The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  The pair from Scotland were interested, and to some extent encouraged,

  by the attitude and bearing of the courtiers who thronged around them,

  waiting for the royal entrance to this great reception and

  entertainment. All were respectful, attentive, and at least as

  friendly as they were ever likely to be. Which presumably meant that

  if Edward had sent for Bruce to rend him, he had let no hint of it

  escape to those close to him—for nothing was more certain than that

  if he had, it would have been reflected in the quality of the Bruces’ reception by his Court. Not only this night but in the four days they had been in London. That the King had not sent for them for personal audience during that time, admittedly could be interpreted either way; but at least it implied that the Plantagenet was not in any fury of haste to explode his anger on them. Edward was unpredictable, of course.

  The new Gloucester, Ralph de Monthermer, who had succeeded Bruce’s late cousin Gilbert de Clare, as husband to King Edward’s daughter—and bore the title by courtesy while the child was a minor—stood beside them with his somewhat horse-faced countess. Gloucester gave no impression of wrath to come. A friendly, modest man, he could not keep his eyes off Elizabeth-who was tonight looking at her loveliest.

  “The King’s health?” Bruce asked—by no means the first such enquiry he had made since coming south. He hoped always to hear some inkling, some clue as to the true condition of the royal heart.

  “Eh? Ah, yes. The King.” With difficulty Ralph of Gloucester partially withdrew from contemplation of more pleasing subjects.

  “His health, yes. It is improved. Indubitably much improved.”

  “Excellent,” Bruce commented heavily.

  “After that last small seizure. In the autumn, was it? Nothing more?”

  “Nothing. He is himself again. For which God be praised. For Edward of Carnarvon is little fit for the throne. Not yet.”

  “He lacks his father’s fire, yes.”

  “More than that. He chooses ill friends. Prefers the company of singers, mummers and mimers, players. Priests of the baser sort.

  He does not play the man.”

  “I would have thought that England might have had enough of warrior kings!”

  “We would esteem a few years of peace, yes. But now that Scotland is subdued; Wales and Ireland also; and we are in treaty with France and the Pope, peace there is. It must be preserved, you will agree, Cousin. Ana a weak king, you must admit, is a sure road to war and rebellion.”

  “Edward has never been a man of peace. Think you he will be content with peace now? Or is this sickness like to affect him?

  Prevent him from leading more campaigns? In person?”

  “Who knows? Queen Margaret will keep him from that. If she may ..

  .”

  A fanfare cut short this exchange. Everyone bowed as a herald announced the resounding titles of Edward, by God’s grace King of England> Lord of Scotland, Ireland and Wales, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine.

  It was not only the reference to Scotland which made Bruce’s brow darken as he bowed with the rest, but the manner of the King’s arrival. He positively swept into the great chamber, no more like an ailing man than Bruce was, smiling, jovial, dragging his pregnant wife along by the hand, high-coloured and heavy but as full of energy as of goodwill. It was a sore disappointment.

  But disappointment was quickly overlaid by a more urgent emotion—apprehension. The royal summons to Bruce had been for no mere social celebration—that was not in Edward’s character.

  Richmond, or more likely Bevercotes, would have sent a full account of the proceedings at Stirling in November last. There had been no repercussions in the meantime. Bruce had been left alone to manage his own affairs, on his estates, and had taken no further part in the rule of Scotland. Now he must look for a reckoning. Elizabeth came close, and slipped her hand within his arm.

  To the soft strains of the musicians, the King made unhurried progress towards the twin thrones at the head of the hall, having a gracious word with lords and ladies in passing. Quite quickly Queen Margaret espied Elizabeth, and began to draw her husband towards her former favourite lady-in-waiting.

  “A good sign,” Elizabeth murmured.

  “The Queen at least suspects no clash, I think.”

  “Edward may not have revealed his mind. Even to her. He is a law unto himself.”

  The King did not allow his consort to hurry him unduly, certainly.

