The Honor Due a King (11 page)

Edward, King of England, still too twisted in his own troubles with the Earl of Lancaster, had left the northerners to fend for themselves and thus at my fickle mercy. From Lancaster to Hartlepool, I collected great sums of money from the lords and burghers, so that we might grant a reprieve to their people and their towns. This I did at the behest of my king and I reveled in it for both requital and diversion.

Even though I allowed myself little rest, I thought of Marjorie daily. I welcomed the pain, for it was better than being hollow. Not far from Jedburgh, I sought out a place in the deep of the forest at a place called Lintalee – hard to find, remote and utterly beautiful – and decided that there I would build myself a timber lodge to be my home. I wanted no castle walls stacked with stone, nor a court overfull with servants buzzing about like bees. The number of private chambers would be sparingly few and the kitchen and storerooms small, to discourage any visitors who desired comforts beyond a pallet in the hall and a bland meal.

My brothers, Hugh and Archibald, had been indispensable in clearing trees at a good rate. Both had accompanied me on numerous raids, the benefits of which meant nothing to a simpleton like Hugh, who desired naught beyond a full belly. He did what I told him to and little more. Archibald, on the other hand, needed guidance. He had shrived himself of his prior sins by sending money to the kirk back in Bute. His bastard son there died before he ever knew of him, but neither that mistake nor my constant scrutiny could prevent it from happening again. We were not long in Lintalee before a dark-haired lass not a day past sixteen, who gave her name as Jenny, appeared before me one chill evening, poorly clad and with a soot-smeared face, asking for Archibald as she stroked her swollen belly. He even spoke of marriage to her. A notion which I quickly vanquished by dispatching her to a nunnery in Caithness for the birthing, far from Archibald’s pining heart, with a charitable pension to live on afterwards.

As I drew back my axe and readied to split another log, it was Archibald, still surly and sulking days after I had sent his bursting lover along, who came to me and laid his hand on my arm, pointing along the low trail to an approaching party.

The company consisted of a dozen men on horseback, most sufficiently armed to lend the arrival some air of importance. At their head was the Bishop of St. Andrews, William Lamberton, who had shed his vestments for more practical riding gear. With a bearing as saint-like as any pontiff of Rome, he rode into the clearing and came down from his horse. I laid down my axe, knelt in the slop within the circle of jagged stumps and kissed his ring.

Lamberton nodded in approval. “When I fetched you from that dusty school in Paris, it must have been God directing me.” He turned his hand over and helped me to my feet, embracing me with the lightest touch, then thrusting me to arm’s length. “You’ve served your king with devotion. You said you would. You also said you wanted your lands back from the English. Yet I find you here ...” He surveyed the site thoughtfully, a narrow flat strip tucked deep in the hills, with its swaying pines and teeming wildlife. “Far from courtiers and clergy.”

“Surely you’ve heard of my quick hand in battle, your grace?”

“Ah, yes, to think I tried to make you into a man of the Church. How wrong I was. But you are what you are, James Douglas, every bit your father’s son.”

I motioned to Archibald, who was hanging back shyly. “Your grace, this is my youngest brother Archibald and that one over there ...” – I pointed Hugh out, as he slung his axe and cleaved a log in one brutish sweep – “that is the middle Douglas, Hugh. They both fought at Bannockburn with me, alongside King Robert.” I made mention of it to boost Archibald’s pride and at once he grew taller. “I’m curious, though, as to what brings you here?”

He cast a glance at the stout framing that was going up. “You couldn’t have hidden it any better, especially with the mist that was about this morning.” Lamberton smiled wanly. His squire came forth and offered him a drink from a flask. He wetted his lips, then handed it back. “Envoys from the pope are expected soon in Edinburgh. The king will want you there to hear them.”

“What has any of that to do with me? I’ve a home to build. Tell Robert to call on Randolph. Between us, he is the diplomat, not I.” The first buds were on the trees. Given a stretch, I could have the place habitable by fall. Jumping back and forth to Edinburgh would put that goal at a greater distance. Not to mention the little problem of whom I might run into there.

