The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  civil war, became increasingly preoccupied with other matters. Never had either of them seen the like of this.

  Here was offence of a different sort, on a different scale, offence to every sense—but especially, perhaps, to their noses. Everywhere they looked, in the narrow fire-blackened streets, were bodies—bodies in heaps and piles, bodies that hung and swung, bodies crucified, disembowelled, decapitated, mutilated and made mock of, bodies untidily aspr awl or neatly laid out, bodies of all sizes, ages, and of both sexes, naked, clothed, half-burned. Every ruined house was full of them, every gaping window festooned, every street and alley lined with them, only sufficient of the causeways cleared to give meagre passage through the main thoroughfares. And all this vast dead populace of Berwickon Tweed was in an advanced state of putrefaction, for all had been slain weeks before. It was now August, high summer. The stench was utterly appalling, suffocating. The throbbing hum of the flies was like a constant moaning of this host of departed souls in their anguish, and the clouds of them like a black miasma over all.

  Coughing, choking, next to vomiting with the stink of it, Nigel gasped.

  “What folly is this? Have they taken leave of their wits?

  The English. Letting all these lie? Should have been buried weeks ago.”

  “Left of a purpose. Edward overlooks nothing,” his brother answered grimly.

  “This will be on his orders. A lesson. To all.”

  “But,.. to hold a parliament here! Amidst this.”

  “The more telling a lesson. The parliament’s but a show, anyway.

  This, to point it!”

  “God—it is not to be endured!”

  “It will be endured. Because it must.”

  “It could raise revolt.”

  “More like to raise the plague!”

  “Aye. In this heat. Is your King Edward mad?”

  Even in the company of their own moss troopers Bruce glanced round and behind him quickly, frowning.

  “Watch your tongue!”

  he jerked, low-voiced.

  “I counsel you—save your breath!”

  It was good advice. Seeking to breathe as little and as shallowly as they might, the brothers trotted through those terrible, silent streets of Scotland’s greatest seaport and trading centre, the customs of which were said to have been worth a quarter of those of all England. They were climbing, by steep cobbled alleys and wynds still black with the blood that had cascaded down them to stain the very estuary, up from the wharves and piers and warehouses of the once-crowded lower town towards the lofty proud castle which crowned its soaring cliff-top promontory, high and serene above river and town and horror, the great banner of England streaming splendidly from its topmost tower. Up there, at least, the air would be pure.

  Many travellers were climbing that long hill, and few there were whose faces were other than pale, eyes averted, lips tight.

  The Bruces pushed past none now. Haste was no longer valid, even to escape the smell.

  At the gatehouse to the outer bailey of the castle they must perforce join a queue, inconceivable as this would have been in any other circumstances. All men-at-arms and retinues were being detached, irrespective of whose, and ordered peremptorily off to right and left, to wait and camp as best they might in the crowded tourney-ground and archery-butts which flanked the final steep and rocky knoll which the castle crowned. Only the quality travellers themselves, bearers of the royal summons, were being admitted over the drawbridge and into the castle precincts. But of these there was no lack, this August day, for never in Scotland’s history had so many been required, commanded, to forgather in one place at one time. Patiently as they might, if less than humbly, and dismounted necessarily, the Bruce brothers took their places in the long shuffling column that only slowly worked its submissive way forward.

  Over the hollow-sounding timbers of the bridge that spanned the dry

  ditch surrounding the towering ramparts, they reached, at length the

  arched stone pend that thrust beneath the gatehouse itself. Here a

  burly perspiring master-at-arms, supported by halberd-bearing minions

  in dented jacks and morions, scrutinised each arrival, and roughly

  separated sheep from goats, his rich Dorset voice hoarse with much

  shouting. As the Bruces drew close, awaiting their turn, Robert sought

  to occupy himself and his sorely-tried temper by considering the

  present state of the handsome flourish of heraldry carved above the

  archway. It represented the Douglas coat-of-arms, of a blue chief with

  stars on a silver field; but it was now hacked and defaced, spattered

  with dried thrown horse-dung, with hung over it a derisory bull’s

  testicles and prickle, shrivelled in the sun. The veteran Sir William

  le hardi Douglas had commanded here, and had held out in this castle

  throughout the Sack of Berwick, surrendering to Edward only when water

  and food had run out. The surrender had been on honourable terms; but

  Douglas was said to be still in chains, and walking all the way to London Tower, like a performing bear, for his pains.

