In the hubbub that followed the King waited set-faced. Then he banged on the refectory table.
My lords-may I remind you that this is a Council, not a wives gossip! he declared, with a harshness that had not been heard in his voice for long.
My lord Edwards death I shall mourn, in my own way. We were not close. We much disagreed.
But we were brothers. But-that is my business. Not this Councils.
What is, is twofold, and to be considered herewith. The Lord Edward was appointed by parliament first heir to my throne. It therefore becomes necessary for parliament to appoint anew. For my bodily health is not of the best, and I need remind none that the succession is all-important. He caught Lambertons eye, and the older man shook his head almost imperceptibly.
So this Privy Council must guide parliament in the matter. A parliament to be called as soon as may be possible. As you know, forty days notice is required. But effective decision cannot wait so long. So decide, my lords. He paused.
Secondly-there is to decide what to do about the Scots forces still remaining in Ireland.
They are not so many, but still some thousands …
Sire, de Soulis interrupted-and men, however distinguished in blood or position, did not interrupt their sovereign.
They are fewer than that. Fewer than you think. For they were all at this battle. The spearhead of the Kings army. Two thousand and more. Few now are alive. Of any degree, noble or simple.
Every eye stared at him.
All are dead. My cousin, Sir John de Soulis. Sir Philip de Moubray, Sir John Stewart of Jedburgh, my lord Stewards cousin, Sir Fergus of Ardrossan. Ramsay of Auchterhouse …
Christs mercy! All these-my good friends! How came they all to the, man? Here must have been utter folly!
The English were strong in cavalry. They were commanded by the Lord
John Bermingham. With many notable captains. Sir Miles Verdon, Sir
Hugh Tripton, Sir John Maupas. He it was who slew the King. I, and
others, urged that we should retire. But His Grace must attack. They
outnumbered us ten to one. The Irish levies fled. The King fell,
early. The Scots would not flee. They died there, around their
A-aaye! God rest their souls! The brave ones. My men.
But-the waste! The folly of it. Men who had fought with me on a score of fields. To die so!
They died honourably, Sire. Choosing death with their monarch.
No, sir. Not their monarch. Their leader, perhaps their friend. But the Lord Edward was not their monarch. These were subjects of mine. I say that here was waste and folly. As was all the Irish adventure. But-what matter? They died. And you, sir, did not!
Eh …? De Soulis blinked, and flushed.
What means Your Grace?
What I say. These, you said, chose death with the Lord Edward. You did not, it seems, Sir William!
By Gods good providence I was preserved. Unhorsed in a charge.
Stunned. Led off the field by my esquire. And so preserved.
I seem to mind Your Grace in similar case at Methven!
That is true. I stand rebuked. My claim is that these stout friends of mine, old friends-their deaths were waste, folly. You say not-yet you were less foolish. I commend your wisdom in this, at least!
Your Grace is not doubting my courage? My honour?
Your courage-no, sir. Your honour-who knows? It is a chancy
commodity, honour! It is concerned with more than battles, Sir
William. You have been privy to much that was against my interests you
my Butler. You ever supported my brother in his Irish follies against
my known wishes. You worked against my lord of Moray, my lieutenant,
sent to Ireland to guide my brother. Your courage I do not doubt, sir-but let us leave honour out of this!
De Soulis had half risen from his bench, glaring. It was most plain how these two men disliked each other.
Sire-I do protest! he exclaimed.
You wrong me, in more than in my honour. Without cause. Moreover, you miscall me. I would remind you that I am a peer of the realm of Ireland. Earl of Dundalk. I would request that you style me so!
Sir William de Soulis, Bruce grated, in this realm of Scotland, you are Lord of Liddesdale -by my good favour. You are Hereditary Butlerby my good favour. These, and nothing else.
You have not surrendered your Scots citizenship. Or not to me. For Irish. Or you would not be sitting at this Council. Do you wish to do so? That was rapped out.
The other sat back, biting his lip. He had great lands in Liddesdale and the SouthWest March. And his new Irish lands were already overrun by the English.
No, Sire, he said, thickly.
Very well. Remember it. Remember also that at my Privy Council I expect to receive counsel. Not bickering and disrespect.
In this realm no man trades words with the monarch-save in a privy chamber. Now-let us proceed, my lords. It seems that there is little that may be done anent bringing back of the Scots force from Ireland. Though what can be done, must. Therefore, our immediate concern is this of the succession.
My good liege lord, Lamberton said, at once, I speak for all when I say that we all do most deeply grieve for you in the loss of your royal brother. This, the last of your brothers. He was a brave man, and a mighty fighter. As are all of your race. He was perhaps over-bold. But who here will judge him, in that? Is it Your Graces wish that this nights feasting and masque be set aside, in mourning?
For the heir to your throne?
I think not, my lord, Bruce answered.
I know-or knew-my brother, passing well, whatever our differences. His failings were those of a high spirit and a light heart. He would never wish this great days celebrations to be curtailed-he who would most have found them to his taste. Nor do I believe it right.
