Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

The Rosses mounted the dais, and after a reluctant pause, the huge Earl went down stiffly on one knee before the throne.

“My liege lord Robert,” he said thickly, jerkily.

“I, William of Ross, and my whole house, name and clan, do seek your

royal pardon. For deeds past done. I acknowledge error and seek

mercy, As agreed at the settlement of Auldeam, six months past. And

desire to be received into Your Grace’s peace.”

If the older man was tense and strained, Bruce, sitting before him, was no less so. Although he had planned it himself, this was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. He saw, instead of the basically arrogant and only superficially humble face bowed before him, the reproachful loveliness of Elizabeth de Burgh and the childish innocence of his daughter Marjory. And seeing, he could have lashed out at those heavy features with the foot that tap tapped so close to them. Hands gripping the arms of the bishop’s throne so that the knuckles glistened whitely, he sought to control the surge of sheer elemental fury within him.

It was his brother Edward’s denunciatory muttering at his back that saved him, ironically. He drew a deep breath.

“My lord of Ross-since you chose to conclude our truce by making submission to my representatives at Auldeam in October,” he said levelly, “I have well considered the matter. I then, through others, accepted your subjection on terms I conceived to be generous.

Those terms still stand. But now you would make closer bond and fullest allegiance. Do you, my lord, and your whole house, swear to serve me as your sovereign lord, and my heirs on the Throne of Scotland, well and faithfully until your life’s end?”

“I do, Sire.”

“Then, Earl of Ross, here is my royal hand. It is my pleasure to extend it to you.” And might God forgive him that lie, for it was only with an actual physical effort that he managed to bring for ward that hand!

“That I do so is in no small measure due to the good offices and noble bearing of your son, Sir Hugh, while he was hostage for you.”

The Earl took the hand between his own two, and kissed it briefly. He stood up, distasteful duty done.

His eldest son knelt, on both knees this time, and took the King’s hand.

“Your Grace’s most leal knight and humble servant-if you will have me, Sire,” he said.

“I will have you, Sir Hugh-never fear.” The you was slightly emphasised.

His brother, Sir John Ross, dropped only one knee and made his fealty only sketchily. Bruce eyeing him closely, silent.

The ladies dipped in deep curtsy-but the King did not miss the smouldering hatred in the glance of the dark-eyed, plain-faced Margaret Comyn.

“My regrets that your father died,” he told her formally. The Earl of Buchan had died in England at Yuletide, disgraced and dejected.

She made no acknowledgement, as the Rosses moved over to stand at the side of the dais.

At a sign from the throne, the trumpeter sounded once more, and the Steward again raised his peculiar voice.

“Sir Alexander Comyn, Sheriff of Inverness and Keeper of Urquhart, to pay homage to the King’s Grace.”

Buchan’s brother, a fine-looking soldierly man, grey-haired but upright, came in at the side door and marched firmly up. His bow was vestigial but when he kneeled to take the King’s hand he did so as firmly, frankly.

“Your Grace’s true man, from henceforward,” he said crisply.

“You will not rue your royal generosity to me, at least.”

“I never doubted it. Rise, Sir Alexander-and play my friend as stoutly as you played my enemy!”

“That I will, Sire.”

The Steward’s next announcement drew more gasps.

“Alexander, son of Ewan, son of Duncan, son of Dougall, of Argyll. And his son, John of Lorn.”

The old man who came in now, white-haired, thin and stooping, looked notably frail to be the puissant chief of MacDougall who for so long had terrorised the Highland West. He was simply clad in saffron tunic, a belt of gold the only symbol of his rank. No son John came behind him, but only his hard-faced and somewhat overdressed wife. Bruce knew well that Lame John was still in England, and defiant, but had chosen this way of emphasising the fact.

MacDougall kept his eyes lowered in front of the King-although his lady did not.

“I come to make my peace with Your Highness,” he said thinly.

“I offer my allegiance.”

“You give it, sir-give it! As is your simple duty.” Bruce looked at this man who had hunted him and his over so much of the Highlands, his English enemies’ most active and consistent supporter.

“That allegiance is belated. But… you acknowledge your error now?”

“Aye.”

“And your son and heir? John of Lorn?”

“I cannot speak for my son. I do not know his whereabouts, Were he with me, I have no doubt that he would say as I do.”

“But he is not here, sir. Despite my summons. So, although I accept

your fealty, and that of your name and clan, I hold you responsible for

John MacDougall of Lorn Until he submits himself to me, in duty and

service, I must hold some part of your lands and castles forfeit to the

Grown. What part is for parliament to determine. You understand?

“The old man did not look up, but nodded.

“Very well, sir. Here is my hand.” Bruce looked into the eyes of the woman behind, the sister of the man he had stabbed to death at Dumfries. He saw no relenting, no hint of forbearance. The Comyn women would never come’ to terms with him. Were women always more implacable than men?

Or was it only in Scotland?

The MacDougalls moved over to join the Comyn and the Rosses, as the Steward proclaimed still another applicant for the King’s peace and mercy-Sir John Stewart of Menteith, uncle and guardian of the child Earl of Menteith.

For the Lowlanders present-the majority of the company, that is—though not to Bruce’s own entourage, the announcement of this name held more significance even than those of the Highland Rosses and MacDougalls, or of the northern Comyn. For this was perhaps the most telling recruit of all to Bruce’s side, the most clear barometer of the prevailing climate within Scotland, a prince of time-servers not conquered in war but choosing of his own judgement to change sides. This was the man who had handed over Wallace to King Edward, and death, in 1305, as Sheriff of Dumbarton;

who was Keeper of Dumbarton Castle, one of the keys of the kingdom, for the English interest; who had been given, in name, the allegedly forfeited earldom of Lennox by King Edward, and who until a few weeks before had been calling himself Earl thereof. That he should be here in St. Andrews this March day, with the true Lennox standing just behind the King, was not only dramatic but very eloquent of the situation.

For so expert a fence-sitter, Menteith was an unlikely type, nervous, tense, ill-at-ease always. He came hurrying towards the throne, a swarthy, slight, youngish man, with strained anxious expression and great eloquent Stewart eyes. Whatever he gained by his changes of allegiance, it did not seem to be satisfaction. He faltered and halted below the dais, more like a hunted stag than a powerful noble.

Bruce was contained to encourage him.

“Come, Sir John,” he said easily, the mockery behind his voice fairly well disguised.

“It it good to see you. We have not met since that day in Stirling Castle when we heard of Sir William Wallace’s death, I think? We are four years older-and wiser, perhaps?”

“To be sure. Sire-wiser,” the other said, in a rush of what seemed like relief.

“I thank you-wiser.” He came up the steps.

“I

crave Your Grace’s favour and indulgence. And that you win accept my

regrets for past mis judgements

“Misjudgements you call them, Sir John? Well, it may be that you are right. That all is a matter of judgement. And you judge, now, that my cause is worthy of your support?”