the. Mercy is godly-but for a people embattled, treachery, the
hazarding of all that we have fought for and gained by infinite
bloodshed and pain, is too great a danger for mercy. Here is evil, which must be stamped upon before it poisons the realm.
Most present nodded agreement.
My lord Earl of life?
The thin-faced, uneasy-eyed Duncan Mac Duff premier noble of the land, who had consistently taken the English side in all the troubles, and not even lifted a hand to save his sister when she hung for years in her cage on Berwick Castles walls, shrugged stooping shoulders.
Who am I to disagree? he said.
Men noted that answer.
Does any say otherwise?
Sir Ingram de Umfraville, onetime Guardian of the realm, uncle of the absent Earl of Angus, English by birth and always anti-Bruce and pro-Comyn -but an honest man enough-spoke.
Mercy may be too costly, Sire-but discretion should not be.
Must all these be treated alike? De Soulis should die. De Malherbe and de Logic likewise. And the man Broun. But David de Brechin, your kinsman and my friend-he is in different case. A younger man, and an ornament to your kingdom. Beloved of many, honoured by the Holy See for his crusading zeal. He was in grievous error in not making report of this wicked plot. But he refused to take part in it. He might well, in the end, have used his guilty knowledge to save Your Grace. He is not to be judged as the others. Banish him your realm for a time, Sire. But do not hang him.
I hold with Sir Ingram, Patrick, Earl of Dunbar and March said.
As I do not! Douglas asserted.
He has been receiving English gold. A paid traitor.
It was not for that he was tried, Sir James.
Hang all, and be done, the Lord of the Isles advised briefly.
Bruce turned to his other nephew, Thomas Randolph.
My lord of Moray-your guidance in this? You are of like kinship to me as is Sir David. And you also once embraced other cause to mine.
This man is your cousin. What say you?
Moray took long seconds to answer. When he looked up his noble features were drawn. He spoke almost in a whisper.
What he did is unforgivable. He contemplated the murder of his liege lord, of his own blood, the man who had forgiven him his error. He it was who, by every law of God and man should have come and made known this wickedness to Your Grace-not that woman in her bitterness. Those nearest the throne bear the greater responsibility to support it. I cannot say other than that my cousin should die.
There was silence for a little.
The King broke it.
Very well, my lords. I thank you for your counsel. But the decision
remains mine. Mine only. If I decide ill, Itake the blame-not you.I speak, must speak-and think-for the realm. Not myself. I have decided. Sir William de Soulis should die. But because he is of the royal descent, one of the few who are, for the realms sake it should not be said that the King took the life of a rival to his throne. Many would so claim. I sentence him therefore to perpetual imprisonment. I can do no other.
In this I do him no kindness. He will not thank me. Nor would any here. Better a quick death than to rot in a cell in Dumbarton Castle. That proud man will suffer the more. This, for the realms sake.
Gravely men nodded. None questioned.
His paramour, the Countess of Stratheam, was content that I should be slain so long as she was to be de Soulis Queen. Only when supplanted did she turn. Not for my sake, or the realms, but to spite her betrayer. It is not suitable to execute a woman. Or to cast her in a cell. She shall be banished, the kingdom. For the rest of her life.
All approved.
De Malherbe, de Logic, and this Richard Broun, have nothing in their favour. They are proven traitors who plotted my death only for gain. De Soulis at least believed he had a right to my throne. These would have plunged Scotland into war, internal war-and English domination thereafter, to be sure-for their own gain. They die. They shall be hanged. As for Roger de Moubray, I will not hang a dying manas they say he is. Let him be.
Again there was no dissentient voice.
Then Bruce leaned forward and spoke differently.
David de Brechin, my sisters son. Here is a stab at the heart! He chose to support Comyn, not me. He refused to attend my coronation. He fought against me at Inverurie. But these could be forgiven. Others did as much, and more. But… he signed your letter at Arbroath, a solemn declaration. While yet he was in receipt of English gold.
Now, within weeks, this! He is the fruit of my mothers tree, a fair and goodly fruit to be seem-but rotten at the core. When I condemn others to the gallows, should I spare him?
There was not a word spoken, although Umfraville nodded head.
I cannot, my lords. I will not. David de Brechin hangs with the others. It is my royal decision. The Kings jaw was set, his lined and craggy face like granite.
Umfraville leapt to his feet.
It is not right! Unfair! he cried.
You must not do it, Sire! Stain your honour so. Will you, the First Knight of Christendom, hang the Flower of Chivalry? And let de Soulis live! Here is shame …!
Shame, yes, Sir Ingram. Shame that the Flower of Chivalry is cankered in the bud! Shame to spare him because he is my own kin.
I esteemed you greater than this. Robert Bruce! I have fought against you, yes. But I ever esteemed you noble. This young man is my friend…
As all know but too well, man! That was Fraser, the Chamberlain, with a coarse laugh.
Umfraville, spare, grey, but flushed, ignored him, and the murmurs of others.
If you do this wicked thing, Sire-I shall leave your kingdom. Leave this Scotland. I have chosen to dwell in for thirty years. Wipe the dust of it from my feet. For ever!
Curiously, compassionately, Bruce eyed the strange man.
That I shall regret, Sir Ingram. You must do what you will. But you have great estates in Northumberland. Go to them. Like your nephew, Angus. None will hinder you. But this alters nothing. Sit, sir-or leave my Council table. My decision stands. The matter is closed.
Now, to this of the proposed truce PART THREE
Chapter Twenty
On a slow rise of ground above the wide, sluggish River Ribble, to the northeast of the town, and so clear of the billowing smoke clouds, Robert Bruce, in mud-spattered, travel-stained armour, sat his horse and watched Preston-in-Amoundemess burn. The sight gave him not even a grim satisfaction; Wallaces burning of the Barns of Ayr, and the times without number when he himself had been forced to set afire his own Scots towns, villages and countryside, to deny their food, shelter and comfort to the invading English, had left him with a revulsion against the sight of blazing towns and fleeing, unhappy citizenry.
Nevertheless, this deed was necessary -or so he assured himselfif Edward of Carnarvon was to be dissuaded from his new invasion of Scotland; just as burned Lancaster behind them had been necessary.
If the King of Scots did not display any satisfaction, most of those around him certainly did. And with some reason. For the burning of Preston and Lancaster was only the culmination of the most brilliant piece of raid-warfare yet to be demonstrated against the stubborn English who would not come to the peace-table.
Never had there been anything like this, even under Douglas at his most inspired, the hardened veterans averred-and led by the King himself, indeed entirely planned by him. This should prove, if anything could, that there was no truth in the rumours of a sore sickness that was said to be eating into the Bruce and debilitating him. If this campaign was the work of a sick and failing man, then pray the gods of war for more of the sort, they said!