The Steps to the Empty Throne

“We shall see. But I tell you, my lord, that Elizabeth de Burgh will be pawn in no man’s game—Edward’s, Percy’s … or yours!

Mind it well!”

Thereafter, for such time as the banquet continued, they got on rather better, able to talk together at least without striking sparks.

The following morning when, amidst much blowing of trumpets and shouting of commands, the various component parts of an army of over eight thousand mustered and moved off over Eden, northwards into Scotland, the Ladies Percy and Elizabeth de Burgh, to the surprise of many, rode with them.

They marched by Esk to Canonbie, and then up Liddesdale, the horse making no attempt to hold back to the pace of the foot;

but even so it was a fairly slow progress. It took the three thousand cavalry two days to cross over the Note of the Gate pass, to Hawick in Teviotdale. The day following, the leaders were at Selkirk, on the edge of the great Ettrick Forest, when a messenger reached them from Surrey’s army, now nearing Stirling, the first crossing of the long Forth estuary which so nearly, with that of the Clyde, cut Scotland in two. The courier came not from Surrey himself, however, but from Cressingham, the Treasurer, in the name of the Viceroy, Fitz-Alan. Percy had sent word ahead, by fast rider, to inform of his coming, his numbers and his route.

The reply astonished and incensed him. Cressingham, as Treasurer and cost-conscious, declared that they already had quite sufficient men in arms to deal with such as the scoundrel Wallace and his riffraff and consequently the reinforcement army would not be required. It was the Viceroy’s wish that Sir Henry returned whence he had come, and disbanded his force.

The thin-lipped, hesitant-seeming Percy’s fury was a sight to behold, on receipt of this extraordinary message. He trembled, shivered, looked almost as though he would swoon with rage. He knew well, of course, of the bad blood between Cressingham and his uncle, Surrey. Clearly this was done out of spite, the wretched Treasurer-who indeed had made himself the most hated man in Scotland-prevailing on the new Viceroy to over-ride the authority of the commander-in-chief. But out of a stuttering torrent of white wrath, it became clear that Percy had no intention of obeying.

He was a soldier, in arms, and he took his orders from the military commander, not from such a lowborn clerk as Master Cressingham. Or even Fitz-Alan. Until detailed commands arrived from Surrey himself, they pressed on.

In this he was supported vigorously by Sir Robert Clifford and most

other leaders—indeed by Robert Bruce likewise, whose plans would have been put in much disarray by any turning back now.

Three days later, on the evening of nth of September, emerging from the Pentland Hills into the West Lothian plain, with the foot now left far behind, the army was again halted by information from the north. But this time it was no mere courier who came to them, but two dishevelled knights, Sir Ralph Basset and Sir John Lutton, with a straggling party of men, some wounded.

And their tidings were of disaster.

There had been a great battle, they declared. At Stirling Bridge, over the Forth, twenty-five miles to the north. They had been tricked, betrayed, scattered and ill-led. Surrey’s army. It was no more. The man Wallace and an unnumbered great host of rascally Scots had lain in wait for them there. At this bridge. Amongst tidelands and marshes. It had been no fair fight. The work of mean men. Half of the English array across the bridge and on the mile-long causeway beyond. Wallace had attacked, through swamp and bogs. No room to fight. No room to turn. Horses hamstrung, or sinking in the mire. Arrows, spears, knives—no honest chivalry. All in confusion. The Welsh cravens fleeing back, casting away arms and armour. The bridge taken and held behind them. Hundreds drowned trying to swim back. Others still trying to swim across to their aid. Then treachery in the rear, south of the bridge. The damned Scots with Surrey, betraying them.

That Steward. The Earl of Lennox. Crawford.. Lundin. All turned coat. Attacked the rear. Roused the people of Stirling. To slay and murder. It was a massacre … Appalled, Percy and his companions fired questions at the exhausted men, sought to piece together the picture, to learn the present position. Wallace had been besieging Dundee, fifty miles to the north-east, had he not? Surrey had between fifty and sixty thousand men …?

Not any longer! God alone knew how many still lived. Cressingham was dead. The Scots were said to have flayed him, and cut up the skin to send round the country. A hundred and more knights were slain—most without having opportunity to fight as knights should …

“And Surrey? And Fitz-Alan?”

Surrey was in full flight for Berwick. Fitz-Alan—none knew where he was. Everywhere men were fleeing, as best they could.

Wallace’s hordes pursuing, cutting down. And everywhere the common Scots folk were waylaying, slaughtering, from every wood and copse, devils behind every bush. Men and women both.

The whole plain of Forth was a shambles. And there was Edinburgh to get through. Before the Border and Berwick. That was why they had come this way, hoping to win through to the West.

Before news of the victory turned every hand against them. All over this accursed land the people would be rising.

Hurriedly, distractedly, the leaders of Percy’s force conferred.

Once their five thousand foot came up, they were a strong force.

If they had been but a day or two earlier, they might have saved all. Or, perhaps, been swept away with the rest! If sixty thousand could be so broken, would an extra eight thousand have made the difference? How many, in God’s name, had this Wallace managed to muster?

But their foot would take days to catch up with them. They were probably not at Selkirk yet. And had they days to spare? To wait? All Scotland would be rising around them, drunk with the smell of victory, thirsting for bloody vengeance. Wallace would have time to gather together his forces again. It would be sheerest folly to wait. Even Clifford conceded it.

What, then? Would three thousand cavalry, tight-knit and driving forward, turn the tables? While the Scots were yet disorganised?

Rallying what was left of Surrey’s host. Men eyed each other, and eyed the Bruces, and read doubt in each other’s eyes-and knew without saying it that there would be no such thing.

Retire, then? Back, whence they had come? Or to Berwick, to join Surrey? Or west, to Ayr, to hold the SouthWest, for which Percy was responsible as Sheriff and Governor?

There was some argument about this, complicated by the fact that their foot contingent would still be back amongst the Borderland hills. Eventually it was decided to rejoin the infantry, and then to head east through the hills for Berwick.

Robert Bruce took no part in this discussion, having ample to think about on his own, since the news changed all. Presently he had a few brief words with his brothers, who were hiding their excitement less than successfully. As he was doing so, his glance caught that of Elizabeth de Burgh, who, with Lady Percy, sat her horse a little way apart. It was an eloquent and significant glance.

During these past long days of riding, and nights spent in remote

English-held castles, Bruce and the girl had inevitably seen a lot of

each other. They had come to a sort of acceptance, a tolerance, of

each other’s attitude, which could not be called an understanding but

which at least enabled them to maintain civility. Awareness had been pronounced between them from the first, however unsympathetic in its outward reactions; now there was a mutual playing down of the friction which seemed to generate spontaneously.

When the hasty and disjointed conference around Percy and the two newcomers had reached a conclusion, and an about-turn was announced, Bruce raised his voice.