The Guardian (10 page)

“Now there, my friend, is gross cause for culpability and penitence from one end of shameless England to the other.”

For a long time he said nothing, and we walked on in silence until he confounded me again.

“So why,” he asked, “did Bruce do nothing all that time? He must have seen what was transpiring from the start—must at least have guessed at the outcome.”

The question, so baldly phrased and so direct, left me wordless, for of course it was evident immediately that every nuance, every suggestion contained in it must be true: Bruce must have known what was coming and he must have perceived it clearly, long before anyone else in Scotland, if not in England. Why, then, had he done nothing to intervene on behalf of his own tenants and dependents in Scotland?

“I’ll need to think on that one,” I conceded, and he nodded in acknowledgment. Our pace slowed to something approaching a toddler’s crawl, and Martin, thanks be to God, said nothing more.

“He couldn’t have done anything,” I said eventually. “He was cut off on all sides at that time, ensuring that no matter what he did or said, or tried to do or say, he would be decried and denigrated by his enemies.”

“You have just finished telling me he had no enemies,” Martin said gently.

“Don’t pretend to be naive, Father Martin, for we both know you are not. I told you no such thing. Robert Bruce was one of the most powerful men of his day, so of course he had enemies. They were everywhere, swarming like maggots on a carcass. What I said was that not even his enemies could call him liar or accuse him of anything shameful or reprehensible.

“The two most powerful noble houses then in Scotland, Bruce and Comyn, had been rivals for generations, and by the time of King Alexander’s death, the Comyn faction had grown to be the stronger, more numerous of the two. Each house detests and resents the other to this day, but the Comyns gained supremacy with the coronation of Balliol, for the new King was wed to
Margaret Comyn, sister to the Earl of Buchan, who is chief of that side of the family known as the Black Comyns. The other branch of the family, the more powerful of the two, is the Red Comyns, whose territories are ruled from Badenoch by Lord John Comyn of that ilk. Between the two branches, once Balliol was enthroned, the Comyns had the power to stamp out the Bruces as a political force, and they would have done so at once had not Bruce of Annandale himself confounded them.”

I looked at the Ulsterman sidelong, lengthening my step and seeing him adjust his own without thought or effort. “D’you know how he did it?” He shook his head slowly, and I continued: “He somehow contrived to find out how the final vote would go. I have to assume that our dear Lord Jesus alone knows how he managed to achieve that, for I have never had time to ask our beloved bishop about it. The vote had not yet been taken, mind you—the balloting would not take place for several days at least, and nothing had been decided, officially speaking—but Bruce learned that the decision would go to Balliol.”

My companion pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “So what did he do then?”

I smiled, happy with myself for the ease with which I had come to see the truth involved. “He demonstrated his greatness,” I said. “He proved that, at the end of a long and honourable life, he was more far-sighted, more pragmatic, and more solicitous for his family and his bloodline than any of his contemporaries. And he proved it in ways most men have not yet begun to see, even after his death and the passage of five years.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I know you don’t. You can’t, because I have only now discovered for myself what your question has brought me to see.”

“And what is that? Can you tell me?”

“Yes, I can. I now believe that Robert Bruce of Annandale may have been the greatest man of his age. He certainly laid claim to that title by what he did when he discovered he would lose the Crown of Scotland.”

“How?”

“Think about it, Father. He discovered he had lost his bid to secure the throne, a lifetime dream, and that his political enemies had had the best of him. Most men would have despaired at that point, especially men of his advanced age, faced with the prospect of losing everything and being too old to begin again. But not Bruce. What does he do? He sidesteps everything and steals the victor’s laurels right from the dragon’s mouth.

“In rapid succession he approached King Edward, reminding the monarch of his lifetime loyalty and humbly requesting permission to withdraw his claim to the Scots throne, on the grounds of advanced age, and to withdraw into England to live out the final years of his life in peace and quiet. At one thrust, he disarmed all his opponents by providing Edward the perfect answer to the only problem yet facing him: with Bruce’s voluntary withdrawal from the race, no one could ever afterwards accuse Edward of using undue influence in the election of Balliol.

