Robert Low - The Lion Rampant

‘Brother,’ he said, ignoring — as he always did — the lack of protocol Edward used. ‘You have news of Stirling — Mowbray is in chains, the fortress is ours and your glory outshines all others.’

‘It is your glory I am polishing,’ Edward declared grimly, and then glanced pointedly at Daltoun. Bruce said nothing and, eventually, Edward took the hint, though he scowled at the favour shown the chaplain. He took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into freezing water — and now Bruce was frankly afraid.

‘Mowbray is on his way south to English Edward,’ his brother said quickly, as if anxious to spit the words from him before his mouth was stopped up. ‘He carries news of the truce we made, him and I, that Stirling will be surrendered if not relieved by an English army by the Feast of the Nativity of St John.’

The words hung like black smoke, slowly dissipating. Bruce blinked and his head reeled with it, could only gape at his brother and, gradually, felt the thunder in his temples as his brother’s cool, challenging stare would not be broken.

Daltoun shrank as the moment stretched and seemed to thrum like a taut rope.

‘What were you thinking, brother?’ Bruce asked eventually, his voice trembling. ‘Were you thinking?’

Edward flushed a little and the arrowed furrow between his eyes deepened — but he held his temper, which amazed Daltoun and confused his brother.

‘I was thinking that something had to be done,’ he answered slowly and Bruce gave a strangled gasp.

‘Something was done,’ he roared, before catching himself and standing, breathing heavily, his face a strange mask of red flush and unhealthy pallor; Daltoun, fascinated, saw the cicatrice bead with clear drops.

‘You issued an ultimatum to the Scots still with the Plantagenet,’ Edward declared truculently and Bruce exploded.

‘I did,’ he bellowed. ‘I did, brother. I tied the Plantagenet to a time. Now you have shackled me to a place. Have you gone mad, brother? Do you think YOU are king here?’

The French was spat out so that Daltoun swore he saw the words form in the air, though it might, he concluded afterwards, simply have been spit. But the last statement lurched out like a sick dog and sat there festering while the air twisted and coiled between the two.

It was what he wanted, Bruce thought bitterly, wildly. He is not content with Carrick, my last brother …

Edward Bruce leaned forward on the balls of his feet and, for a wild moment, Daltoun thought he was about to do the unthinkable and assault his brother. Assault the King …

‘The opposite, brother,’ Edward replied, sinking back a little, his voice sibilant-soft. ‘I thought to secure you the throne.’

Bruce, stunned, could only gawp and open his mouth like a landed fish. Edward forced a lopsided wry smile.

‘You want the Scots lords on your side? Win them,’ he went on, suddenly pacing to and fro. ‘This Plantagenet is not his father. This one is idle and apathetic and took himself to the brink of warring with his own barons over his catamite. Now he seeks revenge for the catamite’s death.’

He paused and turned.

‘This is the man you will not fight, brother? This is the man you taunt and then run from? How will that sit with the lords whose fealty you want — or even with those whom you already have?’

Bruce said nothing, could only stare while his head rang like a bell with the words ‘Curse of Malachy’.

‘You usurped the throne,’ Edward said flatly and Daltoun heard himself suck in his breath. ‘Took it by force and there is no shame in that — but if you want to keep it, brother, you will have to fight for it. Running away may be the German Method, as you have pointed out many times — but it will not keep this prize in the end.’

Daltoun knew that the German Method was a way of tourney fighting which involved avoiding the charge of your enemy, moving nimbly to one side and then attacking. Bruce had used it to advantage many times, in and out of tourney, but it was frowned on by all those chivalrous knights who believed the French Method — a fierce charge to tumble horse and rider in the dust — was the only honourable way of fighting.

Daltoun had time to dredge this up from the depths of his memory as the silence spread, viscous as old blood and broken only by the brothers’ heavy breathing, like galloped stallions. Then Bruce shifted slightly.

‘Get you gone, Edward,’ he said wearily and, when his brother made no move, looked up sharply at him. ‘Get out of my sight,’ he roared and Daltoun, seeing the storm clouds gather on Edward’s brow, forced his legs to move at last and cleared his throat so that both heads turned to him, as if seeing him for the first time.

The tension snapped; Edward scowled at his brother, spun and strode away; the heavy door banged. Daltoun followed him, almost colliding with the returning Chancellor, who had heard everything even beyond the thick door.

‘Christ betimes,’ Bruce spat. He turned and said it again, this time slamming his fist on the table so that the papers and wax jumped.

Typical of Edward. There is the enemy, set your lance, lift your shield — charge. No matter the odds or the sense in it, one good charge might win all …

Yet he was the last of them, his brothers. All gone to his regal desires; ambition, he thought, is the Devil.

Rash, he thought. Rash brother Edward — and with his own Devil, too. This kingdom is too small for both of us, when one is a king and the other desperately wants to be …

His brother’s words were a scourge, all the same, a rasping cilice on common sense. Edward was right, of course — he had a crown but not a kingdom, and until he faced the Invader he never would. Too soon, he thought. We are not ready — not enough trained men, not enough arms or armour …

Yet there never would be, not if he lived his three-score and ten — and he would not make that, he was sure. Not without losing some vital bits along the way, he thought with chill wryness.

I am forty, he thought to himself. If not now, then when?

Bernard, who did not like the flush on the face of the King, saw that the cheek scar was leaking fat, slow, yellow drops. He dropped a fresh blob of wax on to the parchment, his hand shaking, and pushed it towards Bruce.

The King blinked, touched his cheek, inspected the tips of his fingers and, for a moment, looked weary and afraid. Then he shoved his fist and the royal seal stamped his authority on the parchment giving Glaissery Castle, lately ripped from the MacDougalls of Loch Awe, to the heretic remnants of the Order of Poor Knights, whatever they called themselves now.

Now it was done, he thought bleakly and, thanks to my brother, suddenly I need the secret Templars and what they can provide.

Above all, I need Kirkpatrick and Hal, those old dogs, to succeed more than ever, else I will be facing the might of England with sticks and poor hope.

Irish Sea

At the same moment

It was a scawmy water, a stained-iron bleakness of shattered gulls, heaving in slow, deep swells, sluggish as old skin; Hal hated it but that was less to do with the heaving deck than with his inability to cope with it, despite the patience of Gerald de Villers.

‘Again,’ he said and the robed figure, black scapular removed, merely inclined his head graciously and came at him once more, the great broadsword arcing left, right, feinting, coming in again. Sweating, unsteady and wheezing, Hal blocked, parried, and then stumbled from weariness; he felt the sharp kissing wind of de Villers’s blade whick past his cheek.

‘Better,’ said the monkish figure, splitting his spade beard with a grin. ‘You are growing stronger each day.’

Sourly, Hal allowed himself to be hauled up, wrist to wrist, and the man’s sword vanished into the sheath strapped round his white kirtle with its discreet red cross over the heart. In turn, that all vanished under the plain black robes — yet, no matter the lack of markings, Hal thought, no one could mistake these men for mere monks.