself forward, almost flat along his gar ron outstretched neck, and so lying low, half-turned to his left, shield-up to take the other’s mace-blow.

  The Englishman’s was a botched stroke, inevitably. He was too high, and his weapon on the wrong side-and in heavy armour a man does not twist and bend with any great suppleness. Only a glancing blow struck the swift-moving shield, and then they were past. Bruce slamming in an unhandy sideways swipe over his horse’s ears in the by-going, more as a gesture than anything. It contacted Hereford’s leg-armour- but only just.

  Again the laughter rose in great waves. This was clowning rather man true jousting, deliberately making a fool of England’s High Constable.

  If anyone doubted this interpretation of the King’s purpose, they did not do so for long. He proceeded to make circles round his less nimble opponent, without ever coming close enough for a blow.

  Time and again the Earl had almost opportunity to use his superior height and range, and then was denied it. More than once, as the other swept past, he heard Hereford shouting wrathfully within his helm for him to stand and fight like a man.

  Even the crowd grew a little tired of this, and offered some positive advice to both contestants.

  Bruce had not come into the arena to fight in this way. But the Englishman’s arrogant words, his insolent naming of him as a rebel, demanded different treatment from sporting gallantry and knightly behaviour. He fell to be humiliated rather than just defeated.

  So Hereford was made angry, resentful, outraged-and tired.

  Tired as his heavy warhorse was already growing tired. And then, in

  one of his innumerable darts-in and drawings-off, Bruce did not draw

  off. Instead he swung round hard in a tight circle, his

  garronrearing, almost walking on hind hooves, to come down immediately

  at the rear of the other beast, all but pawing its back. And before either horse or rider could twist round, Bruce rose this time in his stirrups and stretching his fullest reach, smashed down his mace between Hereford’s armoured shoulder-blades. The Earl pitched forward, toppled from his seat, and fell in clanking ruin.

  Without any of the usual flourishes and bows towards the royal box, or any acknowledgements of the crowd’s applause, the King turned and trotted out of the arena.

  Armour discarded, with Irvine, he made his way back to the gallery, rather shortly rejecting the plaudits of those he passed. Sir Gilbert Hay came to meet him.

  “Let that teach overbearing Englishery to challenge the King of Scots, Sire!” he exclaimed.

  “Here was pretty fighting.”

  “That was not fighting, man!” Bruce snapped.

  “Mummery, playacting, call it what you will-but it was not fighting.

  He required a lesson, that is all.”

  “Nevertheless, it was notably well done.”

  “You think so? I do not.”

  Mounting to the royal enclosure, the King paused in his steps.

  The gallery was a deal more crowded than when he had left it And markedly quiet, silent. He stared.

  A new party had obviously arrived in the interim, dusty and travel stained, half of them women. All looked towards him, and none spoke.

  He recognised his sister Christian. She was older, of course, with grey in her hair-but hadn’t they all? She was smiling, and though drably dressed, still looked remarkably unlike a nun despite all her years shut up in an English nunnery.

  “Christian!” he cried.

  “Praises be-here’s joy! For a wonder!

  Welcome! Welcome home.” And he started forward.

  Her smile fading, and the jerk of her head to one side, gave him pause. He glanced quickly towards where she had indicated. A young woman stood beside Elizabeth, thin, anxious, shrinking almost, great-eyed. Two great tears were trickling down the Queen’s cheeks.

  “Sweet Christ-God!” Bruce gasped, and stood, for once utterly at a loss.

  None there could find words to help the moment past. And Christian and Edward Bruce, at least, were seldom at a loss for words.

  It could only be Marjory, his own daughter. His only child. And he had not known her. He had welcomed his sister, but not his child. But how could he have known? He had thought of her always as last he had seen her, a child of eleven. His mind knew that she would have grown up, in eight years; but his inner eye had still looked for the child he knew. Not that he knew her very well.

  In all her nineteen years he would not have totalled three passed in her company, more was the pity. But this sad, pallid, ravaged and unhealthy-looking young woman-this to be Marjory Bruce, the chubby child he once had discovered to be a poppet… She was gnawing her lip, her huge eyes never leaving his face.

  Not realising himself how stern was Robert Bruce’s face now, in repose, they confronted each other.

  It was Elizabeth’s open hand, upraised and held out, that saved him.

  “Marjory! Marjory, lass!” he cried chokingly, and strode towards her, arms wide.

  At the last moment, stumbling, features working sorely, she ran into that embrace, coughing.

  “Girl, girl!” he got out, clasping her frail shaking body.

  “Lassie-my own daughter! Dear God, Marjory -together again!

  At last. Och, och, lass-all’s well now. It’s all by with. You are

  safe. Safe again.”

  A young-old bedraggled waif, the Princess of Scotland wept on her father’s splendid shoulder, wordless.

  Elizabeth came to them. Her quiet strength helped them both.

  They managed to master their painful emotion.

  “Here is another you should greet, Robert,” Christian said.

  “Who crowned you once!”

