The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  “Think you I do not know it? It had to be. Over-soon, yes.

  But better that than over-late. Now, we must set the crown on your brow, for all to see, in fashion that none can question. And to that end, Sire, I would have you speak with the Abbot here.

  Abbot Henry.”

  “I have already met the good Abbot.”

  “Yes. But he asks for this further audience. He says that he has something to show to Your Grace…”

  “A mercy, friend I While we are alone, must you so grace and sire me?

  I was Robert before. And to you, would be Robert still.”

  “Very well, Robert my friend—if it is your royal wish…”

  “It is. Now—what would this abbot show me?”

  “That he must declare himself. So he assured me…”

  So King and Primate went in search of the Abbot of Scone, and presently found that busy man superintending the decoration of the great semi-ruined, church for the next day’s ceremonies.

  Master Henry was an old man, but bore his years and trials lightly. Small, grizzled, eager, he was almost monkey-like, the negation of the pompous cleric, quick and agile, but shrewd. He chuckled and laughed and rubbed his hands much of the time, and would abide no doleful monks in his establishment, declaring that there was more amusement and hearty joy to be won from religion than from any other subject, that God was the prime humorist and that the major sin against the Holy Ghost was a sour and gloomy piety.

  When Lamberton beckoned him to the King, he came grinning, and making a most sketchy obeisance, led them aside, to announce, in a stage whisper, that he had something to disclose.

  Then almost on tip-toe, he conducted them through a side-door and down a winding stair. On the ledge of the last slit-window was a lantern, which he lit with a flint, and led on downwards into the dark honeycomb of crypts beneath the main church.

  “Save us—is it a corpse you have for us, man?” Bruce asked.

  “Wait you,” the little man advised.

  Amongst the damp and dripping vaults, stone and lead coffins and rusted iron yetts of that shadowy, chill place, the Abbot selected one massive door, and opened it with one of the keys hanging from his girdle. Stepping inside a small vaulted cell, he held the lantern high.

  The two visitors stared. The place was empty save for a solid block of stone that gleamed black and polished in the lamplight.

  “By all the Saints!” Lamberton murmured.

  “The Stone! The true Stone …”

  “The Stone …?” Bruce demanded.

  “You cannot mean the Stone of Destiny? The Stone of Scone? Itself!”

  Master Henry skirled laughter that echoed in all the vaults.

  “I do that, my lord King. None other.” He rubbed his hands.

  “Yon’s the right Stone. Your Coronation Stone, My Stone.”

  “So-o-o! I heard that Edward took a false Stone to London. Or so some said. But… how did you do it, man?”

  “Did you expect me to let the accursed Southron have Scotland’s most precious talisman?” the little man demanded.

  ”I am Abbot of Scone. Custodian of Scotland’s Stone. It belongs he

  at Scone. And there it is.”

  “But how, man? How?”

  Lamberton was kneeling beside the thing, running his hands!

  over it. The block was about twenty-four inches high and twenty-?

  eight long by twenty wide, a heavy, shiny black cube, its top dipped slightly in a hollow, the whole curiously wrought and carved with Celtic designs. It had two great rolls, or volutes, like handles, sculptured on either side, to carry it by—but when the Bishop sought to raise it, he could not do so much as move it an inch.

  “Aye—this is it. The true Stone,” he exclaimed.

  “I saw it. At Bailors coronation. This… this is next to a miracle!”

  “No miracle,” the Abbot chuckled.

  “Just cozening. I cozened Edward Longshanks -that is all.”

  “Out with it,” Bruce commanded, impatiently.

  “Och, well—see you, it was not mat difficult, Sire. King Edward had sworn, yon time, to destroy Scotland. To bring down its throne, to burn this abbey, to take away its Stone. Sworn before all. The Stone was in my care. Was I to allow that? I could scarce prevent him from burning my abbey. But I could try to save the Stone. He had warned me. Three days warning I had.

