Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“I shall be Elizabeth de Bruce,” she said simply.

“Aye, bless you. But it could be to your grievous hurt. What would you have me to do?”

“I would have you to be what you are. To do what you must.

I do not like puppets. That dance to any man’s strings. Or woman’s!”

“Or woman’s …? I think, my love … that I am prepared to dance!

Now. To your string, again ..!” His voice had gone thick, husky.

She gurgled willing laughter. Affairs of state and dynasties went

down before the assault of still more elemental forces.

They were wed within the month, in the handsome Church of St. Michael, which shared the green hill with Linlithgow Castle, in ceremonial and magnificence seldom seen in Scotland—all at the King’s own planning and expense. Edward himself aiding her father to lead the bride to the altar. Old Bishop Wishan of Glasgow officiated, assisted, of all men, by Bishop Beck of Durham—Bruce acceding with a sort of grim forbearance which he was coming to wear like a garment. He would have wished his friend William Lamberton to have married them, but the Primate was still in France; anyway, Edward might not have permitted it in a protege” of Wallace. For, whatever else he might be prepared to wink at meantime, he would not countenance the man Wallace as other than a lowborn outlaw. No fewer than fifteen earls attended, and the King may have rubbed his hands that four of them were Scots who had fought against him—Atholl, Lennox, Menteith and Strathearn—this not counting the child Earl of Mar who acted page to his uncle. James the Steward was there, with his lady, Egidia de Burgh, sister of Ulster. Also many of the sore-battered lords of Bruce’s party. Of the other faction, needless to say, none came or were invited. It was noticeable mat few Scots churchmen graced the occasion; less so that none of Wallace’s people came.

Seldom can there have been a marriage so politically contrived, where bride and groom cooperated so satisfactorily.

PART THREE

Chapter Sixteen

Spring came a deal earlier and more kindly to Southern England than it ever did to Scotland, Bruce noted. Already, in March, there was a lightness in the air, a stirring in the woodlands and copses, and a trilling of larks above the rich Essex plain, such as would not be seen in Scotland for a month yet. It was the first spring that he had ever spent in the fair, fat English countryside, despite the presence of Bruce properties here, and he savoured all with a sort of rueful appreciation, all the signs of peace and security, of wealth and ease and genial living mat he saw around him. Rueful, for settled and assured as it was, it was all ephemeral, hardly real, for him. This was but an interlude; and though something in his nature responded to it all, he knew that it was not for him, in fact ever, suitably as he and his might appear to blend with the goodly scene, there and then.

For it was not only the rich landscape and air of wellbeing which affected him, but his own present seeming identity with it all. Surely the condition of few men could have Deen so radically transformed in one short war? He rode to London, from his father’s great manor of Hatfield Broadoak, like any prince, summoned to celebrate the Shrove-tide carnivals with the King.

Dressed with a richness to which he had never hitherto aspired even in his most extravagant youth, with his wife as splendid on his right, he rode, magnificently mounted, his brother Nigel brilliant as a peacock at his other side with their cousin Gloucester, married to Edward’s daughter. Horsed musicians made melody for them as they went, and half a hundred lords and knights and their ladies trotted behind him, glad to do so. For none was higher in King Edward’s apparent regard than the Earl of Carrick, none more smiled upon, more liberally favoured. Where the unpredictable monarch heaped gifts and privileges, much could overflow to others conveniently nearby.

At least there was no danger of all this prosperity going to Bruce’s

head. Indeed, Elizabeth not infrequently chid him with being

unnecessarily wary and foreboding about it. His contention that

Edward could, and would, as easily take it all away again, she admitted—but pointed out that by no means all of it was the King’s to give or take back. Her own handsome dowry of 10,000 pounds for instance, and the ten manors that went with it. The revenues of the Bruce English estates, which were much larger than either of them had realised, and more wealthy, having an accumulation of receipts scarcely touched for years—with Robert Bruce senior now an ailing shadow of his former self, all but a bed-ridden recluse, spending nothing. Moreover, although the King could remove him from the wardship of the far-away earldom of Mar, in theory, the amassed products of it, thriftily garnered by the careful Gartnait, were already at Bruce’s disposal.

He was prepared to concede that all this might be so. But experience had made him chary of good fortune. Though meantime he agreed that it might be wise to spend lavishly—since it all might not be his to spend for much longer. And there was such a thing as making friends with the mammon of un righteousness while you had it.

The laughing, resounding company made gay progress through London’s narrow streets—even though the smells caught at their breaths—but at the Palace of Westminster there was a different atmosphere, decorated for carnival but with no heralds or emissaries sent to greet them, or even welcoming smiles. Sober faced guards and courtiers indicated that Majesty was in wrathful mood. There was bad news from Scotland.

They found the Great Hall, hung with evergreens and coloured lanterns, and set for feasting, thronged with anxious-looking men and women, who stood in groups and spoke low-voiced. While many turned to bow to Lancaster and Gloucester, it was noticeable that most looked askance at Bruce. They were motioned onwards to the throne-room, where the King was holding a hurriedly-called Council.

A pursuivant slipped in ahead, to inform of their arrival—but it was ominous how long it was, despite the illustriousness of the waiters, before he returned to beckon forward the leaders of the Essex party. Moreover, he signed to the Gloucester Herald not to trumpet the entrance of his lord. Royal Gilbert of Gloucester, Edward’s son-in-law as well as Bruce’s cousin, looked distinctly chilly at such treatment.

But when they entered the throne-room, Elizabeth holding back a little reluctantly with the other ladies, any petty irritation was quickly lost in sheerest apprehension and alarm. There was absolute silence, save for the sound of heavy breathing from the throne at the far end of the chamber. Right down the long central table men sat stiffly, looking as though they would have risen to their feet, but dared not.

Edward Plantagenet, angry, was a fearsome sight—and worse, emanated a terrifying aura, like a baited bull about to charge. But a cunning, killer-bull would charge with shrewd deadliness rather than blind fury. He sat hunched forward, purple of face, great head out-thrust, jaw working slowly, rhythmically.

The newcomers bowed—and received no acknowledgement.

Gloucester coughed.

“My lord Edward—greetings, sire. Had you sent word to us of this Council, we would have attended earlier.”

The King ignored him. He was staring at Bruce.

That young man, requiring all his hardihood, held his head high and stared back.

“Perfidious … rebellious … dogs!” Edward said, at length, enunciating each word as though savouring it.

“Base … treacherous . dastards! Scots!”

Bruce held his tongue if not his peace.

“After my royal patience I My clemency. My forbearance. All wasted. Spurned. Spat upon! By graceless rogues and lowborn scum! But, by God’s precious blood, they shall suffer I I swear it!”