I am not at liberty to tell, my lord.
You will not long be at liberty to refuse! Bruce commented grimly.
Do you carry letters?
Nibbling his lip, the younger man shook his head.
I think that you do. Tell me who they are for, and if you know their purpose. If you do, I may not require to do more than look at the superscription and seal.
I will not, cannot, do it.
Fool I Who knows, the letter may be for me! I have been in England.
Comyn could well be writing to me. A warning, perhaps.
The letter is not for you, Earl of Carrick.
Then, a Gods name, who is it? You have admitted you have a letter.
As Sheriff of this shire I require you to let me see.
The unhappy courier shook his head stubbornly. Bruce jerked a brief command to his men. They kneed their mounts close. One drew sword, to point at the esquires throat. Two pinioned each an arm. Two more engaged the guard behind, who only put up token resistance. A sixth reached out to fumble in the victims bulging saddlebags.
It took a little while, amidst some shouting and protest, for the
horses sidled and pranced. But at length this last man brought out a
scaled paper package. He handed it over to Bruce, Apart from the seal, which showed the Comyn arms of three golden wheat sheafs on a blue ground, the package was entirely plain, without superscription. Unhesitantly Bruce opened it. Inside was another sealed package. But this one had a superscription.
It read:
TO HIS HIENES EDWARD KING OF IN GLAND AT WESTMINSTER
Ha! Bruce leaned over, to show this to Elizabeth.
See where John Comyns letter goes! He swung back to the courier.
You knew this. You were taking this to King Edward, in London.
You must have known. Butdo you know what is in it?
White-faced now, the other shook his head.
Tell me. Or I shall open it.
I do not know. My lord said that it was most secret. That… that I guard it with my life! The young mans voice broke.
Aye. With a swift gesture Bruce broke open the second seal, and unfolded the stiff paper.
The inner side was written upon. But enclosed in it was another folded paper. And this bore another seal. But not Comyns.
This was Bruces own. With his signature likewise. Witnessed by William Lamberton.
Christ… in … His… heaven! he whispered.
Robert! What is it?
What is it? he got out, thickly.
It is death! It is my neck!
My headsent to Edward! For execution! By the living God-our bond! I did not believe … that any man … could sink so low! My death-warrant. And Lambertons. Here is infamy beyond all telling!
She reached over and took Comyns copy of the crown-and lands agreement, which Bruce had signed that November night in the Blackfriars Monastery at Stirling.
With fingers that trembled now with emotion her husband smoothed out the folds of the enclosing letter. It was notably brief:
Hienes, Since you require proof of the matter wch I wrote to you before.
Here is proof. I desire to receive it back by bearer. Also that yr Hienes seems not to have seen it. For it is mch value and dangerous.
Bruce has the other like, with my name and seal. If yr Hienes takes him you will win it for yr proof and purpose.
I remain yr Hienes servant, Jno Comyn of Badenoch The forsworn dastard! For this John Comyn shall die! I swear it, by all the saints!
Anxiously, Elizabeth looked at her husband. She had never seen him like this, so black of brow, so savage of expression.
It is vile treachery, yes. Thank God that we won out of London when we did! This was what Edward was meaning. He knew of this, all the time.
Aye. Comyn had written him, betraying all. Edward demanded proof. For my trial! Had we not bolted when we did, I would never have left London alive. Gloucester saved my head!
What will you do, Robert? Now?
Do? I will do what needs to be done. What I should have done long since. Make a reckoning with John Comyn! I will…
He paused, looking at the anxious courier.
Here is not the time and place to talk of that.-Nor are these two the men to hear it.
They must remain silenced. Close warded. Until the matter is resolved.
We will take them with us, to Lochmaben.
My lordhere is no fault of mine… the esquire faltered.
None. Save to own a dastard lord I You will suffer nothing, so long as you cause no further trouble. Do as you are bidden. But I cannot let you go free, until I have come to a conclusion with your master. That is certain.
