Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (21 page)

“He said he would come?” I asked the bishop as we both squinted into the cold cut of the wind.

“Indeed, he did,” Moray replied with a raised eyebrow, as if to question that I could even doubt his word.

“And he said that he would submit?”

“And beg for pardon.”

Between two stands of trees to the southwest, a narrow road parted the way. A party of horsemen appeared there, their mounts pressed to a steady clip, their colorful cloaks snapping from their shoulders.

Malice throttled my soul. “Pardon has a heavy price.”

“Vengeance –”

“Is mine, sayeth the Lord. Aye, I know.” I glanced at the bishop, a thin fringe of dull brown hair peaking from beneath the miter that covered his balding head. “But if we all believed in that there would be no wars, would there? What men say and what they truly believe are two different things, your grace.”

Clouds of turbid gray, pregnant with rain, marched across a foreboding sky. The man who had betrayed my beloved – pursued her and given her over to vile English hands – closed the distance between us.

The Bishop of Moray clasped his hands together, the reins lightly looped over his thumbs. “Could it be that men care more about this life than the next?”

“If you’re trying to provoke an argument,” I answered with a grin, “you’ve chosen the wrong man.”

“I am trying to uncover your purpose in bringing the Earl of Ross here. I wonder, my lord, if it is as you said.”

As his eyes met mine I nodded. “It is. Because I know this: that although vengeance is deeply rooted in my soul, as it is in most of mankind’s, I know that I have much to be forgiven for myself.”

He knew only a part of my meaning. Two and a half years had gone by since John Comyn died in Greyfriar’s Kirk because of my anger and hatred for the man. And for two years now I had suffered in unspeakable anguish without Elizabeth and Marjorie. For two years, for every victory that belonged to me, I was reminded that I did not have them to share it with. And then I had bedded with Christiana of the Isles for mere ships. How did I ever think that infidelity would bring them back to me? This meeting with the Earl of Ross – this was God’s test of me. I truly believed that.

If I have not been pure of heart, My Father, know that I am trying to put things aright.

William, Earl of Ross, pulled at his horse’s reins and dropped to the ground. The rest of his party, the twenty he had sworn to limit himself to, dismounted also, but stayed where they were as he came forward. A roll of parchment was clenched tightly in his right hand. He kept his eyes downcast. When he reached me, he went to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground.

“Rise, Lord William,” I told him. I made eye contact with a distinguished-looking, silver-haired noble behind him. “Sir Robert Keith? I suspect the English king hovers over you like a hawk. Which side do you fall on this year?”

My question was a facetious one, as I suspected his heart had never wavered. Keith had served as Marischal of Scotland under Balliol and later, after his release, as a justice under Longshanks, doling out rulings that bordered on bias in favor of various Scots. He detected my sarcasm and answered with a comfortable grin, “Having spent quite some time in English prisons, sire, I can fairly say I have no desire to return there.”

Slowly, Ross lifted his face. “Sire. Your grace. In utmost humility, may I speak?”

“That
is
why we called you here,” I said. “I, for one, would like to hear what you have to say. I brought as many holy men as I could muster. They make more believable witnesses, I am told, than Scots nobles.”

The jest fell short, as the blanched, wide-eyed look was still upon Ross’s countenance.

“Please, William,” I told him again, “rise. Such groveling does not become you. I remember, when my grandfather still had enough vigor in him to chase after the crown, you rallied to him. I don’t forget those things.”

“His was clearly the stronger claim. And he was the more fit man to wear the crown.”

“Then did you think me not so?”

Lowering his eyes, he swallowed and squeezed the parchment tighter.

I leaned forward and put my weight upon my right elbow, which rested on my mount’s withers. A fierce wind, cold and damp, beat at us without relent. It pulled at my cloak and tangled my hair. Wanting to appear neither mistrustful nor condescending, I had left both helmet and crown behind that day. Soon, it would rain and when it did it would likely go on for days.

“No, you needn’t answer, William. I fought for England once, as well. At the time, I had my reasons. Even though a king, I do not claim myself to be without flaw. Now, up. And give me what you have there. We need to get on with this business before we’re all soaked to the bone. I’ve been wet more times than I cared for these past years and am dreadfully sick of it. So go on. Straight to it.”

