The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Your father? The Lord of Annandale. He could be the answer. He is the true heir to the throne. His father should have been king, not Baliol. If he now would return to Scotland. Proclaim himself king. Before Baliol could come from France. If your father returned, and made such proclamation, Comyn’s plot would go agley. Even though he did no more than that. Then it would be for parliament to discuss and decide. Where the Church is strong …”

“My father … I He is but a broken reed. I do not believe he would do this.”

“If you went to him? Explained. He is proud of his claim. He challenged Edward with it, at Stracathro…”

“How could I go to him? Held here. He is in Essex. A sick man.

Done. Always he was weak, feckless. We never agreed.

Think you, at this ill hour, he would heed me? Bring down Edward’s wrath on his grey hairs, by claiming the throne Edward says is his!”

The older man spoke slowly.

“Edward will be near as anxious as Bruce to keep Comyn from grasping the Scots throne.”

His companion paused in his pacing to look at him.

“What do you mean? ‘ “I believe that Edward, were he to hear of this plot, would be forced to think deeply. He might prefer to have your father claiming the throne than Comyn being given it by Baliol. See it as another way of splitting Scotland, of giving him time. He would never admit that the throne was not his own. But he might well make it possible for your father to return and make his claim.

Edward would reject it forthwith—but it would keep Baliol, and his nephew Comyn, from any easy victory by such device.”

Bruce stared into the flickering fire, biting his lip.

“I could see that Edward learned of it. In these truce negotiations.”

“I

do not know. I do not know. This is … too much … for me. To decide. I must consider.”

“As must we all. For Scotland’s fate is at stake. One way or the other.”

“It would mean… working with Edward. Against Comyn.”

“Put it otherwise. Say using Edward to save Scotland. And Bruce.

From Comyn.”

“You believe it is possible?”

“Who knows? But possible, yes. Perhaps more than possible.

And, my good friend—how else can you stop Comyn taking the throne?

Bruce’s throne?”

The younger man was silent.

“Think of it, then. While I go to de Soulis. With this of the truce. Consider it well, in this hawk’s nest of yours. There is a little time. Baliol and the French will not sail in winter’s weather.

If they sail. But—there would be much to be done before the spring

.”..”

Chapter Fifteen

It was, of course, a farce of a trace—all knew it. Little more than a

springboard poised for the English to resume their campaign, with

maximum advantage, when weather and the state of the land were

propitious. But it did offer certain advantages to the Scots also.Preparations could be made on their side likewise; and although the English armies largely maintained their strategic positions, and sensible men gave them wide berth, people could move fairly freely about the land again.

Bruce was released from his confinement in the high Tweedsmuir section of the Forest at last, and was able not only to go and consider the strategic situation that now ruled, but the state of his properties and lands. It made a sorry prospect. All the lordship of Annandale, the earldom of Carrick and the large Bruce lands in Galloway, had been so fought over, burned and destroyed, by one side or the other, that they made little better than a wilderness.

His castles of Turnberry, Annan, Loch Doon and Tibbers were largely demolished, and their towns in ruins; and all the lesser castles and towers likewise cast down. Lochmaben was still garrisoned by the English, and its town, which would have survived, as of use to the invaders, had been burned by Comyn.

Bruce found that he had not a single house left fit for his habitation, in all his great domains; and his tenants and vassals were fled, scattered or dead. As a force in the land, he was all but spent.

North of the Forth, Comyn’s lands were vast and untouched.

He was assembling new and unwearied thousands.

Because, indeed, he had little choice of domicile for his few hundred remaining men-at-arms, Bruce continued to keep them in the Forest; though meantime he made himself a little more comfortable, at the Bishop of St. Andrews’ manor of Stobo, than he could do at the remote and windy Blackhouse Tower; even though a large English force lay at Peebles, six miles away. Lamberton himself was not there. After concluding the truce, he had gone straight to France, to try to persuade King Philip not to support Comyn’s plot for sending Baliol back to Scotland.

It was from the direction of Peebles that, one grey day in mid January 1302, with Tweed running thick and brown from melting snows, Bruce’s watchers brought him word that a small English party was approaching Stobo; some great man, with esquires, clerks and a score of armed guards, riding with quiet confidence.

The visitor proved to be none other than Sir John de St. John, newly appointed English Warden of Annandale and Galloway, and one of Edward’s closest aides. A dignified, handsome, courteous man of middle years, richly dressed, he was almost necessarily soldier as well as courtier, a veteran of the French wars and the man sent by Edward to deputise for the Earl of life, whose right it had been to seat John Baliol on the Stone of Destiny at his crowning at Scone, nine years before. Bruce knew him, and liked him better than most of the Plantagenet’s entourage—even though he came as usurping master of Bruce’s own territories.

St. John made it clear that, for this visit, he would prefer that his nominal position vis-ii-vis Annandale, Carrick and Galloway, should be ignored.

“I have come, my lord, directly and secretly, from His Majesty,” he declared when they were alone.

“King Edward.”

“I hear what else you bring, Sir John!”

The other smiled thinly.

“You are sceptical. But my master can be generous and far-seeing. I believe that he is being both, in this.

He has always esteemed you, as you know well. Even though he has had to move against you, on occasion. And not without cause, you will concede.”

“I concede nothing, Sir John. Save that your master is a hard and crafty tyrant, a cruel invader and usurper, who has devastated this land time and again. And my lands. Left me nothing but my name. And a modicum of wits. What does he want now?”

“These words are extreme and foolish, my lord. I had hoped, as had the King, you might have learned to use those wits to guard your tongue. However, as far as I am concerned, they have not been spoken. You have suffered greatly, yes, in a mistaken cause. You have been cheated and cozened and used, yes—but not by His Majesty. The King believes that it is time that you returned to his peace.”

“Ha! Edward’s peace! Say Edward’s maw, his slavery, rather.

Is this his generosity?”

St. John was patient.

“The King was your friend once. He believes that he could be your friend again. Better, a deal better, than many with whom you have been working. Trusting. The Lord of Badenoch, for instance.”

“M’mmm. I have not trusted the Lord of Badenoch for some time!”

“As well! He docs not love you. He aspires to the Scots throne.

And is willing to do anything to gain it. Anything, I say. He cannot do so, of course, since that throne is now united with that of England. But he will try. And since he sees you as an obstacle, you will suffer, my lord.”

”You are tender for my interests, sir.”

“I am not. But the King is.”

“Why?”

“He has not lost all his love for the Earl of Carrick. And he has never loved John Comyn.”