The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  “Would I had had so lenient a liege lord!” He faced front again.

  “Come, my lords. Surrey—muster the guard.”

  Robert Bruce the younger stared across at Robert Bruce the elder, and his brow was black. Apart from that he offered no other recognition of his father, or indeed of anybody else, as he pushed out of the church. Pew indeed now so much as glanced up towards the chancel steps, where the lawful King of Scots stood, forgotten as he was rejected.

  Chapter Two

  Impatiently the hard-riding little group pulled off the Tweedside roadway, splattered through the flooded water-meadows to the side, and the horses had to clamber, hooves slipping, up the raw red earth and outcrops of the broom-clad knowe beyond, to win back to the road again, in front of the slow-moving throng blocked it. Young Robert Bruce cursed, in the lead. It was not that he was in any particular hurry; just that when he moved, he liked to move fast. And patience was not outstanding amongst his virtues. But it had been like this almost all the way from Galloway. All the world seemed to be heading for BerwickonTweed—and all the world, on the move, tends to be a slow process.

  Seldom had Bruce made a more frustrating journey. It was as though everyone was on holiday, making for some great fair, important enough to pull them right across Scotland.

  Not quite everyone, perhaps, and not quite in the fair-going spirit. It was the pride and circumstance, the substance of the land, that took its way by every road and highway, to Berwick, August day, nobles, knights, lairds, landowners great and small, prelates and clerics, sheriffs, justices, officers of the higher degrees. And none looked in festive mood, or really anxious to reach their destination. Few, of course, by the very nature of things, were youthful, like the Earl of Carrick and his little troop of Annandale moss-troopers, who esteemed hurry for the sake of haste. For, in fact, Bruce himself was not especially eager to reach Berwick. His urgent mode of travel was merely habitual. Moreover, he had his nineteen-year-old brother at his side, and young brothers of age needed to be left in no doubt as to what was what, and as to how to behave in a chivalric society.

  Robert’s snort of disgust was eloquent indeed as they spurred round the bend of the broomy knowe and there saw the road blocked once more, immediately ahead, and by a larger, slower and more ponderous company than heretofore.

  “Save us—more of them!” he complained.

  “And crawling.

  Cumbering all the road. More fat clerks, for a wager—churchmen! Look at the horse-litter. Only some prideful, arrogant prelate would ride in such a thing. Filling all the highway …”

  “Let us give him a fright, then!” his brother Nigel cried, laughing.

  “Shake up his holy litter and liver, intone! His bowels of compassion

  …!”

  Nothing loth the other dug in his spurs, and neck and neck the two young men raced onwards, their grinning men-at-arms a solid pack close behind.

  They were very obviously brothers, these two, and close friends.

  Robert had the stronger face—though the years might alter that-the slightly more rugged features. Nigel was the more nearly handsome.

  But both were of arresting looks, medium of height, slender but with

  good wide shoulders, fresh-complexioned, grey eyed and with wavy auburn

  hair—the touch of red in it no doubt inherited from the Celtic

  mother. They had keen-cut almost bony features, vivid, mobile and expressionful, with something of their father’s stubbornness of chin without the petulance of mouth.

  They looked a pair who would burst into laughter or sudden rage with equal readiness; yet there was a sensitiveness about their faces, especially Nigel’s, which warred with the rest.

  As they thundered down on the company ahead, the younger shouted.

  “A banner. Forward. See it? A bishop, at least!”

  “Our own colours—red and gold! Can you see the device…?”

  “A cross, I think. Not a saltire and a chief, like Bruce. A red cross on gold. We’ll make it flap…!”

  The other looked just a little doubtful now—but here was no occasion for hesitation. No man of spirit could pull up now, and have his followers cannoning into his rear while he mouthed excuses for a change of mind. A man must never look a fool before his men—especially if they were Border moss troopers Moreover, churchmen were all insufferably pompous and requiring of diminishing. They hurtled on.

