The Guardian (9 page)

“No,” I said emphatically. “It is sinfully untrue even to suggest such a thing in jest and my tongue but ran away with me. I wanted
no more than to emphasize the closeness of the bonds binding their two houses.”

His expression cleared and he began to walk again. “No matter. Tell me, though, about this blood-and-marriage relationship. You used the word ‘nowadays,’ and that suggests a kind of newness to things. How did that happen, and when?”

“A while ago. You know the Stewart family name was originally Norman, do you not?”

His eyes widened. “No, not a bit. I thought they were all Highlanders, from north of the Forth. They’re Norman, you say?”

“Aye …” I paused, remembering something I had heard years earlier. “But that might not be absolutely true. According to Bishop Wishart, the family’s ancestral name was fitz Flaad, and they were reputed to be, as he put it, Norman by culture and training, but Breton by birth. Anyway, the first one we know of over here in Scotland was a man called Walter Fitzalan, and his son was Alan Fitzwalter.”

“And how came they here, to Scotland?”

I grunted, wryly wondering how many times that question had been voiced these past two hundred years and more. “The same way all the others came. They were sent north to settle here by William of Normandy when he became King of England after his conquest. They arrived about two hundred years ago, and sixty or seventy years later one of them became king—King David the First of Scotland. It was he who appointed Walter Fitzalan to be High Steward of the realm, in return for his services to the Crown. The two were friends, of course, and had probably grown up together, but the new Steward, Walter Fitzalan, must have been a formidable man, because the King made the appointment hereditary, granting the stewardship to Walter’s sons in perpetuity. Lord James, the current Steward, is the fifth consecutive holder of the title.”

“Aye, but how did the name change? You know, from Fitzwhatever it was to Stewart?”

“By word of mouth, how else?” I smiled at him. “From the moment of their appointment, the entire family became known as
‘the Stewards,’ and since we Scots invariably turn d’s into t’s at the ends of words, they became the Stewarts. Three generations later, they made it official.”

“I never knew that.”

I hitched my pack higher. “Not many people do nowadays, even here in Scotland. The Stewarts are the Stewarts. Who cares today what they were called two hundred years ago?”

“So how did the Bruces become involved with them?”

I stopped and looked about me before I answered that question. I was astonished to realize that I had no idea of how far we had walked or even of where we were. “Are we lost?” I spoke half to myself at first, but then raised my voice to include my companion. “We should be close to Maybole by now, but I don’t see any signs of life, do you?”

He, too, looked around. “No, but we can’t be lost. We haven’t left the road, and it’s the only one there is. It goes right into Maybole, to the crossroads where we’ll turn for the coast. It can’t be too far ahead … You were going to tell me about the Bruces.” We set off again.

“Carrick was once a part of Galloway,” I began. “A hundred years and more ago, a prince of Galloway called Duncan lost his claim to the Galloway lordship, and to compensate, his family gave him Carrick as an earldom. The earldom passed eventually to his son, Earl Neill MacDuncan, who then married Lady Margaret Stewart, the sister of Lord James’s father, the fourth High Steward. Neill and Lady Margaret had a daughter, Marjorie, who became the Countess of Carrick in her own right upon her father’s death, and
she
married Robert Bruce the Sixth, the son of Bruce the Competitor. Their son, the seventh and youngest Robert Bruce, is the Earl of Carrick today, and he is the grandson of Lady Margaret Stewart. Lord James, on the other hand, is nephew to the same Lady Margaret, so the Steward and the young Earl of Carrick are doubly kin.”

“The Bruces live in England nowadays. Why?” The question, naive as it sounded, surprised me, and it must have shown on my face, for he continued, “Oh, I know some of the tale. I have heard
stories and rumours and bits of explanation, but I’d like to hear what you have to say about it. You are not afraid to say what you think, even if some might think your opinions … indelicate.”

I saw the expression in his eyes and laughed out loud. “Aye, well, in that spirit, Father, I’ll tell you what I think. Mind you, I’m swearing to the truth of none of what I’ll say, for much of it is conjecture and the rest is a mix of things overheard and suspected that strike me as being feasible.

