by Jack Whyte
Earl Robert swung a leg over the cantle of his saddle and slid to the ground, watching the bishop’s retreating back. Beside him, his father dismounted with less agility, his face impassive as he handed his reins to one of his men. As Lord Robert stamped his feet, loosening his leg muscles, the earl turned to him, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. The patriarch shrugged slightly but said nothing as he turned to follow the bishop. The earl instructed Nicol to warn the others to stay in the square and form a cordon around the bishop’s pavilion, far enough from the tent to keep prying ears at bay. As he turned back to make his own way towards the tent, the earl saw that his father was walking with one hand on young Robert’s shoulder.
The earl entered the pavilion just in time to hear the bishop question the boy’s presence.
“He’s a Bruce,” Lord Robert said. “He has to learn and earn his place and I intend to see to that myself. Thus he is here and will remain.”
The bishop nodded solemnly, then waved young Rob to a chair. Rob returned the nod with equal solemnity and went to stand by his assigned seat. He and Wishart had met mere months earlier, in London, but there had been no question of status for Rob then. He had been a mere high-born boy, interviewed by a bishop who might one day have to deal with him as a man and wondered, in consequence, how much precocity the lad possessed. Today, with Rob’s grandfather’s brusque words, all of that had changed.
Dust-covered and sweat-stained from their long ride that day, the three Bruces seated themselves at the table, and several of Wishart’s acolytes brought them food and drink. Lord Robert waved them away, but the earl raised a hand.
“Water,” he said.
Lord Robert looked at him in mild surprise, but then nodded.
“Aye, bring water. Cold.”
Wishart, sitting opposite the old man, raised an eyebrow. “What, not a drop of wine, my lord?”
“Not until I find out why you have marched us in here without a word of welcome,” Lord Robert said. “I doubt I’ll like what you have to say, and if that’s the case I would not wish to be beholden to you in advance for hospitality. So spit it out, Rab Wishart. What’s afoot?”
Bishop Wishart looked at the waiting priests and nodded to the senior of them. “You heard Lord Robert, Father James. Set what you have on the end of the table and bring some fresh water from the well. Then leave us alone. I will summon you if I have need of you.”
The priest ushered his assistants outside, and as soon as they were gone Wishart looked the Bruce patriarch straight in the eye.
“I’ll tell you what’s afoot,” he said wryly. “You are, Robert Bruce. You are afoot, for the time being. But you rode in here at the head of an army and that places you squarely in revolt against the Guardians.”
“Be damned to you, Wishart. What kind of sanctimonious claptrap is that? Are you accusing me of treasonous revolt? Against what King? I am the King of Scots, man—or I will be, soon, now that the Maid is dead and the throne vacant again. How then can I be treasonous to myself?”
“I said no word of treason, Robert. I said revolt.” The bishop’s determination to be unequivocal was evident from the hard edge in his voice and the familiar use of the Bruce’s first name. “When you come marching half the length of Scotland at the head of an army you put yourself in open, public defiance of the council and its concern for the welfare of this realm.”
“Damnation, man, I have no wish to defy the council and you know that as well as I do. I have come here to attend the gathering at Scone, with the others, magnates and mormaers. And Guardians.”
“Aye.” The bishop’s voice was suddenly wry again. “And you have come alone, you and yours, to mingle with your peers. Only a fool would think to question the well-known fact that you travel always with two thousand swords, requiring them to fan the midges off your brow when the sun sets.”
Lord Robert ignored the sarcasm. “You exaggerate,” he said bluntly. “I brought my swords to guard my back and protect my presence here because I had no wish to be waylaid and then dispossessed in absentia by a clutch of clawing Comyns. And don’t try to wave away that statement, Robert Wishart, for you know it’s the likeliest thing to happen, were I foolish enough to take the risk. This northland is Comyn territory, hoaching with them like fleas on a hedgehog, and none here would heed my voice at all were I not to raise it loud and long in my own cause. So don’t talk to me about my shortcomings and my lack of respect unless you are prepared to condemn the Comyns equally.”
