The Forest Laird(161)

His voice faded, and then he resumed, in a firmer tone. “Not all men in this realm are as we are, Will. They do not all share our vision, for though you and I are far apart in our opinions and judgment on many things, we do share a grand vision, and one, I believe, that is God-sent. We dream—you and I and other folk like us—of a new and different world. We dream of freedom and of independence as a people—a single people united by our shared place in this land that mothers us, a people with the right to stand up tall and free, beholden to no foreign king or outside power, free to designate and control our own united future, our destiny, according to the people’s will.”

He turned his head slightly to include me.

“We call ourselves Scots, and nowadays we talk about the community of the realm, and we seek to redefine ourselves and our role in our own lives and living.” One corner of his mouth twitched as though he might smile a little, but all he did was jerk his head in a tiny gesture of regret. “We may all be Scots—we are all Scots, in name at least—but we are not yet one people. Not by any measure. We are a folk greatly divided by and among ourselves, by language and race, Highlands and Lowlands, Isles and forests. But the greatest of all our divisions, I believe, lies between our magnates and our common folk, and that is the one I fear most as an obstacle to commonality and unity.”

“How so, my lord?” I thought I knew the answer, but I could not resist asking the question.

He looked at me, his face expressionless. “Because the common folk and the magnates are two different creatures. The common folk of this land, including us in Holy Mother Church, perceive ourselves as Scots, plain and simple. The magnates have no such belief and no such certainty. If anything, most of them see themselves as English at root. But Bruce is for Bruce, Father James,” he said. “Make no mistake about that. And similarly, Comyn is for Comyn. And all the other noble houses, comprising every magnate in the land, support one or the other. The others are all for themselves as well, be it understood, but fundamentally the two houses of Bruce and Comyn split the land between them. King John’s hold on the crown, on the realm itself, is faltering. If he should fall and fail—which God forbid—then Bruce and Comyn will divide the land between them yet again, and until that balance of power is rendered null, Scotland will have but little chance of knowing peace and prosperity, and none at all of ever knowing independence.”

He turned back to Will. “And so, by pitting Buchan against Bruce, I have chosen to gamble with the fate of this realm. I now believe Bruce will stand for Edward Plantagenet and bar the gates of Carlisle against us. If he does, I doubt that we’ll be able to dislodge him. But if he sees his ancient enemy, the House of Comyn, descending upon him from his own lands of Annandale, he might be tempted to come out and fight, and if he does that, then our odds of taking Carlisle are greatly improved. That is my hope, and it is why I asked John Comyn of Buchan to take the lead in the southwest.” He stopped short, eyeing Will. “You look skeptical.”

“I am skeptical. We are speaking of Robert Bruce V here, the new Lord of Annandale. Were we dealing with his father, the old Competitor, then your hope would be a certainty. That Robert Bruce would bring his men howling out of Carlisle’s gates like a swarm of vengeful wasps. The son, though, is made of different stuff. He is no poltroon, that is not what I am saying. From what I have heard, he does not fear a fight, but he will not fight merely for the love of fighting. He lacks his father’s balls of steel and the fiery temper that went with them. This Robert Bruce thinks before he acts, every time, and he will never act rashly. He won’t come out of Carlisle, I fear.”

Bishop Wishart stared at Will for a long time, then twisted his mouth wryly. “And I fear I agree with you. Damn the man.”

I could see Will was on the point of twitting His Lordship about such an utterly un-episcopal wish, and I held my breath, but the temptation evidently passed and he changed the subject instead.

“What will the Steward do, my lord? Does he intend to remain pent up in Roxburgh?”

“Sir James will do what he must. He has already left the castle in the hands of a lieutenant and is posting north to join King John. As the Crown’s most senior officer, his duty is to raise the Scots host in defence of the realm. He is about that now, and when the time comes, he will lead the host as instructed by the King’s grace.”

“Then he is not yet committed.”

“He is committed to act. That is why he now rides north without rest. But he has not yet moved against England. When he does, I myself will ride with him, representing Mother Church … And what will you do, William Wallace?”