The Steps to the Empty Throne

“He wears men down as water wears a stone.”

“What to do, then? In mercy’s name, what to do? He is like a savage animal now. But cunning, too. Smarting from the wounds his pride received at the Cree. Judging men to hate him—as they do. But the more determined. For spirit he does not lack.”

“See you—this of the Cree fight. Of his guilt, for that. Of men hating him. This may we not use? A parliament may not only appoint a Guardian—it may unseat one. Could we not so sway a parliament that it would vote Comyn down?”

Lamberton did not answer, gazing deep into the fire.

“My party is sure, in its vote. The Church will vote, in the main, as you direct. The burghs will vote as Scrymgeour, Wallace’s lieutenant, says—and he hates Comyn. The Comyn faction is large, yes—but I believe, in this pass, with other men as sour as he is, it could be outvoted.”

“And think you Comyn would meekly accept dismissal? Demit office and walk away? When he controls the power of the realm. Without civil war? Which God forbid! And Edward at our doors.”

Bruce had risen, to pace the floor.

“Not a parliament’s vote then—but the threat of it! You say he is sore at his unpopularity.

He who acts the practised soldier. He would not enjoy a parliament that called for his resignation, named him bungler, at fault at the Cree. Even craven. I say he would sooner resign than face that.”

The Bishop looked up at him.

“You think it? It may be so.

Yes, it could be. But … he would ensure that Umfraville and another held the Guardianship. Another puppet. With himself behind them. He would never leave me as master. For he mis likes me now, as he mis likes you.”

“Scarcely so, my lord, I think—scarcely! But… if you offered to resign also? On condition that he did. And with the threat of a vote of parliament against him. A bargain. And Umfraville too.

All Guardians resign. Because of the defeat. A new man appointed.

One man. Might he not accept that?”

“Aye-But who? Who would be that man? Who would serve any better?”

“De Soulis. Sir John de Soulis. Of Liddesdale. Do you not see it?

He is wed to Buchan’s sister, and is therefore a kinsman of Comyn’s. But he is a true man. Honest, as all do know. He was one of my grandfather’s auditors, when he claimed the throne. Is sound in the Bruce cause. Comyn, I think, would accept de Soulis.

And I would trust him. Moreover, he is a good soldier. And coming from Liddesdale, has been fighting the English all his days.”

“You think he would do it? Accept the task? As sole Guardian.

Knowing the ill will, the back-stabbing, the thankless ness of it all?”

“He was prepared to do it, in May, at Rutherglen. If we both besought him …”

Lamberton rose.

“My friend—you have at least given me hope again. It is possible.

Pray God de Soulis will aid us…”

By early spring John de Soulis was sole active Guardian of Scotland—but with the Guardianship now in scant repute and men looking for power elsewhere. Comyn, like Bruce, and for the same reasons, retained the style and title of Guardian. Lamberton and Umfraville did not.

Comyn, no doubt, believed that he could control de Soulis, a kinsman. But he, and the realm, found the new. Guardian, an ageing, stocky, silent man, tougher than seemed probable. He refused to be bullied or frightened. Bruce gave him full support.

As did Lamberton and the Church. Wallace’s people also. But the

Comyn’s power was still the major factor in the land. They controlled

all Scotland north of the Forth, save the West Highlands and the Isles,

which no man could control; and increasingly demonstrated their

dominance in the South also—for Comyn’s last act as Guardian had been

to push through the appointments of his own nominees to most or the

southern sheriffdoms. Everywhere unattached and doubtful lords and

barons decided that it was wise to side with Comyn. The man was

behaving like commander-in-chief, almost like a king, riding the land,

holding musters of arms, sitting in at sheriffs’ assizes, declaring the

size of levies required from each baron and knight, demanding moneys

and aid from abbeys and priories. De Soulis might sit in Stirling

Castle as nominal and conscientious ruler, refusing to be controlled

by Comyn; but he on the other hand could by no means control Comyn,

nor attempted to.

Chaos mounted in the land—the land which awaited Edward.

Bruce watched it all with a sort of sullen hopelessness. He had no 8,000 men this year, to string along the Border. His lands of Annandale and Carrick had been so devastated again that his people as well as being as sullen and demoralised as he was himself, were scattered, huddling where they could, scratching a living for themselves, and with sickness rampant—in no state for military service, willing or unwilling. He had some hundreds under arms, mainly vassals’ men from undamaged areas; but these he kept in secret places in Ettrick Forest and the Borderland hills.

He had promises of contingents from his supporters, of course, lords like the Steward, Crawford, Mar and Atholl, when invasion actually was imminent. But meantime he could only watch-northwards more sharply, even, than southwards.

Even de Soulis, honest man, worried Bruce in one respect. He did all in the name of King John. The Guardians, hitherto, had issued their edicts and processes of government in their own names, although they claimed nominally to be acting on behalf of the throne. De Soulis seemed to see the position differently. He did all merely as Baliol’s deputy, always using a style that gave King John himself the authority, all being signed by the Guardian only in his absence.

“These letters patent be valid at our will, this ninth year of our reign, by John de Soulis, knight, Guardian of our kingdom.” The new Great Seal was struck, bearing the name and title of King John on the obverse, de Soulis only on the reverse. And Wallace, it was reported from Rome, had succeeded in winning the Pope’s full support for a reinstatement of Baliol as ruling monarch.

The Bruce star was far from in the ascendant.

The truce with England expired on the 1st of May—and it was known that all winter Edward had been preparing the new campaign, despite his prolonged correspondence and assurances to the Pope. He marched promptly the day afterwards, and this time brought his son north with him, Edward, Prince of Wales.

The English army split into two, in Northumberland, the King heading the main drive to Berwick and the east, while his son and Surrey made for Carlisle and the west. This time the Scots were to fight on two fronts.

Bruce swiftly found himself in trouble, for Edward, after a feint northwards from Berwick, which sent a Scots force hastening to the Lammermuir passes to harry him therein, quickly turned north-westwards up Tweed. Never before had any major Evasion taken this mid-country route through the Forest and the hills of the central uplands, where small numbers could so easily hold up large. But nothing could long hold up Edward’s scores of thousands, and though Bruce’s people contested almost every pass, river-crossing and ambush-site, they were only dealing with the English advance-guard. Edward took his time, pressing inexorably onward. Kelso, Dryburgh and Melrose Abbeys went up in flames, Selkirk fell, and then Peebles. Bruce was driven back and back into the high barren wildernesses of Tweedsmuir, where Clyde and Annan were born as well as Tweed. Then Edward paused and circled skilfully to seal off all the valley-mouths and passes out of that lofty area, turning it from a citadel into something like a vast prison. Individuals could get in and out of it, by lonely hillsides and secret burn-channels; but not large bodies of men.

It was clear that Edward, well served with spies, had set his main strategy, at this stage, against Bruce. And now Bruce, as a fighting force, was largely immobilised.