The Steps to the Empty Throne

“My lord of Northumberland,” he said, stiffly formal.

“You and yours may make for Berwick. I, and mine, do not.”

There was a sudden silence from the leaders’ group.

“What do you mean?” Percy asked tensely, after a moment or two.

“I mean that I have not come so far into my own land, to turn back now.”

“We have decided otherwise. That King Edward’s cause will best be served by turning back to Berwick, for this time.”

“It may be so. But I go on. And my host with me.”

“Go where, sir? And for what purpose?”

“For good and sufficient purpose.”

“There speaks a forsworn traitor and rogue!” Clifford cried.

“Have I not always said as much? That he could not be trusted a lance’s length?”

“Sir Robert Clifford,” Bruce declared quietly, “for these words you shall answer, one day. At lance’s length! But … here and now, I think, is not the time.”

“No,” Percy agreed coldly.

“More is at stake now. More is required than such barren talk. My lord of Carrick-your men are mustered in King Edward’s name. You are here in his service.

And under my command. I’d mind you of it.”

“And may I mind you of something, my English friends? You are deep in this Scotland. Part of a beaten, broken army. With a long way to go before you may rest your heads secure. Moreover, half of these men behind you are my father’s. Scots. Who, think you, will they obey, in this? Do you wish to put it to the test?”

So it was out, at last, gloves off, the mask down. With a jerk of his head Bruce sent his two brothers spurring back to the main body, their errand clear, obvious.

Even Percy had no words now.

Clifford had.

“He came with this intention. To desert us. The treacherous turncoat I He planned it all. Back in Carlisle. I said we should leave him. Should bring his men, but not Bruce himself.

They are all the same, these Scots. I’d trust an adder before any of them! This is treason, by God! Bruce is traitor, for all to see!

“These are hard words, sir. Perhaps I spoke too soon? That this was not the time to break that lance!” Bruce raised a hand to point at Clifford.

“Perhaps Sir Robert had better answer for his words now. After all.

Honour demands it…”

“Honour! Your honour I In flagrant treason, you talk of honour?”

“Has it not entered your head, man, that what would be treason to the English is not treason to the Scots? That we cannot commit treason against a conqueror, a usurper? If the Scots commit treason, it must be against their own realm and king. Only an unthinking fool would say other. And that I name you, Sir Robert-an unthinking fool! Is that sufficient for your honour?

So-shall we form our respective hosts into lists, my lords? Make a tourney-ground? While Sir Robert and I fight it out, in l’ outrance. It will be my pleasure …”

“No, I say!” Percy intervened, in pale-faced anger.

“I forbid any such childish folly! This is war-not tourney-ground posturing.

Enough of this.”

“If you prefer war to jousting, my lord-let us have it. We are not unevenly matched. We shall have our own battle, here on this hillside, if you will? Scots against English. What could be fairer?

Put all to the test. Of war …”

“No, by the Mass! It shall not be.” Percy’s thin voice rose alarmingly.

“Think you I do not know what you are at? To keep us here. To delay our retiral. In hope that our presence is discovered.

That Wallace’s hordes come up with us …” His words were lost in the murmuring and muttering of his companions, the two knights from Stirling’s debacle loud amongst them. All eyes were turning northwards, as something of the fear of these communicated itself to the others.

“Very well,” Bruce said, and had to repeat it, loudly.

“Then here we part company, my lord.”

“You shall pay dearly for this-that I swear, Bruce!” Clifford shouted, in frustrated fury, and was the first to rein round and ride back towards the host.

As the others followed suit, Bruce waved his hand to his brothers. As

they gave their orders for the Annandale men to draw apart and ride

on, he urged his mount over to where the two women sat their horses, silent spectators of the scene. He did not speak, but searched Elizabeth’s face.

“So you change sides once more, my lord!” she said.

He knew that was what she must say—but had hoped, somehow, that she would not.

“You think it? You think that is what it is?” he demanded.

“What else? That, or you have been acting a lie for long.”

He spread his hands.

“A lie? What is the lie, and what is the truth? I have not changed in my own mind. I have done what I must. In a storm, a man does not speak of lies and truth, but seeks to keep his bark afloat! To reach its haven.”

“And you have a haven in mind?”

“Aye. I have a haven in mind.”

Percy had ridden up, frowning.

“Come,” he commanded the women brusquely.

His wife, a tired-faced and anxious woman with fine eyes, sighed.

“This is men’s business, my dear,” she said.

“Leave it to them. Since we can effect nothing.” She reached out a hand to the girl’s wrist.

“Come, yes.”

Something of the way she had said that caused Bruce to look keenly from her to Elizabeth, wondering.

The younger woman seemed to ignore them all.

“You intended this?” she put to Bruce.

“From the beginning? To use this march, these men, for your own ends? Before ever there was the word of this victory. When we talked, at Carlisle night.

Even then, you had conceived it all? And let me name you …

what I did!”

Wordless at her sudden intensity, he nodded.

“You did not trust me, then?” She seemed to be unaware of the Percies at her side.

Still he did not speak.

“If Wallace had not won his victory—what then?” she persisted.

“What would you have done?”

He glanced at Percy.

“This. The same. Though with bloodshed, perhaps. If we had been withstood.”

She let out a long sigh.

“Then I am glad,” she said simply, and the intensity seemed to go out with her breath.

Percy was looking angry, apprehensive and bewildered, in one.

He grasped Elizabeth’s bridle, and pulled her beast round after his own.

She did not resist him now. But she turned in her saddle.

“Tell my uncle, the Steward, I wish him well. He and his. And … and may God go with you.”

Biting his lip, Bruce watched her ride away.

And so the host divided, there on Torphichen heights, in silence, without blows or any other leave-taking. The Scots sat their horses and watched as the English turned and trotted off, file upon file, whence they had come, southwards for the Pentland Hills and the long secret road to the border.

PART TWO

Chapter Eight

Scotland rejoiced. Abbey and church bells rang day after day, bonfires blazed on the heights for nights on end, folk danced in the streets of towns and on village greens. The English were gone—all save the garrisons of a few impregnable but isolated fortresses, Lochmaben, Roxburgh, Edinburgh and Stirling itself, where the gallant Sir Marmaduke Tweng, who almost alone on the English side had come out of the disaster with untarnished reputation, still held out. But these could achieve nothing, and did little to dampen the enthusiasm, relief and joy of the people.

The name of William Wallace was on every lip, prayed for in every kirk, honoured in every burgh and village and hamlet. The Scots, never hero-worshippers until now, acknowledged their saviour, and delighted the more in that he was one of themselves, of the old race, a knight’s son admittedly, but of the people.