The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  “Yet you must not go alone. That I will not have. You are the Queen.

  If I may not go with you, another shall. Whom will you have?”

  “I would choose James Douglas. But since I know this to be impossible, I would have Gilbert Hay. He has ever loved me, in his quiet way. And makes undemanding companion.”

  “No-I could not spare Jamie. I but await Thomas’s return from France, to send them both south once more. On their old ploys! Deep raiding into England. You know it. This cannot wait.

  But Gibbie you may have.”

  Elizabeth nodded. They were back to that-Scotland and England at war. The Queen-Mother, Mortimer, and the Regency Council had at first unilaterally confirmed the thirteen-year truce, to the Scots’ surprise; but latterly it had become clear that this was merely a convenience to gain time to assemble their strength against Scotland. Spies informed that secret orders had gone out all over England for a May muster at Newcastle, where Count John of Hainault, the noted commander-to whose niece the young King had recently become betrothed-was to command with his fine force of heavy Flemish horse. Bruce intended to strike first, as of yore, with another of the Douglas-Moray swift cavalry drives, as dissuasion. But it was depressing to have to return to such tactics.

  When Elizabeth went off about her own affairs, Robert Bruce smiled a little, to himself. He was not quite so moribund and immobile as she seemed to think him-even though horse riding nowadays did tend to make him breathless and his heart to beat irregularly. He was damned if he was going to be carried about in a litter, yet-but there were other methods of transport The new trading galliot he and Angus Og had been building, to be the first of a trading fleet, was all but finished. It would be a good opportunity to test its qualities out, while Elizabeth was elsewhere—for nothing was surer than that she would insist that he was not in a fit state to go sailing. He loved her dearly-but he was not going to be coddled. And he had been wanting to go to Ireland again, for some time, to Antrim, where the Irish chiefs and kinglets were once more wishing to enter into a league for the expulsion of the English.

  Since his brother Edward’s death he had consistently refuted to consider any suggestion that he should assume the highly theoretical and nominal High Kingship of All Ireland; but he was not against using his undoubted influence with the Irish to bring pressure on the new English regime, parallel with the Douglas-Moray expedition.

  Once Elizabeth was safely off on her pilgrimage, he would go sailing.

  The Queen gone, the galliot’s trials satisfactory, the Irish agreement

  usefully concluded, and Bruce tired but not displeased with his

  physical state, the galliot returned up the Clyde estuary in late

  August, that year of 1327, escorted by a squadron of Angus Og’s galleys. Thomas, Earl of Moray, himself was waiting for his uncle on the jetty at Cardross.

  Moray had stirring tidings to relate. Douglas and he had twisted the English leopard’s tail, with a vengeance. Not content with raiding and making diversionary gestures deep into England, they had had a confrontation with the young King Edward himself; indeed they had sought to capture him, and Douglas had been within yards of succeeding, the youthful monarch’s personal chaplain being slain in the skirmish. They had defeated a forward force of the main enemy army at Cockdale, in Durham. Then slipped over the high moorland to Weardale, forcing the cumbrous English array to make a great and tiring detour in wet weather with rivers in spate, on terrain where the Hainaulters’ heavy cavalry was bogged down. At Stanhope, a hunting-park of the Bishop of Durham, they had taken up a strong position on the hillside, for all to see, and waited, leading the enemy to believe that they would do battle there-despite the enormous difference in size of the respective forces. Presuming that a full-scale confrontation must develop the next day, the English leaders had camped for the night on the low ground. This was when Douglas had tried his audacious night raid, for a capture. They had collected many prisoners, including courtiers, before the camp was roused-though the King unfortunately escaped. And thereafter, since they had never intended to do set battle with a host ten times their size, in enemy country, they slipped away northwards in the darkness, and returned to Scotland forthwith. Douglas was now back on the Border, and he, Moray, had come for further orders.

  “I* faith, Thomas-here is excellent news!” Bruce cried, his limp

  weariness forgotten.

