“Aye, but how did the name change? You know, from Fitzwhatever it was to Stewart?”
“By word of mouth, how else?” I smiled at him. “From the moment of their appointment, the entire family became known as ‘the Stewards,’ and since we Scots invariably turn d’s into t’s at the ends of words, they became the Stewarts. Three generations later, they made it official.”
“I never knew that.”
I hitched my pack higher. “Not many people do nowadays, even here in Scotland. The Stewarts are the Stewarts. Who cares today what they were called two hundred years ago?”
“So how did the Bruces become involved with them?”
I stopped and looked about me before I answered that question. I was astonished to realize that I had no idea of how far we had walked or even of where we were. “Are we lost?” I spoke half to myself at first, but then raised my voice to include my companion. “We should be close to Maybole by now, but I don’t see any signs of life, do you?”
He, too, looked around. “No, but we can’t be lost. We haven’t left the road, and it’s the only one there is. It goes right into Maybole, to the crossroads where we’ll turn for the coast. It can’t be too far ahead … You were going to tell me about the Bruces.” We set off again.
“Carrick was once a part of Galloway,” I began. “A hundred years and more ago, a prince of Galloway called Duncan lost his claim to the Galloway lordship, and to compensate, his family gave him Carrick as an earldom. The earldom passed eventually to his son, Earl Neill MacDuncan, who then married Lady Margaret Stewart, the sister of Lord James’s father, the fourth High Steward. Neill and Lady Margaret had a daughter, Marjorie, who became the Countess of Carrick in her own right upon her father’s death, and she married Robert Bruce the Sixth, the son of Bruce the Competitor. Their son, the seventh and youngest Robert Bruce, is the Earl of Carrick today, and he is the grandson of Lady Margaret Stewart. Lord James, on the other hand, is nephew to the same Lady Margaret, so the Steward and the young Earl of Carrick are doubly kin.”
“The Bruces live in England nowadays. Why?” The question, naive as it sounded, surprised me, and it must have shown on my face, for he continued, “Oh, I know some of the tale. I have heard stories and rumours and bits of explanation, but I’d like to hear what you have to say about it. You are not afraid to say what you think, even if some might think your opinions … indelicate.”
I saw the expression in his eyes and laughed out loud. “Aye, well, in that spirit, Father, I’ll tell you what I think. Mind you, I’m swearing to the truth of none of what I’ll say, for much of it is conjecture and the rest is a mix of things overheard and suspected that strike me as being feasible.
“Now, as you no doubt know, there hasn’t been a Bruce visible in Scotland these past five years and more. And for good reason, I would say. Not since the conclusion of the Great Cause. You know what that was, don’t you?”
He stiffened. “Yes, I know what that was,” he grumbled. “I might be Irish, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
“Of course not. I was not suggesting any such thing. You may remember that in the end, the search for Scotland’s legitimate king came down to two qualified people: the Fifth Robert Bruce, the Lord of Annandale who claimed through the maternal line, and John Balliol, Lord of Galloway, whose claim, while one degree of separation greater, extended through the paternal line. Edward of England was invited to judge the affair, and he and his magistrates awarded the throne to Balliol, citing the law of primogeniture.”
My companion stopped walking again and gazed at me quizzically. “Primogeniture. Inheritance through the male line. Since when has that been the accepted way among the Gaels?”
“Since then, five years ago. It is a recent development, brought to us by way of the Pope. It is directly opposed to the ancient tanic law of Scotland and Ireland, which permits accession through the female line. But in recent years, male descent has been increasingly upheld throughout Christendom by the Church, though it has never been proclaimed here. Bruce’s claim was tanic, and predicated upon his having served as tanis, or heir elect, before the young King Alexander sired an heir of his own. Edward and the English bishops elected to adopt the primogeniture approach, as recommended by the Holy Father.”
“You sound as though you disagree with their finding. Were you a Bruce adherent in this issue?”
“No,” I said, “I was a priest. My sole adherence was to Holy Mother Church and my duties on her behalf. What I thought about such an important matter had no importance. Petty priests have no say in the affairs of kings.”
“Perhaps not, but they can hold opinions.”
“Hah! Presumably they can. And some of them might even do so. But that is irrelevant in this instance.”
“It’s relevant to me. I would like to know what you personally thought about it all.”
I faced him squarely. “Why? It doesn’t matter, and besides, my opinions are no concern of yours.”
“But they are,” he said, unrepentant and grinning, “because I have a need to know, mainly because I am a newcomer. Everyone I meet nowadays—ever since I joined the cathedral chapter—wants me to learn, or at least to subscribe to, his version of what is true and untrue, what is relevant and not so, what is important and what is dangerous nonsense. I had heard of you from Bishop Wishart and he holds you in high esteem. There are few of whom one can say that. His lordship is sparing in his praise and even more cautious of bestowing his trust. And so I am curious about your thoughts on this Great Cause affair. I know your cousin Will was happy with the result and remains a loyal follower of King John to this day, but I have the feeling that you were less than happy with the choice of Balliol over Bruce. Is that true?”
