The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  Bruce, while equally concerned over this aspect of the business, had further reasons of his own for making the most of events. He, the warrior-king, was at pains now to build up an image of a monarch of peace and prosperity, the father of his people, not just their shield and sword, the patron of things beautiful and enduring -above all, the founder of a dynasty. And his dynasty, obviously, was going to need every support and buttress it could possibly claim. This was his constant preoccupation, these days.

  Therefore, as well as out of gratitude and love for his friend, he had

  given Lamberton every available aid and encouragement in the lengthy,

  at times seemingly hopeless, task of completing the mighty and

  magnificent cathedral of St. Andrews; and now flung himself

  wholeheartedly into helping to make the opening and consecrating thereof an occasion which men would speak of for centuries.

  To this end all Scotland had come to the grey city in the East Neuk of life, at the tip of the promontory between Forth and Tay-or all therein who were of any note, or conceived themselves so to be, apart from the vast numbers who were not. The royal summons had been clear and emphatic. The King had even had Lamberton hold up the celebrations until Douglas and Moray could get back from their successful and extended demonstration sweep of Northern England-and they had had to return from as far away as Skipton in Craven, and Scarborough. Now they were back, triumphant, with no losses to speak of and legendary exploits for their men to boast-as well as vast trains of booty, which had much delayed them, innumerable illustrious and valuable hostages for ransom, and indeed a magnificent collection of church plate, gold and silver vessels, fonts, crucifixes, chalices, lamps, candlesticks and the like, jewelled vestments, and other treasure, as votive offerings for the newly-completed cathedral. Lamberton received this largesse, the cream of apparently no less than eighty minsters, churches, abbeys and monasteries, in Yorkshire and Durham, somewhat doubtfully-and wondered what sort of letters were speeding from Archbishop William Melton of York to the Vatican.

  But at least all this was probably better installed in the sanctified

  premises of St. Andrews than decorating rude barons’ halls or melted down for money.

  Even Walter Steward had taken brief leave of absence for a couple of days from his onerous duties as governor of Berwickon Tweed, in order to attend. The King had insisted on this; for one of the secondary objectives of this whole affair was to bring before the people the infant Robert Stewart, Walter’s son and Bruce’s grandson, second heir to the throne and, in view of Edward Bruce’s Irish preoccupations, of growing significance. The boy was now two and a half, a fine, sturdy, laughing child, seeming wholly to take after his very normal father though Marjory Bruce had been a laughing normal child, indeed a poppet, once.

  So, on a day of blustery wind and sunshine and showers, all rainwashed colour and contrasts, at noon two great processions set out into the crowded streets, the King’s from the great Augustinian Priory, which he was making his headquarters meantime, and the Primate’s from the episcopal castle. At the head of the first, behind a large company of musicians playing stirring airs, Bruce walked, splendid in cloth-of-gold and scarlet beneath the Lion Rampant tabard studded with jewels, bareheaded save for the simple circlet of gold with which he had been crowned at Scone when Scotland could not rise to better. But to compensate, Elizabeth who paced at his side, regal in purple and silver, wore a magnificent crown on her yellow hair, flashing with gems and pearls, especially made for the occasion.

  Immediately behind stalked a distinctly embarrassed High Steward, leading his grinning, skipping son at his right hand, and the toddling Princess Matilda at his left-a thing that he would have died rather than be seen doing, for anyone else than his beloved father-in-law who, however, had been smilingly adamant on Elizabeth’s advising. And she had been right, for the crowds went wild with delight at the spectacle. Thereafter a nun all in white carried the infant Princess Margaret in her arms.

  Next came the heroes, Douglas and Moray, in gold-inlaid half armour, bearing in the crooks of their right arms gold-plated and engraved jousting helms, plumed with their respective colours-although these latter were only recent replacements of English lord’s crests. Sir Gilbert Hay, the High Constable, whose duty and privilege it was always to be close to the monarch, walked with them.

  These were followed by the King’s sisters and their hut hands Christian with Sir Andrew Moray of Bothwell, son of the hero of Stirling Bridge, her third spouse and a deal younger than her still highly attractive self; Mary, now Countess of Atholl in her own right, and wed to Sir Alexander Fraser, the Chamberlain; and Matilda, with Sir Hugh Ross.

