The Renegade(67)
Only the youngest of the three Bruces betrayed any reaction to that, turning his head to look uncertainly from one to the other of his elder relatives.
The bishop continued, calmly. “That is why we are so concerned. We fear injustice, to either one of you. Both of you, you and Balliol, have valid claims to the Crown, with strengths and weaknesses to each claim, and the matter cries out for judicious arbitration, for the continuing welfare and good conduct of the realm.” He paused. “I should not need to point out to you, of all men, Robert, that the needs of the realm take primacy over the mere welfare of any individual house.”
Rob knew that Wishart had spoken the plain, objective truth as he perceived it. Unsettled, and reassessing this situation for the first time, he turned again to look at his grandfather, anticipating the old man’s outrage, only to find himself confounded yet again by his mistaken expectations, for Lord Robert showed no trace of anger. He sat straight-backed and straight-faced, his eyes focused upon the embroidered cross on the prelate’s green mitre. Beside Wishart, stretched out straight-legged in his narrow chair, the Earl of Carrick sat frowning, his hands clasped over the waist of his metal cuirass and his lips pressed into a thin line between his teeth. Rob held his breath, waiting for his grandfather to speak.
“Had any man but you said that to me, Rob Wishart, I would have taken it ill,” the old man said eventually, his voice quiet and even gentle. “But since it was you and I know your loyalty, I’ll take it as offered. You’re right, and I admit it. But I doubt the Comyns might be so willing, and there’s the meat of it.” He sighed, loudly and deeply. “There are no Comyns here, though, so let me speak solely as Bruce.
“Arbitration, you said—this thing needs arbitration. But even though that be God’s own truth, where, in the name of that same God, are we to find an arbitrator for this case?”
Wishart started to speak, but Lord Robert silenced him with an upraised palm. “Let me finish. Think about it, man. Who in all this land could arbitrate this dispute? It canna be the Guardians, for they are even-split, half for Bruce and half for Balliol, which in Scotland means Comyn. The council was set up that way, to keep a balance between our two houses, and in keeping with that, there is no presiding vote therein to break an even match. And even were the councillors themselves to elect another to their number, who would that other be? Any man you name would have a bias one way or the other, and you’d never get agreement from both sides. Surely you see the truth of that?”
Wishart pursed his lips, then bent his head slightly in acknowledgment. “It’s true there may be no such man in Scotland,” he said. “But that does not mean there is no such man at all. There is one man qualified to judge such a weighty matter.”
Names tumbled through Rob’s mind, but they were names of which he had only heard and he had little knowledge of the men themselves, and he admitted to himself that he had no idea who Wishart could be thinking of. And so, gritting his jaw, he waited for his grandfather’s response, aware from the patriarch’s frown that he was reviewing his own list of candidates. Eventually, though, Lord Robert sat straighter and eyed the bishop.
“One man, you say. And not in Scotland. Where, then? In England?”
“Aye.”
“And fit to judge. Are you thinking of Edward?”
“The King himself, aye.”
Lord Robert stood up abruptly and stalked away from the table to stand with his back to all of them. His right hand was clasped loosely in his left, at the small of his back, but his entire bearing radiated hostility, and the others knew better than to interrupt his thoughts. As they waited, the tent flaps opened and the acolytes came in with cups and a wooden pail of fresh water. No one spoke as the drinks were poured and distributed, and the silence lasted until they were alone again.
Earl Robert was the only one who was really thirsty, and as he drained his cup and set it down a heavy gust of wind buffeted the walls of the pavilion and rattled the venting flaps in the peaked roof. All of them glanced up in surprise, for the day had been calm to that point.
“Weather’s changing,” the old man said absently and then turned back to them. “It’s true,” he said to the bishop. “Edward could do this, render an even judgment where none else could.” He returned to his seat at the table, still deep in thought, and sipped at the water that had been poured for him.
“He’s done it before,” he continued. “In Portugal, and then in brokering the peace between France and Aragon that ended the war in Sicily a few years ago—a brilliant feat of diplomacy, from what I’ve heard. But would he agree to do it again in this case? He has problems enough of his own to see to—in England with his barons and across the sea with his affairs in Gascony and his dealings with Philip of France. I doubt I would take the time, were I him … ” He set down his cup. “How would we approach him, if the need arose?”