“Not until I find out why you have marched us in here without a word of welcome,” Lord Robert said. “I doubt I’ll like what you have to say, and if that’s the case I would not wish to be beholden to you in advance for hospitality. So spit it out, Rab Wishart. What’s afoot?”
Bishop Wishart looked at the waiting priests and nodded to the senior of them. “You heard Lord Robert, Father James. Set what you have on the end of the table and bring some fresh water from the well. Then leave us alone. I will summon you if I have need of you.”
The priest ushered his assistants outside, and as soon as they were gone Wishart looked the Bruce patriarch straight in the eye.
“I’ll tell you what’s afoot,” he said wryly. “You are, Robert Bruce. You are afoot, for the time being. But you rode in here at the head of an army and that places you squarely in revolt against the Guardians.”
“Be damned to you, Wishart. What kind of sanctimonious claptrap is that? Are you accusing me of treasonous revolt? Against what King? I am the King of Scots, man—or I will be, soon, now that the Maid is dead and the throne vacant again. How then can I be treasonous to myself?”
“I said no word of treason, Robert. I said revolt.” The bishop’s determination to be unequivocal was evident from the hard edge in his voice and the familiar use of the Bruce’s first name. “When you come marching half the length of Scotland at the head of an army you put yourself in open, public defiance of the council and its concern for the welfare of this realm.”
“Damnation, man, I have no wish to defy the council and you know that as well as I do. I have come here to attend the gathering at Scone, with the others, magnates and mormaers. And Guardians.”
“Aye.” The bishop’s voice was suddenly wry again. “And you have come alone, you and yours, to mingle with your peers. Only a fool would think to question the well-known fact that you travel always with two thousand swords, requiring them to fan the midges off your brow when the sun sets.”
Lord Robert ignored the sarcasm. “You exaggerate,” he said bluntly. “I brought my swords to guard my back and protect my presence here because I had no wish to be waylaid and then dispossessed in absentia by a clutch of clawing Comyns. And don’t try to wave away that statement, Robert Wishart, for you know it’s the likeliest thing to happen, were I foolish enough to take the risk. This northland is Comyn territory, hoaching with them like fleas on a hedgehog, and none here would heed my voice at all were I not to raise it loud and long in my own cause. So don’t talk to me about my shortcomings and my lack of respect unless you are prepared to condemn the Comyns equally.”
“I am, Robert. We are … We, the council of Guardians.”
The old man blinked. “You are? Prepared to condemn them?”
“Equally, as you said.”
“Then what? I don’t understand. Why are you accosting me?”
“Equally was the word I used, Robert.”
“Aye, I heard you, but what does that mean?”
“It means that both of you—both factions, Bruce and Comyn— are equally guilty in this sorry affair.”
“If I hear you aright I disagree. What is sorry about my being here?”
“Oh, for the love of God, man, have you no sense at all? Between your two houses you have the whole country on the brink of civil war! And we’ll no’ stand for that.”
“Civil war? I am here to protect my valid cause, my claim.”
“Aye, and there’s the shame of it, for the Comyns are equally turned out to protect theirs, which they see as the cause of Balliol.”
“Balliol’s an Englishman! He has barely set foot in Scotland since he was a brat.”
“I’ll not argue that, but his mother, Devorguilla, was not, and since her death he has been Lord of Galloway and is now therefore richer, perhaps, than even you. And his claim to the Crown is every bit as valid as your own, despite his English upbringing.”
“Horseshit! Mine is the stronger claim and has ever been so.”
Wishart shook his head. “Only by the ancient Gaelic law of tanistry, Robert, which permits inheritance through the female side. Both you and Balliol lay claim through that, but your claim is stronger than his by one degree of cousinship. On the other hand, though, according to strict law of primogeniture, the right of the firstborn, Balliol’s claim as senior heir in direct descent from Earl David supersedes yours.” He held up a hand to forestall Bruce’s response. ‘I know that primogeniture has no de facto place in Scotland’s law, but it is none the less considered valid the length and breadth of Christendom with the backing of Holy Mother Church. And by that argument John Balliol’s claim is arguably stronger than yours is.”