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  The Price of the King's Peace

  ( Bruce Trilogy - 3 )

  Nigel Tranter

  This trilogy tells the story of Robert the Bruce and how, tutored and encouraged by the heroic William Wallace, he determined to continue the fight for an independent Scotland, sustained by a passionate love for his land.

  Bannockburn was far from the end, for Robert Bruce and Scotland. There remained fourteen years of struggle, savagery, heroism and treachery before the English could be brought to sit at a peace-table with their proclaimed rebels, and so to acknowledge Bruce as a sovereign king. In these years of stress and fulfilment, Bruce’s character burgeoned to its splendid flowering.

  The hero-king, moulded by sorrow, remorse and a grievous sickness, equally with triumph, became the foremost prince of Christendom despite continuing Papal excommunication. That the fighting now was done mainly deep in England, over the sea in Ireland, and in the hearts of men, was none the less taxing for a sick man with the seeds of grim fate in his body, and the sin of murder on his conscience. But Elizabeth de Burgh was at his side again, after the long years of imprisonment, and a great love sustained them both.

  Love, indeed, is the key to Robert the Bruce his passionate love for his land and people, for his friends, his forgiveness for his enemies, and the love he engendered in others; for surely never did a king arouse such love and devotion in those around him, in his lieutenants, as did he.

  THE PRICE OF THE KING’S PEACE

  THE BRUCE TRILOGY

  Book Three

  Nigel Tranter

  Book Three

  THE PRICE OF THE KING’S PEACE

  The Price of the King’s Peace 1971 by Nigel Tranter.

  First published in Great Britain 1971 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd.

  For

  ANDREW HADDON

  who, too late, pointed out to me that the English monarchs only became majestic from Henry the Eighth’s time, an eminence to which their merely gracious Scots counterparts never aspired.

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  In Order of Appearance

  Robert Bruce, King of Scots; Three weeks after Bannockburn.

  James Douglas: “The Good Sir James”, Lord of Douglas.

  Friend of Bruce.

  Elizabeth de Burgh, the Queen: Wife of Robert the First, and daughter of the Earl of Ulster.

  Gilbert Hay: Lord of Enroll, High Constable of Scotland.

  Friend of Bruce.

  Neil Campbell of Lochawe: Chief of Clan Campbell.

  Mary Bruce: third sister of the King.

  Hugh Ross: elder son of the Earl of Ross.

  Matilda Bruce: youngest sister of the King.

  Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray: the King’s nephew by a half-sister.

  Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick: the King’s only surviving brother.

  Angus Og Macdonald: Lord of the Isles and self-styled Prince. Christina MacRuarie, Lady of Garmoran: Chieftainess of branch of Clan Donald; widow of brother of late Earl of Mar.

  Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford: Lord High Constable of England.

  William Irvine of Drum: the King’s Armour-bearer.

  Christian Bruce: the King’s second sister, widow of Earl of Mar, and of Sir Christopher Seton.

  Marjory Bruce: the King’s daughter, by Isobel of Mar.

  Isabel Mac Duff Countess of Buchan: sister of the Earl of life, and widow of the Comyn Earl of Buchan.

  liam Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews : Primate. Friend of Bruce.

  Malcolm, Earl of Lennox: Great Celtic noble, and friend of Bruce.

  liam, Earl of Ross: Chief of Clan Ross, betrayer of the Queen. Bernard

  de Lorron, Abbot of Arbroath: Chancellor of Scotland. Sir Alexander

  Comyn: brother of Buchan, Sheriff of Inverness.

  Walter Stewart: 6th Hereditary High Steward of Scotland, the Queen’s cousin.

  Master Robert de Whelpington, Prior of Hexham: prominent English cleric.

  Patrick, Earl of Dunbar and March: great Scots noble, formerly on the English side.

  Sir Alexander Fraser: High Chamberlain of Scotland.

  Sir Robert Fleming: Lord of Biggar; Bruce supporter.

  Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy: Chief of Clan Alpine.

  Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale: veteran Bruce supporter.

