Vox Meditantis

Cardross Castle, Scotland – 11th July 1328

The stone beneath my feet grows colder with each passing year, yet I find myself drawn to these battlements more often now than in my youth. Perhaps it is the way the morning mist clings to the Clyde, or how the light catches the hills beyond—the same hills where I once fled like a hunted beast. Tonight, as I mark my fifty-fourth year upon this earth, I cannot help but marvel at how much sweeter the view has become.

What gets better with age? A question posed to me by young James Douglas not a fortnight past, as we sat by the hearth discussing the terms of our recent treaty with the English. The lad—though he is hardly a lad anymore—seemed perplexed by my apparent contentment, given the increasing frailty of my body. How could I explain to him that whilst my bones may creak and my sword arm may falter, there are treasures that only time can bestow?

I remember standing upon these very stones twenty years ago, when I first claimed this throne through blood and desperation. Then, I saw only what I could conquer, what I could take, what was mine by right. The Scotland spread before me was a prize to be won, not a people to be served. How arrogant I was in my youth, how certain that strength of arm and noble birth were sufficient to forge a kingdom.

The early years tested that certainty most cruelly. I can still taste the bitter humiliation of that first defeat at Methven, the way my grand army melted away like snow before the English advance. Edward Longshanks had outmanoeuvred me completely, turning my own nobles against me with promises and threats. I fled to the western isles with little more than the clothes upon my back and a handful of loyal men, my crown seeming more burden than blessing.

It was there, in that cave on Rathlin Island, that I learned my first lesson in what truly improves with age: patience. The young Robert Bruce would have charged back into Scotland within the month, banner flying, demanding his subjects rally to his cause. But exile teaches a man to listen—to the wind, to the whispers of fishermen, to the subtle intelligence that flows like water through communities. I learned to wait, to watch, to understand the rhythm of a land and its people rather than simply commanding them.

When I did return, it was not with the arrogance of youth but with something far more valuable: understanding. I had seen how the common folk lived, how they struggled under English occupation, how they yearned not for another noble’s claim but for someone who might actually improve their lot. The crown I sought was not merely a symbol of power—it was a promise of service.

This wisdom, I have found, only deepens with the years. Each grey hair upon my head represents a lesson learned, each line upon my face a moment when I chose understanding over impulse. The young king who once saw only the grand gesture now appreciates the small kindness, the careful word, the patient negotiation that prevents a war rather than wins one.

I think of Bannockburn, that glorious victory that secured our independence. The younger Robert would have seen it as vindication of his strength, proof of his divine right to rule. But standing here now, I understand it differently. Yes, we outfought the English that day, but we won because I had learned to trust in others—in the common spearmen who held the schiltrons, in the loyal knights who followed not just their king but their friend, in the careful planning that comes from experience rather than bravado.

The tactics themselves were born of hard-won wisdom. Those early defeats taught me that Scotland could not match England’s resources in conventional warfare. We had to be cleverer, more flexible, more attuned to our landscape and our people. The guerrilla campaigns that preceded Bannockburn were not merely military necessity—they were a king learning to move with his kingdom rather than above it.

And what of kingship itself? How has my understanding of that sacred duty evolved? In my youth, I believed a king was chosen by God to rule over his subjects, that divine right flowed downward like water from a mountain spring. Experience has taught me the opposite: true kingship flows upward, drawn from the people like water from a well. The strongest kings are those who understand they are servants first, rulers second.

I have learned to read the subtle signs of discontent before they become open rebellion, to recognise the difference between a subject’s deference and their genuine loyalty. The young Robert demanded obedience; the older Robert has learned to earn it. There is a profound difference between the two, and it has made all the difference in securing Scotland’s future.

The diplomatic success of these recent years springs from this same well of aged wisdom. The Declaration of Arbroath, which so eloquently proclaimed our independence to the Pope, was not merely a political document—it was a reflection of how my understanding of leadership had matured. We did not claim independence through divine right alone, but through the consent of our people, through the argument that a king who does not serve his subjects’ welfare has no right to their allegiance.