  Again Bruce would not have known that the emaciated, rawboned, hard-faced woman who waited there was Isabel Mac Duff Countess of Buchan, the sonsy girl-wife of his late enemy Buchan, who had played truant to place the gold circlet on his brow at Scone, at his coronation, as was the Mac Duff privilege. The years in the cage on Berwick walls had left their indelible mark. Unlike Mary Bruce she had toughened to it, coarsened, become a lean, stringy woman of whipcord and iron, instead of the eager, high coloured laughing girl.

  As she dipped a stiff curtsy, he raised her up, taking both her

  hands.

  “Isa,” he jerked.

  “What can I say? What words are there?

  To greet you. To welcome you back. What words are there for what lies between us?”

  “None, Sire,” she answered, level-voiced.

  “Words are by with.

  Only deeds will serve now. As ever. Deeds.”

  He eyed her a little askance, at her tone of voice.

  “Aye, deeds. It has to be deeds, in the end. It took… too long,

  Isa.” “Aye, But there is still time.”

  “For what, mean you?”

  “Vengeance,” she said.

  “I want vengeance.”

  “M’mm. To be sure. Some vengeance you have had already, I think”

  “Not sufficient.”

  “No. Perhaps not, Isa. But-we have had more to do than just seek vengeance.” He turned, gesturing.

  “At least I have been humbling one of their arrogant lords, their

  Constable …”

  “That is not how the English humble their prisoners!” the Countess said thinly.

&
nbsp; “No. No-I am sorry.” He moved back to his daughter’s side.

  “You will be tired, lass. With your long journey. This is no place for you-a tournament! No place for any of you. Come-we will go in. We are very grand, in Stirling Castle now! Elizabeth, my dear?”

  “I shall stay, Robert. A little longer. Queen it here. Many would be disappointed if we both leave now. Go you. With Marjory.

  I will come later.”

  “My thanks.” Holding his daughter’s arm, he looked at the other

  returned prisoners, set-faced.

  “Thomas!” he called.

  “Where is my lord of Moray? Ah, Thomas-those English lords. The captives. I will not have them near me, now. Hereford and the rest. Send them away. Ransom paid or no. I would be quit of them. Before I am constrained to use them as they have used these! You understand?

  Off back to England with them.”

  “But-much of the money is as yet unpaid, Sire. The return of these your captives was but to be Hereford’s ransom. The rest…”

  “Money! Think you I care for their money? Now! Seeing my daughter! Get them away, I say. Before I further stain my honour and do them the mischief they deserve. See to it, my lord.”

  “Is this the King of Scots’ vengeance?” Isabel Mac Duff demanded.

  “It is the King of Scots’ royal command!” he returned. And then, more kindly.

  “We shall pay our debts otherwise, Isa. Never fear. Come you, now, Marjory …”

  Chapter Three

  The vast Council Chamber of Stirling Castle, true seat of government of the realm, was fuller than it had been for many a year. It was the first Privy Council that Bruce had held here-the first full Council that he had ever held, many as he had attended, one even in this great hall, summoned by John of Brittany, Edward the First’s nephew and Governor of Scotland, to hear, amongst other things, the ghastly details of William Wallace’s death at Smithfield, London. A number then present were here again now, and, like the King himself, must have been very much aware of the shadow of that great and noble man whom the Plantagenet had butchered in his insensate hate, and who had contributed so much to make such Council as this possible.

  Not all there, however, would have the man Wallace at the backs of their minds. Indeed, not all present were inclined to look upon today’s as at all any sort of celebratory occasion; but rather as a making the best of a bad job. For this was the first Council of a united Scotland-and the Scotland which had fought the English for so long had been far from united. Whether it was so now, for that matter, remained to be seen: though the monarch had done all in his power to make it so-more in fact than most of his close associates, of the mass of the people even, deemed either prudent or right. The unity of the kingdom was almost entirely Bruce’s own conception; just as the idea of patriotism, the love of Scotland as an entity, a nation, for its own sake, had been almost solely Wallace’s. If the ancient realm now stood free, and facing the future with at least a semblance of confidence and unity, it was the work of these two very different men with their differing visions.

  It had never been easy, any part of the forging of those visions into reality. And it was not easy now. Since other men, through whom it all fell to be achieved, saw the visions only dimly or not at all. The clash of outlook, temperament, interest and will was unending. The Scots were ever a race of inveterate individualists and hair-splitters. With men such as the Earl of Ross, Sir Alexander Comyn, Alexander MacDougall of Argyll and Sir John Stewart of Menteith -all of whom had fought against Bruce, seated round a table with such as Edward Bruce, the Earl of Lennox, the Lord of the Isles, Sir James Douglas and Sir Neil Campbell, it required a strong hand to control them. But a great deal more than merely a strong hand.

  “Do I have it aright?” Angus of the Isles was demanding.

  “Edward of England, despite his defeat, refuses a treaty of peace on all terms? Or just the terms we offer?”

  “On all terms, my lord.” Bishop William Lamberton of St. Andrews, Primate of Scotland, had just returned from a brief embassage to London.