They rode on northwards for Lochmaben, and the shadow of evil was like a threatening cloud about them.
Chapter Twenty
The red-stone town of Dumfries was busy that frosty February morning, with Edwards English justices in session at the castle, and half the lords and lairds of the SouthWest summoned to be present, either to speak to complaints, seek redress, support charged feudal vassals, or give account for their heritable jurisdictions.
Soldiers and men-at-arms were everywhere, English and Scots. The citizenry, well aware of the potential explosiveness of this mixture, tended to keep indoors and out of sight.
Bruce had been heedful about the numbers of his own men he brought into
town from Lochmaben. Too many would arouse comment, might seem like a
challenge, and provoke trouble with the English. On the other hand,
that he might well require a substantial force of men went without
saying. On the principle that a great lord was entitled, in most
circumstances, to a train of fifty to a hundred, just to maintain his
dignity, he had brought about seventy-five selected horsemen. But, as well, he had arranged that certain of his more important local vassals and sup.
porters should make independent entry to the town, with their own smaller followings. With these, he reckoned that he could call upon a couple of hundred men, at short notice, if the need arose.
His information that Comyn would be in town today was quickly confirmed. He learned that his enemy, who was much involved in this bout of litigation, had installed himself at the small monastery of The Franciscan or Grey Friars, founded by the Lady Devorgilla, Baliols mother, in the Castle Wynd, conveniently close to the castle itself. Here Bruce sought himto learn that his quarry was at present attending the court nearby, but would be back. Bruce declared grimly that he would wait.
He had with him his brothers Nigel and Thomas, and his new brother-in-law Sir Christopher Seton, whom Christian of Mar had recently married. As Bruce anticipated, the news that he was back in Scotland and in fact here in Dumfries, very speedily was conveyed to Comyn in the castle, who promptly found his business there insufficiently vital to detain him from coming to verify the matter.
With a party of relatives and supporters he arrived at the monastery, and even though warned, the sight of Bruce sitting waiting for him before the fire of the refectory undoubtedly perturbed him. He stared.
I had not looked to see you, my lord. Back. Here in Scotland, he jerked.
So soon.
No? I warrant you did not I But I am here. Safe and in order. Bruces voice may have sounded steady enough, but only iron control hid the quivering tension that had been part of the man since the fact of Comyns treachery had struck him four days before.
You come from London? From Edward?
From Edward, yes. That surprises you?
Only that you are not long gone. To return so soon …
Comyn shrugged.
You saw the King? Spoke with him?
I did.
The other obviously was nonplussed, He treated you …
kindly?<
br />
Not kindly, no. Edward is seldom kind to Scots.
Did he speak… of me?
What he said is for your privy ear, my lord.
Ah, yes TO be sure. Comyn looked around him at all the interested throng of his own supporters and Bruces, filling the all refectory. He beckoned to the Prior, who fussed about, in a flutter with all this splendid company.
Where may I speak alone with my lord of Carrick? he demanded.
My poor house is full, my good lord. With all this of the assize. I can dear a chamber for your lordships, if you will. But if you would but talk together, for a short time, the chapel is nigh. And empty.
The chapel, yes. That will serve. Take us there.
The Prior led them out of a side-door and down a cloister walk. At a short distance behind them Bruces brothers and Sir Christopher Seton followed on, as did Comyns uncle, Sir Robert, and his Kinsman Master William.
Their guide opened another door at the end of the cloister, which proved to be the vestry entrance to the little church, leading directly into the choir.
Gesturing to the others to stay at the door, Comyn beckoned Bruce forward to just before the altar itself.
We may speak safely here, he said.
A strange place for what falls to pass between you and me!
the other commented.
As well as another. What have you to tell me, Bruce?
Sufficient to prove you a viler scoundrel than I knew defiled the face of this Scotland!
Christ God! You dare to speak so!
