The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1 Page 40

by Nigel Tranter

  Nigel was one of the last to join his brother on the seething castle hill, where an air of strange and heady excitement prevailed, with rumours flying thick and fast.

  “The Comyn horses are driven off,” he reported.

  “The leaders’ beasts, that is. And many others. Little trouble.”

  “Yes. And Christopher? Kirkpatrick?”

  “I have not seen them. Do you think …?”

  “I think if any can look to themselves, these can.”

  “What do you do now?”

  “Take Dumfries. I have no choice.”

  “What…?” Astounded, Nigel stared at him.

  “I have crossed my river, now,” his brother said evenly, almost sternly.

  “There is no turning back. I can only go forward. Whatever the cost.

  But that is for myself. You-you need not go where I go. You, or any. For it will be a sore road. There is time, still, to turn back. For you. If you will.”

  Nigel looked across at his younger brother, brows raised.

  “You are not wandering? In the head? That blow …”

  ”Look,” Thomas pointed.

  “Christopher. And the others.”

  Seton, Kirkpatrick and Lindsay, with some small following were hastening up the rise towards them. They had the look of victorious men. Others made way for them automatically.

  “Well?” Bruce, the new Bruce, barked the single word.

  “You were right, my lord,” Kirkpatrick shouted back, grinning.

  “A botched blow! He was still alive. I finished your work.

  The Red Comyn is dead. And others with him. Not a few I And this world the sweeter!”

  A long shuddering sigh broke from the listening crowd.

  Bruce looked at the newcomers long and levelly. Then he spoke, tonelessly.

  “Very well. I thank you for completing my work.”

  He took a deep breath, and turned.

  “And now, there is more work to do, my friends. Much more. This castle, for a start.” He pointed upwards, to where the Leopards of England flew above the highest tower.

  “That banner. I’ll have it down, see you.”

  There was a corporate gasp from the company, a gasp that developed and changed into a rumbling roar as men perceived something of the significance of this declaration. Englishmen in the crowd began suddenly to look alarmed.

  There were a number of men-at-arms at the castle gateway, but these were a ceremonial guard for the justices rather than any sort of garrison. Already, from the sitting in the hall, the chief magistrate, Sir John Kingston, had sent officers to enquire the reason for the trumpeting and noise outside, and to demand respectful quiet. As Bruce led his mounted cohort directly for the gateway, these turned and hurried away.

  If the captain of the guard-house was of heroic stuff he wisely decided, in the face of a force ten times the size of his own, that this was not the occasion to demonstrate it. He and his men exchanged eloquent glances and promptly took themselves off after the officers.

  There was no moat and drawbridge here, and Bruce led his men through the gatehouse pend and into the courtyard, without hindrance. There he halted, sitting his horse, while he gave his lieutenants orders to secure all gates and strong points to man the parapets, and to bring him that banner. To Nigel he gave special instructions.

  “My compliments to King Edward’s justices,” he said, “Inform them that their duties here are now over. And that I will provide them with safe-conduct over the Border. Forthwith.”

  His brother laughed aloud, and without dismounting, he or his men, rode indoors.

  Soon he was back.

  “They have locked themselves into the hall “ he reported.

  “I shouted your commands. But they said they will have no dealings with rebels. And that you are to disperse our force at once. Or all will be arraigned for treason.”

  “For judges, they much lack judgement!” Bruce declared grimly.

  “Have woodwork chopped down. And brushwood from outside. Those whins on the brae side will burn well. Pile all against doors and windows, and set alight. See how they judge that!” Nigel’s chuckling was stilled by the steely expression on his brother’s face. He hurried off to do as he was told.

  A warning shout from high above was followed by a muffled clatter that set Bruce’s horse sidling. The Leopard standard of Plantagenet, wrapped round an English guard’s helmet, and cast down from the parapet aloft, lay there on the flagstones.

  A hoarse cheer rose from all who saw. Bruce had the thing handed up to him.