“If it were true, and if I were to admit such a thing openly, I could be held liable of treasonous utterances.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me but did not slacken his pace. “That is not entirely accurate, Father James. John Balliol is no longer King in Scotland.”
“Ah, but he is, and shame on you for saying such a thing. King John may stand humiliated and dispossessed in English eyes and according to English feudal law, but as a priest you know that God’s law is immutable and that, in accordance with that law, John Balliol is the anointed and crowned King of Scotland. He may not be here in person, but he remains the King of Scotland in the eyes of God.”
“Aha! Then you’re a Balliol man.”
“No, I am a Scot and a priest. I have no preference in such matters.”
“But you dislike the King of England.”
“I do not know the King of England, so how could I dislike him? But I will admit I would not trust him with anything of import to me or to my church or, for that matter, to this realm.”
“Why not? Why do you mistrust him?”
I was aware that he was baiting me, yet I sensed no malice in his probings. “Out of cynicism, perhaps. And yes, I am fully aware that no priest should ever be a cynic. But Robert Bruce of Annandale was an old man, well past his seventieth birthday, at the time we are discussing. An ancient man by anyone’s reckoning, but no less formidable because of that. He was a giant, without peer anywhere in Scotland or in England—or anywhere else, for that matter. Bruce of Annandale had done everything and been everywhere. As a young man, he fought in the civil war in England on behalf of young Edward’s father, Henry the Third, against Simon de Montfort and his upstart barons when they rebelled, and later he rode out on crusade to the Holy Land, representing the old King and accompanying the Crown Prince, Edward.”
“He fought in England, for England’s King?” the Ulsterman said. “Why would he do that?”
I shook my head, making a show of pitying his ignorance. “Because it was his duty,” I said.
“How, duty? He’s a Scots magnate, not an Englishman.”
“And you are wrong again, Father. Bruce has always been a true vassal to the Plantagenets, recognizing them as his feudal lieges. That loyalty has never, ever been i
n doubt. The Bruces, like the Balliols, the Comyns, and almost all the other noble Scots houses, own vast estates in England, but without exception such estates are held by grace and favour of the English monarchs. It has always been thus, and that, my friend, is the feudal way, honoured by the Bruces. The old traditions are less strong today, and the claims of feudal loyalty and duty appear, at times, to be growing weaker and less valid. But not, to this point, in the eyes of Bruce.”
The Irishman nodded. “I see … The old man’s dead now, is he not?”
“He is, God rest his soul. He died last year, at eighty. But even in his youth he was known for his good character and probity and for the sterling soundness of his given word. Throughout his life he took great pride in always speaking truth, no matter what the cost, and no one ever called him liar. The blood of kings flowed in his veins— pure Norman French through his mother, who was directly descended from the first David, the Norman-born Earl of Huntingdon—and he served as regent to his young cousin Alexander the Third during the King’s minority. Robert Bruce of Annandale inspired awe in all who met him. And I suppose that is the cause of my cynicism.”
“How so?”
“Because of what happened at the time of the choosing, amplified by what has happened since. Edward chose Balliol. Oh yes, I know it was the auditors who chose him, after eighteen months of harrowing debate, weighing the pros and cons of each man’s claim judiciously and openly. But let us be truthful here, just between we two: Edward Plantagenet is England’s King, and he lacks neither power nor influence, particularly when he deals with lesser men on matters of discretion. He and his judges had two alternatives from whom to pick Scotland’s King, each of them sufficiently wealthy in his own right that neither one could be suborned by the promise of riches. One of those two was a towering giant of a man whose physical courage and moral probity, integrity, and honour were irreproachable and whose nature and character dictated that he could never be coerced into bowing the knee to anyone with whom he disagreed.
“The other, though it was not yet widely known, was made of less solid stuff—equally valid in the strength of his claim to the kingship, but less … inflexible, let us say, in his other attributes. Might I suggest that a slightly cynical, less than naive person like myself might conceivably be tempted to believe that a man like Edward Plantagenet, steeped as he was in kingcraft and the necessities of protecting and augmenting his own interests, might have been induced to tip the scales of judgment favourably in his own direction by making it known to those around him that he would prefer the weaker man over the stronger?
“Pah, you might say. You might even cry foul, slander, and infamy. But what has happened in the years that have elapsed since John Balliol was crowned King of Scots?” Martin met my eye squarely, and I held up one hand, ticking off the points on my spread fingers. “One, since the day of his coronation, John Balliol, King of Scotland, has been a puppet and a catspaw for Edward of England, Lord Paramount of Scotland. His every legal decision and disposition has been questioned and dismissed, he himself summarily ordered to England to defend his own verdicts in English courts— verdicts, mark you, that he had delivered in Scotland, as King of Scotland, on matters concerning his Scots subjects.
“Two, and mainly the outcome of the first, the Plantagenet has consistently defied John Balliol as King of Scotland, and by thus confounding him, time after time throughout his years as King, has actively undermined his authority and made him an object of ridicule.
