lambs returned to the fold. Bruce watched some of the lambs — Buchan and the recently freed Lord of Badenoch for two, smiling wolves in fine wool clothing, watching him in return and offering their lying, polite nods across the rushed floor.
Then there was Wishart, wrapped in prelate purple as rich as his complexion, and Sir John Moubray with his lowered scorn of brow. My ox team, Bruce thought to himself, the three of us shackled to Longshanks to bring the Kingdom — no, the land — of the Scots to order for his nephew, John of Brittany, to rule as governor. That was a platform Bruce had a use for.
Yet even now the Comyn were exerting themselves, insidious as serpent coils, and Bruce could feel them undermining him with an inclusion of extra ‘assistance’ on this concordat of nobiles. Like mice, he thought, eating the cake from the inside out.
One by one, the summoned Scots lords came forward, knelt and swore their fealty in return for the favour of the silvered king and the restoration of their lands with only hefty fines as punishment. Bruce was last of all; once he would have bridled at this affront to his honour and dignity — he had once before, signing the Ragman Roll — but he had been younger and more foolish then.
Smiling, a beneficent old uncle, Longshanks raised him up pointedly, so others would see the favour — Bruce saw the silk and velvet Caernarvon scowl as Gaveston whispered something in his ear; Gaveston was a mistake, Bruce saw, and not the bettering influence Edward had hoped for his son.
The music returned, the talk, the bellowed laughter and the mingling. It was then that Edward sprang the steel trap, signalling Wishart and Moubray and Bruce close to the high seat. In front of him was a wrapped bundle, which he twitched open with a small flourish.
Bruce’s heart faltered a beat, then started to run at the sight of the battered gilt. The rubies had been removed, but the Rood reliquary, blackened and charred still glowed with gilt; Jop’s half, Bruce thought, trying to gather the wild scatter of his thoughts.
‘Taken from Riccarton, my lords,’ Edward growled, his drooping eye baleful, ‘which was a Wallace holding in the lands of the Scotch.’
Behind him, the prince and others craned curiously to see better and it was a mark of things that Edward let them.
‘Indeed?’ Wishart replied, frowning, his voice innocent. ‘That looks greatly like the cover for the Black Rood, which Your Grace took to the safety of the minster.’
‘It is the same,’ snapped Edward, then waved one hand dismissively. ‘Removed by thieves last year. Now it seems likely your Scotch were responsible, my lords. A chapel was left in flames at Riccarton and a man murdered, a certain Gilbert of Beverley also known as Jop; a search of his belongings discovered this. A miracle it was not consumed by flame, my lords.’
‘Christ be praised,’ intoned Wishart.
‘For ever and ever.’
‘Gilbert of Beverley,’ Moubray pointed out sourly, ‘is an Englishman.’
The drooping eye raked him.
‘Kin to the Wallace.’
The King presented the fact significantly, like a lawyer ending his case.
‘Has Your Grace made enquiries?’ Wishart asked blandly and the King’s drooping eye twitched a little as he considered if the bishop’s innocence was real. In the end, he made a small flicking gesture of dismissal.
‘The local priest claimed only to be witness to the invasion and torching of the house of God. He might have said more than he did, save that God gathered him to His Bosom. His heart gave out.’
‘Aye,’ sighed Wishart with beatific sadness, ‘the Question will do that to a man.’
The King looked hard at him.
‘There is no torture permitted in this realm,’ he declared. ‘Only the rule of Law.’
No-one spoke and the lie hung there.
Bruce remained silent, trying not to let the relief that flooded him rise up and swamp his face, wondering wildly how long the priest’s heart had lasted before it had stopped the mouth. What had the priest told Longshanks, Bruce wondered? Not enough, certes, or I would not be standing here, watching that eye droop like a closing shutter…
In the end, Edward was forced to continue.
‘Find the rest of this reliquary and the relic that was in it,’ he demanded. ‘Find Wallace — mark this, my lords, the Scotch who wish to return fully to my grace, who wish remittance of their fines and full return of their lands, have until forty days from now to hand Wallace over. They will be watched to see how they do.’
‘There are Scots loyal to you,’ Wishart declared, which was stepping carefully with words, Bruce thought. Then a voice crashed in like a stone in a pool.
‘All Scotch are thieves.’
Eyes turned and Malenfaunt, leaning through the huddle around the prince, drew back a little — but his eyes were fixed firmly on Bruce. The King, about to storm the man into the rushes and out of the castle for his impudence, paused.
He had heard rumours about the lord of Annandale, of course, but whispered by Bruce’s enemies… still, it might pay to let this hound run a little. Besides, his wayward son and that bastard of a serpent, Gaveston, were watching, so a lesson in kingship might be timely.
‘You have something to say, sirra?’ he rasped and Bruce saw Malenfaunt quail a little, lick his lips and flick one snake-tongue glance sideways. Bruce followed the glance and came into the sardonic face of John the Red Comyn.
‘I merely insist, Your Grace, that all Scotch are thieves,’ Malenfaunt said, almost desperately. He was not so sure as he had been concerning this. Bruce, he had been told, was no true knight, preferring the German Method of fighting, and his reputation as the second best knight in Christendom was badly earned. Malenfaunt had seen for himself the tactics used and paid for them. Or Badenoch had, since the ransom Bruce had demanded was beyond the means of any Malenfaunt.
‘All Scots, my lord?’ Bruce answered softly, with a wry smile and Malenfaunt felt the surge of anger in him, the flaring rage against the man who had cozened him out of the Countess of Buchan years before, who had laid him in the mud yesterday with a foul trick. It was the sneering smile on Bruce that angered Malenfaunt and anger was as good as courage for what he had been set to do.
‘Some more than others,’ he replied. ‘Thieves of honour especially, who swear one thing and do another at the expense of their better’s mercy.’
That was clear enough and even Wishart’s warning hand on his arm did no good. Bruce shook it off and any sense with it.
‘You will defend that, of course, before God,’ he replied and Malenfaunt felt the cold, sick slide of fear in his belly. Bruce did not seem afraid at all, for a man who could not fight like a true knight…
‘In your beard,’ he spat back. ‘God defend the right.’
‘Swef, swef,’ Wishart demanded, attempting to patch the tearing hole of this. ‘The King forbids such combats a l’outrance…’
‘Usually,’ the King replied and staved in the hull of Wishart’s hopes. Usually. The King had not meant matters to go this far, yet he had recently removed Bruce from the sheriffdoms of Ayr and Lanark because of the whispers, seeing the dangers in handing too much power to the man.
He felt a sharp pang of annoyance and sadness; he did not want to lose Bruce to his own foolish ambition, so perhaps a humbling would be good for him. It was clear this Malenfaunt creature had been set to the task by Bruce’s enemies, but he could be leashed by a king. He would have a word with both men, make it clear that, despite the use of edged weapons, death was not the finale here — though defeat in the sight of God would be humbling enough for either of them.
Afterwards, reeling with the surprise of it, Bruce was still wondering how he had landed in such a mire. Wishart was sure of how — and why.
‘You lost yer head, my lord,’ he declared bitterly and Bruce had to admit that was true enough, cursing himself for it.
‘A family trait,’ he managed lightly. ‘I thought my brother Edward had stolen most of it for himself, mark you.’
