The Price of the King's Peace

“Matters have much changed, Sire, since our expedition left

“Seemingly! But not of my will. I still expect my brother’s fullest

support in this warfare, without any talk of exchange.”

“I would remind Your Grace that Ireland is an independent kingdom”

“Ireland is today a conquered province of England. I have had sufficient travail and sorrow in freeing Scotland from a like state, not to take on the reconquest of Ireland! If such is my brother’s design, he must needs find Irishmen to do it. Or other allies. My Scots forces are there solely to win a treaty of peace from Edward of Carnarvon.”

There was silence while de Soulis digested that.

”Then-you will not send aid to the Lord Edward? To His Grace?” “I

have not said so. But any that I send will go on my terms. Not as part of any bargain. They will be sent to the Earl of Moray, under his command. And he will take orders from myself. You understand? All Scots forces will he command, as my lieutenant -since my brother is no more that. And a full offensive southwards will be mounted forthwith. Before the English hear of this and send reinforcement. This is my decision. You will inform my brother.”

The other bowed.

“And … and how many men will I inform His Grace that you will send?

Under these conditions.”

“One thousand within the week. Light horse. More later, and when I hear that these are being used to good purpose. With silver.

And food.”

“His Grace hoped for many more than a thousand.”

“His Grace will have to earn them, then! He has set back my hopes of a peace treaty, set back Scotland’s full recovery, by years.

As the price of his crown. This you will tell him. You have it?

Then, I declare this audience ended, Sir William. You may retire”

Chapter Ten

Bruce, typically, had chosen his own way to counter incipient sickness and debility. He had always claimed that it was the Earl of Buchan’s imminent threat, and the subsequent vigorous action of the Battle of Barra, which he had risen from his sick-bed at Inverurie to fight, which had cured him that first time. So, in midsummer of 1316, he had impatiently shaken himself, left the weary siege of Berwick to underlings, and exorcised his ill humours of body and mind by setting off personally, with James Douglas, Walter Stewart and a large, fast-moving force, on a massive, deep penetration raid into England.

And, surprisingly, it had worked. In the saddle, at the head of an armed host in enemy territory, the hero-king became himself once more.

Now in the golden days of early October, they were on their way home again, a little weary but flushed with success, and with almost an embarrassment of booty and prisoners to delay them.

And Bruce was in no mood for a leisurely progress through the English North, however subservient its people. For the Queen’s time was due towards the end of the month, and the King was agog, eager, to be back for this momentous event. Also to be with Elizabeth in what could only be an anxious time. A first child, at her age, was bound to be less than easy; and Bruce’s first wife, as well as his daughter, had died in childbirth. Moreover, he had delayed a little longer than he had intended, in the south, due to the concomitants of unprecedented success.

They had won as far south as Richmond, again, without major opposition and even to Bruce it had seemed strange for a King of Scots to be ranging at large so deep into the green heart of England without let or hindrance, entering cities, receiving addresses of reluctant welcome and even more reluctant tribute and treasure. Richmond itself, protected by its great castle, had been almost too reluctant, and had been all but committed to the flames before the unhappy magistrates realised that the castle would not, could not, save them, and had painfully paid up the promptly increased demands. Thereafter a certain amount of organised resistance in the West Riding had required that an example be made, and the Scots had swept through that fair land with fire and sword before, concerned about the time factor and the long journey home burdened with so much booty, Bruce had sent one more letter to an apparently unconcerned London urging an immediate treaty of peace. Perhaps he had waited rather too long for the answer which did not come. Quite unable to understand Edward of Carnarvon’s ideas as to ruling a kingdom, it had been the Scots’ turn for reluctance as the order for retiral was given.

So it was that, in a mellow autumn noonday, hazy sun, turning bracken and reddening leaves, the long, long, winding column of chivalry, armed might, highly-placed prisoners for ransom, and laden packhorses by the thousand, had crossed Liddel Water north of Carlisle and was nearing the subsequent crossing of Esk on the line for Annandale, when another and scarcely less impressive, though smaller cavalcade came into sight ahead, over the green Border hills. No great noble or officer of state left in Scotland was likely to travel the land in such style, especially on apparent road to England, and the tremor of excitement ran through the royal host.

When the sound of music and singing reached them on the still air, wonder grew. Admittedly great prelates sometimes travelled the country so with their choirs, acolytes and relics; but this was not Lamberton’s and certainly not Abbot Bernard’s style, and old Robert Wish art of Glasgow was practically on his deathbed.

Then somebody perceived the preponderance of dark blue about the host

of banners, and from that it did not take long to discern the three golden crowns on the greatest.

“By the Rude-another embassage from Ireland!” the King cried.

“What will it be this time? More men required? More money? More royal greetings?”

“Sire-is that not the Earl of Moray’s banner?” Douglas asked.

“Near the front. It is his colours-red and ermine.”

“Not under the Irish standard, surely! Not Thomas …!”

Then suddenly, as they drew closer, many about the King recognised something about the head-high, shoulder-back carriage of the slender figure in black armour that rode in the forefront of the oncoming brilliant company.

“It is Edward himself!” Walter Stewart exclaimed.

“My lord of Carrick. This … this king!”

“Aye,” Bruce said.

Men stared at each other doubtfully.

The King drew rein.

“Let us await His Grace,” he said carefully.

To a vigorous fanfare of Irish trumpets they met there on the open side of one of their own Annandale hills. Edward drew up a yard or two away, the others falling back from the two principals.

He raised a steel-gauntleted hand.

“Hail, brother!” he said.

Robert smiled a little “Well met, Edward,” he nodded.

“Here is surprise.”

“Yes. I greet you. Greet you in the name of all Ireland.”

“Indeed? William de Soulis did that also, if I mind aright. What does it mean, Edward?”

Somewhat taken aback, the other cleared his throat.

“It means it means that it is not only as a brother that I greet you now, Robert. But as a monarch. Another king. One realm greeting another. That much, does it not?”

“I do not know. Tell me how much it means. From one to whom words, professions, compacts, mean but little, it seems!”

Edward flushed under his magnificent crested helm.

“I was never one for splitting hairs, no,” he agreed.

“Bartering words. I prefer to act, brother. I find it more

profitable.”

“Profitable,” Bruce nodded.

“There we have it, yes. You have an aptitude for profit, Edward!”