The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (24 page)

The sun rose in a clear, blue October sky, glinting off the gear and weapons of the party that surrounded Rob and Lord Robert’s command group as they left Lochmaben. They turned north at the bottom of the hill, following the wide, well-beaten track leading
towards the fringes of the great forest that cloaked the southwestern body of Scotland north of Annandale. From that point on, as they passed through the hamlets and villages of their own lands, their numbers swelled constantly as other groups came from all directions to join them, and Rob came to think of their route through Annandale as a river with endless tributaries pouring new strength into its channel with every twist of the path.

Armies, in Rob’s limited experience, were composed of disciplined military units. He thought of them in terms of blocks and phalanxes of armed men, usually dressed in uniform and marching in defined ranks—but he could see no semblance of organization in the swelling group around and behind him. This growing army moved freely, at its own pace and unconstrained by officers or sergeants of any kind. Each new party of newcomers tended to keep together, and the mounted men kept clear of the marchers for obvious reasons, and yet they made good time, moving quickly and efficiently as though by common consent, with only an occasional voice raised in command or reprimand.

His grandfather identified each group tersely for Rob’s benefit as it arrived, a roll call of the vassal lairds of Annandale whom Rob had met the day before: Dinwiddies first, then Kirkpatricks, Johnstones, and Jardines, followed later by three separate groups of Herrieses and two of Armstrongs, late arrivals from the Jedburgh region, and finally a large contingent of Crosbies from the area surrounding Dumfries. Although his grandfather had estimated fifty men might come from each source, there were no fewer than seventy in the second group of Herrieses to arrive—and that was the smallest of all in number. The Crosbies of Dumfries alone had turned out a group of close to two and a half hundred.

They made camp that first night in a rocky meadow among the Lead Hills, on the bank of the wide, strong stream that would become the River Clyde within the next thirty miles, and Rob, duty free from the moment they dismounted, wandered through the encampment. He guessed that more than twelve and perhaps as many as fifteen hundred men had answered his grandfather’s call to
muster, and they seemed a mismatched crew at first glance. On closer inspection, though, he recognized how his grandfather’s motley muster was comparable to the formal, English-defined norm of cavalry and infantry, rigidly segregated and organized in disciplined formations and cadres.

The Bruce force may have appeared to lack discipline. Yet both were readily discernible, evident in the extreme care the Annandale marchers all took to keep themselves spread far apart and cross through their own home lands without causing any depredations that could be avoided. They advanced on an extended front, close to a mile wide where the terrain would permit, because, as his grandfather explained to Rob, fifteen hundred men with horses and wagons moving in a compact body would destroy every field and every copse it crossed. These were the men of Annandale and this was their home, so they took great pains to leave few lasting signs of their passing.

By the time they were beyond Annandale and struck northwest towards Bothwell, their muster was complete, and any newcomers they saw kept well away from them, gathering on vantage points from which they could watch, and count, the passing Bruce forces.

From Bothwell, they left the widening valley of the Clyde and struck northeast again, towards Stirling and the River Forth that split the realm of Scotland into its two ancient divisions, northern Highlands and southern Lowlands. On that part of their journey they were contacted by couriers from the Earls of Lennox and Mar and Fife and from Sir James Stewart himself, the hereditary High Steward of the realm, all of whom promised Lord Robert armed support and offered encouragement and godspeed.

Rob’s father caught up to them the day before they reached Stirling, adding a full seven score of newcomers from Carrick to their ranks. Rob was alone with Nicol when the earl arrived, and they were the first to welcome him back, and while his father made no reference to the changes in Rob’s bearing and demeanour since their last parting, Rob felt sure that he was quietly pleased with his son’s progress and he felt no need to prove anything further. His two
immediate ancestors were serving their realm well, he believed, and he was determined to do no less when his turn arrived.

They arrived at Perth, less than ten miles from their final destination at Scone, and Lord Robert and some twenty of his most prominent followers rode into the town, leaving the main body of their following drawn up in the fields outside the town’s walls, not wishing to alarm the inhabitants any more than they must. They were met in the marketplace by Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow, a dyed-in-the-wool Bruce supporter and a close friend and confidant of the Stewart, within whose holdings Glasgow lay. He was also a member of the council of Guardians, wherein his Bruce sympathies were well known. Even before Lord Robert and the Earl of Carrick had time to dismount, the bishop came striding to meet them, dressed in the full episcopal regalia of his guardianship. He nodded grimly to Lord Robert and the earl and curtly summoned them to confer with him. Without waiting for a reply, he stalked away towards the pavilion that had been erected for him in the middle of the marketplace.

