by Jack Whyte
Elliot didn’t even appear to be breathing heavily, but he drew himself erect and flipped the heavy staff, catching it by the centre, then nodded at Rob. “No’ bad,” he said. “There arena’ many about here wha can stand that long agin’ me. I wadna like to fight you on a muddy field, and you wi’ a sharp blade. Ye’ll be fine, young Bruce. I jalouse that men willna be feared to follow, gin you lead. Lord Robert’s no’ unhappy wi’ ye.” He nodded towards where the old man was now walking out to meet the approaching group of newcomers. “Ye’d better go now an’ join him.”
The party had arrived barely ahead of an incoming storm that brought icy, blustering winds and a scattering of snow from a bleak, lowering sky, and as Rob watched Bishop Wishart arrive, swinging down from his fine gelding to embrace Lord Robert, he knew from the solemnity of the prelate’s expression that he bore few welcome tidings for Annandale and Carrick.
Wishart removed the close-fitting woollen cap that framed his face and covered his head and neck, and threw the folds of his heavy cloak back over his shoulders to free his arms, exposing the plain brown cassock he wore belted beneath a long scapula of dark green cloth. Then he held Lord Robert close, and the two men greeted each other by name alone.
“Robert.”
“Robert.”
The bishop released him to clasp hands with Rob’s father. “Robert.” “Robert.”
Finally the bishop’s eyes found Rob.
“Master Robert.” He smiled, a wintry little smile befitting the chilly day. “We have a surfeit of Roberts here, it seems.”
Lord Robert grunted, then waved an arm, indicating that they should go inside.
The table in the den below the stairs held flasks and a tall ewer of chilled wine, but no one wanted anything to drink and they went straight to the cluster of chairs fronting the welcoming brazier in the chimneyed corner of the wall. The bishop shrugged off his cloak and threw it over a chair back, then folded the cap he had been holding and tucked it into the belt at his waist. He then washed his hands in the heat over the coals before turning to Lord Robert.
“I can tell the news is not good,” the Bruce patriarch said in Latin.
Wishart’s pursed lips were eloquent.
“How?” Lord Robert continued. “The primogeniture matter?” The bishop nodded. “You have informants, I see.”
“They have decided, then?”
“No, not yet.” Wishart looked at all three Bruces in turn. “You understand that I’ve been away, these past weeks … pressing Church affairs in Glasgow, for which I had to obtain King Edward’s permission to leave the council still in session. But my people have kept me informed. The last word I heard, delivered to me just before I left the cathedral to return to Norham, is that Edward has been persuaded since my departure that the law favouring the firstborn son is pleasing to God, in that it correctly asserts the right of descent through the prime, male heir. He was leaning towards that opinion before I left, but since then he has been convinced beyond a doubt that primogeniture embodies the will of God Himself.”
Lord Robert and the earl exchanged looks. “Who convinced him?” the old man asked bluntly.
Wishart shrugged and moved to sit down beside the Annandale lord. “I don’t know, Robert,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t there. But I believe it was my brethren in Christ. And I believe, deep in my heart, that they were motivated—and will always be motivated—by the fears of men. Mother Church, as you well know, is ruled by men, few of whom hold high opinions of women.” He hesitated. “That sounds harsh, but it is no more than the plain truth, though it could be deemed blasphemous.”
“God created woman,” my grandfather growled. “Since when did men acquire the right to question His design?”