  Alone, after them, grim, sour-faced and clad in little better than rags, for all the world like a witch, hirpled the Countess of Buchan, eyed askance by all yet condemned by none, a woman who had paid a more terrible price than most for that day’s celebrations.

  The man who, after a noticeable space, stalked next, handsome narrow head held high, weakly chin out-thrust, tongue ever moistening lips, was Mac Duff himself, the Countess Isabel’s brother -although she would by no means recognise his presence-Earl of life and senior magnate of the land, heir of a line older than the dynasty, making his first public appearance since his belated change of allegiance-and unsure of his reception. He led the Earls of Scotland, as was his right although some of that splendid group would have voted to see him beheaded. But his presence, along with that of many another ex-traitor, represented not only victory for Bruce but the continuity and wholeness of his kingdom. The King’s pardon embraced all. Only Mar was missing, Bruce’s own nephew and Christian’s son, who still preferred Edward of England’s service, and was said to love that strange man. The Lord of the Isles strode, a little apart, inevitably.

  Sir Alexander Seton, in the scarlet robe of Seneschal and King of Arms, led the resounding company of the lords and barons, with the colour fully-garbed Highland chiefs carefully mixed amongst them-for the King was concerned, as ever, to heal this grievous dichotomy between the Highland and Lowland polities-however much not a few of the proud Scoto-Norman barons resented being coupled with Erse-speaking barbarians with touchy tempers.

  There followed the almost unnumbered host of the knights and lairds and sheriffs, the lesser officers of state, the captains and chieftains, far enough behind to have their own band of musicians.

  Many of these were the veterans of twenty years of grim warfare, hardbitten, tough, the most seasoned fighting men in all Christendom, with no traitors here. If Robert Bruce could have followed his own choice, it was with these that he would have marched, for it was on their broad shoulders that his throne rested. He had much ado keeping such out of the way of life, Menteith and their like.

  He was at pains to remind them that a kingdom, a realm, was not all composed of heroes and patriots.

  Long before all this resplendent throng could emerge from the Priory,

  the King at its head had met the even more resplendent procession of

  the clergy, from the episcopal castle. Here was magnificence on an

  awe-inspiring, dazzling scale, with robes and copes and dalmatics, chasubles and tunic les stoles, mitres, pastoral staffs and enshrined relics, in every colour under the sun, ablaze with jewels, coruscating, scintillating. Even Bruce was shaken at the magnitude and quality of this splendour, of its wealth and riches. Where had all this been hoarded away, hidden, during the long years of war and want? Certainly the Church had been his most faithful and generous supporter-but it seemed that it had been better able to afford that help than he had realised. Today, Holy Church had come into its own, and something of the accumulated wealth of the centuries was revealed-no doubt deliberately, as part of the lesson to be spelt out.

  Even the Primate himself, who usually affected the plainest of garb, was magnificent in brocaded purple velvet, stiff with gold wire and rubies, his fingers sparkling with diamond rings, as, from his litter, he raised them to bless the
genuflecting crowds. The King scarcely recognised his worn and shrewdly humorous friend.

  Behind him paced every bishop in Scotland-if in reality Master John Lindsay could be called Bishop of Glasgow. Bruce, and the Scottish clergy headed by the Primate, had appointed him to succeed old Bishop Wishart, who had died two years previously. But the Pope had refused to confirm; indeed had appointed an English Dominican, one John of Egglescliffe, who, though duly consecrated at the Vatican, had never dared to show his face in Scotland.

  Amongst all these splendid clerics was the odd shambling figure of the timeless Dewar of the Coigreach, from Strathfillan, wild-looking as ever, hobbling with the aid of St. Fillan’s Staff; and, now looking middle-aged, stocky and ill at ease, the Dewar of the Main.

  Thereafter, Bernard de Linton, Chancellor and Abbot of Arbroath, led the cohort of abbots, mitred and otherwise, priors, deans, archdeacons, prependaries and canons, such as Bruce had not fully realised even existed. When it came to making a demonstration, it seemed, Holy Church required lessons from none.

