The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1 Page 27

by Nigel Tranter

  “I know, I know. But do not fear—no men think Bruce reduced by this

  day’s work. Quite otherwise. You have added to your stature, my good

  lord. That is certain. But… do not name Comyn braggart, I pray

  you. Do not delude yourself. Whatever else he is, he is not that. It will pay us to remember it” “Perhaps. But, whatever he is, he will suffer for today. On that I give you my oath! Before Almighty God!”

  The older man sighed, and shook his head.

  “Perhaps God will save you from that oath—who knows? But—what do you now?

  Roxburgh?”

  “No. I am none so keen on castle-baiting. Time can be better used.

  There is much else for me to do.”

  “Nevertheless, I think it would be well to heed one matter that Comyn said, my friend. Lochmaben. You were wise to lay siege to Lochmaben. What he said, of men’s talk, could be true. At least make the gesture of investing your castle.”

  “You think … ? Men do talk so of me? It is not just Comyn’s spleen?

  That I reserve Lochmaben, for Edward’s favour?”

  “Men are foolish. And uncharitable. I have heard the like talk.

  Better that you should proclaim it false, by your deeds.”

  Bruce looked away and away, beyond the rain-shrouded Peebles hills.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fires blazed redly against the October blue night sky, on every rounded height that flanked the seven lochs of Lochmaben and were reflected in the prevailing blue-black waters, scores of conflagrations that burned brightly and were being replenished, flames that would be seen from great distances, from all Annandale and Nithsdale and the plain of Solway, even from far Carlisle and the English Cumberland fells behind. And for once they were not burning homes and farmsteads and churches, not even bale fires of warning; but bonfires of joy and celebration. For Lochmaben’s great castle was in its own people’s hands again, after long enemy occupation, the captured garrison imprisoned in the dungeons which had held and seen the last of so many Annandale folk these past years. Now there was no single English held enclave in all the SouthWest. Moreover, the harvest was safely in at last, and the weather held. There was cause for rejoicing and bonfires.

  Robert Bruce, pacing the timber bretasche, or overhanging parapet-walk of the main central tower of Lochmaben high on the mote-hill of earth, and looking out at it all over the surrounding waters, recognised that he had cause for gratification.

  He it was who had given permission for those beacons to be lit. A success was welcome indeed, after all the months of labour and frustration. The sheer military action itself, the overcome challenge, had been welcome—and the acceptance of Sir Nicholas Segrave’s surrender a notable satisfaction—even though the deplorable pantryman, Master Benstead, it seemed, had been withdrawn to England almost a year before. But satisfaction was not really in the man’s mind, that night, nevertheless.

  None knew better than he how superficial, how temporary, was this celebration. Lochmaben might be his again, meantime—but for how long? This harvest was gathered and secured—but would there be another? The basic situation was unchanged. The monstrous shadow of Edward Plantagenet loomed over all divided Scotland still, behind those joyous bonfires, and there was little reason to believe that the future would be any brighter than the past.

  Indeed Bruce at least knew the reverse to be likely. He had come up here, to the battlements, to be alone, and to be able to read again the letter which crackled inside his doublet—for beacons blazed here on the topmost parapet also, and would give him light to read, unattended, as was impossible in the crowded castle below. That letter which was itself secret satisfaction and disquiet both. But he was not alone. His brothers Nigel and Edward, and his brother-in-law Gartnait of Mar, had followed him up; and while the former pair knew their brother sufficiently well to perceive the signs that he would be glad of their absence, and had withdrawn round to the other side of the keep’s high walk, the latter, an amiable but somewhat stupid man, took no such hint and clung close, talking, talking.

  The fact was the Earl of Mar, who tended to hide himself in his northern fastnesses, was in process of building up the capture of Lochmaben Castle into the adventurous highlight of a not very exciting life. He had committed himself for the first time, against the English, and the venture had been successful. Not only, but it had been a spectacular and dramatic business, two nights ago, and he had taken an active if minor part. It looked as though the fall of Lochmaben was going to be Gartnait of Mar’s theme of conversation for a long time to come.