  John MacDougall the Lame, Lord of Lorn: son of the Chief of MacDougall, Lord of Argyll.

  Robert Stewart: infant son of Marjory Bruce and Walter Stewart;

  to be King Robert the Second.

  Sir William de Soulis: Lord of Liddesdale; Hereditary Butler;

  friend of Edward Bruce. Sir Colin Campbell: son and heir of Sir Neil.

  Stepson of Mary Bruce.

  O’Neil, King of Tyrone: Irish prince.

  MacCarthy, King of Desmond: Irish prince.

  Master Adam de Newton: Prior of Berwick.

  Sir Alexander Seton: Seneschal of Scotland.

  David de Moray, Bishop of Moray: Uncle of patriot, Andrew Moray.

  Dewar of the Coigreach: Hereditary Keeper of St. Fillan’s staff.

  Dewar of the Main: Hereditary Keeper of St. Fillan’s left arm bone.

  Maurice, Abbot of Inchaffray: friend of Bruce, later Bishop of

  Aberdeen.

  Sir David de Brechm: nephew of Bruce by another stepsister.

  Sir Ingram de Umfraville: uncle of Earl of Angus: onetime Guardian.

  John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond: English commander;

  nephew of Edward the First.

  Sieur Henri de Sully: Grand Butler of France.

  Sir Andrew Harcla, Earl of Carlisle: English commander.

  David Bruce: infant son of the King. Later King David the Second.

  Sir Henry Percy, Lord of Northumberland: son of Bruce’s late foe, of

  same name.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Robert Bruce chewed at his lip-partly to hold back hot words.

  Already he had all but bitten the head off not only this wretched Englishman, but off his own good friends James Douglas and Gilbert Hay. Which was quite uncalled for and deplorable, he well knew. He kicked gold-spurred heels into his magnificent horse’s flanks-there was a plethora of both magnificent horses and golden spurs in Scotland, since Bannockburn -to urge his mount a little way forward, ahead of his companions, where at least he might be spared their inanities.

  And immediately, of course, the others spurred after him.

  “That ridge ahead, Sire,” Sir Roger Northburgh said, gesturing.

  “It will make a good viewpoint. We may see something from there.”

  “Good God, man-think you I need to be told that!” the King burst out.

  “Need I schooling from you that ridges provide viewpoints?”

  Abashed, offended, the Englishman closed his lips tightly and stared straight ahead of him at the rolling Cumbrian foothill landscape, southwards.

  Sir James, Lord of Douglas, thirty-one and looking younger, with the dark, almost gentle good looks which so strikingly belied his reputation, coughed.

  “Shall we ride ahead, Your Grace? Prospect ?”

  “No!” That was a bark, vehement as it was unkind. Bruce kicked his horse again, from a fast trot to a canter. And promptly, inevitably, the ivory-headed if splendidly dressed group of his close companions did the same, to keep up, unable to understand when a man desired to be alone with his thoughts. Even the King of Scots was entitled to that, on occasion, was he not?

  Behind them, at a short distance, the heavily armed and armoured force of some 200 knights and men-at-arms urged their more burdened mounts to maintain approximately the same position, and the entire brilliant company pounded and clanked its way up the lo
ng tussocky whin-dotted brae side of Banks Fell, which flanked the fertile Vale of Irthing in North Cumberland. It was almost two years since Bruce had last climbed this ridge, and with a sword in his hand. Gibbie Hay, Lord High Constable of Scotland, had been there too, though Jamie Douglas, as Warden of the West and Middle Marches, had been otherwise engaged.

  On the gentle crest of the hill-although it was not what the Scots would call a hill, at all-the King reined up behind the same scatter of wind-blown, stunted ash trees which had shielded them from observation last time. There was no need for such hiding today-but old habits died hard, and this was the automatic reaction of that man on any skyline. He peered down into the fair wide dale beyond, narrow-eyed.

  “There they are!” Northburgh exclaimed, pointing.

  “Down by the river. Beyond that farmstead, this side of the Roman wall…”

  “I have eyes, sir,” the King snapped. A pulse was throbbing where his hard lean jaw-line met his temple.

