The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

At length the King of Arms pronounced his name and style.

  Frowning, he came forward, still under the canopy, although the

  acolytes were now, of course, on foot. The King raised a single

  eyebrow towards the herald, who promptly flicked a dismissive hand, and two of his minions stepped out in the Prior’s path and peremptorily ordered the acolytes back. Less assuredly the cleric came on, alone.

  “So, my lord Prior,” Bruce greeted him, “do you find the sun trying?”

  “The sun …?”

  “Your canopy. I hope that you may subsist without it, at least while you take your vows of fealty.”

  “Your Majesty-I pray to be excused. Any taking of vows. It is not right and proper. That I should kneel before you. I am the representative of Holy Church, here in Tynedale. My allegiance it not to an earthly king…”

  “It is not as representative of Holy Church that I summoned you here, Master Whelpington. It is as holder of large lands in this my lordship.”

  “But the lands are held by Holy Church, not of myself.”

  “To be sure. But if Holy Church elects to hold large lands and temporalities, collect rents, extort dues and service, and so to act the temporal lord, then Holy Church must pay the price. You are here to do feudal homage to me, as feudal lord and superior, for lands and privileges which the Church hold of me in feudal tenure. It is simple.”

  “But, Sire-the Church is different. It is not as these others. It is

  Christ’s own Body. His divine substitute, here on earth.”

  “I do not recollect hearing that Christ was a holder of great lands and privileges when He was on earth, sir!”

  “The Church is in the world, and so must act as in the world. It

  cannot be otherwise …”

  “Precisely, Sir Priest! Therefore, in your wordly capacity as Steward of the Church’s wordly gear, tenancies and lands, you will do homage for those that stem from my lordship, like every other worldly tenant. Unless, to be sure, you prefer to relinquish them.

  That course is open to you, and no oath-taking necessary.”

  The Prior twisted the glistening rings on his fingers. Then he jutted his plump chin, and stared at a point somewhere above the King’s head.

  “I cannot swear fealty to you, Sire,” he said in a strained voice.

  “It is impossible. You are … man excommunicate!”

  Bruce said nothing for long moments. When he spoke, his voice was level.

  “You say that? You are bold, at least! Then, if you cannot render what is due to a man excommunicate, neither can you accept from him such lands, titles and tenancies. I must needs withdraw them therefore, for your sake and mine. And bestow them elsewhere. Others will be glad to have them. My lord King of Arms-how many manors of mine does the Priory of Hexham hold in fee? Not Church lands, but manors of which I am the superior?”

  “Nine, Your Grace. Nine entire manors, besides rights of pasture, turf-cutting, millage, water and the like, over much other land.”

  “Aye. Then we shall find new vassals for all such, on the resignation of the Prior of Hexham. Let it be so proclaimed.”

  “No, Sire-no!” Whelpington cried.

  “I do not resign them. I cannot!”

  “If you are not prepared to make fealty for them, you must.”

  Bruce was suddenly stern, patience exhausted.

  “But enough of this, sirrah. It is not my habit to debate with

  vassals! You have my royal permission to retire.”

  “Majesty-of a mercy! Not that. I will do homage. Whatever you say.”

  He plumped down on his knees.

  “My lord Bishop-and the Archbishop-they would be wrath.

  Exceedingly.

  If the lands were lost. I would be dismissed. Let me take the oath.

  Very well, my lord Prior. I will overlook your ill-spoken words.

  On this occasion. But not again. Say on.”

  Not waiting for the herald’s prompting, the cleric launched into the fealty formula, clutching the King’s hand between sweating palms.

  The entire distasteful business over, Bruce rose, wiping his hands.

  He turned to his wife and daughter who had sat throughout just behind his chair.

  “So much for the delights and majesty of kingship!”

  he said wryly.

  “A huckster, I have something to sell, and must needs drive a hard bargain! Men are scarce at their noblest when chattering. I hope that you have been entertained, if not elevated?”

