The Steps to the Empty Throne

“My lord—the Earl of Carrick I Do you agree?”

Strangle-voiced, Bruce got it out.

“Aye.”

“God be praised!” The old man’s voice broke.

“Then … I declare … he is … I declare the Bishop of St. Andrews is Guardian of the realm. My lord, my good lord …!”

The assembly at last broke up in disorder. But the thing was done. There were now three Guardians in Scotland. And one, men acknowledged with relief, was strong enough and supple enough perhaps for the unenviable task of holding the balance between the other two.

After the signing and sealing there was no pretence at further cooperation between the two great factions. It was clear that despite the rain, Comyn was for heading north again at once. He was going, he declared loudly, back to real work, after his bellyful of clerks, idlers, poltroons and their talk, back to the siege of Stirling. Others could go where they would—to hell, if need be I Watching the Comyns and their following ride off, Bruce pale faced, fists clenched, found his shoulder gripped by William Lamberton.

“My son, my very good friend—may God reward you for your restraint this day,” the Bishop-Guardian said.

“It cost you dear, I know. But—it saved the kingdom. Not once, but many times. I thank you, my lord, from the bottom of my heart.”

“I reel soiled. Besmirched. The name of Bruce spat upon. Trampled by that… that devil! That braggart!”

“I know, I know. But do not fear—no men think Bruce reduced by this

day’s work. Quite otherwise. You have added to your stature, my good

lord. That is certain. But… do not name Comyn braggart, I pray

you. Do not delude yourself. Whatever else he is, he is not that. It will pay us to remember it” “Perhaps. But, whatever he is, he will suffer for today. On that I give you my oath! Before Almighty God!”

The older man sighed, and shook his head.

“Perhaps God will save you from that oath—who knows? But—what do you now?

Roxburgh?”

“No. I am none so keen on castle-baiting. Time can be better used.

There is much else for me to do.”

“Nevertheless, I think it would be well to heed one matter that Comyn said, my friend. Lochmaben. You were wise to lay siege to Lochmaben. What he said, of men’s talk, could be true. At least make the gesture of investing your castle.”

“You think … ? Men do talk so of me? It is not just Comyn’s spleen?

That I reserve Lochmaben, for Edward’s favour?”

“Men are foolish. And uncharitable. I have heard the like talk.

Better that you should proclaim it false, by your deeds.”

Bruce looked away and away, beyond the rain-shrouded Peebles hills.

Chapter Thirteen

Fires blazed redly against the October blue night sky, on every rounded height that flanked the seven lochs of Lochmaben and were reflected in the prevailing blue-black waters, scores of conflagrations that burned brightly and were being replenished, flames that would be seen from great distances, from all Annandale and Nithsdale and the plain of Solway, even from far Carlisle and the English Cumberland fells behind. And for once they were not burning homes and farmsteads and churches, not even bale fires of warning; but bonfires of joy and celebration. For Lochmaben’s great castle was in its own people’s hands again, after long enemy occupation, the captured garrison imprisoned in the dungeons which had held and seen the last of so many Annandale folk these past years. Now there was no single English held enclave in all the SouthWest. Moreover, the harvest was safely in at last, and the weather held. There was cause for rejoicing and bonfires.

Robert Bruce, pacing the timber bretasche, or overhanging parapet-walk of the main central tower of Lochmaben high on the mote-hill of earth, and looking out at it all over the surrounding waters, recognised that he had cause for gratification.

He it was who had given permission for those beacons to be lit. A success was welcome indeed, after all the months of labour and frustration. The sheer military action itself, the overcome challenge, had been welcome—and the acceptance of Sir Nicholas Segrave’s surrender a notable satisfaction—even though the deplorable pantryman, Master Benstead, it seemed, had been withdrawn to England almost a year before. But satisfaction was not really in the man’s mind, that night, nevertheless.

None knew better than he how superficial, how temporary, was this celebration. Lochmaben might be his again, meantime—but for how long? This harvest was gathered and secured—but would there be another? The basic situation was unchanged. The monstrous shadow of Edward Plantagenet loomed over all divided Scotland still, behind those joyous bonfires, and there was little reason to believe that the future would be any brighter than the past.

Indeed Bruce at least knew the reverse to be likely. He had come up here, to the battlements, to be alone, and to be able to read again the letter which crackled inside his doublet—for beacons blazed here on the topmost parapet also, and would give him light to read, unattended, as was impossible in the crowded castle below. That letter which was itself secret satisfaction and disquiet both. But he was not alone. His brothers Nigel and Edward, and his brother-in-law Gartnait of Mar, had followed him up; and while the former pair knew their brother sufficiently well to perceive the signs that he would be glad of their absence, and had withdrawn round to the other side of the keep’s high walk, the latter, an amiable but somewhat stupid man, took no such hint and clung close, talking, talking.

The fact was the Earl of Mar, who tended to hide himself in his northern fastnesses, was in process of building up the capture of Lochmaben Castle into the adventurous highlight of a not very exciting life. He had committed himself for the first time, against the English, and the venture had been successful. Not only, but it had been a spectacular and dramatic business, two nights ago, and he had taken an active if minor part. It looked as though the fall of Lochmaben was going to be Gartnait of Mar’s theme of conversation for a long time to come.

Admittedly, it had been no ordinary and prolonged siege, than which no

military activity could be more dull. It had been Bruce’s own

conception, for, though he had been born at Turnberry, he had spent a large part of his boyhood here, at his paternal grandfather’s favourite castle. It was an old-fashioned place, not one of the new stone castles at all, but a mote-and-bailey stronghold of the sort that had been general for three centuries, built of timber and covered over with hardened clay. If any imagined this to be a frail construction for such a place, they would be mistaken. The artificial mote-hill rose to about fifty feet, and the soil which went to its heightening had been dug from all round in the form of deep encircling ditches, up to thirty feet wide. There were four of these ditches at Lochmaben, each defended by a high wooden palisade, with inner shelf-like parapet-walk and drawbridges. The inner one enclosed a ring-shaped court, around the central mound, in which were the kitchens and domestic quarters, the men-at arms’ barracks, the storehouses and the stables. Also the castle well. Up on the summit of the mote-hill was the great square keep itself, its massive timbers covered in many feet of baked clay plastering, so that it could not be fired from without. Well provisioned, such a place was well-nigh unconquerable.

But Bruce, sitting down with his host outside it, had had childhood memories which stood him in good stead. That well, in the inner bailey, which permitted prolonged resistance, was nevertheless the place’s weakness—though few probably knew it. Deep down it connected not with a spring, which was usual, but with a running underground stream of fair size. A stream that flowed into the Castle Loch some two hundred yards to the south by an inconspicuous exit amongst piled rocks and elder scrub. Bruce had found that exit, playing as a boy, and explored the stream’s winding tunnel-like course underground as a boy will, until he had found himself at the foot of the stone-faced well-shaft, with the glimmer of daylight high above. He had never forgotten.