Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

The unfortunate inhabitants themselves were not physically maltreated, unless they made actual resistance—which few indeed were unwise enough to attempt. Pathetic parties, groups of families, either fled apace into the hills, left and right, or stood afar off and watched their homes and livelihood devoured. Only churches were spared, and to these many of the refugees flocked, amid lamentations.

The Queen and her ladies had been brought up in a hard school, and did not complain. Indeed, they knew that they would have to put up with this, before they left Stirling. But they did not enjoy it, and were notably silent throughout. Fortunately the wind, from the southwest blew up the valley, largely carrying the smoke away from them.

“Unhappy Redesdale,” Elizabeth said, “that it should lie north of Tynedale, and so be used as warning and example. When any other might have served.”

“Aye, it is hard. But there is more than that to it,” her husband told her.

“Redesdale was paying its tribute. These last two years.

To be spared our raiding. Like so many others. But at this last

collection, they refused to pay. They fall to be taught another

lesson.”

”No doubt. But still, I say, poor Redesdale” She glanced over her

shoulder.

“Robert-have pity on James Douglas,” she urged, low-voiced.

“He rides behind, there, a picture of woe, Edward, even Thomas Randolph, can take your strictures and be none the worse. But Sir James is otherwise. And surely he deserves well of you?”

“To be sure. But Jamie ought to know me better. We have been close for ten testing years. I could not berate my brother alone, before all. So I needs must seem to blame Douglas and Moray equally with him. They know that But likewise, Jamie should have known not to persist with that bicker, as he did.”

“He was so anxious to tell you all. How well they had done, how far they had won. And then, this!”

“Aye, Well …” Bruce half-turned in his saddle.

“My Lord of Douglas to ride with the Queen and myself,” he called clearly.

Eagerly the younger man spurred up.

“I am sorry, Sire,” he burst out.

“It was ill done. I forgot myself. Your pardon, of a mercy! I

shamefully forgot myself.”

“The fault was scarcely yours, Jamie. But you know, better than most, that I cannot too openly chastise the second man in the kingdom, seem to take sides against my own brother. Even when it is clear that he is in the wrong. As here. Think no more of it. My sorrow that I had to speak as I did. When I so greatly esteem what you all achieved. You did very well. Better than I could have hoped. At what cost? In men, Jamie?”

“Very little, praise be. Scarce any, indeed. We fought no single battle, nor even a major skirmish. The English seem to have lost all spirit, since Bannockburn. A hundred will flee from two or three Scots. The terror of us went before us, melting the sinews of men.

We burned so many towns that we lost all count. Their castles we could not spare time to assail; but manors we laid waste by the hundred. Most left abandoned before us. Surely we taught the English a sufficient lesson.”

“Let us hope so. If it will but persuade King Edward to sign a peace treaty. Somehow he must be forced to it, if we are ever to build the Scotland we should have, the Scotland we have bought so dearly.” The King shook his head.

“That is why I make this progress to the Tyne. Something more that Edward Plantagenet cannot ignore. I go to assert my ancient over lordship over Tynedale.

No King of England could accept that, I think, and still face his

people: Either he must fight on again, or come to terms.

And he is in no state to resume the war. Not for some time.” Bruce paused.

“These Yorkshire lords that Moray feared? How great a force did they assemble? And do they follow on, northwards?”

“They mustered a great host, yes. Many thousands. But of no great quality, and lacking in spirit. They did not attack us, either before or after we turned back-although our scouts told us that we passed within a few miles of their camp. They followed on after, but at a careful distance. How far, we could not tell, for our rearward lost touch with them. They are no danger, Sire-that I am certain.”

“Good. I would prefer no battle with the ladies present…”

Lower Redesdale converged on the wider vale of the North Tyne near Bellingham, some ten miles down. Here, that evening, opposite the hamlet of Redesmouth, the Scots halted for the night, leaving a wide trail of complete devastation behind them. But no burning and ravage went on into Tynedale. Instead, many splendidly attired heralds and couriers, well escorted, were sent out, east and west, to make summons and proclamations.

The tented camp Bruce set up was deliberately magnificent, rivalling the tourney-ground cantonments of Stirling, with multihued pavilions, silken awnings, heraldic banners, and colours everywhere. In contrast to the grim business of burning and spoliation, a picnic and holiday atmosphere now prevailed, with feasting, music, even dancing on the greensward. Nevertheless pickets maintained a sharp watch around a wide perimeter-to the occasional discomfiture of sundry highly-placed love-makers and philanderers.

The King was in no hurry to move off, next day, to give his herald sand the stern warning of burned Redesdale -time to make their maximum and widespread impact. It was noon before they started, and now a large company of mounted musicians led the way, dispensing sweet melodies. High officers of state, bishops and senior clergy, even three of the newly-arrived foreign ambassadors, from France, Norway and Hainault, came next, before the royal party, all clad in their most brilliant.

The solid ranks of armour and men-at-arms kept well to the rear. The sun failed to shine, unfortunately, but at least it did not rain.

Five leisurely miles brought them to Wark, now only a village but formerly a place of some size and importance, chief messuage place and administrative centre of one once-mighty Lordship and Honour of Tynedale. Here Bruce left most of the baggage and a substantial number of men, to erect a more permanent camp in the level and readily defendable haugh between the Wark and Dean Burns and the River North Tyne. Here they would return.

Another seven miles or so, by Chipchase, Simonburn, Hums haugh and

Chollerford, brought them to Hexham, at the junction of the North and

South Tyne. They met with no opposition-and if their reception by the country-folk was scarcely rapturous, at least some people did peer from windows and doorways and pend mouths. Tynedale waited, tense, watchful but it did wait.

At the famous and ancient ecclesiastical town of Hexham-on Tyne, dominated by its great Priory, larger than many a proud abbey, it was Robert Bruce’s turn to wait, outside the massive walls, while the Prior was summoned with the keys. It was not much more than a year since Bruce had last been here, and in a different mood, and Master Robert de Whelpington came in fear and trembling. But he was greeted genially.

“A good day to you, my lord Prior. I hope that I see you well?

And your Priory and town prosperous?”

The cleric, a stocky, red-faced man, young for so eminent an office, swallowed.

“Aye, Majesty. Or … no, Majesty,” he stammered.

“Not… not prosperous. No. Not that. In these hard times.

We are poor. Much impoverished…”

Bruce, glancing over the other’s rich clothing and be ringed fingers, smiled.

“Come, come, Master Whelpington! Surely you mistake? This is one of the richest foundations in the North of England. Unless… unless you are so sore hit by raising and equipping your steward and the men you sent to fight against me at Bannockburn! And paying their ransoms thereafter!”