The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  Edward would reject it forthwith—but it would keep Baliol, and his nephew Comyn, from any easy victory by such device.”

  Bruce stared into the flickering fire, biting his lip.

  “I could see that Edward learned of it. In these truce negotiations.”

  “I

  do not know. I do not know. This is … too much … for me. To decide. I must consider.”

  “As must we all. For Scotland’s fate is at stake. One way or the other.”

  “It would mean… working with Edward. Against Comyn.”

  “Put it otherwise. Say using Edward to save Scotland. And Bruce.

  From Comyn.”

  “You believe it is possible?”

  “Who knows? But possible, yes. Perhaps more than possible.

  And, my good friend—how else can you stop Comyn taking the throne?

  Bruce’s throne?”

  The younger man was silent.

  “Think of it, then. While I go to de Soulis. With this of the truce. Consider it well, in this hawk’s nest of yours. There is a little time. Baliol and the French will not sail in winter’s weather.

  If they sail. But—there would be much to be done before the spring

  .”..”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was, of course, a farce of a trace—all knew it. Little more than a

  springboard poised for the English to resume their campaign, with

  maximum advantage, when weather and the state of the land were

  propitious. But it did offer certain advantages to the Scots also.Preparations could be made on their side likewise; and although the English armies largely maintained their strategic positions, and sensible men gave them wide berth, people could move fairly freely about the land again.

  Bruce was released from his confinement in the high Tweedsmuir section of the Forest at last, and was able not only to go and consider the strategic situation that now ruled, but the state of his properties and lands. It made a sorry prospect. All the lordship of Annandale, the earldom of Carrick and the large Bruce lands in Galloway, had been so fought over, burned and destroyed, by one side or the other, that they made little better than a wilderness.

  His castles of Turnberry, Annan, Loch Doon and Tibbers were largely demolished, and their towns in ruins; and all the lesser castles and towers likewise cast down. Lochmaben was still garrisoned by the English, and its town, which would have survived, as of use to the invaders, had been burned by Comyn.

  Bruce found that he had not a single house left fit for his habitation, in all his great domains; and his tenants and vassals were fled, scattered or dead. As a force in the land, he was all but spent.

  North of the Forth, Comyn’s lands were vast and untouched.

  He was assembling new and unwearied thousands.

  Because, indeed, he had little choice of domicile for his few hundred remaining men-at-arms, Bruce continued to keep them in the Forest; though meantime he made himself a little more comfortable, at the Bishop of St. Andrews’ manor of Stobo, than he could do at the remote and windy Blackhouse Tower; even though a large English force lay at Peebles, six miles away. Lamberton himself was not there. After concluding the truce, he had gone straight to France, to try to persuade King Philip not to support Comyn’s plot for sending Baliol back to Scotland.

  It was from the direction of Peebles that, one grey day in mid January 1302, with Tweed running thick and brown from melting snows, Bruce’s watchers brought him word that a small English party was approaching Stobo; some great man, with esquires, clerks and a score of armed guards, riding with quiet confidence.

  The visitor proved to be none other than Sir John de St. John, newly appointed English Warden of Annandale and Galloway, and one of Edward’s closest aides. A dignified, handsome, courteous man of middle years, richly dressed, he was almost necessarily soldier as well as courtier, a veteran of the French wars and the man sent by Edward to deputise for the Earl of life, whose right it had been to seat John Baliol on the Stone of Destiny at his crowning at Scone, nine years before. Bruce knew him, and liked him better than most of the Plantagenet’s entourage—even though he came as usurping master of Bruce’s own territories.

  St. John made it clear that, for this visit, he would prefer that his nominal position vis-ii-vis Annandale, Carrick and Galloway, should be ignored.

  “I have come, my lord, directly and secretly, from His Majesty,” he declared when they were alone.

  “King Edward.”

  “I hear what else you bring, Sir John!”

  The other smiled thinly.

  “You are sceptical. But my master can be generous and far-seeing. I believe that he is being both, in this.

