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by Nigel Tranter


  Bruce nodded.

  “And if you cannot, no man can.”

  The other sighed.

  “As to that, I do not know. But this I know.

  I cannot longer continue. And even if I could, it would avail nothing.

  The realm drifts to ruin, calamity. And Edward waits.”

  “You will not relinquish the Guardianship? To Comyn!”

  “I do not know. God help me—I do not know I I do not see which way to turn.”

  It distressed Bruce to see this man, on whom he had relied so surely, thus broken, at a loss.

  “The realm needs you. Desperately.

  There is none other. Of your stature. And Comyn alone as Guardian—for Umfraville is the merest puppet—would be disaster.

  No man’s life would be safe. Is there no way that he may be unseated?”

  ”I have thought of it, day and night. But he is too powerful.

  Already he all but controls Scotland. I may seek to steer the ship of state, but Comyn captains it. Because he holds the sword. You should not have resigned, my friend. You must see it, now?”

  “I reached my limit, with Comyn. As you now have done, it seems,” Bruce said sombrely.

  “He wears men down as water wears a stone.”

  “What to do, then? In mercy’s name, what to do? He is like a savage animal now. But cunning, too. Smarting from the wounds his pride received at the Cree. Judging men to hate him—as they do. But the more determined. For spirit he does not lack.”

  “See you—this of the Cree fight. Of his guilt, for that. Of men hating him. This may we not use? A parliament may not only appoint a Guardian—it may unseat one. Could we not so sway a parliament that it would vote Comyn down?”

  Lamberton did not answer, gazing deep into the fire.

  “My party is sure, in its vote. The Church will vote, in the main, as you direct. The burghs will vote as Scrymgeour, Wallace’s lieutenant, says—and he hates Comyn. The Comyn faction is large, yes—but I believe, in this pass, with other men as sour as he is, it could be outvoted.”

  “And think you Comyn would meekly accept dismissal? Demit office and walk away? When he controls the power of the realm. Without civil war? Which God forbid! And Edward at our doors.”

  Bruce had risen, to pace the floor.

  “Not a parliament’s vote then—but the threat of it! You say he is sore at his unpopularity.

  He who acts the practised soldier. He would not enjoy a parliament that called for his resignation, named him bungler, at fault at the Cree. Even craven. I say he would sooner resign than face that.”

  The Bishop looked up at him.

  “You think it? It may be so.

  Yes, it could be. But … he would ensure that Umfraville and another held the Guardianship. Another puppet. With himself behind them. He would never leave me as master. For he mis likes me now, as he mis likes you.”

  “Scarcely so, my lord, I think—scarcely! But… if you offered to resign also? On condition that he did. And with the threat of a vote of parliament against him. A bargain. And Umfraville too.

  All Guardians resign. Because of the defeat. A new man appointed.

  One man. Might he not accept that?”

  “Aye-But who? Who would be that man? Who would serve any better?”

  “De Soulis. Sir John de Soulis. Of Liddesdale. Do you not see it?

  He is wed to Buchan’s sister, and is therefore a kinsman of Comyn’s. But he is a true man. Honest, as all do know. He was one of my grandfather’s auditors, when he claimed the throne. Is sound in the Bruce cause. Comyn, I think, would accept de Soulis.

  And I would trust him. Moreover, he is a good soldier. And coming from Liddesdale, has been fighting the English all his days.”

  “You think he would do it? Accept the task? As sole Guardian.

  Knowing the ill will, the back-stabbing, the thankless ness of it all?”

  “He was prepared to do it, in May, at Rutherglen. If we both besought him …”

  Lamberton rose.

  “My friend—you have at least given me hope again. It is possible.

  Pray God de Soulis will aid us…”

  By early spring John de Soulis was sole active Guardian of Scotland—but with the Guardianship now in scant repute and men looking for power elsewhere. Comyn, like Bruce, and for the same reasons, retained the style and title of Guardian. Lamberton and Umfraville did not.

  Comyn, no doubt, believed that he could control de Soulis, a kinsman. But he, and the realm, found the new. Guardian, an ageing, stocky, silent man, tougher than seemed probable. He refused to be bullied or frightened. Bruce gave him full support.