  “On my soul, you make a pretty pair of brigands! That youth begins his

  reign with a notable indignity, indeed Like his father! Perhaps it

  will teach his advisers that the Scots would make better friends than foes! With my Irish arrangements, just completed, I swear they will have to come to the conclusion that a peace treaty is the only way in which they will win respite in their own realm!”

  Moray coughed.

  “Unfortunately, Sire-it may prove otherwise.

  As I said, we captured prisoners close to the King. One, a Thomas Rokeby, esquire to King Edward, declared that it was common knowledge that Your Grace was dying! And that the English need not trouble-that once you were gone the rebel Scots would soon come to heel, with no need for any treaty …”

  “By the Rude-they think that! So I am dying, am I?

  “Fore God, I will teach them otherwise!” The King’s eyes blazed with all their old fire.

  “We told Rokeby so, Sire–and let him go free, to convey the facts to his King. But-I doubt if he will be believed. Or even believed us.”

  “Then we will show them, beyond a peradventure! Hear you that, Angus my friend? I am dying. The English have only to wait! So-they will learn differently, and swiftly! By two days from this I will be on English soil, by God! And we shall see who dies …”

  Robert Bruce was as good as his oath-however much it cost him, in bodily fatigue, pain in his legs and at his heart, and such exhaustion that he had to be propped up in his saddle by esquires, one on either side of his horse. Nevertheless, two days later and ninety weary horseback miles south-eastwards, he led James Douglas and Moray and their host over the Coldstream ford of Tweed, and on to besiege the Bishop of Durham’s castle at Norham. Also he sent lieutenants to invest Warkworth Castle, and even the Percy stronghold of Alnwick, while others went further south still, and west, to waste Northumberland-saving always Tynedale -North Durham, Cumberland and Westmorland. Even though Bruce conducted this warfare largely from a tent under Norham’s walls, the King of Scots’ presence was made abundantly clear to all the North of England. He sent heralds to announce to the King of England, wherever he should be found, the Earl of Lancaster, the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Durham, that he, the King of Scots, intended to annexe the county of Northumberland to the realm of Scotland forthwith.

  It was in these circumstances, on a mellow autumn day of October, that

  Sir Henry Percy of Alnwick, Lord of Northumberland, with Sir William de

  Denham, of the English Chancery, came riding under a white flag to the

  Scots camp at Norham -an unhappy and nervous delegation. This was

  Bruce’s first meeting with the son of his old enemy-for the previous

  Henry Percy had died the same year as Bannockburn. He was, in fact,

  very much a replica of his father, tall, thin, foxy of face and

  prematurely stooping, balding. Eyeing him, Bruce knew a little

  disappointment. This man was not worth his vengeance. He had dressed himself in full armour to meet the envoys. It mattered not, after all; but he was glad that his swollen legs were hidden beneath the steel, uncomfortable as it was.

  The Englishmen brought a request for a peace treaty, from King Edward and his regents. They wanted to know King Robert’s terms.

  “Have you writing to show me, my lord?” Bruce barked at Percy.

  “From your liege lord?”

  The other nodded. He handed over a sealed missive, addressed to the Lord Robert, King of Scots.

  The sigh that escaped from the Bruce was eloquent as it was long. He had wait
ed and worked for thirteen years for that simple superscription.

  The day following, the envoys were sent away with the Scots terms. They comprised six points-and were more favourable, generous indeed, than even Moray advised. Nothing must stop a settlement now. The points were: (1) That the King of England, and parliament, must acknowledge that King Robert and his heirs for all time coming should rule the independent kingdom of Scotland, without rendering any service or homage to any. (2) That the King of Scots’ son and heir, the Prince David, should have for betrothed bride the King of England’s young sister, Princess Joanna of the Tower. (3) That no subjects of the King of England should hold lands in Scotland; nor subjects of the King of Scots hold lands in England. (4) That King Robert and his heirs should lend military aid, if requested, against all save the French, with whom Scotland was already in alliance; likewise English aid should be available to the Scots, if required. (5) That the King of Scots would pay the sum of 20,000 within three years, as reparation for damage done to the kingdom of England. (6) That the King of England should use all powers to persuade the papal curia to repeal the sentence of excommunication against King Robert and his Council and subjects. And this forthwith.