Wishart heaved a great sigh. “Since men were left to tend His Church. Are we to speak of theology, then, Robert? Of philosophy? Will you debate with me?” He held up both hands, palms towards his host. “You asked me a question, I offer you an answer, one I have no wish to defend beyond this point. Women represent—have always represented within the Church—temptation and the weaknesses of the flesh. You and I have spoken of that often in the past and you know it is become a truth by definition and long-held beliefs. And you’ve pointed out to me before that those beliefs entail a contradiction in terms: God’s own Holy Mother is without blemish and comprising all the wondrousness of woman wrapped up in God’s intent for man to marry and procreate. The contradiction lies within this ingrained viewpoint I acknowledge: that women are vessels of sin and temptation, unfit for the company of holy men. It is an inconsistency that will never be resolved, a debate that will never die out. But it has become a fact of religious life and it has given rise, at this particular moment, to a need among certain of my brethren—and not all of them English—to impress upon King Edward the importance of the law of primogeniture. Bluntly put— and it would earn me much grief and no approval were this statement to be heard outside this room—but bluntly put, the law of primogeniture is one more means of denying power to women. It affects men, of course, but it is rooted in my colleagues’ fear of women.”
“Aye. It affects me in particular, for it will cost me a crown. When will the court’s findings be proclaimed?”
Wishart waved that aside with a flick of a finger. “I can’t tell you that, but it won’t be before I return to Norham. They won’t be able to proceed to a proper verdict without my presence as the senior prelate south of the Forth. After that, though, if the report I heard is true and the King endorses primogeniture, it could come at any moment. Your auditors will vote against it, but all our Bruce votes combined cannot prevail against Edward’s influence upon his English auditors, allied with the will of Holy Church and the wholehearted support of the Comyn championship of Balliol.”
“Aye, the Comyns will be eager to agree with that decision … So the Bruce claim is done, then?”
“Aye, Robert, I fear it is, unless I am gravely mistaken.”
Lord Robert grunted, deep in his chest. “When will you leave for Norham?”
“Tomorrow morning. Why?”
“Because I will be coming with you.”
Wishart’s frown was immediate. “No, you will not. Why would you even think of such a thing? It would be most unfitting. At any time. You are a claimant, Robert, a suitor. You have no place among the auditors and your presence there would sow discord.”
“I doubt that. My intent is to resolve matters, to the satisfaction of everyone concerned.”
The bishop’s frown darkened to a glower. “That is impossible. Your intrusion would insult Edward himself, challenging his authority. The French call that lèse-majesté.”
“No insult would be intended and none taken by the King of England, nor anyone else,” the old man said wryly. “Not when my sole purpose is to withdraw my claim to the Crown in favour of my son’s future right to press it, should such unlikely need ever arise again.”
Wishart subsided into his chair, his face going slack with shock. “You would renounce your claim?”
“Gladly, and without another thought, for I am now convinced I cannot win. I’ll renounce my title to Annandale, too. Robert will become Annandale and young Rob, Earl of Carrick.”
The bishop floundered for some moments, searching for words, then shook his head as though to clear it. “And you? What will become of you?”
“Become of me?” The old man laughed. “It has already happened, Master Wishart. It is an established fact and will soon become self-evident. I am become old. All the close friends I loved and trusted in my youth are long since dead, long, long years dead.”
“Not all of them, my lord of Bruce. I count myself among them.”
The old man smiled. “I know you do, Robert, and rightly. But I was speaking of my old, old friends, the friends of my youth. You’re too young to claim that status, for all your balding pate … barely older than my son here. I am too old to be the king that this realm needs today in her present case.” He grunted. “But I
will go on living until God summons me, and I’ll still be Bruce of Annandale. I simply will be Lord of Annandale no more, and I may go and live in Essex, where I can render fealty to England’s King for his largesse.”
“You are conceding defeat?” Wishart looked unconvinced. “What devilry are you planning, my lord Bruce?”
The smile on the old man’s face remained unaltered. “None at all, my lord bishop. I am but conceding my age and the times in which we live. The crown will go to Balliol no matter what I do. You yourself have said as much. And so I’ll bend the knee to him ahead of time. I have no other option … In truth, though, I but seek to make the best of what must now be.”
“I … ” The prelate’s voice grew quiet, his brow creasing with concern. “You have me at a loss, Robert. I never thought to hear such words from the Bruce, and your true intent escapes me. To make the best of it, you said. The best of what?”
