The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1 Page 41

by Nigel Tranter

“Highness!” he said, kissing it.

  “Your most faithful subject and servant.” His younger brother hastened to follow suit.

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “It is less simple than that, I fear,” she said sadly.

  “Aye. Nigel speaks in innocence,” Bruce agreed grimly.

  “Would that innocence were mine! Apart from the guilt on me, do you not see what this must cost? I am no true King until my coronation. And for that I require the aid of Holy Church. Think you Holy Church will smile on a murderer?”

  “Why must you call it murder … ?”

  “Because that is what it was. Moreover, it is what my enemies will call it.”

  “But the chief churchmen are your friends, not your enemies.

  Lamberton, Wishart, and the rest.”

  “Not all. Cheyne, of Aberdeen. Andrew, of Argyll. Both Comyn men.

  And have you forgot Master William, cleverer than any?

  Who saw the deed done. The Comyns have many churchmen. The Pope is now no friend to Scotland. These will petition him for my excommunication-nothing surer. And if they do not, Edward will! And an excommunicated man could not be anointed King!”

  There was silence for a little. Then Christian spoke.

  “It is a long way to Rome,” she observed.

  “Aye. There lies my one hope. A swift coronation, before my enemies’ emissaries can reach the Pope and bring back his edict.

  Without the Pope’s authority, only the Primate could excommunicate, I believe. And Lamberton will not do that, I think. All, then, depends on haste.”

  “All …?” Elizabeth echoed.

  “You do not fear the excommunication itself?”

  “I fear the righteous wrath of God,” he told her levelly.

  “I

  know well that I have grievously incurred it. In itself, I have no reason to fear any man’s lesser condemnation.” Bruce took her hand.

  “My heart—what I have done was a great sin. But that done, the rest had to follow. You will see it? The kingship. I had to act. Forthwith. There could be no delay. All then fell to be won, or lost.

  You understand?”

  “I understand that, yes.”

  “I endanger you, by it. Endanger all here. I know it well. I have told these two. I tell you. The decision was mine. Others need not suffer for it. You—you are free to choose.”

  ”I am your wife.”

  “To be sure. But this is a desperate venture. A new life that, short or long, will never again be the same. And liker to be short than long, I fear!”

  “I married Robert Bruce for better or for worse. I knew when we were wed that this day might dawn. Would almost certainly dawn. I did not think to see it happen this way, Robert—but what of that? I am your wedded wire—whatever you have done.

  And now, it seems, your queen.”

  “That, see you, Edward will never forgive.”

  “Edward is no longer my king. You are, my dear.”

  He raised the hand he held to his lips.

  “I thank you, lass.”

  “So what now?” the impatient Christian asked.

  “Now I send letters. I inform Edward—as one monarch to another” Almost he smiled.

  “Who knows—the news might even serve our cause enough to stop his heart I More urgent, to William Lamberton. This very night. Nigel—you had best go. He is at Berwick still, I think—summoned there by Richmond, as adviser.

  He must be told all, with nothing hidden. I will ask him to arrange an immediate coronation. If he will…”

  “Lamberton will do it,” Nigel asserted, “He has been your friend always. You have a bond with him, have you not?”

  “A bond cannot tie a man’s conscience. In especial, a churchman’s.

  I can only hope. And you—you can pray!”

  Elizabeth looked at him long and searchingly “My love,” she said gently, “I think that you should come with me. A little quiet refreshment. Write your letters later.”

  He drew a hand over his brow.

  “Later. Later, yes.”

  “When last did you eat?” she asked.

  “Eat? I… I do not know.”

  “I thought as much. And even kings must eat! Come… Sire!”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Hurriedly assembled though it was, the train that set out northwards from Lochmaben that bright and breezy March morning was a splendid one—the King of Scots on his way to Scone for his coronation. Whatever the dark uncertainties of the future, and all the thronging problems of the present and the guilt of the past, Bruce had sought to lay all aside for this great and significant event.

