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by Nigel Tranter


  No cheers greeted this news. Indeed a pregnant silence fell, as men looked at Bruce to see how he took it. He sat motionless, expressionless. In a parliament it was normal for the King to preside, but not to intervene in the actual discussions unless to make some vital and authoritative pronouncement. The Guardians were there as representing the King. Bruce could scarcely express forebodings about John Baliol’s limited release.

  Then there were a number of appointments recently made by Wallace, which fell to be confirmed, few of any prominence. But one raised eyebrows. Alexander Scrymgeour, of Dundee, his own standard-bearer in all their affrays, had been appointed Standard Bearer of the Realm, and Constable of Dundee—the former a new office of state.

  Buchan was on his feet to question it immediately.

  “My lord Chancellor,” he said, “here is a strange matter. A new office. Is this the time to create new offices of state? Such should be by the King’s own appointment. And … and if Standard-Bearer there must be, it should be one of the King’s nobility. I move against.”

  There were a number of ayes from the assembly—but some growls also; the first sign of a clash.

  “Do you contest the right of the Guardian to create such office, my lord?” the Chancellor asked mildly.

  The Constable hesitated.

  “No,” he admitted, after a moment.

  “But it requires confirmation by this parliament. And by the new Guardians. I move that confirmation be withheld.”

  “Noted.” Galloway looked round.

  “Does any other wish to speak on this matter?”

  “Aye, my lord Chancellor—I do.” Wallace, standing in a lowly position but tending to dominate by his very presence, spoke up.

  “With great respect to my lord Earl, I would say that the creation of this office is no whim or caprice. Nor the filling of it by Alexander Scrymgeour. In this our realm’s warfare, none I swear will question who suffers most. The common people. Few will deny who has achieved most in it, as yet. The common people. Even you, my lord Constable, will not gainsay that if the people of Scotland lose heart, or fail in their full support, then the realm is lost. The common folk, then, must see that they are considered.

  Represented. Given their due place. I say, who are more fitted to bear the Royal Standard of Scotland than one of themselves?

  And of them, who more fitted than Alexander Scrymgeour, who has fought

  in every conflict against the English, fought with valour—and stood

  his ground! I crave, my lords temporal and spiritual, barons of

  Scotland and gentles all—confirm the office and appointment both.”

  There was a curious sucking noise as the Steward, rising, sought to control his saliva.

  “I so move,” he got out, and sat down.

  This was it, then. So soon. The moment of decision. All eyes were fixed on the two new Guardians who sat side by side looking straight ahead of them, rather than on the Chancellor, Wallace or Buchan.

  Galloway, tapping fingers on the stone recumbent effigy of a former abbot, which served him as desk, looked in the same direction as all others.

  “Before putting this to the vote, I think, the minds of the two Lords Guardian should be known,” he said, and for once his confident sonorous voice was uneven.

  Promptly Bruce spoke.

  “I accept the office, and accept and agree to confirm Alexander Scrymgeour as Royal Standard-Bearer of Scotland.”

  Seconds passed as all waited. Then John Comyn smiled suddenly, that brilliant flashing smile of his which not all found an occasion for joy.

  “Why, then, we are in happy accord, my friends,” he declared easily.

  “For I too accept and accede. Let the excellent Scrymgeour bear his standard … so long as he can!”

  The sigh of relief that arose was like a wind sweeping over the Forest outside. Men scarcely noticed the Chancellor’s declaration that he thought there was no need for a vote, or Buchan’s snorting offence and the angry look he cast at his kinsman. Everywhere the thing was seen as much more than just Scrymgeour’s appointment; it was the sought-for sign that these highborn rivals might yet sink their personal preferences for the common good.

  But even as the Chancellor, like others, relaxed a little, he was suddenly alert once more. John Comyn was speaking again.

