Sir Alexander Fraser, Sir Simons brother; Sir Hugh Hay, brother to Gilbert of Erroll; Sir John Somerville, Lord of Carnwath; Sir David Barclay of Cairns; Sir David de Inchmartin; and Alexander Scrymgeour, the Standard-Bearer, dying the same death as his master Wallace. All had paid the price for supporting Bruce. The Earl of Lennox was wounded and missing, the Earl of Menteith captured and none knew whether alive or dead. Even the Earl of Strathearn, forced almost at the sword-point to the coronation at Scone, and not present at Methven, was taken and sent south in chains.
Nor was that all. Lamberton himself, the King had just heard, had been apprehended at his cathedral of St. Andrews, and with Bishop Wishart, in irons both, sent with every indignity to London.
As for the people, the common people, his subjects, they died in their thousands, in a reign of terror that was going to leave little for Edward himself to do when eventually he reached unhappy Scotland.
So Robert Bruce sat and called himself accursed, a man who brought death, destruction and horror upon all. He was not far from breaking-point.
It was almost with dread, then, that he presently glimpsed the flash of sunlight on steel, and the colours of banners and gaily canopied litters, approaching from the direction of Killin and Loch Taywhich he had come up here to look for. He had sent a message to Blair-in-Atholl, where Nigel had been guarding the Queens party, to join them here, a two-days march westwards.
Now he wondered how he could face Elizabeth.
That he did not go down to meet her was the measure of his depression and despair.
Eventually Nigel brought her up the hillock, but at a sign from her, left Elizabeth some little way from his brothers position. The Queen came on alone.
Robert! she said, going to him, hands out.
At last. Together again. I have prayed for this. How I have prayed!
Prayed? For this?
Three words could scarcely have been more eloquent. Closely, concernedly, she eyed him, reaching to take one of his hands. Her splendid fairness was heart-breaking, this fine noonday. He looked steadily away from her.
Prayed, my dear. That I might at least see you again. See you, touch you, hold youand alive! Was it so ill a prayer? At least it has been granted.
He did not answer.
But you are hurt. Your shoulder …
I am hurt? Who talks such folly, when all is lost and better men die by the hundred, the thousand!
Such better men are not my husband, she answered simply.
Let me see it. Your shoulder, Robert.
Leave it, he jerked.
It is less than nothing.
My dear, she said quietly, sitting down beside him.
Tell me.
Tell! What is there to tell? Save evil. Gods hand turned against a lost and condemned sinner. Punishment. Retribution.
Poured out. Not on the sinner, but on those who aided and supported him. His friends. Hugh Hay. Alexander Fraser. Somerville.
Barclay. Inchmartin. Scrymgeour. And others by the score.
Deadall dead. Tortured and shamefully slain. Thomas Randolph a prisoner. Lamberton in chains} And Wishart… It all poured out, the pent-up pain and remorse and sorrow, to a searing, passionate flood, all the disappointment, the frustration, the disillusionment, the desperation.
She listened quietly, with no word spoken.
At length the spate wore itself out. Elizabeth touched his sweating
brow.
It is grievous, my heart. All grievous. I am sorry, she said.
But why torture yourself with it? The fault is not yours.
Not mine? Then whose is it, before God? he demanded.
Did other than I slay Comyn? Did other than I declare himself King?
All stems from that.
Comyn deserved to die. More, he had to die. Had you not slain him, another must. And this your kingdom requires a king.
Not a king who leads to disaster.
Any king can lose a battle.
It was not a battle. It was a massacre. We were taken unawares.
Asleep. Because of my fault. I had challenged Pembroke to fight, that afternoon. Twice. He refused, and said that he might fight the next day. Like a fool, I took him at his word. It did not cross my mind that he would steal out on me by night, six miles, to Methven. Betrayed by Philip Moubray. We were taken by surprise. But the fault was mine.
In any fight, Robert, one must lose…
But II was carried off the field. To safety. While others, thousands, fell. Or, lacking leader, yielded. And were then slaughtered like dumb cattle!
That shame was not yours, but Edwards. And it was right that you should be saved. Necessary. You are the King. The King lost, and all is lost.
Scotland, I swear, were better without this King I For he is lost, even so. Lost and damned!
No! No, I say! Suddenly Elizabeth de Burgh changed. She sat up straight, her eyes blazing, and turning to him gripped his undamaged armbut not tenderly.
You speak like a child. A child sorrowing for itself I This is not the Robert Bruce I wed. I married a mannot a brooding, pulling hairn!
He recoiled from her, almost as though she had struck him.
Womanyou do not know what you say…!
I know full well! Hear me speaksince you, Robert speak folly! I would liefer have the man for husband who slew Comyn and defied all Edwards fury, than… than this weakling!
He groaned.
You say this? You, also? God pity me …
That was a whisper.
Aye, God pity you, Robert Bruce I And me, wed to you I And this land, with a faint-heart for King! A broken sceptre, indeed!
He stiffened.
You are finished? he asked.
No, I am not. You took that sceptre. None thrust it upon you. You are the King, now. Crowned and anointed. There is no undoing it, no turning back. Soif you are the King, for Gods good sake be the King! A weak king is the greatest curse upon a nation.
He stared at her, biting his lip.
What was it that we did at Scone? she demanded, her beauty only heightened by her passion.
Was it only a show?
Play-acting? Or was it the truth? Gods work? Did Abbot Henry save the Stone for nothing? That oil on your browwhat was it? A priests mummery? Or the blessed anointing of Gods Holy Spirit upon you? You, only. Which? For if it was truth, then it gave you authority. Above all men. Whatever you have done, you are now Gods Anointed. Take that authority. Use it. Wield your sword of state. You have many loyal men still. A whole people still looks to you, in hope. Fight on. Avenge Methven. Be Robert the King! Abruptly her voice broke, and her fiercely upright carriage seemed to crumble.
