You have brought his body home?
Alas, no, Sire. The English-they took it. Dead. They beheaded him. Quartered the body. Sent it as spectacle to four parts of Ireland. The head to be sent to Edward of England …!
A-a-a-ah! That strangled sound was not so much a groan as a snarl. And loud enough for many to hear. Even Lamberton paused for a moment in his delivery, brows raised towards the King.
But that last intimation of English savagery had made Robert Bruce himself again, the warrior he had always been rather than the gentler monarch and father of his people he now sought to be.
The iron came back into his features, and he raised his head. He caught the Primates eye, and gave a brief shake of his head to the latters enquiry, sitting back in his throne, a clear indication that Lamberton should proceed. Still low-voiced, he said to de Soulis:
Very well, Sir William. I thank you. Of this more anon. You may retire!
But, Sire-there is more …
Later, sir.
It was the others turn to frown, as he rose, bowed stiffly, and backed away.
The celebrations continued, as planned.
Later, the long service over, and when the processions had wound their
colourful way back to their respective bases, a great banquet, masque
and dancing was arranged for the evening-more than one indeed, for all
walks of men and women. Bruce cancelled none of it. But he did call a
hurried Privy Council,for the hour or so intervening, in the refectory
of the Augustinian Priory.
It was a larger Council than usual, for practically every member entitled to be present was already in the city. Sir William de Soulis himself was present, in his capacity of Lord of Liddesdale, if not Butler of Scotland.
My lords, the King said, without preamble, when all were seated, Lamberton himself the last to hobble in.
I grieve to upset this great and auspicious days doings, and to inconvenience you all thus. But you should know what tidings the Lord of Liddesdale has brought me. Some may already have heard. And to give me your counsel as to the necessary decisions. My brother, the Lord Edward, Earl of Carrick and latterly King of Ireland, is dead. My my brother, the last of four. All slain. By the English. At least he died honourably. On the field of battle. Yet he was dishonoured in his death, in that the enemys spleen triumphed, even so. They dismembered his body. Cut it upas they did the others To exhibit as trophies. Despatched throughout Ireland. His head sent to England. Such, my lords-such are they with whom His Holiness of Rome makes cause! These to whom he would have us submit!
In the hubbub that followed the King waited set-faced. Then he banged on the refectory table.
My lords-may I remind you that this is a Council, not a wives gossip! he declared, with a harshness that had not been heard in his voice for long.
My lord Edwards death I shall mourn, in my own way. We were not close. We much disagreed.
But we were brothers. But-that is my business. Not this Councils.
What is, is twofold, and to be considered herewith. The Lord Edward was appointed by parliament first heir to my throne. It therefore becomes necessary for parliament to appoint anew. For my bodily health is not of the best, and I need remind none that the succession is all-important. He caught Lambertons eye, and the older man shook his head almost imperceptibly.
So this Privy Council must guide parliament in the matter. A parliament to be called as soon as may be possible. As you know, forty days notice is required. But effective decision cannot wait so long. So decide, my lords. He paused.
Secondly-there is to decide what to do about the Scots forces still remaining in Ireland.
They are not so many, but still some thousands …
Sire, de Soulis interrupted-and men, however distinguished in blood or position, did not interrupt their sovereign.
They are fewer than that. Fewer than you think. For they were all at this battle. The spearhead of the Kings army. Two thousand and more. Few now are alive. Of any degree, noble or simple.
Every eye stared at him.
All are dead. My cousin, Sir John de Soulis. Sir Philip de Moubray, Sir John Stewart of Jedburgh, my lord Stewards cousin, Sir Fergus of Ardrossan. Ramsay of Auchterhouse …
Christs mercy! All these-my good friends! How came they all to the, man? Here must have been utter folly!
The English were strong in cavalry. They were commanded by the Lord
John Bermingham. With many notable captains. Sir Miles Verdon, Sir
Hugh Tripton, Sir John Maupas. He it was who slew the King. I, and
others, urged that we should retire. But His Grace must attack. They
outnumbered us ten to one. The Irish levies fled. The King fell,
early. The Scots would not flee. They died there, around their
A-aaye! God rest their souls! The brave ones. My men.
But-the waste! The folly of it. Men who had fought with me on a score of fields. To die so!
They died honourably, Sire. Choosing death with their monarch.
No, sir. Not their monarch. Their leader, perhaps their friend. But the Lord Edward was not their monarch. These were subjects of mine. I say that here was waste and folly. As was all the Irish adventure. But-what matter? They died. And you, sir, did not!
Eh …? De Soulis blinked, and flushed.
What means Your Grace?
What I say. These, you said, chose death with the Lord Edward. You did not, it seems, Sir William!
By Gods good providence I was preserved. Unhorsed in a charge.
Stunned. Led off the field by my esquire. And so preserved.
I seem to mind Your Grace in similar case at Methven!
That is true. I stand rebuked. My claim is that these stout friends of mine, old friends-their deaths were waste, folly. You say not-yet you were less foolish. I commend your wisdom in this, at least!
Your Grace is not doubting my courage? My honour?
Your courage-no, sir. Your honour-who knows? It is a chancy
commodity, honour! It is concerned with more than battles, Sir
William. You have been privy to much that was against my interests you
my Butler. You ever supported my brother in his Irish follies against
my known wishes. You worked against my lord of Moray, my lieutenant,
sent to Ireland to guide my brother. Your courage I do not doubt, sir-but let us leave honour out of this!
De Soulis had half risen from his bench, glaring. It was most plain how these two men disliked each other.
Sire-I do protest! he exclaimed.
You wrong me, in more than in my honour. Without cause. Moreover, you miscall me. I would remind you that I am a peer of the realm of Ireland. Earl of Dundalk. I would request that you style me so!
Sir William de Soulis, Bruce grated, in this realm of Scotland, you are Lord of Liddesdale -by my good favour. You are Hereditary Butlerby my good favour. These, and nothing else.
You have not surrendered your Scots citizenship. Or not to me. For Irish. Or you would not be sitting at this Council. Do you wish to do so? That was rapped out.
The other sat back, biting his lip. He had great lands in Liddesdale and the SouthWest March. And his new Irish lands were already overrun by the English.
No, Sire, he said, thickly.
Very well. Remember it. Remember also that at my Privy Council I expect to receive counsel. Not bickering and disrespect.