  If the King of England would confirm these terms, under the Great Seal

  of England, King Robert would send his commissioners to Newcastle, to

  negotiate the peace. And promptly. Bruce had himself hoisted into

  the saddle again, and turned his horse’s head for home.

  They had not long crossed the ford of Tweed when a small party, riding hard, came galloping across the green levels of the Merse, to meet them. The King perceived that it was his Lord High Constable, Gilbert Hay, and reined up. And at his friend’s grim, unhappy features, the royal heart missed another beat.

  Pulling up before him, Hay flung himself down, knelt, looked up, opened his mouth to speak-and said no word.

  “Well, Gibbie -well? You are back, from your travels. How is the Queen?”

  Hay moistened his lips, and dropped his glance again. Still he

  knelt.

  The scene swam before the King’s eyes.

  “Out with it, man! She is not sick? In trouble … ?”

  “Sire… my good lord! Oh, my friend, my liege-the Queen… she is dead! Dead!” Hay’s voice broke completely. He rose, turning away, stumbling, blinded by his tears.

  For long moments there was silence. After a stricken pause, Moray and Douglas urged their horses close, to support the King’s person. He waved them back.

  As from a great distance he spoke, levelly, evenly, his voice steady.

  “Speak on, Sir Gilbert,” he said, staring straight ahead of him.

  The Constable made two or three false starts, the King waiting patiently. At length, mumbling disjointedly, he got it out. The Queen had made her pilgrimage to Tain successfully, although it had taxed her strength sorely, the weather so ill, the rivers all in a spate. But returning, at Cullen in Banffshire, near Sir Alexander Comyn’s house, whilst fording a flooded stream, her horse had slipped and thrown her. She had fallen on rocks, in the water, and grievously injured herself. Within. An issue of blood, which would not staunch. She said that it was from her womb; after the prince’s birth it had never fully recovered. They had carried her, wet and cold, to the nearest house. From thence to the Comyn’s castle of Cullen. But nothing could aid her. The bleeding from her woman parts, would not staunch. She died there, calm, composed, kind, a Queen to the end, sending warm messages of love and devotion to her lord, her children, her friends … Gilbert Hay, once started, was jerking and mumbling on. But he had lost his main audience. Robert Bruce had set his horse in motion, and was riding slowly away, head up, straight of back, jaws sternly clenched. Some yards on, without turning, he called back, and strongly.

  “See kindly to Sir Gilbert,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The King was stubborn. He would not be carried in a litter.

  Against all advice, he rode all the way from Cardross to Edinburgh, although by slow stages-and gained some small satisfaction to set against the pain, discomfort and exhaustion when, at Cramond near the city, he caught up with the train of Bishop Lamberton, himself lying in a litter, after crossing the ferry from life. Riding alongside his old friend’s equipage the few remaining miles, he was perversely pleased to be upright in his saddle and so able to condescend to the other however shocked he was by the wasted and emaciated state of the Primate.

  Nevertheless, Bruce had to take to his bed on arrival at the Abbey of Holyrood, at Edinburgh, since he could by then by no means stand on his feet. This was a humiliation, and perhaps deserved;

  for not only was all the world coming to Edinburgh these March days of 1328, but the city had organised a great pageant and demonstration for the King and his guests-anxious no doubt to establish its loyalty in the end. Not that Bruce cared overmuch about disappointing the fathers and citizens-for Edinburgh was a place he had never loved, always looking on it as almost an English city, which had taken sides against him more often than for him; but it must emphasise to all that the King was a sick man, when the pageantry had to take place without his presence, with Moray and young Prince David deputising for the monarch-for he flatly refused to view the proceedings from a litter, as the Primate did, rain nonetheless.

  His infirmity could not but be obvious to the Englishmen also, of course-although he kept them from his room, and only appeared before them on occasion, and briefly, fully clad and making an almost pugnacious attempt to appear fit and hearty.

