The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  “I

  would not trouble you, with my lord so newly returned. But I believed that you would wish to hear this man’s tidings, without delay. He comes from England. From Essex, Robert.”

  “My lord, I come from Hatfield Broadoak. Sent by the steward of the manor. Your father, my lord—he is dead. I have ridden day and night to bring you word.”

  Bruce drew a long breath.

  “I am sorry,” Lamberton said.

  “But he had retired from this world for long, Robert. He would not be loth to go, I think.”

  Elizabeth turned to her husband.

  “A father is a father,” she said.

  “Aye. God rest his soul.” Bruce nodded.

  “I was no good son for him. We never agreed, all my days. I do not weep for him, in death—when I scarce thought of him in life. That would be folly.

  But at least I acknowledge that, as son, I failed him.”

  There was silence in that little fire-lit room. Then Bruce asked the courier for details. He rewarded him generously, and dismissed him to find food and rest. Lamberton remained.

  “So we have a new situation, Robert,” the Bishop said, when they were alone.

  “You are now Scotland’s heir. Rightful king of this unhappy realm.

  Its only hope.”

  “Hope!” Bruce barked the word.

  “What hope am I? What hope is there in me, or for me? Or for Scotland? I have long ceased to hope, my friend. Or … or had. Until… until…”

  “Until you heard of Edward’s sickness? Aye, there could be hope there. We must not wish his death. But if he is stricken in body, the man might think more of his latter end and less of imposing his will on Scotland. For this we may lawfully pray.

  Though, they tell me that he is already much bettered. So that he may not yet heed God’s warning.”

  “I do not think he will. Edward is too old to change now. His hatred the strongest part of him! My hope is not that he will change, but…!” He left the rest unsaid.

  “You have reason for bitterness, my friend. Who in Scotland has not?” the Primate commented.

  “But if Scotland is to survive, you must survive. To be its king. You are no longer your own man, my lord. Nor even this lady’s. You are Scotland’s man now.

  And Scotland never more greatly needed a man, strong, wise, constant, patient…”

  “God help me—I am none of these!”

  “I think that you are. Or can be. Must be. Great things are demanded of Robert Bruce, now. But a great reward, a great heritage awaits you. In all true men’s eyes you are now the only possible aspirant to the throne. You, or one of your young brothers after you. Comyn based his claim on being Baliol’s nephew. Baliol, a wrong choice from the first, is now totally discredited and debarred, his name a hindrance and no aid. Moreover, Comyn, in surrendering not only himself but the whole kingdom to Edward, has forfeited any personal support….”

  “I also yielded, you will mind! On your advice.”

  “But not in the same degree. Or on the same conditions. It was Comyn’s misfortune to surrender as Guardian and commander.

  He has thrown away any claim to the throne.”

  “But what can I do? The throne of Scotland I What is it? Even if I could reach it.”

  “It is the symbol and surety of the continuance of this ancient realm and people. Lacking it, we are nothing. Supporting it and supported by it, we are a kingdom, a community of men, small, poor perhaps, but proud, independent, masters under God of our land and destiny. It is our grievous weakness that we are so prone to disunity. To this end, if no other, we need a king, an undoubted monarch, to rule and unite us. That monarch should be, must be, Robert Bruce.”

  “Should be, perhaps. But what is possible? While Edward lives?” That was Elizabeth.

  “Only patient waiting. Readiness. Quiet preparation. Resolution.

  Only these are possible meantime. And notable caution. For when Edward hears of the Lord of Annandale’s death, he will the more closely watch his son. Knowing that he holds the throne which should be that son’s.”

  ”He could watch me no closer than he does!”

  “He might seek to hold you in ward. A prisoner, in truth.”

  “Would that be any worse than what he does? Shame me?

  Mock me? Send me to capture Wallace… ?”

  “Ah yes, Robert—yes!” the young woman cried.

  “To be held.

  Shut up. Lodged in a cell. Taken from me…!”

  “It would be more grievous, friend. Assuredly. And you did not, indeed, catch Wallace. I did not think you would!”

