Therefore, as well as out of gratitude and love for his friend, he had
given Lamberton every available aid and encouragement in the lengthy,
at times seemingly hopeless, task of completing the mighty and
magnificent cathedral of St. Andrews; and now flung himself
wholeheartedly into helping to make the opening and consecrating thereof an occasion which men would speak of for centuries.
To this end all Scotland had come to the grey city in the East Neuk of life, at the tip of the promontory between Forth and Tay-or all therein who were of any note, or conceived themselves so to be, apart from the vast numbers who were not. The royal summons had been clear and emphatic. The King had even had Lamberton hold up the celebrations until Douglas and Moray could get back from their successful and extended demonstration sweep of Northern England-and they had had to return from as far away as Skipton in Craven, and Scarborough. Now they were back, triumphant, with no losses to speak of and legendary exploits for their men to boast-as well as vast trains of booty, which had much delayed them, innumerable illustrious and valuable hostages for ransom, and indeed a magnificent collection of church plate, gold and silver vessels, fonts, crucifixes, chalices, lamps, candlesticks and the like, jewelled vestments, and other treasure, as votive offerings for the newly-completed cathedral. Lamberton received this largesse, the cream of apparently no less than eighty minsters, churches, abbeys and monasteries, in Yorkshire and Durham, somewhat doubtfully-and wondered what sort of letters were speeding from Archbishop William Melton of York to the Vatican.
But at least all this was probably better installed in the sanctified
premises of St. Andrews than decorating rude barons halls or melted down for money.
Even Walter Steward had taken brief leave of absence for a couple of days from his onerous duties as governor of Berwickon Tweed, in order to attend. The King had insisted on this; for one of the secondary objectives of this whole affair was to bring before the people the infant Robert Stewart, Walters son and Bruces grandson, second heir to the throne and, in view of Edward Bruces Irish preoccupations, of growing significance. The boy was now two and a half, a fine, sturdy, laughing child, seeming wholly to take after his very normal father though Marjory Bruce had been a laughing normal child, indeed a poppet, once.
So, on a day of blustery wind and sunshine and showers, all rainwashed colour and contrasts, at noon two great processions set out into the crowded streets, the Kings from the great Augustinian Priory, which he was making his headquarters meantime, and the Primates from the episcopal castle. At the head of the first, behind a large company of musicians playing stirring airs, Bruce walked, splendid in cloth-of-gold and scarlet beneath the Lion Rampant tabard studded with jewels, bareheaded save for the simple circlet of gold with which he had been crowned at Scone when Scotland could not rise to better. But to compensate, Elizabeth who paced at his side, regal in purple and silver, wore a magnificent crown on her yellow hair, flashing with gems and pearls, especially made for the occasion.
Immediately behind stalked a distinctly embarrassed High Steward, leading his grinning, skipping son at his right hand, and the toddling Princess Matilda at his left-a thing that he would have died rather than be seen doing, for anyone else than his beloved father-in-law who, however, had been smilingly adamant on Elizabeths advising. And she had been right, for the crowds went wild with delight at the spectacle. Thereafter a nun all in white carried the infant Princess Margaret in her arms.
Next came the heroes, Douglas and Moray, in gold-inlaid half armour, bearing in the crooks of their right arms gold-plated and engraved jousting helms, plumed with their respective colours-although these latter were only recent replacements of English lords crests. Sir Gilbert Hay, the High Constable, whose duty and privilege it was always to be close to the monarch, walked with them.
These were followed by the Kings sisters and their hut hands Christian with Sir Andrew Moray of Bothwell, son of the hero of Stirling Bridge, her third spouse and a deal younger than her still highly attractive self; Mary, now Countess of Atholl in her own right, and wed to Sir Alexander Fraser, the Chamberlain; and Matilda, with Sir Hugh Ross.
Alone, after them, grim, sour-faced and clad in little better than rags, for all the world like a witch, hirpled the Countess of Buchan, eyed askance by all yet condemned by none, a woman who had paid a more terrible price than most for that days celebrations.
The man who, after a noticeable space, stalked next, handsome narrow head held high, weakly chin out-thrust, tongue ever moistening lips, was Mac Duff himself, the Countess Isabels brother -although she would by no means recognise his presence-Earl of life and senior magnate of the land, heir of a line older than the dynasty, making his first public appearance since his belated change of allegiance-and unsure of his reception. He led the Earls of Scotland, as was his right although some of that splendid group would have voted to see him beheaded. But his presence, along with that of many another ex-traitor, represented not only victory for Bruce but the continuity and wholeness of his kingdom. The Kings pardon embraced all. Only Mar was missing, Bruces own nephew and Christians son, who still preferred Edward of Englands service, and was said to love that strange man. The Lord of the Isles strode, a little apart, inevitably.
Sir Alexander Seton, in the scarlet robe of Seneschal and King of Arms, led the resounding company of the lords and barons, with the colour fully-garbed Highland chiefs carefully mixed amongst them-for the King was concerned, as ever, to heal this grievous dichotomy between the Highland and Lowland polities-however much not a few of the proud Scoto-Norman barons resented being coupled with Erse-speaking barbarians with touchy tempers.
There followed the almost unnumbered host of the knights and lairds and sheriffs, the lesser officers of state, the captains and chieftains, far enough behind to have their own band of musicians.
Many of these were the veterans of twenty years of grim warfare, hardbitten, tough, the most seasoned fighting men in all Christendom, with no traitors here. If Robert Bruce could have followed his own choice, it was with these that he would have marched, for it was on their broad shoulders that his throne rested. He had much ado keeping such out of the way of life, Menteith and their like.
He was at pains to remind them that a kingdom, a realm, was not all composed of heroes and patriots.
Long before all this resplendent throng could emerge from the Priory,
the King at its head had met the even more resplendent procession of
the clergy, from the episcopal castle. Here was magnificence on an
awe-inspiring, dazzling scale, with robes and copes and dalmatics, chasubles and tunic les stoles, mitres, pastoral staffs and enshrined relics, in every colour under the sun, ablaze with jewels, coruscating, scintillating. Even Bruce was shaken at the magnitude and quality of this splendour, of its wealth and riches. Where had all this been hoarded away, hidden, during the long years of war and want? Certainly the Church had been his most faithful and generous supporter-but it seemed that it had been better able to afford that help than he had realised. Today, Holy Church had come into its own, and something of the accumulated wealth of the centuries was revealed-no doubt deliberately, as part of the lesson to be spelt out.