  To all intents, it was a parliament, on the Scots side, Bruce having

  summoned everyone of standing in the kingdom, to witness this

  consummation of a life’s work. The terms of the treaty had been

  thrashed out at York; but despite objections by the English, Bruce had

  insisted that the actual signing should be done in his realm. There

  were a few outstanding details to be settled, but it was entirely

  evident that nothing now would hold up the ratification. It was to be the Treaty of Edinburgh, not of Newcastle or of York, or anywhere else whatever the English chose to call it thereafter.

  King Edward had sent up a resounding team of commissioners, headed by Henry de Burghersh, Bishop of Lincoln, a most able prelate and Lord High Chancellor of England. He was supported by the Bishop of Norwich, Sir Geoffrey le Scrope, the Chief Justice, and de la Zouche, Lord of Ashby, along with Sir Henry Percy again. It was noteworthy that both Percy and Ashby formerly held large lands in Scotland. Some trading was obviously envisaged.

  Bruce was glad to leave the wrangling over details to others-although he and Lamberton were kept informed of every point, and maintained their fingers grimly on the pulse of the negotiations.

  The main difficulty was the matter of the betrothal of Prince David and the Princess Joanna of the Tower-or at least, the date of such marriage contract. The English renunciation, as they called it, of all claims of sovereignty over Scotland, was dependent on this marriage, it seemed. And David Bruce would not reach the age of fourteen, legal age for consent to actual marriage, until 1338, ten years hence. Much might happen in ten years-and the King of France was already suggesting that David Bruce would be better married to a French princess. Mere promises were insufficient for the English, on this score-since they, if any did, knew the worth of mere promises. It was not until Bruce offered the enormous and quite unobtainable sum of 100,000 to be paid by the Scots if by 1338 David was not married to Joanna, that this matter was settled. Money always spoke loud, in the South.

  A second point of difficulty was the matter of military aid, in alliance. The situation if France attacked England was thrashed out. It was eventually agreed that if their French allies drew Scotland into war, the English would be free to make war in return, without infringing the treaty. The Irish position was equally troublesome. In an effort to get the Scots to agree that they would not aid any Irish rebellion, the English commissioners
offered the return to Scotland of the Black Rood of St. Margaret and the Stone of Destiny, stolen by Edward the First from Scone in 1296.

  This, needless to say, was a grave embarrassment, since the true Stone had never left the Scone area, but had been kept in secret at various places thereabout. Evidently the Hammer of the Scots had kept to himself his undoubted knowledge that his Stone was false, and the English fully accepted it as genuine. Bruce certainly did not want Edward’s lump of Scone sandstone back; but nor was this the time to reveal the presence of the authentic original, he decided.

  He had plans for the Stone of the Scone. So the Scots showed no interest in this offer, and instead obtained a promise that if anyone in Man or the Hebrides made war against the King of Scots, the English should not aid them. This matter had rankled in Bruce’s mind ever since Lame John MacDougall of Lorn had been made English Admiral of the West, and had had to be driven out of Man by Angus Og and Moray.

  At length, all was settled, and the great ceremony of the signing took place in the refectory of Holyrood Abbey, crowded as it had never been before. For this occasion Bruce was fully dressed in his most splendid cloth-of-gold, under the jewelled Lion Rampant tabard of Scotland-even though he sat on his day-bed, and could raise and rest his swollen legs thereon when necessary. Lamberton was also present, in his litter. And if these two seemed, by their obvious physical disability, to lend an atmosphere of invalidism and infirmity, there at least was nothing of senility or weakness about it, as their eyes, speech and bearing made abundantly clear.

  For these two, head of State and Church in Scotland, were indeed the most mentally alive and determined men in all that great company. Beside them, Percy was a drooping, hesitant ineffectual, Bishop Burghersh an anxious fat man eager to be elsewhere, and le Scrope a stiff, parchment-faced lawyer, niggling over words.

  Before the actual signing, the English Lord Chancellor was to read out the Declaration of King Edward, written at York and to be incorporated in the treaty as preamble. As he was about to begin, Bruce intervened.