  Fortunately the approach to the cathedral was broad, spacious, and the two processions could proceed side by side without confusion -although the King silenced his musicians in favour of the choir of one hundred singing boys, which preceded the prelates with chanted anthems of heart-breaking sweetness and purity.

  Vast, lofty, massive, but perfectly proportioned, the mighty building reared before them, its huge central tower soaring over 200 feet, its steep roofs rivalling its spires, turrets and flying buttresses in their aspiration towards heaven. Cruciform in shape, 350 feet long by 160 feet wide at the transepts, of developing design from Romanesque to first-pointed Gothic, illustrating the 160 years of its building, it was the largest single edifice in the kingdom, and made all the other fourteen churches of the ecclesiastical metropolis look puny, dwarfed.

  As they drew near, the great carillon of bells, brought at major

  expense from the Low Countries, rang out in joyous pealing harmony,

  vibrant, resonant but clear. And quickly, skilfully, the choir changed

  and spaced its singing and rhythm so that it blended and fitted into

  the bells’ clangour in extraordinary fashion, something which must have

  demanded long practice and unlikely patience on the part of impatient

  boys. To this accompaniment the two processions branched apart again,

  to enter the mighty building by different doors, the clerics by the

  chancel to the east, the King’s party by the great arched main

  entrance, deeply recessed and with triumphant wealth of mouldings.

  Within, all was calm, hushed, even the filing in of large numbers of not very silent people seeming to create but little stir in the vast quiet of the towering forest of stone. Quite daunting indeed was the effect of it all, the richly ornamented arches crossing and re crossing to seeming infinity above the double rows of stately pillars, the soaring clerestory with triple rows of pointed and mullioned windows above, richly stained, with the brilliant hues of tempera paintings on the walling, lightening any claustrophobic effect of tremendous, overwhelming masonry. From mighty nave, built to hold 3,000, by transepts, choir and chancel to the High Altar, the place combined sheer beauty and strength with transcendent size, to an extraordinary effectiveness. Even David, Bishop of Moray, had to admit that it outdid his own beloved cathedral of Elgin, which hitherto had been called the glory of the kingdom.

  The boys had not ceased to sing, and were now climbing winding turnpike stairs within slit-windowed pillars, from which their anthem came in strange, unearthly fashion, to join the ranks of older choristers and musicians who were already installed up there in the three lofty galleries which surmounted the clerestory, with open arcading inwards.

  To their harmonies, now reinforced by soft instrumental music, Bruce

  and Elizabeth made their way slowly up through the centre of the nave,

  to climb the choir and chancel steps to their thrones, set on the right

  side; while the bishops and senior clergy all but filled the rest of

  the chancel. Lamberton himself, leaning heavily on his golden pastoral

  staff, and supported by his acolytes, limped directly to the High

  Altar. It was ablaze with candles, their flames diffused by the

  rolling clouds of incense.

  It took little under an hour to fill that tremendous place-although

  even so it presented no appearance of fullness, so noble were the proportions. Then, as at last the bells ceased their pealing, and in shattering contrast to the sweetly melodious chanting maintained all this time, suddenly the Te Deum crashed out, in splendour, with trumpets, horns, shaw ms tambours, cymbals and men’s voices, rich, deep, quivering with power. The Service of Thanksgiving, Dedication and Consecration began.

  Bruce shook the tears roughly from his eyes. And not for the first time, his wife pretended not to notice. If emotion was an essential part of Robert Bruce, she was prepared to thank God for it.

  The praise, prayers, singing and sonorous Latinities had given place to the Primate’s address-for it was that, rather than any sermon-when the King’s attention was distracted by some small commotion nearby, where a side-door opened from the dormitory, so that the canons might slip in to perform their midnight services.

  Two newcomers had entered there, no canons but notably richly dressed gallants, though obviously travel-stained. One was already beginning to move towards the throne, when Sir Alexander Seton hurried to halt him. The whispers of altercation could be plainly heard, through the Primate’s richly harsh voice speaking on in strange power to be issuing from so gaunt and racked a body.

