Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Great lumber-trains were in constant passage to and from the same Tor Wood, above Falkirk, where Bruce had rescued William Wallace three years before.

St. John had sent word ahead, of their coming, and King Edward had evidently decided to make the most of the occasion. He sent the Scots Earl of March and Dunbar, who all along had sided with the English, along with the Earl of Ulster and Bishop Anthony Beck of Durham, to meet the newcomers and conduct them through the drawn-up lines of much of the army, from which a succession of fanfares of trumpets greeted them. A resplendent corridor of over 200 mounted knights in full armour and heraldic surcoats flanked their climb up the castle-hill; and before the arched courtyard entrance Edward Longshanks himself, despite the inclement weather and threatening rain, stood awaiting them, a massive and magnificent figure, backed by much of his Court. It was a welcome fit for a king.

Edward did not actually open his arms to Bruce, but his greeting was otherwise as for the prodigal son. He hailed him genially, gripped his hand and patted his shoulder.

“Robert, my young friend!” he cried.

“Here is a happy day, which has been too long in dawning. I rejoice to see you. To welcome you back into my peace.”

The other did not trust himself to speak. He bowed stiffly, and less low than he might have done. The King did not let him withdraw his hand.

“These years I have missed you, boy,” Edward declared jovially.

“Hard years, and you have suffered. But you have grown a man, I think. Learned your lesson in a hard school. But mat is all done with, now.”

“I am glad to hear you say it, Sire. Since you were the teacher I “Ha!

And you will thank me for mat teaching. You will see.

Sir John—I thank you for your good offices. The Earl of Carrick will

have cause to thank you also. Come, now—the Queen would

Linking arms with the younger man, Edward led him slowly through the bowing ranks of the gaily-dressed crowd, pausing here and there to exchange an affable word with earl, bishop or lord. Bruce went uncomfortably—and not only for the difficulty of matching his pace to that of the extraordinarily long legs of the monarch; his suspicion and wariness was like an armour about him. This was not the Edward Plantagenet he knew.

Linlithgow Castle was a palace rather than a fortress, and now it was thronged as never before. In a lesser hall where two great log fires blazed, Queen Margaret sat with her ladies, at needlework, while a minstrel sang softly to the languid pluckings of a lute, from a deep window-embrasure. Fine tapestries and hangings covered stone walls which undoubtedly had been bare until recently, and the floor was thickly strewn with skins.

Bruce, his arm still in the royal grasp, bowed; but his glance was only momentarily on the Queen’s narrow, keen features, before sliding off round the room. He found Elizabeth by a far door, and their eyes met, and held, for seconds. Then, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head and looked towards the Queen.

He nodded, as briefly, and bowed again.

“Your Majesty,” he said “So here is the Lord Robert, of whom all speak,” Margaret of France exclaimed.

“Come to grace our Court at last. You have been long in coming, my lord.”

Philip the Fair’s sister was less beauteous man her brother, but she was almost certainly a stronger character. A pale, thin, almost gaunt woman in her mid-thirties, over-dressed, she had fine eyes, though darting, shrewd. Edward Plantagenet, in his late years, might have acquired a tartar.

“Had I known of your fair presence, Majesty, I might have come the sooner.” It was a long time since Robert Bruce had made that sort of remark.

”La—a flatterer! They did not tell me that you were that.

Come, and let me judge if that is all you are!” She held out a slender hand for him to kiss.

“Robert once was one of the gayest of my train, my love,” Edward said.

“He has a sober look to him, these days. Perhaps we will cure him of it, eh?”

“I scarce think you will, Sire. But I may. With a little help … from others!” The Queen raised her voice.

“Elizabeth I Where are you hiding, girl?”

The idea of Elizabeth de Burgh hiding anywhere was sufficiently bizarre to bring smiles to most faces. She came forward unhurriedly, head held high, a striking, proud beauty, aware of her own potency. Her blue eyes looked directly at none of them.

“You two are old friends, are you not?” the Queen said.

“I have met my lord,” Elizabeth acceded, coolly.

The King chuckled.

“They were near affianced once. And might be again!”

“In Your Majesty’s mind,” the girl gave back evenly.

“And to other lords, likewise.”

Edward’s smile faded for a moment, and then returned.

“Say that my Majesty’s mind is ever heedful for your welfare, lass,” he said.

“Eh, Dickon?”

Richard, Earl of Ulster, who had followed them in, inclined his handsome head, but did not otherwise commit himself—though he eyed his daughter sidelong.

Queen Margaret’s quick eyes were busy all around.

“You, my lord?” she said to Bruce.

“How goes your flattery now?”

“I flatter none. Your Majesty, or other,” he answered, taking his cue from the girl.

“I admire the Lady Elizabeth. Who would not? But I would not presume to claim close friendship.”

“You are cautious, sir. I am disappointed. I mislike cautious men!”

“I have need to be cautious, Madam. My first meeting with this lady, I tipped her out of her litter. She named me witless dolt.

And … and masterful ape I I think she has not forgotten. Nor, I’ faith, have I!”

“So!” Intrigued, the Queen was all eagerness, looking from one to the other. Bruce perceived that he had probably overdone it.

“You did not tell me, Elizabeth. Shame on you I Here is a notable tale I Tipped you from a litter? How long ago? It is years since you have seen him, is it not? And you have thought of it still? And he …!”

Bruce had not anticipated being grateful to Edward Plantagenet;

but that paladin did not enjoy being in less than the centre of the stage for long, and intervened now.

“You must have mercy on the Lord Robert, my dear. He has ridden far.

Sir John will conduct him to his chamber, and refreshment.

That he may the better grace our table. We eat, lad, within the hour …” The royal gesture to St. John was not to be mistaken.

At the banquet which followed, Bruce was given the place of honour-which did little to calm the turmoil of his mind. He sat between Edward and his son—which at least meant that he was spared close inquisition by the Queen, who sat on the monarch’s left. Edward of Carnarvon, Prince of Wales, had grown from boy into young man since last Bruce had seen him and proved to be a secret-faced, diffident youth of eighteen, who all the time kept a wary eye on his father—as well he might. Bruce found little to say to him. He had had no opportunity for a private word with Elizabeth—and now she was seated at some distance, with so many great lords and prelates requiring precedence. Her father was on the Prince’s left hand, and Lancaster, holder of five earldoms, on the Queen’s right.

Edward remained amiable, almost alarmingly so, pressing food and drink on his guest. So far there had been no hint of reproach, much less condemnation. Nor was there any hint of what was behind this change of front, what the Plantagenet required from him. That it did not all proceed from the essential kindness of his heart, Bruce had little doubt.

At length, when the meal had progressed to the stage of picking, toying and drinking, with entertainment from tumblers, jesters and musicians, the younger man was driven to direct questioning.