“I am, Robert. We are … We, the council of Guardians.”
The old man blinked. “You are? Prepared to condemn them?”
“Equally, as you said.”
“Then what? I don’t understand. Why are you accosting me?”
“Equally was the word I used, Robert.”
“Aye, I heard you, but what does that mean?”
“It means that both of you—both factions, Bruce and Comyn— are equally guilty in this sorry affair.”
“If I hear you aright I disagree. What is sorry about my being here?”
“Oh, for the love of God, man, have you no sense at all? Between your two houses you have the whole country on the brink of civil war! And we’ll no’ stand for that.”
“Civil war? I am here to protect my valid cause, my claim.”
“Aye, and there’s the shame of it, for the Comyns are equally turned out to protect theirs, which they see as the cause of Balliol.”
“Balliol’s an Englishman! He has barely set foot in Scotland since he was a brat.”
“I’ll not argue that, but his mother, Devorguilla, was not, and since her death he has been Lord of Galloway and is now therefore richer, perhaps, than even you. And his claim to the Crown is every bit as valid as your own, despite his English upbringing.”
“Horseshit! Mine is the stronger claim and has ever been so.”
Wishart shook his head. “Only by the ancient Gaelic law of tanistry, Robert, which permits inheritance through the female side. Both you and Balliol lay claim through that, but your claim is stronger than his by one degree of cousinship. On the other hand, though, according to strict law of primogeniture, the right of the firstborn, Balliol’s claim as senior heir in direct descent from Earl David supersedes yours.” He held up a hand to forestall Bruce’s response. ‘I know that primogeniture has no de facto place in Scotland’s law, but it is none the less considered valid the length and breadth of Christendom with the backing of Holy Mother Church. And by that argument John Balliol’s claim is arguably stronger than yours is.”
Only the youngest of the three Bruces betrayed any reaction to that, turning his head to look uncertainly from one to the other of his elder relatives.
The bishop continued, calmly. “That is why we are so concerned. We fear injustice, to either one of you. Both of you, you and Balliol, have valid claims to the Crown, with strengths and weaknesses to each claim, and the matter cries out for judicious arbitration, for the continuing welfare and good conduct of the realm.” He paused. “I should not need to point out to you, of all men, Robert, that the needs of the realm take primacy over the mere welfare of any individual house.”
Rob knew that Wishart had spoken the plain, objective truth as he perceived it. Unsettled, and reassessing this situation for the first time, he turned again to look at his grandfather, anticipating the old man’s outrage, only to find himself confounded yet again by his mistaken expectations, for Lord Robert showed no trace of anger. He sat straight-backed and straight-faced, his eyes focused upon the embroidered cross on the prelate’s green mitre. Beside Wishart, stretched out straight-legged in his narrow chair, the Earl of Carrick sat frowning, his hands clasped over the waist of his metal cuirass and his lips pressed into a thin line between his teeth. Rob held his breath, waiting for his grandfather to speak.
“Had any man but you said that to me, Rob Wishart, I would have taken it ill,” the old man said eventually, his voice quiet and even gentle. “But since it was you and I kno
w your loyalty, I’ll take it as offered. You’re right, and I admit it. But I doubt the Comyns might be so willing, and there’s the meat of it.” He sighed, loudly and deeply. “There are no Comyns here, though, so let me speak solely as Bruce.
“Arbitration, you said—this thing needs arbitration. But even though that be God’s own truth, where, in the name of that same God, are we to find an arbitrator for this case?”
Wishart started to speak, but Lord Robert silenced him with an upraised palm. “Let me finish. Think about it, man. Who in all this land could arbitrate this dispute? It canna be the Guardians, for they are even-split, half for Bruce and half for Balliol, which in Scotland means Comyn. The council was set up that way, to keep a balance between our two houses, and in keeping with that, there is no presiding vote therein to break an even match. And even were the councillors themselves to elect another to their number, who would that other be? Any man you name would have a bias one way or the other, and you’d never get agreement from both sides. Surely you see the truth of that?”
