The Guardian (72 page)

“You mentioned politics earlier,” I said, “in talking about Carrick politically rather than militarily. Well, let’s raise that thought of politics again—Church politics in this instance. In the days before this realm’s Great Cause, the entire question of primogeniture versus succession claims from the female side—the Salic laws of
France, for instance, and our own tanic laws are but two examples— had been disrupting countries within Christendom for decades, and the Church had decided, in the years leading up to the start of the Great Cause, to champion primogeniture in settling matters of royal succession. This dispute in Scotland was to be the defining example, and acting upon instructions from the curia in Rome, the Church authorities in Britain—for the activity took place in England, too, as well as Scotland—decided to militate actively in favour of primogeniture—descent through the male bloodline.”

I glanced towards Bishop Wishart and could have sworn I saw his eyes flick shut.

“So there you have it, Canon. We ourselves, the servants of God’s Church in Scotland, aided Edward in placing King John on Scotland’s throne. And he is now our valid King, duly anointed and crowned in the eyes of God and man. It was Edward of England who proceeded thereafter to change the rules and throw everything into hazard … And I’ve been talking far too long and have, no doubt, said far too much.”

The bishop slumbered on, not moving a muscle.

“Valid,” Canon Lamberton said. “You said King John is now our valid King. I could dispute that, were I inclined towards semantics. John Balliol is our
legitimate
King, no doubt of that, for he was duly crowned and anointed, as you say. Validity, however, is a different creature in this instance. He was deposed and degraded, as all the world now knows, but that was an act of culpable human arrogance on the part of an aging despot who knows better but cares nothing for what anyone may do. It was a humiliation imposed upon one hapless man at the will and express purpose of another man, and it had no effect whatsoever upon the legitimacy of John Balliol’s status of King of Scotland.” He caught my swallowed comment at that. “I beg your pardon, Father. You said something I did not catch.”

“It was nothing, Canon,” I said, shaking my head. “A mere reaction to the name you gave him, which was correct: the King of Scotland. I find that offensive, but my dislike of it is purely personal.
Our kings have always been kings of the people, not the land. Alexander, our previous King, may God rest his soul, was King of Scots, as was Macbeth, and Malcolm, and David the First. Our current King is the only one, ever, who called himself King of Scotland. But that is neither here nor there.”

“On the contrary, Father,” Lamberton demurred. “It speaks to the character of the man and to his personality. By naming himself king of the land, instead of the folk, he aligned himself with every other king in Christendom—a transparent attempt to ingratiate himself with his peers. But I was talking of validity rather than legitimacy. Abdication was forced upon John Balliol, as was his imprisonment in London, and there is nothing we can do at this time to change any of that.” He shrugged, a mildly distracted, throwaway gesture. “I have it on good authority, from someone I trust, that the Holy Father is moving heaven and earth to secure his release, and that Edward might be induced, given enough in the way of incentives and encouragement, to release the King into the custody of some other Christian monarch. But John himself has lost hope, in his prison there in London, and appears to have abandoned any plans he ever had of returning to Scotland to reclaim his throne. Edward has completely broken his spirit, it seems. But in the eyes of God he is still the King of Scotland and will so remain until he dies.

“In the meantime, though, his absence has created a moral dilemma for all of those who seek to govern Scotland in his name, because this is now a realm without a king. Edward Plantagenet’s arrogance has created a yawning hole in the fabric from which this realm is woven, and by so doing he has thrust responsibility for the future onto the shoulders of patriots like your cousin, forcing them to undertake tasks and duties that should not be required of them.”

“And is Bruce one of those same patriots?”

“He is. But Bruce has a legitimacy that is all his own. If what you said earlier is accurate, and Edward Plantagenet plotted in advance to usurp this realm—for only a fool would doubt, today, that that is his intention—then everything that Edward did in this matter of the choosing of the new king is rendered suspect and invalid. And that
makes Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick, a legitimate heir—you’ll note I am not saying the
sole
legitimate heir—to the Crown of Scotland. So let us look at Bruce’s situation. He has told me, and I believe him, that he has no wish to seek dominance while John is yet our legitimate King, but he has assured me, too, that he intends to look after his own interests in this matter, and he will consider advancing his own claim should the throne become vacant.”