  Bruce frowned-the more so as he suddenly recognised one of the intruders to be Sir William de Soulis, Hereditary Butler of Scotland, Irish Earl of Dundalk.

  Sir Alexander, as High Seneschal and Herald King, was clearly urging the visitors to wait, to turn back-but de Soulis would have none of it. All but pushing Seton aside, he shouldered his way round him and came striding towards the King. All around, the ranks of the nobles seethed and stirred.

  Bruce, for his friend Lamberton’s sake, at this the climax of his career, was not going to allow any unseemly disturbance to break out. With an imperious hand he flicked Seton and the others back, and beckoned de Soulis on-but his brow was black.

  The Lord of Liddesdale dropped on one knee at the side of the throne, and reached for the King’s hand-but it was snatched away from him.

  “Your Grace-hear me!” he exclaimed.

  “Hush, man! Quiet!” the monarch jerked, below his breath.

  “How dare you!”

  “Sire-you must listen. I pray you. It is your brother. His Grace, the Lord Edward. His Grace of Ireland. He … he is dead.”

  The King stared, suddenly still, rigid. Elizabeth’s hand slipped over to find his wrist, to hold it.

  All anywhere near could see that the King had received shattering news. Lamberton himself could not but see it; be very much aware of the interruption; yet he prevailed, in that most difficult of tasks, to keep his voice steady and even and to continue with his celebratory discourse seemingly undisturbed.

  “Sire,” de Soulis whispered.

  “You heard? King Edward, your royal brother is killed. Fallen in battle. At Dundalk. A great slaughter. Eight days ago …”

  “Dear God-dead! Edward dead!”

  “Aye, Sire. It was a sore battle. The English, under the Lord John Bermingham, were advancing on Ulster. His Grace moved to meet them. We camped at Tagher, near Dundalk. His Grace would hear nothing but that we attack the enemy-though they were ten to one. He … he was one of the first to fall.”

  “You have brought his body home?”

  “Alas, no, Sire. The English-they took it. Dead. They beheaded him. Quartered the body. Sent it as spectacle to four parts of Ireland. The head to be sent to Edward of England …!”

  “A-a-a-ah!” That strangled sound was not so much a groan as a snarl.
And loud enough for many to hear. Even Lamberton paused for a moment in his delivery, brows raised towards the King.

  But that last intimation of English savagery had made Robert Bruce himself again, the warrior he had always been rather than the gentler monarch and father of his people he now sought to be.

  The iron came back into his features, and he raised his head. He caught the Primate’s eye, and gave a brief shake of his head to the latter’s enquiry, sitting back in his throne, a clear indication that Lamberton should proceed. Still low-voiced, he said to de Soulis:

  “Very well, Sir William. I thank you. Of this more anon. You may retire!”

  “But, Sire-there is more …”

  “Later, sir.”

  It was the other’s turn to frown, as he rose, bowed stiffly, and backed away.

  The celebrations continued, as planned.

  Later, the long service over, and when the processions had wound their

  colourful way back to their respective bases, a great banquet, masque

  and dancing was arranged for the evening-more than one indeed, for all

  walks of men and women. Bruce cancelled none of it. But he did call a

  hurried Privy Council,for the hour or so intervening, in the refectory

  of the Augustinian Priory.

  It was a larger Council than usual, for practically every member entitled to be present was already in the city. Sir William de Soulis himself was present, in his capacity of Lord of Liddesdale, if not Butler of Scotland.

  “My lords,” the King said, without preamble, when all were seated, Lamberton himself the last to hobble in.

  “I grieve to upset this great and auspicious day’s doings, and to inconvenience you all thus. But you should know what tidings the Lord of Liddesdale has brought me. Some may already have heard. And to give me your counsel as to the necessary decisions. My brother, the Lord Edward, Earl of Carrick and latterly King of Ireland, is dead. My my brother, the last of four. All slain. By the English. At least he died honourably. On the field of battle. Yet he was dishonoured in his death, in that the enemy’s spleen triumphed, even so. They dismembered his body. Cut it upas they did the others To exhibit as trophies. Despatched throughout Ireland. His head sent to England. Such, my lords-such are they with whom His Holiness of Rome makes cause! These to whom he would have us submit!”