Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

In the hubbub that followed the King waited set-faced. Then he banged on the refectory table.

“My lords-may I remind you that this is a Council, not a wives’ gossip!” he declared, with a harshness that had not been heard in his voice for long.

“My lord Edward’s death I shall mourn, in my own way. We were not close. We much disagreed.

But we were brothers. But-that is my business. Not this Council’s.

What is, is twofold, and to be considered herewith. The Lord Edward was appointed by parliament first heir to my throne. It therefore becomes necessary for parliament to appoint anew. For my bodily health is not of the best, and I need remind none that the succession is all-important.” He caught Lamberton’s eye, and the older man shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“So this Privy Council must guide parliament in the matter. A parliament to be called as soon as may be possible. As you know, forty days’ notice is required. But effective decision cannot wait so long. So decide, my lords.” He paused.

“Secondly-there is to decide what to do about the Scots forces still remaining in Ireland.

They are not so many, but still some thousands …”

“Sire,” de Soulis interrupted-and men, however distinguished in blood or position, did not interrupt their sovereign.

“They are fewer than that. Fewer than you think. For they were all at this battle. The spearhead of the King’s army. Two thousand and more. Few now are alive. Of any degree, noble or simple.”

Every eye stared at him.

“All are dead. My cousin, Sir John de Soulis. Sir Philip de Moubray, Sir John Stewart of Jedburgh, my lord Steward’s cousin, Sir Fergus of Ardrossan. Ramsay of Auchterhouse …”

“Christ’s mercy! All these-my good friends! How came they all to the, man? Here must have been utter folly!”

“The English were strong in cavalry. They were commanded by the Lord

John Bermingham. With many notable captains. Sir Miles Verdon, Sir

Hugh Tripton, Sir John Maupas. He it was who slew the King. I, and

others, urged that we should retire. But His Grace must attack. They

outnumbered us ten to one. The Irish levies fled. The King fell,

early. The Scots would not flee. They died there, around their

“A-aaye! God rest their souls! The brave ones. My men.

But-the waste! The folly of it. Men who had fought with me on a score of fields. To die so!”

“They died honourably, Sire. Choosing death with their monarch.”

“No, sir. Not their monarch. Their leader, perhaps their friend. But the Lord Edward was not their monarch. These were subjects of mine. I say that here was waste and folly. As was all the Irish adventure. But-what matter? They died. And you, sir, did not!”

“Eh …?” De Soulis blinked, and flushed.

“What means Your Grace?”

“What I say. These, you said, chose death with the Lord Edward. You did not, it seems, Sir William!”

“By God’s good providence I was preserved. Unhorsed in a charge.

Stunned. Led off the field by my esquire. And so preserved.

I seem to mind Your Grace in similar case at Methven!”

“That is true. I stand rebuked. My claim is that these stout friends of mine, old friends-their deaths were waste, folly. You say not-yet you were less foolish. I commend your wisdom in this, at least!”

“Your Grace is not doubting my courage? My honour?”

“Your courage-no, sir. Your honour-who knows? It is a chancy

commodity, honour! It is concerned with more than battles, Sir

William. You have been privy to much that was against my interests you

my Butler. You ever supported my brother in his Irish follies against

my known wishes. You worked against my lord of Moray, my lieutenant,

sent to Ireland to guide my brother. Your courage I do not doubt, sir-but let us leave honour out of this!”

De Soulis had half risen from his bench, glaring. It was most plain how these two men disliked each other.

“Sire-I do protest!” he exclaimed.

“You wrong me, in more than in my honour. Without cause. Moreover, you miscall me. I would remind you that I am a peer of the realm of Ireland. Earl of Dundalk. I would request that you style me so!”

“Sir William de Soulis,” Bruce grated, “in this realm of Scotland, you are Lord of Liddesdale -by my good favour. You are Hereditary Butlerby my good favour. These, and nothing else.

You have not surrendered your Scots citizenship. Or not to me. For Irish. Or you would not be sitting at this Council. Do you wish to do so?” That was rapped out.

The other sat back, biting his lip. He had great lands in Liddesdale and the SouthWest March. And his new Irish lands were already overrun by the English.

“No, Sire,” he said, thickly.

“Very well. Remember it. Remember also that at my Privy Council I expect to receive counsel. Not bickering and disrespect.

In this realm no man trades words with the monarch-save in a privy chamber. Now-let us proceed, my lords. It seems that there is little that may be done anent bringing back of the Scots force from Ireland. Though what can be done, must. Therefore, our immediate concern is this of the succession.”

“My good liege lord,” Lamberton said, at once, “I speak for all when I say that we all do most deeply grieve for you in the loss of your royal brother. This, the last of your brothers. He was a brave man, and a mighty fighter. As are all of your race. He was perhaps over-bold. But who here will judge him, in that? Is it Your Grace’s wish that this night’s feasting and masque be set aside, in mourning?

For the heir to your throne?”

“I think not, my lord,” Bruce answered.

“I know-or knew-my brother, passing well, whatever our differences. His failings were those of a high spirit and a light heart. He would never wish this great day’s celebrations to be curtailed-he who would most have found them to his taste. Nor do I believe it right.

This day we celebrate not only the completion of a large work in God’s name and to His Glory, but the final freeing of this realm from the invader. After the fourth part of a century, no enemy English foot defiles our soil. To this end Edward Bruce laboured, fought and suffered as much as did Robert. As have done so many.

All here-or most! Therefore, since this day will not come again, let there be no damping of its joy. So Edward would say-of that I am sure. And all those, our friends, who died with Edward. So say I. Let all proceed. Now-to this sore matter of the sue-, cession.”

“Lord King.” Again it was William Lamberton who spoke.

“I

think it no such sore matter-by Your Grace’s leave. All sorrow that

your royal health has in some measure suffered the price of a score of

years of war and privation. But it is none so ill that we must

conceive the appointment of a successor to your throne to be of

urgency. God willing, you will reign over us for long years yet. I pray you not to conceive otherwise.”

Again the two men’s eyes met, sharing their grim secret, as all around men cried acclaim and agreement.

“You have much recovered, Sir King, since your return from Ireland. Do not tell me that Robert Bruce has become fearful for his body, like some old woman-for I’ll not believe it!” Only Angus Og would have dared to speak thus to the monarch, even with a smile, the independent Prince of the Isles.

“His Grace was more sick than you know, my lord,” Moray declared stiffly.

“Even though he was concerned to hide it from all.”

Bruce glanced quickly at his nephew. He was a keen and observant man.

Could he possibly know? Have guessed?

“I am less young than once I was,” he said, shortly.

“Sickness that in a younger man might be thrown off, might serve me less lightly now. I desire the succession to be settled.”