Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“As that of the Queen of your realm, brother. Today this Elizabeth is Queen of the Tourney, and not troubled with a husband!”

“I

am never troubled with my husband,” the woman observed.

“My trouble is to see sufficient of him!”

“Were I your husband, you would see sufficient of me, I vow!”

“Too much, perhaps, my brave lord! Like some other ladies say!” That was also a woman’s voice, but different, softer, more sibilant.

Edward Bruce’s head jerked up, to stare.

“You! You here again!

The Isleswoman! I’ faith-here’s a pickle! Christina of Garmoran come back to … confront us! What now?”

His brother frowned.

“Christina’s presence is welcome. As always,” he said shortly.

“As always …? Ooh, aye!” Edward looked back at Elizabeth

assessingly.

“Well me,” she nodded.

“The more so, that she will perhaps help to keep such as the Earl of Carrick in their place!”

“Ha …!” Edward got no further. A trumpet blast heralded another announcement.

“The most noble the Earl of Hereford, Lord High Constable of England, craves the Queen’s leave to speak.”

Surprised, the occupants of the royal gallery looked at each other.

“Bohun! What does he want?” Bruce asked. But he nodded to

“We cannot withhold permission to the Constable.”

At Elizabeth’s wave of acceptance, another voice called.

“I,

Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, do require satisfaction.

Robert de Bruce, lately Earl of Carrick, who calls himself King of Scots, did fight and slay my nephew, Sir Humphrey de Bohun, Knight, before the past battle. For the honour of my name and house, I Humphrey do hereby challenge the said Robert to single combat as fought with my kinsman that day.”

“A plague on the man-hear that!” Edward exclaimed, into the buzz of comment and astonishment.

“A wretched prisoner-challenging the King! Insolent!”

Everywhere the shouts and growls of the Scots showed that they agreed with this judgement.

“Robert-you will not do this?” the Queen asked.

“You are not afraid for me, my dear?”

“Afraid, no. But…”

“Your Grace-Sire!” a voice called from some way off.

“Allow me. That I meet Hereford’s challenge.” It was Gilbert Hay.

“As Constable of Scotland, let me deal with this Englishman.”

Bruce frowned. If the other English challenger had presented a

problem, how much more did this. Had it been any other than Bohun who

made it, there would have been little of difficulty-he would have

rejected it out of hand. As King, he could do that without loss of

reputation. Indeed, he would have felt almost bound to do so. But the Earl of Hereford was in a special category.

As Lord High Constable of England he ranked next to King Edward himself. His capture, fleeing from Bannockburn, must have been a bitter blow indeed. Taken in the field would have been bad enough, but, like his monarch and so many other great lords, he had bolted before the end, and had been pursued and captured as far away as Bothwell, on his flight to England. Now he would be concerned to wipe out that stain. But, more than this, before the battle proper he had seen his nephew cut down in single combat with Bruce, and however much he might have wished to avenge that rash young man there and then, had in fact, despite overwhelming superiority in numbers and arms, withheld-as probably was no less than his duty as a responsible commander. But here too he must have felt his honour to have suffered.. Now he required to make a gesture. And Bruce felt some sympathy.

The King waved a negative hand to Hay.

“My concern,” he said.

“You are not going to oblige this presumptuous captive?” Angus Og exclaimed.

“You!”

“It is customary at a tourney, when one side has lost a bout, to allow them opportunity to redeem themselves, should they so challenge.”

“Aye -but not the King.”

“It was I who slew young Humphrey de Bohun. Besides, it was my brother who put down Segrave. Think you Segrave’s superior should fight with my brother’s junior?”

“And if you fall…?”

“Then Hereford will have proved himself the better man!”

Bruce raised his hand.

“I accept my lord of Hereford’s challenge,” he cried.

“What weapon does he choose?”

Clear and cold the answer came from below.

“You slew my nephew with a battle-axe. So be it. I choose the axe!”

“No!” As clear, ringing, came this denial.

“No-I will not have it!” Elizabeth cried, rising from her throne.

“I said there will be no killing. As Queen of this tournament, I

forbid it! There will be no axes, I say.”

Her husband smoothed hand over mouth and chin.

“As Your Majesty wishes,” the challenger acceded thinly.

“The mace, then. Will that serve?”

“The mace, yes.” He turned to his wife.

“Blunt enough, my dear?”

She bit her lip, saying nothing.

A hand touching her shoulder, and pressing, the King turned and strode off, calling for his armour-bearer, young Sir William Irvine, knighted after Bannockburn.

When at length the monarch rode out into the lists, clad now in splendid armour and with the Lion Rampant vivid scarlet on his yellow surcoat and horse-trappings, it was seen that he had chosen no destrier as mount, but the same grey light gar ron which he had ridden that day when he had fought Hereford’s nephew. It lacked height and weight but its wiry nimbleness and sureness of foot were the assets he coveted today. Men noted the fact. De Bohun, given choice of the vast pool of captured horseflesh, had selected a mighty black charger-which might well have been his own.

Making their bows to the Queen, Bruce looked almost laughably lowly, under-horsed, by comparison, but none there thought to smile, even Edward. The King spoke to Hereford, voice hollow inside his jousting helm.

“My lord-why did you choose the axe? When I am accounted a master with it?”

“For that very reason,” the other returned curtly.

”And because, with the axe, you killed my nephew. “ “He died

honourably, in fair fight. No call for you to risk your life, proving

your house’s honour.”

“You will allow me, sir, to be custodian of my own honour.”

“Aye. But to choose the axe there, means that you meant to kill.

Or be killed. And your ransom near paid. Why?”

“Need I account for my actions to you, sir. A rebel?”

“Hal So it is still the same! You have learned nothing, my lord?

The bitter English pride! I am sorry for you…”

Abruptly the other wheeled his charger round, and rode back to his base.

However blunt an instrument, the mace required considerable skill for effective use in mounted warfare. Like the axe, it was short in haft, but its knobbly head was heavier, and in consequence, lea well-balanced. It was therefore notably short in range and hard on the wrist, and against armour demanded very shrewd placing.

At the trumpet’s imperious signal, the two contestants rode at each other, a seemingly ill-matched pair. Bruce having to restrain his lighter mount. Hereford, with superior height, and therefore reach, but a horse which would tire more quickly, was out for a quick decision. He wasted no time on preliminary skirmishing, but drove straight at the other.

Bruce knew that he would be expected to dodge and use his agility. He therefore waited until the other was all but on him;

then, as the Earl raised his mace high, ready to smash it down on whichever side his foe decided to veer, he jerked his pony right round in what was almost a full half-circle, under the very nose of the black charger. He achieved it with only bare inches to spare, and went trotting off a yard or so in front of the lumbering destrier whose rider was leaning forward over its neck, flailing furiously but quite ineffectually, the King not even turning his head to look back.