Ross delivered an eloquent speech, wherein many times and in a very flattering manner he pointed out my grace in this matter. He went on to proclaim his oath of fealty, both for himself and his heirs toward me and mine. But also, he did not fail to mention the lands I had promised him. I forgave him that pettiness. It appeared his eyesight was not keen, as he read excruciatingly slowly. By the time he spoke the last words and placed his hand upon the Holy Gospel that the Bishop of Moray presented to him –  

“... I do swear upon the Gospel of God.”

 – it was misting. A cold, wetter than wet mist, familiar to Scotland. The Bishop hurriedly made the sign of the cross, blessed the occasion with a few words and tucked the letter beneath his robes to save its ink from the deluge. I thanked the earl and invited him to Nairn for a supper. As he climbed upon his horse and we readied to go, Thomas Randolph, who I had quite forgotten about even being there, stood before me holding the reins of his new horse.

“My lord... sire.” He bowed his bare head and, with one hand swept across his abdomen, he knelt.

The formality of his address left me with no reaction but to look at him and wait for more.

“I ask for your pardon,” he said.

I must have looked more than puzzled as he gazed up at me through the blur of rain, for he continued, trying to explain himself.

“I beg that you would grant me pardon for what I have done. For fighting against you. My faith, my loyalty – they are yours now, if you will have them.”

I squeezed the water from my beard and blinked as the rain drove harder. I looked for James in the crowd of my most trusted fighting men and nobles. He was some thirty feet away and even so, he seemed to tell me in the careless tilt of his head that the choice was mine.

“Betting on my good humor today, are you?”

“The timing would seem to be good, aye,” Randolph admitted.

“Honest and shrewd.” I put forth my hand. “Lay yours in mine and we’ll call it done.”

He put his hand in mine.

“Up with you and let’s away,” I said. “I’m cold already. Can you hear my teeth clattering?”

That night we dried ourselves by a roaring fire while rain drummed upon the tiled roof. I had the Earl of Ross, Randolph and Keith at my side now. While all might have appeared well and good, my heart was ever empty.

Winter came on quick and fierce and when the New Year had just come, I received a letter from Rothesay telling of the passing of James Stewart. The signature at the bottom was that of Walter Stewart, the very lad who had once sat snotty-nosed and hollow-eyed at my knee while playing with my daughter Marjorie. Their childhood was long gone. James Stewart and I had made a pact. He had held up his end by sending me men and money, unable to join in the cause himself because of a long-debilitating illness that had left him weak of limb and barely able to speak. As for my end, how could I give Marjorie to Walter when she was being held against her will in England?

I could break the chains that bound Scotland to England and free an entire people, but I could not bring my daughter – or my wife – home.

Ch. 21

Edward II – Wallingford, 1310

The little virago had been scribbling a stream of letters to her doting father in France. I doubted that she was extolling the joys of wedded bliss to him. I suspected that she spoke against me. I knew it when I learned that King Philip himself had been corresponding with Robert the Bruce, petitioning the rebel to join him on Crusade to the Holy Land. Naturally, Bruce declined. Too fraught with English troubles, he said, to depart his country.

In the spring of 1309, the impudent Scots even gathered in St. Andrews to convene a parliament. They declared that Robert the Competitor had owned the rightful claim to the throne of Scotland and thus his grandson, that murdering Judas, was his due heir. Providence, they babbled, was the reason for Bruce’s deliverance of their people. How conveniently oaths are tossed away like spent rushes when they no longer serve.

When my bickering barons arranged enough money for it, I sent troops into Scotland that autumn. It rained so incessantly that the supply wagons could not go one mile without getting stuck in the mud. When Edward Bruce gave one of my lieutenants a sound thrashing in Galloway, his brother made him Lord of Galloway. The arrogance! The lords of England begged for a reprieve. With my begrudging agreement, a truce was signed to last the winter.