  “Better this than swordery and bloodshed. Or burning,” Elizabeth commented.

  “Think you this will bring Edward of Carnarvon to the conference table?”

  “If it does not, nothing will!” He shrugged.

  “But that is the worst of it done with, God be praised! Now for better things-the tourney, games, feasting. Be gracious to these English now, my dear-but not too gracious! They must learn who is master here.

  And tomorrow we will enter Hexham …”

  Chapter Five

  Turnberry, in spring, was a fair place, all shouting larks and wheeling

  seabirds, great skies, spreading sandy ma chars blue seas, white waves

  and magnificent vistas across the Firth to the soaring, jagged

  mountains of Arran. The castle itself, above the shore, was less

  daunting than many, a wide-courtyarded place of mellow stone with walls

  which, because of its low protective cliffs on three sides, did not

  require such lofty and prison-like masonry as was usual. It was

  Bruce’s birthplace, chief seat of his mother’s Carrick earldom, and his memories of it still tended to glow with the light and lustre of boyhood’s carefree days-even though there were now apt to be occasional shadows from the grim night of massacre, eight years before, when he had returned here from his Hebridean exile, to make his first bloody assault on an English-held fortress of his mainland realm.

  But, this breezy, bright morning of billowy white cloud galleons and the scent of clover, seaweed and raw red earth, the man’s thoughts were concerned with the future, not the past, as he picked his way alone down over the rocks, sand-slides and crevices of the shore. It was good to be alone for a little; yet he frowned as he went. Elizabeth said that he frowned too much, these days … He was seeking his daughter Marjory. Elizabeth said that she came down here, to the shore, a lot, to sit, also alone. With any other young woman of her years, status and looks, such withdrawals could be looked upon as far from unnatural-and the parallel absence of one or more young men could be looked for also. Not so with Marjory Bruce. If one thing was sure, it was that his only child would be alone, despite the plenitude of escorts who would have jumped at the opportunity to accompany her.

  He found her in a hollow of the broken cliff-face, dabbling her feet in a clear rock-pool, and gazing out across the sparkling Clyde estuary to the blue, shadow-slashed mountains. She withdrew and hid her white foot hastily at sight of her father. Bruce shook his head at that automatic, almost guilty gesture, but restrained his tongue.

  “I used to know every inch of this shore,” he told her, casually.

  “I played here, as a boy. And found it a deal more kindly kingdom than that I now cherish!”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He sat down near her, and began to loosen his boots.

  “A pool, replenished by the tide, is a world in itself, is it not? A different order, of time, strength, beauty. A starfish for king! These winkles, in their shells, for knights and lairds in their castles.

  Clinging little limpets who cleave to their patch of stone, for the

  humble folk-for it is all they have. Scurrying, fearful creatures

  that hide in the waving forests of weed. Hunters or hunted? All

  conforming to some laws and order we know not of. Until some uncaring, heedless god puts in his great foot-so! And all seems changed.

  For a moment. And only seems so. For all is everlastingly the same.”

  And he dabbled his bare foot
in the cold water.

  She did not comment, nor ventured her own foot back again.

  “Each creature’s world is, in the end, what he makes of it,” he went on.

  “The heavy feet of fate disturb the surface, yes. But underneath, the inner life is our own. To make or to mar. I have marred much of mine. Shamefully, terribly marred. But I have made something, also.”

  “Yes.”

  “You lass, esteem this world but little, I think? And would make your own? Withdraw from the one, into the other. Is it not so?”

  The inclination of her head was barely perceptible.

  ”That is well enough. As an escape, a refuge. But not as a world to

  live in, my dear. We must live in the world into which we were born.

  And make what of it we may.”

  “What are you seeking to tell me?” she asked then, level-voiced.

  “That I must do better? That I must laugh and sing and dance?

  That I must find all men a joy and a delight? And all women, too?”

