An Ancient Strife

  © 2000 by Michael Phillips

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-2958-8

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Cover design by Dan Pitts

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Contents

  Caledonia

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1. Intrigue in High Places

  2. Call of Ancient Roots

  3. Legacy of the Kilted Highlander

  4. Northward Toward the Past

  5. Forging of a Kingdom

  6. Sleuthing on the Web

  7. Romance That Changed a Nation

  8. Another Shake-Up In Westminster

  9. Normanization of the North

  10. Northward Toward the Future

  11. Stature of a Hero

  12. Climax in Whitehall

  Epilogue

  Notes and Bibliography

  About the Author

  Books by Michael Phillips

  Caledonia

  An Ancient Strife

  In the year 1314, the most significant battle in the history of the land called Caledonia was fought on Scottish soil, between a small river called the Bannock Burn and the town of Stirling. This is the story of events and personalities leading up to that decisive moment in the ancient strife . . . and of that portion of the drama which may yet be waiting to unfold.

  Cuimhnich có leis a tha thu.

  Remember the men from whence you came.

  Old Gaelic Proverb

  Prologue

  The Legend and the Prophecy

  SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 1314

  NEAR STIRLING, SCOTLAND

  An unsteady flame flickered low in the summer’s late night.

  The company in the tent was not comprised of many men, but the strategy they were devising would change the history of their land forever.

  “I argue against your going out alone, my lord King,” said one of the party, a loyal nobleman of his ancient clan and lieutenant of the division commanded by Walter the Steward. “They may send an entire regiment against you.”

  “They will lead with their heavy cavalry,” replied the King. “I am sure of it.”

  “I salute your courage, my lord,” rejoined Douglas, “but the risk of harm befalling you is too great.”

  That Douglas had perhaps been emboldened to speak thus because he had been knighted by the King himself earlier that same day in no wise lessened the pluck required to raise the specter of doubt on the night prior to battle.

  “If you die, my lord, Scotland is doomed,” he added in honest tribute. “No one else can unite the country and lead its nobles as you have done.”

  The tent grew silent.

  Douglas had voiced the reservation that several of the highest-ranking officers held in their hearts concerning the King’s final suggestion. The English, so the scouts said, would be coming north along the Roman road from Tor Wood tomorrow with numberless troops. King Robert the Bruce commanded but six thousand Scotsmen.

  The silence continued several minutes.

  At length the King turned his head unexpectedly toward the youngest of those present in the tent, a lad of less than twenty years, who looked more the part of armor-bearer or groom than general.

  “And you, young MacDarroch,” he said, “what advice would you give your King on the eve of battle? You have heard the objection. What does your stout heart tell you in the matter?”

  Whatever may have been the reaction of the elder nobles around the table to the King’s asking such a one to render opinion on the momentous proceeding, their faces displayed nothing.

  The ensuing wait was brief.

  “My lord Douglas speaks wisely, my lord King,” replied the young man with a confidence in excess of his years, “when he warns care on your part. Your courage will be required as long as the battle wages.”

  A brief pause followed. He appeared to be siding with Douglas.

  “And it shall be so given, I am confident,” Donal MacDarroch went on even more boldly. “Let them ride against you. Let them discover whom they have chosen for an adversary—and what manner of man rules over this land.”

  “Bravely spoken,” commented Bruce.

  MacDarroch said nothing.

  “Would you ride beside me to await them, MacDarroch?” asked the King.

  “With honor, my lord King.”

  The Bruce waited but a moment more, then turned the piercing gaze of his strongly chiseled face back to the nobles seated with him.

  “It is decided then,” he said firmly. “If this stalwart youth places such confidence in me as to answer thus without a note of fear in his voice, shall I doubt myself? No—I will meet them as proposed, whomever they send to dispatch me. If we can entice Edward’s army across the river bridge and lure them into the bog . . . the battle will be ours.”

  He glanced at his four commanders—his own brother Edward, Thomas Randolph, Walter the Steward, and James Douglas. Each in his turn nodded solemn consent.

  The candle burned low.

  Robert the Bruce spoke once more. His voice contained the accumulated tradition of one hundred fifty generations of the inhabitants of his land. Upon his shoulders, in that moment, did the legacy of that history and the destiny of his kingdom come to rest.

  He was a man standing alone at the apex of his nation’s history. He was at that moment himself authoring the legend for a race and a nation to follow.

  “The time has at last arrived,” he said softly, but with the fervor of the great warrior heart rising in his breast, “when the interloping Sassenach must be sent back across the border—not for a mere day, or year, or season . . . but forever. The moment has come for us to claim once more the land of our fathers, the land of our Kings, the land of our heritage, the land of our birthright.”