  He has always esteemed you, as you know well. Even though he has had to move against you, on occasion. And not without cause, you will concede.”

  “I concede nothing, Sir John. Save that your master is a hard and crafty tyrant, a cruel invader and usurper, who has devastated this land time and again. And my lands. Left me nothing but my name. And a modicum of wits. What does he want now?”

  “These words are extreme and foolish, my lord. I had hoped, as had the King, you might have learned to use those wits to guard your tongue. However, as far as I am concerned, they have not been spoken. You have suffered greatly, yes, in a mistaken cause. You have been cheated and cozened and used, yes—but not by His Majesty. The King believes that it is time that you returned to his peace.”

  “Ha! Edward’s peace! Say Edward’s maw, his slavery, rather.

  Is this his generosity?”

  St. John was patient.

  “The King was your friend once. He believes that he could be your friend again. Better, a deal better, than many with whom you have been working. Trusting. The Lord of Badenoch, for instance.”

  “M’mmm. I have not trusted the Lord of Badenoch for some time!”

  “As well! He docs not love you. He aspires to the Scots throne.

  And is willing to do anything to gain it. Anything, I say. He cannot do so, of course, since that throne is now united with that of England. But he will try. And since he sees you as an obstacle, you will suffer, my lord.”

  ”You are tender for my interests, sir.”

  “I am not. But the King is.”

  “Why?”

  “He has not lost all his love for the Earl of Carrick. And he has never loved John Comyn.”

  “So he would use me to bring down the other? And so preserve for him the stolen throne of Scotland!”

  “I say that you judge harshly. And foolishly. Since you have not heard what the King proposes.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “The King offers you a return to his peace. With all of fences

  absolved and forgotten. He promises to consider well your advice on

  all Scottish problems. Indeed to set you over much of his realm here,

  if so you would have it. He offers compensation for your lands

  destroyed in war. Maintenance from his privy purse while your fortunes

  recover. Freedom from disinheritance of any lands which my lord your

  father may leave you in England. Permission to visit your father

  …”

  “Hal Now why should Edward, in his goodness, offer me that?”

  “Your father is ailing. An old and sick man. You would wish to see him. Possibly to bring him back to Scotland. To be under your closer regard.”

  “Aye. No doubt. His Majesty is… thoughtful.”

  “He offers that if any rights of yours, or your father’s be brought in dispute by the Lord of Badenoch, or others, you shall have justice in His Majesty’s own courts.”

  Bruce looked up sharply.

  “Rights? Which rights, Sir John?”

  “The King did not specify which. His words were ‘any rights’.”

  “I would remind you that my father claims rights—indeed sole rights—in the Scots crown!”

  “Claims, yes. That fact is known to the King. After all, he judged against your grandsire’s claims, nine years past.”
/>   “I see. So that is the sort of justice we would get in His Majesty’s courts!”

  “Justice is justice. A hearing you would receive. Any rights, His Majesty said. And you have others that maybe threatened, have you not? Your very earldom of Carrick? The lordship of Annandale? John Comyn would deprive you of these, if he could.”

  “Perhaps. But might find it difficult!” The younger man shrugged.

  “But why does King Edward send you to offer all this.

  So long a list of graciousness I He must greatly desire me in his peace. Why?”

  “I am his servant, my lord—not his confessor. He does not open all of his mind to me. But this is his will. And he thinks kindly of you still.”

  “I take leave to doubt it…”

  “Before you do so, here is token of it. He would have you to wed the daughter of his closest friend. The Lady Elizabeth de Burgh.”

  “God in His heaven! Again?”

  “Yes, my lord. And the fair lady herself sends you warm greetings.

  And hopes that she may see you. Soon.”

  “See… ? She is here? In Scotland?”

  “The Queen is come to join the King, at Linlithgow. And the Lady Elizabeth with her.”

  Bruce turned away, too disturbed to risk speech.

  St. John tactfully went to warm his hands at the fire. Over his shoulder, he went on.

