The Steps to the Empty Throne

“My lord Bishop of Galloway—the seals.”

As men exclaimed, from further down the table, the Chancellor rose, to bring up the two silver caskets that were his charge, and set them before Wallace, opening them to display the Great Seal of Scotland, and the Privy Seal.

The first the big man took out, and raised up—and it required both hands to do it. Not because it was so heavy, but because its bronze was in two parts, two exact halves. He held them high.

“My friends,” he cried, “Here is the Great Seal of this realm and nation. I broke it. This day I broke it. For the good of all.

Now, before anything may be established and made law, bearing the Seal of Scotland, these two parts must be brought together and set side by side. One, in the name of the Crown, the magnates and the community of this ancient realm, I give to Sir Robert the Bruce, Earl of Carrick. The other to Sir John the Comyn, of Badenoch. I do now declare them both and together to be Joint Guardians of Scotland. To them I hereby pass the rule and governance. Declaring that I, William Wallace, will from now onward be their leal and assured servant. God save them both, I say.”

As all men stared, the giant thrust his chair far back, and bowing to Bruce first, then Comyn, turned and strode down the length of that great table, right to its foot, where he gently pushed aside his own standard-bearer, Scrymgeour, modestly seated there, and sat himself down in his place.

Something like uproar filled the hall.

Each holding his half of the Great Seal, Bruce and Comyn gazed at one another before all, wordless.

Gradually the noise abated, and men fell silent, all eyes upon the pair at the head of the table, clutching their half-moons of bronze. All knew that these two hated each other. All knew that they represented mutually antagonistic claims to the throne.

Moreover, there could be few indeed who could have accepted Wallace’s dramatic gesture in itself as any kind of valid appointment.

It was not for the outgoing Guardian to appoint a successor;

that was for the barons of the realm to choose, their choice to be

confirmed by a parliament. What Wallace had done in itself carried no

real authority. Yet, if these two indeed elected to accept it as such, none there were in a position to contra vert it, even if they so desired.

The hush was broken by the scrape of Bruce’s chair on the rush-strewn flagstones, as he rose.

“My lords,” he said thickly.

“Here is a great matter. Here is the need for decision. I, for myself, do not want this duty, this burden, that Sir William Wallace has laid upon me. I am young, with no experience of the rule of a realm. I have much to see to, without that. My lands are devastated, great numbers of my people homeless, hungry, living in caves and under tree-roots. Winter is coming upon us—a winter that will test us hard. And in the spring, Edward will return.

But… all this, if it is true for Carrick and Annandale and Galloway, is true also for much of Scotland. Save, perhaps, the North.”

He glanced down at Comyn.

“The land faces trial. Destiny. All the land. The people. The need is great. And in this need, unity is all-important. Only unity can save us from Edward of England.

None shall say that Bruce withstood that unity. If you, my lords, will have it so, I accept the office of Guardian. With …

whomsoever.” He sat down abruptly.

There was acclaim. But it was tense, almost breathless, and brief.

Every glance was on John Comyn.

That man sat still, toying with the segment of bronze. He seemed to be under no strain, no sense of embarrassment that all waited for him. His sardonically handsome features even bore a twisted smile, as he examined the broken seal in his hand. The seconds passed.

When a voice was raised, it was Bruce’s.

“Well, man?” he demanded.

“This of the seal was cunning,” the other said, almost admiringly amused. He looked up, but not at Bruce.

“How think you, my lord Constable?” he asked his fellow-Comyn conversationally.

Buchan huffed and puffed, looking towards his brother, Master William, the cleric, some way down the table. Almost imperceptibly that smooth-faced man nodded.

“Aye. So be it,” the earl grunted.

“In a storm a man may not always choose the haven he would.”

“Ha-neatly put, kinsman!” John Comyn acceded.

“No doubt you are right. So there we have it. Joint Guardian—heh?

With Bruce! God save us all!”

It was moments before it sank in. That this was acceptance.

That Comyn was in fact going to say no more. That, smiling and lounging in his chair, he was reaching for his goblet, to drink.

And that he had pocketed his half of the seal. The thing was

As the recognition of this dawned, the company broke forth in excited chatter, comment, speculation. There was no longer any semblance of order. Men rose from their places and went to their friends and fellow clansmen. Chiefs and lords beckoned their knightly supporters, prelates put their heads together and rubbed their hands. Down at the foot of the table, Wallace sat expressionless.

But after a while, as the noise maintained, the big man signed to the Bishop of Galloway. That cleric raise his hand, called out, and when he could make no impression, banged a flagon on the table for silence.

“My lords—this matter is well resolved. But it falls to be confirmed.

To be accepted and duly made lawful. By a parliament, I, therefore, as Chancellor of this realm, for and on behalf of the Guardianship, do call such meeting of parliament tomorrow, at noon, in the former abbey here. To be attended by all and sundry of the three estates of this kingdom. At noon, my lords, gentles and clerks. So be it. God give you a good night.”

Bruce rose, and looked down at Comyn.

“This means … no little … accommodation, my lord,” he said slowly.

“It will tax our patience, I think, ere we are done.”

“You think so? Patience is for clerks, and such folk. It is not a quality I aspire to, Bruce!”

“Nevertheless, you will require it, if I am not mistaken I As shall

I!”

“If you esteem it so high, then I shall leave it to you! Myself, I see the case calling for quite different virtues. Valour. Daring.

Resolution. Spirit. These, and the like.”

“Such as the Comyns showed at Falkirk field?” That erupted out of Robert Bruce.

The other was on his feet in an instant, fists clenched.

“By the Rude—you dare speak so! To me! You—Edward’s … lackey 1” “For that, Comyn … you shall … suffer! As God is my witness!”

For moments they stared eye to eye. Then John Comyn swung about, and stormed from the hall. Few there failed to note it.

There was a deep sigh at Bruce’s back, from William Lamberton.

Next day, in the ruined abbey, a tense and anxious company assembled,

anticipating trouble naked and undisguised. And they were surprised, relieved, or disappointed, according to their varying dispositions. A night’s sleeping on it, second and third thoughts, and the earnest representations of sundry busy mediators—mainly churchmen, and Master William Comyn in especial-had produced a distinct change of atmosphere. Nothing would make Bruce and Comyn love each other, or trust each other; but it was just conceivable that they might sufficiently tolerate each other to work, if not together, at least not openly in opposition.

At any rate, John Comyn arrived at the abbey, with his supporters, apparently in a different frame of mind. He favoured Bruce, even, with a distinct inclination of the head, did not address him directly, but appeared to be prepared to co-operate in some measure with Wallace, Lamberton and the Chancellor.

Presently he allowed himself to be escorted to the Guardian’s seat by the Steward, while Buchan, stiffly, silently, did the same for Bruce. They sat down, a foot or two apart, not looking at each other but not fighting either. The Primate said a brief prayer over their deliberations, and the Bishop of Galloway, as Chancellor, opened the proceedings by asking if it was the Guardians’ will and pleasure to declare this parliament in sitting-even though lacking required 40 days’ notice.