Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

Nevertheless it required all this beauty and colour to counter and balance the all but overpowering loveliness of the scene and setting itself. Surely nowhere could such an occasion have been so spectacularly placed as here, high on the flank of Stirling Rock.

For this, the very key to Scotland, was also one of that most scenic land’s most dramatic viewpoints, where the Highlands abruptly met the Lowlands, where the great estuary of the Forth became a river, where the noble vistas spread far and wide before the constrictions of the mountains. This terrace above the teeming town was so drenched in light and colour and vivid, challenging scene, as almost to be painful to contemplate. From the silver serpent of the Forth, coiling through the level cars elands to the thrusting green heights of the Ochils; from the vast rolling canopy of the Tor Wood to the village-strong shores of the Lothian coast; from the grassy glades of the royal hunting-park to the loch-strewn infinities of the Flanders Moss-all against the tremendous ramparts of the blue-shadow-splashed giants of the Highland Line, the eye of even the least perceptive was all too apt to be distracted from the small doings of men, however positive and spectacular.

A spectacle of some compulsion was indeed proceeding in the great arena. It was the final round in a prolonged contest between teams of wrestlers, four men to a team, each put forward by some great lord or other. Bruce himself had fielded a group from his own bodyguard-to see them soundly defeated in the second heat.

Now, in this final round, the eight men who struggled there, all but naked save for the distinctively coloured drawers, represented, of all things, the Abbey of Inchaffray and the English prisoners.

Egged on, implored and berated by their panting and gesticulating if non-playing captains, the Abbot Maurice and Sir Anthony de Lucy, the mighty but wearying musclemen were obviously nearing the limit of their efforts, their greased and shining bodies now so slippery and sweat-soaked as to prevent all gripping. Two pairs were already reduced to a merely formal and slow-motion pawing.

“Poor men-they are done, quite,” Elizabeth declared.

“There is no sport left in this. As Queen of the Tourney is it not in my right to call a halt? To declare the contest over and each side equal?

And so spare us all more of this?”

“It is in your right and power indeed, my dear if you would have both sides decrying you! Most of this assembly, indeed!” her husband told her, smiling.

“Halt them now, and both sides will conceive themselves stripped of the laurels. And some of the crowd saying that you chose to spare the English, others that you chose to spare Holy Church! Either way, you lose! But have it your own way, lass-you are mistress here, today.”

“Here is foolishness …” she said. But did not interfere.

Sir Hugh Ross, son and heir of the Earl thereof, who had once been Bruce’s deadly foe, came up with the Lady Matilda, the King’s youngest sister, a pair now all but inseparable.

“Your Grace,” he put, to the Queen, “the English grow over sure, I vow!

They claim that they have as good as won this wrestling bout And now

they challenge us to a jousting. One, or many. Single combat, or

massed fight. They would try to wipe out the shame of Bannockburn, I think. Have I Your Grace’s permission to break a lance with their challenger?”

“Mine, Sir Hugh?” The Queen looked doubtful.

“Must I so decide?” She glanced over at her husband. When the English prisoners actually started to initiate challenges, it was perhaps time to pause and consider.

Bruce took over.

“Who is this bold challenger, Hugh?”

“There were many in it. But the spokesman, the true challenger, was Sir John, the Lord Segrave.”

“Segrave! That man!” The Lord Segrave was a senior English captain, brother to one Sir Nicholas who had once been as good as Bruce’s gaoler. He had been Edward the First’s Lieutenant in Scotland in 1303 when Comyn and Simon Fraser had ambushed the English army at Roslin, and he had barely escaped with his life -to make Scotland pay for his fright thereafter, to some time. He was therefore one of the most important captives of the late rout.

This might well pose a problem. To refuse the challenge of an eminent veteran could look unsavoury, playing safe; on the other hand, for Scotland to be beaten in so notable an encounter, in one single combat fight, would be unfortunate. And Hugh Ross, although a sound wartime fighter, was untried in the tourney. Yet the King could by no means put it to this eager young man that he might not be of the calibre required.

Matilda Bruce, now twenty-one and full of spirit, sensed her brother’s doubts.

“Let him fight, Sire,” she pleaded.

“He will carry my glove to victory!”

“Much good that will do him!” To allow him time for thought, the King turned to his nephew, Thomas, Earl of Moray, who stood behind, and who was friendly with Ross.

“How think you, Thomas? You know Segrave. You worked with him, once. His was a hated name, when he lorded it here. Is he one whose challenge we should accept?” He could hardly ask Moray outright whether he thought Ross fit and able to do battle with the Englishman; but his nephew would not wish to see his friend bested too easily. The Earl had sided with the English for a while, against his uncle, and probably knew both possible contestants better than any other man there. Thomas Randolph was a tall, dark, splendidly handsome young man, possibly the best-looking man in Scotland, despite his serious expression and noble brow. It was strange that he was not more popular; he was one of the heroes of Bannockburn -but he lacked humour, and was too patently upright for many lesser mortals. Bruce had come to esteem him highly.

“He is a stark fighter, and a hard man to best, Sire. And sore over our victory, I think. Sorer than some. But he will fight fairly” “M’mmm. Hugh-do you think …?” The King was interrupted by a shouting from all around, mixed with laughter. Down in the arena the wrestling seemed to have come to an end at last, with three of the brawny fighters in various recumbent attitudes, the victors either sitting upon them or otherwise expressing exhausted triumph. The last pair were down on their knees, growling at each other like angry dogs but doing no more than growl, in the interests of economy. The scene was comic rather than dramatic, but the laughter was occasioned mainly by the fact that one of the victors was seen to have had his scarlet drawers torn right off him in the proceedings and was now standing, reeling, and grinning sheepishly, stark naked but notably well endowed, while the English knight, Sir Anthony de Lucy, had grabbed the said scarlet rags for want of better banner, to wave in exultation. It did not demand great arithmetical prowess to establish that, despite this misfortune, the red pants team had won, with two of the prostrate bodies blue, one kneeling, and only one Scot on his feet.

A trumpet fanfare preceded the Master of Ceremonies’ declaration that England had won the wrestling match. The winning team should proceed to the royal gallery to receive the congratulations of the Queen of the Games.

While not a few Scots were consoling each other to the effect that wrestling had never been really a Scottish speciality, as it was in England, and some of the ladies were giggling wondering whether the winning team would in fact present themselves up here in the precise state of undress they were in at the moment, Hugh Ross reiterated his request to the King.

“You cannot deny me the joust now, Sire!” he exclaimed.

“To reject the English challenge now would seem as though we feared another defeat.”

Aye. No doubt.” Bruce shrugged.

“Very well. But, Hugh-arrange it with Segrave that there be more bouts than just the one. Lest all stand or fall by the one throw.”