Lamberton arched a dove-gray eyebrow at me. “Have you taken to doling out orders to your liege, then? The Earl of Moray is with Edward Bruce in Ireland, as you know. I think you best come, James. Aside from the correspondence from the pope, there is another matter the king wishes to settle.”

I plucked up my axe again, as if I had no intention of leaving and would return to my work. “That being?”

“The naming of a guardian for his forthcoming heir. With things in Ireland being as precarious as they are and Edward Bruce being gone – for now, perhaps for some time – King Robert wishes to establish an order.”

Sweet Jesus, I hardly wanted to go back to Edinburgh just now. I had not gone a day without thinking of her. Going there at this moment, with her belly growing and Walter Stewart fawning at her arm ...

How does a man walk in the field of lies that he has sown with his own doings and hold his head high?

“Well, James,” the bishop prompted, “am I to return to Edinburgh alone? The king will not take kindly to you refusing him.”

Gripping the axe handle, I turned, brought it up over my shoulder and swung downward with all my might, burying the head deep within the notch of a timber.

I had been bid by my king. And so, I had to go.

***

Edinburgh, 1316

A
few miles from Edinburgh, the bishop and I were met by messengers from King Robert. The distinguished envoys from Pope John had already arrived and been kept waiting by the king at Holyrood Abbey some three days now. Built two hundred years ago by King David, Holyrood Abbey was where the black rood of St. Margaret had been kept before Longshanks stole it. To the east of the abbey and its adjacent palace sprawled a wooded park. The king often rode and hunted there. Beyond the wood, the hills of east Lothian rose to greet each day’s rising sun. And to the west stood Castle Rock, upon which the old stone walls of Edinburgh Castle lay broken and jumbled from Randolph’s razing.

When we arrived at the abbey, Bishop Lamberton was escorted away to meet with the envoys briefly, while I was directed to a small meeting room within the chapter house. As I stood before the open door, my stomach churned as it never had before any battle. My sword hung coldly at my hip.

A figure moved slowly across the light that spilled from within. I entered to find Robert looking absently out the middle of three green-tinted windows. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back, his spine stiff as an iron rod. I pulled the door shut behind me and acknowledged those present: Gilbert de la Haye, Sir Robert Keith, Bishop David of Moray, Earl William of Ross, Walter Stewart, and the king, who barely glanced over his shoulder at me.

Robert’s voice bore a strained edge. “Be seated, James.”

Walter gave me a look as icy as hailstones, then returned his attention to the king.

I began to suspect that Bishop Lamberton’s summons had been a trumped up premise – and instead of a reception for envoys from the pope and the naming of a guardian for Robert’s heir, this was to be my inquisition.

Two rows of benches lined either side of the cramped, austere room. Rolls of parchment, sharpened quills and pots of ink lay atop a small side table, where the abbey’s records were transcribed. I sought a seat on the same side as Walter, so that I would not have to meet his accusing eyes. Robert continued to gaze out the window into the distance as the others hung their heads sleepily. No one took any particular note of me. They had become accustomed to my comings and goings and Randolph, who might have greeted me most heartily, was suffering Edward’s company somewhere in Ireland.

Next to me, Gil stifled a yawn and stretched his legs. “Where is it that you’re building?” He sounded as bored with the gaping silence as I was uncomfortable with it.

“Lintalee.” I laced my fingers together and tried not to fidget. If I could have conjured an excuse to leave just then, I would have. “Near Jedburgh.”

Gil scratched at the fine, silvery stubble beneath his jaw. “Bit close to the English for me, but I imagine it suits you.”

I shrugged. “It does. For now.” Someone had to work at keeping the peace – shoving it down English throats, as it were.

Bishop Lamberton joined us. On his heels was a shrewd-looking man in robes far more ornate than what our Scottish bishops wore and a sallow-faced cleric with hunched shoulders, who wheezed through a pinched nose. Bishop Lamberton introduced them as Bishop Corbeil and the Archdeacon of Perpignan. The king settled in his chair at the head of the room, slouching over one arm as though wearied by troubles. Bishop Lamberton took the seat beside him.

King Robert flipped an open palm at the envoys. “Your business?”

Corbeil drew his jaw into his chest. He indicated a roll of parchment curled up in the archdeacon’s tightly clenched hand. “A letter from His Eminence, sire.”

