Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

It may be that I can offer some small guidance even so, confined as I am, my lord Robert. I gain certain informations here from a source that you might not look to. That source is the Prince Edward of Carnarvon, styled as of Wales. His father the King loves him not, as you will know. I find this prince a very different man from his sire. He is much here at this castle, for King Edward mis likes to have him overmuch at Lanercost, preferring his bastard Botetourt. Yet the prince must be near for councils, since in name he commands part of the English host. He speaks much with me, being a man greatly confused and in need of spiritual guidance, yet wilful and petulant. And gets little guidance from Anthony Beck who the King makes all but his keeper.

“But to the nub of it, Sire. King Edward is more ill in health than is

told. His son believes that he will not see another winter, for he

fails fast. His hatred for you and for Scotland fails nothing nevertheless, and he is mustering another great army of invasion for

the summer. But he cannot himself lead it, that is certain.

When God takes Edward Plantagenet to Himself and England has a new king, it may be that I may be of some small service to you, my friend. For he esteems me in some measure, that I know.

He will be beset around by hard and strong men, his father’s men, and he loves not Scotland. But he lacks his sire’s resolution and on that I may be able to play. So that I pray that this my captivity may not be all loss.

Of other tidings. I learn that your lady-wife the Queen is at Burstwick Manor, in Holderness in Yorkshire, no great distance from here. If I may I shall seek to get word to her. I have heard that King Edward has reduced his shameful command that your daughter the Lady Marjory should be hung in a cage on the walls of London Tower. His own Queen is said to have besought him for the child. She is to be held in the Tower, alone, but not caged, God be praised. Ill as that is. Others are less fortunate, at Berwick and Roxburgh, it is said. But of this wickedness you may know better than I. If this writing reaches you, it will be by the hand of Nicholas Balmyle, my Official of St. Andrews. I commend him to Your Grace as an able and reliable servant whom you may use in my place, in my absence. Through him I seek still to guide Holy Church in Scotland, in some measure. I have asked him to bring you the tokens of that Church’s support. You may trust Balmyle.

And now may God Almighty guard, keep and strengthen you, and His peace rest upon you, my son. I pray for you daily, and weary for the sight of your face.

I subscribe myself your father-in-God, true friend, and most leal subject.

WILLIAM W Episcopo Sancti Andrea.

Written in bonds at the Castle of Bernard Baliol in the County of Durham, this 15th day of April from our Lord’s birth 1307 years.

Much moved, the King stared out of the window over the fair green

prospect bathed in the mellow light of the setting sun, before turning back to his visitor.

“Master Balmyle,” he said, “I owe you much for bringing me this letter. From one who is close to my heart It is of great value to me. And comfort. I thank you.”

The other, from sipping wine, laid down his goblet “I rejoice Sire, if I have been the means of bringing you solace. It may be that I may have brought you even more. Of other sort.”

“You say so? My friend, I have learned the folly of pride. All your comfort and solace I will esteem. I am a glutton for it!”

The other nodded.

“Below, in one saddle-bag, my servant guards gold to the value of 5,000 mer ks From the treasury of the Diocese of St. Andrews, for Your Grace’s needs.”

“Five thousand mer ks Of a mercy-here is generosity! Princely generosity to a penniless prince! Solace indeed, Master Balmyle.”

“My lord Bishop’s instructions.”

“I scarce thought so much gold remained in this Scotland! That the English had not stolen.”

“Holy Church makes shift, Sire, to protect her own. So that she may cherish her own, in need.”

“Aye. But I had not thought to hear the name of Robert Bruce on that roll!”

The little cleric made no change of expression.

“The Church is fallible and can make mistakes. But she recognises her own sheep. Even when at times they stray. So long as they are repentant.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Sire, that in my other saddle-bag below is different solace. More costly than any gold. Priceless. The wafer and the wine. That can be the Sacrament of our Lord.”

“What… what are you saying, man?” That was little more man a whisper.

“The Sacrament! Holy Communion! For me? You must know that I am excommunicate. From Rome …”

“We believe that the Holy Father was misinformed. Ill advised.

In this matter. My lord Bishop believes that if he was free to visit His Holiness, or even to send an envoy, he could have the excommunication lifted. He is convinced of your penitence for the slaying of Sir John Comyn. Therefore, he would not have the misfortune of his imprisonment to limit the mercy of God towards you. By his command I am to dispense the Holy Sacrament to you. If so you will. After preparation.”

“The mercy of God …!” The King stared at him.

“The mercy of God indeed! Dear Jesu—I had not looked for God’s angel in the person of Nicholas Balmyle!”

The other permitted himself a small smile.

“When?” Bruce demanded.

“You speak of preparation…?”

“Your Grace lives amongst al arums and perils. Later tonight, if you will. An hour of prayer, perhaps…”

His al arums and perils must have seemed altogether too apt, for the sudden sounding of a trumpet, the drumming of hooves and the shouts of men halted the cleric in his speech. Bruce moved back to the window.

A large company of mounted men, some hundreds strong, was approaching at a canter from the north, with a stirring aspect of dash and elan, well-horsed and armoured. And at their head fluttered a large silken banner, white with an azure chief on which three silver stars stood out.

“Douglas!” the King exclaimed.

“Jamie Douglas!” Swinging about, he brushed past his surprised visitor, out from the hall, and went down the winding turnpike stairway three steps at a time, in scarcely regal fashion.

Douglas came clattering into the tower’s little courtyard just as Bruce reached it, and drawing up his splendid charger to a slivering, caracoling halt, with sparks striking from the cobblestones, flung himself down and strode, spurs jingling, the few paces to the King, and dropped on one knee. He reached for the royal hand.

“My liege lord Robert!” he panted.

“God be praised! For the sight of you again.”

The King smiled.

“Sakes, Jamie-am I so fine a sight? I’d not have thought it. You, now-that is a handsome mount you have there. You have me envious, I vow! And your fine armour-gold- inlaid, no less! Whom have you been robbing, lad?”

“The armour is my dead father’s. And something big for me! And the stallion was Cliffords’s. Yours now, Sire.”

“Clifford’s? You also have been crossing swords with that miscreant?”

“Not in person, to my sorrow. Although I heard that you had, Sire. But I have dented his shield, at least! He had been given my castle of Douglas.”

“Ha! And now he is the poorer, eh?”

“Yes. He will not sit in my hall again!” Douglas’s rather delicate nostrils flared a little as, narrow-eyed, he looked away.

Bruce searched his young friend’s face keenly. There was something

different about James Douglas. He had been away only some six weeks,

but he seemed older by a deal more than that. Somehow, somewhere,

those boyishly good-looking features had hardened, set, matured. He

held himself differently too, with an assurance and command not