  “One last token of the King’s goodwill. He would grant you the

  wardship and marriage of the young Earl of

  “Eh? Wardship? What do you mean?” Surprised out of his emotion, Bruce looked round.

  “You have mistaken, sir. Mar is my sister’s husband. And is older than I am.”

  It was the Englishman’s turn to show surprise.

  “Is, my lord?

  Do not tell me that you did not know? Gartnait, Earl of Mar, is dead.

  Slain in a tussle with Comyns. In his own country.”

  “By the Mass I Gartnait dead? Slain? And by the Comyns…!”

  “We believed that you would know of it.” St. John coughed.

  “It is… regrettable. But—by granting you the wardship of your nephew, the Earl Donald, my lord, the King gives you in effect another earldom. Mar as well as Carrick. Until the lad is of age.

  And an earldom in the North. Adjoining Comyn’s country! You have a lordship up there, do you not? The Garioch. Mar could serve you notably well.”

  Bruce required no such reminders. Mar was a great and ancient earldom which Gartnait, gentle man, had never exploited. The wardship of its heir, so long as Edward dominated Scotland, was a potentially powerful weapon.

  “Edward must require my services greatly!” he said slowly.

  “A mistaken view, my lord. His Majesty can achieve all, master Comyn,

  and Scotland, without Bruce. But can Bruce now achieve anything

  without King Edward? I urge that you consider it. Consider it well. I return to Peebles. And shall come again tomorrow. For your decision. I hope, my lord, that it will be to conduct you to Linlithgow.” St. John paused, clearing his throat.

  “The Lady Elizabeth said to give you this last word. A wise rebel, she said, knows what to rebel against. That is all. She believed that you would understand. And she would see you at Linlithgow.”

  Two days later Robert Bruce, with Sir John de St. John, rode down into the West Lothian plain of the Forth, to the vast armed camp surrounding the red-brown castle on its green hill above the wide loch. He scarcely recognised the place. A whole new wooden city had been erected in regimented lanes and streets to house an army and its followers and horses, through a Scots winter.

  Great lumber-trains were in constant passage to and from the same Tor Wood, above Falkirk, where Bruce had rescued William Wallace three years before.

  St. John had sent word ahead, of their coming, and King Edward had evidently decided to make the most of the occasion. He sent the Scots Earl of March and Dunbar, who all along had sided with the English, along with the Earl of Ulster and Bishop Anthony Beck of Durham, to meet the newcomers and conduct them through the drawn-up lines of much of the army, from which a succession of fanfares of trumpets greeted them. A resplendent corridor of over 200 mounted knights in full armour and heraldic surcoats flanked their climb up the castle-hill; and before the arched courtyard entrance Edward Longshanks himself, despite the inclement weather and threatening rain, stood awaiting them, a massive and magnificent figure, backed by much of his Court. It was a welcome fit for a king.

  Edward did not actually open his arms to Bruce, but his greeting was otherwise as for the prodigal son. He hailed him genially, gripped his hand and patted his shoulder.

  “Robert, my young friend!” he cried.

  “Here is a happy day, which has been too long in dawning. I rejoice to see you. To welcome you back into my peace.”

  The other did not trust himself to speak. He bowed stiffly, and less low than he might have done. The King did not let him withdraw his hand.

  “These years I have missed you, boy,” Edward declared jovially.

  “Hard years, and you have suffered. But you have grown a man, I think. Learned your lesson in a hard school. But mat is all done with, now.”

  “I am glad to hear you say it, Sire. Since you were the teacher I “Ha!

  And you will thank me for mat teaching. You will see.

  Sir John—I thank you for your good offices. The Earl of Carrick will

  have cause to thank you also. Come, now—the Queen would

  Linking arms with the younger man, Edward led him slowly through the bowing ranks of the gaily-dressed crowd, pausing here and there to exchange an affable word with earl, bishop or lord. Bruce went uncomfortably—and not only for the difficulty of matching his pace to that of the extraordinarily long legs of the monarch; his suspicion and wariness was like an armour about him. This was not the Edward Plantagenet he knew.