Before he spoke again, Lord Robert leaned sideways and tugged at Wishart’s side, pulling the woollen travelling cap from the bishop’s belt and holding it up so that it dangled by its peak between his pinched thumb and forefinger. “Tell me first,” he said mildly, “who is asking me that question? Is it my old friend Robert Wishart who needs a cap nowadays to shelter his pate from the chill winds, or is it the mitred bishop, for whom politicking has become a necessary art?”
Wishart blinked across at him. “It pains me that you would even think to ask me such a thing,” he said in the same low voice, “but I can see the times demand it. Will you give me your word you intend no mischief to the realm in what you do?”
“Aye. My solemn oath.”
“Then I am Robert Wishart, your old friend, sitting in your den and by your fire … What has brought you to this decision?”
“Life, old friend. And its realities. Listen to what I tell you now.”
For the ensuing quarter-hour, Wishart sat listening while the old man led him through all that he had told his son and his grandson in the previous days, and when he finished a long silence ensued while Wishart wrestled with the complexities of what he had been told.
“Are you truly so distrustful of Edward now?” he finally asked.
“I am. And I believe I am right to be so. Distrust is what I have come to feel. I fear the King of England is a changed man from what he was a few years ago. And a different man altogether from the young prince with whom I went to war so long ago.”
“How changed, and to what extent?”
“That I do not know, Robert. I can’t put my hand on what it is that bothers me, and that is the truth. But the changes are there. Look at what happened in June last year.”
Wishart frowned, impatient. “I don’t need to look at it. I know what happened. I took part in it.”
“I know you did, but do me the favour now, if you will, of looking at it from my point of view.”
“I’ve listened to you now for the better part of half an hour and your point of view escapes me utterly.” He sighed and flapped a hand. “And to tell you the truth, my friend, I fear that much of what I have heard might be described by others as the effects of age.”
“You believe me doddering in my old age?”
“No, far from it, indeed!”
“Well, humour me, then!”
Wishart flushed, though whether from shame or discomfiture Rob could not have guessed. “Very well, last June.” He closed his eyes, recollecting. “The events of June last year arose from the matters of the previous months. In May the court of auditors assembled at Norham and began deliberations to resolve the matter of the succession. Prior to that, though, King Edward had requested that, in return for his commitment to act as arbiter, he be formally recognized as—”
“Requested?” Lord Robert interrupted. “Yon’s a lily-livered word, my lord bishop. He demanded it, the sine qua non of his arbitration. He made no request. The man issued an edict.”
Wishart, now every inch the senior bishop of the realm, waved the protest away. “Requested, demanded. Words to the same end. He stood firm, and with ample reason, based upon his experience with similar courts in France and Sicily when he settled the same kind of contentious matters there. An arbitrator—any arbitrator—is powerless if he lacks the authority to back his findings. Hence his claim to be recognized as overlord of Scotland—lord paramount, as he himself named it. That provided him with legitimacy as an arbitrator, beyond dispute.”
“Go on, then.”
“Fine. On May the tenth, the day the court proceedings began, Edward formally declared his right to the title of lord paramount in a letter, and the community of the realm then took three weeks to consider its response, submitting it on the last day of the month.”
“And that response was capitulation.”
“It was nothing of the kind. You know that, Robert Bruce. The community was at great pains to ensure that such a rank—as feudal overlord—could in no way affect the independence or integrity of this realm, since none but a duly crowned King of Scots could agree in full to such a commitment. No man, or gathering of men of lesser rank, had the authority to make such a decision.”
“Aye.”
“Aye, indeed. And Edward accepted that.”
“And was made lord paramount of Scotland in spite of it. What happened next?”
“An English army moved to Norham on the third of June, to ensure the King’s peace.”
“The English King’s peace.”
“Norham is in England. Will you interrupt me at every point?”
“No. Go on, then. What next?”
