The Steps to the Empty Throne

“I am Percy,” the willowy young man said, in a voice as high and reedy as himself.

“I come in the name of my uncle, John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, Viceroy of this Scotland.”

None answered him.

“I am Clifford,” the darker man declared harshly.

“Warden of the West March.”

“The English West March!” That was Douglas, who himself had been the Scots Warden of that March.

“The West March,” the other repeated, flatly.

Sir Henry Percy, Lord of Northumberland, looked quickly away from Douglas. His glance was of the darting sort. Now, insofar as it was directed at any, it flickered around Bruce.

“My Lord Robert,” he said, “I regret to see you here.” And added, with a little cough, “Kinsman.”

Bruce smiled briefly. Their relationship was of the most distant sort, and had not been stressed hitherto. He took it this mention implied some need felt by the Percy.

“I am nearer to my earldom of Carrick, here, my lord, than you are to your Northumberland!” he returned.

“I am the Sheriff of Ayr,” the other said.

“Edward of England’s sheriff!” Douglas countered.

“The King’s Sheriff. As I am the King’s Warden!” Clifford jerked.

“England’s king. Not Scotland’s.”

Percy and Bruce both cleared their throats at the same time, and caught each other’s eye. Clearly there was as much difference of temperament and approach between the two Englishmen as between Douglas and Bruce. Clifford, son of Isabel de Vieuxpont, of Brougham, one of the greatest heiresses in the North of England, was another plain soldier nevertheless, who spoke his mind.

Percy had not come to speak his mind, it seemed. And he took precedence in rank, and as representing Surrey. It was perhaps not Bruce’s place to speak, for although he was the only earl amongst the Scots, the Steward was one of the great officers of state, as well as an initiator of this revolt, and the Bishop of Glasgow was senior in years. But neither Steward nor Bishop raised their voices, and much might depend on what was said now. Also how it was said.

“You ride under a flag of trace, my lords,” he observed.

“I

think you did not bring that to Irvine to discuss offices and positions?”

“No. That is true.” Percy nodded, with apparent relief.

“We have come to discuss terms. To, to offer you an … accommodation.”

Terms?

Accommodation? We are not suitors for such, my lord.”

“Then the bigger fools are you!” Clifford barked.

”We learn from Sir Richard Lundin that you would know more fully what

we propose.” Percy went on.

“And what do you propose?”

“That you, who are rebels, surrender on terms. Generous terms, I say.”

Clifford was making his position very clear.

“Surrender, sir? Without a blow struck? In our own land? To an invader?” Bruce kept his voice almost conversational.

“Surely you misjudge, my lords.”

“By God, we do not! We could crush you rebellious dogs like that!”

Clifford snapped his steel-gauntleted fist shut eloquently.

“But have not yet attempted the feat, sirrah! I would think that the time to talk terms or surrender is when one or other is prostrate in defeat?”

Percy waved a hand.

“Sir Robert—I will speak. In the name of the Viceroy. If you please.” He coughed again.

“If we do battle, my lords, we must win. We know your numbers. We have many times as many. You are brave men, no doubt, and would fight well. But the end could not be in doubt. Do you wish to die? Is there need for so much bloodshed? Amongst fellow-subjects of King Edward?”

There was a muttered growl at that. Douglas hooted.

“You all have sworn allegiance to Edward,” Percy reminded.

“Even my lord of Douglas!”

“Under duress, man! How much do you value such swearing, Englishman?”

“Forsworn traitors!” Clifford cried.

“What use talking with such? Their word is valueless. They will break faith whenever our backs are turned.”

No one attempted to deny it.

But Percy was made of different metal, no less sharp perhaps for being more pliable.

“You are all Edward’s subjects,” he pointed out, and raised his hand, as the murmurs began again.

“Hear me, my lords. You are Edward’s men all. But free men, Not serfs. In feudal duty, yes. But with your baron’s rights. As have I and Sir Robert, here. We are all Edward’s men. But we have our rights. And in England, at least, we cherish our rights not a little! We accept that you should do so likewise.”

There was quiet now, as all searched that uneasy-eyed, foxy face.

Clifford kicked at the earth with his armoured foot.

Percy went on.

“We know why you have taken arms against your lege lord. It was foolish—but to be understood. You did this in order that you should not be constrained to fight in the King’s foreign wars. You had been better, my friends, to come talk with us. With your fellow-barons. In England. Rather than put hands to your swords.”

The Scots eyed each other doubtfully, since none had so much as heard of this obligatory foreign service before that day. Douglas was obviously about to say as much—but Bruce spoke quickly.

“And what would our fellow-barons of England have said?”

Percy licked thin lips.

“They would have said, belike, that they were no more eager for the French war than were you, my lords.

And that it behoved all His Highness’s loyal liege men of both realms …” The other amended that. “… of both nations, to apprise him that this French war was unwise and against the will and judgement of both peoples.”

He paused, and this time not even Douglas was for interjection.

All the Scots had cause furiously to think—Bruce none the less because he had anticipated something of this.

“So … England mis likes Edward’s French war?” he said, at length.

“That is so. The land has been overlong at war. We are taxed too dear. This new war is too much …”

“Do not tell me that the English have lost their stomach for war!”

Douglas interrupted.

“That I shall not credit. Here is a trick …”

“We are none the less warriors—as you will discover, my lord, soon enough! If you do not listen to reason. But … to start a new and long war overseas is folly. We have had twenty years of war, and more. Our coffers are empty. Our fields untilled.

Our people weary of it.”

“Yet you come against us. In Scotland. With fifty thousand men!” The Steward had found his difficult tongue at last.

“You are in revolt. Rebellion must be put down. We are loyal to our King. It is foreign war that we resist. Make no mistake, my lords—here is no charter for rebels!” Percy’s superficial thin hesitancy did not cloak the real man beneath it, there.

“But you would have us, the Scots, with you? In this resistance,” Bruce pressed him.

Yes. But does not our revolt serve you well enough, then? Is not revolt in Scotland more apt to bring King Edward home than Scotland in submission?”

”Not so. You know Edward. Revolt will but stiffen his neck.

He lives for war, for conflict, for conquest. Revolt will not prevail with him.”

“What will, then?”

“A parliament. A united parliament. Of all his lords and barons.

Not only of England, but of Scotland also. And Wales. Aye, of Ireland. A parliament that speaks with one voice against these wars.

Bruce drew a long breath. So that was it I At last. The English lords would bring their warlike monarch to heel. It had come to that. No revolt, but a rising of a sort, nevertheless. And if such was contemplated, it was not surprising that Percy and Surrey should be in the forefront. For the grandsire of one and the father-in-law of the other, Richard Percy of Northumberland, had been one of the great barons of England most prominent in forcing the Magna Carta on King John. By the same means. A united display by the nobles. And for such a display, now, not only would the Scots nobles be valuable—for Edward had declared there was hereafter only one realm and one parliament; but the English nobles must have their men readily available—for their own protection. Edward would listen to their voice only if it was backed by the power he understood. So they wanted no revolt, and no armies or occupation, in Scotland.