Aye, and more! And speak with good cause. Dastard I Judas!
Comyns hand dropped to the jewelled hilt of his dirk.
You will unsay that, Bruce! he whispered.
No man speaks so to John Comyn, and lives!
Unsay it? I will prove it!
The others dagger was half-out of its sheath before he realised that Bruces hand was reaching into a pocket, not for his own dirk.
What say you to this? Bruce held out his signed bond, and the enclosing letter to Edward.
Comyns swiftly indrawn breath was as eloquent as any words.
He stared at the out-thrust offering.
I am waiting?
His opponent moistened his lips.
Where … did you … get that? he got out.
What matters it? Since I have it now.
I have been betrayed, then …
Betrayed! You to speak of betrayal! You, who made this compact with me. To be your King! And then betrayed me to Edward-to a certain death! Lamberton also-since he signed witness.
Haugh I To betray traitors is no fault!
Traitors! You name me traitor? Is it possible … that this forsworn wretch … should so name Bruce? And his hand rose, to point a quivering finger at the other.
Swift as thought Comyn smashed down the accusing hand with his own clenched fist-his left, since his right was still clutching the dagger-haft.
Ayetraitor, as I have ever known you I Sold to Edward, always.
Sold, for his favour. And his Ulsterwoman, de Burgh …!
Whether at the snarling mention of Elizabeths name, or at the physical blow to his arm, the second such that Comyn had struck him, something snapped in Bruces overwrought brain as surely asa breaking bowstring, releasing a scalding red tide which rose swiftly to engulf him. The tingling down struck hand went straight to his dagger. Scarcely knowing what he did, certainly not hearing the cries from the doorway, he whipped out the weapon and, beating aside the still upraised hand that had struck him, drove the steel deep into John Comyns breast.
With a choking, bubbling groan, the other collapsed sideways against the altar, handsome features contorted, limbs writhing, and slid to the stone floor.
Dazed, unseeing, Robert Bruce stood, panting for breath.
The horrified shouting of the watchers by the door changed to action.
Sir Robert Comyn, nearest, came running forward, drawing his sword. Nigel Bruce sprang after him, but the two clerics threw themselves in his way; while young Thomas stood appalled, paralysed. Not so Seton. A veteran soldier, he knocked Master William to the ground with a single blow, and leaping over him, raced after Sir Robert.
Comyns uncle, cursing in fury, rushed on Bruce, who stood unmoving, as though stunned by what he had done. He did not attempt to parry or even dodge the blow which the older man aimed at him.
The others sword-thrust was rageful rather than shrewd. And Bruce, unlike his fallen enemy, had anticipated that this might be the day in which armour would be a wise precaution, and was clad in a jerkin of light chain-mail. The slashing angry swipe drove him staggering backwards against the altar, in turn, but the steel did not penetrate the mail.
With a great roar, Seton hurled himself upon Sir Robert, his own blade nigh. Down it crashed, not in any wild swiping but in sheerest expert killing, on the unprotected neck of the older man.
Head all but severed by that one stroke, Robert Comyn fell, spouting fountains of blood, over the body of his nephew.
Nigel came running to his brother now.
Robert! he cried.
You are hurt? Stricken? Curse him I Robert speak! Gods mercyare you sore hurt?
Bruce did not answer, did not so much as shake his head.
Robanswer me! Nigel was running over his brothers steel-girl torso with urgent hands.
He is but dazed, man, Seton panted.
His harness would save him …
Quick! Thomas Bruce exclaimed, hurrying to them, and pointing backwards.
They have gone. The churchmen. To tell the others. The Comyns.
They will be back. Seeking blood! Let us away from here.
Aye, Seton agreed grimly.
That is sense, at least. Come.
Take his arm. An arm each. He will be well enough. The other door.
To the street. Haste you!