  So I had it taken from its place hard by the altar. By night. Secretly. Eight stark men bore it, in a covered litter. They bore it down Tay, four miles. To Boat of Moncrieffe. And ferried it across. Then they carried it up Moncrieffe Hill, and hid it in the cave where Wallace sheltered one time, Sir John Moncrieffe of that Ilk aiding them.” The old man licked grinning lips.

  “And myself, I had the masons cut a great skelb of stone out of the quarry here. A rude block enough, but stout and heavy. And this I set before the altar. For Edward of England!”

  “And … he took it. Your lump from the quarry. Knowing no better?

  It is scarce believable.”

  “As to that, Sire—who knows? Yon Edward is a man with the pride of Lucifer. He had sworn he would carry Scotland’s Stone back to London. He may have jaloused that this was false.

  But there was none other—and a stone he must take. It would serve as well as the other, for most I It has served, has it no’ ?”

  “By the Rude—here is a wonder!” Bruce cried.

  “Perhaps that is why he was so angry, that time at Berwick? Knowing it false.

  Man—I have never heard the like!” He stepped forward to touch Scotland’s famed talisman with reverent hand.

  “The Stone of Destiny. For my crowning. Here is good augury, indeed.”

  “Here is the work of a leal and stout-hearted man,” Lamberton said, deep-voiced.

  “You are right. My lord Abbot—for this I owe you more than I can say. All Scotland is hereby in your debt. I thank you. The Stone could scarce have had a better custodian.”

  “My simple duty, Your Grace. And my pleasure.” The little man performed almost a skip of glee.

  “Nights I lie awake, and think of Edward Plantagenet with his lump of Scone sandstone!

  It is my prayer that he was not deceived. That he knows it false.

  I think it so. For, two years after he took it, he sent an ill band of Englishry back here, to wreak their fury on this place again. They came only here, from Stirling. They smashed and raged and defaced, in fury. They broke down everything that had been left and that we had set up again—the doors of this church, the refectory, dormitories, cloisters. Laid axes to every cupboard, chest, casket and plenishing. It was hate, naught else. I think Edward knows well that he was cozened—and does not like it. But dares not confess it, lest all men conceive him fooled I So the English are saddled with their stolen false Stone, and can scarce come back for this one. Is it not a joy?”

  Shaking their heads, the other two considered the diminutive cleric—and Bruce found a smile, even if Lamberton did not.

  Next day, therefore, the King of Scots at least was enthroned on the Stone of Destiny, even though there was no Mac Duff to place him thereon. To the deafening clamour of trumpet fanfares the new monarch strode alone up through the crowded church to the high altar, and there seated himself upon the ancient Stone, which legend claimed to have been Jacob’s pillow in the wilderness, brought to Ireland by Scota, Pharaoh’s daughter, from whom the Scots took their name; but which was more likely to have been the portable altar of a travelling saint, possibly Columba himself, fashioned out of a meteorite. There Bruce sat while Abbot Henry brought up his Queen to sit on a throne opposite him, and the Primate, leading the Bishops Wishart and David of Moray, paced out of the vestry, themselves gorgeously attired, bearing magnificent robes of purple and gold in which to deck the King. These were canonicals, saved and hidden by Wishart at the sack of Glasgow, and now produced for this momentous occasion.

  The trumpets silenced, a great choir of singing boys chanted sweet

  music, while the bishops and abbot robed Robert Bruce ceremonially,


  and acolytes filled the air with the fragrance of swinging censers.

  The service that followed was impressive, if inevitably length conducted by the Abbot and the Primate, the sonorous Latinities of the Mass rolling richly, the anthems resounding, the silent pauses dramatic. Then to the high, pure liquid notes of a sin singer reciting the Gloria in Excelsis, William Lamberton took the ampulla, and consecrating it at the altar, turned to anoint the King with oil.

  Bruce, stern-faced as Lamberton himself, gazed across the chancel, hearing and seeing little, aware more vividly of that other high altar and the bloodstained figure collapsing against it, a picture which would haunt him until his dying day.

