Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

That seemed to be the best that he could do in the circumstances.

De Lucy and the four grinning, panting and strongly-smelling champion

sone with a towel of sorts hastily wrapped round his middle, to the

manifest disappointment of some of the company-were conducted to the

royal box, where they bobbed down to the Queen and King and were

presented with red roses by Elizabeth. They were receiving suitable

praise and admitting that the conditions of their captivity had at

least not emasculated them, when another trumpet neighed imperious summons from down in the lists, drawing all eyes.

Two mounted men had ridden out into the centre of the arena, a gorgeously tabarded herald wearing red and gold arms quartered with red and silver, and lowering a trumpet; and a magnificent figure in shining black gold-inlaid armour part-covered by a colourful surcoat of heraldic ally-embroidered linen and carrying in the bend of one arm a great jousting helm sprouting ostrich plumes. This eye-catching personage, bareheaded, dark-haired and smiling from a narrow tense hatchet face, sat on an enormous destrier or warhorse, also black-armoured and with flapping mantling of the same colours as the herald.

The King drew a deep breath.

“The most noble, puissant and renowned Sir Edward Bruce, Lord of Galloway and Earl of Carrick!” the herald cried, into the hush his trumpet had achieved.

The black knight raised his steel gauntleted arm.

“I, Edward of Carrick, hereby declare,” he shouted in ringing tones, “that the English are thinking to try their skill, in tourney if not in war! I do hereby challenge to single combat any soever they may put up.

Hear you, English -I challenge your best!”

Hugh Ross’s spluttered curse resounded in the pause thereafter.

Bruce drew a hand over his mouth and chin, uncertain whether to curse also or be relieved. Probably his brother, more experienced, would make a better showing than young Ross. And now the challenge came from the Scots, as was more suitable. But the thing raised other problems. None so lofty as the King’s brother ought to be involved-it gave such contest altogether too great a prominence.

Edward had not sought the Queen’s permission, as he ought to have done yet to forbid him now, before all, would be an intolerable affront, and to one of the most popular figures in the realm, a bad start for the so-long-absent Queen’s new image. Moreover, his super cession would be bound to give great offence to Ross-where offence could well be done without, for he was heir to one of the greatest earldoms in the land, and already Edward was in bad odour in that quarter, having recently abandoned the Lady Isabella Ross after getting her with child-as he had indeed previously abandoned the Lady Isabel de Strathbogie, Atholl’s sister, thereby throwing that powerful earl into the English arms. The Earl of Carrick was a brilliant commander of light cavalry, and courageous to a fault-but he gave his elder brother more headaches than he relieved.

“Sire-I sought this first!” Ross was protesting.

“I told Segrave that I would fight him. If I gained your permission”

“My lord of Carrick has not named Segrave,” the King pointed out.

“But it was he who challenged …”

A new stir heralded the appearance of another figure, only partially armoured, who strode out into the arena, waving arms for silence.

“I, John, Lord Segrave, accept the Earl of Carrick’s challenge,” he shouted.

“He, or Sir Hugh the Ross, or any other. By lance, sword, mace or axe.

To the fall, or a l’outrance!”

“A plague on him!” Ross growled.

“Hear that?”

“Not & l’outrance!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“Not that. No killing.

Has there not been enough of death?”

“I agree,” her husband said, grimly.

“My brother and I do not always see eye to eye. But I am not prepared to lose him yet! Nor am I prepared to forfeit Segrave’s ransom! They must be told so.”

“But, Sire …!” Ross objected.

“Do you rule against me?”

“I have no choice, lad. Can you not see it? To deny my brother, now, in front of all, is inconceivable. He does amiss in this but he is still the second man in this kingdom. I am sorry.”

Matilda made a most unsuitable face at the monarch.

The Master of Ceremonies, after some brief instruction, made loud announcement that the Queen of the Tourney graciously permitted, despite improper procedure, that the Earl of Carrick and the Lord Seagrave ride a joust together, Sir Hugh Ross having nobly yielded a prior right. The joust to be for a fall, an unseating only, and no a l’outrance. There would be no righting to the death at this tournament. Let the champions prepare themselves, and might the best man win.

In the interval of waiting, and while sundry presentations were being made to the royal pair, a new sound above all the cheerful clamour caught Bruce’s ear-the thin high squealing of bagpipes.

In a flash he was transported back to that day six weeks before, when, in so very different circumstances but only a mile or so away from here, he had listened for and relievedly heard that same sound coming from the west round Stirling Rock. He raised his head.

“Hear that!” he cried.

“It is Angus, for a wager! The Lord of the Isles arrived to greet

you.”

“Scarcely to greet me, I think,” Elizabeth said.

“From all accounts your Angus of the Isles rates women but lowly! It

will be your Council he comes for-to make sure that his peculiar

interests do not go by default!” A great Council of State had been

called for two days hence, to plot and steer the nation’s course in the new circumstances. A parliament would have been better-but a parliament constitutionally required forty days’ notice of calling, and Scotland had matters to settle which could not wait for six weeks.

“He will not rate you lowly, I swear! Or he ceases to be my friend,” her husband declared dutifully.

She smiled.

“Am I then to be kind to him? Generous? Aloof?

Proud? Or cautious?”

“Be but yourself, lass-and you will have Angus in the cup of your hands in short minutes! He is very much a man, and so the more in danger from you!”

“I wonder! But I am agog to meet this Hebridean paladin who denies you his due fealty while accepting your friendship! This rebel whom you have made your Lord High Admiral.”

“Angus Og is no rebel, Elizabeth. He but reserves his position as an independent Prince of the Isles. For which who am I to blame him? I have suffered sufficiently from would-be Lords Paramount of my realm! I owe Angus more than I can ever say. Without his great fleet of war-galleys we could not have freed Scotland. He gave us control of our seas, when none other could.”

Now everywhere the throng was making way for the newcomers-who obviously accepted all passage and deference as their right. And if the company had been colourful before, it was doubly so now. For the piper-escorted party which came stalking up was so vivid in every respect as to bemuse the eye. About twenty strong-for Angus MacDonald, though a strangely modest man in his person, never moved abroad without his own court of chieftains, captains, seannachies, musicians and the like-these all were clad in saffrons and tartans and piebald calfskin jerkins, bristling with arms, glittering with barbaric jewellery, their heads mainly covered with the great ceremonial helmets that bespoke the Scandinavian background superimposed on their Celtic blood, outdated casques which sprouted at each side either curling bull’s horns or whole erne’s pinions, symbols that these were the representatives of a Norse sea-kingdom and no integral part of the Scottish realm.

Most of this alarming company were huge, rawboned, rangy men, affecting long hair, only rudimentary beards, but lengthy down-curving moustaches reaching to the chin, which imparted a notably cruel and savage impression. But he who strode a pace in front was quite otherwise, a stocky man in his late thirties, dark, almost swarthy, but of open features, clean-shaven, and dressed most simply in a long saffron kilted tunic gathered at the waist by a heavy belt of massive gold links, from which hung a jewelled ceremonial dirk. Bareheaded and otherwise unarmed, he scarcely looked one of the boldest and most ruthless warriors Scotland had ever thrown up, a man whose name spread terror round every coast of England, Wales and Ireland-and not a few of Scotland’s own, also.