Rumour, of course, led to counter-rumour, and many whispered that the Queen, a Frenchwoman closely related to France’s young and ambitious King Philip Capet IV, was not pregnant at all and intended to present some base-born upstart as her own in order to maintain her position as Queen of Scots and to bring the Scots realm under the influence of the Crown of France.
In the last week of April, barely forty days after Alexander’s death, our Abbot left for a great gathering at Scone Abbey, in the course of which the realm’s most powerful and important men—the earls, barons, bishops, abbots, and priors—intended to deal with the situation of the interregnum. When he returned, less than two weeks later, Will and I were sent by Father Peter to inform Sir Malcolm that the matter had been settled. In the course of the Scone parliament, as men were calling it, it was revealed that no heir was yet forthcoming, and the magnates had formally sworn their loyalty to the young Norwegian Princess as the official heir, taking a solemn oath, on penalty of excommunication, to guard the realm for her and to keep the peace of her land.
In support of that oath and in earnest of their open goodwill, the parliament had also dispatched three emissaries to find the King of England, who was campaigning in Gascony against the French, to seek his advice and protection on the rights of the young heir. That done, and for the interim governance of the land, the parliament had appointed a council of six custodians, called Guardians, chosen from what they termed the community of the realm. Two of these six, Alexander Comyn of Buchan and Duncan MacDuff of Fife, were earls; two were barons, John Comyn the Red, Lord of Badenoch, and James, the hereditary Steward or Stewart; and the final two were bishops, William Fraser of St. Andrews and Robert Wishart of Glasgow.
Sir Malcolm listened carefully to me and Will as we reported all of this, and then he nodded in satisfaction. “Three from north of Forth and three from south,” he rumbled. “Two o’ the ancient earldoms. The senior bishops, north and south. And two Comyns representing the barons, one in the north and the other in the south. Aye, cunningly done.”
Until that moment I had not given a single moment’s thought to the composition of the Council of Guardians, but now I saw what my uncle had perceived immediately: the new council was an inspired piece of political juggling, masterminded by I knew not whom, but aimed unequivocally at unifying and protecting the integrity of the Scots realm by emphasizing its differences north and south of the River Forth and ensuring that both halves were equal in voice and influence. The Forth had great significance in the eyes of all Scots. It was the river that partitioned the land into its two halves, the mountainous northern Celtic portion known as Scotia and the southern, more English- and Norman-speaking half. Along its short length from the North Sea to Edinburgh and Stirling it provided the only access routes for heavy traffic travelling between north and south.
“What’s wrong, lad?” The question startled me, but it was not directed at me. Uncle Malcolm’s eyes were on Will, who sat frowning into the fire. We were in the main room of the house, just the three of us, and Lady Margaret, who was about her needlework and seemingly paying no attention to what we had been saying. Will jerked upright and flushed.
“Nothing, sir. There’s nothing wrong. I was but …” His voice tailed away.
“But what, lad? Speak up. Is there something that troubles you?”
“No, sir. Not troubles me. Not exactly.” He was still red faced. “But it seems senseless.”
Sir Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Senseless? Yon’s a word that could provoke an argument. What seems senseless?”
Will jutted his jaw and charged ahead. “It insults the Bruce,” he said. “Makes no recognition of his rank or status. The Lord of Annandale will take that ill, from what I’ve heard of him.”
Sir Malcolm scratched idly at his beard. “Aye, he might,” he said. “You make a good point, young Will. One worth considering.” He bent forward and struck a small bronze bell on the table by his chair, and when a servant responded he sent the man to fetch a jug of ale.
“What think you, Jamie?” he said then. “Will the Bruce be vexed?”
I could only shake my head, for the possibility had not occurred to me. Lady Margaret came to my rescue.
“How could the boy know that?” she asked her husband amiably, looking up from her work. “He spends most of his life shut up in that great library. How could he possibly know what Robert Bruce is like to do?”
“He is as like to know as I am, my dear,” her husband replied mildly. “Jamie has a long head on him, and not all his life is spent among his books.” He looked back to me. “So, lad, what think you?”