Earl Robert swung a leg over the cantle of his saddle and slid to the ground, watching the bishop’s retreating back. Beside him, his father dismounted with less agility, his face impassive as he handed his reins to one of his men. As Lord Robert stamped his feet, loosening his leg muscles, the earl turned to him, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. The patriarch shrugged slightly but said nothing as he turned to follow the bishop. The earl instructed Nicol to warn the others to stay in the square and form a cordon around the bishop’s pavilion, far enough from the tent to keep prying ears at bay. As he turned back to make his own way towards the tent, the earl saw that his father was walking with one hand on young Robert’s shoulder.

The earl entered the pavilion just in time to hear the bishop question the boy’s presence.

“He’s a Bruce,” Lord Robert said. “He has to learn and earn his place and I intend to see to that myself. Thus he is here and will remain.”

The bishop nodded solemnly, then waved young Rob to a chair. Rob returned the nod with equal solemnity and went to stand by his assigned seat. He and Wishart had met mere months earlier, in London, but there had been no question of status for Rob then. He had been a mere high-born boy, interviewed by a bishop who might one day have to deal with him as a man and wondered, in consequence, how much precocity the lad possessed. Today, with Rob’s grandfather’s brusque words, all of that had changed.

Dust-covered and sweat-stained from their long ride that day, the three Bruces seated themselves at the table, and several of Wishart’s acolytes brought them food and drink. Lord Robert waved them away, but the earl raised a hand.

“Water,” he said.

Lord Robert looked at him in mild surprise, but then nodded.

“Aye, bring water. Cold.”

Wishart, sitting opposite the old man, raised an eyebrow. “What, not a drop of wine, my lord?”

“Not until I find out why you have marched us in here without a word of welcome,” Lord Robert said. “I doubt I’ll like what you have to say, and if that’s the case I would not wish to be beholden to you in advance for hospitality. So spit it out, Rab Wishart. What’s afoot?”

Bishop Wishart looked at the waiting priests and nodded to the senior of them. “You heard Lord Robert, Father James. Set what you have on the end of the table and bring some fresh water from the well. Then leave us alone. I will summon you if I have need of you.”

The priest ushered his assistants outside, and as soon as they were gone Wishart looked the Bruce patriarch straight in the eye.

“I’ll tell you what’s afoot,” he said wryly. “
You
are, Robert Bruce. You are afoot, for the time being. But you rode in here at the head of an army and that places you squarely in revolt against the Guardians.”

“Be damned to you, Wishart. What kind of sanctimonious claptrap is that? Are you accusing me of treasonous revolt? Against what King? I
am
the King of Scots, man—or I will be, soon, now that the
Maid is dead and the throne vacant again. How then can I be treasonous to myself?”

“I said no word of treason, Robert. I said revolt.” The bishop’s determination to be unequivocal was evident from the hard edge in his voice and the familiar use of the Bruce’s first name. “When you come marching half the length of Scotland at the head of an army you put yourself in open, public defiance of the council and its concern for the welfare of this realm.”

“Damnation, man, I have no wish to defy the council and you know that as well as I do. I have come here to attend the gathering at Scone, with the others, magnates and mormaers. And Guardians.”

“Aye.” The bishop’s voice was suddenly wry again. “And you have come alone, you and yours, to mingle with your peers. Only a fool would think to question the well-known fact that you travel always with two thousand swords, requiring them to fan the midges off your brow when the sun sets.”

Lord Robert ignored the sarcasm. “You exaggerate,” he said bluntly. “I brought my swords to guard my back and protect my presence here because I had no wish to be waylaid and then dispossessed
in absentia
by a clutch of clawing Comyns. And don’t try to wave away that statement, Robert Wishart, for you know it’s the likeliest thing to happen, were I foolish enough to take the risk. This northland is Comyn territory, hoaching with them like fleas on a hedgehog, and none here would heed my voice at all were I not to raise it loud and long in my own cause. So don’t talk to me about my shortcomings and my lack of respect unless you are prepared to condemn the Comyns equally.”