  Admittedly, it had been no ordinary and prolonged siege, than which no

  military activity could be more dull. It had been Bruce’s own

  conception, for, though he had been born at Turnberry, he had spent a large part of his boyhood here, at his paternal grandfather’s favourite castle. It was an old-fashioned place, not one of the new stone castles at all, but a mote-and-bailey stronghold of the sort that had been general for three centuries, built of timber and covered over with hardened clay. If any imagined this to be a frail construction for such a place, they would be mistaken. The artificial mote-hill rose to about fifty feet, and the soil which went to its heightening had been dug from all round in the form of deep encircling ditches, up to thirty feet wide. There were four of these ditches at Lochmaben, each defended by a high wooden palisade, with inner shelf-like parapet-walk and drawbridges. The inner one enclosed a ring-shaped court, around the central mound, in which were the kitchens and domestic quarters, the men-at arms’ barracks, the storehouses and the stables. Also the castle well. Up on the summit of the mote-hill was the great square keep itself, its massive timbers covered in many feet of baked clay plastering, so that it could not be fired from without. Well provisioned, such a place was well-nigh unconquerable.

  But Bruce, sitting down with his host outside it, had had childhood memories which stood him in good stead. That well, in the inner bailey, which permitted prolonged resistance, was nevertheless the place’s weakness—though few probably knew it. Deep down it connected not with a spring, which was usual, but with a running underground stream of fair size. A stream that flowed into the Castle Loch some two hundred yards to the south by an inconspicuous exit amongst piled rocks and elder scrub. Bruce had found that exit, playing as a boy, and explored the stream’s winding tunnel-like course underground as a boy will, until he had found himself at the foot of the stone-faced well-shaft, with the glimmer of daylight high above. He had never forgotten.

  So, on a suitably dark night of cloud and drizzle, he had mounted a sham attack on the outer de fences under Edward, to keep the garrison occupied, and set burning great quantities of cut reeds and brushwood to westwards, to form a blowing smokescreen to blind the defenders. Then he himself had fed three boat loads of men, with muffled oars, from the nearby town, under Nigel and Mar, to the hidden mouth of the stream. The underground course had seemed infinitely smaller, more cramping and alarming than his boyhood recollection; but at length, bruised and coughing with the smoke from the pitch-pine torches, they had reached the well-foot. Its rope and bucket was up at the surface, but the agile Nigel had worked his way up the long shaft, back hard against one side, feet walking up the other, and thereafter quietly let down the rope for the others to follow. The inner bailey had been deserted.

  Thereafter a score of desperate men had crept up the steep mote-hill to the central keep, screened by the drifting smoke, to find it standing open and practically empty, all the garrison manning the perimeter palisades, gatehouses and outer de fences Securing the citadel, they had then attacked the bewildered and scattered defenders from the rear, one bailey at a time. Sir Nicholas Segrave, still the castle’s Captain, had surrendered his sword at the main gatehouse, like a man betrayed.

  Gartnait of Mar had scarcely ceased to talk of it since.

  A commotion down in the same inner bailey, over a hundred feet below their lofty stance, with horsemen arriving and torches waving, gave Bru
ce the excuse he sought. Not every belted earl would run errands, even at the behest of another of the same, but Mar was essentially a modest and gentle man—as his spirited wife complained. His brother-in-law sent him down to find out what was to do.

  Alone, Bruce drew out the letter—which he had only had opportunity to skim hitherto—and moved closer to the nearest beacon, for light. It read:

  My lord Robot, I take up my pen again with much concern for you. And some little for myself, should I be discovered thus writing. For King Edward has little mercy on those who counter him, as you do know, even though they be women. Certain ladies here have discovered it to their cost, of late. For this marriage seems to have shortened his temper. So that I fear that I may write but little tonight, for I am much constrained and seldom alone. The Queen is at chapel, for the King has become mighty religious and I have craved excuse over a woman’s pains. But she and the others will be back.

  Foolish that I am, my lord, to waste precious time and words so. I write from York again, where we are recently returned from London. But not from the house of Uhtred the clothier. I am very grand now, in the Lord Archbishop’s palace no less. For I am chief of the Queen’s ladies. But we are cramped here mighty tight, nevertheless, and I had more of private space amongst the cloths and wool.