“Of course, there was a price for such a sweet piece of collusion, should that be what you wish to call it. In order for Bruce to be able to retire to England and remain there at peace, he must be able, in good conscience, to reassign his Annandale holdings, and his responsibilities to his Annandale folk, in their entirety, including his yet-valid claim to the Scots throne, to his eldest son, the younger Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick. Edward was glad to accede to that, and Bruce’s plan for eventual triumph was in place.”

“What triumph? The man is dead, and he died in exile.”

“Not so. He died in England, on his own family estates. And his legacy is safe. Certainly, his Scots estates were taken over by his enemies of Comyn, but that’s a temporary thing to be remedied any day now that the Comyns have fallen from power in the aftermath of Dunbar. Nearly all of them are in jail in England, defeated and disgraced. Besides, the ordinary Bruce folk, the commons, did not suffer by the confiscations. They had nothing to lose, other than the name of their masters, and the Comyns are not tyrants to the folk they rule. So Bruce lands will soon be returned to Bruce, and the
family’s claim to Scotland’s throne remains valid, passed on to the old man’s descendants, who are well situated to make use of it someday, now that the kingship is in dispute again.

“On becoming Lord of Annandale, the first thing the younger Robert Bruce did—and he was clearly acting upon his father’s instructions—was to bestow his own earldom of Carrick upon
his
son, the seventh Robert Bruce. So now the Bruces hold vast tracts of southwest Scotland—Annandale and Carrick—and with their old enemies neutered, they flourish under Edward’s benevolence. The current Lord of Annandale is Edward’s loyal governor of Carlisle, and the young Earl of Carrick is treated by England’s King like a favourite son. Believe me, Father Martin, men have not yet even begun to perceive, let alone understand, the brilliance of that old man’s evasion of what should have been a disastrous situation. He out-thought and outmanoeuvred everyone, friend and foe alike, and took care of his own magnificently. As I said, an admirable man, in every way. Perhaps
primus inter pares
.”

“Think you his son is capable of the same?”

There was little now in evidence of the young, brash, thoughtless Irish priest. “That remains to be seen, my friend. But thanks to his father’s actions he will, at least, have the chance to demonstrate his fitness, one way or the other.”

“I’m told that the youngest one, young Carrick, is a worthless fop,” he continued. “A prancing popinjay was the description I heard.”

“Is that right? And where did you hear that, Father?”

“I don’t remember,” he said, not looking at me and sounding elaborately casual. “Someone spoke of it, and those around agreed with him.”

“Of course they did. And they all knew young Bruce well, of course, considering that he has not been seen in Scotland these eight years. He went to live and train in England two full years before his mother died, and was still a beardless boy when last he was seen north of Berwick.”

He turned and looked at me, his face showing, I thought, a trace
of discomfort. “I didn’t ask about that,” he said. “I didn’t know about it.”

“Just as well, perhaps. But although the elder Bruce’s reputation in Scotland did not suffer much overall, the grandson is another matter, I’ll grant you that. I, too, have heard that young Carrick has grown into a feckless English fop, spoiled beyond recognition by the King, who seems to dote upon him like an addled grandsire. I find that hard to believe, but the boy had lived at the English court in Westminster for years before the family moved there, so there might be something more to it than spite and jealousy. On the whole, though, I do not really care. I would rather concern myself with the memory of a truly admirable old man than waste my time wondering about a young dandy I’ve never met and am unlikely to meet any time soon.”

We lapsed into a silence broken only by the sounds of our progress: the hard, crisp clack of the heels of my new boots and the papery shuffle of his sandals’ soles. I began to pay attention to my surroundings and to think more carefully about my rapidly approaching meeting with my mentor and employer, Bishop Robert Wishart, and as though by magic, the mere idea of meeting him again had the effect of loosening my bowels. There was no reason why it should have, for I had no fear of the bishop and my conscience was clear, so it might have been mere coincidence that the stomach spasm hit me when it did, but there was no doubting the urgency of the summons. I quickly lowered my pack and dashed into a dense clump of shrubs.

