The Steps to the Empty Throne

Bishop Wishart was speaking.

“We may wish you well, my lord. But why should Scotland aid you in this? Edward fighting in France would serve us better than Edward home, and angry!”

“Aye! Aye!”

“Not so. The yoke would be greatly eased for you. Side with us, in this, and we swear you shall gain by it. In earnest of which, my uncle, the Viceroy, will already ease many of your burdens.

If you accept his terms.”

He had their interest and concern now. Men talked with their neighbours, low-voiced. Douglas was still declaring it was all a trick, however.

“I say Douglas is right,” Andrew Moray asserted, in Bruce’s ear.

“I do not trust this Percy a yard! And even if it is not a trick, why

should the Scots aid the English lords? It is all to their advantage

…”

“Ours also—if we play it right, Andrew. Besides, nothing is changed in our case, here. We still cannot fight fifty thousand, and win. Here is occasion for talk. Much talk.”

“Too much talk I Wallace had the rights of it.”

The Steward raised his voice.

“These terms, my lord of Northumberland, that you spoke of? What are your terms?”

“The terms are the Viceroy’s, my lord. They are light, I think.

Such as you can surely accept. To return to the King’s peace, only this is necessary. That you disperse your men-at-arms. That you deliver up the murderer Wallace. And that you commit to us certain hostages, as assurance for your continuing loyalty. That is all.”

That did not fail to produce animated debate. Looked at from one aspect, these were indeed light terms. Of course the men must disperse—but they could be reassembled, if need be, in a matter of days. As for Wallace, he could look to himself. But what was meant by hostages? That was the question on every lip.

Half a dozen voices asked it, aloud.

Percy’s glance flickered like lightning—and this time notably avoided Bruce’s.

“The hostages need not be many,” he said.

“But they must be of worth. Substance. Of notable consequence. They must come from the greatest among you. From the Earl of Carrick. From my lord of Douglas. From my Lord Steward. And my lord Bishop or Glasgow. These.”

There were caught breaths. Also, undoubtedly, some sighs of relief from the unnamed.

“These you name?” the Steward asked, thickly.

“What hostages?”

A cough.

“From you, my lord—your son and heir, Walter Stewart. From Douglas, his heir. From the Earl of Carrick, his infant daughter. From the Bishop, all precious relics from the cathedral of Glasgow.”

Out of the exclamations, Bruce’s voice rasped.

“You make war on children and babes, then, my lord!”

“Not so. These hostages will suffer nothing. Indeed they will do very well, better than here in Scotland, I vow! They will lodge with kinsmen, in England. Secure. Honoured guests. Your own daughter, my lord, shall lodge in my own house of Alnwick.

Where also now lodges the Lady Elizabeth de Burgh, my cousin-whom you know of! The Steward’s son, Walter, may also lodge there—since his mother is likewise a de Burgh. Is it not so, my lord? Sir William of Douglas’s wife is the lady Eleanor de Louvain, from Groby, in Northumberland. She may return there, with her children. In the state of Scotland today, will they not all be better so disposed?”

It was specious, but clever. In one respect, all the Percy had said

was true. The families of men in revolt were always in danger. If

those required to yield the hostages were in fact honest in their acceptance of the terms, the said hostages would indeed be as safe, as well off, so disposed, as at large in unhappy Scotland meantime.

And for the four named to refuse this gesture was to reject the whole terms, to deny and fail their colleagues. None failed to see it.

“My daughter is far from here,” Bruce jerked.

“I cannot yield her to you. She is in my sister’s care. At Kildrummy.

In Mar.

Hundreds of miles north of this.”

“You can send for her, my lord. And meantime, these others-the Steward, the Bishop, and, perhaps, my lord of Crawford-will stand surety for her delivery?” Percy almost smiled.

“How now?” Moray murmured, at Bruce’s car.

“Are you still for talk with the Englishmen? For terms, man?”

The Steward spoke, with an accession of dignity.

“This of the hostages is grievous. We will have to consider your terms. And inform you. But we cannot yield Wallace. He is gone.”

“You can bring him back.”

“You do not know William Wallace, if you say that! He is his own master. He will come for none here. We can no more deliver up Wallace than fly in the air, sir! You must needs take him for yourself.”

“Very well. We shall do so. You wish time to consider these terms?”

“Yes. There is much to consider.”

Percy looked at Bruce.

“You also, kinsman?”

Set-faced he inclined his head.

The Englishman did likewise.

“Then we shall go. And return tomorrow. A good day to you, my lords.

And … consider well.”

Nodding to Clifford, he turned for his horse.

“One word, Percy.” That was Bruce suddenly.

“In all this we have but your word. How do we know that you do not deceive us? Was my lord of Douglas feared? That other than yourself would resist Edward.”

“Percy’s word is sufficient, is it not?” the other returned.

“But if you require proof—ask these.” He gestured towards those behind him.

“They will tell you that two of the greatest earls in England, Norfolk and Hereford, have refused Edward’s commands to cross the Channel, with their armies. As contrary to the terms of Magna Carta. Others follow their lead. Is it enough? Or must I name more names?”

no “It is enough, yes.”

When the Englishmen were gone and the debating began again, it was clear the great majority of the Scots were for accepting the terms. Even Douglas appeared to be convinced it was no trick—the news of the resistance of the mighty Earls of Norfolk and Hereford, the Bigods and Bohuns, had stilled even his doubts. He was against the surrender of young James Douglas as hostage, naturally—but otherwise agreed to challenge the English to battle, at this stage, was not politic. Only Andrew Moray remained obdurate.

“I will not submit. To these terms, or any,” he declared, to Bruce.

“My people up in Moray and the North are in revolt. I cannot fail them, here. I will go to them. And you, Bruce? You can stand there and consider the yielding up of your own child?”

“They have not got my Marjory yet!” the other returned grimly.

“I said to talk, did I not? Talk, rather than fight and be beaten. I still say talk. At length. While the English settle their quarrel with their king.”

“Why bide here for it, man? Why not slip away? Go north.

Come with me. All Scotland lies open …”

“Not all Scotland, Andrew. See you—you and Graham and others may slip away so. Your lands all lie to the north. Even Bothwell is not yet touched. You can raise men and means, from them. But most here, like myself, have their lands in this South West. Most already overrun by the English. Our sole power comes from our lands and our men. You know . If we run for it, northwards, we are becoming little more than landless men, outlaws, swords for sale! Is that how we, her great lords, can best fight for Scotland? Resist Edward? I think not. Douglas, the Steward, Crawford, and the rest—they are in the same position.