  But we do not stay at York. In two days we go north to Newcastle

  where the King assembles another great force against Scotland.

  He is very wroth about the assault on Stirling and promises dire punishments against his rebellious Scots. He is wroth too with his lords, for many do say that it is too late now in the year for invading Scotland. And that he goes back on his promises to them, in this continuing warfare. God knows they are right. It is a kind of madness with him. He has forbade, by public proclamation, all joustings, tournaments and plays of arms, saying that every knight, esquire and soldier must rather come to do duty against the Scots. I fear then, that by your receipt of this writing, the King will be riding against you, to Stirling.

  Your letter did find me at Canterbury and I much esteem it. I am sorry for your state and pray that it may be lightened. The Lord John Comyn I remember and did not like. We did not agree. But nor did I agree with the Lord Robert of Carrick. Is it not so? Even though you do not believe me shrew. Or say that you do not. Perhaps you cozen me. But may the Devil roast John Comyn.

  I have heard tidings of your father. He dwells quietly and peaceably on his manor of Hatfield Broadoak in Essex. It is said he has been sickly. The King does not speak of him. He speaks of you, I fear, but less than fondly.

  Guy de Beauchamp, of Warwick, is not now in the King’s favour, and so I am spared. But he would have me to wed instead Humphrey de Bohun, the new young Earl of Hereford. Do you esteem him the more acceptable, my lord?

  From Newcastle when the King marches into Scotland we women are to be left at the Percy’s castle of Alnwick where I was beforetime. Near to you in your Border hills although I cannot conceive that we should meet. I do much fear for you and yours, in Edward’s wrath. Keep you out of his way my lord Robert.

  I hear the Queen returned below.

  I know not whom I may obtain to bring this letter to you.

  Another wandering friar will be safest, it may be. God be with you. I am in haste.

  From York, in the night of sixth October, by Elizabeth de Burgh.

  Humphrey de Bohun, of Hereford! That puppy! Bruce frowned fiercely on the fire lit night. A dandified young fool. And shamefully rich. He could no more manage Elizabeth de Burgh than he could fly in the air!

  The reader forced his thoughts to the more immediately vital matter of the date. The letter had taken three weeks to come from York, via the Bishop of Galloway—for it was now the end of October. Edward, then, might well have left Newcastle, by now, on his murderous way. Stirling, she said. Making for Stirling, to relieve the siege. Lamberton must be warned. And Comyn, of course. And Wallace was not yet home from across the seas … Mar, panting with the climb, arrived back at the parapet-walk with a young esquire, a stranger, who looked as though he had fallen into more than the one bog on his way to Lochmaben.

  “Courier from Seton. Warden of the March,” he burst out.

  “Edward is at Berwick! God save us-Edward is at Berwick, Robert!

  This… here is the Earl of Carrick.”

  “My lord-my master, Sir Christopher Seton, salutes you,” the youth said, his voice declaring his fatigue.

  “He sends this message. The King of England is at Berwick with a great host.

  But Sir Christopher learns that he has trouble. His greatest lords have refused to advance into Scotland. Thus late in the year. His first aim was to relieve Stirling Castle. But they will by no means accompany him. There is great upset in the English camp. But… Sir Christopher hears that the King comes here. Instead of Stirling .”

  “Here! You mean—Lochmaben?”

  “So says Sir Christopher, my lord. He has spies-in the English camp;

  The word is that the King’s wrath is beyond all telling. But his earls are solid against this venture. He has heard of your siege of this castle. Belike he does not know that it is fallen. He swears that he will teach the Earl of Carrick a lesson, at the least.

  He rides tomorrow for Lochmaben.”

  “The fiend take him I And these earls? Will they follow him to Lochmaben? But not to Stirling?”

  “No, my lord. They and their levies—the main host—move not out of England. But the King has men enough of his own, and hired Welsh archers, with the Cumberland levies of Sir Robert Clifford, to serve for this.”

  “How many?”

  Sir Christopher says near to ten thousand. Half of them Welsh long

  bowmen

  Dear God I And I have less than a third of that. And not two hundred of them archers!”

  ”Robert! Can you get more? In time?” Mar demanded, in agitation.