  “It was grievous enough. If Wallace had been taken, and I had had hand in it…!”

  “That would have been bad. For more than Wallace. But I believe he will never be taken. Unless he is betrayed. But he has the love of the people. Could any man sell Wallace?”

  “I do not know. I do not know. Even Comyn would not do that. But some lost, damned soul, eaten with gall, there might be.”

  “Pray that. you are wrong. And pray that none betray him and bring him before you, as one of Edward’s three governors. You have heard of this? That with Moubray and my lord of Glasgow, you are appointed to the rule. Until John of Brittany comes.”

  “I shall refuse to rule Edward’s Scotland.”

  “Are you sure, Robert? Think you. It is your Scotland—not Edward’s. You might do much to soften the worst of an English harshness. And, one day, when you are King, your people will know that you are also their friend.”

  “When I am King.” The younger man shook his head, looking away and away.

  Elizabeth came to slip her arm in his.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The stink of fire and stale burning still clung to the Great Hall of Stirling Castle—really the parliament-hall of the kingdom, and the most splendid apartment in Scotland—emanating from the charred timbers of the fine lofty hammer beam roofing, set alight by Edward’s own ballistas and siege-engines, with their flaming missiles, a year before. The place was draughty too, that early November afternoon, from the gaps in the masonry made by the English mangonels, trebuchets and battering rams in the long siege, and as yet inadequately patched. It was not, in fact, a suitable venue for such a meeting, and the group of a dozen or so who sat at one end of the vast table built to seat hundreds, looked somewhat lost and uncomfortable in all this decayed and battered magnificence. But John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond, King’s Lieutenant of Scotland, was a stiffly formal, dignified man, an holder of ceremonial and etiquette, markedly unlike his puissant uncle, and he insisted on holding his council-meeting herein.

  The assembled councillors were uncomfortable in more than their surroundings. Added to their normal resentment at having thus to obey the summons of an alien governor, and their mutual suspicions and hostilities, but little healed by general adversity, they were more sorely divided today than usual. Wallace had been captured three weeks before; and this, the successor of the Privy Council of Scotland, was split into three over the business—those who were sadly depressed thereby, those who were not, and those who cared little for the fact of it but reserved the right to cast disapproving glances at the man whose lot it had been to deliver up the national hero to English Edward.

  Sir John Stewart of Menteith was only too well aware of his unhappy position, and showed it. He sat a little way apart from all others, a young man, dark, almost swarthy, with tight secretive features and a slight, tense body. Younger son of Walter, the late Earl of Menteith, and uncle of the present young Earl, although he had fought well against the English, he had recently caught the eye of Edward and been appointed Sheriff of Dumbarton and Keeper of its great castle. It was as holder of that position that he was present at this council.

  There was a diversion as an English herald threw open a door and announced the entry of the three advisers of His Majesty’s Lieutenant and Governor. These were old Bishop Wishart, Sir John de Moubray and Robert Bruce-now that John of Brittany was here in person, demoted from ruling triumvirate to special advisers. Those
already assembled greeted them variously, nodding or scowling according to taste.

  As the newcomers moved to take their seats near the head of the vast table, John Comyn of Badenoch spoke.

  “Come, come, Menteith,” he called loudly.

  “Give place. The Earl of Carrick, friend of Wallace, will not wish to sit beside the man who gave Wallace over to the English I Even though he is such good friend to King Edward also!”

  Men drew quick breaths. Comyn was the more embittered since the

  general surrender, and none expected his attitude to Bruce to mellow;

  but this casting down of the gauntlet immediately on his enemy’s appearance was hardly anticipated. This was the first meeting of the newly-constituted Lieutenant’s Council.

  As Bruce paused on his way to his chair, Menteith jumped to his feet, flushing hotly.

  “My lord of Badenoch is again Sheriff of Moray,” he declared.

  “Had the man Wallace been found and captured in his sheriff dom would he have done other than I did? As I had to do?”