  ”He still names us rebels. His Grace an imposter and will consider no

  treaty. I did what I could to persuade him, and his Council, but to no purpose. To my sorrow.”

  “The war, then, goes on?”

  “In name, yes. Since they will not make peace.”

  “Our terms were easy, generous,” Lennox said.

  “Too generous!” Campbell jerked.

  “I said we should have invaded England after the battle-not sought to treat. Given them no rest. We had the advantage.”

  “We still have,” the King pointed out, from the head of the long

  table.

  “Nothing is lost. But… I had hoped that they would have learned their lesson.”

  “The English never learn,” old, blind Bishop Wishart of Glasgow said.

  “Any more than do we!”

  “What do we do now, then?” Hay the Constable asked.

  “Muster to arms-what else?” Edward Bruce declared strongly.

  “Do what we should have done six weeks ago-invade. In this, at least, I am with the Campbell.” He and Sir Neil had never been friends.

  “Aye! Aye!” Many there undoubtedly agreed with this course.

  But some did not.

  “It is peace we need, not war,” Lennox insisted.

  Essentially a gentle man, it was his misfortune to have been born one of the great Celtic earls of Scotland; and so, willy-nilly, a leader in war.

  “The English may be too proud to treat with us. But they are

  nevertheless sore smitten, and cannot be looking for war.

  Meantime. They need peace. But, I say, we need it more!”

  “I agree with Malcolm of Lennox,” the Earl of Ross, his fellow Celt put in, a huge man, with something of the appearance of an elderly and moulting lion.

  “Our land is in disorder. We have had enough of fighting.”

  “Hear who speaks, who fought nothing!” That was Angus Og MacDonald. The Highlands were no more united than were the Lowlands-and Ross and the Isles had been at feud for centuries.

  “If it is fighting you want, Islesman—I am ready to oblige you,

  whatever! And gladly …!”

  “My lords,” Bruce intervened patiently.

  “May I remind you that we are here discussing the English peace treaty. Our terms are rejected. They were honest terms-not hard. Merely that the English should renounce all their false claims of suzerainty over Scotland, assumed by the present king’s father. And that they recognise myself as lawful king here. This, in their pride, they will not do.

  We are still their rebels! So peace is not yet, whatever we may wish.

  So we plan anew. I seek your advice, my lords. That only.”

  None there was abashed by any implied reproof, being Scots.

  “How does my lord of St. Andrews gauge the English mind in this matter?” Sir James Douglas asked.

  “The English Council, rather than King Edward? Since they sway him greatly. Is it only pride and spleen? Or do they intend more war?”

  Lamberton shrugged wide but bent shoulders. Like so many men there, he was aged before his time, only in his mid-forties but looking a score of years older, his strong features lined and worn. The years of war and captivity had left their marks-and the Church was far from spared.

  “Who can tell? With the English. As a people they are assured of their superiority over all others. Nothing will change them. Now they are struck in their pride-which is their weakest part. Galled by their defeat, who knows what they will do.”

  “But that very defeat! Surely it must give them pause?”

  “Pause perhaps-but little more, I fear. If England was governed from York, I’d say we should have peace. But from London …!”

  “Why say you so?”

  “Because the South is too far from Scotland and their warfare.

  Shielded from war and its pains, the Southrons are the arrogant ones.

  Their armies are mainly of Northerners or Welshmen, or me
rcenaries. With these they will fight to the last! The southern lords are beyond all in pride. And they are rich-we here cannot conceive of their riches. And there are so many of them …”

  “Here’s a sorry tale, I’ faith!” Edward broke in.

  “Must we sit here and bemoan our lot? We, the victors! We beat them, did we not? And shall do so again. Enough of such talk. I say, muster and march!”

  “What my lord Bishop says is wise,” the King declared, the more sternly in that it was his brother whom he contravened.

  “I, who also know the English south, take his meaning. He says, in fact, that the English will not make peace until their southlands suffer. How to make them suffer, then? Here is our problem.”

  “How can we reach them, Sire? They are safe from us,” Douglas said.

  “Directly, yes. But there may be other ways.”

  “What has Your Grace in mind?” the warrior Bishop of Moray asked.

  “Not outright war. But enough to make them fear war. And its hurt. To them. On more sides than one. The French threat, again, We are still in treaty with France. There is a new king there, now that Philip the Fair is dead. Louis is weak, perhaps, and may not act-but he this likes Edward of England and grudges him his French possessions. He could be persuaded to threaten, if no more, I think. Across the Channel.”

  “Little that will serve us!” Angus Og commented. Although one of Bruce’s most formidable and valuable supporters, he always required to assert his cherished status as a semi-independent princeling, and frequently chose to do so by way of criticism and by never using the normal honorifics of the other’s kingship, to imply fealty.

  “Ay, my lord-of itself. But taken with other measures. As, let us say, your own! How far south, on the English coasts, would my Lord of the Isles venture his galleys?”

  “Ah-now you talk good sense, Sir King! My wolfhounds will raid right to the Channel, to the Isles of Scilly, if need be. There is naught on the seas to stop them!”

 

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