“Now, as you no doubt know, there hasn’t been a Bruce visible in Scotland these past five years and more. And for good reason, I would say. Not since the conclusion of the Great Cause. You know what that was, don’t you?”

He stiffened. “Yes, I know what that was,” he grumbled. “I might be Irish, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Of course not. I was not suggesting any such thing. You may remember that in the end, the search for Scotland’s legitimate king came down to two qualified people: the Fifth Robert Bruce, the Lord of Annandale who claimed through the maternal line, and John Balliol, Lord of Galloway, whose claim, while one degree of separation greater, extended through the paternal line. Edward of England was invited to judge the affair, and he and his magistrates awarded the throne to Balliol, citing the law of primogeniture.”

My companion stopped walking again and gazed at me quizzically. “Primogeniture. Inheritance through the male line. Since when has that been the accepted way among the Gaels?”

“Since then, five years ago. It is a recent development, brought to us by way of the Pope. It is directly opposed to the ancient tanic law of Scotland and Ireland, which permits accession through the female line. But in recent years, male descent has been increasingly upheld throughout Christendom by the Church, though it has never been proclaimed here. Bruce’s claim was tanic, and predicated upon his having served as tanis, or heir elect, before the young King Alexander sired an heir of his own. Edward and the English bishops elected to adopt the primogeniture approach, as recommended by the Holy Father.”

“You sound as though you disagree with their finding. Were you a Bruce adherent in this issue?”

“No,” I said, “I was a priest. My sole adherence was to Holy Mother Church and my duties on her behalf. What I thought about such an important matter had no importance. Petty priests have no say in the affairs of kings.”

“Perhaps not, but they can hold opinions.”

“Hah! Presumably they can. And some of them might even do so. But that is irrelevant in this instance.”

“It’s relevant to me. I would like to know what you personally thought about it all.”

I faced him squarely. “Why? It doesn’t matter, and besides, my opinions are no concern of yours.”

“But they are,” he said, unrepentant and grinning, “because I have a need to know, mainly because I am a newcomer. Everyone I meet nowadays—ever since I joined the cathedral chapter—wants me to learn, or at least to subscribe to, his version of what is true and untrue, what is relevant and not so, what is important and what is dangerous nonsense. I had heard of you from Bishop Wishart and he holds you in high esteem. There are few of whom one can say that. His lordship is sparing in his praise and even more cautious of bestowing his trust. And so I am curious about your thoughts on this Great Cause affair. I know your cousin Will was happy with the result and remains a loyal follower of King John to this day, but I have the feeling that you were less than happy with the choice of Balliol over Bruce. Is that true?”

“If it were true, and if I were to admit such a thing openly, I could be held liable of treasonous utterances.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me but did not slacken his pace. “That is not entirely accurate, Father James. John Balliol is no longer King in Scotland.”

“Ah, but he is, and shame on you for saying such a thing. King John may stand humiliated and dispossessed in English eyes and according to English feudal law, but as a priest you know that God’s law is immutable and that, in accordance with that law, John Balliol
is the anointed and crowned King of Scotland. He may not
be
here in person, but he remains the King of Scotland in the eyes of God.”

“Aha! Then you’re a Balliol man.”

“No, I am a Scot and a priest. I have no preference in such matters.”

“But you dislike the King of England.”

“I do not know the King of England, so how could I dislike him? But I will admit I would not trust him with anything of import to me or to my church or, for that matter, to this realm.”

“Why not? Why do you mistrust him?”

I was aware that he was baiting me, yet I sensed no malice in his probings. “Out of cynicism, perhaps. And yes, I am fully aware that no priest should ever be a cynic. But Robert Bruce of Annandale was an old man, well past his seventieth birthday, at the time we are discussing. An ancient man by anyone’s reckoning, but no less formidable because of that. He was a giant, without peer anywhere in Scotland or in England—or anywhere else, for that matter. Bruce of Annandale had done everything and been everywhere. As a young man, he fought in the civil war in England on behalf of young Edward’s father, Henry the Third, against Simon de Montfort and his upstart barons when they rebelled, and later he rode out on crusade to the Holy Land, representing the old King and accompanying the Crown Prince, Edward.”