We may have lost ground in Scotland, but at home I had won my battle. Perhaps my barons were pacified because they had been afforded some time to return to their lands to hunt in leisure or father children by the scores instead of freezing their cocks while standing up to their knees in Scottish muck; but whatever the reason for their goodwill, they eased from their haranguing and conceded to allow Brother Perrot to return to my side.

When Piers and I met in Chester that spring, it was a glorious reunion, made all the sweeter by our troubles. Oh, the Irish air had put a bloom to his cheeks. Hours upon hours riding over the verdant countryside had streaked his hair with bands of gold. If he had suffered from the same melancholy I had, he showed no trace of it. In his arms, I again found heaven. And I knew that every argument I had engaged in, every enemy I had made in the effort, every pain I had ever suffered to bring him back was worth it.

That summer at Wallingford, all the most skilled knights in the land gathered to tourney. Piers had already advanced far in the ranks when I entered his pavilion. He stood there rigidly, with his shirt pulled up to his midriff as he waited for his squire to tie his chausses. The boy, with the first fuzz of manhood on his chin but all the innocence of an angel in his countenance, crumbled to the ground at the sight of me. I gestured for him to continue his work. His fingers fumbled at the laces, but he somehow managed the task. Piers swept him outside with a wag of his hand.

“How is your fresh young bride Margaret?” I pried.

“Barren as a tilled field of stones,” he stated. “The stable groom she so fancies poked her but could not get her stuffed. Neither could the butler, the lute player nor the local monk. My bet was on the cowl. Abstinence does miracles for fertility. There are more bastards of priests in Ireland than sheep, did you know?”

“I would beg you not to speak so ill of Margaret. She is, after all, my niece.”

“I
jest
, Edward. Where is your humor today? Expelled in the garderobe with yesterday’s meal?” He sat down upon a stool to strap his poleyns over his knees, then put his spurs on. Arching an eyebrow at me, he shrugged limply. “And what of your brood bitch?”

“Cold as the driven snow and twice as pure.”

“Still can’t bear to bring yourself to bed her? Come now, you know how it’s done. It’s expected of you, begetting an heir and all that. Maybe we should pour some wine down your gullet and watch the dogs go at it to get you in the mood.”

“I think that would nauseate me.”

He stood and tapped me playfully on the cheekbone with the tips of his fingers. “You’re looking quite useless. Help me on with my mail shirt, will you? I have a pain in my shoulder from unseating that goat Lancaster.”

“I’ll call your squire back in, instead. I’m due for an appearance. My pretty wife would rival Cleopatra and as a pair we are quite radiant.”

“Twin suns? Blinding. Rather, a pair of peacocks, you are. Cheer for me.”

“I shall.”

“And the queen?”

“If any petals fall across your path, they will not be from her hand.” I turned to go, then stopped as my hand parted the flap. “Make it look harder than it is. You enrage them by being so good.”

“Perhaps they should put up more of a fight,” he rejoined with a boyish wink.

Outside Piers’ pavilion my page fell in behind me flapping a fan of palm leaves to keep the flies away. Jankin followed close behind, mute as always. I made my way through the row of pavilions, all decorated with pennons of azure, scarlet, emerald and gold. Even though his tent was the next row over, I could hear cousin Thomas of Lancaster lamenting over his misfortune at having too many lances splinter and his horse shying at an inconvenient moment.

“Hear that, Jankin?” I said to my manservant, who had startlingly red hair and ears so large they only accentuated his accursed looks. I kept him about because he seemed so utterly pleased to serve me, as if following in my steps somehow graced him. I stopped and glanced at him as his head, winged in appearance due to the ears, bobbed atop a neck as thin as a willow switch. The breeze from the flapping palm leaf cooled my face. “Our cousin the swine complains that it is only bad luck that caused him to lose the joust with Brother Perrot. A farthing says he could not knock an apple off your head if he were standing next to you.”

As we began on our way back to the stands, a black horse led by a squire emerged from between two pavilions. The squire also carried one of his master’s shields. He paused and bowed to let us pass, but then at his left stepped a stunted knight in dazzling armor.

“Greetings, Lord Pembroke,” I said as he bent at the waist as much as his armor would allow.

His pinprick sloe eyes sparked with ambition. He shifted his black-plumed helmet to his other arm. “My lord.”