Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

“I do, Sire. The support of all true men.”

The snorting from behind the King was in chorus, though Edward led it.

“I am encouraged by that!” Bruce answered gravely.

“I am sure that we all are. From so practised a judge.”

Menteith dropped on his knees, holding out his arms for the monarch’s.

“You will accept me into your peace and company?

And my ward, the Earl of Menteith? As you accepted the castle of Dumbarton from me?”

“A moment, sir. While I may judge such acceptance suitable, as King, there is another who is concerned, I think. My good and leal friend the Earl of Lennox.” Bruce turned in his chair.

“My lord Malcolm-how say you? Sir John Stewart has misjudged your interests, as well as mine! I seek your advice.”

The kneeling man cast apprehensive glances around.

“My lord King,” Lennox answered quietly, “I rest content that this man enters your peace. If you can stomach him. So be it he restores what is mine. I say receive him.”

“As I do not!” Edward exploded.

The King ignored his brother.

“I thank you, my lord. You are magnanimous. As a monarch must be also.” He extended his hand, even though his lips curled a little in distaste.

“Make your belated fealty, sir.”

When the trumpeter blew another blast, Edward Bruce could contain his righteous indignation no longer.

“Brother! Sire!” he exclaimed, loud enough for all to hear.

“Of a mercy, have done! No more, surely! No more forgiven traitors, received into your arms! Any more forsworn miscreants on this dais and there will be no room for honest men, I say!”

Frowning, Bruce cut through the murmur of support that arose from many around him.

“Enough, my lord of Carrick. In the field your services are excelled by none. Within doors, they can be less valuable! A realm is not governed as by a charge of cavalry! Proceed, my lord Steward.”

“Sir Robert de Keith, hereditary Knight Marischal of Scotland to do homage to the King.”

There was less stir over this announcement than there should have been

for the adherence to Bruce’s cause of the stocky square-faced man of

early middle-age, who came striding in, was of major importance, though

not all perceived it. Keith had fought with Buchan and the Comyns in

the old days of the Joint Guardianship, had been captured by the

English in Galloway and imprisoned for four years. Released in 1304, he had been sent back to his own country, duly indoctrinated, as one of King Edward’s four Deputy Wardens of Scotland. That he nevertheless was but little known by most of those present was perhaps an indication that he had served his new masters only modestly-indeed he had been relieved of his Wardenship before long. Now, voluntarily, he had taken this step. What was important to Bruce was not so much that he was by heredity the Knight Marischal of the Kingdom, but that he came from Lothian. Keith was a district in the northwestern foothills of the Lammermuirs. All Lothian and the Merse of Berwickshire had from the first been completely under the thumb of the invaders; and still was. That so prominent and cautiously level-headed a Lothian man should have decided that this was the time to take an active part again, was encouraging. Others might be moved to do likewise.

Others already were, it seemed-for the next two applicants for the royal mercy were Sir Alexander Stewart of Bonkyl, the Steward’s nephew, and Sir William Vipont of Langton, both from the Merse, and the latter an Englishman. Undoubtedly these submissions had the effect of turning men’s eyes southwards.

A number of less important men came to make their peace. And if it was becoming a weariness to the great gathering, as well as an offence to those who thought like Edward, the King accepted them all patiently. So he had planned it, and so it was.

At length he rose to his feet “My friends all,” he said.

“You have been patient, forbearing. Some may deem, like my brother, that I have been too forbearing, in this day’s work. But if this realm is to regain its freedom, it is above all necessary that it should be united Only so can we drive out the English from our borders, a more numerous people than we, and who act in unity. We have differences amongst ourselves, yes-but they are as nothing to our differences with the invaders who devour us. And who would keep us divided. For such is their policy, always. Therefore, it is my task, my duty, whatever my own feelings would have me do, to unite my people. Having taken the field against them, because I must, and shown my rebels who reigns in Scotland, I now must show that I am King of all Scots, not only those who supported me. This I have sought to do today. Some may accuse me of weakness. But is it weakness to know your enemy? I know my real enemy-and it is not my fellow-countrymen, my own subjects, even when they .. misjudge!”

There was some applause then, some laughter, some murmurs, “So be it, my lords and friends,” he went on.

“We have had sufficient of discourse and confrontation. And tomorrow, in parliament, we will have more-our bellyful of it! There is more to living than war and clash and wordy debate. For too long this land has been starved of mirth and gaiety, good cheer of body and mind.

So now, to our due and overdue enjoyment! Thanks to my lord Prior of this great house, the refectory here is now set with meats and drink in abundance. For all are his guests, and mine. Let us regale and refresh ourselves, without stint. Let us make up for the many times when we have gone hungry and cold and in fear. And thereafter come back here, for masque and music, dancing and spectacle. Let us show all men that the Scots can laugh as well as fight, sing as well as suffer. And that, when this struggle is over past and my realm is free again, it will be a joyful, lightsome realm.”

He raised his hand high.

“Enough, then-this audience is over!”

“God save the King!” Unexpectedly that cry came from the serious Sir Thomas Randolph.

“God save our King, I say!”

In thunderous acclaim the entire concourse took up the refrain and so continued, until the Guest Hall rafters shook and showered down dust and cobwebs. To this clamant din, the King led the way out and across the cloisters to the monastery’s refectory. On the way through the bowing, curtsying, shouting throng, he paused, beckoned, and offered his arm to the Lady Christina of Garmoran, and so proceeded.

Later, much later that evening, panting a little from his exertions in the wild Highland reel just finished-wherein not a few had had to drop out before the end, by reason of too much prior good cheer or sheer lack of staying-power- Robert Bruce shook his head at Christina MacRuarie smiling at his side.

“How you do it, I know not,” he said, dabbing his moist brow.

“You look cool as a … a water-lily, in one of your own Moidart loc hans Not even flushed. Yet you tripped that reel, as others before it, like any hal fling laddie! Myself, I am more like a foundered horse! And look at the others …!”

“Perhaps I have drunk less deeply than some!” she suggested.

“Than the King of Scots, even? Or it may be but that we women are differently made. Lighter of foot, as of head! With less weight to carry.”

“Having eyes, and other parts, we all can see that you are differently made!” Bruce gave back, looking down with frankest admiration on the white bosom as frankly displayed. Christina was at her most handsome tonight, in a silken gown of black and gold, considerably more low-cut as to front than was the Lowland custom.

”As to weight, I swear that you have more there to carry than have II”

And he brushed that swelling bosom lightly with his finger-tips as though only inadvertently in a gesture.

“And, on my soul, it is only in your very difference that you display any sign of this crazed dancing, woman!”