The Steps to the Empty Throne

“The Barns!” Graham cried, need for whispering past.

“The English barracks. God’s Blood—look at that! Wood–it is all of wood. It will burn to ashes.”

“It is … it is full? Of men … ?” Bruce’s voice faltered.

“Full, yes. You heard Eglinton. The English, from Lanark, were quartered there. No room in the castle for hundreds. They will be … inside there!”

“Saints of Christ-this is a hellish thing!” Moray groaned.

“Aye.” Sombrely Bruce nodded.

“But did you see Berwick town?”

The muffled shrieks and cries and cursing from within the building were terrible now, rising high above the throbbing roar of the flames. They saw a door crash down, in a great fountain of sparks, and dark frantic figures came rushing out—to be met by slashing, stabbing steel that flashed red in the firelight. A huge leaping shape could be distinguished, silhouetted against the glow, great sword high.

Soon the walls of the barracks were well alight and there was no need

for further fuel. The number of waiting figures around increased. Men

were jumping, now, from upper windows, in a frenzy, many with hair and

clothes ablaze. None could fail to be seen in that lurid fatal light, and none who escaped hot fire escaped cold steel. The sounds that came across the shadow-filled dip from the Barns of Ayr were now blood-curdling, indescribable.

The shrill neighing of a trumpet, from the direction of the castle, drew the three watchers’ eyes momentarily. They could not see what went on at that distance, nearly quarter of a mile away—but they could guess.

“They will come out. Lower the drawbridge and sally out. To aid these. And Sandy Scrymgeour and his men will have them,” Graham declared excitedly.

“They cannot sit within, and watch this!”

“The man is a devil! Wallace! To plan such savagery. Godless I It is unchristian, heathenish!” Moray said.

“True men do not fight so.”

“Maybe so. But I will tell you one man who would not blink an eye at what is done here tonight,” Bruce returned grimly.

“Edward Plantagenet! Nor Bishop Anthony Beck, either.”

“Aye. It may be that Scotland needs such as this William Wallace, in this pass,” Graham nodded.

“But … it takes a deal of stomaching.”

The roof of the barracks was ablaze now, the entire long building a flaming pyre.

Fewer men seemed to be waiting around the doomed barracks, with no sign of Wallace’s gigantic figure. No doubt the main scene of operations was shifting to the castle vicinity. The roar of the fire drowned any noises that might be emanating from there.

Restlessly and with very mixed feelings, the trio waited amongst the whins. Their every instinct and urge was to move out, to be active, involved—but Wallace’s warning as to possible consequences had been as convincing as it was grim. And nothing that they had since seen inclined them towards disobedience.

Though they would not, could not, call it that, of course; obedience was not an attitude that fell to be contemplated by such as these.

They waited where they were, then, in major frustration and impatience, pacing about amongst the bushes to keep warm, since there seemed no further need to hide themselves.

A most unpleasant smell was now reaching them on the sea wind, from the burning building. It was a considerable time since they had seen any men jumping from the upper windows; in deed, no upper windows were now visible, in the unbroken wall of flame.

A scattering of lights showed in the town.

Eventually the priest, Blair, materialised, face streaked with soot, dark eyes glittering in the ruddy light.

“Wallace requires your presence, my lords,” he said shortly.

“Come with me.”

It was eloquent of the effect of the night’s experiences on the three that they none of them took active exception to the summons or the ragged cleric’s abrupt delivery thereof, but followed him without comment or question.

Turning their backs on the blazing Barns of Ayr, they made for the castle, finding themselves on a roadway between the two buildings.

Soon they were aware of people. Over on their left, a crowd was standing, silent, townsfolk obviously. Dimly seen in the light of the flames, they stood in their hundreds, unmoving, huddled there seemingly rooted, watching, only watching, strangely noncommittal.

The priest ignored them entirely.

The walkers came across the first bodies lying sprawled about a hundred yards from the castle’s dry ditch. They lay scattered, as though cut down individually, in flight perhaps. Bruce stooped to peer at one or two—for the beacons on the castle ramparts were fading now, untended. These were men-at-arms, all similarly clad, in jacks and small pointed helmets with nose guards—English obviously. There were perhaps a dozen of them, dotted along the roadway. Then, near the drawbridge-end, was a dark heap, almost a mound. Here men had died fighting, not running, back to back probably, assailed and surrounded as they issued from the castle. How many there might be there was no knowing. None moved, at any rate. The priest, his hitched-up robe flapping about leather-bound legs, led on without pause or remark—though once he muttered as he slipped on blood, and recovered his balance with difficulty.

‘ Four ruffianly characters, swords in hand, greeted them less than respectfully at the bridge-end, but let them pass. Men were leading out horses from the castle, fine beasts, laden with miscellaneous gear.

They crossed the inner bailey, where more bodies lay. Somewhere a woman was screeching hysterically, and there were groans from nearer at hand.

The castle’s interior still smelt of mortar and new wood, though

overlaid now by the smells of blood and burning. Master Blair conducted his charges up the wide turnpike stairway to the hall. There many torches flared, to reveal a dramatic scene. William Wallace stood up on the dais, at the far end, towering over all, with the man Scrymgeour, head bound with a cloth, young Boyd, and one or two others, nearby. Half-way to the door a group of older men stood, white-faced, in some disarray of dress, none armoured, their agitation very evident. Above all, three men hung on ropes from the beams of the high roof, one in armour, one part-clothed, the one in the centre wholly naked. This last was middle-aged, heavily gross, paunchy, his body lard like and quite hairless, obscene in its nudity. He twitched slightly.

“Ha, my lords!” Wallace called, at sight of the newcomers.

“Come, you. Here are the provost and magistrates of this good burgh of Ayr. Some of them. And there,” he pointed upwards, “is one Arnulf, who called himself Deputy Sheriff. Also the captain of this castle’s garrison, and his lieutenant.” To the townsmen he added, “You see before you the Earl of Carrick, the Lord of Bothwell and Sir John the Graham. I ask these lords to receive this town and castle, in the name of John, King of Scots.”

Moray looked doubtful, Graham glanced at Bruce, and that young man raised his voice.

“I will not, sir,” he said loudly, clearly.

“There is no King of Scots, today. John Baliol was a usurper, and failed the realm. He has vacated the throne. He is now in France. I, for one, can accept nothing in his name.”

His companions did not speak.

Wallace looked thoughtfully at them, tugging his beard-which was noticeably singed on one side.

“So that is the way of it!” he said.

“All men may not hold as you do, my lord.”

“That may be so. But I so hold. And state.”

“Who, then, may speak in the realm’s name? This burgh and castle is taken. In whose name?”

Bruce saw that Wallace was concerned to live down the name of brigand and outlaw that had been pinned upon him, that he sought an aspect of legality for what he did. That was why they had been brought here.

“Who better than the High Steward of Scotland?” he said.