  “Scarce that, lass. I would but have you to understand that your life can still be full and rich. Rich, for you. That although you have suffered grievously, that time is past. You are young, and have most of your life to come. You can still make much of it. Being my daughter is not all trial and sorrow. You can have … almost anything that you ask for. Anything you may wish.”

  The look she turned briefly on him, then, shocked him.

  He bit his lip.

  “Marjory—I know that, for my sake-or because you were my daughter you suffered intolerable things. Were for years shut up, alone, first in that Tower of London, then in a nunnery.

  Kept alone, spoken to by none. God knows I do not, cannot, forget this. Part of the price I paid for this kingdom! But… you must seek to put the ill past from you. As I seek to do. As the Queen seeks to do. And your aunts. I have much to put behind me, sweet Christ! I, who murdered a man at Christ’s own altar. Who have condemned three brothers, by my actions, to death most shameful-three brothers, and friends innumerable. The guilt of it comes to me, often. In the night, especially. But, see you, I do not, must not, dwell on it. You have no guilt; the guilt is mine. But the weight of woe is ever with you. You must put it from you, lass-I say, you must!”

  Marjory only shook her head.

  “You do not understand,” she whispered.

  “Then tell me. Tell me, your father.”

  Helplessly she spread her hands.

  “How can I? It is not possible.”

  Her eyelids drooped.

  “I wish that I had died. In the Tower.

  Almost I did. They wished that I would. As did I. But I did not die.

  It would have been better …”

  “Dear God, girl-never say it! Not that.”

  “Why not. When I think it, know it. What is wrong with death?”

  Almost he groaned, as helplessly he looked at her.

  “What … what have they done to you?” he said.

  She made no answer.

  Bruce fought down the rising tide of anger, frustration,

  apprehension.

  Determinedly he steadied his voice.

  “See you, daughter-I ask you to turn your mind to this matter. This matter of the realm. Of today’s parliament. It is necessary that we speak of it Now. I have tried to speak with you on it, so many times. But you would not. The succession. Today it will be decided. You are listening? Today’s parliament must decide the matter.”

  “Is it not already decided?” she returned listlessly.

  “My Uncle Edward is to have the succession, is he not?”

  “It is less simple than that, Marjory. Edward desires it, yes. And I hear must have it. Many will support him. But he will not make a good king. He is rash, headstrong—and his very rashness poses a further problem. For he is unmarried, and has no heir-however many bastards! He is, indeed, more like to die a sudden death than I am! The wonder is he has not already done so! Leaving none to succeed him. The succession could scarce be in worse hands.”

  She shook her head, as though deliberately disassociating herself from responsibility.

  “Any Act of Succession, therefore, by parliament, must declare a second destination. Should the first heir to the throne die without lawful issue. It must, can only, be yourself, Marjory. After Edward.

  Whether you wish it or no. There is none other.”

  “What are you telling me, Sire?”

  That word sire rankled. Bruce frowned.

  “This, girl. That the throne’s succession is of the greatest

  importance for the realm. A continuing succession. If it is to be

  saved from internal war and misery, and the evils of rival factions fighting for the crown. It is my duty, as monarch, to ensure that succession to the best of my ability.”

  “Therefore, Marjory, since it seems that you will make no move in the matter, I intend to announce to this afternoon’s parliament at Ayr that it is my decision to give your hand in marriage to Walter Stewart, High Steward of Scotland. And that, failing other heir of my own body, the succession, after Edward, shall devolve upon you, my daughter, and thereafter on any issue from such marriage.” Robert Bruce did not realise how sternly, almost harshly, he had made that difficult pronouncement.

  The young woman, after an initial catch of breath, made no comment whatsoever.

  “You hear? Walter Stewart.”

  “Yes.”

  “Save us-have you nothing to say, girl? When your husband is named for you?”

  “Only that I guessed it would be he.”

  “You did? How so?”

  “From the way you spoke to him, these last months. Looked at him.

  Left us together.” “So! And what have you to say? Of Walter

  Stewart?”