“I am, Robert. We are … We, the council of Guardians.”

The old man blinked. “You are? Prepared to condemn them?”

“Equally, as you said.”

“Then what? I don’t understand. Why are you accosting me?”

“
Equally
was the word I used, Robert.”

“Aye, I heard you, but what does that mean?”

“It means that both of you—both factions, Bruce and Comyn— are equally guilty in this sorry affair.”

“If I hear you aright I disagree. What is sorry about my being here?”

“Oh, for the love of God, man, have you no sense at all? Between your two houses you have the whole country on the brink of civil war! And we’ll no’ stand for that.”

“Civil
war
? I am here to protect my valid cause, my claim.”

“Aye, and there’s the shame of it, for the Comyns are equally turned out to protect theirs, which they see as the cause of Balliol.”

“Balliol’s an Englishman! He has barely set foot in Scotland since he was a brat.”

“I’ll not argue that, but his mother, Devorguilla, was not, and since her death he has been Lord of Galloway and is now therefore richer, perhaps, than even you. And his claim to the Crown is every bit as valid as your own, despite his English upbringing.”

“Horseshit! Mine is the stronger claim and has ever been so.”

Wishart shook his head. “Only by the ancient Gaelic law of tanistry, Robert, which permits inheritance through the female side. Both you and Balliol lay claim through that, but your claim is stronger than his by one degree of cousinship. On the other hand, though, according to strict law of primogeniture, the right of the firstborn, Balliol’s claim as senior heir in direct descent from Earl David supersedes yours.” He held up a hand to forestall Bruce’s response. ‘I know that primogeniture has no
de facto
place in Scotland’s law, but it is none the less considered valid the length and breadth of Christendom with the backing of Holy Mother Church. And by that argument John Balliol’s claim is arguably stronger than yours is.”

Only the youngest of the three Bruces betrayed any reaction to that, turning his head to look uncertainly from one to the other of his elder relatives.

The bishop continued, calmly. “That is why we are so concerned. We fear injustice, to either one of you. Both of you, you
and
Balliol, have valid claims to the Crown, with strengths and weaknesses to each claim, and the matter cries out for judicious arbitration, for the continuing welfare and good conduct of the realm.” He paused.
“I should not need to point out to you, of all men, Robert, that the needs of the realm take primacy over the mere welfare of any individual house.”

Rob knew that Wishart had spoken the plain, objective truth as he perceived it. Unsettled, and reassessing this situation for the first time, he turned again to look at his grandfather, anticipating the old man’s outrage, only to find himself confounded yet again by his mistaken expectations, for Lord Robert showed no trace of anger. He sat straight-backed and straight-faced, his eyes focused upon the embroidered cross on the prelate’s green mitre. Beside Wishart, stretched out straight-legged in his narrow chair, the Earl of Carrick sat frowning, his hands clasped over the waist of his metal cuirass and his lips pressed into a thin line between his teeth. Rob held his breath, waiting for his grandfather to speak.

“Had any man but you said that to me, Rob Wishart, I would have taken it ill,” the old man said eventually, his voice quiet and even gentle. “But since it was you and I know your loyalty, I’ll take it as offered. You’re right, and I admit it. But I doubt the Comyns might be so willing, and there’s the meat of it.” He sighed, loudly and deeply. “There are no Comyns here, though, so let me speak solely as Bruce.

“Arbitration, you said—this thing needs arbitration. But even though that be God’s own truth, where, in the name of that same God, are we to find an arbitrator for this case?”

Wishart started to speak, but Lord Robert silenced him with an upraised palm. “Let me finish. Think about it, man. Who in all this land could arbitrate this dispute? It canna be the Guardians, for they are even-split, half for Bruce and half for Balliol, which in Scotland means Comyn. The council was set up that way, to keep a balance between our two houses, and in keeping with that, there is no presiding vote therein to break an even match. And even were the councillors themselves to elect another to their number, who would that other be? Any man you name would have a bias one way or the other, and you’d never get agreement from both sides. Surely you see the truth of that?”