  Horsemen at the rear of the leisurely cavalcade were now looking back, at the urgent drumming of hooves. There was a certain amount of alarmed reining to this side or that. The riverside road was not only fairly narrow, but here, near Paxton, cut its way along a steep brae side of whins and bracken and thorn trees, with the ground rising sharply at one side and dropping steeply at the other. There was little room for manoeuvre—although if the company ahead had ridden less than four abreast, there would have been room for a single file to pass.

  If there was some last-moment drawing aside towards the rear of the column, it did not extend to the middle, where an elaborate and richly canopied litter in red and gold was slung between a pair of pacing white jennets, something between a hammock and a palanquin, curtained and upholstered. This swaying equipage, with its two horses, took up almost the full width or the track.

  Perhaps a score of men rode behind it, and another score in front With cheerful shouts of “Way for the Bruce! Way for the Bruce!” the laughing young men bore down on this dignified procession—and very quickly its dignity was dispersed in chaos as the tight-knit, hard-riding group drove in on it without slackening of pace. Like a spearhead the Bruces bored on and through the ruck of swearing, shouting men and rearing, plunging, stumbling horses. Low over their own beasts’ necks the Bruces crouched, hands flailing at heaving flanks. Everywhere riders were forced off the track, mainly down the steep bank towards the river, in a bedlam of protest, malediction, neighings and mocking laughter.

  The jennets with the litter were led on a golden cord by an elderly liveried horse-master on a substantial cob. He, like the escort, wore the red cross on gold on breast and back. At the uproar behind he turned and hurriedly raised a protesting hand. Quickly perceiving that nothing or the sort would halt or even slow down the oncoming group, he agitatedly sought to drag off some little way to the right, the riverside, the two litter horses. But there was nothing effective that he could do, without the near-side beast going right over the lip of the bank, which would eventually have tipped up the litter and probably thrown out its occupant. Such conveyances, though an enormous aid to comfortable travel, were awkward indeed to handle in an emergency.

  The Bruces came pounding on. There was obviously no space for them to pass the litter two abreast without headlong collision, and at the last moment Nigel, to the left, wrenched round his mount to force it up on the climbing bank a little way. Even so his brother’s powerful stallion jostled and all but overthrew the gentle left-side jennet, causing it to stagger over, white legs sprawling wide. In its turn this pushed the other jennet over the edge, and the litter, slung between them, canted up at an alarming angle, leaning over to the right precariously, front high.

  As he swept past, Robert Bruce’s grin went from his face like sun behind a scudding storm-cloud. It was no proud priest who clutched the lurching sides of the curtained bran card but a young woman. And even in the hectic moment of passing, he recognised that she was a beauty.

  Bruce-seldom, by his very nature, did anything by half measures. No sooner had the perception of error penetrated his consciousness than he was reining up in savage and utterly abrupt decision, with no least heed for the immediate consequences, his stallion neighing in shocked protest, rearing high on its hindquarters, hooves slithering and scoring the dirt surface of the roadway in a cloud of dust and sparks, forelegs pawing the air.

  Almost it toppled over backwards, and only superb horsemanship kept its rider in the saddle.

  Complete chaos ensued, as the following men-at-arms piled up in a pandemonium of agonised horseflesh, lashing
hooves and flailing limbs.

  Fortunately all these moss troopers were practically born to the

  saddle, and their mounts, unlike their masters’ thoroughbreds, shaggy nimble-footed garrons bred to the hills and the hazards of the chase in roughest territory; otherwise there would have been disaster. As it was, two men were unhorsed, one gar ron went down—but struggled to its feet again—and the left hand jennet was cannoned into again and knocked down on its knees.

  Oddly enough, this last casualty had the effect of momentarily levelling the litter considerably, both sideways and fore and aft.

