The Steps to the Empty Throne

It was their complete assurance, their unspoken but unmistakable

assumption or authority, which almost automatically forced Robert Bruce into a position from which there was no drawing back. At no specific moment did he make his decision. The thing was obvious, no longer to be debated.

John Comyn of Badenoch and he did not actually speak to each other for quite some time, after the arrival, eyeing each other warily, like a pair of stiff-legged dogs considering the same bone, by mutual consent keeping their distance—a metaphysical distance, not an actual one, for inevitably amongst the small circle of the high magnates of the realm, they could not avoid being in the same group frequently. Bruce was apt to find the Red Comyn’s brilliant, fleering eyes fixed on him—and realised that his own were drawn equally to the other. But neither went the length of words.

As closely as they watched each other, undoubtedly Wallace watched them both. Lamberton also. All there did, indeed; but these two in especial, and did more than watch. They manoeuvred, they guided, they tempered. And skilfully, their policy to ensure that Bruce and Comyn, or their supporters, did not come into any sort of clash before the thing could be brought to a conclusion. Wallace was less proficient at it than was the Bishop, perhaps.

As soon as it might be done with decency, the King of Arms had them all to sit down to a repast—and all his fussing about precedence was now seen in a new light. As far as the great ones were concerned, everything had been thought out. Normally, in any castle-hall, the dais-table stretched sideways across the head of the chamber, while the main table ran lengthwise down one side of the great apartment, leaving the rest free for the servitors, entertainers and the like. Now, since practically everyone present in Selkirk’s castle would have been entitled to sit at the dais-table, this had been brought down to add to the length of the other.

Moreover at its head, where the Guardian’s great chair was flanked by two others, two further small tables had been placed at right angles, with a couple of seats only at each. At that to the right was placed Buchan the Constable, with Lamberton the Primate at his side; on the left was seated James the Steward, with the herald King. There was no certainty as to which great office of state was senior; but Buchan was an earl and the Steward was not. In the same way, at the main table-head, Bruce was placed on Wallace’s immediate right, and Comyn on his left;

again there could be no quarrel, since Carrick was an earldom and Badenoch only a lordship. Other nobles found themselves equally heedfully disposed. There were no solid groups of pro Comyn or pro-Bruce supporters. And everywhere Lamberton’s clerics were set between, to act as both catalysts and buffers. The Scots lords, used to jockeying for the best places by initiative or sheer weight, were taken by surprise, and strategically seated where they could cause least trouble.

Bruce and Comyn thus were sitting in isolated prominence-but the mighty figure of Wallace was between them. Moreover, Bruce had Buchan sitting at the little table, next on his right, while Comyn had the Steward to contend with, on his left. Seldom can there have been less general converse at so illustriously attended a meal.

Wallace spoke to each of his immediate companions, and sometimes to them both, seeking to involve them in mutual talk which he might control. But they were a mettlesome pair to drive tandem, and it was a somewhat abortive exercise. The Guardianship issue was not actually mentioned.

“How long have we, think you, before Edward attacks once more?”

Wallace asked, presently—a safe subject, surely.

“How serious are his troubles with his lords?”

“Do not ask me, Sir Guardian,” Comyn returned quickly.

“I

have no dealings with the English. Ask Bruce. He knows Edward passing well. Or his friend Percy may have told him!”

Bruce drew a swift breath. Then he let it out again, slowly and raised his wine goblet to his lips.

“My lord of Carrick has put himself more in Edward’s disfavour than has any other in Scotland,” Wallace said heavily.

“He burned the SouthWest in Edward’s face, forcing him to call off his campaign. Much of the land burned Bruce’s own. As for Lord Percy, I think he is scarce likely to call my lord his friend, now!”

“Yet the woman Bruce is like to marry is Percy’s kinswoman.

And bides with him, at Alnwick, does she not? While her father fights for Edward in France. Against our French allies!”

“Curse you, Comyn! I am not like to marry Elizabeth de Burgh. Edward would have had it once—but now would not, you may be sure!”

“Yet she is a comely wench. And well dowered, I swear I Ed Ward’s god-child-a useful go-between…”

”I’ll thank you to spare the Lady Elizabeth the soiling of your

tongue!” Bruce exclaimed, leaning forward to glare round Wallace.

“My lords! My lords-of a mercy!” the big man cried.

“Moderate your words, I beg you. Here is no way to speak to each other.”

“Have I said aught against the lady? Save that she is Edward’s goddaughter. Bruce has a guilty conscience, I think, to be so thin of skin!”

“What knows a Comyn of conscience!”

“My lords—at my table, no guest of mine will be insulted. By

whomsoever. I ask you to remember it.” Wallace brought down his vast

fist on the board with a crash to make the platters, flagons and

goblets jump—and not a few of the company also. Then

Pushing back his chair abruptly he rose to his full commanding eight.

All eyes upon him, he raised his tremendous vibrant voice.

“My lords and friends, fellow subjects of this realm, I, William Wallace, Guardian of Scotland, crave your close heed. I took up that duty and style seven sore months ago. Now the time has come to lay it on other shoulders than mine. They have been ill months for our land. We have survived them only at great cost. But there are as bad, and worse, to come. Let none doubt it.

The man, Edward Plantagenet, is set on this. He will make Scotland part of his crown. A lowly servile part. If he can. While breath remains in him. That is sure. And he has ten men for every man of us.”

He paused, and though all present were aware of all this, men hung on his careful words.

“I say to you that I know now what I should have known before—that I cannot fight Edward the King. I can fight his underlings and minions. I can, I have done, and I will. But not Edward himself. Only Edward’s own kind can fight Edward—I see that now. And I am … otherwise. Scotland’s own king it should be who fights him. But since that is not possible now, it falls to the Guardian. Therefore, I cannot remain Guardian. Falkirk proved that. The Guardianship must be in the hands of Edward’s own kind.” Deliberately he looked round on them all.

“In this realm today there are two men who could, and should, be Guardian. Two men whom all must heed, respect, obey. For what they are, and who they are. They are here at my side. Sir Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, grandson of Bruce the Competitor; and Sir John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, nephew to the King.

King John. On these two, who are both of Edward’s kind, I lay my Burden. Jointly and together. These two can, and must, unite this realm against the English usurper. These two I charge, in the name of God and of Scotland—fight Edward! Save our land.” He pointed.