by J. R. Tomlin
"Your Grace," he said in a hoarse voice. "Your brother… The king of Ireland is dead. In battle at Dundalk."
The Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, the color draining from his face in a tide.
"Sire?" Mowbray said.
"Dead…" The king’s chest heaved as he sucked in a breath. "Grievous news, but for a knight it is not the worst death—" His voice broke and he made a strangled noise. "What happened?"
James remembered his king’s face the day they brought the news that three of his brothers had been tortured to death on an English scaffold: hanged, drawn—their guts ripped out whilst they still lived—their bodies beheaded, and quartered. The king had near died of it. But Edward’s death in battle would surely be easier to bear.
Mowbray’s face was pale under the patches of bruising. "It was a slaughter, Your Grace. We begged him to wait for reinforcements, but he wouldn’t have it. We were outnumbered by ten times our number. At the last, we begged that Gib Harper be allowed to wear his surcoat. But he was picked out by his crown and cut down along with everyone with him."
"How many?" the king grated out. "How many of my people died?"
James dug his fingers into his knee hard enough to bruise. The pain would help him keep his silent. Thomas glanced at him, raised an eyebrow, and then shook his head.
"Philip de Mowbray escaped the slaughter, but sorely hurt. The rest…" He took a deep breath. "John de Soules, Sir John Stewart, my cousin Philip, Alexander MacRuari, Gib Harper, all the two thousand who accompanied him. A handful of small folk escaped. All else in the first column died." Mowbray slanted his head toward the man still hovering in the doorway. "John Thomson was leading the last column―the men of Carrick. The few of us who escaped the slaughter were able to reach him in time that he could retire."
The king scraped his chair back as he jerked to his feet. James pushed his chair back and stood as quietly as he could and all the silent men in the room did as well. None would sit when the king stood. The Bruce strode to glare out the window at white blotches that hit the glass and disappeared. "He was a difficult man―hasty and impulsive. We argued often. But he was my brother. My last…" Heturned to glare at Mowbray and grated out, "And you left them to die."
John Thomson took a hesitant step into the council chamber. "I swear to you, Your Grace, they were past rescue. Sir Philip barely escaped as he was being dragged away. He told me, albeit he was injured past helping, that he saw your brother cut down."
The king bowed his head, and after a few moments said in a milder voice, "You have brought my brother’s body home to us."
"Sire…" Mowbray licked his lips.
Sir John took a step back, his ruddy face paling. James felt his heart give a thud. Thomas gave him a quick, thin-lipped stare.
"Your Grace," Mowbray stuttered. "The English took his body after the battle—only his out of the thousand who died. They―they quartered it. Beheaded it. Sent pieces across Ireland―his heart and one quarter to benailed over the gate at Dublin. The head to be sent to King Edward in England."
"Defiled," the king whispered. "How… how could anyone…" Turning, he grabbed up the silver flagon, wine sloshing as he drew back. He dashed it against the wall. Wine covered the wall in a dripping crimson splotch, and the flagon clattered to the floor. "When Gilbert de Clair died invading my kingdom, did I defile his body? Did I? Have I ever treated their dead so?" He turned to glower at them but slowly the anger drained. He groaned. "My brothers... All of my brothers..." He stepped to his chair and gripped the back, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip.
"Your Grace," Soules said. "He died an honorable―"
With a roar, the king hefted the chair over his head and smashed it down on the table. It broke to pieces. Shards showered across the room. The surprise of the crash sent James stumbling a step back. The Bruce lifted the broken piece of wood still in his hands, staring at it as though it were from some strange and foreign land. He lifted his gaze though it went through them. "Out," he rasped. "All of you. Leave me. Now!"
How could he leave the king so? But the others backed toward the door, and Thomas grabbed James by the arm and jerked him after them. With a last look at the white-faced man, who stood grieving, James closed the door.
He leaned his shoulder to the wall and rubbed his hand across his mouth. He had disliked Edward de Bruce always, been surethat one day his stubborn impatience would come to disaster―but this?
