The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (22 page)

Rob’s eyes had grown wider as he listened. “And no one here complained or sought to intervene?”

His grandfather shrugged. “The thing was done before anyone in Scotland heard a word of it. And I include myself, along with the council of Guardians. What could we do, faced with an accomplished deed, particularly with the Birgham Treaty in the balance? That pact had already been more than a year in the making, and we were faced with the undoing of it all. We could hardly declare war in outrage when all the Manxmen had decided to rebel against us if we did. And to have done so would have thrown all of Scotland into chaos.”

“And so it was … accepted, just like that?”

“Aye, it was. An acceptance under duress, and after the fact.”

Rob suddenly felt much older than he had been a short time earlier. “So the council debated and accepted this turn of events
after
the fact, as you say. Then why would you feel the need to speak of it now to me?”

“Because you are a Bruce and heir to my lordship of Annandale someday. You are my grandson, blood of my blood. And you are yet very young … Apt, I jalouse, but unskilled, as yet, in seeing faults in others. I brought this up now because I need to free your eyes of the veil that clouds them.”

“What veil, sir? My eyes are fine.”

A wolfish smile split the older man’s face. “Fine, I agree, but very young. Think about it. An island province, peopled by folk whose fatherland was Norway. Their fathers were Norwegian, as were all their ancestors. Then ask yourself how such a simple folk, untaught and unlettered, could conceive of, let alone draw up, a formal petition to a foreign king, begging his intercession on their behalf. Intercession into what, in the first place? There was no conflict anywhere. The Manxmen might have been unhappy, I’ll not
argue against that. They’ve had scant recognition from any of us here for the past score years. But they have not been badly treated. They have not even been taxed. They’ve been … neglected, nothing more.”

“But it makes no sense. Unless … Are you suggesting, sir, that they might have been tutored in forming such a petition? By someone from outside? From England?”

Lord Robert spread his palms. “Can you suggest a better explanation? King Edward loves the forms of law.”

“But … that is treachery. Infamy. Theft. I cannot believe—”

“Believe it, Grandson. And it was not infamy, nor was it treachery. It was inspired kingcraft, and Edward is a king above and before all else. You might make a solid case for theft, but were I in his position, I might have done the same thing, had I had the wit to think of it. He secured the safety of his realm against a potential threat, increased his holdings at the same time, and did it all without a drop of blood being shed. When I heard of it I was as outraged as you are, but once I had thought about it for a while, I admired his foresight. And his daring.”

“And what did the other Guardians think?”

“In private? I know not, for I am not one of the council—have not been for years. Publicly, though, they did the only thing they could and accepted it with such good grace as they could muster, much as they are doing now with this Bek development, though again the death of the Queen must alter that.”

Rob frowned. “Bek development? Do you mean Bek of Durham?”

Lord Robert looked at his grandson in surprise, for his reference to Bek had been little more than a thought mused aloud and he had not expected a reaction to it. “Aye, Bek of Durham. Does the name mean something to you?”

“I’ve met him, Grandfather. In London. He came to meet with the King while I was there, and he stayed for weeks, then returned to Scotland after the signing of the treaty.”

“Aye, that’s what happened … How did he impress you? Did you speak with him?”

“No, sir, scarce at all. King Edward made me known to him when he arrived and I gathered that he had been assigned to Scotland on the King’s behalf, to prepare for the royal wedding. But I had no conversation with him other than to exchange greetings on that one occasion. He struck me as being more prince than bishop, though. A silent, disapproving, judgmental man, I thought, likely to be quick tempered and intolerant.”

“Aye,” Lord Robert growled, “that is Bek, all of those things and more. He is Edward’s man, head to foot, and dangerous … Were you aware that he had been promoted while he was there in London?” Rob shook his head. “Aye, well he was. He had been here for months, off and on, seeing to the arrangements for Birgham, but as soon as the treaty was signed he was dispatched back here, bearing a letter to the Guardians from Edward. It asked the council—supposedly—to ratify Bek’s appointment as Edward’s lieutenant in Scotland on behalf of his son Edward and Queen Margaret. In consideration of the need to preserve the peace and tranquility of the Scots realm is how I’m told he phrased it.”