  “No. Not enough, by half. Not men to face Edward—the greatest soldier in Christendom I Not archers. Or armoured chivalry.”

  “Then… then what? What will you do?”

  “Do what I must,” Bruce answered grimly.

  “Go. Retire before him. Give up Lochmaben again. Play the craven I Give Comyn cause for glee I I can do no other. I cannot hold this castle against Edward—even if I would. I cannot fight him in the field, with hope of success. Even survival. So I retire. It is simple as that.”

  “Where? To Ayr? Lanark? Turnberry?”

  “No. Edward could follow to any of these. But we think that he will not go so far as Stirling. There is the best battle-ground of all Scotland. So to Stirling we shall go. Lamberton keeps his Church host watching Stirling. Scrymgeour, with Wallace’s people, will come there. Comyn is there. Bruce must needs go also.

  If a stand is to be made, it should be there. We retire to Stirling.”

  “Aye. That is best. And quickly.”

  “Tomorrow. At first light. No sleep for us this night. Nor for the townsfolk. For they must go. Flee again into the hills or Edward will visit his wrath on them. But—by God, we will play Edward’s own game, this time! Sir Nicholas Segrave and his captured men go with us. And I leave a letter for the Plantagenet.

  Any slaughter of my people of Annandale, and Segrave hangs.

  With his garrison. Every one. Come—we have work to do…”

  The driving late-November rain blattered against the small half-shuttered windows of Torwood Castle, on the high ground above the plain of Forth, and the wind shook the doors and lifted the reeds and rushes strewn on the stone flooring of the draughty hall. Comyn had not so much as thrown off his soaking cloak, and drips from it fell on to the parchment, to the distress of the clerks, as scornfully he added the flourish of his signature to the document.

  “Here’s a waste of ink and paper!” he declared.

  “What worth in it? Think you Edward of England will pay heed to such as this? I say he will throw it on his fire!”

  “Yet it will have been worth the sending, my lord—even if he does so,” Lamberton ins
isted, stooping to append his own signature.

  “For it will strengthen our hands with the Holy See, and with the states of Christendom. To have said that we nave made the offer of truce. See you, Edward’s claim is we are rebels. fits lieges in rebellion. This letter makes it clear to all men that we write as the Guardians of an independent realm. After receiving this, though he may spurn it, yet he cannot say that we have accepted his over lordship—we, who act for the King of Scots.”

  “Bah I Clerkly ha vers Sir Bishop! Words written on paper, however fine, will no more affect Edward than a fly on his sleeve.

  The sword, and a strong arm behind it, alone does he recognise…”

  “He recognises the wrath of Almighty God, sir, with the power of Holy Church to display it!” the Primate said sternly.

  “He recognises His Holiness of Rome, and his spiritual powers. He is much at his devotions these days, my lord of Carrick has heard.

  And this offer of truce is, in fact, written as much for Pope Boniface as for Edward Plantagenet. The copy which goes to Rome may achieve more than that which goes to England. I work for the threat of excommunication.”

  Bruce, who had already signed the impressive parchment, spoke—but carefully addressed his words to Lamberton only.

  “Moreover, my lord Bishop, although Edward would wish to reject this, he may find it convenient. He is much at odds with his lords. He cannot proceed further against us meantime, without their aid. He has already returned to Berwick from Lochmaben.

  A truce might serve him well enough. Give him the time he needs to come to, terms with his earls …”

  “Aught that serves Edward well can only serve us ill,” Comyn interrupted.

  “We are not all so concerned to please him!”

  Wooden-faced, evenly Bruce went on, still looking only at the Primate.

  “If he accepts this letter, this truce, and acts on it, even to his own advantage, it is more to ours. Not only giving us time also. But it commits him to dealing with us as a sovereign kingdom, not as rebels. Here is its importance. Before all men. We loudly make it known to all Christendom. Copies to all rulers. If Edward accepts the truce, he accepts our right to make it. Yet if he does not, he will seem to do so. For he cannot invade us again, with any hope of success, until next spring. And until he has won round his lords. So we have him, by this. Lochmaben was but a gesture. Brief, unimportant, to save his face…”

 

‹ Prev Next ›