"Deus misereatur nostri," Lamberton said softly. "How Thomas died... At least Edward…"
James preferred not to think about how hard Thomas de Bruce must have died on that scaffold. Even after these years, the thought of the dreadful death of his friend was a stone in James’s chest.
Lamberton shook his head absently, his eyes distant. "They were all wild as colts as lads. Took after their mother, who was a woman like no other I’ve known. Dear God, how they laughed. There was no jape they might not try, and Robert in the lead." James saw the bishop’s hands were trembling, his voice thin. "Prayers. The king will want prayers for the repose of his brother’s soul." The bishop’s face was whey-white.
"You must stay strong for the dedication," James told the prelate. "Seeing to the prayers for Lord Edward―he’ll be no less dead if you rest first."
"It is not seemly―not kingly for him to act so," Mowbray said with a look at Soules.
Thomas Randolph glared at Mowbray. "He grieves. But we can’t stand about like women, wringing our hands. The queen. I’ll go to her. She—" He slid his eyes toward the door, and they listened to the silence from beyond it. "She must be told."
"John Stewart. Dear Holy St. Bride, Walter at Berwick must be told his brother is dead," James said. "Who else?"
"One of the queen’s ladies in waiting, Marioun, her husband was there. Surely we should leave that to the queen," Mowbray said. "I brought the news to the king, but I’m no servant to run errands, delivering messages."
This was no time for them to come to blows and the usually patient Thomas Randolph was glowering at Mowbray as though he might do just that. James frowned at the group of whispering servants huddled at the end of the corridor. He motioned to the florid-faced chamberlain and called to him. "Find a page to aid his reverence to his chamber, and then send my brother, Archibald, to me. Quickly, man." He nodded to Thomas. "My lord earl and I will seek out the queen. My brother will take the news to Walter Stewart." He gave Mowbray a considering look. "As you say, Sir Roger, you have done your duty. You’re still injured, and no doubt you want to find your chamber."
"The matter of the succession can’t be ignored," Soules said. "This leaves decisions which must be made. The only heir must not be a lame child."
"Not now, man," Thomas Randolph barked and turned to the chamberlain. "Is the queen in her solar?"
"She is, my lord earl."
James nodded to the men and made for the stairs, Thomas on his heels. They passed alarmed servants. The news of disaster always spread quickly though they might not know what the disaster was. Or perhaps Mowbray’s servants had already spread the nature of his news.
* * *
The queen sat down heavily, a hand on her rounded belly. "His grace has been told?"
James swallowed. "Roger de Mowbray brought him the news."
Elayne sat beside the queen and glared at James as though the ill news were his fault. Lady Mary, the king’s sister, slowly rose to her feet, her face drawn into grim lines. Her sister Christina put an arm around her and whispered, "God rest him." Marioun had dropped her needlework into her lap. She slowly raised a hand to press to her lips.
Thomas caught James’s eye. James wondered for a moment how she had felt about her husband, who must have left with the forces of Carrick soon after they wed. But now was a cruel time for such thoughts. He shoved it into a corner of his mind.
"My lady," he said and dropped to a knee beside her. "I’m sorry. Sir Edward’s entire force was cut down. All were killed."
He reached
for her hand and squeezed it. She held his hand for a moment, returning the pressure, but then jumped to her feet. "I can’t—" She whirled and hurried to the window to stare out at the bleak sunshine that peeked through the clouds and flurries of snow. "What do I do?"
Lady Elizabeth rose and went to Marioun, put an arm around her shoulder. "Child."
Marioun made a muffled sound that might have been a sob or a gasp. She rocked a little as the queen stroked her shoulder. "I should be weeping." She looked up at the queen. "Why am I not weeping? He was my lord husband."
Lady Mary’s lips were in a thin line. "There will be time for tears after. There always and always is time for tears."