  Even as the cause of all this upheaval dragged his mount’s head round to face the rear, with the brute still high on its hind legs, the young woman leapt nimbly out of her tossing equipage in a flurry of skirts and long silk-clad legs—no easy task from a reclining position and an unsteady base—to land directly in front of the rearing stallion and its appalled rider. She stood, apparently unconcerned at the danger from those wicked waving hooves, glaring up at the young man in proud and pale anger.

  Mortified, Bruce sought to quieten his horse, bring its feet down clear of the girl and the other milling brutes, doff his velvet bonnet and stammer apologies, all at the same time. His code of chivalry, which could accept as no more than a mere understandable prank the riding down of an elderly churchman or a fat merchant, was outraged by any such insult to a young and attractive female—so long as she was a lady. Careless of all the commotion around him, save for this aspect of it, he shook his auburn head and sought for words of excuse, of explanation.

  Words came rather more swiftly to the young woman.

  “Fool!”

  she cried.

  “Witless, manner less dolt I How dare you, sirrah? How dare you?” Despite her choler and fright, her blazing blue eyes and quivering lips, she had a notably musical and softly accented voice, with cadences in it such as the Islesmen used.

  Some part of Bruce’s mind recognised and placed those cadences. But

  that was at the back of a mind at present fully occupied front ally

  “Pardon, lady!” he gasped.

  “I beseech you—pardon! My profound regrets. Of a mercy, forgive. I had no notion … a woman a mistake, I promise you. We thought… we thought…”

  “You thought to play the ape! The masterful ape, sirrah! By riding down peaceable folk. Driving them off your king’s highway, in your arrogant folly. Using the weight of your prancing horseflesh in lieu of wits and manners! You need not ask pardon of me, sir.” She raised her head the higher.

  The girl had a high head anyway, on a notably long and graceful column of neck, a proud fair head held proudly on a tall and slender fair body. She was young for so much hauteur and authoritative vehemence, no more than eighteen probably, of a delicate yet vigorously-moulded beauty of feature. She had a wealth of heavy corn-coloured hair piled up high above lofty brows, from beneath which flashed those alive blue eyes. Despite her long slenderness she had handsome breasts, high and proud as the rest of her. She wore a travelling-gown of dark blue velvet, the swelling bodice patterned with silver and edged at neck and sleeves with fur.

  “All day we have been held back by slow-moving folk, cumbering the road, lady.” That was Nigel, rallying to his brother’s aid.

  “Quiet!” Robert’s barked command was less than appreciative.

  “You have my regrets, madam. I will make any amends suitable.”

  He said that stiffly. He would not grovel to any man, or woman either.

  “Others have ridden all day. Without becoming boors!” she returned.

  “Your regrets are over-late. And your best amends, sir, will be to remove yourselves as quickly as you may.”

  “You are scarcely generous …” Bruce was protesting, when another voice broke in.

  “What a fiend’s name goes on? Elizabeth—what’s to do?” A stern-looking thick-set man in early middle age, splendidly attired and clothed with most evident authority, had ridden back from the front of the ambling column. He would have been handsome had it not been for the great scar which disfigured his features from brow to chin.

  “It is nothing, Father,” the girl said.

  “You need not concern yourself. Travellers with more haste than manners—that is all.

  There is no hurt done.”

  “There had better not be, by God!” The newcomer glared around at all and sundry, as men and horses sorted themselves.

  “You were not upset? Outed? From your litter?”

  “No. I … stepped down.” The young woman raised an eyebrow at Bruce.

  “There is no profit in further talk. Nor in further delay of these so hasty young men.”

  “No? Yet you are in a rage, girl! I know that face on you!”

  the man declared.

  “If these have occasioned my daughter offence .!”

  “Scarce that, my lord,” she returned, with a flash of scorn.

  Their offence will be if they linger further!”

  Bruce cleared his throat.

  “I have apologised, sir,” he said.

  “It was a. mishap. We had no notion that there was a lady in it. I would not otter offence to any lady. Especially such as … such as …” His words tailed away—which, in that young man, was unusual.

