Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

very much the reverse. But what could he do? Edward’s summons, although courteous, even friendly, had been a command not a request, for the attendance of his well-loved Lord Robert at the celebration of the royal birthday, his sixty-seventh. To have refused would have been a declaration of war, premature and foolhardy; yet this acceptance was putting his head into the lion’s mouth, with a vengeance. It was Elizabeth’s belief that her presence with her husband could do no harm, and might possibly do good.

The pair from Scotland were interested, and to some extent encouraged,

by the attitude and bearing of the courtiers who thronged around them,

waiting for the royal entrance to this great reception and

entertainment. All were respectful, attentive, and at least as

friendly as they were ever likely to be. Which presumably meant that

if Edward had sent for Bruce to rend him, he had let no hint of it

escape to those close to him—for nothing was more certain than that

if he had, it would have been reflected in the quality of the Bruces’ reception by his Court. Not only this night but in the four days they had been in London. That the King had not sent for them for personal audience during that time, admittedly could be interpreted either way; but at least it implied that the Plantagenet was not in any fury of haste to explode his anger on them. Edward was unpredictable, of course.

The new Gloucester, Ralph de Monthermer, who had succeeded Bruce’s late cousin Gilbert de Clare, as husband to King Edward’s daughter—and bore the title by courtesy while the child was a minor—stood beside them with his somewhat horse-faced countess. Gloucester gave no impression of wrath to come. A friendly, modest man, he could not keep his eyes off Elizabeth-who was tonight looking at her loveliest.

“The King’s health?” Bruce asked—by no means the first such enquiry he had made since coming south. He hoped always to hear some inkling, some clue as to the true condition of the royal heart.

“Eh? Ah, yes. The King.” With difficulty Ralph of Gloucester partially withdrew from contemplation of more pleasing subjects.

“His health, yes. It is improved. Indubitably much improved.”

“Excellent,” Bruce commented heavily.

“After that last small seizure. In the autumn, was it? Nothing more?”

“Nothing. He is himself again. For which God be praised. For Edward of Carnarvon is little fit for the throne. Not yet.”

“He lacks his father’s fire, yes.”

“More than that. He chooses ill friends. Prefers the company of singers, mummers and mimers, players. Priests of the baser sort.

He does not play the man.”

“I would have thought that England might have had enough of warrior kings!”

“We would esteem a few years of peace, yes. But now that Scotland is subdued; Wales and Ireland also; and we are in treaty with France and the Pope, peace there is. It must be preserved, you will agree, Cousin. Ana a weak king, you must admit, is a sure road to war and rebellion.”

“Edward has never been a man of peace. Think you he will be content with peace now? Or is this sickness like to affect him?

Prevent him from leading more campaigns? In person?”

“Who knows? Queen Margaret will keep him from that. If she may ..

.”

A fanfare cut short this exchange. Everyone bowed as a herald announced the resounding titles of Edward, by God’s grace King of England> Lord of Scotland, Ireland and Wales, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine.

It was not only the reference to Scotland which made Bruce’s brow darken as he bowed with the rest, but the manner of the King’s arrival. He positively swept into the great chamber, no more like an ailing man than Bruce was, smiling, jovial, dragging his pregnant wife along by the hand, high-coloured and heavy but as full of energy as of goodwill. It was a sore disappointment.

But disappointment was quickly overlaid by a more urgent emotion—apprehension. The royal summons to Bruce had been for no mere social celebration—that was not in Edward’s character.

Richmond, or more likely Bevercotes, would have sent a full account of the proceedings at Stirling in November last. There had been no repercussions in the meantime. Bruce had been left alone to manage his own affairs, on his estates, and had taken no further part in the rule of Scotland. Now he must look for a reckoning. Elizabeth came close, and slipped her hand within his arm.

To the soft strains of the musicians, the King made unhurried progress towards the twin thrones at the head of the hall, having a gracious word with lords and ladies in passing. Quite quickly Queen Margaret espied Elizabeth, and began to draw her husband towards her former favourite lady-in-waiting.

“A good sign,” Elizabeth murmured.

“The Queen at least suspects no clash, I think.”

“Edward may not have revealed his mind. Even to her. He is a law unto himself.”

The King did not allow his consort to hurry him unduly, certainly.

The royal progress was agonisingly slow for the pair from Scotland.

At last the two couples were face to face, with the Queen reaching out to embrace the curtsying Elizabeth, and Bruce bowing again.

“Ha, Robert—do I see you well?” Edward demanded genially.

“I vow I can scarce discern you, so dazzled are my old eyes by your lady’s beauty!” And he in turn bowed gallantly.

“I am well, Sire, yes. And you?”

“Never better, lad. Never better. You will rejoice to hear!”

And the older man eyed him directly.

Bruce swallowed.

“All Your Majesty’s subjects must rejoice at that,” he said.

”They should, lad—they should!” Edward agreed.

“As you will see, my wife has no reason to complain of my … inadequacy I—Yours has less to thank you for, by the looks of her!”

The other inclined his head slightly.

“There is time and to sparer I hope.”

Edward’s smile faded for a moment.

“Who knows!” he gave back, shortly. He turned to Elizabeth.

“My dear, you gladden as well as dazzle our eyes,” he said.

“We have missed you.”

“Ah, yes,” the Queen agreed.

“So much. So very much. There is none like my Elizabeth.”

“Your Majesties are too kind.”

“This lord of yours,” the King said.

“He tells me that he is well. Yet he has been hiding himself away. In Annandale and Galloway, I am told. Neglecting the rule of my Scotland.”

“There has been much to do, Sire, in the Bruce lands. Much to put to rights. After these past years. And you have servants in plenty to rule Scotland,” Elizabeth pointed out.

“None so many when my Scots lords withdraw their aid and duty!”

“My lord of Richmond is well able to govern Scotland, Sire,” Bruce claimed.

“He has…”

“My lord of Richmond is a fool) But I am not, Robert—I am not!”

“Yet Richmond’s troubles in Scotland stem from the slaying of Wallace here in London. And the manner of the slaying,” Bruce said, through tight lips.

“To be sure. Your notions on Wallace were reported to me!”

That was coldly enunciated.

“Do you wish to add to them now?”

“No, Sire. that would be to no purpose. I but remark that your nephew’s present difficulties arise from the people’s anger at Wallace’s cruel death.”

“And you will not aid him in those difficulties? At my command?”

“Your Majesty’s command I must obey,” the younger man said woodenly.

“If my lord of Richmond seeks my aid, in your name, then I must needs give it.”

“I am glad that you perceive that fact, Robert.”

“Edward—my legs!” the Queen broke in.

“I am weary of standing. With this great belly of mine! Let us sit, of a mercy!”

“To be sure, my love. Come. Elizabeth—you also.” He glanced back at Bruce.