Nigel Tranter: The Path of the Hero King

“I pray you-spare us your strictures, sir,” the Lord Berkeley requested with heavy patience.

“We are your prisoners, and there’s an end to it. Do your worst-but no preaching. From a brigand, a rebel! Of a mercy!”

Bruce motioned to his brother, and the other Scots, for patience, “You are courageous with your tongue, at least! Or is it mere proud English insolence? You are my prisoners, yes. And a brigand would hang you, out of hand. Would he not?”

“I think not. A brigand, impoverished and beggarly, would sell us! As you will do. For as high a price as he could gain! Never fear, Robert Bruce-we will pay our ransoms!”

Fists tight clenched, the King looked at the row of cold, arrogant, all but bored-seeming faces. Urgently he sought to control his temper.

“Sir Marmaduke Tweng -who stayed to fight-named me the second knight in Christendom. You name me rebel and brigand. Which is it to be, my lords? How do you elect to be treated? By the knight? Or by the brigand? Choose now, and make no complaint hereafter.”

“What matters it? The leopard does not change its spots.”

“Nor the jackal become lion because it dons a king’s robe!” That was Ferrers.

“Sire-you have won a battle. You will not stain it with dishonour?”

That was Ingram de Umfraville, the former Guardian, who, with his brother, was in somewhat different case from the others, being, in theory at least, Scots citizens-and therefore ipso facto themselves rebels.

“So be it,” Bruce said.

“I shall disappoint none of you, my lords.

You shall all go into the deepest pits of Stirling Castle. Each alone, You shall not hang-not yet! Bread and water shall be your, diet-lest you grow contented with your chains. And there you will lie until your ransoms are paid. A brigand, I will sell you for a high price, as you say!”

“And your price, sir? What is it?” That was Hereford, the Constable.

“We are not paupers. We will pay your price, in gold or silver, never fear. How much?”

“Gold and silver? Aye, that too. But I will have more than gold and silver, my lords.” Bruce leaned forward, speaking slowly, carefully.

“I will have what is mine restored to me, first. And you have much that is mine, in your England. My wife. My daughter. My sisters. The Countess of Buchan. My friends a-many. Held prisoner for long years. Shut away. In cells and cages. Grown old in your foul prisons. I have waited long for this. You cannot give me back my dead brothers. But every one of these shall be returned forthwith.

My Queen first of all. Before any one of you see the light of another day from your deep pits. The surest messengers and fleetest horses are yours, to send for them, this very day. And if they do not come, within six weeks-no, a month-then you die. All of you.

Die as my brothers died, as Wallace died, hanged, disembowelled and your entrails burned before your eyes! You understand …”

Without waiting, without daring to wait for an answer, the King of Scots rose, his heavy chair thrust back to fall with a crash, and turning, strode from the refectory without a backward glance, lest any should see the tears that streamed from his eyes.

Outside in the Abbey garden, as the bells clanged their joyful paeans across the marshes, Robert Bruce stared away and away southwards, blinking.

“Elizabeth!” he whispered.

”Elizabeth, my heart…!”