  “Since appointments are before us,” he said crisply, sitting a little forward in his chair, “here are some that I require. For the better governance of this kingdom. My lord of Buchan to be Justiciar of the North. Sir Alexander Comyn, his brother, to be Sheriff of Aberdeen and keeper of its castle. Sir Walter Comyn to be Sheriff of Banff, and keeper. Sir William Mowat to be Sheriff of Cromarty, and keeper thereof. Sir Robert Comyn to be Sheriff of Inverness. Sir William Baliol to be Sheriff of Forfar. And Master William Comyn, of the Chapel-Royal, to be Lord Privy Seal and elect to the next bishopric to become vacant. All that due rule and governance may be established in the land.”

  Bruce all but choked, as all around men gasped and exclaimed.

  Never before had a parliament been presented with such demands from the throne, such an ultimatum. For clearly that is what it was. This, then, was Comyn’s price for superficial cooperation.

  He had come prepared. Already the Comyns possessed enormous power in the North; with these key positions in their hands, they would be in complete control of all the upper half of the kingdom, not only theoretical but actual control.

  Bruce bit his lip, as the startled Chancellor groped for words, looking in agitation for guidance, first at Bruce, then at Wallace and Lamberton. Agog, the assembly waited.

  Bruce had only brief moments for decision, a decision there was no avoiding. Either he accepted, or refused agreement—and was thereupon branded as the man who broke up the Joint Guardianship, refused to make it work, out of enmity to Comyn. After Comyn had made his gesture of acceptance. The fact that was on a tiny matter, a mere empty title, while this was a wholesale grab for effective power and dominance, would not help him.

  That Comyn had chosen to cast down the gauntlet now, before all, had obviously come prepared to do so, was evidence that if he, Bruce, countered him, the Joint Guardianship was finished before it had begun. Nothing was more sure..

  Yet, how could it possibly continue, or succeed, on these terms?

  As good as a knife at his throat. Was there any point in going on with the farce?

  There was only one faint glimmer of light that presented itself to Robert Bruce in those agonising moments. All the appointments Comyn had so blatantly demanded were in the North.

  Apart from the question of the Privy Seal and bishopric, he was at the moment confining his hegemony to the North. Always Scotland had tended to divide into two; the land south of the Forth, and north, echo of the old kingdoms of the Northern and Southern Picts, and their Celtic successors. It might be that Comyn was more or less proposing, not joint guardianship but divided guardianship, one to rule north of Forth, the other south.

  If this was so, it could change the entire situation. The South was smaller in territory but infinitely more rich and populous.

  Or had been, before it had burned itself. And it was the South that

  must bear the brunt of Edward’s ire … Lamberton was speaking—and

  clearly he had been thinking along the same lines as Bruce. “… since

  such appointments undoubtedly would strengthen the rule of the Joint

  Guardians. In the North. To the internal peace and security of the realm. A similar list of nominations-, made by the Earl of Carrick, for the South, would be to the advantage of all. A … a balanced responsibility.

  Of the Joint Guardians. On such joint security the kingdom might rest firm. In this pass.” He was looking hard at Bruce—as indeed were all others.

  That young man took a deep breath.

  “Very well,” he said, shortly.

  “I accept these appointments. And shall produce my own, in due course.

  Proceed.”

  In the buzz of talk tha
t followed, John Comyn turned in his seat to stare at his companion long and levelly.

  After that there was little more than formalities. The main confrontation and decisions had been made, and all knew it. In effect, Scotland would be partitioned into two mighty provinces, North and South. It was the natural, age-old division, and in line with the two great houses’ spheres of influence—for though the Comyns held lands in Galloway, and the Bruces in Garioch and Angus, these were very marginal to their main power.

  There was, of course, an unspoken corollary, which few failed to perceive. When Edward struck, the South would have to face him first. And it would be wise, then, for Bruce to look back over his shoulder. And if Edward over-ran the South, and could be held again at Stirling, as before, then the North would become all there was of Scotland. In which case, there might well be a new king in the land.

  The parliament in the Forest broke up. It was agreed that the Guardians should meet again at Stirling, where North and South joined, in a month’s time, to confer, and sign and seal edicts, charters and the like, with their two halves of the Great Seal.

