The King was in no hurry to move off, next day, to give his herald sand the stern warning of burned Redesdale -time to make their maximum and widespread impact. It was noon before they started, and now a large company of mounted musicians led the way, dispensing sweet melodies. High officers of state, bishops and senior clergy, even three of the newly-arrived foreign ambassadors, from France, Norway and Hainault, came next, before the royal party, all clad in their most brilliant.
The solid ranks of armour and men-at-arms kept well to the rear. The sun failed to shine, unfortunately, but at least it did not rain.
Five leisurely miles brought them to Wark, now only a village but formerly a place of some size and importance, chief messuage place and administrative centre of one once-mighty Lordship and Honour of Tynedale. Here Bruce left most of the baggage and a substantial number of men, to erect a more permanent camp in the level and readily defendable haugh between the Wark and Dean Burns and the River North Tyne. Here they would return.
Another seven miles or so, by Chipchase, Simonburn, Hums haugh and
Chollerford, brought them to Hexham, at the junction of the North and
South Tyne. They met with no opposition-and if their reception by the country-folk was scarcely rapturous, at least some people did peer from windows and doorways and pend mouths. Tynedale waited, tense, watchful but it did wait.
At the famous and ancient ecclesiastical town of Hexham-on Tyne, dominated by its great Priory, larger than many a proud abbey, it was Robert Bruces turn to wait, outside the massive walls, while the Prior was summoned with the keys. It was not much more than a year since Bruce had last been here, and in a different mood, and Master Robert de Whelpington came in fear and trembling. But he was greeted genially.
A good day to you, my lord Prior. I hope that I see you well?
And your Priory and town prosperous?
The cleric, a stocky, red-faced man, young for so eminent an office, swallowed.
Aye, Majesty. Or … no, Majesty, he stammered.
Not… not prosperous. No. Not that. In these hard times.
We are poor. Much impoverished…
Bruce, glancing over the others rich clothing and be ringed fingers, smiled.
Come, come, Master Whelpington! Surely you mistake? This is one of the richest foundations in the North of England. Unless… unless you are so sore hit by raising and equipping your steward and the men you sent to fight against me at Bannockburn! And paying their ransoms thereafter!
The Prior positively gobbled.
No, no, Sire-not so! It was not me. It was my Lord Percy. My lord of Northumberland He it was.
He insisted that we provide a troop of men. Under his banner. He is a hard man…
I know Henry Percy passing well, Sir Prior. But also I know your Priorys banner and livery! I hold that banner, sir, a Saltire Or on Azure, captured amongst a thousand others. It lies at Stirling still. Perhaps I should have brought it back to you? He shrugged.
But that is not my concern today. I am here on kindlier business. My herald would inform you, last night? I am come to lift the burden from your shoulders. The burden of Henry Percy and his like! You say that he is a hard man. Then, my friend, you may find me kinder! For I have come to resume this Honour and Lordship of Tynedale into the Scots crown. Percy is no longer your lord. I am. The King of Scots.
The Prior stared, biting his lip. But he risked no words.
How say you, sir? Is not this good news? A king to protect you, not a robber lord who cares nothing for Holy Church!
Ah… yes, Sire.
* Is that all you can say, my Lord Prior?
No, Sire. I… I am overwhelmed. It is too much for me. Give me time, Your Majesty …
Aye. But only until tomorrow. Tomorrow you, and all Tynedale, shall swear fealty to me. Not here. At Wark, the ancient seat of this lordship. You will see to it. You understand. You and yours.
Meanwhile-my lord of Moray, take these keys. I place the town in your charge. See that my lord Prior, the magistrates, and all men of substance, present themselves before my royal presence at Wark by noon tomorrow, to take the oath of fealty. No excuses will be permitted. Bringing their tokens of service and allegiance.
Detach sufficient men for this duty, nephew. The Prior will give you all aid. I will not enter Hexham today. When I do, I expect to be received fittingly. Bells ringing, streets garlanded, townfolk out and in their best. Is it understood? Very well. Let us return to Wark, Your Grace, my lords and ladies. We rest there hereafter.
With no further leave-taking of the unhappy Prior, the King led his great company round and back whence they had just come, northwards. He signed to the instrumentalists.
Let us have music … he called.
Back at Wark, the Scots settled in for a stay of days. The working-party had been busy erecting streets of tents, field-kitchens, horse-lines and watering-points, a tourney-ground, even a temporary market-place- since the existing one in the village was small and inadequate-on the level meadows to the south of the township. For a few days at least, little Wark was to become a worthy capital of the historic and once illustrious Honour and Liberty of Tynedale -in the interests of political strategy.
The Tynedale lordship was important from any point of view.
For one thing, it comprised no fewer than thirty-eight manors, many of them rich ones, and included its own royal forest and numerous special and hereditary privileges. Its significance as a Scottish crown holding within the realm of England was self-evident.
Alexander the Third, of blessed memory, had almost come to blows with
the young King Edward the First over it, in 1277; and, as events turned
out, it might have been better had he in fact done so, while he and
Scotland were still strong, and his realm united, and Edward was not
yet intolerably puffed up with grandeur and successful conquest in
France, Wales and Ireland. As it was, to keep the peace and promote
good relations, Alexander had consented, against better judgement, to
do fealty to Edward for this ancient Scottish crown heritage,
inherited from an ancestress, Matilda of Northumberland, wife of David the First and grand niece of William the Conqueror. Alexander, needless to say, had drawn the line at going in person and kneeling before Edward to take the feudal oath of homage, and had actually sent Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, Bruces grandfather, to do it for him one of the few weak and unwise acts of a puissant monarch; though it falls to be remembered that Scotland and England were then on excellent neighbourly terms, with no bad blood between them. Edward Plantagenet changed all that. Consumed by his ever-growing lust for power and domination, he used this proxy act of homage for the Tyndale lordship, and other of Alexanders English estates, as excuse for the subsequent claim for over lordship over all Scotland.
When Alexander fell to his untimely death over Kinghom cliff, and his grandchild heiress, the Maid of Norway, died on her way to Scotland to take up her kingdom, Edward declared that he was suzerain of all Scotland, Lord Paramount, since the King of Scots had done homage to him, the King of England. The fact that the homage had been done only for lands in England, and that Alexander had proclaimed that Tynedale was a detached part of Scotland and therefore not a subject for homage anyway, was ignored.