  As did Lamberton and the Church. Wallace’s people also. But the

  Comyn’s power was still the major factor in the land. They controlled

  all Scotland north of the Forth, save the West Highlands and the Isles,

  which no man could control; and increasingly demonstrated their

  dominance in the South also—for Comyn’s last act as Guardian had been

  to push through the appointments of his own nominees to most or the

  southern sheriffdoms. Everywhere unattached and doubtful lords and

  barons decided that it was wise to side with Comyn. The man was

  behaving like commander-in-chief, almost like a king, riding the land,

  holding musters of arms, sitting in at sheriffs’ assizes, declaring the

  size of levies required from each baron and knight, demanding moneys

  and aid from abbeys and priories. De Soulis might sit in Stirling

  Castle as nominal and conscientious ruler, refusing to be controlled

  by Comyn; but he on the other hand could by no means control Comyn,

  nor attempted to.

  Chaos mounted in the land—the land which awaited Edward.

  Bruce watched it all with a sort of sullen hopelessness. He had no 8,000 men this year, to string along the Border. His lands of Annandale and Carrick had been so devastated again that his people as well as being as sullen and demoralised as he was himself, were scattered, huddling where they could, scratching a living for themselves, and with sickness rampant—in no state for military service, willing or unwilling. He had some hundreds under arms, mainly vassals’ men from undamaged areas; but these he kept in secret places in Ettrick Forest and the Borderland hills.

  He had promises of contingents from his supporters, of course, lords like the Steward, Crawford, Mar and Atholl, when invasion actually was imminent. But meantime he could only watch-northwards more sharply, even, than southwards.

  Even de Soulis, honest man, worried Bruce in one respect. He did all in the name of King John. The Guardians, hitherto, had issued their edicts and processes of government in their own names, although they claimed nominally to be acting on behalf of the throne. De Soulis seemed to see the position differently. He did all merely as Baliol’s deputy, always using a style that gave King John himself the authority, all being signed by the Guardian only in his absence.

  “These letters patent be valid at our will, this ninth year of our reign, by John de Soulis, knight, Guardian of our kingdom.” The new Great Seal was struck, bearing the name and title of King John on the obverse, de Soulis only on the reverse. And Wallace, it was reported from Rome, had succeeded in winning the Pope’s full support for a reinstatement of Baliol as ruling monarch.

  The Bruce star was far from in the ascendant.

  The truce with England expired on the 1st of May—and it was known that all winter Edward had been preparing the new campaign, despite his prolonged correspondence and assurances to the Pope. He marched promptly the day afterwards, and this time brought his son north with him, Edward, Prince of Wales.

  The English army split into two, in Northumberland, the King heading the main drive to Berwick and the east, while his son and Surrey made for Carlisle and the west. This time the Scots were to fight on two fronts.

  Bruce swiftly found himself in trouble, for Edward, after a feint northwards from Berwick, which sen
t a Scots force hastening to the Lammermuir passes to harry him therein, quickly turned north-westwards up Tweed. Never before had any major Evasion taken this mid-country route through the Forest and the hills of the central uplands, where small numbers could so easily hold up large. But nothing could long hold up Edward’s scores of thousands, and though Bruce’s people contested almost every pass, river-crossing and ambush-site, they were only dealing with the English advance-guard. Edward took his time, pressing inexorably onward. Kelso, Dryburgh and Melrose Abbeys went up in flames, Selkirk fell, and then Peebles. Bruce was driven back and back into the high barren wildernesses of Tweedsmuir, where Clyde and Annan were born as well as Tweed. Then Edward paused and circled skilfully to seal off all the valley-mouths and passes out of that lofty area, turning it from a citadel into something like a vast prison. Individuals could get in and out of it, by lonely hillsides and secret burn-channels; but not large bodies of men.

  It was clear that Edward, well served with spies, had set his main strategy, at this stage, against Bruce. And now Bruce, as a fighting force, was largely immobilised.

