Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

Not merely in the mind. The red itch spread in ever larger patches on his skin, vomiting and shivering became more frequent and violent, and the accompanying lassitude and weakness grew. It was Elizabeth’s concern, therefore, to keep her husband involved in activity-since it was equally true that, the more demanding the problems, the more was required of him, the less evident became his bodily troubles. She could not engineer crises of state; but at least she could try to entangle him in domestic preoccupations.

She used the fact that Bruce had never really taken kindly to Dunfermline -although she herself liked it well. Brought up amongst hills, by the more colourful Western Sea, he found life too green and tame for his liking. Moreover, the older he grew, the more Celtic in sympathy he became, his mother’s strain getting the upper hand. And life, like Lothian, was scarcely Celtic in its aura.

He could hardly be said to pine for the Celtic West; but undoubtedly his preferences lay there. Shrewdly, therefore, Elizabeth fostered them.

He should build a new house. Not another great castle-since his policy still was rather to demolish all such, in case they might be used against him-but a comfortable house to live in, graciously, by the Western Sea, where he could look out over the colourful skerry-strewn, weed-hung bays and sounds rimmed by blue mountains, where he could hunt and fish and hawk, and talk with the seannachies and bards and story-tellers of the Celtic environment.

She was at pains not to make this programme seem like that for an

ageing man-for he was, in fact, still not forty-seven years old. So

she stressed the activities which could conveniently be carried on from such a base-the sailing amongst the Western Isles and Highland coasts in especial, for it was one of Bruce’s great dreams to fully integrate his Highland and Low! and divisions within the realm. He should have a special ship built, large enough to carry him and a small court including herself-in reasonable comfort; yet small enough and suitably designed to wheel across the narrow isthmuses and tarberts with which that seaboard abounded. In it he could sail all the Hebridean seas he loved, keep in closer touch with Angus of the Isles and other island chiefs -even with Christina MacRuarie. She was cunning, was Elizabeth de Burgh.

Because he was still the monarch, however, such western domicile of delight could not be too far away from the core and centre of his kingdom, the Stirling-Scone-St. Andrews triangle. At need, he must be able to travel quickly thence, and others from there reach him readily. Therefore, with mountain passes, rushing rivers, winter snows and the like to consider, the nearest Highland seaboard was indicated. Bute, his son-in-law the Steward’s island home in the Firth of Clyde, was thought of, and its Rothesay Castle was in better state than most; but actually to be confined to an island was risky, and the King could be storm-bound at some most inconvenient moment. Nearby, however, on the northern mainland shore of Clyde, looking towards the mountains of Cowal, Gareloch and the Kyles of Bute, might serve. This was Lennox territory-and his old friend Earl Malcolm eager to cooperate.

So, this July evening, four men sat on the platform roof of one of the flanking-towers of Dunfermline Palace, overlooking the deep, steep, tree-filled ravine of the Pittendreich Burn, as the sun sank over the Stirlingshire hills far to the west, and discussed designs for house and ship both-Angus of the Isles, greying now, Malcolm of Lennox, and Walter Stewart, with the King. The house, it had been decided, was to be Cardross near Dumbarton, where the royal fortress, of which Lennox was Hereditary Keeper, could protect it; for it was to be no stone castle or stronghold, but a rambling,

pleasant manor-house, perhaps within a far-flung stone wall of

enceinte.

Bruce had always had a nostalgic fondness for Christina MacRuarie’s house of this sort, at Moidart, and was seeking to have the new building modelled on such, Lennox and Walter Stewart suggesting modifications and improvements. Angus Og was not interested in houses, only in ships, and was impatiently, indeed scornfully, pressing claim for a design of his own.

The cap house door opened, and the Queen came out. The men rose from their benches, Stewart and Lennox each seeking her approval for suggestions of their own. But, smiling briefly, she shook her head, and looked at her husband.

“Sire, we have a visitor,” she said.

“A lady. The Countess of Stratheam.”

“That woman! What of it, my dear? I do not greatly like her.

Whatever she wants, she may wait a little.”

“I think that you should see her, nevertheless,” Elizabeth said.

“And … not here.”

At the gravity of her voice, the King eyed her quickly, and nodded.

“Very well. Await me, friends …”

Going down the twisting turnpike stair of the tower, Elizabeth spoke.

“Robert-I fear that there is trouble. Sore trouble. If what Joanna of Stratheam says is true. She comes from Berwickon Tweed. And talks of treason. A plot. Against you, my heart.

Against your life.”

“Joanna of Stratheam in a plot? That empty-head! I’ll not believe it!

None would trust her with a part in a masque …!” He paused.

“From Berwick, you say?”

“Yes. Hotfoot, she declares.”

“M’mmm. De Soulis! I heard that she had become his mistress.”

“She was more ambitious, I think! See-I have her in my own

chamber…”

The Countess, a somewhat over-ripe and vapidly pretty woman in her late thirties, of slightly royal birth, only child of the late and weakly Malise, Earl of Stratheam, who had been so notable a weathercock during the late wars and died seven years before, was pacing the floor in evident agitation. She dipped a perfunctory curtsey, and burst forth without preamble.

“Your Grace-you are in danger of your life. Of your life, I say!

From a wicked, evil man. He plans to slay you. William de Soulis.

To slay you, and seize your throne. He is a monster! You must move against him. With all speed. Take him. Hang him, the forsworn wretch! Rack him! No fate is too bad for him. He must die, I say….”

“You may be right. But calm yourself, Lady Joanna,” Bruce

interpolated.

“Do not distress yourself so. I swear matters cannot be quite so ill as you fear…”

“They are, I tell you-they are! He is a devil, a satyr! A

betrayer.

A betrayer of … of … of Your Grace, Sire. His King.”

That last fell distinctly flat” And of you, I think? Which is perhaps

more greatly to the point!”

She bit her lip.

“He … he plans to slay you, Sire. And then to mount your throne. It is the truth. I swear it. By all the saints of God!”

“Then he is a bigger fool than I esteemed him!” Bruce snorted.

“Fool he is, yes. But scoundrel more. Lying wretch! Ingrate…!”

“How can this be?” Elizabeth asked, more to halt the other woman’s humiliating vituperation than for information.

“What claim can William de Soulis have to the throne?”

Bruce answered her.

“His grandsire, Sir Nicholas de Soulis of Liddesdale, was one of the original fourteen competitors for the crown, in 1291. Before Edward. He claimed in the right of his maternal grandmother, Marjory, bastard daughter of King Alexander the Second, married to Alan the Durward. All knew her as bastard-but the Durward sought to have her legitima ted And when he failed, claimed her as legitimate daughter of King William the Lion, Alexander’s own father! On such claim, de Soulis made his stand, saying, in consequence, that he was indeed nearer to the main royal stern than either Bruce or Baliol! But he could produce no proof or papers of legitimation. And all agreed, besides-save himself-that no child born bastard, even though legitima ted later, could in fact heir or transmit the crown.”