The Steps to the Empty Throne

The three young noblemen-for Moray, the eldest, was no more than twenty-five-skirted the town to the south-west and rode fast, southwards, by the rolling sandy links of Fullarton and Gailes, with the long Atlantic tide sighing along the glimmering strand of Irvine Bay, on their right. It made easy, unobstructed riding, for night-time, with the moon giving just sufficient light to warn them of the few obstacles of the open bents. Nevertheless, better mounted as they were, it was long before, almost at the squat salmon-fishers’ huts of Barassie, they perceived the dark mass of the main body ahead of them. They were one-third of the way to Ayr.

Riding hard, talk was difficult. But Bruce did ask of the Graham if he knew why the man Wallace was so set on an attack on Ayr?

“He has debts to pay. At Ayr,” the other threw back, in snatches.

“His mother’s brother, Sir Ronald Crawfurd of Crosbie, was Sheriff of Ayr. Edward made Percy—Henry Percy of Northumberland—Sheriff.

In his place. Percy appointed as deputy one Arnulf. Of Southampton. This Arnulf, an evil man. Called a justice-ayres there. Called Sir Ronald. And others. Sir Bryce Blair.

Sir Hugh Montgomerie. Others. To advise him, he said. He slew them, when they came. Out of hand. A trap. Hanged them. From the beams of the new barracks. Wallace has sworn vengeance.”

“And that we do tonight?”

“We shall see.”

With the narrow curving headland of Troon reaching out into the bay, on their right, they at last caught up with Wallace.

After crossing the further links of Monkton and Prestwick, Wallace turned inland, to skirt Ayr town to the east. They forded the river at The Holm, and then circled round through a terrain of knolls and broken pastureland, back towards the sea, south of the town. They climbed a long low ridge of whins and outcrops, startling sleeping cattle, and drew up on its grassy summit.

Sir William Douglas had been right about English precautions at the Castle of Ayr. Down there, flanking the estuary of the river, the town lay spread before them, dark, sleeping. But, a little way apart, nearer, on a mound to this south-east side, the new castle was not dark and gave no aspect of slumber. No fewer than eight bright beacons blazed from its high walls, making the place almost seem to be afire, and casting a red and flickering glow over all the surrounding area. From this ridge it was too far to See men, but there could be little doubt that watchers patrolled those battlements.

“English Arnulf does not sleep without watch-dogs!” Graham commented.

“Even watch-dogs may blink. Or be chained,” Wallace returned easily.

Leaving the three nobles, he gathered his band around him, and splitting them up, gave them instructions, pointing this way and that. Bruce could not make much of the snatches he heard, save that somebody called Scrymgeour was to take charge of the castle. It seemed a large order.

In two groups the men rode off downhill, westwards, and were lost in the shadows. Wallace returned with only half a dozen, including the slim youth, whose name was Boyd, and the priest, Master John Blair.

“Come with us, my lords,” he called.

“If creeping and skulking is not too much for your stomachs!” In the field, he sounded rather less respectful of noble blood than he had done in Seagate Castle.

After a bare half-mile further, nearer the sea, they were directed to dismount and leave their horses, tied up, in a leafy hollow.

Then they went forward quietly. Bruce perceived, from the beacons, that they were heading away from the castle vicinity, half-left, towards the coast. A halt was called presently, and Wallace went on alone. When Bruce and Moray exchanged a few wondering words, the priest curtly ordered them to be silent.

Wallace came back after quite an interval, and beckoned them on.

Quietly they followed him past a pair of cot-houses, where the smell of

smoored peat-fires was strong, and across some tilled land, where they

cast long shadows to the left, in the glow of the castle fires, quarter

of a mile off. There was rising ground beyond, of no great height,

dotted with black shadows—some of which proved to be bullocks, but most whin and broom bushes. At the knobbly crown of this, where there was ample cover amongst the prickly bushes, Wallace, crouching low himself, waved them down on their knees.

“As far as you may come,” he said softly.

“Wait you here. Do not move from it, see you, if you value your lives.

For any man, not of my band, who moves out there tonight, dies!”

“What do you do?” Bruce demanded.

“Why bring us here?”

“You will see, my lord—never fear. Just wait.”

“Is there nothing that we can do, man?” Graham demanded.

“No work for highborn knights!” the other returned, grimly.

“But, if I have not come for you before two hours from now, you may do as you will, my lords. For William Wallace will be no more!

With no further directions for them, the big man slipped away, extraordinarily quiet and agile for so vast a person. The three rejected nobles round that the rest of the party had disappeared also, and they were alone on their whinny knowe.

“He thinks as little of us as he trusts us!” Bruce said, frowning “Perhaps he has reason,” Graham gave back.

“What mean you by that?”

“He knows us not—and there are many false, these days. Myself he knows a-little—I fought with him at the Corheid. A small fray. But that was nothing. And you—you, my lord, yesterday were Edward’s man. By repute. Were you not?”

Bruce shrugged, “It I seemed so, it was because I was not Ballot’s man. I am no more Edward’s man than are the many whom he forced to take the oath. The Steward. Your father, Moray. Lindsay. Bishop Dalton. All these swore fealty.” He paused, and smiled a little, in the dark, if twistedly.

“Although, to be sure, I learned but yesterday that I am now Edward’s chief-est commander in the SouthWest! Now that Hazelrig is dead.

In name. Because I am earl. And here I crouch, this night!”

His companions had no comment to make on that.

They seemed to wait a long time, so that they grew stiff and chilled. Once they thought that they heard a suddenly choked-oft cry from somewhere fairly near at hand—but it might have been only a night bird. There were unseen rustlings amongst the whin bushes below them, though these again could have been caused by bullocks. Otherwise, the environs of Ayr, that night, might have been as quietly peaceful as was usual and suitable. Time passed heavily for high-spirited young men of high degree.

Then, and this time there was no doubt about it, a high thin scream rang out from no great distance in front of them, its mortal agony raising the hair at the back of the listeners’ necks. And quietly thereafter a blaze of flame leapt up, seemingly only about two hundred yards ahead. It grew in size and brightness and was followed by another nearby. Then another. And still another. The crackle of fire sounded, and then muffled clamour, yelling.

Swiftly the fires increased, fanned by the sea breeze. And by their ruddy light, the watchers at last perceived something of what was happening. In front of them, across a dip, was a great building on a low parallel ridge, simple in design but long, bulky, two-storeyed, gabled and obviously timber-constructed. At a guess it might be two hundred feet long and forty wide. And against its many doors and windows, at ground floor level, fires were blazing up—evidently gorse and broom and straw had been piled high at every opening and set alight. Sparking, spluttering, flaring like great torches, this under like and resinous stuff roared devouringly -and dark figures could be seen piling on more and more of the fuel that grew so profusely all around. Already the wooden walls of the place were beginning to burn.