  It was not long before, without the incendiaries waiting for brushwood, smoke was billowing along the corridors and vaulted passages of Dumfries Castle. And swiftly if belatedly the judicial qualities of those within asserted themselves. A messenger emerged from the smoke-enshrouded hall to request passage for His Majesty’s judges.

  Bruce ordered the pile of burning woodwork at the main hall door to be cleared a little to one side-but only a little. The justices, clerks, officers, litigants, prisoners and soldiers alike, in consequence, had to hop and skip nimbly through as they emerged.

  Sir John Kingston would have made suitable and dignified protest, out in the courtyard, but Bruce curtly cut him short.

  “Enough, sir. Spare us this. We in Scotland have seen enough of English justice. More than enough to have any respect for its practitioners. Have you forgot the justice Sir William Wallace received?”

  The angry growling from the onlookers was enough to convince Sir John that the moment was inopportune.

  “You will be escorted to the Border, at Carlisle. You will be roped together, until then.” And when shocked heads were raised, Bruce added, “And you may praise God that the ropes are not used to hang you!”

  Without further exchange, Edward’s representatives were marched under

  guard, the summons-bell rope of the castle, used symbolically, a loop round each neck, to link them together.

  The roar of derision and unholy joy from the waiting throng outside, as these feared and hated dignitaries passed out from the gatehouse, could have been heard all over Dumfries.

  So was struck the first blow of the second War of Independence suddenly, without warning, almost by accident.

  When Bruce himself rode out from the castle, it was to find the crowd vastly increased, the citizenry now obviously present in large numbers. Bruce’s appearance was greeted with loud and prolonged cheering. If there were not a few nominal Comyn vassals and supporters there, they did not proclaim the fact. Confused and leaderless, yet caught up in the vital sense of occasion and excitement, for the moment they went with the tide.

  With his people marshalled into a great semi-circle behind him, Bruce faced the throng, and had his trumpeter blow for silence.

  He spoke slowly, almost broodingly, with nothing of triumph and drama, however dramatic might be his actual words.

  “My friends—this day, the tenth of February, of our Lord the thirteenth hundred and sixth year, we commence to cleanse our land. We have commenced here at Dumfries. Sir John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, turned traitor and is dead.”

  There was an uneasy stirring amongst the crowd, but no outcry.

  “Cleansed, yes,” Bruce went on steadily.

  “We have also cleansed this castle. The English are gone from it, with scarce a blow struck.” He picked up the Leopard standard from his saddlebow, and shook out its handsome folds.

  “Here is the usurper’s banner, from the tower.” He crumpled it up in his fist, and tossed it to the ground, contemptuously.

  “It will serve for a shroud for Comyn. He has well earned it!”

  There was reaction now, but no shouting, no clamour. Something in the manner, voice and expression of the young man who sat his horse and spoke so sombrely, precluded that. Men whispered, shuffled, stared at each other. And waited.

  Bruce held up his hand.

  “This castle is but the first of many which we must take and cleanse. Till all the land is cleared. And that will take long. Long. Let none doubt it.
Edward of England will come for his banner—nothing more sure. We shall have to fight. Fight as we have never fought before. But not for so long, I think. For Edward is grown old. And sick. This is in our favour.”

  He paused, and looked round.

  “Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, you will be captain of this Castle of Dumfries. To hold it secure. You will hoist another and better banner on that tower. And see that it flies there, against all comers.”

  “To be sure, my lord,” Kirkpatrick cried, loudly.

  “Trust me for that. Bruce’s banner will not fall like that rag, there!”

  “Who said Bruce’s banner?” Very slightly Bruce raised his voice.

  “Find you our royal standard of Scotland, my friend. The Lion Rampant, red on gold. And raise that, see you.

  For all to see. In my name. For this day, I, Robert, do claim, take and assume my rightful and true heritage, the throne of Scotland.

  I stand before you now as your liege lord, Robert, King of Scots!”

  For endless breathless moments there was complete and astonished silence. Men and women questioned their own ears. Only the slow ringing of the Greyfriars Monastery bell, tolling for the dead, broke the hush.