  His coffers had been drastically raided, scraped indeed, his feudal vassals summoned from far and near, his womenfolk charged to prepare a magnificence of raiment and gaiety of colour and spectacle not seen in Scotland for half a century. Five hundred rode on this leisurely, seemingly joyful, 100-mile pilgrimage, a third of that number ladies, with scarcely a suit of armour or shirt of mail in sight-although, not in sight but far out on either flank, powerful armed contingents rode a parallel course, to ensure against any surprise attack from Richmond’s occupying forces, Comyn sympathisers, or other enemies. A company of mounted instrumentalists and minstrels led the procession, dispensing sweet music; banners fluttered by the score; gorgeously-caparisoned horses, heraldic ally-emblazoned litters, silks, satins, velvets and jewellery, dazzled the eye. Bruce himself wore a cloth-of-gold tabard, with the Lion of Scotland embroidered in red front and rear, picked out in rubies; and his queen was in royal purple velvet, tight of bodice and long flowing of skirt, high-standing collar and cuffs trimmed with seed pearls. Marjory, now a delicately lovely child of eleven, and making her first public appearance, was dressed wholly in white taffeta. Christian, with her sisters Mary and young Matilda, the baby of the family, her son Donald of Mar, and the four Bruce brothers, were little less fine.

  But perhaps Bruce’s greatest satisfaction, in all this display, was in what was immediately in front of him and behind the musicians, where rode three churchmen-the Dean of Glasgow, the Abbot of Inchaffray and the Vicar of Dumfries. They carried a gold and jewelled pectoral cross, a great banner with the arms of the See of Glasgow, and a precious relic, allegedly a bone of Saint Kentigern.

  But more important than what they carried was what they represented—the support and blessing of Holy Church, proved by a parchment in Bruce’s own possession, signed by Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, the diocese in which the deed was committed, granting him full absolution for the death of John Comyn, on grounds of personal and national necessity. Bruce’s conscience may have been little the lighter for this document, but his wits indeed were.

  And, despite all this brilliance of circumstance and colour, he required every scrap of encouragement which he could muster.

  For, although it was nearly six weeks since the day when he had stabbed Comyn and proclaimed himself King, the fact was that so far no large proportion of the nation had rallied to his standard.

  Here in the SouthWest, his own domains, the response had been good;

  but elsewhere it had been patchy indeed. He had issued a twenty-four hour warning for mobilisation, to the whole realm-but what response there might be to it, who could tell? The common people, who had followed Wallace, had greeted the claiming of the crown with enthusiasm, in the main. But these had little to lose, and at this stage not a great deal to contribute. It was the landed men, the nobles, lairds and knights, whom he must have, able to provide armed men, horses, money. And these held back. They were scarcely to be blamed, perhaps—even Bruce did not condemn them too fiercely. The land was in English occupation, and though Richmond’s forces were limited, anyone coming out in Bruce’s support was a marked man for the inevitable day when Edward sent his legions north again to wipe out this affront. By then, that Bruce would be in any position to withstand, or to protect his supporters, was highly questionable.

  Ten years of bitter warfare had borne too heavily on such as these to leave many starry-eyed enthusiasts.

 
It was, therefore, with roused feelings that, riding down towards the grey town of Lanark, Bruce saw a tight and strong well-mounted company of about a hundred come spurring over a grassy ridge from the east, to meet the royal cavalcade at a tangent, lances glinting under a large blue-and-white banner. There were not a few Scots families which flew blue-and-white colours—but here in Lanarkshire the chances were that it was Douglas.

  A young man, slender, swarthy, dark-eyed, graceful of carriage, led this squadron on a magnificent stallion. He drew rein a little way in front and to the side of the advancing column, and leapt down, to stand, waiting.

  Bruce had his trumpeter sound the halt, and sitting his horse, beckoned the young man forward.

  “Who are you, my friend?” he asked.

  “And would you ride with me to Scone, this day?”

  The other bowed deeply.

  “I would ride with you farther than to Scone, my lord King,” he said impulsively, clear-voiced.

  “I am James Douglas. Whom once you took out of Douglas Castle. To Irvine, and my father.”

  “Ha! James Douglas? Sir William’s son. To be sure. I mind you now.

  Save us—you make me feel old I A boy then, a man now.”

  “Your man, Sire.” He took the outstretched hand between his own.