A thought occurred to me while I was alone, and I was mulling it over as I made my way back to the roadway to collect my pack and my staff.

“Forgive me, Father James,” Martin said, “but you look … preoccupied. Is something wrong?”

“No,” I said, surprised that my distraction had been so easy to see. “No, there is nothing wrong.” And I had to laugh, thinking of the comical way in which the mind could make connections. “It’s merely that in doing my business I was reminded of something
Edward Plantagenet supposedly said to Antony Bek after having— again supposedly—conquered Scotland last year.”

“
Supposedly
conquered Scotland? Why would you say that? He
did
conquer it.”

“I said it because it’s the truth. They were returning, victorious, to England, and it was last August—less than ten months ago. Yet now, with the majority of the Scottish leadership safely shut up in English jails, English armies are being ordered back to Scotland. Had Edward’s conquest last year been as real as he supposed it to be, there would be no possibility of uprisings this soon. Edward’s armies beat us in a sore fight at Dunbar and took many nobles prisoner. But the truth is they came nowhere close to conquering the Scots people, the ordinary folk. That’s why this whole country is in an uproar now—because Edward failed to make sure that the task he thought was done had really been completed. He left a crew of ruthless, venal cutthroats to administer his interests, and now he’s paying the price of underestimating his enemy.”

Martin had been listening closely, his brow furrowed. “That makes sense,” he said. “And I believe you’re right … So what was it Edward said to Bek?”

“Oh, that. They had been discussing the conduct of their campaign and the success of their banishment of Balliol, delivering all of Scotland into the absolute power of England’s rule. ‘A man does good business,’ Edward is reported to have said, ‘when he rids himself of a turd.’”

CHAPTER SIX

REBELS AND MISCREANTS

F
ather Martin and I walked in companionable silence for a long time after that, and several miles elapsed as the landscape surrounding us changed gradually from a sparse scattering of hawthorn and hazel, more shrubbery than trees, to hardy, dense clumps of shallow-rooted gorse and broom. These we watched die away completely within about an hour to leave us walking through a pale green countryside of low, rolling hills coated in short, sheep-cropped grass scarred by moss- and lichen-covered outcrops of the underlying rock that rendered the place unsuitable for any kind of agricultural activity other than the raising of sheep.

Some time after that, I noticed that my companion was craning his neck to look around us, where nothing had changed within the past few miles. “We really should be drawing close to Maybole by now,” he said. “But clearly we have not come as far as I thought we had. I see a farmhouse, though, so we have at least reached civilization.”

I grunted my disdain. “Habitation I will accept, but I would balk at
civilization
, in this part of the world.” I looked about me, taking in the rolling sweep of the surrounding craggy hills and the paucity of trees. “No signs of settlement that I can see, but I have no doubt Maybole will be here somewhere, and when we find it we will be in the very heart of the Carrick earldom. Pardon me, then, if I walk in silence for a while, preparing myself for the sight of its glories.”

We walked on for another half mile until we rounded a bend in the road and came to the so-called town of Maybole. It was a
hamlet: a cluster of buildings with two undistinguished taverns and a scattering of people who eyed our priestly robes incuriously. We considered stopping at one of the hostelries, but only briefly, deciding that we would be better to keep going for the remaining few miles to Turnberry. We turned right at the crossroads and kept walking, and the road led us along the bank of a narrow, noisy, fast-flowing brook.

Martin had been walking with his head down, mulling over something, but now he glanced at the roadside stream. “Lots of water around here,” he said. “Is this the same burn that we crossed in Maybole?”

“Your guess would be as good as mine,” I said. “Running water is everywhere in these parts. There are dozens of these burns, all flowing into one another until they reach the sea as rivers. Some of the rivers have names, others don’t. It depends on how close they come to places where folk live.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Martin said. “There’s one comes out right at Turnberry, forming the spit of land that holds Bruce’s castle, and I know it has a name, but don’t ask me what it is because I couldn’t tell you.”