“Three, the entire disgraceful fiasco was brought to a conclusion by the public shaming, humiliation, and ritualized stripping and denuding of one sovereign nation’s king by the lackeys and lickspittles of another, when Antony Bek, a prelate of God’s Church, defied God’s own law, in the name of an earthly king, by humiliating and publicly abusing another one of God’s own anointed Christian monarchs. No man should have the arrogance to defy God openly as Bek did that day.
“And now, point four. This land of ours, this Scotland, after near a hundred years of peace, is plunged into war with England in order to protect itself from the designs of a rapacious, renegade king whose ambitions have overstretched themselves and fallen into madness.
“Now there, my friend, is gross cause for culpability and penitence from one end of shameless England to the other.”
For a long time he said nothing, and we walked on in silence until he confounded me again.
“So why,” he asked, “did Bruce do nothing all that time? He must have seen what was transpiring from the start—must at least have guessed at the outcome.”
The question, so baldly phrased and so direct, left me wordless, for of course it was evident immediately that every nuance, every suggestion contained in it must be true: Bruce must have known what was coming and he must have perceived it clearly, long before anyone else in Scotland, if not in England. Why, then, had he done nothing to intervene on behalf of his own tenants and dependents in Scotland?
“I’ll need to think on that one,” I conceded, and he nodded in acknowledgment. Our pace slowed to something approaching a toddler’s crawl, and Martin, thanks be to God, said nothing more.
“He couldn’t have done anything,” I said eventually. “He was cut off on all sides at that time, ensuring that no matter what he did or said, or tried to do or say, he would be decried and denigrated by his enemies.”
“You have just finished telling me he had no enemies,” Martin said gently.
“Don’t pretend to be naive, Father Martin, for we both know you are not. I told you no such thing. Robert Bruce was one of the most powerful men of his day, so of course he had enemies. They were everywhere, swarming like maggots on a carcass. What I said was that not even his enemies could call him liar or accuse him of anything shameful or reprehensible.
“The two most powerful noble houses then in Scotland, Bruce and Comyn, had been rivals for generations, and by the time of King Alexander’s death, the Comyn faction had grown to be the stronger, more numerous of the two. Each house detests and resents the other to this day, but the Comyns gained supremacy with the coronation of Balliol, for the new King was wed to Margaret Comyn, sister to the Earl of Buchan, who is chief of that side of the family known as the Black Comyns. The other branch of the family, the more powerful of the two, is the Red Comyns, whose territories are ruled from Badenoch by Lord John Comyn of that ilk. Between the two branches, once Balliol was enthroned, the Comyns had the power to stamp out the Bruces as a political force, and they would have done so at once had not Bruce of Annandale himself confounded them.”
I looked at the Ulsterman sidelong, lengthening my step and seeing him adjust his own without thought or effort. “D’you know how he did it?” He shook his head slowly, and I continued: “He somehow contrived to find out how the final vote would go. I have to assume that our dear Lord Jesus alone knows how he managed to achieve that, for I have never had time to ask our beloved bishop about it. The vote had not yet been taken, mind you—the balloting would not take place for several days at least, and nothing had been decided, officially speaking—but Bruce learned that the decision would go to Balliol.”
My companion pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “So what did he do then?”
I smiled, happy with myself for the ease with which I had come to see the truth involved. “He demonstrated his greatness,” I said. “He proved that, at the end of a long and honourable life, he was more far-sighted, more pragmatic, and more solicitous for his family and his bloodline than any of his contemporaries. And he proved it in ways most men have not yet begun to see, even after his death and the passage of five years.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I know you don’t. You can’t, because I have only now discovered for myself what your question has brought me to see.”
“And what is that? Can you tell me?”
“Yes, I can. I now believe that Robert Bruce of Annandale may have been the greatest man of his age. He certainly laid claim to that tit
le by what he did when he discovered he would lose the Crown of Scotland.”
“How?”
“Think about it, Father. He discovered he had lost his bid to secure the throne, a lifetime dream, and that his political enemies had had the best of him. Most men would have despaired at that point, especially men of his advanced age, faced with the prospect of losing everything and being too old to begin again. But not Bruce. What does he do? He sidesteps everything and steals the victor’s laurels right from the dragon’s mouth.
“In rapid succession he approached King Edward, reminding the monarch of his lifetime loyalty and humbly requesting permission to withdraw his claim to the Scots throne, on the grounds of advanced age, and to withdraw into England to live out the final years of his life in peace and quiet. At one thrust, he disarmed all his opponents by providing Edward the perfect answer to the only problem yet facing him: with Bruce’s voluntary withdrawal from the race, no one could ever afterwards accuse Edward of using undue influence in the election of Balliol.
“Of course, there was a price for such a sweet piece of collusion, should that be what you wish to call it. In order for Bruce to be able to retire to England and remain there at peace, he must be able, in good conscience, to reassign his Annandale holdings, and his responsibilities to his Annandale folk, in their entirety, including his yet-valid claim to the Scots throne, to his eldest son, the younger Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick. Edward was glad to accede to that, and Bruce’s plan for eventual triumph was in place.”