  The royal progress was agonisingly slow for the pair from Scotland.

  At last the two couples were face to face, with the Queen reaching out to embrace the curtsying Elizabeth, and Bruce bowing again.

  “Ha, Robert—do I see you well?” Edward demanded genially.

  “I vow I can scarce discern you, so dazzled are my old eyes by your lady’s beauty!” And he in turn bowed gallantly.

  “I am well, Sire, yes. And you?”

  “Never better, lad. Never better. You will rejoice to hear!”

  And the older man eyed him directly.

  Bruce swallowed.

  “All Your Majesty’s subjects must rejoice at that,” he said.

  ”They should, lad—they should!” Edward agreed.

  “As you will see, my wife has no reason to complain of my … inadequacy I—Yours has less to thank you for, by the looks of her!”

  The other inclined his head slightly.

  “There is time and to sparer I hope.”

  Edward’s smile faded for a moment.

  “Who knows!” he gave back, shortly. He turned to Elizabeth.

  “My dear, you gladden as well as dazzle our eyes,” he said.

  “We have missed you.”

  “Ah, yes,” the Queen agreed.

  “So much. So very much. There is none like my Elizabeth.”

  “Your Majesties are too kind.”

  “This lord of yours,” the King said.

  “He tells me that he is well. Yet he has been hiding himself away. In Annandale and Galloway, I am told. Neglecting the rule of my Scotland.”

  “There has been much to do, Sire, in the Bruce lands. Much to put to rights. After these past years. And you have servants in plenty to rule Scotland,” Elizabeth pointed out.

  “None so many when my Scots lords withdraw their aid and duty!”

  “My lord of Richmond is well able to govern Scotland, Sire,” Bruce claimed.

  “He has…”

  “My lord of Richmond is a fool) But I am not, Robert—I am not!”

  “Yet Richmond’s troubles in Scotland stem from the slaying of Wallace here in London. And the manner of the slaying,” Bruce said, through tight lips.

  “To be sure. Your notions on Wallace were reported to me!”

  That was coldly enunciated.

  “Do you wish to add to them now?”

  “No, Sire. that would be to no purpose. I but remark that your nephew’s present difficulties arise from the people’s anger at Wallace’s cruel death.”

  “And you will not aid him in those difficulties? At my command?”

  “Your Majesty’s command I must obey,” the younger man said woodenly.

  “If my lord of Richmond seeks my aid, in your name, then I must needs give it.”

  “I am glad that you perceive that fact, Robert.”

  “Edward—my legs!” the Queen broke in.

  “I am weary of standing. With this great belly of mine! Let us sit, of a mercy!”

  “To be sure, my love. Come. Elizabeth—you also.” He glanced back at Bruce.

  “We shall talk of this later, my lord.” With curt dismissal, the King moved on.

  Elizabeth looked unhappily at her husband, but could not refuse to obey the royal command, especially when the Queen’s hand was on her arm. Bruce was left standing alone.

  And he remained alone. For now the watchful courtiers, practised in discerning favour and disfavour, perceived the difference of treatment as between man and wife, and shunned him. Even Gloucester, though he did not ignore him entirely,
tended to keep his distance.

  A programme of music, dancing, miming, tumbling and the like followed, during all of which the Scot remained isolated, separated from Elizabeth and avoided by almost all the company.

  Too proud to approach those who looked away, Bruce fumed what seemed endless hours away in ill-suppressed rage. He could not take himself off, as he would have wished, and leave Elizabeth behind; moreover, Edward had cunningly said that they would talk more later—which was as good as a command to stay.

  Once, while meats and drink were being brought in by a host of servants, Elizabeth did manage to slip away, temporarily, from the Queen’s side, for a word with her husband.

  “I am sorry, my heart,” she murmured.

  “This is hard to bear.

  But … it is perhaps less ill than might have been. The King is teaching you one of his lessons.”