“The following day, June the fourth, the competitors, yourself included, surrendered the Scottish royal castles to Edward for the protection of the realm, upon his solemn declaration that they will be returned to the royal possession within two months of the new king being chosen.”
Bruce opened his lips as if to speak, but contented himself with a mere nod, and Wishart continued. “A week later, on June the eleventh, the council of Guardians resigned their positions and were then reappointed by Edward.”
Lord Robert grunted. “Hmm. And two days later?”
Wishart glared at him. “June the fifth. The Guardians and nobles of Scotland swore fealty to Edward as lord paramount of Scotland. You were there. You took the oath yourself. Why are you insisting on this catechism?”
“Because I have reconsidered everything, every item you have named, in the seventeen months that have passed since then. And now it is November and I cannot believe how stupid we have all been.”
“Stupid? My God, man, are you going mad indeed? Where was the stupidity? We did all that we had to, to ensure the future safety of this realm. Every man involved in the affair knew the truth of that and each one, in good faith, swore to set aside his own concerns, and those of his house, for the overall good of the realm of Scotland. Where is the stupidity in that?” Wishart waited for a count of five heartbeats, then demanded, “Answer me!”
“I’ll answer you. I believe every Scots lord acted in good faith. But I believe, too, that their good faith was based upon a false premise. They acted—and I with them—out of fear, the fear of civil war. And in the grip of that fear they—we—opened a door that we might never be able to close again.” The old man’s brows drew together and he inhaled sharply before continuing.
“A moment ago it crossed your mind, your polite denial notwithstanding, that old age was causing me to lose my wits. Now, my mind is as firm as it ever was. But who can swear, with certainty, that the same is true today of the Plantagenet? He is a vastly changed man since the death of his wife two years ago.” He quirked an eyebrow at the bishop. “We should ask ourselves, is he going mad as he grows old? Could it be dangerous to us, to Scotland? And if it is—if there is even a possibility it might be—then think of this catechism, as you named it, from that point of view. Do that, though, and you will be forced to concede that in May and June of last year, driven by our own fears and desperate to find a king while avoiding the threat of civil s
trife, we might have made a fatal error. We might have misjudged our man, counting too much on his former reputation and failing to see what he might have become in recent times.”
Again the bishop waved him away. “Too many mights and maybes, Robert. Too much speculation and too little certainty.”
Lord Robert hawked and leaned forward to spit into the fire, then wiped his lips with the back of his wrist. “Aye. Well then,” he growled, “let us speak of certainties. It is a certainty that Edward Plantagenet is a king above and beyond all else. He revels in statecraft and there is no other king like him in all of Christendom, save perhaps Philip of France, of whom I know little—and little of that is good. With the sole exception of his Queen, Eleanor, nothing in Edward Plantagenet’s life has ever been more important than his kingdom—his realm of England. Nothing at all. And Eleanor’s was the only warning voice that held him in check. She ruled him with love and kept his vices manageable. She curbed his lust for power, his princely choler, intemperance, and regal impatience. She guarded him against his own lack of restraint throughout his life, advised him on matters of state. And he took heed of her for thirty years and more. But now Eleanor is dead, and he is grown more choleric, more impatient and irascible with every day that has passed. Those are certainties, widely observed.
“It is a certainty, as well, that his realm is wealthy and yet he never has enough money to conduct his wars and keep his armies paid and equipped. His barons are fractious and tight fisted not only with their money but with their men and their feudal service to the Crown. Edward had no need to conquer Wales and add it to England. To subdue it and control its rebels, yes, and to impose his peace upon it. But to make it part of England’s realm? The Welsh are Welsh. They have never been English and never will be. But Edward needed the gold, the rents and revenue his rule of Wales could command. He needed the men and the resources of the Welsh archers, to use as a threat against his own barons. And so he is now building massive new stone castles throughout Wales—at Caernarfon, Conwy, Harlech, and Beaumaris, more of them at one time than ever before in history—to cow the people there and keep them in subservience and fear. Those are certainties, my lord bishop.”