The Steps to the Empty Throne

A wave of reaction, cheers and dissent mixed, comment and question, greeted that, a new vigour and excitement manifested itself throughout the great gathering.

Bruce held up his hand.

“But my father is not here. I have heard the names suggested as Guardian, and I say that, good and sound men as these are, they do not, cannot, meet the case, my friends.

Only one man can fill Scotland’s need today. Only one man will the people follow. Only one man, at this juncture, can speak with the voice that not only the folk but England, Edward Plantagenet, will hear and heed. That man is William Wallace of Elderslie. I name you Wallace as Guardian!”

It was as though a dam had burst, and the emotions of men surged free in clamour. The very surrounding hills seemed to shake to the shout that arose and maintained. Not all of the vociferation was favourable, of course, but the vast mass of it was wildly so. Almost to a man the common folk, the men-at-arms, the lesser lairds and small landholders, even the bulk of the clergy, roared their approval, hands high or beating each other’s shoulders, feet stamping. It was amongst the nobles, needless to say, that the opposition was expressed, but compared with the mighty explosion of applause, it was a small thing that faded where the other went on and on.

It was some time before Bruce could make himself heard again.

“I commend … I say, I commend your judgement!” he shouted.

“This man has done what no other could do. He has rid us of the English …”

Again the uproar.

“Hear me—hear me, my friends. He has rid us of the English, I said. Aye—once! But they will be back. Nothing on God’s earth is more sure! They will be back. And so he must needs do it again. I know Edward. Aye, some blame me, they say, that I know him over well! But this I say, that when Edward himself comes chapping at our door again, then we shall need a united realm to withstand him. And more than that, a leader whom all the people will obey and follow. Therefore, I say, William Wallace it must be. None other …”

He was interrupted.

“And I say this is folly!” It was Sir John Comyn, the Red, himself.

“Here is confusion. It is a Guardian of the realm we seek to appoint—not the commander of a host.

Wallace has shown that he can do battle, yes. But he is no man for the council-table, no meet representative …”

His words were drowned in outcry and protest, angry this time, with an ominous underlying growl. Fists were shaken, even swords were drawn and waved. Everywhere the nobles looked apprehensively around them, at the gesticulating crowds.

The Steward was trying to speak, but Bruce prevailed. He had young and excellent lungs, and no impediments to speech.

“There are sufficient and more for the council-table!” he declared.

“Many to advise Wallace. All too many I But the Guardian must carry the people, not just the Council. If Scotland is to withstand Edward of England in his might and wrath. Here is the heart of it. Only the nation in arms will save us, then. And only one man, I declare, can raise this nation in arms, lacking its King…”

When the noise again slackened, it was not the Lord of Badenoch but another Comyn, who took up the issue, Master William the churchman.

“What my lord of Carrick says is not in dispute,” he claimed, with the careful moderation and reasoned appeal of the practised orator.

“None question William Wallace’s notable deeds, or his ability to rouse the people. That he must do. But more than this is required of the Guardian. There are decisions of state and policy to make. He must unite more than the common folk—he must unite the lords of this realm. Will Wallace do that? You say, my lord, that he must withstand King Edward. But he must speak with him also, treat, negotiate. Will the proud Plantagenet speak with such as William Wallace ..” ?”

“I say that he will. Edward is proud, yes. But he is a man of deeds, not of words. Because Wallace is of the same kidney, he will respect him where he would not you, sir. Or myself, indeed.

Think you he cares for any Scots lord? But the man who defeated Surrey in proper battle is altogether different.”

The Comyns were not quieted yet.

”I know Edward also—to my cost!” That was Buchan, the Constable.

“He docs not eat his words. He has named Wallace outlaw, cut-throat, promised to hang him. Think you he will swallow that, and deal with him?

Never I Moreover, the Guardian of Scotland speaks in the name of the absent King of Scots. How can this man do ? He is not even a knight! You, my lord, of all men, should know better.

The Kingdom cannot be represented by one who is not of the noblesse, the men of honour. How shall knights and lords follow and yield their voices to one who is not even of their order …?”

“By the Rude—is that what concerns you, my lord?” Bruce cried.

“Then we shall see to it!” He swung on his heel, and strode across the moss-grown flagstones, spurs clanking, to where Wallace had stood quietly amongst his own group throughout, a grimly silent spectator of the scene. In front of the giant he halted, and with a screech of steel drew his sword, the short travelling sword that hung from his golden earl’s belt.

“William Wallace,” he declared, voice ringing, “I, Robert Bruce, knight, earl of this realm, do hereby dub you knight. In the name of God and St. Andrew.” He brought down the flat of his blade on one great shoulder, then on the other—where it clashed against the long up thrusting handle of the other’s own famous and enormous two-handed brand that was said even to sleep with the man.

“Earned on the field of battle, if ever knighthood was. Be you faithful, fortunate and bold I Stand, Sir William Wallace!”

There were moments of utter silence, surprise, elation, even consternation. Then, in that green ruin-strewn hollow of the hills, pandemonium broke out, to make feeble and pedestrian even the tumult that had succeeded Bruce’s previous proposal of Guardian. In wild emotion, men went all but crazy with jubilation, approbation and a sort of unholy glee. The thing was done, suddenly, dramatically, totally unexpectedly, there before them all—and could nowise be undone. Sir William Wallace!

While undoubtedly there were not a few present who questioned the wisdom, the propriety, even the taste of what Bruce had done, none could doubt his right so to do. In theory, any duly dubbed knight could himself dub another, provided that he had proved his prowess on the field of battle or in single combat, and was accepted as a man of renown; but in practice, only kings, princes, commanders of armies, and very great nobles ever did so, the last but seldom and in special circumstances. Nevertheless, as the holder of one of the ancient Celtic earldoms of Scotland-and knighted most royally by no less than King Edward himself—none could contest the validity of Bruce’s action, even without his claim to being second heir to the throne.

Even the Comyns, therefore, stood dumbfounded, impotent, silenced by their own cherished code. Everywhere the nobility and chivalry of Scotland were in like case.

The Earl of Mar was the first to move. As the din continued, he walked over to Wallace and clapped him on the shoulder, wordless. Words could not have been heard, anyway. The Earl of Lennox came to do the same. These were the only earls present, apart from Carrick, Strathearn and Buchan. Then the Steward stood, and came from his seat to congratulate the new knight.

Crawford followed suit, and others, some others, likewise.

As for Wallace himself, for once he seemed quite overcome by events. He stood there, his open features working, his great hands gripped together in front of him-, knuckles showing white. He did not speak, had not spoken throughout, appeared all but dazed by his abrupt transition. The last man to be called a respecter of persons, or impressed by mere forms and ceremonies and titles, he was nevertheless very much a man of his age, and only too well aware of what this unlooked-for metamorphosis could do for him.