  It was the Yorkshireman, Sir Christopher Seton, who first recovered himself. Wrenching out his sword for the second time that day, he held it high.

  “God save King Robert!” he cried.

  “God save the King! The King!”

  It was as though a damned-up flood had been abruptly released.

  Pandemonium broke loose. The entire company went almost crazy in a frenzy of excitement and emotion. Men shouted, laughed, capered, threw their bonnets in the air, shook hands, even embraced each other. Women skirled, sang, wept, fell on their knees and prayed. Hardened knights and veterans of the wars kissed the cross-hilts of their swords and blinked away weak tears. The least demonstrative just grinned foolishly.

  Nigel and Thomas Bruce, as amazed and dumbfounded as anybody else, were too overwhelmed to do more than gabble and stammer and stroke their brother’s arms.

  Of all that great gathering only the central figure himself remained apparently unaffected. Bruce sat unmoved and unmoving amongst the wild tumult, stiff and upright in his saddle as though carved there in stone. Never had he looked less pleased, less jubilant or exultant. And never more determined.

  Out of the joyous confusion a pattern developed. Again it was the Englishman, Seton, who initiated it. He jumped down from his horse, casting away his sword with a clang. He came to Bruce’s side. Half-bending on one armoured knee, he held up two hands, open and a little apart.

  “Majesty,” he exclaimed hoarsely, “I would be first to swear my oath of fealty. Give me your royal hand.”

  ”Not Majesty, friend,” Bruce told him.

  “In this Scotland we leave majesty to such as Edward Plantagenet! Grace, we say. By God’s grace. Majesty I do not aspire to. But if ever a man required God’s grace, I do!” He gave his brother-in-law his hand nevertheless.

  “Aye, Sire.” Taking the hand flat between his own two palms, Seton kissed it, then so holding it, said, “I, Christopher Seton, swear before Almighty God and all His saints, to be Your Grace’s true man, in fealty and homage, in life and in death. I hereby declare Robert, King of Scots, to be my liege lord, and no other.

  Amen!”

  This brought every other mounted man of gentle blood off his horse and into a clamorous queue, Kirkpatrick foremost. It was Seton himself who held them off, belatedly insisting that the King’s brothers must have precedence. So Nigel and Thomas each took Robert’s hand within their own, stumbling and stuttering in their near-distraction—yet even so somehow looking askance at their brother’s set, stern features.

  Before the rest of the eager columns of aspirants took the oath, Bruce raised the much-kissed hand for quiet.

  “My friends all,” he said.

  “I warn you. My service will be a hard one. It cannot be otherwise.

  English Edward will not smile on those who kiss this hand, this day.

  Think well before you do so. For me there can be no turning back now. I win this realm of Scotland’s freedom, or die. But for you the die is not yet cast.

  Think well, I say.”

  Whatever brief stouns at the heart those ominous words may have aroused amongst his hearers, not one of the queue left place. Indeed more urgent was the clamour to reach his hand.

  Bruce suffered the long oath-taking ceremonial with a grim patience.

  But as soon as it was finished, he commanded silence again.

  “I cherish your loyalty, value your trust,” he declared.

  “But now we have work to do. Only one castle, one town, and a few hundred of men, at this moment acknowledge the King of Scots.

  All must be brought to do so, willingly or unwillingly. I go back to Lochmaben, and command that all leal men rally to my standard there. But on the way I must take Dalswinton Castle, Comyn’s house—for we can afford to let no enemies hold it. Likewise we must take Tibbers, which, though mine, is English-held. It commands the Nith pass into Ayrshire. Sir Christopher—I charge you to take it. And hold it. I give it to you. Sir John Lindsay—Caerlaverock must be secured. In these Solway marshes. The passage from Carlisle. See you to it. Surprise will be our most potent weapon. To strike before any look for war. This will serve us. Go now-enough of talk. And if I could, I would say God go with you! To work.”

  “God save the King’s Grace!” somebody shouted.

