Blood. Royal blood.

Some quiet prison days all I did was sit and look at that, the little beat of it, under my skin. I’d just look at it and marvel. The same blood as my great great-grandfather, Robert the Bruce. The blood that made me a prisoner. The blood that made me a king.

But Murdac Stewart shares that blood, my cousins here share that blood, what else can I offer you?

I’m going to bring you peace.

I was sent home to bring peace between two kingdoms. We need peace. They want an end to our war against them in France. I want that too. They’re losing their war but we’re losing too many of our best warriors. I want those men home, in Scotland. So I’ll give England its peace.

The Stewart brothers exchange a look. WALTER makes a low noise of disgust. MURDAC shushes them again fiercely. But I’ll give you this promise. That’s all they’re getting from me now.

You all know I’ve been sent home with a ransom on my head. They want me to gather up your money to pay for my eighteen years’ board and lodging.

Well, I had an education in England. I learned history. England has pursued our wealth and bled our wealth for a hundred years or more and looks ready to do it for hundreds more until this is a nation of beggars. Then they’ll flick us a coin of our own stolen gold and call it charity.

They think I’ll help them in that work. They think that because in eighteen years they never knew what I was thinking. They never learned who I am.

I am the King of Scots. And they will get not one more penny that is yours!

The listening LORDS and LADIES exchange glances. Some of them are starting to be won over, others less convinced.

You’ll lose no more of your wealth.

And look what I brought back to Scotland.

He raises JOAN’s hand, she’s deeply embarrassed.

The greatest jewel that England had is ours now. And that is how it will be from now on. What is Scotland’s will stay with Scotland and the best that the world has will come to us as well.

I am the King of Scots. In eighteen years I never forgot that. You could keep a horse in a byre, doesny mak it a coo.

The last sight I had of Scotland was no sight at all, it was a wet wind, driving waves and rain in my face so I couldny see. I was ten years old. I was grietin more salt water than there was in the sea that was soaking me to the bone. I felt that the sky and the sea and the wind of Scotland were scolding me, shouting their anger at me. How could I leave my own country? How could I run away?

Eighteen years later I came up to the border and I saw the green hills, I saw the dark rocks and towering skies and the far-off mountains of home and I drew breath to shout a greeting into that dear country and – Bam! There it was again! A stour o’ a wet wind, knocking me back south and roaring its disdain in my face.