  “And I must needs stand here and suffer it I Before all. Like a corrected child I I cannot come up to you, at the thrones, without being invited. I cannot leave. And all these know I am now frowned on, and frown in turn…”

  “I grieve for you. But we did fear worse, Robert. After what you said and did at Stirling. At least this chastening hurts only your pride. And he cannot intend more dire punishment, or he would not act thus.

  With the hour growing late…”

  “With Edward, who can tell? The devil could be hatching greater evil!”

  “Not at this hour. Not tonight. And the Queen grows very weary. The child is heavy in her. She will soon seek to retire.

  Then we should see an end to this …”

  The Queen’s weariness, however, took a long time to affect her husband’s enjoyment of the evening. And when Edward did finally rise, to escort her out, amidst genuflection from all present, he in fact led her down the opposite side of the room from Bruce’s position, and without a glance thitherward. The younger man did not know whether to be relieved or further infuriated—although Elizabeth, released and rejoining him, was in no doubts.

  They were too soon in debating the issue. A court official came

  hurrying back through the throng to the Bruces.

  “My lord, His Majesty requires your attendance. At once. Follow me,” he said briefly.

  Exchanging glances, they moved after him, though without haste.

  The King was talking to Gloucester just outside in the vestibule, the Queen looking very pale and near to tears. He broke off.

  “My lord,” he said, as the Bruces came up, unsmiling now, “I had intended to speak you further. On another matter of grave import. But Her Majesty is fatigued. The matter must keep. But not for long. You will attend on me, at my privy quarters in this house, tomorrow. At noon. You understand?”

  “At noon. Yes, Sire. As you command.”

  “Aye, as I command. And see you, my friend—come well versed in explanation! As to your … ambitions! You may have a queen for sister, Robert—but that is as near the royal estate as you’ will ever win I Noon, tomorrow. Come, my dear.”

  Monarchy moved off.

  Eyeing the Plantagenet’s massive back, Bruce murmured, set faced.

  “So now we come to it! Tomorrow noon I will hear the real reason for my summons to London!”

  Back at their lodging they were still discussing the King’s intentions, fearing that he might have heard some rumour of the bond with Comyn, when knocking sounded at the street door. Elizabeth’s alarm was immediate, and out of character; but Bruce pointed out that the knocking was discreet rather than peremptory.

  He had lived long enough on the edge of danger to sense the difference.

  One of his servants brought in a cloaked figure wearing no insignia, colours or livery. This man waited silent until the servit or had gone. Then, assuring himself that nobody listened outside the door, he brought out from beneath his cloak a pair of spurs. In the other hand he held out a silver shilling.

  “From my lord of Gloucester,” he said quietly, cryptically.

  Bruce looked from the man to Elizabeth.

  “Aye,” he said heavily.

  He took both the spurs and the coin.

  The visitor reached out, wordless, and turned over the shilling, so that the likeness of King Edward’s head was uppermost.

  Bruce nodded.

  “I perceive the message,” he said.

  “You will thank your lord. Here—take this.” He handed him back the silver coin.

  “I thank you, my lord.” The man bowed briefly to the wide-eyed Elizabeth, and turned away.

  “My friend,” Bruce said to his back, “I do not wish further to endanger you. But, as a citizen of this London, can you tell me if all the city gates are kept locked of a night?”

  “All,” the other nodded.

  “But I have heard it said that the watch will open any, if commanded in the King’s name.”

  “I see. For this also I thank you.”

  Without another word the visitor departed.

  Two hours later the small Bruce party, of no more than a dozen men-at-arms and servitors, with Elizabeth muffled and cloaked to look like a youthful page, rode quietly through the narrow sleeping streets of the February night, to Eastgate. At the walls and gatehouse there Bruce reluctantly, and with a deal more confidence of voice than he felt, shouted authoritatively.

  “Watch I Watch, I say I Waken, fools I Dolts-awake! Open, in the King’s name.”