“The Comyns will have words to say on that,” I said.

He nodded. “They will, but they will not be crowing as long or loudly as they did five years ago. They no longer rule the dunghill as they did then, once the old Bruce, Annandale, was out of the way. Since then, for five uninterrupted years, they have had things very much their own way, and yet for all their vaunted claims and loud crowing they have failed—spectacularly failed—to achieve anything in the way of victory or progress in protecting the realm against England’s bullying. Their record since 1292 has been one of relentless defeats and failures, culminating in the fiasco at Dunbar when most of them were taken prisoner. That record has not gone unnoticed, believe me, and people are far more dubious about House Comyn than they used to be.”

“They can’t all be incompetent,” I said. “I hear the youngest one, Comyn of Badenoch, is an able fighter.”

“He is, apparently, though he is young and relatively unknown to this juncture. But have you heard, too, that he and Bruce—they’re of an age—detest each other?”

“No. I didn’t know that … But it is interesting.”

“Aye, or it could be, depending on what happens next. Anyway, Bruce is the greater unknown here, at least as far as public repute applies. His grandfather took him to England ahead of John’s coronation in ninety-two and they remained there until Carrick’s return here last spring. In the meantime, the old man died in Essex or Sussex—somewhere in the south—and his son, the present Lord of Annandale, became Edward’s constable of Carlisle, holding it, nominally at least, against King John, though in fact he was holding it against the Comyns, who had been rewarded with his forfeited
lands of Annandale and Carrick. His son the Earl of Carrick, in the meanwhile, had become one of the pampered and spoilt favourites of Edward, who, like many another despot before him, believes in keeping his friends close and his enemies even closer.”

“If that’s so, why is he here in Scotland now, a rebel against Edward?”

“That, Father James, is the question troubling most of those in Scotland who pay attention to such things, but I have a theory that might cast some light upon it. Edward is Edward and, like all men who wield great power, he enjoys demonstrating his ability to exercise it.” He paused. “I was just about to say that I have heard something on that topic from someone in authority, someone I trust, but then I realized how often I say that, and how true it always is, and I felt a sudden surge of gratitude that I am a priest and that, in consequence, I have great privileges and unlimited access to information on a vast range of topics, all of which bear upon the Church and its mission here on earth.” He smiled again, little more than a grimace this time.

“Be that as it may, the English King, I’m told, enjoys manipulating his puppets. And all who are around him, with remarkably few exceptions, are essentially his puppets. By applying pressure to a variety of his people at any time, he keeps the others on their toes and in fear of attracting royal displeasure. It was as part of one those manipulations, apparently, that he ordered Bruce north into Scotland, to burn Douglas Castle and take Lady Douglas into custody in Edward’s name. The order was issued publicly, akin to rubbing a puppy’s nose in its own mess, save that Robert Bruce appears to be more his grandfather’s offspring than his father’s, and is no puppy to be manhandled and publicly abused. I have no doubt there was more to the affair than that, but whatever lay beneath young Bruce’s revolt, the order to bring back the woman to Edward’s justice was clearly one more thing than he would bear. So now he is here, back in Scotland, and saying nothing about his reasons for quitting England. And naturally, people are suspicious of his presence and his motives.”

“But you are not.”

“No, I am not. And that’s why I think his coming here tomorrow is providential in this matter of your cousin and our need for him.”

“You think Bruce will support him?”

“We—” He caught himself and glanced at Bishop Wishart, but the bishop had not reacted. “I believe he has no other choice. Consider: the folk here know not whether to trust Bruce or reject him, and they can see for themselves that his father’s people in Annandale will not follow him. That, mind you, is as it should be. The Annandale folk are his father’s tenants and their duty is to his father while the elder Bruce yet lives, but the bulk of the people don’t see things quite that simply. To them, the root matter is one of trust—is Bruce one of their own, or is he merely a half-baked Englishman, a spoilt favourite of Edward’s, playing the fool and waiting to be received back into the royal favour? That resolution will come only with the passage of time. Bruce will have to show his willingness to earn that trust and demonstrate his worthiness, and in the meantime he will have to wait. And while he waits, he’s going to need stability and a calm, lawful environment in which he and his folk can live and prosper. He won’t get that if the Comyns come to power again, so he must be reliant upon Wallace.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “It’s common sense. If Bruce is ever to have an opportunity to claim the throne, he must wait for King John Balliol to die, and while he is doing that he will need security and peace throughout the realm. Wallace will be his best hope of achieving those objectives,
ergo
Bruce will support Wallace, and enlist his Bruce allies to his cause.”