  Meanwhile, the Prince of Wales and Surrey turned into Galloway, with Comyn retiring before them, risking no more pitched battles. De Soulis himself, after deciding the real lines of the English thrusts, positioned himself, with the Church army and Wallace’s guerillas, between Lanark and the sea, to deny if he could the Clydesdale access to the north.

  Edward seemed to be in no hurry, this time. He consolidated as he went, and once out of the Tweedsmuir hills, struck westwards, to reach the sea at Ayr and Irvine, where his fleet was standing off, with supplies. He had successfully isolated the three Scots forces, Bruce to the east, Comyn to the south and de Soulis to the north. Moreover, this time he had food and forage, arms and siege-equipment readily available from shipping.

  He turned north, to besiege Bothwell Castle, the strongest hold in Clydesdale, de Soulis falling back before him. This was a new kind of campaigning for Edward. But as to its effectiveness there could be no question.

  That there was something else new about it began to dawn on the Scots

  as the summer passed into autumn. Despite all the Plantagenet’s fierce

  vows or vengeance earlier, there was little of mass savagery, burnings

  and sackings. It seemed as though he was seeking, this year, to

  separate the Scots leadership from the people, trying to antagonise

  the countryside as little as possible. Moreover, his snips were still unloading supplies in late September, when Bothwell fell, with no signs or a retiral to England. It looked very much as though Edward intended to winter in Scotland.

  A new variety of apprehension settled on the land.

  Bruce, in his Border hills fretted like a caged eagle. He was not idle, picking away at the English flanks, sallying here and there.

  But he was held and confined, almost insultingly, and kept out of touch with what went on elsewhere.

  When specific news did reach the remote Blackhouse Tower, a Douglas hunting-place deep in Yarrow, which Bruce had made his headquarters, it could hardly have come with more authority-since it came, unexpectedly, by the mouth of the Primate himself.

  William Lamberton arrived, with only two companions, at dusk of an evening of early October, tired and raggedly-clad as a wandering friar, yet nevertheless looking a good deal less worn and haggard than when last Bruce had seen him. Apparently he found war less of a strain than dealing with John Comyn.

  Though his information was none the less dire, for that.

  “Edward has gone to winter at Linlithgow,” he told the younger man.

  “Aye—he bides in Scotland, to our sorrow. But he is cunning. There have been no burnings, pillagings. He is indeed Paying for the meat, the grain and the hay he requires I So the land has not risen against him, as before. The folk are weary, helpless, hopeless, to De sure. So, with his armies holding all in check—you here, de Soulis in lower Clydesdale, Umfraville in Galloway, and Lothian and the Merse his own, he sits secure enough in Linlithgow, his ships serving him in the Forth. And in this state he now offers us truce I Of nine months, no less! Edward, magnanimous, offers Scotland truce!”

  “By all the saints—truce I He invades, occupies the land, sits down, his feet on our necks—and offers truce?”

  “Aye—the Plantagenet tries new tactics. It may be, with more hope of success. The truce is aimed at the Pope, and our doubtful ally the King of France, I swear. It is a gesture. But he loses nothing by it. He is well placed indeed—and this will allow him to remain so, without trouble, through the winter and spring.”

  “But will de Soulis accept it?”

  “What else can he do? He does not know of it yet. It is noteworthy that Edward sent the proposal to me. At St. Andrews. As Primate. It is beneath his dignity to treat with a mere knight. He would drive wedges between us, with more than his armies! This year of our Lord, 1301, the Englishman is being clever I I brought the word straight to you, my friend. To talk of it. Before I tell de Soulis.”

  “What can I do?” Penned here…”

  “You can advise me. For, God knows, I do greatly need advice.”

  The Bishop sighed.

  “De Soulis, I think, will do as I say.”

  “Perhaps. But Comyn? What will Comyn do? What does Comyn? You have not so much as named him.”

  “Aye—Comyn. There is the rub. Comyn, as ever, plays his own game.”

  Lamberton glanced sidelong at his companion.

  “Have you heard? What he does?”

  “I hear nothing here. Or little that I may trust. He is in Galloway, is he not? Fencing with Edward’s son.”