Wishart pursed his lips, then bent his head slightly in acknowledgment. “It’s true there may be no such man in Scotland,” he said. “But that does not mean there is no such man at all. There is one man qualified to judge such a weighty matter.”
Names tumbled through Rob’s mind, but they were names of which he had only heard and he had little knowledge of the men themselves, and he admitted to himself that he had no idea who Wishart could be thinking of. And so, gritting his jaw, he waited for his grandfather’s response, aware from the patriarch’s frown that he was reviewing his own list of candidates. Eventually, though, Lord Robert sat straighter and eyed the bishop.
“One man, you say. And not in Scotland. Where, then? In England?”
“Aye.”
“And fit to judge. Are you thinking of Edward?”
“The King himself, aye.”
Lord Robert stood up abruptly and stalked away from the table to stand with his back to all of them. His right hand was clasped loosely in his left, at the small of his back, but his entire bearing radiated hostility, and the others knew better than to interrupt his thoughts. As they waited, the tent flaps opened and the acolytes came in with cups and a wooden pail of fresh water. No one spoke as the drinks were poured and distributed, and the silence lasted until they were alone again.
Earl Robert was the only one who was really thirsty, and as he drained his cup and set it down a heavy gust of wind buffeted the walls of the pavilion and rattled the venting flaps in the peaked roof. All of them glanced up in surprise, for the day had been calm to that point.
“Weather’s changing,” the old man said absently and then turned back to them. “It’s true,” he said to the bishop. “Edward could do this, render an even judgment where none else could.” He returned to his seat at the table, still deep in thought, and sipped at the water that had been poured for him.
“He’s done it before,” he continued. “In Portugal, and then in brokering the peace between France and Aragon that ended the war in Sicily a few years ago—a brilliant feat of diplomacy, from what I’ve heard. But would he agree to do it again in this case? He has problems enough of his own to see to—in England with his barons and across the sea with his affairs in Gascony and his dealings with Philip of France. I doubt I would take the time, were I him … ” He set down his cup. “How would we approach him, if the need arose?”
“The need is here already,” Wishart growled. “My question is, would you trust him to adjudicate the matter, were he to profess himself willing?”
Lord Robert sniffed loudly, then pulled out a kerchief and wiped his nose. “For the good of the realm and to avoid a war? For those reasons I would set aside my reluctance, and aye, I would trust him. Providing, mind you, that the rules to guarantee fair-mindedness and a willingness to accept the settlement were clearly outlined and agreed upon in Scots law, and on all sides, beforehand. And that would lie within the jurisdiction of the Guardians’ council. So aye, I would trust Edward of England’s judgment. I have fought beside him when we were both younger and I respect him as a man. Besides, he is my liege lord under the ancient feudal laws of Christendom, since I owe him fealty for my lands and estates in England.” He sat musing for a few moments. “But think you the Balliol people will agree? And if they do, how will your council proceed?”
“It is already done.”
Rob watched as his grandfather stiffened and drew himself upright.
“What did you say?”
Wishart shrugged and spread his hands. “A letter has been sent to England, asking Edward to intercede.”
The old man’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You sought the agreement of the Comyns ahead of mine?”
“We did not consult the Comyns. We but wrote to Edward, voicing our fears of civil war and asking him for assistance in maintaining the peace of the realm.”
“Did you, by God? And who is this ‘we’?”
The bishop’s green chasuble shifted as Wishart shrugged his shoulders again. “The letter was drafted by Fraser of St. Andrews.”
“Damnation, man, he is a Comyn. What kind of villainy is he plotting?”