  “The question scarce arises, sir. Being a modest man, I would have seen to it that whoever gained the glory of taking this notable outlaw, it would not have been me! I would have conceived my duty to lie … elsewhere! At the time. Besides, my lord of Carrick would not wish to sit beside me, in any case. Nor I him!”

  “My lords! My lords I” Robert Wishart’s frail voice quavered.

  “Peace, I pray you.”

  But Menteith, who had been simmering in frustrated silence for too long, was determined to exculpate himself, caring nothing for the quarrel between Bruce and Comyn.

  “I did neither more nor less than my duty,” he cried.

  “Ralph de Haliburton came to me at Dumbarton. Said that he believed Wallace to be hiding at Robroyston. He demanded that I apprehend him. Declared that he had been sent by King Edward, from England, for this very purpose. In the train of this Sir John dc Moubray.” And Menteith pointed a finger at Bruce’s and Wishart’s companion.

  Moubray, a kinsman of Comyn’s, shrugged.

  “Haliburton came north with my company, yes. From Westminster. I knew naught of the business. He had been a prisoner. Had fought bravely. One of the defenders of this castle of Stirling. When it fell, he was carried captive to England. He had gained his release—how I knew not-and joined my train, to return home. That is all I knew of him.”

  “We know now, then, how he bought his release!” Crawford growled.

  “The dastard!”

  “But how did he know?” That was James the Steward, looking now but a shadow of his former self.

  “Know where Wallace was? How to come to him. For years others have sought Wallace, and failed to find him. How did this man do it?”

  “He had a brother in Wallace’s band. He is brother to Sir Henry de Haliburton,” Menteith told them.

  “He must have made shift to find his brother. And so found Wallace. They would not suspect him, for those one hundred and twenty, at Stirling, had held all Edward’s might at bay for many months. Heroes. None Would doubt one of that company.

  And you? You played this felon’s game, sir? And yielded up Wallace!”

  Bruce said.

  “What else could I do, my lord? You went seeking Wallace yourself one time, did you not? In duty, since you could do no other. Haliburton asked servants from me. To seek him. Then brought him to me, bound. As sheriff. How he laid hands on the man, I know not. But having him, I could not let him go. I had no choice but to hand him over to the King’s Lieutenant.”

  “Some might have used their wits to find another course, man.”

  “Is this Edward’s friend that speaks? Or Wallace’s?” Comyn asked, grinning wickedly.

  “The Lieutenant’s adviser!”

  Bruce sought to ignore him. He sat down, even though it was beside Menteith. Lamberton came to sit at his other side. But Comyn was not to be silenced thus.

  “My lord says that some might better have used their wits, to get round Edward’s commands,” he went on.

  “As, it may be, did Bruce himself when Edward asked for his siege-engines to aid batter down this Stirling!”

  “Not mine. His own siege-engines,” Bruce gave back.

  “Left in my castles of Lochmaben and Turnberry.”

  “But he thanked you for them, nevertheless. Most graciously, if I mind aright!”

  “Aye. And for the same reason that you speak of the matter now! For the further dividing of this realm against itself! Let us have no doubts as to that, my lords. While blame is being laid.”

  There was a murmur or agreement from not a few of those present.

  Lamberton spoke up.

  “My lord of Carrick has the rights of it. This endless fighting amongst ourselves but aids our English masters. We are here for Scotland’s good, not its ill. Soon this Richmond will come. A stiff and difficult man, but honest, I think. Something lacking in wits, himself, it may be—but with cunning hard minions, as we have reason to know. De Bevercotes and de Sandale are men who will guide him towards harshness, to the hurt of this realm. It must be our task to counter them, to move this nephew of Edward to gentler, better rule. It will demand all our wits. All our wisdom and patience.”

  The Steward, and one or two others, applauded.

  “What will they be wanting from us?” the Earl of Atholl asked.

  “What will be the main business they put before us?”

  ”We understand it to be the carrying out of certain provision, passed

  by the Westminster parliament,” Bruce answered.

