Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

As they drew near, the great carillon of bells, brought at major

expense from the Low Countries, rang out in joyous pealing harmony,

vibrant, resonant but clear. And quickly, skilfully, the choir changed

and spaced its singing and rhythm so that it blended and fitted into

the bells’ clangour in extraordinary fashion, something which must have

demanded long practice and unlikely patience on the part of impatient

boys. To this accompaniment the two processions branched apart again,

to enter the mighty building by different doors, the clerics by the

chancel to the east, the King’s party by the great arched main

entrance, deeply recessed and with triumphant wealth of mouldings.

Within, all was calm, hushed, even the filing in of large numbers of not very silent people seeming to create but little stir in the vast quiet of the towering forest of stone. Quite daunting indeed was the effect of it all, the richly ornamented arches crossing and re crossing to seeming infinity above the double rows of stately pillars, the soaring clerestory with triple rows of pointed and mullioned windows above, richly stained, with the brilliant hues of tempera paintings on the walling, lightening any claustrophobic effect of tremendous, overwhelming masonry. From mighty nave, built to hold 3,000, by transepts, choir and chancel to the High Altar, the place combined sheer beauty and strength with transcendent size, to an extraordinary effectiveness. Even David, Bishop of Moray, had to admit that it outdid his own beloved cathedral of Elgin, which hitherto had been called the glory of the kingdom.

The boys had not ceased to sing, and were now climbing winding turnpike stairs within slit-windowed pillars, from which their anthem came in strange, unearthly fashion, to join the ranks of older choristers and musicians who were already installed up there in the three lofty galleries which surmounted the clerestory, with open arcading inwards.

To their harmonies, now reinforced by soft instrumental music, Bruce

and Elizabeth made their way slowly up through the centre of the nave,

to climb the choir and chancel steps to their thrones, set on the right

side; while the bishops and senior clergy all but filled the rest of

the chancel. Lamberton himself, leaning heavily on his golden pastoral

staff, and supported by his acolytes, limped directly to the High

Altar. It was ablaze with candles, their flames diffused by the

rolling clouds of incense.

It took little under an hour to fill that tremendous place-although

even so it presented no appearance of fullness, so noble were the proportions. Then, as at last the bells ceased their pealing, and in shattering contrast to the sweetly melodious chanting maintained all this time, suddenly the Te Deum crashed out, in splendour, with trumpets, horns, shaw ms tambours, cymbals and men’s voices, rich, deep, quivering with power. The Service of Thanksgiving, Dedication and Consecration began.

Bruce shook the tears roughly from his eyes. And not for the first time, his wife pretended not to notice. If emotion was an essential part of Robert Bruce, she was prepared to thank God for it.

The praise, prayers, singing and sonorous Latinities had given place to the Primate’s address-for it was that, rather than any sermon-when the King’s attention was distracted by some small commotion nearby, where a side-door opened from the dormitory, so that the canons might slip in to perform their midnight services.

Two newcomers had entered there, no canons but notably richly dressed gallants, though obviously travel-stained. One was already beginning to move towards the throne, when Sir Alexander Seton hurried to halt him. The whispers of altercation could be plainly heard, through the Primate’s richly harsh voice speaking on in strange power to be issuing from so gaunt and racked a body.

Bruce frowned-the more so as he suddenly recognised one of the intruders to be Sir William de Soulis, Hereditary Butler of Scotland, Irish Earl of Dundalk.

Sir Alexander, as High Seneschal and Herald King, was clearly urging the visitors to wait, to turn back-but de Soulis would have none of it. All but pushing Seton aside, he shouldered his way round him and came striding towards the King. All around, the ranks of the nobles seethed and stirred.

Bruce, for his friend Lamberton’s sake, at this the climax of his career, was not going to allow any unseemly disturbance to break out. With an imperious hand he flicked Seton and the others back, and beckoned de Soulis on-but his brow was black.

The Lord of Liddesdale dropped on one knee at the side of the throne, and reached for the King’s hand-but it was snatched away from him.

“Your Grace-hear me!” he exclaimed.

“Hush, man! Quiet!” the monarch jerked, below his breath.

“How dare you!”

“Sire-you must listen. I pray you. It is your brother. His Grace, the Lord Edward. His Grace of Ireland. He … he is dead.”

The King stared, suddenly still, rigid. Elizabeth’s hand slipped over to find his wrist, to hold it.

All anywhere near could see that the King had received shattering news. Lamberton himself could not but see it; be very much aware of the interruption; yet he prevailed, in that most difficult of tasks, to keep his voice steady and even and to continue with his celebratory discourse seemingly undisturbed.

“Sire,” de Soulis whispered.

“You heard? King Edward, your royal brother is killed. Fallen in battle. At Dundalk. A great slaughter. Eight days ago …”

“Dear God-dead! Edward dead!”

“Aye, Sire. It was a sore battle. The English, under the Lord John Bermingham, were advancing on Ulster. His Grace moved to meet them. We camped at Tagher, near Dundalk. His Grace would hear nothing but that we attack the enemy-though they were ten to one. He … he was one of the first to fall.”

“You have brought his body home?”

“Alas, no, Sire. The English-they took it. Dead. They beheaded him. Quartered the body. Sent it as spectacle to four parts of Ireland. The head to be sent to Edward of England …!”

“A-a-a-ah!” That strangled sound was not so much a groan as a snarl. And loud enough for many to hear. Even Lamberton paused for a moment in his delivery, brows raised towards the King.

But that last intimation of English savagery had made Robert Bruce himself again, the warrior he had always been rather than the gentler monarch and father of his people he now sought to be.

The iron came back into his features, and he raised his head. He caught the Primate’s eye, and gave a brief shake of his head to the latter’s enquiry, sitting back in his throne, a clear indication that Lamberton should proceed. Still low-voiced, he said to de Soulis:

“Very well, Sir William. I thank you. Of this more anon. You may retire!”

“But, Sire-there is more …”

“Later, sir.”

It was the other’s turn to frown, as he rose, bowed stiffly, and backed away.

The celebrations continued, as planned.

Later, the long service over, and when the processions had wound their

colourful way back to their respective bases, a great banquet, masque

and dancing was arranged for the evening-more than one indeed, for all

walks of men and women. Bruce cancelled none of it. But he did call a

hurried Privy Council,for the hour or so intervening, in the refectory

of the Augustinian Priory.

It was a larger Council than usual, for practically every member entitled to be present was already in the city. Sir William de Soulis himself was present, in his capacity of Lord of Liddesdale, if not Butler of Scotland.

“My lords,” the King said, without preamble, when all were seated, Lamberton himself the last to hobble in.

“I grieve to upset this great and auspicious day’s doings, and to inconvenience you all thus. But you should know what tidings the Lord of Liddesdale has brought me. Some may already have heard. And to give me your counsel as to the necessary decisions. My brother, the Lord Edward, Earl of Carrick and latterly King of Ireland, is dead. My my brother, the last of four. All slain. By the English. At least he died honourably. On the field of battle. Yet he was dishonoured in his death, in that the enemy’s spleen triumphed, even so. They dismembered his body. Cut it upas they did the others To exhibit as trophies. Despatched throughout Ireland. His head sent to England. Such, my lords-such are they with whom His Holiness of Rome makes cause! These to whom he would have us submit!”