  When they reached the master-at-arms, the fellow hardly so much as glanced at them.

  “English? Or Scots?” he demanded unceremoniously.

  Bruce threw up his head.

  “I am the Earl of Carrick,” he said shortly.

  “English or Scots, I said, man. Did you not hear?” That was weary but curt.

  “Fool! Did you not hear?” Nigel cried.

  “Bruce! Earl of Carrick.

  We are Scots, yes—since our father should be King of Scots.

  But we have great English manors. In Durham, Yorkshire, Sussex and Essex. And our father is Keeper of Carlisle for King Edward …”

  “I care not, cockerel, which dunghill your sire keeps! You are dirty Scots, curse you—so to the left you go, withe rest. Off wi’ you. Next…”

  When the Bruces would have protested, their arms were seized by the supporting guards, and they were ungently pushed and hurried through the pend.

  Fiercely Robert broke free.

  “Hands off Bruce, cur!” he exclaimed, and at the sudden sheer blaze of fury in those steel-grey eyes, even the rough soldier blinked and released the arm, dropping his hand to his sword-hilt instead. Utterly ignoring him thereafter, the other stalked on, to turn left inside the outer bailey, his brother hurrying after him.

  “Edward shall hear of this!” he grated—and then all but snapped off Nigel’s head as he began to deliver himself of his own opinions.

  It appeared after a few moments however, that King Edward might be some little time in hearing of the offence offered to his illustrious friends and supporters. For the Bruces found themselves joining another and still longer queue that wound its sluggish way round this side of the outer bailey, through a side postern door in the next tall parapeted rampart, and into the inner bailey, there to cross the cobbled courtyard to the kitchen entrance to the castle proper. This slow-moving column was strictly hemmed in and controlled by a double rank of armed guards, shoulder to shoulder—and when the Bruces perceived their lowly scullions’ destination and tried to break away, in righteous wrath, they were savagely restrained and manhandled.

  Nor were they permitted to turn back, as they would have done.

  Jabbing dirks and halberd-points left them little scope for argument or manoeuvre. Along with more amenable visitors, they were herded willy-nilly along towards the kitchens.

  It took a long time to reach that lowly doorway and the dark sweating-stone, food-smelling passages beyond, where the cream of Scotland’s quality edged forward, pushed and jostled by cooks, servitors and menials carrying haunches of beef, trussed fowls, fish and the like. Climbing the narrow corkscrew stairways beyond, step by slow step, in the choking reek of pitch-pine torches, and making room for the impatient flunkeys and domestics with their trays and flagons, seemed to take an eternity—and even here the restr
icted space was much taken up with a lining of stationary scowling guards. It was the best part of an hour after reaching the outer gatehouse before the Bruce brothers stepped, by the service entrance, into the Great Hall of Berwick Castle, Robert at least seething with a cold rage such as he had never known, nor had cause to know, hitherto.

  The Hall was a vast apartment, full of noise, colour and activity, heartening at first sight after all the weary trailing-although not all would confirm that impression after a second glance. Up one side of the great chamber were set long tables, groaning with good cheer, served by the busy menials, at which sat or lounged or sprawled drunk a gay and well-dressed company of laughing, talking or snoring men and women. At the head of the room was a raised dais, and on this was set a much smaller table, at one end of which sat King Edward in a throne-like chair, with Bishop Beck, the Earls of Surrey and Hereford, his commanders, and Master Hugh de Cressingham, a Justiciar of England. Nearby, and being used as an additional side-table for bottles, flagons and goblets, was a curious lump of red sandstone, flat and roughly oblong. High above, half way to the vaulted ceiling, in a little gallery, minstrels played soft music.