Oh, Robert, Robertbe Elizabeth de Burghs man!
Slowly he rose to his feet, looking from her down to the camp, and then away and away.
Say that you will do it, my dear, she pleaded now.
For you … I think … I would do anything. Anything!
Thank God! Do it for me, then. If for naught else…
There was an interruption. A strange-looking figure was climbing the knowe towards them, one or two of the Kings people trailing rather doubtfully behind. The man was elderly, enormous but frail and stooping, bearded to the waist, and clad apparently and wholly in a great tartan plaid, stained and torn, draped about his person in voluminous folds and peculiar fashion, and belted, oddly, with a girdle of pure gold links, in a Celtic design of entwined snakes. He was aiding himself up the hill with a long staff having a hook-shaped head, like a shepherds crook.
Nigel Bruce had waited, some way back from the royal couple. Now he stepped forward to halt this apparition. But the old man waved him aside peremptorilyand when this had no effect, raised his staff on high and shook it threateningly, screeching a flood of Gaelic invective of such vehe
mence and power as to give even Nigel pause in some alarm.
The ancient gold-girdled ragbag came trudging on, right up to the monarch. He said something less fierce, in the Gaelic.
Bruce, whose mother had been a Celtic countess in her own right, knew
something of the ancient tongue; but not sufficient to understand this swift flow, liquid and hurrying as a Highland river, and strangely musical to be coming from so uncouth a character.
I am sorry, friend, he said, when there was a pause.
I do not know what you say.
The other looked him up and down disapprovingly, then shrugged the bent tartan-draped shoulders.
You are Robert son of Mariot, daughter of Niall, son of Duncan, son of Gilbert, son of Fergus, son of Fergus? he demanded, and added, Ard Righ, almost grudgingly.
Bruce at least knew those last two words, which meant High King. He nodded.
I am he.
And II am the Dewar of the Coigreach, the other said dramatically and waved his staff.
Bruce dredged in his bemused mind for what this might signify.
And then recollected. The Coigreach, of course. It was the legendary pastoral staff of Saint Fillan, one of the most celebrated of all the ancient Celtic saints, a prince of the royal Dalriadic house, out of which the united kingdom of the Picts and Scots had come, and Abbot of the long defunct Culdee Abbey of Glendochartand a leper, it was said. A precious relic since the eighth century, this crozier was handed down in a long line of hereditary custodians, known as Dewars or Diors, who were venerated, all over the Celtic Highlands and islands as holy men.
I greet you, Dewar of the Coigreach, he acknowledged.
How can I serve you?
The other snorted.
I came to serve you! he corrected.
I have come to bless you. Who is this woman?
She is the Queen. My wife.
The Dewar sniffed, and shrugged. But he raised the crozier, with its curious, elaborately-wrought bronze head, and extending it over the royal couple, launched into a stream, a flood, of Gaelic.
When he at length lowered the staff, he added factually, You are now blessed with the Blessing of Saint Fillan. I thank you, Bruce said, level-voiced.
But I would remind you that I have been excommunicated by the Pope.
His Holiness of Rome.
The Pope? Who is the Pope? the Dewar asked haughtily.
And where is Rome? It is not in Ireland, the Cradle of the Church.
Do you question the authority of Saint Fillan?
No. Bruce swallowed.
No, I do not.
As well. The ancient scratched amongst his rags, eyed Elizabeth balefully, and then, without any leave-taking, even so much as a nod, turned and went stumping off down the hill, as independent as he had come.
Bruce, from looking after him, stared at his wife.
Elizabeths eyes were shining.
Robert! Robert! she cried.
It is a miracle! God be praised! See you, the Old Church has come to the rescue of its prince. The Romish Church may excommunicate youbut this is a Church older than Rome. And it blesses you! Takes you for its own. Her laughter was high pitched, tinged almost with hysteria, but with its own joy.
Here is a lesson, as well as a blessing. For the King. To remember whence he came. It was a Celtic kingdom, not a Norman one.
And you are half a Celt. I am less sobut I have some Celtic blood.
And, and I do come from Ireland I The Cradle of the Church, no less!
It is a sign, my dear. Come most timely.
A sign, yes. He nodded, a new light in his eye.
I believe that it is. A sign. Perhaps I have been led to Saint Fillans land. To this Glen Dochart where his abbey was. He was, you might say, a forebear. In some degree. Since King Malcolm Canmore, my ancestor, was of his line. He raised one shoulder.
And Malcolms Romish wife, Margaret, it was who brought down the Celtic Church I An old story. Another Queen stronger than her husband …. He looked at her.
I am not that. Elizabeth shook her head.
In much I am weak, foolish. But in my love for you, Robert, I am strong. Strong with your strength. It was your strength that first drew me to you.
You are strong stillonly weary. In pain. Mourning your friends.
And alone. As only a king may be alone. But now I am with you again. To restore part of your strength. That I had borrowedin exchange for my heart!
He drew her to him, there on the hillock in sight of all.
Quiet, you, he said gently.
You have said enough. Done enough.
Done it all. I will be strong, yes. Strong, now. Until one day I give you a whole realm to cherish. Instead of one stumbling man, Elizabeth de Burgh.
To that I will hold you, Robert Bruce, she agreed, glad-eyed.
I… and Saint Fillan!
Hand in hand they turned, to face downhill.
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The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1 Page 44