“He fought in England, for England’s King?” the Ulsterman said. “Why would he do that?”

I shook my head, making a show of pitying his ignorance. “Because it was his duty,” I said.

“How, duty? He’s a Scots magnate, not an Englishman.”

“And you are wrong again, Father. Bruce has always been a true vassal to the Plantagenets, recognizing them as his feudal lieges. That loyalty has never, ever been in doubt. The Bruces, like the Balliols, the Comyns, and almost all the other noble Scots houses, own vast estates in England, but without exception such estates are held by grace and favour of the English monarchs. It has always been thus, and that, my friend, is the feudal way, honoured by the
Bruces. The old traditions are less strong today, and the claims of feudal loyalty and duty appear, at times, to be growing weaker and less valid. But not, to this point, in the eyes of Bruce.”

The Irishman nodded. “I see … The old man’s dead now, is he not?”

“He is, God rest his soul. He died last year, at eighty. But even in his youth he was known for his good character and probity and for the sterling soundness of his given word. Throughout his life he took great pride in always speaking truth, no matter what the cost, and no one ever called him liar. The blood of kings flowed in his veins— pure Norman French through his mother, who was directly descended from the first David, the Norman-born Earl of Huntingdon—and he served as regent to his young cousin Alexander the Third during the King’s minority. Robert Bruce of Annandale inspired awe in all who met him. And I suppose that is the cause of my cynicism.”

“How so?”

“Because of what happened at the time of the choosing, amplified by what has happened since. Edward chose Balliol. Oh yes, I know it was the auditors who chose him, after eighteen months of harrowing debate, weighing the pros and cons of each man’s claim judiciously and openly. But let us be truthful here, just between we two: Edward Plantagenet is England’s King, and he lacks neither power nor influence, particularly when he deals with lesser men on matters of discretion. He and his judges had two alternatives from whom to pick Scotland’s King, each of them sufficiently wealthy in his own right that neither one could be suborned by the promise of riches. One of those two was a towering giant of a man whose physical courage and moral probity, integrity, and honour were irreproachable and whose nature and character dictated that he could never be coerced into bowing the knee to anyone with whom he disagreed.

“The other, though it was not yet widely known, was made of less solid stuff—equally valid in the strength of his claim to the kingship, but less … inflexible, let us say, in his other attributes. Might I suggest that a slightly cynical, less than naive person like
myself might conceivably be tempted to believe that a man like Edward Plantagenet, steeped as he was in kingcraft and the necessities of protecting and augmenting his own interests, might have been induced to tip the scales of judgment favourably in his own direction by making it known to those around him that he would prefer the weaker man over the stronger?

“Pah, you might say. You might even cry foul, slander, and infamy. But what has happened in the years that have elapsed since John Balliol was crowned King of Scots?” Martin met my eye squarely, and I held up one hand, ticking off the points on my spread fingers. “One, since the day of his coronation, John Balliol, King of Scotland, has been a puppet and a catspaw for Edward of England, Lord Paramount of Scotland. His every legal decision and disposition has been questioned and dismissed, he himself summarily ordered to England to defend his own verdicts in English courts— verdicts, mark you, that he had delivered in Scotland, as King of Scotland, on matters concerning his Scots subjects.

“Two, and mainly the outcome of the first, the Plantagenet has consistently defied John Balliol as King of Scotland, and by thus confounding him, time after time throughout his years as King, has actively undermined his authority and made him an object of ridicule.

“Three, the entire disgraceful fiasco was brought to a conclusion by the public shaming, humiliation, and ritualized stripping and denuding of one sovereign nation’s king by the lackeys and lickspittles of another, when Antony Bek, a prelate of God’s Church, defied God’s own law, in the name of an earthly king, by humiliating and publicly abusing another one of God’s own anointed Christian monarchs. No man should have the arrogance to defy God openly as Bek did that day.

“And now, point four. This land of ours, this Scotland, after near a hundred years of peace, is plunged into war with England in order to protect itself from the designs of a rapacious, renegade king whose ambitions have overstretched themselves and fallen into madness.