The Steps to the Empty Throne

This, and the wholesale forfeiture of the lands of all Scots nobles, not only those who had supported Wallace but those who had failed actively to support Edward; and the apportioning of these immense properties to the English lords and knights who remained with the King at Carlisle—though the new owners were faced with the problem of how to take possession. The greatest of these, Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, got the Bruce lands, and others, to retain his support.

Then, after a fortnight, Edward marched his somewhat refreshed if still grumbling host north into Scotland once more, but only as a token thrust this time, an indication of what would happen in the spring when campaigning was once again feasible.

He moved up Liddesdale, spreading desolation, to Jedburgh, which he sacked and levelled with the ground, wreaking especial vengeance on its great abbey. Contenting himself with this gesture and foretaste, he turned south for Newcastle, Durham, and his winter quarters at York.

Scotland’s sigh of relief was grim as it was faint.

Another sort of relief it was to ride through the green-golden valleys and quiet glades of Ettrick Forest, and see hamlets unburned, churches and shrines intact and cattle grazing peacefully in clearings and water-meadows. To eyes become accustomed to the charred wilderness that was most of Southern Scotland that autumn, this was a bitter-sweet solace. Bruce and his brothers trotted through it all in the mellow October sunshine, in answer to the Guardian’s summons, allegedly the last such that would come from Sir William Wallace.

They found Selkirk and its ruined abbey in an even greater stir than on the previous occasion, when Wallace had been knighted and proclaimed Guardian; for this time, more of the nobility and clergy had come, aware of the drama and importance of the proceedings.

Their encampments, pavilions and banners were everywhere in the spreading haugh lands of the Ettrick, their men-at arms too many and truculent for peace and comfort. Churchmen were almost as numerous as barons, with their retinues, with no fewer than ten bishops, and abbots, priors and other clerics unnumbered.

Lamberton was making his authority felt.

The Bruces found Wallace installed in the old royal castle of Selkirk,

a ramshackle, sprawling place built as a hunting lodge for David the

First. With him was the Steward, his son Walter, Crawford, Menteith,

Lennox and the old Earl of life; also, of course, Lamberton and his

galaxy of prelates. The Primate was undoubtedly something of a

showman, stern though he appeared to be, and there was considerable

attempts at dignity and display, including a throne-like chair at the

head of the great hall table, for the Guardian, with a huge tressured

Rampant Lion standard hung on the wall behind it. The herald King of

Arms was present with his minions, and busy establishing precedences

and places, superintending the setting up of banners, fussing over

details. In view of the appalling devastation that surrounded this

green sanctuary of Ettrick Forest, the unburied multitudes, the famine

and want and despair, it all seemed as pointless as it was unreal,

even ridiculous.

Wallace himself certainly gave the impression that he thought it so, standing about ill at ease and unhappy. Seldom can a man have looked less at one with the surroundings of which he was the central figure. He had changed not a little since Falkirk. He was thinner, more gaunt, older-seeming altogether, and though of course still enormous, of less commanding presence than heretofore, despite the finery which seemed to sit so uncomfortably on his huge frame. His great hands were seldom still, groping about him as though seeking the sword, the dirk, the battle-axe, which were almost extensions of himself, but today were absent.

He looked a man at odds with his fate.

He came great-strided to greet Bruce, at least, with an access of animation.

“My lord, my lord—you have come! I thank God for it.” He gripped the younger man’s hand and shoulder.

“It is good to see you—for much depends on you hereafter.”

Bruce looked doubtful at that, his glance searching past the other for Comyn.

Wallace perceived it.

“The Lord of Badenoch is not yet arrived,” he said.

“But he comes, he comes.”

“His coming here, like mine, is the least of it, Sir Guardian!

We shall never agree—that I swear.”

“Do not say so. If sufficient depends on it, any two men can seem to agree, however ill-matched. Even I have learned that lesson! Think you I have loved all that I have had to deal with, work with, this past year and more? And enough depends, here, on my soul! The future of this realm, no less.”

“Scarce so much as that, I think …”

“Yes. So much as that. See you, my lord—the magnates of this Scotland are divided. By many things, many feuds, much jealousy, warring interests. But, in the end, all depend on the Crown for their lands and titles. You know that. And the Crown is vacant—or nearly so. I act in the name of King John Baliol, since the Crown must be vested in some name. De jure, he is still King. De facto, he is not, and the throne empty. One day, if Scotland survives, she will have a king again. That king will be either a Baliol, a Comyn or a Bruce. You know it. John Baliol has a son, Edward—a child. Held, like his father, hostage by the King of England. King John has renounced the throne, for himself and his son, at the demand of King Edward. Renounced and abandoned. Therefore, it is scarce likely that John or his son shall ever reign. So the king shall be your father, the Bruce. Or John Comyn, Baliol’s nephew.”

Bruce made an impatient gesture, at this rehearsal of facts only too well known to him.

“Aye—you know it. All men know it, my lord. Therefore, since the nobles hold all they have of the Crown, they must take sides. For Comyn or Bruce. In order that they may retain their lands from the winner in this contest. Divided, as I say. And Scotland cannot afford a divided nobility, today, see you, when she fights for her life. So, your father being none knows where, only you, and Comyn, can heal the division. By acting together.

Joint Guardians. Nothing else, and no other, will serve.”

That was a long speech for Wallace, who was not notably a man of words.

Bruce could not refute the validity of any of it. But it was personality, not validity, that was his trouble.

“John Comyn will not work with me,” he said flatly.

“We have never agreed on any matter. Nor are like to!”

“But when the matter is the saving of the realm? For whoever may eventually sit on its throne? Can you not, at least, seem to agree, my lord ? Since neither of you, I vow, would wish the other to be Guardian alone!”

That left the younger man silent.

Lamberton had joined them.

“The Comyns have been sighted, my friends,” he said.

“They are riding down from Tweed. A great company of them. The Constable’s banner alongside that of Badenoch, they say. They have come far. From Spey. I do not think that they have come for nothing! John Comyn intends to be Guardian, I swear—whoever else may be!”

Bruce did not fail to take the point.

The Comyns arrived with a deal more circumstance than had the Bruce brothers, in splendid clothing and array, confident, assured, and with an indefinable appearance of prosperity and lack of tension, which contrasted notably with the demeanour of most of those assembled—for, of course, they came from the North, untouched by famine or war. The drawn, guarded, battered look which had become so much part of the others showed in them not at all. They had brought a train of over a score of knights, their own clerics, standard-bearers, pursuivants, trumpeters, entertainers, even a group of Erse-speaking, barbarously clad West Highland chiefs. There was no doubt that they had come prepared to take over the rule in Scotland.