The Steps to the Empty Throne

“I saw him. Taken up on a horse,” someone called.

“Riding to the north …”

“Quiet!” Bruce burst out, cutting the air with his hand.

“Here is no time for this talk. Men have fallen, yes. Fighting. They came to fight-And fall, if need be. Time enough for talk, after. But what now? What to do? Edward will not wait and talk.”

”Aye-“ Obviously with a great effort, the dazed Wallace pulled himself

together.

“You are right, my lord. And I thank you. We fight on. But not here. We cannot stand south of the Forth. Even at Stirling. Not now. We must rally again in the hills to the north. And burn the land behind us. Burn Stirling. Burn Dunblane. Burn Perth, if need be. Starve them. Starve England’s war host. That is his weakness, now. No more battles, backed by nobles that I cannot trust! I was a fool, to think that I could out-fight Edward Plantagenet, his way. No more! I fight my own way, now. Wallace the outlaw! The brigand …!”

“You are still Guardian of this land, man.”

“Aye—and I shall fight Edward with the land. What he can ride over but never defeat. Would God I had used my own wits, instead of listening to others. But it is not too late. While Scotland lives, it is never too late! And Scotland will not, cannot, die.” The man’s great voice shook with a mighty emotion.

Bruce scarcely shared it.

“So it is Stirling now?” he demanded impatiently.

“Stirling, and beyond. The North?”

“Yes. Take me to Stirling, my lord. But not the North, for you. The lurking in the hills. The raids by night. The burning.

The ambuscade. The knife in the back. This is no work for great lords! So back to your West, Bruce—to your own country. And mine. You claimed to be Governor of the SouthWest, did you not? Go there, then. Hold the SouthWest. Harry the English West March, if you can. While we starve Edward. Raid into England. Nothing will harass hungry men more than the word that their homes are threatened, endangered. Go west from Stirling, my lord-and such other lords as are not fled I I shall require the West at your hands.”

Bruce eyed him levelly for a moment, and then nodded.

“Very well, Sir Guardian. Now—Stirling…”

Chapter Ten

In the selfsame hall of the castle of Ayr where Wallace had hanged Percy’s deputy sheriff, Arnulf, and where Percy himself resided during the long farcical negotiations of Irvine, Bruce paced the stone-flagged floor, three weeks after the battle of Falkirk.

Only one other man shared the great shadowy apartment with him, its walls still blackened by Wallace’s burning, the August evening light slanting in on them through the small high windows. This man sat at the great table, eating and drinking -and doing so in the determined fashion of one hungry, though tired, even if his mind was hardly on what he ate. He was dressed in travel-stained and undistinguished clothing—non-clerical clothing, too, and with dagger still at hip, and a sword laid along the table nearby, strange garb for the Primate of all Scotland. For this was William Lamberton, now duly consecrated and confirmed by the Pope as Bishop of St. Andrews and leader of the Church. A good-looking, strong-featured grave man, youthful seeming for so high an office, at thirty-five, he nevertheless looked older than his years tonight, weary, stern. But he watched Bruce at his pacing, keen-eyed, nevertheless.

“It would not serve,” the younger man declared, shaking his head.

“Not with him, of all men. I could not do it. Besides, Wallace is wrong in this. Mistaken. He should not give up the Guardianship. You must persuade him against it, my lord Bishop.”

“You do not know William Wallace, if you think I could I Once he has determined a matter in his mind, nothing will shake him. He is now so decided. He deems himself to have failed the realm, at Falkirk fight. To have forfeited the trust of the people …”

“That is folly. The folk all but worship the man! As they do no other.”

“Think you that I have not told him so? New back from Rome as I am, I have seen and tested the will of many in this. But he will not hear me. He says that though they still may trust him, he is not fit to be Guardian. That the Guardian must have the support of all the realm. And he has not. The nobles will have none of him …”

“Some, no. But who will? Show me any man who will receive the support of all!”

“It is not enough. For Wallace. After Falkirk. Fifteen thousand died on field, and he takes the blame to himself.”

“Fifteen thousand …? So many?”

“Aye. In a battle which he now says should never have been fought. He takes all the blame—however much others blame the lords who rode off. Says that he should have known better than to front Edward so. Or to trust these others.”

“The man must be ill. In his mind. A defeat, by the largest most powerful army ever to invade Scotland, is no disgrace. All commanders must accept defeats. And fight on …”

”Wallace will fight on, never fear, my lord. But not as Guardian.

Especially as the Comyns threaten to impeach him.”

“What! Impeach? The Comyns…?”

“Aye. Buchan and the others claim that he mishandled all. Did not send for them. Indeed of intention would have kept them away. From the battle. They claim that he has divided the land …”

“God forgive them! This is beyond all. And you would have me to work with these?”

“Wallace would. And, since he will by no means remain Guardian, I deem him right in this, at least. Many other lords and knights follow the Comyns. Would even make Red John the King.” Lamberton looked at Bruce shrewdly, there.

“John Ballot’s nephew. There is only one way to unite the realm, in face of Edward, Wallace says. A joint Guardianship. You, and John Comyn of Badenoch.”

“I say it is madness. We can scarce exchange a civil word!

How could we rule together?”

“It would be difficult. But not impossible. What is not difficult, today? You are not hairns, my lord. So much is at stake. If Bruce and Comyn would agree, the nobility would be united. And Wallace working with you, carrying the common people with him, for he has learned his lesson, he says. And myself, speaking for the Church. The three estates of the realm. As one, for the first time …”

“Comyn would never serve with me. He hates me. Besides, he is in France.”

“Wallace has sent for him. To come home. With this offer. If you do not accept, I swear Comyn will! And who else is to control him, as joint Guardian? The Steward? Buchan, his own kinsman, another Comyn? Mar? Atholl? Menteith…?”

Helplessly Bruce shook his head again.

“No—none of these.

But … John Comyn I Even Buchan himself would be less ill to deal with

…”

“Buchan led the flight at Falkirk. That will not be forgotten by the people. They would never accept him as Guardian. But the Lord of Badenoch was not there. And whatever else, he is a fighter. None doubts his courage.”

Bruce halted in his pacing, to stare at his visitor.

“How many of the Scots folk accept me! I am told they think of me as Edward’s man.”

“They did, yes. But no longer. You did not fail at Falkirk. You saved Wallace.”

There was silence for a little. Then Bruce shrugged.

“If I say that I will consider the matter, it must not be taken I agree,” he said, heavily.

“That I promise anything. Better to convince Wallace to continue as Guardian.”

“He will not. That I promise you.”

“Where is he now?”

“At Scone. Above Perth. Assembling men. That is where I have come from.”

“And Edward? They tell me he is moving into the West?”

“That is true. He hoped to find food. The English are hungry, my lord. Are not we all? But they are scarce used to it! Edward has heard that the famine has not hit the West so badly. Moreover, he has work to do here I And the West is not yet burned in his face. Wallace burned all before him, right up to Perth. Perth itself. After Falkirk, Edward went to Stirling. There he found all burned black. Save the Dominican Priory. He lay there fifteen days, a sick man. Kicked by a horse they say. But his armies did not lie. He sent them north and east and west. To Perth and Gowrie. To Menteith and Strathearn. To Fothrif and life. Seeking food. And harrying, slaying, devastating the country.