The Price of the King's Peace

“Four thousand,” he admitted.

“Dear Christ-God!”

“Not all priests and the like,” the other hastened to assert.

“The mayor and burgesses of York were there likewise. And their trainbands.”

“Fit foes for Douglas and Moray!”

“There were more than 20,000 of them, Sire. What could we do…?”

“We restrained our men as best we could,” Moray put in.

“But the confusion caused by the panic of so many was worse than anything I have ever seen.”

“Did many great ones fall? Bishops, abbots and the like?”

“Some were wounded. Many roughly handled. But I do not think that many died,” Douglas said.

“They were the nimblest at escaping, first back across the bridge. We captured the Bishop of Ely -but he ransomed himself quickly and most generously, having a high opinion of his own worth!”

“Aye. You may smile, Jamie. But we are in bad enough odour with the Holy See, as it is. How think you the Pope will look on this? How will it be recounted to him? Not as panic and folly, but as a terrible and sacrilegious slaughter by the godless and rebellious Scots. The cry will ascend to heaven itself! For a year and more I have been at pains to fend off the Vatican’s assaults and anathemas.

Yet to preserve a face of respect and worship of Christ’s Vicar. And now …!”

“His Holiness may perhaps be placated,” Elizabeth put in, “by a display of the King of Scots’ generosity and liberality towards Holy Church. Not Holy Church in Scotland or in England, but in Rome! Laying up treasure in heaven is, I am sure, his prime concern.

But treasure on earth has its value also! You gained great spoil from

this clerical host, you say, Sir James? Why not send part of it to His

Holiness? As token of your humble faith and loyal worship? “Moray

swallowed, the King stroked his chin, and Douglas burst into

laughter.

“By the Mass,” he cried, “Your Grace has the rights of it! Here’s a ploy! A selection of crosses, croziers and reliquaries-even Saint Etheldreda’s thigh-bone! What more apt? Better than handing all over to Master Lamberton!”

“I do not like it,” Moray objected.

“It smacks of blasphemy, of irreverence…”

“Tush, man-leave such to the priests,” Bruce told him.

“It is their business, smelling out the like. It might serve-it might well serve. At least to give us time. Bless you, my dear! We will reinforce our envoys at Rome with a train-load of treasure-on-earth from Yorkshire. But I think not Ely’s bone. To be of value, that must be named-and might prove a bone of contention indeed, an embarrassment. Even to His Holiness. But-come, my heart. You should be seated. You are not wholly yourself yet. You must preserve your strength …”

The two younger men hastened to apologise, to offer arms, to all but carry the Queen indoors between them.

“I am sorry, Sire. About the child,” Douglas said, over his

shoulder.

“It was a sore blow. A prince at last-and then …”

“God’s will be done,” Moray said.

It was Elizabeth who answered, not Bruce.

“We shall test God’s will again,” she declared.

“Let us pray, with greater success.”

There was a pause. Then Bruce rather abruptly changed the subject.

“Lancaster did not intercept you, on your road home?” he asked.

“Not Lancaster, no. King Edward himself sought to do so-but we eluded him by striking westwards. Across the hills,” Moray answered.

“Saddled as we were with booty and prisoners, we were in no state to meet him. Besides, we had Your Grace’s command.”

“I

am glad that you remembered it. Even belatedly!”

Hurriedly Douglas spoke up.

“Lancaster was not there, Sire.

Prisoners told us that he had quarrelled with King Edward. When the news of our raiding southwards, and our defeat of the Archbishop’s host, reached Berwick, there was trouble in the King’s camp. Lancaster had words with him. Probably he would have had him march south with him. Or continue the siege alone.

Whatever the cause, he marched off to the southwest, to his own territories, taking near half the force with him. But he gave us no trouble.”

“Aye. There is a lesson there, for any monarch!” Bruce nodded grimly.

“Too great and powerful a noble. Of the king’s own blood.

On such, a realm may founder. You note it, Earl of Moray and Lord of Nithsdale?”

His nephew looked shocked.

“Me, Uncle? You do not suggest? I am your loyalist servant…”

Bruce laid a hand on the other’s arm.

“I know it, Thomas. I but cozen you. Nevertheless, you heard de Soulis, at that last Council.

There are other strings to the Scots lute than Bruce, he said. It be hoves us not to forget…”

Chapter Eighteen

It was to be doubted whether the old Dewar of the Coigreach fully understood the honour that was being done him. Certainly he did not appreciate it. But then, he was a very ancient man, now, and had always been difficult; though far from senile, he was distinctly set in his strange ways, and found anything new deplorable. His next junior, the Dewar of the Main, probably had not the wits fully to grasp the significance of the occasion; but at least he approved of his fine new clothes, and the handsome croft of land he had been granted further down the glen. He was cheerful now, if a little drunk, and indeed adopting a definitely superior if not patronising attitude to the other three Dewars of Saint Fillan, custodians of the Mazer, the Bell and the somewhat mysterious Fearg -which, being wholly encased in silver was of unstated composition but the greater worth. These three had done nothing to aid Bruce in his hour of need, preferring to follow their chief, Patrick Mac Nab of that ilk, Hereditary Abbot of Glendochart, who was a kinsman of MacDougall of Lorn, and so pro-Comyn and anti-Bruce. The King had forfeited Mac Nab after Bannockburn, and given his barony to Sir Alexander Menzies of Weem, a loyal supporter. However, the three junior Dewars, hereditary custodians of the other relics of St.

Fillan, were in a different case. Humble enough men of the hills,

however significant their office in the old Celtic polity, it was

unthinkable that the Abbey of Glendochart should be reconstituted

without their presence-or, at least, the presence of their relics,

from which of course they were by no means to be parted. So there they

were, hanging about in a wary and somewhat suspicious group, scarcely

prepared to believe that they all had been forgiven and indeed granted

crofts likewise, for the maintenance of their office out of the former

Mac Nab lands-for they were now dignified as prebendaries or canons of the restored Abbey.

For that was what was being done this blowy spring day of sun and shower of the year 1320; reconstituting the ancient Culdee Abbey of Glendochart. It had taken nearly six years to see this fulfilment of Bruce’s vow, taken before Bannockburn, that if he had the victory that vital day, he would renew this renowned shrine of the Celtic Church. Building such a place, comparatively modest an ecclesiastical establishment as it was, in such a remote Highland glen, had been slow and difficult, especially with so much else on the King’s mind. At Bannockburn, the Dewar of the Main had carried his relic, the saint’s arm-bone in its silver reliquary, ever close to Bruce and so in the thickest of the battle. The King, excommunicated by Rome but blessed in despite by the strange representatives of the former Celtic Church, was now showing his gratitude.

Although the Culdee Church was long gone as an entity -Queen Margaret

had seen to that, in her burning zeal for Rome -the memory of it and

its practices and attitudes was by no means lost, especially in the