  It was absurd, of course, but the warrior King of Scots was nervous. The veteran of seventeen long years of savage war; the leader of more forlorn hopes than he, or any man, could count; the man whom Christendom had called its second-greatest knight, and now was calling its first; the victor of Bannockburn but three weeks previously-this paladin was nervous, agitated, as any callow youth, and, aware of it, irritable, despising himself. Yet, nevertheless, that throbbing pulse was beating out a very different tattoo in his mind and heart, a fierce exultation such as he had never known at Bannockburn or before.

  “Sire-the trumpeter?” Hay suggested.

  “A nourish? They are little more than a mile away. They would hear” “No! No trumpeting. Think you we are bairns at play?”

  “I will go down, Sire. To prepare them,” Northburgh said.

  “To acquaint them of your royal presence …”

  “You will not, sir. You, nor any. I go alone.”

  “But, Your Majesty-it is not fitting. And these are my people.

  I left them only to find you, to bring you to them. It is my

  responsibility, until, until…”

  “Quiet, man! Of a mercy! Wait you here-all of you. This is my concern.” And kicking his mount into action again, Robert Bruce spurred on alone down the south-facing slope, a brilliant figure in blazing gold and scarlet.

  Now there was no holding back, no restraint. In this, at least, he could allow his pent-up emotions release. Beating his beast’s rump with clenched fist, he drove headlong down through the slanting grassland and scattered hawthorns, turfs flying from drumming hooves.

  The company ahead was not so large as that he had left; but it was a

  sizeable party nevertheless, of perhaps 100 men-at-arms, steel-girl, led by three or four gaily-clad leaders. No more than Scotland, Northern England was not a place where travellers might safely go less than well protected, in that first quarter of the fourteenth century.

  When he was yet perhaps a quarter-mile from the oncoming party a rider left the group at its head, and came fast to meet him, long flaxen hair escaping from a fillet to fly in the wind.

  As they neared, Bruce suddenly altered course somewhat. There was a clump of thorn trees a little way to the right. That man was still preoccupied with cover. The other rider followed suit at once.

  The man reached the slight shelter of the scrub thorn first, and reining up abruptly, jumped down, so that he was standing wide legged, tense-faced, waiting, when the woman rode in. She drew up a few yards from him, panting a little, and so sat, staring.

  For long moments they gazed speechless, hungrily searching each other’s faces with an intensity that was painful; the medium tall, wide-shouldered but lean man, with the ruggedly stern features and fiercely keen blue eyes; and the achingly fair woman, superbly mature in person, her facial lines at once delicate and strong, her beauty proud yet gentled with the lines of sorrow and adversity. So they stared, utterly lost in each other, until the woman slowly reached out her hands to him.

  “My dear! My dear!” she managed to enunciate, chokingly.

  He ran to her then, stumbling amongst the fallen cattle-barked thorn boughs, and threw himself against her flank, arms reaching up to her waist, face buried against her thigh, shoulders heaving under the gorgeous Lion Rampant tabard, emotion released at last in scalding tears.

  Tears had never come readily to Elizabeth de Burgh. Often she had wished that they might. Now she stooped to kiss that bent head, her trembling fingers running through his thick wavy auburn hair. It was the sight of the few strands of silver in that thatch which caught her throat and let her weep.

  “Oh, Robert, my heart!” she cried.

  “The sin of it! The sin of it!”

  He looked up, wet-cheeked.

  “Forgive me, lass. I am sorry. It is joy, not sin. Not tears. Dear God-at last!”

  Then she was down beside him, on the grass, in a single lissome movement that blotted out the years for Robert Bruce. Always she had been a magnificent horsewoman. They came into each other’s arms.

  They had only moments, of course. Then the English party came jingling up, and though they halted at the edge of the hawthorn clump, its trees were small and scattered and privacy was gone.

  Sighing, the man released her.

  “Care nothing,” she whispered.

  “We have the rest of our lives, my love.” She drew back just a

  little.

  “Wait, you.”

  “I have waited … eight years… for this!”

