The Steps to the Empty Throne

There was a profound silence—the first Fullarton Mill had known that day. Men glanced at each other, rather than at the clenched-fist giant. Douglas, who normally filled any vacuum with his strong voice and views, would not demean himself to submit answers to such as William Wallace. Others either felt similarly, or dared not meet their inquisitor’s hot eye.

Save Bruce, that is. After a few moments, he spoke.

“Sir—a new situation has arisen. Did Sir Richard not tell you? Of this matter of a muster for France. And the English offer. This may change all.”

“How may it change our struggle for freedom, my lord?”

“It may foreshadow revolt in England. Or, if revolt is too great a word, discontent, resistance. I do not believe they would make such offer to us, this excuse for us, otherwise. If it is so, Surrey may wish to have his fifty thousand back in England!”

“Is that not the more reason to fight? If they are of two minds.

Looking back over their shoulders?”

”I say probably not. I say that if the English would indeed bring

their arrogant king to heel, we should aid them in it. Not fight them.”

“What the English do with their king is their concern, not ours. Or, not mine. Though, to be sure, it may be yours, my lord I I have feared as much.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean that your conversion to our cause was something sudden, my lord of Carrick! You have large lands in England. All knew you one of Edward’s men. It may be that you are still more concerned with Edward’s case than Scotland’s!”

There was a shocked murmur, as Bruce raised a pointing hand.

“You doubt my honesty? You!”

“I doubt your interests. Your judgement. Where your heart lies. I doubt the judgement of any man who even for a moment considers submission to the English, my lords!” And Wallace stared deliberately round at them all, head high, in reproach and accusation both.

“Curse you …!”

“This is not to be borne!”

“How dare the man speak so? To us…!”

“My lords-friends,” Bishop Wishart cried.

“This talk will serve us nothing. Wallace is a man of fierce action. He has wrought mighty deeds. But we must needs take the long view, here. Consider well our course. For the best …” The old man’s words quavered away.

Wallace obviously took a major grip of himself.

“I regret, my lord Bishop, if I spoke ill. But—what does the Earl of Carrick propose? Surrender all our force? Accept this English offer?

Make our peace with Edward? If this is so, I say—not Wallace!

Never Wallace!”

“Nor Graham either!” the younger man at his side declared.

Bruce was also mastering his hot temper.

“I say, since we cannot fight fifty thousand, let us talk with them.

Talk at length.

Learn what we can. Gain time. And while we talk, send messengers privily to raise the country further. It may be that we will find the English glad to wait. If trouble is brewing in England. I say, let us talk, dissemble, prevaricate, make time.”

“We shall make time better, my lord, by remaining free men,” Wallace declared, almost contemptuously.

“The realm will be freed by war, not talk. Better the sword than the tongue, I say!”

“For your sort of war, may be. The surprising of a garrison, here and there. The burning of this castle, or that. The raid by night. This is all we may do with our present support and numbers.

It is good-but not good enough, my lords.” Bruce was speaking now, earnestly, to them all.

“We will not free Scotland of the English so. They are notable fighters, with many times our numbers. They have their bowmen, their chivalry, their hundreds of thousands. Think you we can counter these by night raids, fires and hangings?”

“Is this why you left Edward’s camp to join us, my lord of Carrick?” demanded the Graham bitterly.

“To tell us that we could not win? To sap our wills and courage?”

“I did not! I came because I must. Because I saw that I must needs choose between Scotland and England. Not John Baliol’s Scotland-my Scotland! I’d mind you all, my father should be King of Scots today I Let none forget it.”

There was silence in that mill, again. Not even Wallace spoke.

“I chose Scotland then. But not to beat with my bare fists against castle walls! More than that is required. Wits, my friends-in this, we must use our wits. We need them, by the saints! Wallace, here, can do the beating at the walls. He does it well. Moreover, I would mind you, he cannot talk with the English. They would hang him out of hand! As outlaw and brigand! He knows it.”

Bruce jabbed a pointing finger at the giant.

“We all know it. But it is not so with us, my lords. They offer to treat with us. I say treat, then, in this situation. I know Surrey. I know Percy, his nephew. I know Clifford, of Brougham. These are not of Edward’s wits, or Edward’s ruthlessness. I would not say treat with Edward Plantagenet, God knows! But these are different. Treat.

Talk. Discover what is in their minds. What worries them. Something does, I swear. Gain time. This, I counsel you, my lords.

And let Wallace go fight his own war. With our blessing!”

An extraordinary change had come over the arguing company.

Without warning, as it were, young Robert Bruce had established himself as a leader-not merely the highest in actual rank there, but a man who had come to know his own mind. He had not convinced them all, by any means. It is doubtful, indeed, if many fully understood or accepted what he said. But suddenly he had grown in stature before all. It was as though a new voice had spoken in unhappy Scotland. And more important even than the voice was the manner.

“There is much in what the Earl of Carrick declares,” Bishop Wishart said, into the hush.

“I believe he has the rights of it.”

”I, too,” the Steward nodded.

“There is wisdom in this. I agree.”

“And I do not!” Wallace cried.

“I agree with my lord only in this-that the English will hang me if they can I For the rest, I say that you deceive yourselves. Myself, I waste no more time, my lords. There is much to be done. It you will not do it, I will. I give you good day—and naught else!”

“I am sorry for that …” Bruce began, and paused. The big man, turning on his heel, had halted as the priest, Blair, came hurrying in, to speak a few words in his ear.

Wallace looked back.

“You have company it seems! Company I would not care to meet. They approach under a flag of truce. I do not congratulate you, my lords. I have no stomach for supping with the devil! I am off.”

“And I with you,” Sir John the Graham cried.

Moray of Bothwell took a single step as though to follow them, but drought better of it.

There was a stir of excited talk at the word of the English approach.

The debate was not now whether to receive them, but who should do so, and on what terms. There was no more agreement on this than on anything else. In the end, the entire company trooped out of the mill—to find the Englishmen, with Sir Richard Lundin of that Ilk, to the number of about thirty, assembled in the yard outside.

The two groups stared at each other, for a little, grimly wordless.

Then a tall, willowy young man, who sat his horse under the proud blue and gold banner of Northumberland, held just slightly higher than the white sheet of truce, dismounted, his magnificent armour agleam in the afternoon sun. Thin-faced, pale of hair and complexion, almost foxy of feature, he scanned the assembled Scots, his manner nervous-seeming. At sight of Bruce his glance flickered. At his back, another man got down, slightly older, dark, solidly-built, heavy-jawed, tough-looking. The rest of the English remained in their saddles. Lundin came round to stand amongst his compatriots.