The Steps to the Empty Throne

My Lord Robert, I greet you fair and wish you very well. It is long since I spoke with any who has seen you in your person. But I hear of you and of some of your doings from time to time. Although as to how truly, I do not know. For you are scarcely well loved, here at York.

This all men are agreed upon, however, that the Earl of Carrick, is now in the rule, with another, of the Scots kingdom. A matter which greatly displeases His Majesty, as you will guess. I must believe it true, and do much wonder at your so high elevation.

Not that I deem you unfit, but that I would have doubted your will for it. But if it is so, you have the goodwill of one, at least, in this England.

I cannot conceive that your high office will bring you much of joy, so heavy is Edward’s hand against your realm. But this I ‘believe may be to your comfort. The King, although he still makes pretence of marching against Scotland shortly, will not do so. Not for this year. Of this I am assured, and so would have you to know it. For he now does hate the Scots so sorely that he will have no invasion but that he leads himself. He will not so lead, this year. For not only does he have much trouble with his lords, of which you know, the Earls of Norfolk, Hereford and Northumberland in especial, who do say that he has forsworn himself over the Great Charter and the forest laws. But he is to marry again. This same summer. He is to wed the Princess Margaret, sister to King Philip of France, with whom he has lately been at war, in order to make stronger his hold on that country. The lady is said to be even now on her way from France.

Edward will make a pilgrimage to St. Albans for blessing for this union, and will marry at Canterbury thereafter. Few know of this as yet, but he told me of it himself yesterday. My father is to go with the King, to St. Albans, and I go to meet the Princess, as one of her ladies. So I hasten to send you word, hoping that the tidings will perhaps something lighten your burden for this year.

I think of you often, my lord. And sorrow that our paths be so wide apart. Although, God knows, we do scarce agree so well when we are close. But I am of a shrewish and haughty disposition.

Or so my father and brothers assure me. So that it may be that you are the better off at a distance. Do you not agree? You also are of an awkward mind, as I know. And stubborn. Unlike your brothers, whom I could bend between any two of my fingers, I think. No doubt we shall suit each other best by writing letters.

So will you write to me, my lord?

I grieve for Scotland, and the folly and hatred of men. In your fight

I wish you God-speed, and confide you to the watchful protection of His saints.

I send my remembrances to your foolish brothers. And, to the ruler of Scotland, all I have of deference.

Elizabeth de Burgh, written from the house of one Uhtred, a clothier, of York.

Addendum: The King would now have me to wed Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick but I mislike the smell of his breath.

Bruce rose up, to pace the floor of the little bedchamber which was all that the minor castle of Tor Wood could provide for him.

Then he stopped, to read the letter through once more. He was much affected—and oddly enough, even more immediately by that last addendum than by the important news of Edward’s forthcoming marriage and consequent postponement of invasion.

It was on this, and on the paragraph where the young woman spoke of his brothers, that he concentrated his rereading.

He was still at it, frowning, when the clatter of hooves and jingle of harness and arms below drew him to the window.

Comyn had arrived, with a great company, all resplendent. The man always rode the country as though he were king I Bruce’s blood all but boiled at the sight of him, so confident and assured, darkly handsome features twisted in that mocking smile. Lamberton was with him, at least. Lamberton was always present at their meetings now, determined that they should not be alone together. William Comyn, also, smooth as an egg.

Bruce remained in his room, perusing his letter. And even when Nigel came running up the narrow turnpike stair to tell him that Comyn waited below, he curtly dismissed him. He would be damned if he would go hastening to meet the fellow.

Lamberton mounted the stairs, after a while. He looked weary, older, but greeted Bruce with a sort of rueful affection. He glanced quickly at the letter in the younger man’s hand, but asked no questions. He contented himself, after the normal civilities, with mentioning that there were a great number of papers for the Guardians’ signature and sealing, and that the Lord of Badenoch was in vehement mood, and spoiling for a gesture against the English, claiming to have 20,000 men under arms and ready for a move.

That brought Bruce back to realities, and he went downstairs with the older man in more sober frame of mind.

The hall at Torwood was no more than a moderately-sized room and was already overcrowded with Comyn’s entourage.

Bruce would have had them all out, for it seemed to him no way to conduct the business of state before all this crew; but he had had this out with Comyn before, and an unseemly argument it had been—worse probably than putting up with the crowd’s presence, since this was the way the other wanted it. There were larger measures at issue.

Comyn himself lounged at the table, and did not pause in his eating, although the others all bowed at his co-Guardian’s entry.

“Ha, Earl of Carrick,” he cried, from a full mouth, “where have you been hiding yourself in this rat’s hole? I’ faith, I feared I would have to send for you!”

“Send, my lord?”

“To apprise you of my presence. And that I have come a long way. And have no desire to spend the night in this rickle o’ stanes!”

Their host, Sir John le Forester, Hereditary Keeper of the Forest of the Tor Wood, clenched his fists, but kept silence.

“No doubt Sir John will be relieved to hear it,” Bruce returned shortly.

“Since we already must bear grievously on his household.”

“He will be paid.” Comyn shrugged.

“I say that it is unsuitable that we should continue to meet in such a place. Like furtive felons. Well enough for Wallace and the like. But not for Comyn.

We represent King John, and should meet in King John’s palace of Stirling.”

“I cannot believe that it has escaped your lordship’s notice that Stirling Castle is still in the hands of Englishmen!”

“Aye. After all these months. And not only Stirling. But Edinburgh.

Both in Scotland south of the Forth. Not to mention Roxburgh.

And your Lochmaben. A poor state of affairs.”

“Meaning, sir?”

“Meaning, sir, that you are lord of the South. That these strongholds are all in your territory. And that no attempt has been made, I think, to expel Edward’s lackeys from any of them.”

Bruce strove to keep his voice steady.

“My lord, you know very well that these are four of the greatest fortresses in the land.

In determined hands, all can withstand siege for months, for years if may be. Well provisioned, and with their own deep wells, they are impregnable. Without great siege engines—of which I have none.

Moreover, with a territory in ruins, I have more to do than waste men

in idle siegery. Isolated, these fortresses can do us little harm.”

“I say there speaks folly. While Edward holds these castles, and denies us the use of our own land, we are still in his occupation.

Not free men. They are a reproach and a scorn. I say we cannot make pretence to lead this Scotland while these remain held against us. Stirling and Edinburgh, in especial.”