The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Whom God save and protect!” Comyn rapped out.

In duty bound, many requested the Deity to save the King.

“No doubt,” Bruce went on dryly.

“But, despite its strength, the English in Lochmaben can do us little harm. They cannot be reinforced without a major invasion.”

“I have heard it said,” Comyn observed, looking round him, with his hard grin, “that Bruce may be well content to leave the English in Lochmaben. That, should Edward triumph, he may find it a convenient stepping-stone back into the Plantagenet’s good graces I Idle ha vers no doubt…”

“Damnation! This is a malicious lie…!”

“Idle ha vers no doubt, as I say!” the other repeated loudly.

“But a warning of how men’s minds may go. Is it not?”

“My lords,” Lamberton intervened again, with a sort of weary urgency, “Lochmaben is of less importance in the realm than are the others. Roxburgh is otherwise…”

“Aye,” the Earl of Mar broke in, “Roxburgh is only a mile or two from

the Border. It can be supplied and reinforced with ease by the English

…”

“Which means, my lord, does it not, that it is scarce worth our troubling with?” Comyn asked.

“Since, even if we succeed in taking it, as soon as we are gone, the English can retake it. With ease, as you say. If worse does not befall.”

“But… but… ?”

“They are raiding from there. Becoming devilish bold!” Mar’s other brother-in-law, Atholl, supported him.

“Did we not come this far to teach them a lesson? At Roxburgh?”

“My information is that they are much reinforced. Their raiding is no more than a ruse to draw us mere. Into a trap, with large English strength waiting on their own side of Tweed.” Comyn spoke in jerking, unusual fashion, clearly ill at ease on this. But it was equally clear that, whatever the reason for this change of front, his mind was made up.

“It would be folly to advance on Roxburgh, in the circumstances.”

All men stared at him now, Bruce included. He at least had no doubts as to what this meant. It was highly unlikely that Comyn could have any new information regarding Roxburgh, or that there could be any large English force approached so near without word being brought to Bruce himself. Therefore it was merely an excuse. Comyn, now, would not proceed on any joint action. It was as simple as that. There was to be not even a token cooperation between the Guardians.

Even Buchan was taken by surprise, obviously. He peered at his cousin, and coughed.

“A simple blow, John. A show of strength,” he suggested.

“We need not make a siege of it, if the signs are contrary. But a raid, at least. Into England. Since we are here in force …”

“No!” the other snapped.

“It would be folly. I march only with my rear secure!”

There was no question what he meant by that. The guardianship was irrevocably, blatantly, split.

As all there contemplated the ruin of it, and perceived the dread shadow of internecine civil war to add to bloody invasion, Lamberton, flat-voiced, sought once more to ease the tension, to salvage something from the wreck, to make time for calmer thinking.

“The Lords Guardian have rejected the suggested raid on Roxburgh, then,” he said.

“But there is more business. Appointments.

First, the Wardenship of the West March. Sir William Douglas, in English hands, has been Warden. While prisoner, his deputy has been Sir Christopher Seton, here present. There are now tidings that the Lord of Douglas has died in the Tower of London. May God rest his soul. Whether he died of Edward’s malice, or of bodily ill, we know not. But, my lords, a new Warden is required.”

It was skilfully done. The fiery Douglas had been popular, something of a hero, if an awkward one. The announcement of his death, as a prisoner, made a major impact, and set up an angry clamour against the enemy—a healthier demonstration than heretofore. In the stir, it was agreed almost without discussion that Sir Christopher Seton, the deputy, should be raised to full warden ship He was a sound Bruce supporter.

One or two other appointments were quickly disposed of thereafter, following as far as possible the non-controversial line of Comyn nominees for those in the North, Bruce for the South.

Lamberton steered them deftly through that strange, standing assembly, with the curt nods or complete silence of the two hostile Guardians accepted as the ultimate authority of the kingdom.

Men stirred, shuffled and fidgeted as the formalities were hurried through.

Undoubtedly all now were anxious for the uncomfortable proceedings to

be over. Yet men dreaded what might follow, once the two factions were released from the Primate’s dexterous handling and patient but firm authority. That these two men, Comyn and Bruce, could go on ruling Scotland conjointly, for the kingdom’s wellbeing, or their own, was manifestly impossible. But neither was going to resign and leave the other in supreme power. And even if both were to resign, who could effectively replace them?

They represented the two great power-divisions of the country, and any other successors would in fact be nothing more than the nominees and puppets of these two. For a land which so desperately needed unity, Scotland was in a sorry state.

As the half-desired, half-dreaded moment arrived, when the proceedings were being closed by William Comyn, the Lord Privy Seal, announcing that the necessary papers and charters were there on the table for the Guardians’ signature and sealing, it was a much less smooth and assured clerical voice which at this last moment galvanised the company. Old Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, had aged noticeably from his spell in an English dungeon.

He quavered painfully.

“My lords—we cannot break up so. The government of the realm, in this disarray. It is our bounden duty, before God and the people of Scotland, to take further steps for the better rule of the land. My Lords Guardian, you must see it?”

“I see it.” Bruce acceded briefly, but shrugged helplessly.

Comyn showed no reaction.

“The Crown rests in two hands,” the old prelate went on, panting a little, “Those two hands may be strong, but they … they are scarce in harmony. Why should there not be three hands? If there is joint guardianship, there could likewise be triple guardianship.

I commend such to you. I commend to you all my lord Bishop of St. Andrews, Primate and spokesman of Holy Church in this land, as Joint Guardian with the Earl of Carrick and the Lord of Badenoch.”

Into the hum of excited comment, James the Steward, Wish art’s old colleague, managed to make thick interjection.

“I agree. I say, I agree.”

Bruce was about to announce hearty and thankful approval, when Lamberton himself caught his eye and almost imperceptibly shook his head, before looking expectantly at Comyn. Bruce held back, in belated recognition that what he signified approval of, his rival would almost automatically oppose.

Comyn> narrow-eyed, kept them waiting, while he weighed and calculated.

It was his kinsman, the Lord Privy Seal, who, spoke.

“Here is a notable proposal. Which could well serve the realm, I think.” Whatever was his reason, Master William was being very cooperative this day.

Ignoring Bruce entirely, Comyn turned to Buchan.

“How think you, Cousin? Shall we have the priest?”

Lamberton actually raised a hand involuntarily to restrain the hot flood that rose to Bruce’s lips.

The Constable had the grace to flush.

“The rule of the realm must go on,” he muttered.

“Very well. So be it.” The Red Comyn turned away, with a half-shrug, towards the table.

“Now—these papers … ?”

“My lord …!” Robert Wishart gasped.