So, this July evening, four men sat on the platform roof of one of the flanking-towers of Dunfermline Palace, overlooking the deep, steep, tree-filled ravine of the Pittendreich Burn, as the sun sank over the Stirlingshire hills far to the west, and discussed designs for house and ship both-Angus of the Isles, greying now, Malcolm of Lennox, and Walter Stewart, with the King. The house, it had been decided, was to be Cardross near Dumbarton, where the royal fortress, of which Lennox was Hereditary Keeper, could protect it; for it was to be no stone castle or stronghold, but a rambling,
pleasant manor-house, perhaps within a far-flung stone wall of
enceinte.
Bruce had always had a nostalgic fondness for Christina MacRuaries house of this sort, at Moidart, and was seeking to have the new building modelled on such, Lennox and Walter Stewart suggesting modifications and improvements. Angus Og was not interested in houses, only in ships, and was impatiently, indeed scornfully, pressing claim for a design of his own.
The cap house door opened, and the Queen came out. The men rose from their benches, Stewart and Lennox each seeking her approval for suggestions of their own. But, smiling briefly, she shook her head, and looked at her husband.
Sire, we have a visitor, she said.
A lady. The Countess of Stratheam.
That woman! What of it, my dear? I do not greatly like her.
Whatever she wants, she may wait a little.
I think that you should see her, nevertheless, Elizabeth said.
And … not here.
At the gravity of her voice, the King eyed her quickly, and nodded.
Very well. Await me, friends …
Going down the twisting turnpike stair of the tower, Elizabeth spoke.
Robert-I fear that there is trouble. Sore trouble. If what Joanna of Stratheam says is true. She comes from Berwickon Tweed. And talks of treason. A plot. Against you, my heart.
Against your life.
Joanna of Stratheam in a plot? That empty-head! Ill not believe it!
None would trust her with a part in a masque …! He paused.
From Berwick, you say?
Yes. Hotfoot, she declares.
Mmmm. De Soulis! I heard that she had become his mistress.
She was more ambitious, I think! See-I have her in my own
chamber…
The Countess, a somewhat over-ripe and vapidly pretty woman in her late thirties, of slightly royal birth, only child of the late and weakly Malise, Earl of Stratheam, who had been so notable a weathercock during the late wars and died seven years before, was pacing the floor in evident agitation. She dipped a perfunctory curtsey, and burst forth without preamble.
Your Grace-you are in danger of your life. Of your life, I say!
From a wicked, evil man. He plans to slay you. William de Soulis.
To slay you, and seize your throne. He is a monster! You must move against him. With all speed. Take him. Hang him, the forsworn wretch! Rack him! No fate is too bad for him. He must die, I say….
You may be right. But calm yourself, Lady Joanna, Bruce
interpolated.
Do not distress yourself so. I swear matters cannot be quite so ill as you fear…
They are, I tell you-they are! He is a devil, a satyr! A
betrayer.
A betrayer of … of … of Your Grace, Sire. His King.
That last fell distinctly flat And of you, I think? Which is perhaps
more greatly to the point!
She bit her lip.
He … he plans to slay you, Sire. And then to mount your throne. It is the truth. I swear it. By all the saints of God!
Then he is a bigger fool than I esteemed him! Bruce snorted.
Fool he is, yes. But scoundrel more. Lying wretch! Ingrate…!
How can this be? Elizabeth asked, more to halt the other womans humiliating vituperation than for information.
What claim can William de Soulis have to the throne?
Bruce answered her.
His grandsire, Sir Nicholas de Soulis of Liddesdale, was one of the original fourteen competitors for the crown, in 1291. Before Edward. He claimed in the right of his maternal grandmother, Marjory, bastard daughter of King Alexander the Second, married to Alan the Durward. All knew her as bastard-but the Durward sought to have her legitima ted And when he failed, claimed her as legitimate daughter of King William the Lion, Alexanders own father! On such claim, de Soulis made his stand, saying, in consequence, that he was indeed nearer to the main royal stern than either Bruce or Baliol! But he could produce no proof or papers of legitimation. And all agreed, besides-save himself-that no child born bastard, even though legitima ted later, could in fact heir or transmit the crown.
He says that is not true. William de Soulis says, the Countess
declared, impatient of any diversion of interest from herself.
He says that is but the invention of others. He says that once Your Grace is dead, men will be glad to have him as King, rather than any pulling infant.
Then he little knows his fellows! Bruce commented grimly.
What support does he expect to gain? Who will rally to such a
cause?
Already many do. He has much support.
Ill not believe it! Name me names, woman!
For one, your nephew, Sir David de Brechin.
Dear God-no! Not he. He would never so betray me. My own kin. He is headstrong, but loyal…
Then why, Sire, has he been accepting a pension from King Edward these last years? If he is so loyal! Her face contorted.
As has the precious Sir William!
Bruce stared.
Not that! I cannot accept that…
I have seen it. How, think you, can your Butler, Governor of Berwick, pay 360 esquires, in his own livery, to ride in his train? As he does today. Not on the rents of Liddesdale, I vow!
Shaken, the King looked at his wife.
De Soulis -of him I could believe it. But not my own nephew…
And why not? Shrilly the Countess spilled out her hate.
Many another is in the plot. Why not he? You have, it seems, offended many. By your assize of lands. There is Sir Gilbert de Malherbe. Sir John de Logic, Sir Eustace de Maxwell, Sir Walter de Barclay, as well. Aye, and Sir Patrick Graham likewise …
Sweet Jesu! That these, my own lieges, men I myself have knighted, every one, should turn against me! For the sake of a few miserable acres of land.
Sir William has promised them great things. In his kingdom.
Great estates and high office. As he promised me … The Countess caught her breath, and her words, blinking rapidly, as though that had slipped out unawares.
Ah, yes, Lady Joanna? And what did Sir William promise you?
The woman looked from one to the other, uncertainly.
Marriage, Sire, she said, at length, almost defiantly.
Marriage, heh? So-you were to be the Queen!
I, I never approved this plotting, Your Grace. I swear it.
Of course you did not! Yet you would have married the Lord of
Liddesdale, in despite of it?
We … we have been close. In … in an association. For many
months. Since he returned from Ireland.
And you are no longer?
He is a deceiver, I tell you! A miscreant! He has become embroiled with a chit of a girl. Daughter of some mere Northumberland squire! All paps and calves eyes! But she has him cozened and bewitched, the fool. Naught will do but that he weds her. A man old enough to be her grandsire …
So this squires daughter is to be Queen in Scotland!
Not if I may prevent it, by the saints! That was almost a whisper.