“I see,” I said. “And so am I correct in thinking you will speak of this tomorrow with Bruce?”

“You are. Would you like to join us?”

I thought about that for a moment and then nodded. “If you think I might have something to contribute, I’ll come willingly, but in the meantime I wish to spend some time with Andrew’s widow, the Lady Eleanor. What are her plans, does anyone know?”

“I do. We will bury Andrew here, temporarily at least, and Lady
Eleanor will stay here at the convent for the remainder of her term until the baby is born. In the spring she may wish to return home to her family in Petty, and if she does, we will arrange to have Andrew’s remains repacked and shipped north to Inverness, there to be buried with his ancestors.”

“So be it, then.” I glanced at the fire, which had died down to ashes and glowing embers. “I had better get to my bed, for I want to be up and about with my daily Mass celebrated before dawn, so I will bid you goodnight, Canon Lamberton.”

“And I you,” he answered, rising to his feet. “I’m glad we spoke like this. It was worthwhile … and necessary, too.”

I bowed and left him there, and as I went, the bishop said, “God bless you, Father James. Sleep well.”

“And you, my lord,” I answered, closing the door quietly behind me.

As it transpired, Lamberton did not summon me to his meeting with Bruce the following day, although I was scarce aware of that until it started to grow dark and I realized I had heard nothing from him.

I had spent several hours with Andrew’s young widow in the morning, and though there was nothing I could do to console her, I prayed with her and after sat talking with her for a time. She was a beautiful young woman and I estimated her age to be less than twenty years, but she was self-composed and dignified, and once she discovered that I was the same Father James who had travelled to Morayshire to meet her husband, she became avidly curious to know all that I knew about him. She had met Andrew but once, and only briefly, at their betrothal in the autumn of 1295, she told me, and had not seen him again until the day they were wed, in Petty, in March of the following year. That had been a mere five days before Andrew was called away to ride south with King John, to be defeated at the Battle of Dunbar and subsequently thrown into prison in Chester Castle. A few months later, he had escaped and returned home to her as little more than the total stranger she had first met the previous year. They had had three months together then, as man and wife,
before his campaign against the English in Morayshire and Ross had forced them apart once more, leaving her alone again but this time with child. From then until now, she told me, she had spent no more than five entire days and four nights with her husband. And now she was a widow. Small wonder, then, that she devoured what I could tell her of my friendship with the man she had married.

I spent the remainder of the day working in the library—always my favourite way to pass whatever spare time I ever had—and it was there that one of the novices found me, late in the afternoon, and told me that Canon Lamberton would like to see me in the bishop’s chambers.

The canon and the bishop were both there when I arrived, but there was no sign of the Earl of Carrick. Both men must have noticed the look on my face, for I was remembering my own words to Lamberton:
If you think I might have something to contribute, I’ll come willingly
. The obvious conclusion to be drawn was that they had decided I had nothing to contribute.

“Earl Robert didna want to disturb ye needlessly,” the bishop said. “He accepted that Will winna be back for a few days, and he said there was lots o’ time tae make demands on ye.” He nodded towards Canon Lamberton. “He left word for ye wi’ William.”

I turned curiously to the canon, who was smiling at me. “Earl Robert remembers you very well, he said. Something to do with a confession over blood spilt? I confess the way he worded his comment, smiling as he said it, made me curious to know more and I might have questioned him further, until it dawned on me that he was speaking of a confession he had made to you and for which you had absolved him. I was intrigued, I must admit. In any case, the earl requests a favour of you: that when Will returns from the south, you will arrange a meeting between him and Bruce. It will be brief, with none but the three of you in attendance—unless, of course, your cousin wishes to include some of his own associates. Will you oblige the earl?”