The Price of the King's Peace

“Is it not already decided?” she returned listlessly.

“My Uncle Edward is to have the succession, is he not?”

“It is less simple than that, Marjory. Edward desires it, yes. And I hear must have it. Many will support him. But he will not make a good king. He is rash, headstrong—and his very rashness poses a further problem. For he is unmarried, and has no heir-however many bastards! He is, indeed, more like to die a sudden death than I am! The wonder is he has not already done so! Leaving none to succeed him. The succession could scarce be in worse hands.”

She shook her head, as though deliberately disassociating herself from responsibility.

“Any Act of Succession, therefore, by parliament, must declare a second destination. Should the first heir to the throne die without lawful issue. It must, can only, be yourself, Marjory. After Edward.

Whether you wish it or no. There is none other.”

“What are you telling me, Sire?”

That word sire rankled. Bruce frowned.

“This, girl. That the throne’s succession is of the greatest

importance for the realm. A continuing succession. If it is to be

saved from internal war and misery, and the evils of rival factions fighting for the crown. It is my duty, as monarch, to ensure that succession to the best of my ability.”

“Therefore, Marjory, since it seems that you will make no move in the matter, I intend to announce to this afternoon’s parliament at Ayr that it is my decision to give your hand in marriage to Walter Stewart, High Steward of Scotland. And that, failing other heir of my own body, the succession, after Edward, shall devolve upon you, my daughter, and thereafter on any issue from such marriage.” Robert Bruce did not realise how sternly, almost harshly, he had made that difficult pronouncement.

The young woman, after an initial catch of breath, made no comment whatsoever.

“You hear? Walter Stewart.”

“Yes.”

“Save us-have you nothing to say, girl? When your husband is named for you?”

“Only that I guessed it would be he.”

“You did? How so?”

“From the way you spoke to him, these last months. Looked at him.

Left us together.” “So! And what have you to say? Of Walter

Stewart?”

“As well he, as other.”

“Of a mercy! Is that all?”

“What would you have me to say?”

“At least, how he seems to you as a man, a husband. He is handsome, well-mannered- but no pretty boy. Younger than you, but able with a sword, sits a horse well, can wrestle. He is a great noble, with large lands, head of one of the most illustrious houses in my kingdom.”

“Yes. So you would have him for your good-son. Have his child heir your throne.”

“No! Or … I’ faith, girl-you are sore to deal with! It is necessary that you wed. You know that. You could have your choice of any in the realm. But you would not. Would choose none. So I must needs choose for you. Walter Stewart asked for your hand. I know none better. Do you?”

“I have said, as well he as other. What more do you want from me? I shall obey you.”

“From my daughter, my only child, I look for more than obedience.”

“Your only child born in wedlock,” she corrected.

His brows shot up.

“Ha-does that gall you, then?”

“You must wish that it had been otherwise. That one or other of these had been my mother’s child. And I had been born bastard. It would have spared us both much.”

He stared at her nonplussed, at a loss.

“I never wished you other than very well,” he said.

“As a child, I found you … a joy.”

“When you saw me, came near me.”

“I was fighting, girl! Fighting for this kingdom. For eighteen years I have been fighting.”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“You have your kingdom.”

Sighing, he began to pull on his boots.

“I have my kingdom,” he agreed heavily. He stood up.

“Was I wrong to believe that I could have my daughter also?” When she made no response, he went on, “I go back to the castle. It is a dozen miles to Ayr, and we leave at noon. Do you attend the parliament?”

She shook her head.

“Only if you command it.”

“I command nothing of you, lass.”

“Save that I marry. And produce you an heir.”

He spread his hands in token of resignation, or possibly defeat, and

left her sitting there. The Ayr parliament of April 1315 had much to

discuss besides the question of the succession. Foremost came the peace offensive, the great endeavour to bring the English to negotiate a firm and lasting peace, not just another temporary truce in this unending warfare; and part and parcel thereof, their recognition of Bruce’s kingship and the essential and complete independence of his king dom. This was elementary, basic to all settlement; yet strangely, though the English claim to over lordship suzerainty, was only some twenty years old, and the product of one man’s megalomania, this was the stumbling block holding up all agreement-despite Edward the Second’s hatred for his late father and all his works.

But before this vital issue, there was a symbolic item to be staged, a mere ceremony but significant of much, in the Great Hall of Ayr Castle, the same slightly smoke-blackened hall, built by the English invaders, where once William Wallace had hanged the fatly obscene nude body of the sheriff, Arnulf, and his two chief henchmen, before burning all. This afternoon, Abbot Bernard of Arbroath, in his capacity of Chancellor of the realm and chairman of the assembly, after bowing to the King and opening the proceedings, called the name and style of the most noble Sir Patrick Cospatrick, 9th Earl of Dunbar and March.

There was a hush, as everywhere men eyed the side door which opened to reveal the slender, darkly handsome person of a proud featured middle-aged man, splendidly attired. Looking neither right nor left, this newcomer strode firmly down the long aisle between the ranks of Scotland’s great ones, un hesitant straight for the dais, which he mounted, to bow before the throne.

“Your Grace, my lord Robert, I, Patrick of Dunbar, humbly crave leave to make my due homage to yourself as liege lord,” he announced in clear, almost ringing tones.

Bruce, in his gorgeous scarlet and gold Lion Rampant tabard, permitted himself just the glimmer of a smile. There was nothing humble about the voice or attitude, nor in the level glance of those dark arrogant eyes. Nevertheless he inclined his head, graciously, as though well satisfied.

“Welcome to my Court, Cousin,” he said.

The fact of the matter was that this represented victory, undeniable

victory. This man, perhaps the greatest in power of all Scotland’s

thirteen earls, and second only to the absent life in seniority, had

been the most unswervingly of all on the English side. Which was

scarcely to be wondered at, since his lands, such as were not in

Northumberland and further south, were all in the Merse, the East

Borders, in Berwickshire and Lothian, areas which had been wholly and

consistently in English occupation, almost defenceless against

invasion. This man’s father, dying five year; before, had fought boldly with the English on every major battlefield of the wars, from the very first, that of, Dunbar itself. And the son it was who had aided Edward the Second to escape James Douglas and his other pursuers after Bannockburn by providing a boat to take him from Dunbar to Bamburgh. Now this confirmed Anglophile had decided that it was time to change sides. Nothing could more plainly underline the fact that he believed that Bruce’s hold on Scotland was secure.