  So much for the first glance. The second revealed a different aspect

  of the scene. The long queue of Scots notables still maintained its

  formation and patient shuffling progress. It was strictly confined to

  the other and right-hand side of the Hall, all but pressed against the

  stone walling indeed by drawn up ranks of guards—though all others

  ignored it. Right up to the steps of the dais area it went, to another

  table at which clerks sat, a table on which were no viands and which

  was placed directly behind the King’s back, though at the lower level.And here, as each Scots landholder reached it, his name was called out, ticked off a list, and he was required to kneel on the floor and thus take an oath of homage to Edward of England for every inch of land he held. Here was no taking of the monarch’s hand between his own, as homage was normally done, the oath not administered by any prelate; the monarch indeed never so much as glanced round from his eating and talk, and the clerks it was who demanded the oath, gabbling out its terms and ordering its repetition.

  Thereafter, homage done, the ignored suppliants were allowed to rise, bow low, and then sign their names or make their crosses on one of a great pile of sheepskins, each already lettered with the wording of the oath of fealty, sign or mark for each holding of land in each county or sheriff dom of Scotland, for each office or position held. Whereafter, the signatory was hustled away by men-at-arms to a side door, and out. They were being put through two at once, and as quickly as possible, but even so it took a deal of time. Hence the queue’s lack of momentum.

  “Dear God-see this!” Nigel Bruce cried.

  “See what they do!

  Look—there is Mar kneeling now. Gartnait, Earl of Mar, your own wife’s brother. With that bishop. Save us—is it possible?”

  His brother did not answer. Pale, set-faced, he was eyeing all that scene, noting all. He noted that it was only the English who sat at the long tables—all who ate and drank were Norman English, or perhaps Norman-Irish or Norman-Welsh or Norman French. He noted that none save the clerks at the signing table paid the least attention to the oath-taking, least of all those at the King’s high table. He noted that none of the Scots, however illustrious, were being permitted to remain in the Hall after signing.

  His wrath rose to choke him. Suddenly he strode out, bursting from the painful procession, pushing through the steel barrier of the guards.

  “My lord King!” he shouted.

  “My liege lord Edward I I protest!

  It is I—Robert Bruce of Carrick. Majesty—I crave your heed.”

  There was much noise in that place, but even so his outcry must have been heard by most. Certain faces at the long table did turn towards him—but none up on the royal dais.

  The guards were not slow to react. At first hesitating, in their surprise, they swiftly perceived that no sign came from the King, and a number hurled themselves upon the protester. He did not resist, knowing well that it could be accounted treason to brawl or engage in physical violence in the presence of the monarch. But he did raise his voice again. And this time it was directed not at Edward but at one of those who sat quite nearby at the long table.

  “Cousin-my lord of Gloucester!” he called.

  “Your aid, I pray you.” The guards were pushing him towards a door, not back to lis place in the queue, as he said it.

  A tall, thin, grave-faced man rose at the table—Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, son-in-law of King Edward and cousin of the Bruces’ father. He did not speak nor make any gesture towards his young relative, but after a moment, unhurriedly went stalking in stiff crane-like fashion up towards the dais table. At sight of this the guards halted in the pushing of their prisoner, and waited.

  Gloucester bowed before the King, and said something low voiced, turning to point back down the Hall. Edward glanced thither wards shrugged wide shoulders, and made a remark that ended in a hoot of laughter. He waved a careless hand. At the other end of the room, Bruce’s pale face flushed scarlet. Gloucester came pacing back.

  “Permit my lord of Carrick to return to his place in the file,” he told the guards curtly, and without a word to his cousin, went back to his chair at the table.

  Further humiliated, almost beyond all bearing, Robert Bruce was pushed back in the queue beside his brother. On the face of it no further attention was paid to him, any more than to the others. Nigel’s muttered sympathy was received.in stiff-lipped silence.