Even now, as I negotiate with Edward II’s representatives, I find myself drawing upon lessons learned in caves and forests, in defeat and exile. The young king would have demanded everything immediately, would have seen compromise as weakness. But I have learned that true strength lies in knowing when to yield ground in order to secure a lasting peace. The Treaty of Edinburgh-Northampton, signed just months ago, represents not just military victory but diplomatic wisdom earned through decades of conflict.

My body may be failing—the physicians speak in careful whispers about the illness that grows within me—but my mind has never been clearer. I understand now what the older lords tried to tell me in my youth: that a king’s greatest weapon is not his sword but his judgement, not his strength but his wisdom, not his commands but his ability to inspire others to greatness.

The relationships I have built over these years have deepened like good wine. James Douglas, who began as a young hothead seeking revenge for his father’s death, has become a brother in arms whose counsel I value above all others. The bonds forged in shared hardship and common purpose have proven stronger than any oath of fealty sworn in comfortable halls.

I think of the men who have served with me through these long campaigns—how we have all grown together, how our loyalty has evolved from the simple bonds of lordship to something far more complex and enduring. We are not merely king and subjects anymore, but comrades who have shared the worst of times and emerged stronger for it.

Even my understanding of God’s will has matured. The young Robert prayed for victory, for divine intervention to smite his enemies. Now I pray for wisdom to make the right choices, for strength to serve my people well, for the grace to leave Scotland better than I found it. I have learned that God’s favour is not shown through easy victories but through the character we develop in facing life’s challenges.

The crusade I plan to undertake—carrying my heart to the Holy Land as I have long vowed—represents this evolved understanding. It is not the grand gesture of a young knight seeking glory, but the careful fulfilment of a mature king’s promise, a final act of service that will secure the succession and leave Scotland in capable hands.

As I stand here on this July evening, watching the last light fade from the western hills, I am filled with a profound sense of completion. Not because my work is finished—a king’s work is never truly finished—but because I finally understand what it means to be a king. The crown has not made me greater than other men; it has taught me to be a better man, one small decision at a time.

What gets better with age? Everything that truly matters. Wisdom over strength, understanding over certainty, patience over haste, service over domination. The young Robert Bruce saw Scotland as something to be conquered; the older Robert Bruce has learned to see it as something to be cherished, protected, and served.

The kingdom I leave behind will be stronger not because I was a great warrior—though I was—but because I learned, slowly and sometimes painfully, to be a good king. And that, I believe, is a lesson that only time can teach, a vintage that only improves with age.

Tomorrow I will continue the work of kingship, but tonight I am content to be simply Robert, born fifty-four years ago on this very day, grateful for every year that has taught me something new about what it means to serve others. The stone beneath my feet may be cold, but my heart is warm with the knowledge that Scotland will endure, and that is gift enough for any king.

In the distance, the bells of Cardross chapel begin to toll the hour, their bronze voices carrying across the water like prayers made audible. I draw my cloak closer and offer my own prayer of gratitude for the wisdom that has come with these grey hairs, this lined face, this understanding heart.

The End

Robert the Bruce died on 7th June 1329 at Cardross Castle, just months after securing the Treaty of Edinburgh-Northampton in March 1328, which formally recognised Scotland’s independence after nearly three decades of warfare. Born in 1274, Robert ruled for 23 years, transforming Scotland from an English vassal state into a sovereign kingdom of approximately 500,000 inhabitants. His victory at Bannockburn in 1314 had decisively expelled English forces, whilst the Declaration of Arbroath in 1320 articulated Scotland’s right to self-determination to Pope John XXII. The 1328 treaty established borders that remained largely unchanged for centuries, and Robert’s constitutional innovations—particularly the principle that kings must serve their people’s welfare—profoundly influenced democratic thought across medieval Europe. His legacy endures in modern Scotland’s continued assertion of national identity and self-governance.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.