Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

His brows shot up.

“Ha-does that gall you, then?”

“You must wish that it had been otherwise. That one or other of these had been my mother’s child. And I had been born bastard. It would have spared us both much.”

He stared at her nonplussed, at a loss.

“I never wished you other than very well,” he said.

“As a child, I found you … a joy.”

“When you saw me, came near me.”

“I was fighting, girl! Fighting for this kingdom. For eighteen years I have been fighting.”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“You have your kingdom.”

Sighing, he began to pull on his boots.

“I have my kingdom,” he agreed heavily. He stood up.

“Was I wrong to believe that I could have my daughter also?” When she made no response, he went on, “I go back to the castle. It is a dozen miles to Ayr, and we leave at noon. Do you attend the parliament?”

She shook her head.

“Only if you command it.”

“I command nothing of you, lass.”

“Save that I marry. And produce you an heir.”

He spread his hands in token of resignation, or possibly defeat, and

left her sitting there. The Ayr parliament of April 1315 had much to

discuss besides the question of the succession. Foremost came the peace offensive, the great endeavour to bring the English to negotiate a firm and lasting peace, not just another temporary truce in this unending warfare; and part and parcel thereof, their recognition of Bruce’s kingship and the essential and complete independence of his king dom. This was elementary, basic to all settlement; yet strangely, though the English claim to over lordship suzerainty, was only some twenty years old, and the product of one man’s megalomania, this was the stumbling block holding up all agreement-despite Edward the Second’s hatred for his late father and all his works.

But before this vital issue, there was a symbolic item to be staged, a mere ceremony but significant of much, in the Great Hall of Ayr Castle, the same slightly smoke-blackened hall, built by the English invaders, where once William Wallace had hanged the fatly obscene nude body of the sheriff, Arnulf, and his two chief henchmen, before burning all. This afternoon, Abbot Bernard of Arbroath, in his capacity of Chancellor of the realm and chairman of the assembly, after bowing to the King and opening the proceedings, called the name and style of the most noble Sir Patrick Cospatrick, 9th Earl of Dunbar and March.

There was a hush, as everywhere men eyed the side door which opened to reveal the slender, darkly handsome person of a proud featured middle-aged man, splendidly attired. Looking neither right nor left, this newcomer strode firmly down the long aisle between the ranks of Scotland’s great ones, un hesitant straight for the dais, which he mounted, to bow before the throne.

“Your Grace, my lord Robert, I, Patrick of Dunbar, humbly crave leave to make my due homage to yourself as liege lord,” he announced in clear, almost ringing tones.

Bruce, in his gorgeous scarlet and gold Lion Rampant tabard, permitted himself just the glimmer of a smile. There was nothing humble about the voice or attitude, nor in the level glance of those dark arrogant eyes. Nevertheless he inclined his head, graciously, as though well satisfied.

“Welcome to my Court, Cousin,” he said.

The fact of the matter was that this represented victory, undeniable

victory. This man, perhaps the greatest in power of all Scotland’s

thirteen earls, and second only to the absent life in seniority, had

been the most unswervingly of all on the English side. Which was

scarcely to be wondered at, since his lands, such as were not in

Northumberland and further south, were all in the Merse, the East

Borders, in Berwickshire and Lothian, areas which had been wholly and

consistently in English occupation, almost defenceless against

invasion. This man’s father, dying five year; before, had fought boldly with the English on every major battlefield of the wars, from the very first, that of, Dunbar itself. And the son it was who had aided Edward the Second to escape James Douglas and his other pursuers after Bannockburn by providing a boat to take him from Dunbar to Bamburgh. Now this confirmed Anglophile had decided that it was time to change sides. Nothing could more plainly underline the fact that he believed that Bruce’s hold on Scotland was secure.

Taking the King’s hands in his, the Earl repeated the oath of fealty as forthrightly as he had done all else. Bruce nodded.

“Your homage I receive gladly, Cousin,” he said.

“We shall let the past be past, for our mutual weal. And that of this realm. Your lands and estates are herewith returned to you.” This was said more loudly than the rest, and was aimed at the ears of those who believed still that the King was over-kind and gentle to traitors.

For Patrick of Dunbar could still indeed have represented much danger to Bruce’s throne.

This was not only for geographical and strategic reasons, important as these were. It was what was in the Earl’s veins that represented the greater menace. For his line was royal, descending directly-more directly than Bruce’s own-from the ancient Celtic monarchs. The first of the line had been Malcolm, a grandson of Malcolm the Second, and the brother of Duncan the First whom MacBeth had murdered. The descent had been from father to son since then. Moreover, this same first Malcolm had married a granddaughter of Ethelred, King of England: while the 4th Earl had wed an illegitimate daughter of King William the Lion. In the great competition for the Scots crown, after the Maid of Norway’s death, this man’s father was one of the competitors. In the end he had thrown in his weight behind Bruce’s grandfather’s claim. But the fact remained that here was an alternative line to the Scots throne, which could be used against Bruce and his successors. This oath of fealty, pronounced before an entire parliament, was a major insurance against trouble.

As Dunbar stepped down from the dais and proceeded to the earl’s benches, amidst mutterings from sundry present, led by Edward Bruce, the Chancellor raised his voice again.

“The matter of the recent negotiations at York relative to a peace between this realm and that of England. My lord William, Bishop of St. Andrews, who led His Grace’s commissioners, to speak.”

William Lamberton rose, at the head of the bishops’ benches.

Last time he had sat in this castle of Ayr” he had been a hunted refugee, dressed in ragged, nondescript style, and hungry, seeking to persuade Robert Bruce to accept the Guardianship along with John Comyn. His great gaunt frame had a permanent stoop to it now.

“My lord Chancellor, we have little good to report. After the raids deep into England, and His Grace’s resumption of the Tynedale lordship, King Edward was forced to take measures. He appointed Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, to be governor of all the North of England, between Trent and Tweed, wielding viceregal power and authority-a thing unprecedented in England while the monarch is himself in the country. But Pembroke, although a hard man and an able soldier, found both lords and people in no mood for fight. Or, let us say, in no mood to fight the Scots, since they were scarce loth to fight amongst themselves.

Indeed, defeat in the field, at Bannockburn, and weak leadership, has brought the English to do what they have ever mocked the Scots for doing-fighting each other instead of the enemy! There was, and is, near to civil war in the North of England, with large bands, often led by lords and knights, harrying the land. Some even claim that they do so in the name of the King of Scots!”

There was some laughter and acclaim at this picture of their enemy’s discomfiture, but Lamberton held up his hand sternly.