  The Bruces’ creeping progress towards the signing-table proceeded frozen-faced thereafter—until perhaps, half-way there, exclamation was in fact wrung from both brothers by the elaborate arrival of newcomers on the scene—not by any humble servitors’ entrance these, but by the main Hall door. It was thrown open by a bowing chamberlain, and in strode Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster, followed by his daughter. A buzz of interest ran round me great chamber—to be lost in the louder noise of rising and pushing back of chairs, as Edward himself rose and turned to greet these honoured guests warmly, and perforce all others awake and sufficiently sober must rise also.

  When they mounted the dais, the King slapped his old comrade on the

  back heartily, and raising the curtsying Lady Elizabeth, kissed her

  cheek with a smack, at the same time managing > nudge her father in the

  ribs in jocular fashion, obviously paying masculine tribute to her

  appearance. And admittedly she was very lovely, changed from her travelling dress into a magnificent shaped gown of pale blue satin, high-throated and edged with pearls, which highly effectively set off her fair beauty and splendid figure. She wore her plentiful ripe-corn-coloured hair looped with a simple circlet of blue cornflowers instead of the more usual elaborate headdress with net and horns. No large number of women were present, for the English were not apt to take their ladies campaigning with them, and the Scots summoned to the signing were all men; but such as there were shone but dully beside Elizabeth de Burgh, and by their expressions, knew it.

  Little of admiration was reflected on the face of the Bruce brothers either. Indeed Robert’s carefully maintained and haughty lack of expression was now cracked into something like a glower.

  “A plague on them! This is beyond all!” Nigel growled.

  “Must we suffer this too? She will, she must see us here. Crawling like, like worms! Vanquished.”

  The man immediately before them in the column turned.

  “We are vanquished men, my lords,” he said simply. It was Sir Richard Lundin, a middle-aged life knight known slightly to both.

  “You may be. But we are not, sir,” Bruce declared heatedly.

  “We ever fought on Edward’s side. Opposed the usurper Baliol.

  And now—this!”

  “My heart bleeds for you, my lords!” A young man looked back from further up the queue,
speaking mockingly.

  “To have betrayed your own crowned liege lord and realm, and to have received this in reward!” That was Sir John Comyn, younger of Badenoch, nephew of King John Baliol and kinsman of the Constable, Buchan.

  “Comyn! You to speak I You, who stole my lands. Bruce has never acknowledged any king save Edward, since Alexander died.

  Comyn swore fealty to Edward likewise. Can you deny it? And then turned rebel. Jackal to Baliol! For which treachery you were given my lands. And you talk of betrayal!” During John Baliol’s three-year reign, he had forfeited the Bruces and divided their Carrick lands in Ayrshire amongst the Comyns, his sister’s family.

  “John Baliol was, and is, King of Scots. Nothing that you, or that tyrant there, can say or do can un crown him. Crowned at Scone, on the Stone of Destiny. You it is, Bruce, that is rebel…”

  “My lords, my young lords!” In between them the old Abbot of Melrose raised imploring hands.

  “Peace, peace, I pray you. This can serve no good. For any of us. Of a mercy, watch your words.

  Already they look at us …”

  That was true. Despite the general noise and the evident policy of ignoring the Scots, the young men’s upraised voices had attracted some attention, the fact that it was the Earl of Carrick again no doubt contributing. Edward himself had not glanced in their direction, but Surrey, his chief commander, now looked round and down. And sitting at the King’s table now likewise, Elizabeth de Burgh was also considering them thoughtfully.

  Perceiving the fact, Robert Bruce cursed below his breath, and looked determinedly elsewhere. Never had he felt so helpless, in so intolerable a position—he who should be Prince of Scotland if he had his rights. And to have that chit of a girl sitting there looking down on his ignominy … I His brother was also looking carefully anywhere but at the dais table. To change the dangerous subject was as essential as was not meeting the young woman’s interested gaze. He tapped Robert’s arm.

  “That piece of stone? With the flagons on it. What is it?” he asked.

  “How comes it here?”

  His brother shook his head.

  “They say that it is the Coronation Stone, my lord,” Lundin informed.