  “No doubt. You would needs be bold indeed to choose to offend Richard de Burgh’s daughter!” the older man said grimly.

  “De Burgh? You… you are de Burgh?”

  “I am. Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster. And you, sir? Have you a name?”

  The younger man drew himself up in his saddle.

  “Some, I think, would call it a name, my bra of Ulster, I am Carrick.

  Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick.”

  “Hal Bruce? A sprig of that tree! Carrick, eh? Then I went crusading with your father, my lord. And found your grandsire a sore man to agree with!”

  “Many, I fear, so found!” Robert Bruce risked a smile. He actually bowed a little.

  “Myself he could see no good in. Nor my brother here, either.”

  The Lord Nigel grinned, and sketched a comprehensive flourish rather than a salute, less awed perhaps than he should have been. He knew the name, of course—who did not? Richard de Burgh, Lord of Connaught and Earl of Ulster, was the greatest Norman name in Ireland, one of the most noted warriors of the age—and, more important, King Edward of England’s most trusted crony, adherent and companion-in-arms.

  “It may be that the old devil had the makings of sense in him, than” That comment was accompanied by a distinct twinkle of the eye, strange in so ravaged and stern a face. It was strange, too, how the Norman-French de Burgh voice had, in only three generations, acquired so liltingly Irish an intonation and character.

  “Your father, the Lord of Annandale—is he in health? And in the King’s peace? Or out of it!”

  “I scarce know, my lord. From day to day!” That was bold, in the circumstances.

  The older man grimaced fierce appreciation of the fact.

  “Aye.

  No doubt. His Majesty’s peace is not always easy to keep. But, as I mind it, your father was always a fool where his own good was concerned!”

  “In that you have the rights of it,” Bruce acknowledged.

  “I

  swear he …”

  It was the Lady Elizabeth de Burgh’s turn to clear her throat—and she did it in no tentative or apologetic fashion.

  “These young lords travel in great haste, Father,” she interrupted loftily.

  “That, they made all too clear! It is not for us to hold them back.

  Moreover, I would not choose this place and company to stand and talk!” Most evidently she disapproved of her righteous indignation being submerged under a masking tide of masculine camaraderie.

  She turned to her litter again.

  Her father grinned, and nodded. He reined round his horse to ride back to his place at the head of his company.

  The elderly horse-master, from gentling and soothing the jennets, was moving forward to aid his mistress into her equipage when he was
roughly thrust aside. Young Nigel Bruce had leapt from the saddle, and in a stride or two was seeking to hoist up the Lady Elizabeth, with laughing gallantry. She did not reject his help, but, settling herself unhurriedly on to her couch, eyed him up and down coolly.

  “What do I thank for this?” she asked.

  “My father’s name?

  Or King Edward’s?”

  Abashed, the young man drew back.

  “I but … would serve you,” he said.

  “A lady. And fair…”

  “Was I not that when you tipped me out? A good day to you, sir.”

  The other returned to his horse, wordless, and with his brother, bowed, and rode on. It was no mean feat to have silenced the young Bruces.

  It was perhaps a pity that in their stiff constraint, however, they did

  not” could not, look back—or they might have perceived a notably

  different expression on the young woman’s

  They rode soberly now, in single file, past the remainder of the Ulster entourage, respectfully saluted de Burgh at the front, and then, once well past, spurred ahead, with one accord anxious to put distance between them and their humiliation.

  “A hussy I A shrew! A very wild-cat!” Nigel exclaimed, as he drew up level with his brother.

  “Have you ever seen the like!”

  “No. Nor wish to.”

  “So much to-do over so little a thing! Women are the devil!

  And yet…. she is bonny!”

  “So, perhaps, is the devil! Who knows?”

  Their brooding over their wrongs did not last long—only as far as the

  outskirts of Berwick town. Thereafter where the broad silver river

  reached the azure plain of the sea, sparkling, clean, infinite, even

  the young Bruces, used as they were to the detritus of invasion and