  “As well he, as other.”

  “Of a mercy! Is that all?”

  “What would you have me to say?”

  “At least, how he seems to you as a man, a husband. He is handsome, well-mannered- but no pretty boy. Younger than you, but able with a sword, sits a horse well, can wrestle. He is a great noble, with large lands, head of one of the most illustrious houses in my kingdom.”

  “Yes. So you would have him for your good-son. Have his child heir your throne.”

  “No! Or … I’ faith, girl-you are sore to deal with! It is necessary that you wed. You know that. You could have your choice of any in the realm. But you would not. Would choose none. So I must needs choose for you. Walter Stewart asked for your hand. I know none better. Do you?”

  “I have said, as well he as other. What more do you want from me? I shall obey you.”

  “From my daughter, my only child, I look for more than obedience.”

  “Your only child born in wedlock,” she corrected.

  His brows shot up.

  “Ha-does that gall you, then?”

  “You must wish that it had been otherwise. That one or other of these had been my mother’s child. And I had been born bastard. It would have spared us both much.”

  He stared at her nonplussed, at a loss.

  “I never wished you other than very well,” he said.

  “As a child, I found you … a joy.”

  “When you saw me, came near me.”

  “I was fighting, girl! Fighting for this kingdom. For eighteen years I have been fighting.”

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  “You have your kingdom.”

  Sighing, he began to pull on his boots.

  “I have my kingdom,” he agreed heavily. He stood up.

  “Was I wrong to believe that I could have my daughter also?” When she made no response, he went on, “I go back to the castle. It is a dozen miles to Ayr, and we leave at noon. Do you attend the parliament?”

  She shook her head.

  “Only if you command it.”

  “I command nothing of you, lass.”

  “Save that I marry. And produce you an heir.”

  He spread his hands in token of resignation, or possibly defeat, and

  left her sitting
there. The Ayr parliament of April 1315 had much to

  discuss besides the question of the succession. Foremost came the peace offensive, the great endeavour to bring the English to negotiate a firm and lasting peace, not just another temporary truce in this unending warfare; and part and parcel thereof, their recognition of Bruce’s kingship and the essential and complete independence of his king dom. This was elementary, basic to all settlement; yet strangely, though the English claim to over lordship suzerainty, was only some twenty years old, and the product of one man’s megalomania, this was the stumbling block holding up all agreement-despite Edward the Second’s hatred for his late father and all his works.

  But before this vital issue, there was a symbolic item to be staged, a mere ceremony but significant of much, in the Great Hall of Ayr Castle, the same slightly smoke-blackened hall, built by the English invaders, where once William Wallace had hanged the fatly obscene nude body of the sheriff, Arnulf, and his two chief henchmen, before burning all. This afternoon, Abbot Bernard of Arbroath, in his capacity of Chancellor of the realm and chairman of the assembly, after bowing to the King and opening the proceedings, called the name and style of the most noble Sir Patrick Cospatrick, 9th Earl of Dunbar and March.

  There was a hush, as everywhere men eyed the side door which opened to reveal the slender, darkly handsome person of a proud featured middle-aged man, splendidly attired. Looking neither right nor left, this newcomer strode firmly down the long aisle between the ranks of Scotland’s great ones, un hesitant straight for the dais, which he mounted, to bow before the throne.

  “Your Grace, my lord Robert, I, Patrick of Dunbar, humbly crave leave to make my due homage to yourself as liege lord,” he announced in clear, almost ringing tones.

  Bruce, in his gorgeous scarlet and gold Lion Rampant tabard, permitted himself just the glimmer of a smile. There was nothing humble about the voice or attitude, nor in the level glance of those dark arrogant eyes. Nevertheless he inclined his head, graciously, as though well satisfied.

  “Welcome to my Court, Cousin,” he said.

  The fact of the matter was that this represented victory, undeniable

  victory. This man, perhaps the greatest in power of all Scotland’s