  “Certain have already been implemented. Others have not. These others, it seems, are difficult. Grievous it may be. It seems that the English require our assistance in carrying them forward. Whether we can give it remains to be decided. But some here may tell us more. Before the English come. As you know we were required to send ten Commissioners to the Westminster parliament. Under the new constitution. Four of them are here present. If they would inform us further …”

  He was interrupted by a stamping, clanking bodyguard of English men-at-arms, and the herald announcing, in noticeably more deferential tones, the arrival of the most noble and puissant Earl of Richmond, Lieutenant of Scotland of the high and mighty King Edward of England, whom God preserve. All men to stand.

  Most of the Scots made but a poor business of getting to their feet, some barely raising their posteriors from their seats.

  John of Brittany paced slowly in, flanked by two richly-dressed older men, and followed by a cohort of clerks and officers. For a man only a year or two senior to Bruce himself, Richmond seemed almost elderly. Tall, thin, sombre-featured, prematurely grey, he gave a notable impression of years, gloom, disillusionment, and possibly indigestion, with little of the Plantagenet about him. With his stiff gait, balding head and downturned mouth, he seemed as unlikely a ruler of turbulent Scotland as nephew of Edward Longshanks.

  His two companions redressed the balance somewhat. Both had the hard-bitten look of experienced administrators, self-made and ruthless, although one was a plump cleric and the other a square, stocky soldier. Master William de Bevercotes was Edward’s Chancellor in Scotland, and Sir John de Sandale, Chamberlain.

  When these three had seated themselves, amidst much fussing of clerks and arranging of papers, Richmond looked gravely, heavily, down the ranks of his Scots councillors, scrutinising each face and seeming almost to count them as he did so. It was a slow process, and the Breton evidently in no hurry. At last he broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “Seventeen,” he said, almost querulously.

  “Seventeen. I named twenty-two for my Council.”

  Comyn snorted eloquently, others coughed, and Lamberton spoke.

  “Yes my lord Lieutenant. All were apprised. The Earl of Dunand’ March is still with King Edward in London. The Bishop of Moray is indisposed. The young Earl of Menteith is represented his uncle, Sir John Stewart of Menteith. As to the others, I know not.

  Richmond took his time to digest that. Almost he chewed on underhung
jaw working—and did not look as though he liked the taste.

  “Fullest attendance is required,” Master Bevercotes said, thinly for such a well-fleshed man.

  “Obligatory.”

  The Scots looked at each other. Bruce spoke, evenly.

  “My lord, you have here seventeen of the greatest lords in Scotland, spiritual and temporal. Enough, surely, to advise you?”

  The Lieutenant eyed him thoughtfully, but did not commit himself. Then he seemed to begin a recount, just to make sure.

  John Comyn was not the man to accept much of this treatment.

  “I have come a long and hard road to attend this Council,” he said.

  “I move to business.”

  De Sandale rapped out an oath.

  “Insolent!” he said.

  “Sir!”

  “My lord Lieutenant,” Lamberton intervened hurriedly.

  “We are very ready to lend such aid and counsel as you may require.

  All here are men of weight and responsibility. Four indeed have been Guardians of this realm …”

  “This former realm!” Richmond corrected. He could think and speak quickly enough when he so desired, apparently.

  None commented on his amendment.

  “Do you desire me to proceed, my lord?” the Chancellor asked.

  That required consideration also. At length, Richmond answered.

  “First to the matter of Wallace.”

  “Yes, my lord. Exactly, my lord.” Bevercotes beamed approval.

  “The man Wallace, by all means.” He shuffled his papers.

  “My lord Lieutenant has word this day. From His Majesty in London.

  The man Wallace is dead.”

  Consternation greeted his statement.

  “Taken, examined, tried, condemned and executed. For treason. On … where is it? Yes-on the 23rd day of the month of October. Ten days past this day.”

  “Treason …!” Bruce got out.

  “Treason against whom?”

  “Treason, sir, against his liege lord. And yours I King Edward of this realm.”

  ”But…” A jolt to his knee beneath the table, from Lamberton, gave

  Bruce pause.

  “May we hear more of this trial? If your lordship pleases,” the Primate said.