Another's comfort would be better than his now. James rose to his feet and rubbed his temple. As ill-timed as Soules’s comment had been, indeed, the succession would have to be discussed soon. Would the king still want to leave for St. Andrews on the morrow? This would mean another parliament. And there was news he had yet to give the king about the proclamations he had found whilst in England—the new anathema from the Pope upon King Robert that added both James and Thomas Randolph. If he’d smiled that his own name had joined the king’s in the Pope’s fulminations, the king would not take the matter so lightly.
"Your Grace," he said after what had seemed like a long silence, "the king is… much grieved. Should you go to him?"
"I will give him some time, Jamie." She ran a hand over the bulge of her stomach. "He’ll come to me when he is ready for comfort. We have our own grief here."
December, 1318
Scone, Scotland
The refractory of Scone Abbey was crammed with men. With the parliament to be held the next day, nearly every member of the Privy Council had made the harsh winter trip to have a voice in the decision. Some James would have been well satisfied had they not done so, and that included Sir William de Soules who had him cornered, fiercely gripping his arm in a damp hand. "A child as the heir is unthinkable, I tell you," Soules said. "And, worse, a cripple. We dare not risk such a pass."
"Yet the king’s nearest male heir is that child," he said keeping his tone mild and courteous, "and a lusty lad in spite of his limp."
James pulled his arm out of Soules’s grip and threaded his way through long benches to where Robbie Boyd stood by Thomas Randolph near the carved oak throne at the head of the room. "I see you made it through this foul weather," Thomas said. "Not a time I would have chosen for a parliament."
"It is not so dreadful as that. Besides, the king gave me little choice." James shrugged. "He commanded my presence."
Robbie Boyd snorted. "With Soules whispering in everyone’s ear, it’s not a bad thing."
"Whispering what?" Thomas asked. "He keeps a good distance from me."
"I wish he did from me. He's saying that there shouldn’t be a child heir," James said. He gave the man across the room now with his head close to that of Mowbray as they talked. "I cannot like the man, and does he not know that young Robert is a cousin? Fool."
"There are those around him who are not." Robbie frowned as he watched the two men conferring.
"Mayhap not." James moved to stand at the bench directly in front of the throne as Abbot Bernard entered the room, followed by Bishop Lamberton, leaning on the shoulder of a page, and Bishop David of Moray walking beside them. The three men took a bench reserved for the clergy advisors to the right of the throne. There was a rustle of movement as all stood when the king strode in accompanied by Gilbert de la Haye.
The king took his seat and gave a brusque wave for the assemblage to take their places. He nodded to Abbot Bernard.
The abbot stood and went to stand at the king’s left hand, his lines scored deep around his mouth and forehead. "My lords, the king has called you to consider two matters, both of great weight. The Cardinals before they left England proclaimed an anathema against Lord Robert, our king. Such has been done before, however unjustly. However, they added all of his grace’s followers in this new proclamation, including his lordship the earl of Moray and Sir James, Baron of Douglas, who were named most particularly."
James leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he listened. He had not expected this to be brought up in the council. What was there to be done about it? The Pope refused even to hear their pleas for justice, and James was right glad to join his king if that was his fate.
Bishop David rose and said, "If I may speak, sire."
The king nodded. "With my good chancellor’s permission."
"Our primate of Scotland, Master Lamberton, has not accepted this excommunication, based as it is upon lies by the English to the Holy Father. No priest, cleric, or friar in Scotland will obey it. Moreover, I continue my call to treat any fight against invasions by the English of our lands as a holy crusade. But we must consider how to take our argument to the Holy Father. We are being damaged in the eyes of other kingdoms whose rulers may be loath to trade or negotiate with his grace or his representatives in the face of papal ire. So I would call upon Abbot Bernard to gather a group to write to the Pope. He does not receive our representatives, but I am convinced he will read such letters.