  “Four days ago, only, I was of age. For long years I have waited for this. To come to you. Even when you were not King.

  With my strength. As Lord of Douglas. Before, I could not. Others held me back. Now they can do so no more. And now I am come.

  In time for your Grace’s crowning! God be praised!” All this was jerked out with a breathless urgency.

  Bruce looked down into the eager dark eyes, and found an unaccountable lump in his throat.

  “Aye, lad,” he said.

  “And I am glad. But … why? What did I ever do for you? Save escort you and your step-mother to your father? Whose soul rest in peace.

  All those years ago.”

  “Nine years, Sire. I have well counted them. Five of them in France. Think you I could forget what you did that day? Outside the walls of Douglas. How you saved the children from hanging.

  By Segrave. How you defied King Edward’s commands. How you came to us in courtesy, offered us rescue, conducted us to safety.

  Then threw in your lot with the rebels. You, who were named Edward’s chief commander in the SouthWest! I vowed then that when I was a man, I would seek to be a man like the Earl of Carrick!” James Douglas paused, and swallowed.

  “Your Grace’s pardon. I… I forgot myself!”

  “Would God more in this realm would forget themselves, my lord of Douglas!” Suddenly Bruce rose in his stirrups, and dismounted. Hastily everywhere men jumped down, not to remain seated when the monarch stood.

  “Give me that sword, lad,” he said.

  Wonderingly the younger man drew, and handed over the handsome weapon.

  “Now, kneel.” He tapped each bent shoulder with the flat of the blade.

  “I dub thee knight. Be thou a good and faithful knight until thy life’s end. Arise, Sir James!”

  Quite stunned with the suddenness and proportions of the honour done him, Douglas stood at a loss.

  Leaning a little in her saddle, Elizabeth, who had watched and listened interestedly, held out her hand, well aware of what this all meant to her husband.

  “My felicities, Sir James. For the first knight of my lord’s creating.”

  “Not the first,” Bruce said sombrely.

  “I knighted Wallace. May you, sir, be more fortunate than he!”

  “That is in God’s hands, Sire. But if I can strive to be one half so true a knight, I shall rejoice. I thank you, with all my heart, Your Grace.” Douglas took the Queen’s hand.

  “Highness, I am yours, and the King’s, to command. Always. To the death.”

  “This is too joyous a day to talk of death,” she told him.

  ”Live us.” And she smiled down on the lively, eager, almost

  worshipping face.

  “That too, Madam …”

  “Aye, my friend-so be it,” Bruce said.

  “This day we ride my realm without swords and lances and armour. For once! So take you mese fine Douglas blades of yours, and find Sir Christopher Seton. He rides some way to the west, holding our flank secure.

  Leave them with him. He will use them well. Then come back to our side, my lord of Douglas. You shall be our good augury and fortune, on the way to Scone …”

  The Abbey of Scone, a few miles North of Perth, above the cattle-dotted meadows of the silver Tay, was a fair place in a lovely setting. Admittedly it was not so fair as once it had been, for Edward had been here in 1296, and part-destroyed the Abbey when he took away its precious Stone, the symbol of Scotland’s sovereignty. And sent another punitive raid two years later. But there had been considerable rebuilding since then, much renewing of burned woodlands and a ravaged countryside in this the ancient Pictish capital and most hallowed spot in Scotland, where rose the Moot-hill that had been the centre of rule and the coronation-place of the most ancient kingdom of all Christendom.

  For this day, at least, all traces of ruin and devastation were covered up and hidden. All was colour, flourish and acclaim.

  A tented city had been set up, on the flats by the river, below the twelve acres of abbey buildings and the Moot-hill, furnished with the gorgeous silken pavilions of lords and bishops, the bowers of ladies, the lodges of lesser men, the canopied shrines of religious orders and holy relics, the booths of merchants and craftsmen, the enclosures for entertainers, tumblers, musicians and the like, the tourney-grounds, race-courses and playing-fields, stretching to the vast horse-lines and cattle-pens. Every sort of standard, flag, banner and pennon flew, ecclesiastical, heraldic, burg hal guild and purely decorative. Late March, it was scarcely the time of the year for such outdoor activities; but the weather was kind, and though a stiff breeze blew, the sun shone.

