The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (25 page)

Wishart pursed his lips, then bent his head slightly in acknowledgment. “It’s true there may be no such man in Scotland,” he said. “But that does not mean there is no such man at all. There is one man qualified to judge such a weighty matter.”

Names tumbled through Rob’s mind, but they were names of which he had only heard and he had little knowledge of the men themselves, and he admitted to himself that he had no idea who Wishart could be thinking of. And so, gritting his jaw, he waited for his grandfather’s response, aware from the patriarch’s frown that he was reviewing his own list of candidates. Eventually, though, Lord Robert sat straighter and eyed the bishop.

“One man, you say. And not in Scotland. Where, then? In England?”

“Aye.”

“And fit to judge. Are you thinking of Edward?”

“The King himself, aye.”

Lord Robert stood up abruptly and stalked away from the table to stand with his back to all of them. His right hand was clasped loosely in his left, at the small of his back, but his entire bearing radiated hostility, and the others knew better than to interrupt his thoughts. As they waited, the tent flaps opened and the acolytes came in with cups and a wooden pail of fresh water. No one spoke as the drinks were poured and distributed, and the silence lasted until they were alone again.

Earl Robert was the only one who was really thirsty, and as he drained his cup and set it down a heavy gust of wind buffeted the walls of the pavilion and rattled the venting flaps in the peaked roof. All of them glanced up in surprise, for the day had been calm to that point.

“Weather’s changing,” the old man said absently and then turned back to them. “It’s true,” he said to the bishop. “Edward could do this, render an even judgment where none else could.” He returned to his seat at the table, still deep in thought, and sipped at the water that had been poured for him.

“He’s done it before,” he continued. “In Portugal, and then in brokering the peace between France and Aragon that ended the war in Sicily a few years ago—a brilliant feat of diplomacy, from what I’ve heard. But would he agree to do it again in this case? He has problems enough of his own to see to—in England with his barons and across the sea with his affairs in Gascony and his dealings with Philip of France. I doubt I would take the time, were I him … ” He set down his cup. “How would we approach him, if the need arose?”

“The need is here already,” Wishart growled. “My question is, would you trust him to adjudicate the matter, were he to profess himself willing?”

Lord Robert sniffed loudly, then pulled out a kerchief and wiped his nose. “For the good of the realm and to avoid a war? For those reasons I would set aside my reluctance, and aye, I would trust him. Providing, mind you, that the rules to guarantee fair-mindedness and a willingness to accept the settlement were clearly outlined and agreed upon in Scots law, and on all sides, beforehand. And that would lie within the jurisdiction of the Guardians’ council. So aye, I would trust Edward of England’s judgment. I have fought beside him when we were both younger and I respect him as a man. Besides, he is my liege lord under the ancient feudal laws of Christendom, since I owe him fealty for my lands and estates in England.” He sat musing for a few moments. “But think you the Balliol people will agree? And if they do, how will your council proceed?”

“It is already done.”

Rob watched as his grandfather stiffened and drew himself upright.

“
What
did you say?”

Wishart shrugged and spread his hands. “A letter has been sent to England, asking Edward to intercede.”

The old man’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You sought the agreement of the Comyns ahead of mine?”

“We did not consult the Comyns. We but wrote to Edward, voicing our fears of civil war and asking him for assistance in maintaining the peace of the realm.”

“Did you, by God? And who is this ‘
we
’?”

The bishop’s green chasuble shifted as Wishart shrugged his shoulders again. “The letter was drafted by Fraser of St. Andrews.”

“Damnation, man, he is a Comyn. What kind of villainy is he plotting?”