  Robert Bruce, with his brothers, rode south again for Annandale, ruler, in name at least, of Scotland south of the Forth.

  Chapter Eleven

  So commenced months of trial and frustration as difficult as any Bruce had experienced, with problems multiplying, patience taxed to the limits, and his hatred and distrust of John Comyn gnawing like a canker within him. He felt himself to be hamstrung, almost helpless, ruler in little more than name, able to achieve as little for himself and the Bruce cause as for the country as a whole, a land burned out and a people in dire straits, living in makeshift shelters and ruins, and on the verge of starvation.

  It was a wet and dismal winter, with little snow but floods making travel difficult—and Bruce seemed to spend his time in wet and uncomfortable travel, constantly on the move, though having little to show for his journeyings. He had nothing that he could feel was home, no real base or headquarters even—for Annandale was too far south for practical use, and his castles of Turnberry and Ayr, like all others, were but burned and blackened shells, and Lochmaben, the all-but-impregnable, was back in English hands. He went to Stirling monthly, for his formal meetings with Comyn—grim and profitless episodes which he loathed—and which only were made bearable by the patient ministrations and devices of the churchmen, especially Lamberton and William Comyn—the last proving himself to be able, shrewd and cooperative, however clearly ambitious. Without these two the Joint Guardianship would not have survived even the first acrimonious encounters.

  Lamberton was in fact Bruce’s mainstay and prop, without whom he would have thrown up the whole sorry business. More than that, he became a friend as well as guide, a strong, constant, clearheaded man, less stern than he seemed, with a faculty for quiet understanding and even a wintry humour. He was, indeed, if anyone was in these grievous months, the real ruler of Scotland, tireless link between the undamaged North and the devastated South. If Bruce travelled endless uncomfortable miles, then the Primate did double and treble, since not only did he move between the Guardians but he kept in touch with Wallace, who Had made Dundee his headquarters for the recruiting of a new people’s army—not to mention seeing to the rule of the Church from his own St. Andrews.

  Nigel Bruce, too, was a major comfort to his harassed brother, his close companion throughout, a consistently cheerful, extrovert influence and link with happier, carefree days. But Nigel was of little help where guidance and good advice were required, seeing everything in simple blacks and whites.

  Bruce’s problems, during this period, fell mainly under three heads; to

  prepare for invasion; to alleviate something of the distress of the

  people; and to try to get at least the elementary machinery or

  government working again. All were almost equally difficult, in the

  prevailing state of the country. He could appoint his nominees to the

  key sheriffdoms of Lanark, Ayr, Dumfries, Galloway and the like—his

  brother Edward in this last position—but these were little more effective than he felt himself to be. Of revenue there was none, so that the sheriffs had only their own pockets, and those of their friends, to call upon, to pay for their efforts—and friends do not long remain so in such circumstances. Had it not been for the whole-hearted support of the Church, little or nothing would have been achieved.

  The ecclesiastics still had some of the garnered riches of generations hidden away, and now expended them liberally. Moreover, they had great local influence over the minds of the common folk, and could rally and persuade where commands and threats from higher authority were meaningless.

  Lamberton gave good reports of Wallace’s force, growing in Angus and life. But to some extent, this was of little comfort to Bruce. For Wallace made it clear this was very much a people’s army, destined and trained for guerilla warfare, not to be hurled headlong against the English chivalry. Which left Bruce with the task of mustering an anti-invasion army from, as ever, the levies and tenantry of the lords. And since these were needed for the widespread local rehabilitation works, and moreover he had not the wherewithal to feed them, en masse, this had to remain very much a paper force, problematical indeed as to numbers and availability.

  And all the time, the shadow of the Comyn thousands, and how they would be used, hung over all. Lamberton brought word that John Comyn was assembling great numbers in the North—employing them meantime admittedly to further his sway over the wild Highlands—as perhaps was his right and duty. But their presence, a hundred or so miles to the north of him, was no aid to Bruce’s sleep, of a night.

