Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Even my lord of Douglas!”

“Under duress, man! How much do you value such swearing, Englishman?”

“Forsworn traitors!” Clifford cried.

“What use talking with such? Their word is valueless. They will break faith whenever our backs are turned.”

No one attempted to deny it.

But Percy was made of different metal, no less sharp perhaps for being more pliable.

“You are all Edward’s subjects,” he pointed out, and raised his hand, as the murmurs began again.

“Hear me, my lords. You are Edward’s men all. But free men, Not serfs. In feudal duty, yes. But with your baron’s rights. As have I and Sir Robert, here. We are all Edward’s men. But we have our rights. And in England, at least, we cherish our rights not a little! We accept that you should do so likewise.”

There was quiet now, as all searched that uneasy-eyed, foxy face.

Clifford kicked at the earth with his armoured foot.

Percy went on.

“We know why you have taken arms against your lege lord. It was foolish—but to be understood. You did this in order that you should not be constrained to fight in the King’s foreign wars. You had been better, my friends, to come talk with us. With your fellow-barons. In England. Rather than put hands to your swords.”

The Scots eyed each other doubtfully, since none had so much as heard of this obligatory foreign service before that day. Douglas was obviously about to say as much—but Bruce spoke quickly.

“And what would our fellow-barons of England have said?”

Percy licked thin lips.

“They would have said, belike, that they were no more eager for the French war than were you, my lords.

And that it behoved all His Highness’s loyal liege men of both realms …” The other amended that. “… of both nations, to apprise him that this French war was unwise and against the will and judgement of both peoples.”

He paused, and this time not even Douglas was for interjection.

All the Scots had cause furiously to think—Bruce none the less because he had anticipated something of this.

“So … England mis likes Edward’s French war?” he said, at length.

“That is so. The land has been overlong at war. We are taxed too dear. This new war is too much …”

“Do not tell me that the English have lost their stomach for war!”

Douglas interrupted.

“That I shall not credit. Here is a trick …”

“We are none the less warriors—as you will discover, my lord, soon enough! If you do not listen to reason. But … to start a new and long war overseas is folly. We have had twenty years of war, and more. Our coffers are empty. Our fields untilled.

Our people weary of it.”

“Yet you come against us. In Scotland. With fifty thousand men!” The Steward had found his difficult tongue at last.

“You are in revolt. Rebellion must be put down. We are loyal to our King. It is foreign war that we resist. Make no mistake, my lords—here is no charter for rebels!” Percy’s superficial thin hesitancy did not cloak the real man beneath it, there.

“But you would have us, the Scots, with you? In this resistance,” Bruce pressed him.

Yes. But does not our revolt serve you well enough, then? Is not revolt in Scotland more apt to bring King Edward home than Scotland in submission?”

”Not so. You know Edward. Revolt will but stiffen his neck.

He lives for war, for conflict, for conquest. Revolt will not prevail with him.”

“What will, then?”

“A parliament. A united parliament. Of all his lords and barons.

Not only of England, but of Scotland also. And Wales. Aye, of Ireland. A parliament that speaks with one voice against these wars.

Bruce drew a long breath. So that was it I At last. The English lords would bring their warlike monarch to heel. It had come to that. No revolt, but a rising of a sort, nevertheless. And if such was contemplated, it was not surprising that Percy and Surrey should be in the forefront. For the grandsire of one and the father-in-law of the other, Richard Percy of Northumberland, had been one of the great barons of England most prominent in forcing the Magna Carta on King John. By the same means. A united display by the nobles. And for such a display, now, not only would the Scots nobles be valuable—for Edward had declared there was hereafter only one realm and one parliament; but the English nobles must have their men readily available—for their own protection. Edward would listen to their voice only if it was backed by the power he understood. So they wanted no revolt, and no armies or occupation, in Scotland.

Bishop Wishart was speaking.

“We may wish you well, my lord. But why should Scotland aid you in this? Edward fighting in France would serve us better than Edward home, and angry!”

“Aye! Aye!”

“Not so. The yoke would be greatly eased for you. Side with us, in this, and we swear you shall gain by it. In earnest of which, my uncle, the Viceroy, will already ease many of your burdens.

If you accept his terms.”

He had their interest and concern now. Men talked with their neighbours, low-voiced. Douglas was still declaring it was all a trick, however.

“I say Douglas is right,” Andrew Moray asserted, in Bruce’s ear.

“I do not trust this Percy a yard! And even if it is not a trick, why

should the Scots aid the English lords? It is all to their advantage

…”

“Ours also—if we play it right, Andrew. Besides, nothing is changed in our case, here. We still cannot fight fifty thousand, and win. Here is occasion for talk. Much talk.”

“Too much talk I Wallace had the rights of it.”

The Steward raised his voice.

“These terms, my lord of Northumberland, that you spoke of? What are your terms?”

“The terms are the Viceroy’s, my lord. They are light, I think.

Such as you can surely accept. To return to the King’s peace, only this is necessary. That you disperse your men-at-arms. That you deliver up the murderer Wallace. And that you commit to us certain hostages, as assurance for your continuing loyalty. That is all.”

That did not fail to produce animated debate. Looked at from one aspect, these were indeed light terms. Of course the men must disperse—but they could be reassembled, if need be, in a matter of days. As for Wallace, he could look to himself. But what was meant by hostages? That was the question on every lip.

Half a dozen voices asked it, aloud.

Percy’s glance flickered like lightning—and this time notably avoided Bruce’s.

“The hostages need not be many,” he said.

“But they must be of worth. Substance. Of notable consequence. They must come from the greatest among you. From the Earl of Carrick. From my lord of Douglas. From my Lord Steward. And my lord Bishop or Glasgow. These.”

There were caught breaths. Also, undoubtedly, some sighs of relief from the unnamed.

“These you name?” the Steward asked, thickly.

“What hostages?”

A cough.

“From you, my lord—your son and heir, Walter Stewart. From Douglas, his heir. From the Earl of Carrick, his infant daughter. From the Bishop, all precious relics from the cathedral of Glasgow.”

Out of the exclamations, Bruce’s voice rasped.

“You make war on children and babes, then, my lord!”

“Not so. These hostages will suffer nothing. Indeed they will do very well, better than here in Scotland, I vow! They will lodge with kinsmen, in England. Secure. Honoured guests. Your own daughter, my lord, shall lodge in my own house of Alnwick.

Where also now lodges the Lady Elizabeth de Burgh, my cousin-whom you know of! The Steward’s son, Walter, may also lodge there—since his mother is likewise a de Burgh. Is it not so, my lord? Sir William of Douglas’s wife is the lady Eleanor de Louvain, from Groby, in Northumberland. She may return there, with her children. In the state of Scotland today, will they not all be better so disposed?”