“Shame on you, Robert Bruce.” Wishart’s tone was withering. “Above and beyond all else William Fraser is a bishop of Holy Church. He is also a former chancellor of Scotland. The man is a lifelong patriot, dedicated to the welfare and prosperity of this land and its folk—
all
of its folk. His reputation and his probity are beyond question, attested to by a lifetime of service and devotion to duty. That his name is Comyn has no relevance in this matter. He saw his duty to be as clear as it has always been: to protect the peace and stability of the realm. He drafted his letter to that end, with the ungrudging assistance of another Comyn, Lord John of Badenoch, a man whose rectitude matches Fraser’s own. And neither of them thought to set the welfare of their house ahead of that of the realm. They drafted the letter as soon as word reached them of your preparations to march, for they perceived the predictable response of Balliol’s supporters, most of them their own kin. They sent it first to me, for my input. I saw no need to improve upon what they had written and I endorsed the letter myself, for the good and the need of Scotland, Lord Bruce. That same need that led you to concede just now that you will abide by Edward Plantagenet’s judgment in order to avoid civil war. The fact that most of those Balliol supporters are Comyns mattered nothing to either of the writers, for they believe that nothing—not family name or pride or reputation— supersedes the importance of their first priority, the realm and its folk.”

The fire of Wishart’s delivery left no one in any doubt of his belief in every word he spoke, and Rob could see that it had mollified the fierce old warrior to whom it had been addressed. Lord
Robert sat glowering, his jaw jutting pugnaciously, but he said nothing for a while, shifting his eyes from one spot to another without looking directly at anyone. Finally, though, he grunted and turned to his son.

“Robert, what think you of this?”

Earl Robert spread his hands. “I am here as a mere witness, Father. Your decision, whatever it may be, will affect my life henceforth, as it will Rob’s, but yours is the claim and therefore this is your decision to make. I’ll be content to stand at your shoulder and support you, whatever you conclude.”

“Hmm … ” The fierce old eyes switched to Rob, who thought his grandfather was going to speak to him, but Lord Robert turned back to face Wishart.

“Fine,” he growled. “I will retract that last remark about Fraser. It was unworthy. So the letter is sent. So be it. Where does that leave us now, the four of us here?”

The bishop cleared his throat. “Well, for one thing, it leaves me hoping that now you’ll have a cup of wine with no ill will between us, for water does little to cut the fog in my gullet. For another, it leaves us to decide what’s to be done to clear the air.”

“Hmm … Rob, pour us all some wine before the bishop dies of thirst.”

Rob hurried to obey, serving each of the men and listening closely so as not to miss a word.

“Of what do we need to clear the air?” his grandfather asked. Wishart blinked at him. “Why, this threat of civil war, of course … the talk of it.”

“Ah. And how will we do that?”

“By demonstration. Your departure with your men in train and no blood spilt will kill the talk.”

There was a long pause, and then Bruce said, “Is that all you want? For me to turn tail and go home meekly, without a word to anyone, and leave the Comyns here to laugh at me and mine? Tell me, if you will, that that is not what you meant.”

“It is precisely what I meant, though no one will laugh at you behind your back.”

Bruce’s deep-lined face was expressionless. “No, they might not. They’ll be more like to wait until I emerge again from Lochmaben and then laugh in my face.”

Wishart hissed, swiping the flat of one hand across the table, narrowly missing his cup. “In God’s name, man, can you not see?”

“I can see them all laughing, aye. I swear, Rab Wishart, you men of God are never loath to make impossible demands on ordinary folk.”

The bishop shook his head in frustration. “By doing this, as Bruce of Annandale, you will send a signal to the entire community of Scotland—the Guardians, clergy, earls, barons, and commons north and south of the Forth—to be mistaken by none. A clear signal that you are prepared to set aside your own legitimate rights in the interests of the realm until such time as that community itself can come to a just decision, in full parliamentary assembly and assisted by whatever powers of law, custom, and usage God will provide, upon the matter of whose claim is strongest. Surely you see the truth of that?”

“Aye, I can see it. But what if some folk disregard the signal? We need name no names, but what then, Master Bishop?”

Wishart slammed his hand against the tabletop. “Then they will be in rebellion no matter who they are and they’ll face the wrath of the council and the assembled host of the realm of Scotland!”

“Aye, and so they should, of course,” the patriarch said mildly. “But tell me, does that no’ sound like civil war to you, Lord Wishart?”

The bishop glared at him, then nodded. “Aye, it does, Lord Bruce. But if that should come to pass—the which may God forbid—it will be for the good of the realm and at the behest of the council and community, not at the whim of some ambitious malcontent.”

Lord Robert sucked at his teeth. “So be it, then. I’ll do it. But I’ll need to talk to my folk and tell them why we’re turning back with nothing done after so long a march.”

