The Steps to the Empty Throne

So, on a suitably dark night of cloud and drizzle, he had mounted a sham attack on the outer de fences under Edward, to keep the garrison occupied, and set burning great quantities of cut reeds and brushwood to westwards, to form a blowing smokescreen to blind the defenders. Then he himself had fed three boat loads of men, with muffled oars, from the nearby town, under Nigel and Mar, to the hidden mouth of the stream. The underground course had seemed infinitely smaller, more cramping and alarming than his boyhood recollection; but at length, bruised and coughing with the smoke from the pitch-pine torches, they had reached the well-foot. Its rope and bucket was up at the surface, but the agile Nigel had worked his way up the long shaft, back hard against one side, feet walking up the other, and thereafter quietly let down the rope for the others to follow. The inner bailey had been deserted.

Thereafter a score of desperate men had crept up the steep mote-hill to the central keep, screened by the drifting smoke, to find it standing open and practically empty, all the garrison manning the perimeter palisades, gatehouses and outer de fences Securing the citadel, they had then attacked the bewildered and scattered defenders from the rear, one bailey at a time. Sir Nicholas Segrave, still the castle’s Captain, had surrendered his sword at the main gatehouse, like a man betrayed.

Gartnait of Mar had scarcely ceased to talk of it since.

A commotion down in the same inner bailey, over a hundred feet below their lofty stance, with horsemen arriving and torches waving, gave Bruce the excuse he sought. Not every belted earl would run errands, even at the behest of another of the same, but Mar was essentially a modest and gentle man—as his spirited wife complained. His brother-in-law sent him down to find out what was to do.

Alone, Bruce drew out the letter—which he had only had opportunity to skim hitherto—and moved closer to the nearest beacon, for light. It read:

My lord Robot, I take up my pen again with much concern for you. And some little for myself, should I be discovered thus writing. For King Edward has little mercy on those who counter him, as you do know, even though they be women. Certain ladies here have discovered it to their cost, of late. For this marriage seems to have shortened his temper. So that I fear that I may write but little tonight, for I am much constrained and seldom alone. The Queen is at chapel, for the King has become mighty religious and I have craved excuse over a woman’s pains. But she and the others will be back.

Foolish that I am, my lord, to waste precious time and words so. I write from York again, where we are recently returned from London. But not from the house of Uhtred the clothier. I am very grand now, in the Lord Archbishop’s palace no less. For I am chief of the Queen’s ladies. But we are cramped here mighty tight, nevertheless, and I had more of private space amongst the cloths and wool.

But we do not stay at York. In two days we go north to Newcastle

where the King assembles another great force against Scotland.

He is very wroth about the assault on Stirling and promises dire punishments against his rebellious Scots. He is wroth too with his lords, for many do say that it is too late now in the year for invading Scotland. And that he goes back on his promises to them, in this continuing warfare. God knows they are right. It is a kind of madness with him. He has forbade, by public proclamation, all joustings, tournaments and plays of arms, saying that every knight, esquire and soldier must rather come to do duty against the Scots. I fear then, that by your receipt of this writing, the King will be riding against you, to Stirling.

Your letter did find me at Canterbury and I much esteem it. I am sorry for your state and pray that it may be lightened. The Lord John Comyn I remember and did not like. We did not agree. But nor did I agree with the Lord Robert of Carrick. Is it not so? Even though you do not believe me shrew. Or say that you do not. Perhaps you cozen me. But may the Devil roast John Comyn.

I have heard tidings of your father. He dwells quietly and peaceably on his manor of Hatfield Broadoak in Essex. It is said he has been sickly. The King does not speak of him. He speaks of you, I fear, but less than fondly.

Guy de Beauchamp, of Warwick, is not now in the King’s favour, and so I am spared. But he would have me to wed instead Humphrey de Bohun, the new young Earl of Hereford. Do you esteem him the more acceptable, my lord?

From Newcastle when the King marches into Scotland we women are to be left at the Percy’s castle of Alnwick where I was beforetime. Near to you in your Border hills although I cannot conceive that we should meet. I do much fear for you and yours, in Edward’s wrath. Keep you out of his way my lord Robert.

I hear the Queen returned below.

I know not whom I may obtain to bring this letter to you.

Another wandering friar will be safest, it may be. God be with you. I am in haste.

From York, in the night of sixth October, by Elizabeth de Burgh.

Humphrey de Bohun, of Hereford! That puppy! Bruce frowned fiercely on the fire lit night. A dandified young fool. And shamefully rich. He could no more manage Elizabeth de Burgh than he could fly in the air!

The reader forced his thoughts to the more immediately vital matter of the date. The letter had taken three weeks to come from York, via the Bishop of Galloway—for it was now the end of October. Edward, then, might well have left Newcastle, by now, on his murderous way. Stirling, she said. Making for Stirling, to relieve the siege. Lamberton must be warned. And Comyn, of course. And Wallace was not yet home from across the seas … Mar, panting with the climb, arrived back at the parapet-walk with a young esquire, a stranger, who looked as though he had fallen into more than the one bog on his way to Lochmaben.

“Courier from Seton. Warden of the March,” he burst out.

“Edward is at Berwick! God save us-Edward is at Berwick, Robert!

This… here is the Earl of Carrick.”

“My lord-my master, Sir Christopher Seton, salutes you,” the youth said, his voice declaring his fatigue.

“He sends this message. The King of England is at Berwick with a great host.

But Sir Christopher learns that he has trouble. His greatest lords have refused to advance into Scotland. Thus late in the year. His first aim was to relieve Stirling Castle. But they will by no means accompany him. There is great upset in the English camp. But… Sir Christopher hears that the King comes here. Instead of Stirling .”

“Here! You mean—Lochmaben?”

“So says Sir Christopher, my lord. He has spies-in the English camp;

The word is that the King’s wrath is beyond all telling. But his earls are solid against this venture. He has heard of your siege of this castle. Belike he does not know that it is fallen. He swears that he will teach the Earl of Carrick a lesson, at the least.

He rides tomorrow for Lochmaben.”

“The fiend take him I And these earls? Will they follow him to Lochmaben? But not to Stirling?”

“No, my lord. They and their levies—the main host—move not out of England. But the King has men enough of his own, and hired Welsh archers, with the Cumberland levies of Sir Robert Clifford, to serve for this.”

“How many?”

Sir Christopher says near to ten thousand. Half of them Welsh long

bowmen

Dear God I And I have less than a third of that. And not two hundred of them archers!”

”Robert! Can you get more? In time?” Mar demanded, in agitation.

“No. Not enough, by half. Not men to face Edward—the greatest soldier in Christendom I Not archers. Or armoured chivalry.”