The Steps to the Empty Throne

For it was not only the rich landscape and air of wellbeing which affected him, but his own present seeming identity with it all. Surely the condition of few men could have Deen so radically transformed in one short war? He rode to London, from his father’s great manor of Hatfield Broadoak, like any prince, summoned to celebrate the Shrove-tide carnivals with the King.

Dressed with a richness to which he had never hitherto aspired even in his most extravagant youth, with his wife as splendid on his right, he rode, magnificently mounted, his brother Nigel brilliant as a peacock at his other side with their cousin Gloucester, married to Edward’s daughter. Horsed musicians made melody for them as they went, and half a hundred lords and knights and their ladies trotted behind him, glad to do so. For none was higher in King Edward’s apparent regard than the Earl of Carrick, none more smiled upon, more liberally favoured. Where the unpredictable monarch heaped gifts and privileges, much could overflow to others conveniently nearby.

At least there was no danger of all this prosperity going to Bruce’s

head. Indeed, Elizabeth not infrequently chid him with being

unnecessarily wary and foreboding about it. His contention that

Edward could, and would, as easily take it all away again, she admitted—but pointed out that by no means all of it was the King’s to give or take back. Her own handsome dowry of 10,000 pounds for instance, and the ten manors that went with it. The revenues of the Bruce English estates, which were much larger than either of them had realised, and more wealthy, having an accumulation of receipts scarcely touched for years—with Robert Bruce senior now an ailing shadow of his former self, all but a bed-ridden recluse, spending nothing. Moreover, although the King could remove him from the wardship of the far-away earldom of Mar, in theory, the amassed products of it, thriftily garnered by the careful Gartnait, were already at Bruce’s disposal.

He was prepared to concede that all this might be so. But experience had made him chary of good fortune. Though meantime he agreed that it might be wise to spend lavishly—since it all might not be his to spend for much longer. And there was such a thing as making friends with the mammon of un righteousness while you had it.

The laughing, resounding company made gay progress through London’s narrow streets—even though the smells caught at their breaths—but at the Palace of Westminster there was a different atmosphere, decorated for carnival but with no heralds or emissaries sent to greet them, or even welcoming smiles. Sober faced guards and courtiers indicated that Majesty was in wrathful mood. There was bad news from Scotland.

They found the Great Hall, hung with evergreens and coloured lanterns, and set for feasting, thronged with anxious-looking men and women, who stood in groups and spoke low-voiced. While many turned to bow to Lancaster and Gloucester, it was noticeable that most looked askance at Bruce. They were motioned onwards to the throne-room, where the King was holding a hurriedly-called Council.

A pursuivant slipped in ahead, to inform of their arrival—but it was ominous how long it was, despite the illustriousness of the waiters, before he returned to beckon forward the leaders of the Essex party. Moreover, he signed to the Gloucester Herald not to trumpet the entrance of his lord. Royal Gilbert of Gloucester, Edward’s son-in-law as well as Bruce’s cousin, looked distinctly chilly at such treatment.

But when they entered the throne-room, Elizabeth holding back a little reluctantly with the other ladies, any petty irritation was quickly lost in sheerest apprehension and alarm. There was absolute silence, save for the sound of heavy breathing from the throne at the far end of the chamber. Right down the long central table men sat stiffly, looking as though they would have risen to their feet, but dared not.

Edward Plantagenet, angry, was a fearsome sight—and worse, emanated a terrifying aura, like a baited bull about to charge. But a cunning, killer-bull would charge with shrewd deadliness rather than blind fury. He sat hunched forward, purple of face, great head out-thrust, jaw working slowly, rhythmically.

The newcomers bowed—and received no acknowledgement.

Gloucester coughed.

“My lord Edward—greetings, sire. Had you sent word to us of this Council, we would have attended earlier.”

The King ignored him. He was staring at Bruce.

That young man, requiring all his hardihood, held his head high and stared back.

“Perfidious … rebellious … dogs!” Edward said, at length, enunciating each word as though savouring it.

“Base … treacherous . dastards! Scots!”

Bruce held his tongue if not his peace.

“After my royal patience I My clemency. My forbearance. All wasted. Spurned. Spat upon! By graceless rogues and lowborn scum! But, by God’s precious blood, they shall suffer I I swear it!”

Bruce did not feel it incumbent upon him to argue.

“Speak, then—curse you!” the King roared suddenly, jabbing a finger towards Bruce, all men jumping.

“Speak, man. You-Bruce! These are your friends, your precious countrymen. You are all alike—murderous rebels!”

The other gestured with his hand.

“How may I speak, Sire, until Your Majesty informs me what’s to do? I know nothing of this.”

“Aye—you would say I Why should I believe you? Are you more to be trusted than the rest? Working against me, despite all I have done for you? There has been bloody rebellion in Scotland.

Widespread attack. The slaughter of my servants. It is the ruffian Wallace—I swear it I Behind all. Returned, and spurring on lesser rogues and knaves to murder and treason. It is not to be borne! You Knew Wallace had returned, I vow?”

“I had heard so, Sire. But I have been in England with you, since before the truce expired in November. If hostilities have now been resumed …”

“Hostilities resumed …!” Edward all but choked.

”Traitorous revolt and shameful massacre—and you name it

hostilities!” The King, crouching, part rose from his throne as though he would launch himself down the chamber at Bruce. But, drawing a deep gulping breath, he swung round instead, to point at a cleric who sat at a side table.

“You,” he commanded, “tell him.”

It was the same Master John Benstead, former royal pantryman who had once lorded it at Lochmaben. Bruce had not noticed him. He stood, a hunched crow of a man, bowing deeply.

“Your gracious Majesty-where do I begin? I do not know how much the Earl of Carrick, and these other lords, may know.”

“Begin at the beginning, fool! But be quick about it.”

“Yes, Sire. To be sure, Sire.” The Pander turned his chalk-white face in the direction of Bruce.

“Since the truce ended there have been small risings all over South Scotland. Attacks on castles, on the King’s garrisons. Ambuscades. The work of the man Wallace and his brigands, no doubt. Sir John Lord Segrave, His Highness’s Governor, made protest to him they call the Guardian, the Lord of Badenoch, who followed on Sir John de Soulis. You know of this …?”

Bruce nodded. De Soulis had relinquished the guardianship in order to go in person to France, with Buchan and de Umfraville, on the return of Wallace and Lamberton, with new proposals about Baliol; and John Comyn had had himself appointed sole Guardian in his place, with the Bruce faction for the time being out of the running.

“The Lord of Badenoch made insolent reply. So His Majesty commanded Governor Segrave—brother to Sir Nicholas, whom you had occasion to know, my lord, at Lochmaben I—to march north from Berwick. With 20,000 men. To punish Wallace’s outlaws, who were in the Tor Wood of Stirling. He reached Roslin, in Lothian, in the valley of the Esk, his army in three divisions.