“And to whom,” the Bishop of Moray said, “is that letter addressed?”

At that Corbeil drew his thin lips into a smile and nodded to his companion.

The archdeacon flicked a tongue over dry lips and read the name penned on the outside: “To Robert Bruce ... acting as King of Scots.”

He looked up to find Robert staring at him intently. Like a mouse suddenly exposed when the straw under which he was hiding had been lifted by a pitchfork, the archdeacon shrank in consternation.

Robert drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and squirmed like a young lad at Mass. “I crave your pardon, but would you kindly read that again?”

The archdeacon, twisting the roll in his hands, began to stutter incoherently.

At length, Corbeil spoke up for him. “It says: To Robert Bruce, acting as King of Scots.”

“Aye, that’s what I thought I heard.” Robert propped his jaw against his fist, as if weighing a thought. “It would be highly rude of me, I believe, to receive a letter addressed as such. You see, your grace, there are several men in Scotland by that name alone. None of them, as far as I know, merely
acting
as King of Scots. If His Eminence wishes to correspond to me in particular, then he shall have to address his letter in a more specific manner.”

Bishop Corbeil snatched the parchment from the wilting archdeacon and took two swift steps closer to the king, then halted as abruptly as if he had walked into a stone wall. “More specific manner? What exactly do you mean?”

Robert rose from his chair to loom at his full imposing height above Bishop Corbeil. “Robert Bruce,
King
of Scots,” he said, placing particular emphasis on the word ‘king’.

There was nothing of anger or threat in his words, just authority – and it rankled the priggish holy man.

Lips twitching, Bishop Corbeil’s face reddened. “Sire, that is to be presumed on your part. His Eminence could not commit to such openly because – and please comprehend if you will – to do so would be to abandon his impartiality in the matter of your kingship. Edward of England still disputes it and a resolution is yet to be reached. The pope, also, does not at present wish to favor one side over another. I assure you this letter is in your best interest.” Corbeil thrust the letter forward.

Robert crossed his arms resolutely. “His Eminence
has
chosen a side, your grace, by electing to ignore that which is plainly evident: that it is not Edward of Caernarvon balancing the Crown of Scotland on his head, but Robert the Bruce, to whom you are at this very moment speaking so discourteously. The resolution was found on the fields of Bannockburn. Outside of Berwick, there is nothing left north of the Tweed that Edward of England can say is his: not one stone, one scrap of land, or the loyalty of any man who calls this land his home. So when you return to the Holy See, relay to His Eminence that it would be in
his
best interest to properly acknowledge my rights by both lineage and conquest and in his next correspondence to title it correctly. No less courtesy would I extend to him. Now,” – he clasped his hands behind his back again and strode toward the window as a shaft of weak sunlight was chased away by clouds – “I’ll arrange an escort and passage for you. A good day to you ... and a safe journey.”

Indignant, Corbeil slapped the roll in the palm of his hand and stomped out with the archdeacon scurrying after him.

Bishop Lamberton’s chair groaned as he leaned forward. “Do you think that was wise, Robert?”

Robert laughed dryly. “I don’t know. But I’m bloody tired of Scotland being looked upon as some bastard spawn of almighty England. It was, though, precisely what I meant. Why do you think I kept them waiting for three days? Besides, have I anything to lose when dealing with the Church? I’ve already been excommunicated.”

“Point taken, my lord. But the Scottish Church has already suffered for its estrangement from the Holy See. You’ll in no way bring yourself closer to having that burden lifted from your shoulders by this act. There’s still time, if –”

“Rubbish, William. Complete and total rubbish. They’re a couple of boorish puppets who’ve had their pride slapped, strangled and tossed in the midden. They thought to stroll into Edinburgh and have a feast thrown in their godly honor – forgive me, William – thinking I’ll accept some trifling epithet as I fall to my knees in thanks.”

“It is a step, Robert,” Lamberton urged. “A small step.”

“It is the mention of a step, nothing more. So long as the pope ignores what the rest of the continent has already acclaimed, then he sides with England. And that will not make things any the better for the Church in Scotland, but more of the same and worse. Is it the duty of a pope to cast aside his religion and play at politics? I believe not.”