“Could he
do
that?”

“He did it. And the Guardians bowed to it. It was a strange letter, from what I have heard, all flowery profusion and protestations of love, as is Edward’s way, and all thinly veiling an open warning not to challenge him in his wishes. None of the Guardians knew quite how to respond, for there was nothing blatantly unreasonable about the request, other than the letter itself and the fact of its delivery by Bek. You yourself would have seen no ill in his request. But believe me, it was a demand, an ultimatum lacking only an open threat. And that is what I need you to understand in all of this, Grandson—that your eyes are not yet old enough to see what is really there in front of them.”

He raised a finger, pointing for emphasis. “There is no fault in that and I am not blaming you for anything. You’ve done nothing wrong. You are merely young, seeing things with a boy’s eyes, and time will change all that. In the meantime, though, you have much to learn about men and kings, and because you are not merely a boy
but a future Robert Bruce in this time and in this place, you will have to learn it all more quickly than others your age. You are my grandson, and you and I have not been close ere now, but from this day on I will do what I can to teach you in this craft, for craft it is, and learnable like any other. I had to learn it myself at your age, and I’ve profited by it. It has served me well, as it will you.

“Edward of England is all you see in him, make no mistake on that. But he is much, much more than you perceive and, in some ways, admittedly minor ones, he is far less. He is a king and he does what a king must do, manipulating everyone about him to his own ends … everyone. Because the plain truth is, a king can have no friends, as other men know friends.”

Rob’s frown became a scowl, and when he spoke next his words were directed as though to an equal. “That can’t be so. King Alexander had close friends. I saw them with him when he came to Turnberry. And one of them was King Edward himself. And I know he, too, has friends.”

“Name them.”

Rob hesitated, thinking quickly, drawing from his memories of Westminster. “The Earls of Suffolk, Norfolk, Hertford, and Hereford. I’ve seen them with him. Relatives, family, and close companions.”

“And who were Alexander’s friends?”

No hesitation this time. “My father, the Earls of Mar and Buchan, James the Stewart, and the bishops, Fraser of St. Andrews and Wishart of Glasgow.”

Lord Robert smiled and stooped forward to pick up a fresh, thin log of apple wood from the fuel rack, then used it as a poker to stir up the glowing coals before he thrust it deep into the fire.

“You have named vassals, every one,” he said, “save for the bishops. The others are all liegemen, barons and earls, each with his own needs dependent on being pleasing to the King. That is not friendship, Robert, and the few friendships that can persist against such needs are precious indeed and scarce as dust motes in a cloudburst. As for the bishops, their prime allegiance is to God and His Holy Church. Their King may be God’s anointed, but they themselves
are God’s wardens, and their sworn devotion is to His eternal Church’s welfare, not to the brief, uncertain rule of any mortal man.” He paused, and when he resumed, his voice softened into the common, slightly slurred Scots tongue of his people. “Ye’ll have heard the auld saying that nae man can serve twa maisters, have ye no’?”

Rob nodded, and his grandfather’s speech changed again, his tone now wry.

“Aye, well when one of those two masters is God Himself, which one will the bishops choose, think you?” The old man’s face was grave. “Yet Edward of England has one true friend, I believe—two, if you count his wife, Eleanor, who has been his bedmate, soulmate, and keeper of his conscience these forty years. But there is one man who is closer to Edward than a brother and has nothing to gain from his friendship or from duplicity. Can you guess who that man is?”

“No, sir. Who is it?”

“A bishop, against all odds. The man is Robert Burnell, Chancellor of England and Bishop of Bath and Wells. He’s a quiet man. You might live in Westminster for a year and never see him, but he is the King’s friend in every sense of the word. He is incorruptible, steadfast, and loyal beyond suspicion, and he and Edward have been fast friends for decades. Alexander Canmore had no such friend in all Scotland.”

The boy blinked. “Not even you, Grandfather?”