  Another pause, this time brief. Then Bruce spoke again, calling his beloved land by its ancient name:

  “Hail, Caledonia! We pledge here and now that you shall not be taken from your own people again!”

  1

  Intrigue in High Places

  One

  Fog clung soupy and thick to an isolated stretch of rocky coastline. Whatever ancient Viking explorer first discovered these lonely islands between Scotland and Scandinavia, few had found them habitable through the centuries. Even now their population was sparse, and no visitor walking their isolated moors and coastlines could realize from the lonely topography their strategic importance to the future of that once proud land whose nationhood had been taken from it two hundred fifty years before.

  Through the dusky fog of evening strode two men whose attire and demeanor could not have been more out of place in this region where fishermen, poor crofters, and birdwatchers on holiday made up 98 percent of the resident population. The expensive suits and faintly discernible gleam of opportunity in their eyes gave them away as entrepreneurs or politicians, perhaps both. One was of medium build, the other tall and uncommonly slender, though muscular—a phy
sique that to an unwary observer masked his power and the danger in which one stood who dared to cross him.

  This particular location had taken them two days to reach. To keep out of the public eye, they had discreetly boarded an overnight ferry, then remained in their private cabin for the fourteen-hour northward crossing. It was about as far removed from civilization as either had been in their lives. But for what the latter of the two had long been planning, this remote parcel of land represented the focal point of all he hoped to achieve—an objective that currently hung in precarious balance, owing, as he judged it, to the stupidity of his associate. Despite recent setbacks with regard to the fabled Stone of Scone, however, he still hoped to pull the thing off.

  If they succeeded, both would become rich and powerful men—more powerful than the one had been only a short time before, and perhaps even more powerful than the other still was.

  “They’re looking for me everywhere,” said the shorter man, whose standing in public affairs had suddenly plummeted. “I’m leaving the Isles directly from here.”

  “To the Continent?” asked the taller man, whose prestigious position remained intact.

  “Right. Then to our friends down under.”

  “They should be able to arrange to keep you out of sight.”

  “It will give me a chance to firm up that aspect of our plans.”

  “After what happened, perhaps it might be best if you disappeared permanently. They should also be able to set you up with a new identity.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Don’t get the idea of trying to cut me out now.”

  “Whatever your involvement,” rejoined the tall man, “your political career is certainly over. Scotland Yard is sniffing about high and low for you.”

  “Have you been questioned?”

  “Not yet. Our association has so far escaped attention.”

  “Just make sure when everything falls together—whether a year from now or ten—that my share does not disappear. I may have been taken out of the political game, but I am still a member of the committee.”

  “Don’t worry. You will be provided for.”

  “I expect to be more than merely provided for.”

  “I assure you, there will be plenty for all. In the meantime,” said the tall man, glancing around, “the next step will be getting our hands on this piece of ground.”

  “Do you seriously think this is the only place that will work?” asked the other, scanning the lonely site. “One stretch of rock around here looks about the same as any other.”

  “This protected inlet could be the key. Look around—it would make a perfect harbor. Not only that, but preliminary tests reveal a strong likelihood that the field extends under the coast exactly here. The rights will be everything.”

  “Have we been successful yet in contacting the owner?”

  “My people have traced it to some Highland Scots. Apparently it has been in the family for years. It is not even certain whether the present fellow, a low-level laird somewhere in the Grampians, is altogether aware of what he has. Management of the parcel has been in the hands of an Aberdeen solicitor’s firm for a century.”

  “What is the property’s status? Doesn’t appear to be worth anything.”

  “They lease it on behalf of the owners for two hundred fifty pounds a year.”

  “That’s a ludicrously small sum!”

  “Precisely. Once preliminary investigations into the matter are concluded, our solicitors will undertake inquiries to see if this so-called laird will sell.”

  “They would surely be willing if it brings in no more income than you say.”

  “Exactly how I see it. But you know these Highlanders—they can be a stubborn lot. We must walk carefully in the matter. In any event, now I’ve seen it for myself. You are flying out, I take it, from Lerwick?”

  “Right. Tomorrow.”

  “All right, then, we’ll stay in touch through the normal channel.”

  They stood a few more minutes in the fog, listening to the sea, each silently contemplating the new developments in their scheme that had suddenly and dramatically altered their personal fortunes.

  Then they turned for their separate cars and parted in the night.