  Linlithgow Castle was a palace rather than a fortress, and now it was thronged as never before. In a lesser hall where two great log fires blazed, Queen Margaret sat with her ladies, at needlework, while a minstrel sang softly to the languid pluckings of a lute, from a deep window-embrasure. Fine tapestries and hangings covered stone walls which undoubtedly had been bare until recently, and the floor was thickly strewn with skins.

  Bruce, his arm still in the royal grasp, bowed; but his glance was only momentarily on the Queen’s narrow, keen features, before sliding off round the room. He found Elizabeth by a far door, and their eyes met, and held, for seconds. Then, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head and looked towards the Queen.

  He nodded, as briefly, and bowed again.

  “Your Majesty,” he said “So here is the Lord Robert, of whom all speak,” Margaret of France exclaimed.

  “Come to grace our Court at last. You have been long in coming, my lord.”

  Philip the Fair’s sister was less beauteous man her brother, but she was almost certainly a stronger character. A pale, thin, almost gaunt woman in her mid-thirties, over-dressed, she had fine eyes, though darting, shrewd. Edward Plantagenet, in his late years, might have acquired a tartar.

  “Had I known of your fair presence, Majesty, I might have come the sooner.” It was a long time since Robert Bruce had made that sort of remark.

  ”La—a flatterer! They did not tell me that you were that.

  Come, and let me judge if that is all you are!” She held out a slender hand for him to kiss.

  “Robert once was one of the gayest of my train, my love,” Edward said.

  “He has a sober look to him, these days. Perhaps we will cure him of it, eh?”

  “I scarce think you will, Sire. But I may. With a little help … from others!” The Queen raised her voice.

  “Elizabeth I Where are you hiding, girl?”

  The idea of Elizabeth de Burgh hiding anywhere was sufficiently bizarre to bring smiles to most faces. She came forward unhurriedly, head held high, a striking, proud beauty, aware of her own potency. Her blue eyes looked directly at none of them.

  “You two a
re old friends, are you not?” the Queen said.

  “I have met my lord,” Elizabeth acceded, coolly.

  The King chuckled.

  “They were near affianced once. And might be again!”

  “In Your Majesty’s mind,” the girl gave back evenly.

  “And to other lords, likewise.”

  Edward’s smile faded for a moment, and then returned.

  “Say that my Majesty’s mind is ever heedful for your welfare, lass,” he said.

  “Eh, Dickon?”

  Richard, Earl of Ulster, who had followed them in, inclined his handsome head, but did not otherwise commit himself—though he eyed his daughter sidelong.

  Queen Margaret’s quick eyes were busy all around.

  “You, my lord?” she said to Bruce.

  “How goes your flattery now?”

  “I flatter none. Your Majesty, or other,” he answered, taking his cue from the girl.

  “I admire the Lady Elizabeth. Who would not? But I would not presume to claim close friendship.”

  “You are cautious, sir. I am disappointed. I mislike cautious men!”

  “I have need to be cautious, Madam. My first meeting with this lady, I tipped her out of her litter. She named me witless dolt.

  And … and masterful ape I I think she has not forgotten. Nor, I’ faith, have I!”

  “So!” Intrigued, the Queen was all eagerness, looking from one to the other. Bruce perceived that he had probably overdone it.

  “You did not tell me, Elizabeth. Shame on you I Here is a notable tale I Tipped you from a litter? How long ago? It is years since you have seen him, is it not? And you have thought of it still? And he …!”

  Bruce had not anticipated being grateful to Edward Plantagenet;

  but that paladin did not enjoy being in less than the centre of the stage for long, and intervened now.

  “You must have mercy on the Lord Robert, my dear. He has ridden far.

  Sir John will conduct him to his chamber, and refreshment.

  That he may the better grace our table. We eat, lad, within the hour …” The royal gesture to St. John was not to be mistaken.