The old man laughed. “Least of all me, boy. I was his regent when he was a boy half your age, and I served him well, but before he confounded everyone by being born, when everyone thought his mother barren, his father named me heir to the Scots throne. Then the boy was born and I was dismissed as heir potential. I became, instead, a threat in the eyes of many. The Bruce holdings were among the largest in Scotland, as well as numbering among the largest in England, too, and I was directly descended from Isobel, the second daughter of the Earl of Huntingdon. I was descended, too, on my father’s side, from King David—a second cousin, by relationship—and that won me the title Tanist, or heir-presumptive
to the throne by ancient Gaelic law should anything happen to the King himself. So the King and I, you may see, could never be true friends, if for no other reason than that others mistrusted my motives.”

“You mean the Comyns.”

“Aye, I do. There has never been love between our houses.”

“I met one of them in London, too. He came down with Bek.”

The old man’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you, by God? Which one?”

“The youngest, I think. John, of Badenoch.”

“The Red cub,” his grandfather murmured. “In London?” His voice changed again. “What did you think of
him
?”

“What you said a moment ago, sir—there has never been love between our houses. I think that is not likely to change in my time.”

“Hah! You disliked him?”

“From the moment I set eyes on him, sir.” Rob hesitated. “No, that’s not quite true. By the time I looked at him he was already looking at me, and the sneer on his face was what decided me.”

“A sneer … ”

“Aye, sir. As though he had detected a bad smell, and I was it … something stuck to the sole of his boot.”

“God’s blood, boy, you have captured the essence of the Comyn character: a twisted face and an insulting leer. It is the mark of their bloodline. I can see it as though I had been there. And how did you respond to him?”

“With dislike to match his. I ignored him, sir. But King Edward was displeased—more with me than with Comyn, I think. He ordered us to be friends while we were under his roof and made a point of announcing his wish for all to hear.”

“And can you tell me why?”

Rob thought for a moment about the ominous command the King had uttered on that occasion, when his words said one thing but his demeanour dictated another.
Beneath my roof you
will
be friends
. He sucked in a deep breath. “No, Grandfather,” he said. “But I can tell you what I heard.”

His grandfather raised a questioning eyebrow, and Rob detailed the situation, and the words said, as precisely as he could recall them. When he had finished, Lord Robert sniffed and scratched at his beard, then drew his long-bladed dagger unconsciously and began to twirl it around in his fingers.

“I think you grasp the point he was making, even if you fail to see it clearly. Were your feelings hurt, that he should blame you more than Comyn?”

Rob dipped his chin. “Aye, a little.”

“Then you missed it. There was a valuable lesson there, Robert. He was not berating you, other than for effect. He was demonstrating to his vassals how easily he could control the heirs to the two most powerful houses in Scotland, even there in England. He was manipulating you in order to manipulate them even more. In that moment, Grandson, you saw, but failed to recognize, the true face of England’s King. An ill man to cross. Why are you frowning?”

Rob’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Because I see the truth of what you said earlier … I have much to learn about reading men.”

Lord Robert held his dagger out like an extended finger, then flipped it expertly and slid it back into its sheath beneath the folds of his shawl. “And so you have, but you may smile saying it, for at least you
know
it now, and that’s a worthwhile start. From this time forward you will view men differently. You’ll pay closer attention when they speak and you’ll seek and gauge the meanings beyond the surface of their words. You’ll draw information from the way they hold themselves, the way they shift their eyes, and you’ll quickly learn to see beyond the moment to the real intent.”

“You truly think so, Grandfather?”

His grandfather leaned forward with surprising speed and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I know so, boy. You’re bright and you learn quickly, and that’s a blessing in itself. Trust your old grandfather, for I told you I do not deal in lies. I would not say these things if I didna believe them. You’ll do fine. You’re a Bruce, and one day soon you will enjoy all the power that goes with that name—lands, wealth, honour, and reputation. What the ancients
called
dignitas
. In the meantime, though, I’m glad I sought you out tonight.”

As Lord Robert spoke the words, the fire in the brazier collapsed upon itself with a soft, crunching roar, sending a whirl of bright sparks spiralling up into the chimney draft. Both Bruces, eldest and youngest, gazed into the embers silently, each with his own thoughts, and then the old man sighed and looked away.