  “He was. But is no longer. He has left Umfraville to command in Galloway, and with Buchan has slipped north, by unfrequented ways and little-known passes. He is now safe in Stirling Castle, and massing new forces north of Forth.”

  “Then he is doing more good than I am!”

  The other stroked his chin.

  “That is as may be. But, on his way north, he made pause. To attack Lochmaben. He took much risk, for the Prince of Wales was not far away…”

  “Attack Lochmaben? Comyn? Besiege the castle… ?”

  “No siege. He burned the town.”

  “He burned … my town!” That was a whisper.

  “Dear God!”

  The other laid a hand on Bruce’s arm.

  “He is a man consumed with hatred.”

  “So… am… I!”

  “No. Do not say it. Hate, of all man’s failings, is the least profitable. Leave hate to Comyn. It will serve him but ill.”

  “I shall be avenged. For Lochmaben. Nevertheless…”

  “I think that you have more potent matters to consider than vengeance, my friend. Dealing with Comyn, as we have learned, demands not only patience but a clear head. Burning Lochmaben may have been the spleen of the man. But he threatens your interests more deeply than that.”

  “What do you mean? He threatens my interests with every breath he draws!”

  “Aye. But now in a way we had not thought on. You know how de Soulis

  has been doing all in the name of King John. Acting as though Baliol

  still reigned and was only absent. De Soulis has done so as giving

  him, and the realm, the greater authority against Edward. A king

  against a king. This I could not con test. But now I have learned

  that Comyn is behind it. More than that, I have learned why. He seeks to have Baliol established as king again, before all. And then for him to abdicate, nominating and securing John Comyn as his successor.”

  This time the hissing intake of breath was all Bruce produced for reaction, although it was eloquent enough.

  “Baliol is now at his family’s ancient home, at BailleulenVimeu, in Picardy. In the care of Philip of France. Comyn has sent to Philip, urging that King John be sent back to Scotland.

  And with a French army. Forthwith.”

  “Philip will never do it. Edward is now his brother-in-law.”

&
nbsp; “Philip may. Wallace has been to him and much affected him. Moreover the Pope is in favour of this. And offers inducements.

  Wallace has convinced them both that King John should return.

  Wallace is honest in this. He knows naught of Comyn’s plot.”

  Bruce was striding the small, draughty room now.

  “This—this then, could be the end of the Bruce claim! To the throne. The end of the Bruces themselves! For Comyn, as king, would not rest while there was one of us left alive to challenge him. This would be utter disaster.”

  “Disaster for more than Bruce,” the Primate agreed sombrely.

  “Disaster for Scotland. John Comyn on the throne would be the end of more man Bruce.”

  “What can I do? I would seek him out and slay him with my own hands.

  But he will be well guarded. He is no fool…”

  “That is not the way, no.” Lamberton leaned forward.

  “Your father? The Lord of Annandale. He could be the answer. He is the true heir to the throne. His father should have been king, not Baliol. If he now would return to Scotland. Proclaim himself king. Before Baliol could come from France. If your father returned, and made such proclamation, Comyn’s plot would go agley. Even though he did no more than that. Then it would be for parliament to discuss and decide. Where the Church is strong …”

  “My father … I He is but a broken reed. I do not believe he would do this.”

  “If you went to him? Explained. He is proud of his claim. He challenged Edward with it, at Stracathro…”

  “How could I go to him? Held here. He is in Essex. A sick man.

  Done. Always he was weak, feckless. We never agreed.

  Think you, at this ill hour, he would heed me? Bring down Edward’s wrath on his grey hairs, by claiming the throne Edward says is his!”

  The older man spoke slowly.

  “Edward will be near as anxious as Bruce to keep Comyn from grasping the Scots throne.”

  His companion paused in his pacing to look at him.

  “What do you mean? ‘ “I believe that Edward, were he to hear of this plot, would be forced to think deeply. He might prefer to have your father claiming the throne than Comyn being given it by Baliol. See it as another way of splitting Scotland, of giving him time. He would never admit that the throne was not his own. But he might well make it possible for your father to return and make his claim.

 

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