  Then, with the long wet winter over at last, and the campaigning season drawing near, a messenger found his way to Bruce at Tor Wood Castle, between Falkirk and Stirling, where he was awaiting Comyn for the April meeting—Stirling Castle still being held by the English, which made the town below its walls unsuitable for the Guardians’ conclaves. This was a wandering Dominican friar, who spoke with an English accent. From his leather satchel he brought out a letter, its folds somewhat creased and grubby, but sealed resplendently with the arms of de Burgh of Ulster. The recipient waited carefully until he was alone, even from Nigel’s presence, before he broke that seal and read the strong, flowing writing.

  My Lord Robert, I greet you fair and wish you very well. It is long since I spoke with any who has seen you in your person. But I hear of you and of some of your doings from time to time. Although as to how truly, I do not know. For you are scarcely well loved, here at York.

  This all men are agreed upon, however, that the Earl of Carrick, is now in the rule, with another, of the Scots kingdom. A matter which greatly displeases His Majesty, as you will guess. I must believe it true, and do much wonder at your so high elevation.

  Not that I deem you unfit, but that I would have doubted your will for it. But if it is so, you have the goodwill of one, at least, in this England.

  I cannot conceive that your high office will bring you much of joy, so heavy is Edward’s hand against your realm. But this I ‘believe may be to your comfort. The King, although he still makes pretence of marching against Scotland shortly, will not do so. Not for this year. Of this I am assured, and so would have you to know it. For he now does hate the Scots so sorely that he will have no invasion but that he leads himself. He will not so lead, this year. For not only does he have much trouble with his lords, of which you know, the Earls of Norfolk, Hereford and Northumberland in especial, who do say that he has forsworn himself over the Great Charter and the forest laws. But he is to marry again. This same summer. He is to wed the Princess Margaret, sister to King Philip of France, with whom he has lately been at war, in order to make stronger his hold on that country. The lady is said to be even now on her way from France.

  Edward will make a pilgrimage to St. Albans for blessing for this union, and will marry at Canterbury thereafter. Few know of this as yet, but he told me of it himself yesterday
. My father is to go with the King, to St. Albans, and I go to meet the Princess, as one of her ladies. So I hasten to send you word, hoping that the tidings will perhaps something lighten your burden for this year.

  I think of you often, my lord. And sorrow that our paths be so wide apart. Although, God knows, we do scarce agree so well when we are close. But I am of a shrewish and haughty disposition.

  Or so my father and brothers assure me. So that it may be that you are the better off at a distance. Do you not agree? You also are of an awkward mind, as I know. And stubborn. Unlike your brothers, whom I could bend between any two of my fingers, I think. No doubt we shall suit each other best by writing letters.

  So will you write to me, my lord?

  I grieve for Scotland, and the folly and hatred of men. In your fight

  I wish you God-speed, and confide you to the watchful protection of His saints.

  I send my remembrances to your foolish brothers. And, to the ruler of Scotland, all I have of deference.

  Elizabeth de Burgh, written from the house of one Uhtred, a clothier, of York.

  Addendum: The King would now have me to wed Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick but I mislike the smell of his breath.

  Bruce rose up, to pace the floor of the little bedchamber which was all that the minor castle of Tor Wood could provide for him.

  Then he stopped, to read the letter through once more. He was much affected—and oddly enough, even more immediately by that last addendum than by the important news of Edward’s forthcoming marriage and consequent postponement of invasion.

  It was on this, and on the paragraph where the young woman spoke of his brothers, that he concentrated his rereading.

  He was still at it, frowning, when the clatter of hooves and jingle of harness and arms below drew him to the window.

  Comyn had arrived, with a great company, all resplendent. The man always rode the country as though he were king I Bruce’s blood all but boiled at the sight of him, so confident and assured, darkly handsome features twisted in that mocking smile. Lamberton was with him, at least. Lamberton was always present at their meetings now, determined that they should not be alone together. William Comyn, also, smooth as an egg.

 

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