The Steps to the Empty Throne

Upraised voices in angry altercation drowned the Prior’s. All eyes turned.

“… jumped-up scum I Those lands are mine, I say. And I’ll have them back, Wallace or no Wallace 1” The speaker—or shouter, rather—was the Lord of Dundaff, Sir David Graham, younger brother of Wallace’s friend, Sir John, who had died heroically on Falkirk field. But brother of a different kidney, a vociferous supporter of Baliol and Comyn. Now he was shaking his fist up in the face of a tall and rather gangling man, largely built but giving the appearance of being but loosely put together, who flinched somewhat at the truculence of the smaller man’s outburst.

“The lands are not yours, sir. Never were,” this other protested.

“They but neighbour yours. And you may covet them. But they were granted to my brother, granted by my lord Guardian .”

”Unlawfully granted! Those lands of Strathmartine are ours.

Graham’s. Always we have claimed them. No upstart bonnet laird from the West shall have them, I say. The Earl of Carrick had no right to grant them. Any more than he should have knighted such as you …!”

“Sirrah!” Bruce rapped out, sharply.

“Watch your words.”

“It is truth. Strathmartine is Graham land. And you gave it to a felon!”

“Knave!” Stung to fury, the big shambling man dropped his hand to the hilt of his dirk. He was Sir Malcolm, Wallace’s brother, recently knighted by Bruce out of respect for his brother’s fame. A very different man from the giant Sir William, he was like a blurred, indeterminate and somehow bungled version of the other.

Still more swiftly the Graham’s hand dropped, and his dagger was whipped out.

“Fool! Put that away. Are you mad?” Bruce cried.

“This… mountebank called me knave! Me, Graham!”

“Sir David! Drawn steel, in the presence of the realm’s Guardians, is treason 1” That was Lamberton, in his sternest voice. He pushed forward towards the irate knights.

“Sheath your dirk, man. I command you. Sir Malcolm—stand back.”

“Treason!” Graham cried, beside himself.

“You, Wallace’s creature, to say that! And what of Wallace’s own treason? He is (bolted. Gone. Fled the country. In time of our need. Without the permission of the Guardians! Here is treason, if ever there was.

And you say treason to me!”

“You babble, sir. Bairns’ ha vers the Primate declared coldly.

Sir William has gone overseas. On a mission to the rulers of nations. To the King of Norway, the Pope, and the King of France. To seek bind them together against Edward of England.

“How dare you raise your voice against the man who saved this realm!

The man your own brother died for!”

from the straitjacket of his emotion. Like an uncoiling spring he hurled himself against his brother, beating aside the dagger.

Comyn had not stirred, even flinched.

“No!” he cried.

“No! My quarry I Mine. Mine only.” Panting, still with one hand on his brother’s wrist, he pointed with the other.

“Comyn—I should kill you. For that. Now. Before all. But but it is not the time. Or the place. Not yet. One day, I will pay that debt. I promise you! As all these, and God and His saints, will be my witness! Till then—wait, you! Wait, and regret!”

“Thank God, my lord—thank God!” Lamberton exclaimed.

“For your lenity. Your forbearance. Fortitude.” He swung on Comyn.

“And you, my lord-shame on you! Here was infamy.

Unworthy. Unworthy of any noble knight…”

“Quiet, priest!” the Red Comyn jerked, from stiff lips.

“Enough.” He looked at Bruce.

“At any time, my lord of Carrick, should you wish to take this matter further, I am at your service.

And shall cherish the day!”

“Do so. For it will be your last!” the other said levelly.

Master William Comyn, of the Chapel Royal, laid a hand on the arm of his brother Buchan, who was about to speak, and raised his own mellifluously soothing voice.

“My lords and gentles all—we have come here for urgent business. A council. Not for profitless wrangling. Much is at stake. I pray that we may move to that business. If the Lords Guardian will take their seats. At the Prior’s table …”

“Sit!” Bruce swung on him, eyes wide.

“Think you that I will sit at any table? With him ? Now! Do you, man?”

“Here’s a mercy, at any rate! I am to be spared that!” Comyn found his smile again.

“My lords, my lords—think! Consider. You are both Guardians and governors of this realm, still.” Lamberton supported his fellow-cleric.

“The realm’s affairs must go forward.”

“This joint guardianship is over,” Bruce declared shortly.

“On this at least we are agreed.” The other bowed elaborately.

“Scotland deserves fairer than that, I think,” the Primate said slowly, authoritatively, and with great dignity, looking from one to the other sternly.

“Those who take up the realm’s direction may not so toss it away, without loss to their honour. I beg your lordships to perceive it. And for your good names’ sake recollect your duty.”

Those were hard words for such as these. But William Comyn reinforced them, although in his own more suave fashion.

“I am sure that my lord of Badenoch, at least, will know his duty. And will well serve the realm, now as always.” He eyed his kinsman meaningly.

There was a pause, and then Bruce shrugged.

“To business, then,” he said.

“We will consider this of the guardianship at another time. But—I will not sit there. With that man!”

Comyn was about to speak when Lamberton forestalled him.

“Very well,” he acceded.

“The form of it matters little. Let us proceed, here standing.” He pointed.

“The clerks may use the table.” Without pause he went on.

“The matter of Sir William Wallace’s mission to the rulers has been dealt with and, I submit, is not profitable for further discussion here and now.” And before any might plunge again into those troubled waters, added, “The besiegement of Stirling Castle proceeds. My lord of Badenoch may wish to speak to it?”

Thus invoked, Comyn could scarcely refuse to participate, in his own project.

“It goes but slowly,” he said, seemingly casual.

“My people have assailed it for ten weeks. With little gain, as yet.

Save that we constrain the English closely, and have driven them into the inner citadel. But it is strong. The strongest place in Scotland. We shall have it, in time, never fear. And investing it demonstrates to the whole land that at least some will draw sword against the invader!” He tossed a glance at Bruce.

“I commend my lord of Badenoch’s assault on Stirling,” that man commented shortly.

“Even if barren of result!”

“The Earl of Carrick might have better fortune were he to take up arms against one or other of the less powerful holds the English enjoy in his territories! His own house of Lochmaben, in especial.”

None failed to see significance in that; but not all probably perceived the fuller implication. The main object behind holding this meeting here in the Forest was in order, thereafter, to lead a united assault on the great English-held base of Roxburgh, which lay some thirty miles down Tweed, near Kelso and the actual borderline. Bruce, ever chary of becoming bogged down in siege warfare, had only been persuaded to this by Comyn’s threats that he would do it alone, if need be. Such a move undoubtedly would look as though the other Guardian was dragging his feet, in the Popular view. Hence the great array of magnates and nobles, of both factions, here assembled. Yet now Comyn was talking about Lochmaben and not mentioning Roxburgh.

“I have not the same itch to take castles as has this lord,” Bruce

declared, slowly.

“Even my own. Which is very strong also. As Sir John Comyn knows—since he assumed possession of it during the short reign of King John Baliol…!”