This day we celebrate not only the completion of a large work in Gods name and to His Glory, but the final freeing of this realm from the invader. After the fourth part of a century, no enemy English foot defiles our soil. To this end Edward Bruce laboured, fought and suffered as much as did Robert. As have done so many.
All here-or most! Therefore, since this day will not come again, let there be no damping of its joy. So Edward would say-of that I am sure. And all those, our friends, who died with Edward. So say I. Let all proceed. Now-to this sore matter of the sue-, cession.
Lord King. Again it was William Lamberton who spoke.
I
think it no such sore matter-by Your Graces leave. All sorrow that
your royal health has in some measure suffered the price of a score of
years of war and privation. But it is none so ill that we must
conceive the appointment of a successor to your throne to be of
urgency. God willing, you will reign over us for long years yet. I pray you not to conceive otherwise.
Again the two mens eyes met, sharing their grim secret, as all around men cried acclaim and agreement.
You have much recovered, Sir King, since your return from Ireland. Do not tell me that Robert Bruce has become fearful for his body, like some old woman-for Ill not believe it! Only Angus Og would have dared to speak thus to the monarch, even with a smile, the independent Prince of the Isles.
His Grace was more sick than you know, my lord, Moray declared stiffly.
Even though he was concerned to hide it from all.
Bruce glanced quickly at his nephew. He was a keen and observant man.
Could he possibly know? Have guessed?
I am less young than once I was, he said, shortly.
Sickness that in a younger man might be thrown off, might serve me less lightly now. I desire the succession to be settled.
There was a pause. Then Gilbert Hay spoke.
�
�Is there indeed any choice, Sire? Lacking a son from your own loins which pray God, may still be-there is only your grandson, the child Robert Stewart. No other of the royal line survives.
Since the Lord Edward had no lawful issue.
The old Earl of Ross was not asleep after all. He cleared his throat, and looked at his son, Sir Hugh. Edward Bruce had indeed a son, by their daughter and sister, the Lady Isabella Ross-only he had omitted to wed her. As he had omitted to wed that other, the Lady Isabel de Strathbogie, the forfeited Earl of Atholls sister, to the realms cost. Neither of the Rosses spoke.
There is surely more choice than this? James Douglas pointed out.
Your Grace has two fine daughters. Although the realm has never had a queen-regnant- save for she who died at Orkney, the little Maid of Norway who never ascended the throne-is there aught to make such Queen impossible? Other realms have had such monarchs. Must Scotland be different?
There was a muttering round that table, from many. Clearly it was an
unpopular suggestion-although it was like loyal and devoted Jamie Douglas to have made it, for his lieges sake. And Elizabeths.
When none actually raised voice to speak against it, Douglas
reiterated, I say is there aught against it? In fact? Other than
prejudice? If, as God forbid, we should have a child as monarch, does it matter so greatly if the child is a female? Either would require sound guardians, regents. Does the law of this land say otherwise? I know little of these matters, of rights and laws of succession. My lord Primate-can you tell us?
Lamberton spread his hands.
It is scarcely a matter of law or right, Sir James. I see it as a
matter of choice. Two concerns bear on our decision-or, on
parliaments, for we only do advise parliament on this issue. One concern is what is best for the realm.
The other is His Graces own desires. I agree that, as an infant, a princess might serve as well as a prince. But infants grow apace.
And in a nation which must ever fight for its survival, a Queen would serve less well, I fear. And there comes the thorny question of marriage, and a new male strain to the dynasty. Too many would seek to supply it! A realm with a young Queen to marry, could be endangered, a bone of contention for dogs to fight over.
There are dogs a-plenty to fight for this bone, it seems-Queen or none!
My lords, Bruce intervened.
I have thought much on this matter, in the past. I believe there is a side to it which we must needs consider. It may be as my lord Bishop says, that the succession is not a matter of right, of law. But I think that there is guidance, at least. Consider. My style and title is not as that of the King of England. Or the King of France. Or of Norway. I am, for better or worse, the King of Scots. Not the King of Scotland. Here is more than the mere form of words. It is so because of our ancient Celtic polity. From which this crown descends. Never forget it, when you think of Highlands and Lowlands. It was the Celtic support, which saved me, and the realm, at our lowest fortunes.
And the King glanced over at the Lord of the Isles, Sir Colin Campbell, and other Highland chiefs present.
In that language, he went on, I am Ard Righ. Ard Righ nan Albannach, High King of the Scots. As in the Irish polity-also Celtic. And if High King, or King of Kings, there must be lower kings. In Ireland they so call themselves. Here, this has not been our custom. Save in the Isles. And in Man. The great Earls of Scotland were our lesser kings-the Seven Earls. But now more.
All the land was divided between these. The Ard Righ was appointed by them, his line sustained by them. But, unlike the monarchs of other lands, the land of Scotland was not the High Kings.
