Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

Pembroke, it was known, had come back to Ayr, with a Comyn army plus more MacDougalls; while Botetourt was lying off the coast, with shipping.

It was, as so often was the case, a friar who brought firm tidings for because of their cloth, these could move about the country more freely than other men, and their Orders were international.

This one, a Benedictine, came to Bruce in his cave above Loch Doon -the same in which he had watched and taken heart from the spider-where he and Angus Og, Neil Campbell and one or two others who were not off with detached commands, sat round a crackling log fire and grilled venison steaks on spikes. He announced that he came from the Abbey of Melrose, across the Forest of Ettrick, sent by Master Nicholas Balmyle.

“The King of England is dead, Sire,” he declared.

“Edward is no more!”

Bruce laid down his steak carefully, features schooled, expressionless, and slowly rose to his feet. All around him men held their breaths.

“Say that again, Master Friar,” he got out, thickly.

“And speak truth, if you value your soul!”

“It is verily so, Your Grace. Master Nicholas had the word direct from Carlisle. Sent by a canon there, who is kin to him. King Edward the First is dead. And his son proclaimed King Edward the Second.”

Bruce’s face worked strangely. Then abruptly he turned and stalked away, out of the cave-mouth. A babble of excited talk rose behind him.

It was a minute or two before he returned.

“Your pardon, Sir Friar,” he said.

“Your news affected me. Have they offered you meat, drink, after your journey? Sit at ease, while you tell me all that you know.”

“He died, Sire, at Burgh-on-Sands, but eight miles north of Carlisle.

Still on English soil, making for the fords across the Solway sands, with his mighty host. He breathed his last, they say, facing Scotland. And cursing it.”

Silent, the King nodded.

“His bile was stronger than his body,” Angus Og said.

“His black heart could not carry the weight of him, in armour and a-horse, after his sickness. He had too much blood, all men knew!”

“Yes, lord. But, as we were told, it was the news of Loudoun Hill, of King Robert’s victory, that struck him down, rather than the journeying. He was stricken with an apoplexy.”

A sort of choking groan came from Bruce.

“So… so I killed Edward! In the end, I killed him.”

None remarked on that.

“He recovered his wits before the end,” the friar went on, eyeing the King doubtfully.

“The Prince of Wales was summoned to his side. As was the Bishop of Carlisle-who told it to this canon.

King Edward charged his son straitly. He caused him to swear an oath, to God and all His saints, in the presence of his lords and barons. That he would continue the fight to the death against the Scots. That he should not rest until he had brought down Robert Bruce to the dust, to die a felon’s death. As had his brothers and the man Wallace.”

Only the crackle and hiss of the fire made comment.

The speaker, a dark, youngish man, moistened his lips, his glance darting around uneasily. But he forced himself to go on.

“Further, the King required the Prince to promise that so soon as the

breath was departed from his body, he would take that body and boil it

in a great cauldron. Boil it until the flesh was separate quite from

the bones. The flesh could be buried, where mattered not But not the

bones. These his son was to carry with him against Scotland, then and thereafter. To remain with him, night and day.

And as so often as the Scots might in insolence rise in rebellion against England, he should assemble his fullest strength, and carry the bones against them. Not to be buried or laid to rest until that contumacious nation was totally subdued.” The friar swallowed.

“Only then did Edward Plantagenet yield up the ghost.”

A long quivering sigh escaped from Robert Bruce’s lips. It was many seconds before he spoke, none venturing to precede him.

“Edward!” he said, almost whispering.

“Edward-who once loved me as a son, he said! God pity him. God pity me, also! His mercy on that tortured soul-as on my own. I see it all. The knife turned in his heart. Satan laid his dark hands on each of us! Damnation-before the Day of Judgement!”

“Do not say it, Sire.” That was Neil Campbell, harshly.

“Edward is dead. The manner of his going matters nothing. We should be rejoicing, not glooming dark thoughts.”

“He is right,” Angus Og agreed.

“No profit in such. Your chief est enemy is no more. Thank God for it, and be done!”

Bruce eyed them, almost as though they had been strangers.

“Little you know,” he said. Then he shrugged.

“Very well, my friends. Edward is dead. But Edward’s might and his armies remain, his commands and his commanders. And his son. What of Edward the Second?”

“The word from Carlisle, Sire, is that the new King has a mind of his own. He has not obeyed his father over the boiling and the bones, oath or none. He is sending the old King’s body back to Westminster for due and decent burial.”

“Ha-he is? So that is the style of him! I’ faith-he has long lacked love for his father. But never dared to show it, until now!”

“He has summoned all his barons and lords spiritual and temporal to come pay him fealty, at Carlisle, forthwith. Already he has made new appointments …”

“Aye, no doubt. But what of Scotland? What does he say of Scotland?”

“He has likewise summoned all Scots lords and landed men to come and do him homage. At Dumfries. Before this month is out.

On pain “of forfeiture.”

“So! In this at least he is his father’s son! What of his army?”

“Some of it he has already sent across Solway, it is said. They are marshalled on Your Grace’s lands of Annon.”

“Aye! They would be! The war, then, goes on, Edward living or Edward dead! To be sure, the son would have little choice in that.

All England is set to bring down Scotland. His lords will force him to go on with it, even should he lack the will.”

“As to will or no, already he has appointed a new commander and Viceroy. In place of the Earl of Pembroke. The Lord John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond, his own cousin.”

“You say so? John of Brittany again-that sour pedant! Aye, they were ever friends. So Pembroke is disgraced?”

“You have hit him hard, Sire,” Campbell put in.

“Caused him many defeats. Made him look a fool.”

“Yet he is no fool. And a better soldier than ever John of Brittany will be-who indeed is no soldier at all. Which we must seek to turn to our advantage. All this will require much thought. Have you any other news for us, Master Friar?”

“Master Balmyle said to tell Your Grace that the King, the new King, has already put the Prince Bishop of Durham, Anthony Beck, from his Court. And is very close with John Stratford Bishop of Winchester-who is an old friend of the Bishop of St, Andrews.”

“Good! Good-that may bring some easement to my friend Lamberton. You will thank Master Balmyle for all these tidings. I shall not forget his good offices. He will have heard that the old Bishop of Dunblane has died. Tell him it will be my endeavour to see that he is elected in his place. And you also, my friend, I shall not forget. You have earned my gratitude. Your name …?”

“Bernard, Sire. Bernard de Linton. From Mordington, in the Merse.”

“Then I thank you, Brother Bernard. One day I shall need able and trustworthy clerks …”

The friar withdrawn, Angus Og spoke.

“Fair tidings in the main, Sir King. What do you do now?”

“Nothing, friend. We wait. For Edward of Carnarvon. To see what he will do. He has still 200,000 men in arms. Not fifty miles away. To our 4,000. Besides many nearer still. In that respect little has changed. The English are still the English. Only now they are led by a weak man, not a strong.”