Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“Words are by with.

Only deeds will serve now. As ever. Deeds.”

He eyed her a little askance, at her tone of voice.

“Aye, deeds. It has to be deeds, in the end. It took… too long,

Isa.” “Aye, But there is still time.”

“For what, mean you?”

“Vengeance,” she said.

“I want vengeance.”

“M’mm. To be sure. Some vengeance you have had already, I think”

“Not sufficient.”

“No. Perhaps not, Isa. But-we have had more to do than just seek vengeance.” He turned, gesturing.

“At least I have been humbling one of their arrogant lords, their

Constable …”

“That is not how the English humble their prisoners!” the Countess said thinly.

“No. No-I am sorry.” He moved back to his daughter’s side.

“You will be tired, lass. With your long journey. This is no place for you-a tournament! No place for any of you. Come-we will go in. We are very grand, in Stirling Castle now! Elizabeth, my dear?”

“I shall stay, Robert. A little longer. Queen it here. Many would be disappointed if we both leave now. Go you. With Marjory.

I will come later.”

“My thanks.” Holding his daughter’s arm, he looked at the other

returned prisoners, set-faced.

“Thomas!” he called.

“Where is my lord of Moray? Ah, Thomas-those English lords. The captives. I will not have them near me, now. Hereford and the rest. Send them away. Ransom paid or no. I would be quit of them. Before I am constrained to use them as they have used these! You understand?

Off back to England with them.”

“But-much of the money is as yet unpaid, Sire. The return of these your captives was but to be Hereford’s ransom. The rest…”

“Money! Think you I care for their money? Now! Seeing my daughter! Get them away, I say. Before I further stain my honour and do them the mischief they deserve. See to it, my lord.”

“Is this the King of Scots’ vengeance?” Isabel Mac Duff demanded.

“It is the King of Scots’ royal command!” he returned. And then, more kindly.

“We shall pay our debts otherwise, Isa. Never fear. Come you, now, Marjory …”

Chapter Three

The vast Council Chamber of Stirling Castle, true seat of government of the realm, was fuller than it had been for many a year. It was the first Privy Council that Bruce had held here-the first full Council that he had ever held, many as he had attended, one even in this great hall, summoned by John of Brittany, Edward the First’s nephew and Governor of Scotland, to hear, amongst other things, the ghastly details of William Wallace’s death at Smithfield, London. A number then present were here again now, and, like the King himself, must have been very much aware of the shadow of that great and noble man whom the Plantagenet had butchered in his insensate hate, and who had contributed so much to make such Council as this possible.

Not all there, however, would have the man Wallace at the backs of their minds. Indeed, not all present were inclined to look upon today’s as at all any sort of celebratory occasion; but rather as a making the best of a bad job. For this was the first Council of a united Scotland-and the Scotland which had fought the English for so long had been far from united. Whether it was so now, for that matter, remained to be seen: though the monarch had done all in his power to make it so-more in fact than most of his close associates, of the mass of the people even, deemed either prudent or right. The unity of the kingdom was almost entirely Bruce’s own conception; just as the idea of patriotism, the love of Scotland as an entity, a nation, for its own sake, had been almost solely Wallace’s. If the ancient realm now stood free, and facing the future with at least a semblance of confidence and unity, it was the work of these two very different men with their differing visions.

It had never been easy, any part of the forging of those visions into reality. And it was not easy now. Since other men, through whom it all fell to be achieved, saw the visions only dimly or not at all. The clash of outlook, temperament, interest and will was unending. The Scots were ever a race of inveterate individualists and hair-splitters. With men such as the Earl of Ross, Sir Alexander Comyn, Alexander MacDougall of Argyll and Sir John Stewart of Menteith -all of whom had fought against Bruce, seated round a table with such as Edward Bruce, the Earl of Lennox, the Lord of the Isles, Sir James Douglas and Sir Neil Campbell, it required a strong hand to control them. But a great deal more than merely a strong hand.

“Do I have it aright?” Angus of the Isles was demanding.

“Edward of England, despite his defeat, refuses a treaty of peace on all terms? Or just the terms we offer?”

“On all terms, my lord.” Bishop William Lamberton of St. Andrews, Primate of Scotland, had just returned from a brief embassage to London.

”He still names us rebels. His Grace an imposter and will consider no

treaty. I did what I could to persuade him, and his Council, but to no purpose. To my sorrow.”

“The war, then, goes on?”

“In name, yes. Since they will not make peace.”

“Our terms were easy, generous,” Lennox said.

“Too generous!” Campbell jerked.

“I said we should have invaded England after the battle-not sought to treat. Given them no rest. We had the advantage.”

“We still have,” the King pointed out, from the head of the long

table.

“Nothing is lost. But… I had hoped that they would have learned their lesson.”

“The English never learn,” old, blind Bishop Wishart of Glasgow said.

“Any more than do we!”

“What do we do now, then?” Hay the Constable asked.

“Muster to arms-what else?” Edward Bruce declared strongly.

“Do what we should have done six weeks ago-invade. In this, at least, I am with the Campbell.” He and Sir Neil had never been friends.

“Aye! Aye!” Many there undoubtedly agreed with this course.

But some did not.

“It is peace we need, not war,” Lennox insisted.

Essentially a gentle man, it was his misfortune to have been born one of the great Celtic earls of Scotland; and so, willy-nilly, a leader in war.

“The English may be too proud to treat with us. But they are

nevertheless sore smitten, and cannot be looking for war.

Meantime. They need peace. But, I say, we need it more!”

“I agree with Malcolm of Lennox,” the Earl of Ross, his fellow Celt put in, a huge man, with something of the appearance of an elderly and moulting lion.

“Our land is in disorder. We have had enough of fighting.”

“Hear who speaks, who fought nothing!” That was Angus Og MacDonald. The Highlands were no more united than were the Lowlands-and Ross and the Isles had been at feud for centuries.

“If it is fighting you want, Islesman—I am ready to oblige you,

whatever! And gladly …!”

“My lords,” Bruce intervened patiently.

“May I remind you that we are here discussing the English peace treaty. Our terms are rejected. They were honest terms-not hard. Merely that the English should renounce all their false claims of suzerainty over Scotland, assumed by the present king’s father. And that they recognise myself as lawful king here. This, in their pride, they will not do.

We are still their rebels! So peace is not yet, whatever we may wish.

So we plan anew. I seek your advice, my lords. That only.”

None there was abashed by any implied reproof, being Scots.

“How does my lord of St. Andrews gauge the English mind in this matter?” Sir James Douglas asked.

“The English Council, rather than King Edward? Since they sway him greatly. Is it only pride and spleen? Or do they intend more war?”

Lamberton shrugged wide but bent shoulders. Like so many men there, he was aged before his time, only in his mid-forties but looking a score of years older, his strong features lined and worn. The years of war and captivity had left their marks-and the Church was far from spared.