The Steps to the Empty Throne

Now, he spoke.

“You each near convince me that all are right, all best, my lords,” he said, with what he hoped would sound like diffidence.

“I am young, and little experienced in war. But I would think that our first concern is not Glasgow or the North.

Even the Border, though that should take precedence, I think. It is here, on our own doorstep. Ayr. Here we sit, with an English garrison but a dozen miles away. Should we not deal with these, before all else?”

It was Wishart, in his mildly hesitant voice, who answered that.

“We have not failed to consider this, and the like questions, my son. But we have decided that the taking of strong castles is not our first task. We must seek to contain such as come in our way, yes. But to use up our strength and precious time on the slow business of besieging such holds would De unwise. We could waste all our forces, sitting outside a few such castles.”

“Aye, my lord Bishop.” Having just come from sitting outside Douglas castle, Bruce scarcely required this to be pointed out.

“But Ayr is no great fortress. Its old castle was small—one of my

mother’s father’s houses. The English have built a new castle there, I

am told. But it is not yet finished and not large. The garrison can

be no more than a couple of score. The five hundred men they say are

at Ayr are the force from Lanark. Hazelrig’s men. They cannot all be cooped up in the castle.”

“They built a great barn. A barracks,” their host, de Eglinton, told them.

“To house the men while the new castle was building.

And to hold the Sheriff’s stores. The Lanark men lodge in this.”

“Is the castle finished?”

“Yes, this month past.”

“Nevertheless, they will not crowd five hundred men into it, I wager.”

“You know not what you say, Bruce.” That was Douglas, harshly.

“They do not have to be in the castle to defy us, hold us off. Under its walls and within its baileys, five hundred men could laugh at a great army. If it lacks siegery engines. Their archers, close packed along the castle walls, could keep us at a distance-their damned English archers I If you do not know them, I do!

With longbows on their parapet-walls, we could not get near them.”

“By night…?”

“By night, man I Think you these English are fools?” Douglas, who gloried in being no respecter of persons, undoubtedly had his reservations about the service Bruce had done him.

“They will have beacons blazing on every tower and wall head Turning

night into day. Had you fought English veterans, you would know better

than to talk such ha vers

Frowning darkly, Bruce clenched his fists “The man Wallace, whoever he is, would seem to think differently from you, sir!” he gave back warmly.

“Or he would not have won Lanark!”

At mention of the name, silence fell on that room, sudden, noticeable. Bruce looked round at all the different faces and saw reserve, stiffness, now masking them all.

After a pause, it was the Bishop who spoke.

“Your spirit, my lord of Carrick, is praiseworthy. We all welcome it, I am sure.

But we must be guided by the voices of experience. Fervour is not sufficient. My lord of Douglas is right. We must not squander our resources. These English at Ayr, though too many to assail, under the protection of their castle, are not of numbers large enough to menace our rear. We shall leave them.”

“Aye, by God—but I am right in the other also!” Douglas cried, banging the table with his fist.

“That we should turn south.

To the Border. Leave your Glasgow and north of Forth. They will wait. Make the West March secure, and then turn on Her wick, I say. That is where we may hit the English where it hurts them most …”

“My lord of Douglas has large lands in the West Borders!”

Moray interrupted tersely.

“What of it, man? From those lands we shall win many men.”

“Sir William would avenge his defeat at Berwick, I swear!”

the Graham put in.

“But we have more to do than restore his honour! We have all Scotland to win.”

“You know not what you say, sir …!”

Still they argued, loudly, acrimoniously, with the Bishop and the Steward seeking to calm, soothe and guide. Here were divided counsels, with a vengeance.

Douglas was still holding forth, seeking to carry the day by main force, when the door was thrown open and three newcomers entered. And, strangely, even Douglas’s forceful eloquence died on his lips.

Perhaps it was not so strange, for the visitors presented no ordinary sight; or, at least, one of them did not. Quite the largest man that Bruce had ever set eyes upon stood there, a young giant of nearer seven than six feet, of a width of shoulder and length of arm that would have been gross deformity in anyone less tall.

Bareheaded, with a wealth of curling auburn hair and a bushy beard, this extraordinary individual had a smiling open face, high complexion and intensely bright blue eyes. He wore a sort of long tunic of rusty and battered ring-mail, with boiled leather guards bound on both arms and legs, making these enormous limbs look even larger. A huge two-handed sword, quite the mightiest weapon Bruce had ever seen, was sheathed down his back so that its great hilt stuck up behind the man’s head. He was probably four or five years older than Bruce himself—certainly under thirty. His companions scarcely merited a glance in comparison.

One was a ragged priest, half in armour; the other little more than a youth, though armed to the teeth.

“I greet you all, my lords and gentles,” the giant said, deep voiced but genial.

“It is a fine night. To be up and doing!”

Sir John the Graham alone of the company got to his feet and strode to welcome the newcomers. Douglas raised his voice.

“Who … who, a God’s name is this?”

“Wallace. Wallace of Elderslie,” somebody told him.

Exclamation, comment, remark rose from the company as Wallace clasped

the Graham to him affectionately-and beside him that well-built young

knight looked a stunted stripling. Bruce turned to his nearest neighbour, the Lord of Crawford, though his eyes remained fixed on the newcomer.

“This man? This Wallace. Who is he?” he asked.

“You do not know, my lord? You have not heard of the Wallace?”

Lindsay said, surprised.

“When all Scotland rings with his deeds.” He corrected himself.

“All Scotland of the baser sort, that is!”

“I have heard of Wallace of Riccarton. A small knight, nearby here somewhere. Vassal of my grandsire.”

“This is nephew to him. His father, Sir Malcolm, younger brother to Riccarton, got Elderslie, at Renfrew. A mean enough place, of the Steward’s. This is the second son. His brother will laird it there now, since their father was slain by the English at Loudoun Hill.”

“Ha—slain? And did I not hear that this man’s wife was slain, also?

At Lanark. For which he slew Hazelrig?”

“Aye. So you are not entirely ignorant of the Wallace, then, my lord!”

“I heard his name only yesterday. For the first time. As an outlaw, a brigand.”

“Aye, that is the style of him. A man of no breeding. Of the old native stock. Little better than the Irish.” De Lindsay, of good Norman blood, coughed a little, recollecting that Bruce’s own mother, and his Carrick earldom, were of the same Celtic origin, however respectable was his father’s line.

“He impudently be labours the English. They say that he has slain a round hundred of them himself, with that ox-shaft of a sword!”

“He is a skilled warrior, then? A champion?”

“Skilled no! He fights, they say, like a brute-beast. Without regard to the knightly code.”

“But you say he is the son and nephew of knights …?”