“Shame on you, Robert Bruce.” Wishart’s tone was withering. “Above and beyond all else William Fraser is a bishop of Holy Church. He is also a former chancellor of Scotland. The man is a lifelong patriot, dedicated to the welfare and prosperity of this land and its folk—all of its folk. His reputation and his probity are beyond question, attested to by a lifetime of service and devotion to duty. That his name is Comyn has no relevance in this matter. He saw his duty to be as clear as it has always been: to protect the peace and stability of the realm. He drafted his letter to that end, with the ungrudging assistance of another Comyn, Lord John of Badenoch, a man whose rectitude matches Fraser’s own. And neither of them thought to set the welfare of their house ahead of that of the realm. They drafted the letter as soon as word reached them of your preparations to march, for they perceived the predictable response of Balliol’s supporters, most of them their own kin. They sent it first to me, for my input. I saw no need to improve upon what they had written and I endorsed the letter myself, for the good and the need of Scotland, Lord Bruce. That same need that led you to concede just now that you will abide by Edward Plantagenet’s judgment in order to avoid civil war. The fact that most of those Balliol supporters are Comyns mattered nothing to either of the writers, for they believe that nothing—not family name or pride or reputation— supersedes the importance of their first priority, the realm and its folk.”
The fire of Wishart’s delivery left no one in any doubt of his belief in every word he spoke, and Rob could see that it had mollified the fierce old warrior to whom it had been addressed. Lord Robert sat glowering, his jaw jutting pugnaciously, but he said nothing for a while, shifting his eyes from one spot to another without looking directly at anyone. Finally, though, he grunted and turned to his son.
“Robert, what think you of this?”
Earl Robert spread his hands. “I am here as a mere witness, Father. Your decision, whatever it may be, will affect my life henceforth, as it will Rob’s, but yours is the claim and therefore this is your decision to make. I’ll be content to stand at your shoulder and support you, whatever you conclude.”
“Hmm … ” The fierce old eyes switched to Rob, who thought his grandfather was going to speak to him, but Lord Robert turned back to face Wishart.
“Fine,” he growled. “I will retract that last remark about Fraser. It was unworthy. So the letter is sent. So be it. Where does that leave us now, the four of us here?”
The bishop cleared his throat. “Well, for one thing, it leaves me hoping that now you’ll have a cup of wine with no ill will between us, for water does little to cut the fog in my gullet. For another, it leaves us to decide what’s to be done to clear the air.”
“Hmm … Rob, pour us all some wine before the bishop dies of thirst.”
Rob hurried to
obey, serving each of the men and listening closely so as not to miss a word.
“Of what do we need to clear the air?” his grandfather asked. Wishart blinked at him. “Why, this threat of civil war, of course … the talk of it.”
“Ah. And how will we do that?”
“By demonstration. Your departure with your men in train and no blood spilt will kill the talk.”
There was a long pause, and then Bruce said, “Is that all you want? For me to turn tail and go home meekly, without a word to anyone, and leave the Comyns here to laugh at me and mine? Tell me, if you will, that that is not what you meant.”
“It is precisely what I meant, though no one will laugh at you behind your back.”
Bruce’s deep-lined face was expressionless. “No, they might not. They’ll be more like to wait until I emerge again from Lochmaben and then laugh in my face.”
Wishart hissed, swiping the flat of one hand across the table, narrowly missing his cup. “In God’s name, man, can you not see?”
“I can see them all laughing, aye. I swear, Rab Wishart, you men of God are never loath to make impossible demands on ordinary folk.”
The bishop shook his head in frustration. “By doing this, as Bruce of Annandale, you will send a signal to the entire community of Scotland—the Guardians, clergy, earls, barons, and commons north and south of the Forth—to be mistaken by none. A clear signal that you are prepared to set aside your own legitimate rights in the interests of the realm until such time as that community itself can come to a just decision, in full parliamentary assembly and assisted by whatever powers of law, custom, and usage God will provide, upon the matter of whose claim is strongest. Surely you see the truth of that?”
“Aye, I can see it. But what if some folk disregard the signal? We need name no names, but what then, Master Bishop?”