  “God bless King Robert!” Immediately the cry was taken up by the entire gathering in a ringing and repeated chant, amidst cheers. To its resounding echoes, Robert Bruce rode downhill from Dumfries Castle, into the town, making for the north gate.

  Elizabeth and Christian Bruce were sitting before the fire in the February dusk, stitching tapestries and watching the children play, when the brothers got back to Lochmaben. Bruce stood in the doorway eyeing this pleasantly domestic scene almost guiltily, before venturing in.

  Elizabeth looked up, a little anxiously for her. She was well aware, of course, that-her husband had gone to Dumfries day specifically to confront Comyn with his treachery. However cosy the scene seemed now, she had been on edge all day. But she did not question him, waiting for the man to speak.

  Not so Christian of Mar, now the Lady Seton. She seldom waited for anyone to speak first.

  “So, my brave brothers,” she greeted them, “are you struck dumb by our beauty? Or has that reptile Comyn escaped you?”

  “No,” Bruce said briefly.

  “No? What does no mean? Have you settled with the man?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “Then I vow you are precious dull about it, Robert! And what have you done with my great ox of a husband? Do not tell me you let Comyn master Aim!”

  “No. Christopher is well enough. He is gone on an errand for me. To Tibbers.”

  “Tibbers? And why, a mercy’s sake? Why go to Tibbers? The English hold it, do they not?”

  “It is my hope they will not, for much longer.”

  “So! You send my foolish Yorkshireman to ask his fellow Englishmen to give you back your Tibbers! You are become mighty bold, my Lord Robert, of a truth…!”

  Elizabeth raised a hand to quell her irrepressible sister-in-law.

  “Let him tell it at his own pace,” she urged.

  But Nigel could contain himself no longer.

  “Quiet, you, by all the saints, Christie!” he burst out.

  “Your tongue is like a bell in the wind! And show something more of respect, I charge you. Call your brother Grace, now—not Lord!”

  “Grace…? What folly is this?”

  Elizabeth did not speak, but her hand went up to the white column of her throat.

  “He is the King!” Thomas exclaimed excitedly.

  “He has taken the kingdom.”

  Bruce looked at his wife, not his sister.

  “Scarce that!” he said.

  “The kingdom will require a deal of taking, I fear!”

  “Robert, You… you … what have you don
e?”

  “Well may you ask, my dear. What can I say…?”

  “I’ll tell you what he has done,” Nigel declared.

  “He has slain the Comyn and assumed the crown. Here is Robert, King of Scots!”

  The two women stared, even Christian silenced. They both rose to their feet.

  Bruce, still in his armour, strode forward to take his wife’s hand.

  “My heart,” he said, “What can I say to you? I have done what is beyond telling, this day. I come to you with hands stained with blood. I slew Comyn, yes. But not in fair fight. I dirked him, with this hand. And in church. Before God’s altar! I come to you, a murderer…!”

  “No!” Nigel insisted.

  “It is not so. He struck him down, yes.

  But not to the death. Kirkpatrick it was that killed him. Later.”

  “Besides, Comyn called him traitor! And struck him with his hand. I saw it, heard it.” Thomas told them, voice breaking with emotion.

  “I murdered him,” Bruce repeated evenly.

  “Whoever finished my work. Drew on him, when his hands were empty…”

  “In a church, you say?” Elizabeth faltered.

  “An altar…?”

  “Aye—God pity me! He fell… against the altar.”

  “So long as he fell!” Christian commented briefly.

  “That man is better dead.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip.

  “I am sorry, Robert.”

  “Yes. It was ill done. I lost my wits. A kind of madness. I scarce knew what I had done. Until too late…”

  “God in His heaven!” Nigel cried exasperatedly.

  “All this talk of what is of no matter anyway! The death of a proven traitor-who had to die. And naught said of what matters everything! That now you are King of Scots. And you, Elizabeth, are Queen.” He ran forward, to half-bend one knee, as far as his armour would let him, and took her hand.

 

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