I did not have to think about my response. “I know what will happen. There is an heir, the King’s grand-daughter Margaret, born to his daughter the Queen of Norway. Brother Duncan says she is an infant, and she will need guidance, but they will bring her home and crown her Queen.”
“Guidance?” Ewan’s face crumpled in what I knew to be a rueful grin. “And who will do this guiding that you speak of? How old is this princess?”
“Three, Brother Duncan said.”
“Three … A child of three, and a lass at that, forbye a foreigner. They won’t like that.”
“Who won’t?” This was Will, speaking for the first time.
“The magnates, lad. The men who think they themselves have the right to rule this land.”
The Scots magnates were the men of power in the realm. They were of varying ranks, from earls to barons and chiefs, and of different bloods, some of them Gaels, a few of Danish and Norwegian stock, and others Norman French. Collectively they called themselves the magnates and individually they each looked after their own interests.
“The magnates,” Will said with a sneer. “Ravens, you mean. They’re carrion eaters, all of them. Only the lawful King has the right to rule this land.”
“Aye, and each o’ your magnates will seek to claim that right. You wait and see.” Ewan’s voice had quieted. “They willna settle for a wee lass Norwegian-born. It has been but twenty and three years since the fight at Largs, when Alexander himself threw the last of the Norwegians out of the Isles. There are men alive today who fought there and still mind that well. They’ll not take the risk of courting that again.”
“And who stands foremost among these magnates?” Will asked. “They can’t all expect to become the next King, surely? Some of them must have stronger claims than others.”
“Some have,” Ewan said mildly. “You spoke with one o’ them yourself, less than a month ago—Lord John Balliol. He’ll claim direct descent from David I, King of Scots, whose grandson, Balliol’s own grandsire, was David, Earl of Huntingdon. He has the lineage, no doubt of that. And besides, his mother, Devorguilla, rules all of Galloway in her own ancient Gaelic right.”
Will looked at me wide-eyed, and I stared back at him, astonished that we two had met, and Will had bested, this man who was now named a potential King of Scots.
“And then there’s Bruce of Annandale,” Ewan continued. “He is an old man now, but his claim is near as strong as Balliol’s. And there are the Comyns of Buchan and Badenoch, though they’re related to the Balliols. Aye, I’m thinking there will be no shortage of claimants. Mark my words, lads, this Scotland will be shaken by wild storms before that matter’s settled.”
He took another long swallow of his ale. “But I doubt any of it will be o’ great concern to us. We’ll get on with our lives and leave the affairs o’ state to them that deal in them.”
3
For several months it seemed that Ewan would be right in his assessment of how little we would be affected by the affairs of kings and magnates. Life continued as it always had, and after no more than a few weeks had passed, people began to forget about the death of King Alexander. Will and I did not forget, but that was solely because of our kinsmen Father Peter and Brother Duncan, both of whom used us as a conduit to pass on tidings and information from the Abbey to Sir Malcolm in Elderslie. Thus as couriers we knew that there were grave and deep-set stirrings beneath the fabric of the country’s daily life.
It began most noticeably with a sudden increase in the number of religious colloquies and hurried assemblies all across the land, several of which were held in Paisley and all of which involved senior churchmen. Several of these took place at our own Abbey, and I remember one in particular that threw all of us into disarray because it was hastily summoned and included the Abbots of Holyrood, Dunfermline, Melrose, and Kelso as well as Bishop Wishart of Glasgow and William Fraser, the powerful Bishop of St. Andrews. Such men did not travel alone. They progressed like the lords they were, lords of Mother Church, and each had his retinue of followers, including secretaries, scribes, acolytes, servants, bodyguards, and camp followers, so that we were hard put to accommodate all of them within the precincts.
As unofficial messengers, we soon came to see that the churchmen had valid concerns, not always solely for the welfare of the Church. The word had come out, within a month of the King’s death, that Queen Yolande had been pregnant before he died. As such rumours often do, it spread like windblown fire and captured the attention of the entire land. If it were true, though, and the Queen bore Scotland a new heir, be it boy or girl, there could be repercussions, for the accepted word in those early days, also unconfirmed, was that the magnates had closed ranks surprisingly quickly at the King’s funeral, despite Ewan’s pessimism that first night, and had accepted the young Norwegian Princess Margaret. Some people even said they had acknowledged her as the official heir, but that, too, was merely hearsay. Nothing, according to our sources, had yet been formally declared. If this latest rumour proved true, however, the magnates would have no choice but to declare in favour of the new child.