We clerics of Scotland must make our case as must the nobility in separate letters. But most important must be a letter―a declaration―from the community of the realm of Scotland as a whole. Thereafter, good men must be found to brave the risks of a trip to Avignon to carry the letters, which I have no doubt the English will try to prevent. And they must present them for the Pope’s consideration."
Maol of Lennox stood. "We’ve made our arguments to the Pontiff year after year. What makes you think he’ll listen now, especially this Guyenard. The French and English influence at Avignon is complete."
"With all respect, my lord earl, our arguments have not been made. As long as our king is excommunicated the Pope will not receive his representatives, but there is no such objection to letters. They must be carefully written by men who know what is acceptable to the Vatican as well as knowing the history of our people. Such will not be an easy task. I freely confess it."
As soon as the earl of Lennox resumed his place, James stood up. "As long as my king is an excommunicate, I am pleased to be so, as well. But for the good of the realm and the heart’s solace of my liege lord, I believe this effort is worthwhile." He’d seen time after time grief it gave the king from the fulminations against him by the Pope, even if his own bishops were faithful. "Though I know nothing about matters of the Pope, can such letters do any harm?"
"Is the council agreed?" Abbot Bernard asked. At a general murmur through the room of agreement, he said, "Now on to the main matter of the council. The matter of the succession—"
He bowed when the king broke in to say, "This is a matter of the greatest concern. No man can be certain of the future, not even the morrow and especially so in this Scotland of ours. Nor am I a young man."
"Your Grace…" James broke in as a muttering of protest went through the room, but the king silenced his interruption with a glare.
"I have not spent a life of ease. The day will come, only the good God knows how soon, when I must have an heir. We have seen too well what will happen if the succession is not established. Our enemies would pounce upon our poor land. That King Alexander did not was a disaster beyond measure. How many thousand upon thousand have died because of a great king’s one mistake? The succession must be settled. From my Privy Council, I only ask advice on who to name. My will is fixed that I will have it done."
There was a pause and then Thomas Randolph said, "Surely, there is no question, sire. Your grandson Robert must be declared your heir presumptive. He is the only male in your line."
"I cannot agree, my lord earl," William de Soules said softly. "The risk of an infant heir is too great, and the Bruce line is not the only royal line in Scotland. Until the child reaches his majority, another more able to rule should be declared heir."
"What are you saying?" Maol of Lennox jumped to his feet and spun to face Soules. "Who would you hav
e? The Balliols? The line of Toom Tabard? Never."
Angus Og shouted, "I’d spit him on my sword first."
"The line of King Alexander had many branches besides the Balliols. That must be considered."
"And risk another battle over the crown?" someone shouted. James craned around to see who, but everyone was craned and scowling at Soules.
"That’s madness," Boyd said.
"My lords!" Gilbert de la Haye shouted, stepping forward. "This is a counsel, not a brawl. Remember yourselves in the king’s presence."
Angus glowered at Soules for a moment before he resumed his place. Maol gave Soules a hard look before he did the same, and there was an uneasy silence. James glanced at the king’s rigid face and back at Soules.
Soules raised his open hands. "Sirs, I suggest nothing so drastic as recalling the Balliols. I only remind you that a child is not our only choice."
"The king is in good health," Robbie Boyd put in. "But if he should be killed, God forefend, we have strong men to rule for the child. Guardians of the Realm must be named."
"What is the advice of the council?" Abbot Bernard said. "Is there another name put forward besides the king’s grandson?"
Soules turned, staring at the angry faces around him. "No. I have none," he said and sat down. Who was it whom he would have named? James wondered. But the man said nothing more. Soules’s grandfather had made some distant claim to the throne, but surely Soules did not think they'd accept him in place of their rightful king's heir. Impossible...
"Then is the counsel’s advice to put forth the name of Robert Stewart, son of the High Steward, to the parliament to be declared heir presumptive to the throne?" Abbot Bernard asked.
"It must be the king’s grandson," James said. He watched Soules from the corner of his eye. The man sat with eyes downcast, saying nothing more.