Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

“You look a very picture of elegance,” the woman observed sourly-which was strange, for partly this dressing-up had been her idea, the handsome thigh-length tunic made under her supervision.

“I

thank you,” he returned, smiling.

“I am glad that I please you in this, at least!” And he escaped.

Downstairs he found the calmly self-contained person of Nicholas Balmyle, newly appointed Bishop of Dunblane. And with him the dark Benedictine friar Bernard de Linton, the same who had brought Bruce the news of the late King Edward’s death, at Loch Doon. They bowed, the King greeting them warmly.

“Sire,” Balmyle said, “we rejoice to see you afoot and all but yourself again, after your grievous sickness. We thank God and His saints for your delivery.”

“Aye, my lord Bishop-do that. But also thank you the Earl of Buchan. Who contrived to effect my final cure, after his own fashion! At Barra Hill.”

Balmyle looked mystified.

“You say so? But two days before we came north from St. Andrews seeking Your Grace, I heard from a source you know of that my lord of Buchan has fled Scotland and is now in Yorkshire. To the displeasure of King Edward, who it seems had newly appointed him warden of Annandale, Carrick and Galloway.”

“Buchan in England? I’ faith-here is good news. After two small defeats, and with still a round dozen of his strong castles in his Comyns’ hands, he flees the country? I had scarcely hoped for this. It should make my task the less sore. But… you had the word of it from my friend? From Bishop Lamberton? Have you also a letter for me? Is that why you have come here, my lord?”

“In part, Sire. Here is a letter. It was enclosed within one from the Primate to myself.”

Bruce took the folded paper, bulkier than that he had received beforehand still sealed. He did not open it, as Balmyle went on.

“I have come on other account also, Sire. Another letter has reached me. From Rome. His Holiness has approved of my appointment to the See of Dunblane. And summons me to the Vatican for consecration.”

”Then here also is excellent news, my lord. Far the Pope doe snot

love me, or my cause, and I feared that he might refuse to confirm you bishop. To your loss, and mine. For you have proved my friend. And I need the support of lords spiritual as well as temporal. And few of either are prepared to give that support, I fear.”

“They will, Sire-they will. In time. But while the English remain in possession of most of the land, is it to be wondered at?

With death by hanging and disembowelling the penalty. Not all have Your Grace’s strong courage …”

“But you have, my lord. And our friend, here.” He looked at the friar.

“To venture all this way, through enemy-held land, with this letter and your news.”

The younger man, de Linton, inclined his head. He was sensitive-looking, gaunt, stringy and tall, with prominent bones.

“My courage is but weak, Your Grace. But my conscience is the stronger.”

“Aye. Well said, Master Bernard.”

“I had to come to seek your royal permission, Sire, to leave the country,” the Bishop went on.

“To journey to Rome for my consecration.

And while in Rome to seek to have the Primate’s revocation of Your Grace’s excommunication confirmed by the Pontiff.”

“Aye. Though whether you succeed in that is more in doubt. My enemies will do much to prevent it. All the English and French bishops-aye, and some of the Scots! Yours will be a lone voice, my friend. But, yes-you must go. To Rome. And Godspeed.

Though I shall be the poorer for your absence.”

“I thank you. And shall hasten my return. Meantime I have brought you Master Bernard. To remain with you, if so you will have it. To be a link between you and Holy Church. With myself, and with Bishop Lamberton, my father-in-God. That letters may still pass. As well, he is an able scribe, well versed, and I have found him both wise and true. He will serve you in many ways.”

“That is well thought of. I’ faith, I need a secretary. A King needs pen as well as sword. You will be my secretary, Master Bernard.

And, by the Rude, you could not have come more aptly. For today, within the hour, I hold a high council. You shall act secretary thereat. And you, my lord Bishop, shall attend it, as of right.

With Bishop David of Moray, who is here. It falls out most aptly, does it not?”

“Sire, I thank you,” the Bishop acknowledged.

“But may I trespass on your time a little longer? I have brought more than my news to Aberdeen. Two items. Another thousand mer ks in silver, for one …”

“Save us, friend-here’s generosity indeed! Another thousand!

You put me greatly in your debt. But I can use it, I’ll not deny. Your last provision is near done-spent in the main in feeding and arming men. I thank you, from my heart.”

“Thank-not me. Thank my lord Primate. It is on his orders, and from the revenues of his See of St. Andrews, that the money comes.

I still administer it for him, as best I may.”

“Then thank God for William Lamberton and Nicholas Balmyle both, say

I!”

“The other matter I am less sure of Your Grace’s gratitude,” the little cleric said, in his slightly pedantic, composed style.

“I but serve my lord of Douglas in this. He sends loyal greetings-and a prisoner.”

“Jamie? You have seen James Douglas, my lord? How goes it with him?

Is all well?”

“Well enough, Sire. He is in health, but kept direly busy. He is a scourge to every Englishman not shut up safe within castle walls!

He has become a notably fierce young manas he must needs be, to be sure. But with something of innocence also. He seldom sleeps two nights in one bed, ranging the Lowlands from one end to the other, his sword never out of his hand.”

“Aye. I laid a heavy burden on his shoulders, in leaving the South in his care. But of my close lieutenants him I could best trust with the task. And as lord of Douglasdale, and his famed father’s son, he bears a name and style that men must respect. But my service has borne hard on him.”

“As to that he makes no complaint, I think. But he has captured this notable prisoner, and sends him to you, by my hand. He waits without. Have I Your Grace’s permission to bring him in?”

The King nodded.

“I have not a few sins on my soul, other than the death of John Comyn,” he said slowly.

“You speak of James Douglas’s innocence yet. But it is the rape of his innocence that bears sorely on my conscience. I taught him to hate. And to slay without qualm, without mercy. That sword you spoke of, I put into his hand. He was young, and good, and his heart gentle, and I made him killer…”

Bruce’s grieving words faded as Friar Bernard ushered a fourth man into the room, a tall, darkly handsome, well-built young man, with a flashing proud eye and a noble brow, possibly the most handsome man that Scotland could produce in that age. He stared.

“Thomas…!” he whispered.

His own nephew, Sir Thomas Randolph, Lord of Nithsdale, bowed stiffly

and remained silent. “My lord of Douglas captured Sir Thomas in a

fray in Ettrick Forest. Along with Sir Alexander Stewart of Bonkyl -who I understand also used to be Your Grace’s friend. Their troops were English, however. Stewart was wounded. But this being Your Grace’s own kinsman, my lord asked me to bring to you. For… for disposal!”

“Yes. To be sure. I thank you, my lord Bishop.” The King, still eyeing Randolph, was frowning darkly in perplexity. He had liked this young man, spirited and talented as he was good-looking, and hitherto namely for being upright to a degree, his half-sister’s son. Bruce’s own mother, Marjory, Countess of Carrick in her own right, before she wed his father had been married to one Adam, Lord of Kilconquhar, of the ancient lofty line of Mac Duff Earls of life. A child of that marriage, a daughter, had wed Sir Thomas Ranulf of Nithsdale, another Celtic lord who had Normanised his name to Randolph. Here before him was the fruit of that union, a sprig of the most purely Celtic nobility, allegedly the soul of honour and the mirror of chivalry, whom Bruce himself had delighted to honour with knighthood at his coronation, Scot of the Scots, with no taint of Norman blood in him. Yet there he stood, a traitor caught in his treachery, a man who had, it seemed, bought his life at the expense of his honour. He had fought for Bruce at Methven, been captured, and almost alone of the long list of noble prisoners, escaped shameful execution, to fight thereafter for Edward Plantagenet.