So, without a glance at the fallen Comyns, a brother supporting him on either side, the silent, glazed-eyed Bruce was led, hustled indeed, down the nave to the little churchs main door, Sir Christopher striding ahead, reddened sword still in his hand.
They emerged into the cold, frost-gleaming Castle Wynd. The alleys and entries of the climbing street were filled with chilled, waiting Bruce supporters. Nigel yelled for horses.
Men came starting out, at sight of their lords party and the bloody sword. Shouts filled the crisp air.
Two knights came running, drawing their own swordsSir Roger Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, nearby, and Sir John Lindsay, a kinsman or Crawfords. Nigel was still demanding horses, but Kirkpatrick came right up to his feudal master.
Whats to do? he demanded.
My lordare you hurt? What is this?
Bruce shook his head.
Get our men assembled, Seton cried.
There will be trouble.
They are near. On the green. And on the castle hill. And behind
yonder church. A trumpet blast will summon them. But . whats to do? That blood? Whose is it? Kirkpatrick, a big, rough, fierce man was not to be put off.
At last Bruce spoke.
I doubt … I have slain .. the Comyn, he said, slowly, distinctly.
Godseyes! Comyn? Himself? Where?
God pity meat the altar. In the church. That came out as a groan.
In the church? Praises be-where better? For that snake!
And you doubt it? Doubt hes slain? Then, by the MassIll make sure of it! Kirkpatrick thrust past them, on the word, and into the church doorway, followed by Sir John Lindsay, Sir Robert Fleming and a few other men, Watch you! Nigel shouted after them.
They will be there.
The rest of them. By now. Take heed, man!
Neither Kirkpatrick nor any of the others so much as looked back.
Rapping out an
oath, Seton turned and hurried after them.
Whether with the cold, or just the passage of time, Bruces trance-like shock was beginning to wear off. He was still shaken and not himself, but he became increasingly aware at least of the dangers inherent in the situation. He shook off his brothers hands.
My trumpeter, he jerked.
Get him. Quickly. To me. Up at the castle-yard. You, Tom. Nigelgather some men. Find and take the Comyn horses. Away with them. Then join me up at the castle. See to it.
You are well enough …?
Yes. Go. Quickly. There is no time to lose.
Left alone for the moment, Bruce stared bleakly, unseeing, before him. Then he looked down at his hand. It was splashed with blood. Hastily he sought to wipe it away, his breath catching.
Then he desisted. No amount of rubbing would wipe away this days work. He might as well accept that. The deed was done, and there could be no turning back. What lay ahead he could not tellsave that nothing would ever be the same again for him. He had slain a man. Not in honest battle, but in blind anger. Committed murder. Done the unforgivable thing. Taken another mans life with his own hand. And in Gods house, before His very altar. The unholy upon the unforgivable … Even that was not all. He had murdered the most powerful man in Scotland. With a following great enough to turn the land upside-down. Moreover he was completely lost with King Edward.
Nothing could repair that break now. Suddenly all his ropes were cut.
He was a bark adrift in a rising storm.
Or not quite adrift, perhaps. Alone, yes. For ever alone now.
Anchors and warps gone. Sore beset. But still he had a rudder.
And a purpose. Made simpler now. Wholly simplified indeed, since it was now all or nothing. There was nothing left to him now but to fight. Fight to the death. Fight to win, or to lose. No alternative course, any more.
To the fight, then! With a new enemy to face, instead of John Comyn.
His own conscience.
He set off, heavy-strided, up the cobbled climbing street.
The shrilling trumpet brought men streaming up on to the grassy hillock on which Dumfries Castle was built-no major fortress this but rather an administrative centre in a provincial walled town. All sorts of men came to that imperious summons, by no means all Bruce levies; many were, if not neutral, at least little involved, some were Comyn supporters, and not a few were English men-at-arms. But Bruces people were there as a disciplined body, under the personal command of their, lord. Moreover they all were mounted. They displayed all the difference between men of purpose and authority, and mere onlookers.
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