“No!” Rob flinched at the angry snap of Wishart’s voice. “That’s not true at all and you must not even think it. Much has been done, Robert, and that is how you should present it to your folk, for without a drop of blood being spilt or a blow struck, you have gained what you sought to achieve in coming here. Your cause is guaranteed an open judicial hearing by the community of the realm, arbitrated by a fair-minded judge of your own choosing, and you have set yourself above the ruck of your adversaries by keeping the peace and leaving them to do likewise. No failure there of any kind, old friend.”

Lord Robert sighed. “Aye, well, mayhap. We’ll see. I envy you your optimism, Robert. But it’s done. We’ll head back to Annandale come morning.”

Wishart inclined his head soberly. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “Scotland is in your debt.” His eyes moved to the two younger Bruces. “And you two should be proud of the restraint and good judgment your elder has shown.”

The words, simple as they were, filled Rob’s chest with a riot of unfamiliar sensations. He held his breath and looked across the table at his father, and watched as a small, rare smile transformed the earl’s features. He was almost afraid to look at his grandfather, sitting beside him. He sat frozen, willing himself to master his pounding heart and his suddenly uneven breathing, but then he turned his head slowly, and found Bishop Wishart’s eyes watching him closely.

He met the old bishop’s look squarely, then turned to his grandsire, whose fierce old eyes were filled with a look that Rob could not define. A great aching lump was in Rob’s throat, and as tears spilled down his cheeks—tears he had not even known were there—he stood and pushed back his chair with his legs, then dropped to one knee and bent his head. How long he knelt there he could not have said, but he felt the outstretched hand settle upon his head as he tried
to blink away his tears. Soon after, he stood up and stepped back, resisting the urge to wipe at his cheeks like a child, and found all three men gazing at him solemnly. No one spoke, but the old patriarch nodded to him kindly and with a wave of the fingers of his still-outstretched hand gave him permission to leave.

It was only as he walked away, straight-backed and with his head held high, that he understood why he had been weeping: he had been giving thanks for the miracle within himself that had transformed his grandfather, within the space of a single week, from the grim, threatening old troll Rob had always feared into the Noble Robert he knew he would always revere from that day forth. As he stretched out his hand to open the tent flap, he wondered if, should he ever become Robert Bruce the Elder, he would embody even a fraction of the nobility he had just witnessed.

“You didna like that, did you?”

His grandfather’s voice came from close behind him, making him jump. He had not heard the old man approaching, for he had been lost in thought and watching the scene ahead of him, where the Annandale men yet sat their horses in a loose ring around the bishop’s pavilion, facing outward towards the uneasy group of townsfolk watching from the edges of the market square.

“There was a lesson for you there, Robert. A lesson most men go to their grave wi’out ever having seen, let alone learnt. But I want you to learn it, here and now, for it could make a wise leader out o’ ye, so heed me here. You don’t aey need to spill blood to win a victory, nor swing a blade to win a dispute. There will be times ahead of you when all you’ll need to do is make an appearance—a
strong
appearance, mind—prepared to fight gin the need arise. Just
bein’
there, ready to act, can sometimes win the day for you when the ruck o’ folk would rather hang back and do nothin’ than set their lives at risk. Some folk might call it recklessness, but it’s far from being anything o’ the kind, for it’s never the choice that any wise man makes wi’out long, hard thought and consideration o’ the consequences. That kind of effrontery—resolve, we’ll call it—will
aey set the strong leader apart frae the switherers, for it’s the very soul o’ leadership, and other men will follow you gin you show it. They’ll take heart from your example and they’ll rise to it.”

Rob frowned. “That’s all? The lesson? The mere need to
be
there?”

Lord Robert reached out and grasped his grandson’s shoulder. “Aye, lad, that’s all. The simple need to
be
there, from time to time. But it’s never easy. And believe me, I’ve had plenty o’ years to come to know the truth o’ that. It goes against the grain o’ human nature for a man to put himself deliberately in danger’s way. The greater the harm he faces, the bigger the risk he takes and the more he stands to gain by it. But most would call him a mad fool. Others—a very
few
others—would see him as a God-inspired leader.”