  Robert Bruce had reason for some satisfaction. It was no feeble or humiliating affair, such as might have been. None could point the finger of scorn and claim that this was only a shameful pretence at a coronation. There were three earls present—four if young Donald of Mar was counted; John de Strathbogie, of Atholl; Malcolm of Lennox; and Alan of Menteeth—although be had been more or less dragooned, and his uncle, Sir John Stewart of Menteith not only was not present but had refused to yield up Dumbarton Castle to Bruce. There were three bishops-the Primate, Glasgow and Moray—with a number of mitred abbots and priors. Of lords, apart from Douglas, there were Hay of Erroll and his brother; Lindsay of Crawford; Somerville of Carnwath; Campbell of Lochawe; and Fleming of Cumberoauld.

  James the Steward, aged and sick, had sent his surviving son Walter. And there were a great many barons, knights and lairds, the most prominent of whom were Sir Hugh, brother of the heroic Sir Simon Fraser of Oliver; Sir John Lindsay; Sir Robert Boyd, who had just captured Rothesay and Dunaverty Castles for Bruce; Sir David de Inchmartin and Sir Alexander Menzies. Alexander Scrymgeour, Wallace’s lieutenant, the Standard-Bearer, was there. The Bruce family itself made an impressive phalanx, with Seton and Sir Thomas Randolph, a nephew.

  But, though all this was well enough, it was scarcely possible not to reflect on who was not present. Two-thirds of the earls and bishops and three-quarters of the lords had found it necessary or expedient to be elsewhere—although all had been summoned.

  There was no overlooking this fact. Most significant, perhaps, for a coronation, was the absence of the young Mac Duff Earl of life, whose duty and privilege it was to place the new monarch on the fabled Stone of Destiny and to crown him thereafter. Some whispered indeed, with head-shakings, that without the magic symbol of the Stone, and lacking the Mac Duff presence, it could be no true crowning.

  William Lamberton arrived at Scone within hours of the royal party’s coming, and it was Bruce who quickly thereafter sought the Bishop, in the Abbot’s quarters, not vice versa.

  “My lord King!” the older man protested, as the other was shown into
his chamber.

  “This should not be! You should have let me seek audience. I was but preparing myself first, after my journeying …”

  “Tush, man! Seek audience—you?” Bruce interrupted.

  “Has it come to this, between us?”

  “Conditions have changed, Sire,” the Primate said.

  “Notably.”

  “Changed, yes. But how much? Between us, my old friend?

  That is what I came to discover. And at once.”

  ”They cannot be the same ever again, Sire, I fear. Since we are!

  now master and subject.”

  “Master and subject! That is for the ruck. Say what you mean man.”

  “Mean, Your Grace? I do not understand …?”

  “Have done, my lord Bishop! You know well what is between us. Blood I Murder! Say it.”

  “If it is John Comyn you speak of, his blood does not lie between you and me. You have absolution, have you not?”

  “Absolution, yes. And why granted? Because you so ordained?

  That I might not be debarred the throne? Before the Pope in Rome excommunicates me!”

  “In part true, Sire. But only in part. Your slaying of Comyn was a sin, yes. The manner of it. I do not gainsay it. But a sin meet for absolution. Given repentance. Since the man was evil.

  Had plotted your own death. And would have done so again. It was Comyn, or Bruce! If ever a man ensured his own death, that man was John Comyn.”

  “So… you are still my friend?”

  “If Your Grace will still consent to name me so.”

  “Thank God! This, I think, I feared most of all.” Bruce reached out to take the other’s hand.

  “The excommunication I could have tho led God’s judgement hereafter I must await. But your estrangement would have been beyond all bearing.”

  Much moved, the Bishop for once could find no words. He gripped the younger man’s hand for long moments before he raised it to his lips.

  “This of the kingship,” Bruce went on, after a while.

  “Having defied and fled from Edward, and slain Comyn, I had to move.

  To take the throne, without delay. Before Edward could have the Pope excommunicate me. From a coronation. It was over soon, for our plans, for Scotland. But my hand was forced.”

 

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