  While the people still shivered to the aching beauty of that lone singing, conjoined with the dread significance of the holy anointing, they were rudely roused, to the extent of almost gasping with fright, by the sudden, unheralded, furious clashing of cymbals, that went on and on, as old Robert Wishart hobbled to the altar to take up the crown. It was in fact no true crown-Edward had seen to that—being but a simple gold circlet, taken from some saint’s image; but no more valid diadem survived in all Scotland, and this must serve. To the shattering clangour of the cymbals, the aged prelate placed the slender symbol over the Bruce’s brow.

  “God save the King I God save the King! God save the King!” Drowning even the clashing brass, the great cry arose and continued, every man and woman in the crowded church on their feet and shouting—save only Bruce himself and Elizabeth.

  On and on went the refrain, like an ocean’s tide crashing on a shingle beach, as all gave rein to their pent-up emotions. Looking across at her husband, the Queen perceived his lips to be moving, in turn.

  “God save me! God save me, indeed!” he was whispering.

  She would have run to him then, if she might.

  At length the trumpets triumphed, and to their imperious ululation the Bishop or Moray brought Bruce the sceptre for his right hand, from the altar, while Abbot Henry brought him the Book of the Laws. Then, from the front of the nave, the Earl of Atholl came forward with the great two-handed sword of state.

  He knelt before Bruce and proffered it for the monarch to touch.

  Then, holding it up before him, he took his stance behind the Stone.

  The Earls of Lennox and Menteith brought up the spurs and ring, respectively, and Scrymgeour the Standard-Bearer ‘liked forward with the great Lion Rampart banner of the King* dipped it over Bruce’s head, and then laid it on the altar.

  The main coronation procedure completed, Lamberton stepped across, to bow before the Queen and place another golden circlet over her corn-coloured hair. Kissing her hand, he raised her, and led her across the chancel to the King’s side, where she curtsied low and took her husband’s hand between both her own, the first to do him homage. Her throne carried over by acolytes, she seated herself at his right hand.

  There remained but the ceremony of homage-giving, when all landed men and prelates might come up to take the King’s hand and swear fealty, their names and styles called out by the King of Arms, a lengthy process but not to be scamped.

  At last it was all over, and the royal couple could go outside to show themselves to the common folk who had gathered in their thousands to acclaim them.

  The remainder of the day, and the day following, were given over to feasting, jousting, games and entertainments for all classes and tastes, with music and dancing late into the night. Bruce made a number of celebratory appointments to his household and to offices of state, granted charters and decrees, and created knights. There was only one flaw in the colourful tapestry. A courier arrived from the SouthWest, to inform the King that Sir Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, had been appointed commander in Scotland, to succeed the somewhat feeble John of Brittany, and had arrived at Carlisle to assemble a great army. De Valence was no puppet, but a fierce and able soldier, a second cousin of Edward’s and, significantly, brother-in-law to the dead Comyn. Moreover Edward had sent the Prince of Wales on after Pembroke, gathering a second army; and he himself was preparing to come north.

  It had had to come to this, sooner or later.

  Two forenoons later, when Bruce was in conference with his lords, he was brought new and more surprising tidings. There was a latecomer to the coronation scene—none other than Isabel, Countess of Buchan. It was perhaps strange that the King should immediately interrupt his Council and go in person to greet this lady, the young wire of one of his most consistent enemies. But Isabel of Buchan had been Isabel Mac Duff before her marriage, sister of the Earl of life.

  He found the Countess with Elizabeth and Christian, little more than a

  girl, but a sonny, high-coloured, laughing girl, a strange wife for the dour, elderly High Constable of Scotland. She sank low before him.

  “My lord King,” she said, “I am desolated. That I am come too late. I have ridden for twelve days. Four hundred miles. Ever since I heard. For Your Grace’s coronation. And come too late by two days. It is a sore sorrow.”

  “Why, lady—here’s a woeful mischance,” Bruce said, raising her.

  “Had we but known. To come so far. You must, then, have been in England?”

  “At my lord’s manor of Fishwick, in Leicestershire. He has made his peace with Edward. Since … since …”

  “Aye—I understand. And you left my lord behind?”

  “Yes, Sire. He … he knew not that I came.”

  “So! A leal subject, indeed—if less leal a wife!”