  “Two thousand, nine hundred and twenty-seven days!” she amended, nodding.

  “And yet-you are more beautiful than even I remembered you. Or ever knew you.”

  “My sorrow, my Lord King-your sight must be failing you!”

  she got out a little unsteadily, smiling through her tears.

  They took stock of each other a little longer, wordless, before the Queen turned and gestured towards the waiting horsemen.

  “Here is Sir William de Hotham, who has been my … my host these many months. And who, with Sir Roger Northburgh, has conducted me to Your Grace safely and without delay.”

  The handsome elderly Englishman inclined his grey head.

  “You are kind, lady. I but did my duty.”

  “Duty can be done in more ways than one, Sir William.”

  “I have ever sought to do mine fairly, lady. Without fear or favour,” the other gave back stiffly, a little warily.

  “Lady …?” Bruce barked.

  “You are addressing a queen, sir. Do you address Edward of Carnarvon’s wife as lady? Do you?” The transformation in the King was quite dramatic.

  “Er … no, sir. No.”

  “And do you sit your horse, sirrah, when in your own monarch’s

  presence, and he standing? Get down, man!”

  As Hotham hastily dismounted, and his three stylishly-dressed companions with him, Elizabeth looked thoughtfully at her husband, and saw anew what eight years had done for him. The sheer authority of the man was almost frightening. She said nothing.

  Belatedly Hotham doffed his velvet cap, for good measure.

  “Your… Your Majesty’s pardon,” he muttered.

  “I understand that you, none of you, have ever acknowledged Her Grace’s royal style. In all her years in England. You will do so now, sir, before you take leave of her.”

  “We had our commands, Sire. From King Edward. The late King …”

  “Aye. Well, you have different commands now. Make your proper duty to Her Grace, sir—and be gone!”

  Frowning, the Englishman came forward and sank on one stiff knee before Elizabeth. He took her hand, to kiss it, though sketchily.

  “Your Majesty,” he muttered.

  “We say Grace in Scotland!”, Bruce said harshly.

  “Your … Your Grace’s servant,” the older man amended, unhappily.

  “Yes, Sir William,” the Queen acknowledged quietly.

  “You may rise.”

  As the other Englishmen came to follow their leader’s example, Bruce asked, coldly formal, �
�Has Your Grace any matter you would wish to raise before I let these go? These, your late gaolers?

  Any matter for which you would have them held personally

  accountable?”

  The woman looked from one to the other, and shook her fair head.

  “No, Sire. The times of my complaint are past and done with. Better forgotten. Go, Sir William-without ill will. There has been enough of that, God knows!”

  It was Bruce’s turn to eye his wife keenly. That had been said mildly, almost gently-and Elizabeth de Burgh, whatever else, had never been a markedly mild or gentle woman. What had the years done to her, other than enhance her beauty?

  “You may go,” he said to Hotham, with a brief gesture of dismissal.

  “Come, my dear.” And he held out a hand to aid the Queen into her saddle again.

  As the others bowed low, expressionless, the King vaulted on to his own horse with notable agility for a man of forty, and without a backward glance at them, led his wife at a quiet trot northwards.

  Some way up the hill Bruce, spurring close, reached out a hand to squeeze her arm, unspeaking.

  They smiled, and continued to ride closer together, and more slowly.

  At the crest of the ridge a long line of bareheaded men awaited them, on foot, Douglas, Hay and Northburgh in the centre. As the pair drew near, two trumpeters sounded a long and stirring fanfare that went echoing over and around all the soft green hills. The trio in the centre came pacing forward. But still a dozen yards from the royal couple, Sir James Douglas could no longer restrain himself.

  Abandoning the dignified pacing, he broke into a run, and flung himself onwards to the Queen’s side. He reached up for her hand, and at the same time sought to fall on his knee. This being something of a physical impossibility because of the height of her horse, he had to content himself with an odd bent-kneed posture while he clutched and kissed her fingers.

  “Your Grace! Your Grace! Dear my lady!” he cried.

  ”God be thanked for this! It has been so long, so very long. Here is