It was, and is, that of the lesser kings, or earls, who support him. As an Earl himself, he has his own lands-but as King, no. So he is not King of Scotland, but of Scots. The people of the land, not the land itself.
Men nodded.
It is both the strength and the weakness of your throne, Sire, Bishop Moray said.
Perhaps. But all this you know. It bears, however, on this of the succession. Our kingship is different-as you say, in some matters weaker than others. The Ard Righ, if he rests on the support of his earls, and other lords, must be their choice, their representative.
Hence this Council; hence parliaments decision. And if this is our ancient custom, then it follows that the succession is one of choice, within the royal line. And where there is doubt, as here, the choice should be such as the lesser kings would select to be their strong right arm. Therefore, I say, it should be of a man, a male, a prince, where possible. As it ever has been hitherto.
There was a murmur of agreement.
Spoken like a Bruce, Sire! Malcolm, Earl of Lennox declared -as one of the original Seven Earls.
Your grandsire said the same. When Alexander, of blessed memory, lost his son and there was no heir. Save the princess in Norway. Your grandsire claimed to be named heir. Until a prince might be born. King Alexander acceding.
So be it. We nominate to parliament, to be held so soon as may be, the child Robert Stewart, son to the High Steward, as first heir to the throne.
Lacking a son to Your Grace, David of Moray put in.
But with regents. Good regents. Governors. Two. Other, my lord Steward, than yourself. I mean no disrespect. But this is necessary.
I say the same, my lord Bishop, Walter Stewart agreed readily.
What two better than my nephew, Thomas of Moray? And the good Sir James Douglas? the King said.
In their strong hands Scotland would be safe.
Approval for that was fairly general-although inevitably some frowned or looked blank.
De Soulis spoke again.
And, Sire-what if the child Robert Stewart dies? Bairns are fragile stuff on which to build a kingdom!
What then?
Men, who had sat back, thankful for the business to be over, turned
frowning faces on the Butler, annoyed that the thing should be further dragged out.
The boy is lusty. That can wait, Angus Og jerked.
Have you other suggestion, my lord of Liddesdale? Bruce asked level-voiced.
I would but remind this Council, Sire, that there are more strings to the royal lute, in Scotland, than that of Bruce. If male heir is to be found.
There were not a few indrawn breaths, at that.
So Edward Longshanks took pains to show, at the Competition.
In 1292, the King acknowledged grimly.
Do you wish another such contest for the throne?
By God-no!
A mercy-not that!
Better a Queen than that!
Are you crazy-mad, man …?
When de Soulis could make himself heard above the outcry, florid features em purpled he said, I made no such suggestion. I but reminded the Council of a fact. If a man to rule Scotland is vital, there are men to consider. With the blood-royal in their veins.
Comyns …?
Traitors!
Who, man-who?
Bruce raised his hand.
We shall not forget it, Sir William, he assured, carefully.
Others were less calm, restive, scowling, eyeing each other.
I move that we proceed to the next business, Sire, Lamberton said.
Is there more business, my lord Primate?
It may scarcely be Council business. But it is of interest to all here, and should be made known throughout the realm. The two Cardinals, before they left England, I am informed, made pronouncement of excommunication against Your Grace, and against all who supported you. This latter, I say, was not within their power to do, without my knowledge and agreement. I represent Holy Church in this realm. And I support Your Grace to the full.
No Cardinal, or other than the Pontiff himself, can excommunicate me, as Primate. Or over-rule me within my prov
ince. Therefore this pronunciamento is faulty. Faulty in one respect, faulty in all.
It is to be ignored. These are my instructions, as Primate.
Bruce actually smiled.
I thank you, my lord Bishop. We all do, I vow. Not only that you remove such great weight from our souls.
But that you end this Council on a light note. All shall hear of
this.
I thank you all, my lords, for your attendance and your advice. Let us now resume our celebrations. And mourn the Lord Edward, in our private chambers, anon …
Chapter Seventeen
Robert Bruce wondered how many times he had sat thus, in the saddle, at the head of a company of grim-faced armed men, great or small, and gazed southwards across the Borderline into England.
How often they had looked, dreading what would sooner or later bear down on them from over there, the great enemy hosts, intent on the annihilation of Scotland. Lately, of course, it had been rather the other way, and it would be the folk over there, south of Tweed, Esk or Solway, who must dread and quake when the smaller but faster lines of steel appeared on the Scottish slopes. How much longer, he asked himself? How long before proud, stubborn men, in York and London and Rome, would accept hard facts, recognise his kingship, and come to a peace conference? How much longer before he could lay down his sword?
Not that July night of 1319, at any rate. It was still the unsheathed sword. The only question was in which direction to wield it. Along the gentle ridge of Paxton, above Tweed, only five miles west of Berwick, they waited, the great Scots cavalry host, stretched out along the escarpment behind Bruce for a full mile, ten thousand armed and horsed men, silent, menacing, the largest raiding-force that he had ever mounted. Waited for James Douglas, as the grey summer night settled on land and sea.
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