  Two

  The pavement in front of the Palace of Westminster was congested with tourists and passersby, even though the House of Commons was in the middle of its summer recess. On an equally busy side street two blocks away, Scottish Nationalist Party Deputy Leader Baen Ferguson walked briskly toward his office. He had remained in the capital most of the summer thus far, trying to keep reasonably in the public eye, giving an occasional interview, speaking at various clubs and banquets on the changing face of Scottish politics since devolution and the seating of the new Scottish parliament.1

  It wasn’t that he was particularly interested in all that right now. He had other things on his mind. But he wanted to do nothing to convey to the watchful eye of Scotland Yard that he was nervous or about to make a break for it. He must exude perfect nonchalance, even dropping by the Yard every week or ten days to inquire about the investigation, making sure Inspector Shepley knew that he was only too willing to help however he could. In that vein, he had decided not even to go north to visit his district quite yet. He would have to eventually, of course, but he must walk carefully . . . and hope no one else talked.

  Shepley had grilled him more than once about the Glencoe cottage where he used to meet Fiona. But he had continually denied any knowledge of the Stone’s theft, insisting—convincingly, he thought—that the clue linking the Abbey drain to the cottage had been merely a plant to implicate the SNP.

  Which it had been. He wouldn’t have made such an idiotic mistake as to drop his own phone number in plain sight at the very site of the theft. Besides, he had been in the boat out on the Thames the whole time, waiting for Fiona and the others to bring the Stone out through the tunnels that ran beneath the Abbey. So the dropped clue had obviously been a decoy—even though the information it contained was true enough.

  He didn’t like to think who it was that had double-crossed him.

  If it was Fiona, had she planned it from the beginning? The very thought of it made him crazy with rage and jealousy.

  Or was it one of the others?

  Shepley was buying his denials for the present. But Ferguson knew the inspector remained suspicious.

  He was in an interesting position—a suspect of sorts, but also the only committee member still in the clear who knew the identity of the others. So, in a sense, he held others’ fate in his hands. But that fact probably wouldn’t do him much good. He couldn’t blow the whistle on anyone else without implicating himself in the process. And he didn’t know where Fiona, Reardon, Malloy, or any of the others were, anyway, or what good trying to blackmail them would do him now that they no longer had the Stone. Nevertheless, the thought of turning the tables was tantalizing.

  He reached the building, nearly deserted, went upstairs, and unlocked the door to his own office.

  If he could just find Fiona and talk to her—perhaps they could get back to how things were before. But he had not heard from her in weeks. Why had she made no attempt to contact him, he thought, his anger rising again.

  And there was still the matter of the death of his parliamentary colleague Eagon Hamilton hanging like a cloud—

  Ferguson’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on his desk. He strode across the floor to answer it.

  “Baen—hello. It’s Miles Ramsey,” said the familiar voice of his Tory colleague in Commons. “I’m glad I managed to catch you.”

  “I’m one of the few still left in town,” replied Ferguson to the powerful opposition leader of the Conservative Party.

  “And your SNP colleagues?”

  “Mostly in Scotland.”

  “Ah . . . celebrating Scotland’s rising status in the world, no doubt,” said the opposition leader good-naturedly.

  “We’
re not celebrating quite yet, Miles,” replied Ferguson. “The SNP’s objectives are much loftier than a mere regional parliament.”

  “Independence?” queried Ramsey. “Do you seriously think it will happen?”

  “Of course, Miles. Times are changing.”

  “We shall see, my friend. In the meantime,” Ramsey went on, “I would like to get together with you to discuss a matter of mutual concern.”

  “If you are thinking of a coup, Miles,” said Ferguson wryly, “I’m afraid our SNP block of twenty-one votes won’t give you a majority as long as the Liberal Democrats remain in Richard Barraclough’s corner. You really ought to be talking to Andrew Trentham. He’s the one who holds the key to the coalition in Commons.”

  “Let’s leave the LibDems out of it for the moment,” laughed Ramsey. “And the prime minister. But for the record, I’m not planning a coup. What I have to talk to you about is, let us say, of a more personal nature.”

  “Well, then, I shall be happy to oblige.”

  Three

  Patricia Rawlings, known to her friends as Paddy, knew she could not rest on her laurels. An American who had lived in London seven years and worked most of that time for the news division of BBC 2, she was acutely aware that her place in the fiercely competitive world of British broadcast journalism was far from secure.

  True, she had broken the biggest story to hit London since the Queen’s abdication. She had even managed a bit of cloak-and-dagger, following Liberal Democrat Deputy Leader Larne Reardon to Ireland and tracking down the famous Stone of Scone, which had been stolen from Westminster Abbey on the eve of King Charles III’s coronation. And telephoning her editor Edward Pilkington—from the home of the prominent MP2 Andrew Trentham no less—to report that she and Trentham had indeed uncovered the Stone in Ireland had been one of the highlights of her career.

  Pilkington had done as promised—let the story run with her by-line instead of going to her rival Kirk Luddington. But he still had not put her live on the national evening news with the on-camera interview she coveted.