  “I am, first, Mac Duff of life’s daughter! When I learned, to my sorrow, that my brother, the Earl Duncan, preferred to bide at Edward’s Court in London than play his rightful part in the crowning of his King, I made haste to come myself. That there should be a Mac Duff if only a woman, to place the crown on your head. Lacking the Stone of Scone, this at least I could do. I took my husband’s best horses. And now—now it is all too late…!” Her eager voice broke.

  Bruce thrust out a hand to clasp her bent shoulder.

  “Not so, lass—not so. Would you had been here two days ago, yes. But today is also a day. I do greatly esteem the presence of a Mac Duff —especially so fair a one! In order that you should do what only Mac Duff can rightfully do. You shall crown me again, forthwith.

  And seat me on the true Stone of Destiny also. For it is here, despite all. The Stone of Scone. The Abbot Henry saved it. Edward has a false boulder, a worthless lump of building-stone, to cherish at his Westminster! We shall have a second crowning.

  And none shall say that Robert Bruce is not truly King of Scots!”

  The girl burst into tears, there and then.

  So, that afternoon, in another brief but joyful ceremony, the Countess of Buchan led her sovereign to the Stone, and there placed the gold circlet over his brow, to the lusty cheers of the concourse. And, as lustily, Bruce kissed her for her services, declaring that he felt a King indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Although Bruce ordained that the festivities continue at Scone for some days longer, the very next morning he himself, with Elizabeth and a small Court—including the Countess of Buchan whom the Queen appointed her principal lady-in-waiting—set off on a progress through the land. Admittedly it was partly a recruiting drive, with Aymer de Valence’s invasion threat bearing heavily on his mind—but it was advisable, necessary, that the King should show himself to as large a number of his people as was possible.

  Meanwhile emissaries, including his brothers Thomas and Alexander, and the Bishops of Glasgow and Moray, rode south, east and west, to raise troops and rouse the country—especially south-west, where lay the greatest opportunity to harry and distract Pembroke.

  The King chose to travel northwards, for it was there that the Comyn influence was strongest and must be countered. His progress was not entirely formal and processional, for he took the English-held royal castles of Forfar and Kincardine on the way.

  But most of the time was spent visiting towns and abbeys and communities, receiving tokens of loyalty, dispensing large
sse and requiring the fealties of local barons-including the reluctant Malise, Earl of Strathearn, whom he more or less kidnapped. All the while, however, he had, as it were, one eye turned backwards, one ear listening for tidings of Pembroke and the English.

  The royal company had left Aberdeen for Inverness, and were in fact at the Mar castle of Kildrummy when the vital word reached them. Pembroke had moved—and in no uncertain fashion. Presumably perceiving that every day’s delay was likely to strengthen Bruce’s hand, he had left his main body of foot at Carlisle, to await the arrival of the Prince of Wales, who had now reached Lancaster with another large army, and had spurred onwards with some three thousand picked horse. Refusing to be distracted either right or left after crossing the Border, he was driving due north at an impressive pace, avoiding all entanglements and leaving any opposition to be looked after by the slower moving main body. Fairly clearly Edward’s particular orders were to close with Bruce at all costs and bring him to immediate battle.

  His general orders to all ranks were, however, to slay, burn and raise

  dragon-that is, to show the dreaded dragon banner which proclaimed that no mercy was to be granted.

  In the Council followed the King was offered varied advice, but most urged that he withdrew promptly into the deeper fastnesses of the Highlands, where the English could not follow, leaving Pembroke to his own devices, and living to fight another day when he had suitable forces assembled. Bruce himself was the principal objector to this superficially wise and reasonable course.

  It was not that he was rash, unthinking or over-sanguine. But he was the new-crowned monarch, he pointed out. To start his reign by disappearing into the safety of the trackless mountains, abandoning his people to the unchecked fury of the baulked invaders, was not to be considered. If he was to maintain any credit with his subjects, he must challenge Pembroke somehow, and be seen to do so. He might fail the first test, but he must not seem to shirk it.

  Somewhat reluctantly those of most experience conceded that.