  There was some small delay, nerve-racking but inevitable. No argument, however, or enquiry. Bruce’s imperious second demand, with some realistic cursing, was followed by the rattle of chains and the creaking of the great double doors, as they swung wide.

  The Scots clattered through the cobbled pend, and took the dark Essex road beyond, and heard the gates clang to behind.

  A mile or so on, they turned due north, something under four hundred miles of hard riding before them. It was nearly 3 a.m.

  They could probably reckon on a start of anything from five to nine hours. As well that Elizabeth was strong and an excellent horsewoman. It was a desperately tired and bedraggled company—though three short, two servants and a man-at-arms having fallen out-which, four days and three nights later avoiding Carlisle, crossed the Border near Kirkandrews. Whether they had been pursued they did not know. After fording the Esk, they came within a mile or so to the lesser Glenzier Water, which they must also cross before turning westwards through the low green hills for Annandale.

  It was as they were approaching this second ford that they perceived two horsemen already splashing across, but from the other Section.

  There was little for comment in this, perhaps—save that anyone taking

  this route could only be making to cross the Border, and by the inconspicuous road that avoided the English garrison-town of Carlisle. But Bruce, however weary, may have been hypersensitive to certain colours. He reined up, pointing.

  “Do my eyes deceive me, or are those men wearing the Comyn colours or blue and gold?” he demanded.

  Elizabeth narrowed heavy, red-rimmed eyes.

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  “Blue and gold. Is it of any matter?”

  “They are a long way from home, for Comyns. And heading south.”

  “John Comyn has lands in Dumfrlesshire, has he not? And Galloway?”

  “Yes. But these are riding away from them. For England. And avoiding Carlisle. As we have done. Why?” With a toss of his shoulders, he seemed to shake off his fatigue.

  “Come.”

  He reined his all-but foundered horse around—the fourth he had ridden since leaving London—and led his silently protesting party back the way they had come for a little distance, to a thicket of scrub oak and thorn in a marshy hollow, which they had passed through a minute or two before. Into this he turned his people, right and left, to hide amongst the trees.

  The two horsemen appeared presently, trotting unconcernedly.

  One was young, well-dressed, an esquire presumably; the other a bearded man-at-arms riding slightly behind. Bruce allowed them to come nearly up to his hiding-place, the
n spurred forward into their path.

  “Wait you, friend,” he called.

  “One moment. How come you to ride this road to England, this day?”

  The young man had drawn up, startled, hand dropping to sword-hilt. Behind, the soldier was quicker, his whinger whipped out with a scrape of metal. Looking round, the former was in time to see four of Bruce’s own men-at-arms emerging from the thickets at the other side of the road.

  “What is this, sirrah?” he demanded hotly.

  “How dare you!”

  “I but asked your business, sir. The Border is but a mile away, and no place between. It concerns me who crosses that Border.”

  “Why should it? I am on lord’s business. A great lord, Comyn, Lord or Badenoch’s business. Do you dare, sir, to question?”

  “I do,” Bruce answered, mildly enough.

  “And with cause. For I am Sheriff of Dumfries. And was Scots Warden of this March when Scots wardens meant anything.”

  “Sheriff …!” the other repeated falteringly. He looked round again, and saw that he and his man were now quite surrounded.

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “The name is Bruce. You may have heard of it? You are a long way from Comyn country, friend.”

  “Bruce? The … the earl!”

  “The same. You do not look, friend, as though you had ridden from Badenoch and the Spey?”

  “No, my lord. Only from Dalswinton. From my lord’s house near to Dumfries …”

  “Comyn is there? At Dalswinton?”

  “Yes. The Justiciary Court meets this week at Dumfries. My lord attends.”

  “And you? Your business, sir?”

  “My lord’s business. Not mine. Nor yours, my lord!”

  “Mine, yes. If you are for crossing this Border. And on this road you can be going nowhere other. But… see you, your lord and I are in bond to each other. You have naught to fear.”

  The other was silent.

  “I am waiting, sir. And tired I Your business in England?”