The Steps to the Empty Throne

And encamped for the night…”

“The fool! The thrice-accursed dolt!” Majesty interrupted.

“To encamp, apart. In three arrays. In such close valley as the Esk.”

“Yes, my lord King. The Scots, under the Lord of Badenoch himself, fell upon Sir John’s array, while yet it slept. With great slaughter. In unfair fight. A shameful thing, unworthy of Christian men! Many were slain, some fled, but most were taken prisoner. Sir John himself, and his son. Also Sir Nicholas, his brother. And my own self. Then came the word that our second array was warned, and advancing to our aid, under Master Ralph Manton, Cofferer to Your Majesty’s Wardrobe. The Scots were then beyond all in villainy. Before facing Manton, they slew all the captives. In wanton slaughter. Without mercy. Sir John and Sir Nicholas with the rest. Sixteen other knights, and all their men. Myself and one or two others they spared. Because we were priests. But all others were butchered …”

“Wallace’s work, Satan roast him, for a surety!” the monarch cried.

“The man is no more than a savage beast.”

“I think not, Sire,” Bruce intervened, greatly daring.

“Sir William Wallace fights hard. But he would not slay defenceless prisoners. This I warrant. I know him. The night attack, while they slept—this could be his work. But not the slaying.”

“Aye, you know him, my lord. All too well! You had the presumption to dub him knight—this oaf, this savage! A mockery of knighthood. But all men know that he is no true knight.”

“If he is not knight, Sire, then nor am I, who knighted him.

And you knighted me!” Bruce swung on the cleric.

“You, Master Benstead—did you see it? With your own eyes, did you see Wallace slay a single captive? Or hear him order it done?”

“Not… not of myself, no.”

“Who gave the orders, then?”

“The Lord of Badenoch himself, Sir John Comyn.”

“Aye. That I can believe I But Wallace—where was he…?”

“This is not a court of law, and Bruce the judge!” Edward thundered.

“Keep silent, sirrah. Proceed, Clerk.”

“Yes, Sire. Ralph the Cofferer’s army was ill led. His people fought stoutly, but Comyn had 8,000 horse. They were forced to yield …”

“Forced—bah! What forced them to yield? A craven spirit?

A clerk leading!”

“Not so, Majesty. I myself saw Master Ralph cut down three before he yielded. But he had ridden into a trap. He tried to retire, in the narrow valley, but could not. He was captured, with much booty—payment for Your Majesty’s garrisons.” At the monarch’s fight for breath, Benstead hurriedly went on.

“Scarce was the fighting over when the third division, under Sir Robert

de Neville, came up. And again, to free themselves of the prisoners,

the Scots slew all. Even Master Ralph himself. I heard him pleading

for his life, to Sir Simon Fraser who had captured him, claiming his

priestly immunity. But the dastard Scot pointed to his armour and said

lewdly that he trusted to this rather than to God’s protection, and

that the sword he had yielded up was bloody. Then this blasphemer, Fraser, drew his own sword and struck of? first the Cofferer’s left hand, then his right, and finally, with a single great blow, his head—God’s curse on him everlastingly I This I saw.”

“Sim Fraser! That renegade, whom once I cherished!” Edward exclaimed.

“You see, my lord of Carrick, how much faith is to be placed in the Scots?”

“I see, Sire, men at war, fighting for their lives and land. As Your Majesty has done times a many. May I ask Master Benstead how fared Sir Robert Neville?”

The cleric shrugged.

“What chance had he? Unawares he rode to his death. He and his fought well, and long, but without avail.

This time there was no quarter, no prisoners taken. Save for a few who escaped by flight, all died.”

“Out of 20,000 who left Berwick, how many survived, man?

Other than a handful of frocked priests!”

“A few hundreds, perhaps, Highness. No more. I was exchanged.

For three Scots knights, held at Berwick…”

“Aye—and scarce a good bargain! Enough of this, then. Sit down, man.” The King pointed at Bruce.

“Now, my Scots lord—what have you to say?”

The younger man looked about him, at the others, and spread his hands.

“What is there for me to say? I have accepted Your Majesty’s peace.

Am I to be responsible for those who have not?

I condemn this slaying of prisoners. What else can I say?”

“You can admit that the Scots are of all men the most perfidious and vile I Ingrates. Liars. Assassins. Brute-beasts to be stamped underfoot as I would stamp on an adder! Admit that, sirrah!”

Bruce remained silent, tightlipped.

“So! You will not? You disobey my royal command—preferring your animal countrymen! So you are one with them.

And deserving equally of my righteous retribution. That, if you will not admit, you cannot deny.”

“I do deny it, Sire. Since returning to your peace I have kept your peace. What more would you have me to do? By coming to you, I have forfeited any sway mat I had in Scotland …”

“I will tell you what I would have you do. What you will do, Robert.

You will end this soft and idle living which I have allowed you here. You will come back to Scotland with me. And aid me in what I should have done long ere this. Aid me in the destruction of that evil land! Hitherto I have been merciful. I will be merciful no longer. And you will be as my right hand, Robert Bruce! You hear?”

The other bowed stiffly, wordless.

Edward sat back.

“Here then is my decision. From this day, the armies will assemble. The greatest force that England has fielded. No excuse for service will be accepted from any lord, baron, knight or prelate in all my realms. This Shrove-tide carnival, and all such fancies, are cancelled. The whole nation will march with me. And with the Earl of Carrick I And when we return, Scotland will be but an ill memory. This is my command.

My lords—see you to it.” The King heaved himself to his feet.

Speechless, men rose, to bow.

As an afterthought, Edward jerked.

“The Earl of Carrick to be escorted to his quarters, forthwith. And there guarded. Well guarded.”

The assembly, set for York, took months. It was not only the gathering in of hundreds of thousands of men and horses and equipment from all over England and Wales, even from the English provinces of France; it was the collection of a fleet of ships, in the Tyne and Tees estuaries, and the loading of supplies sufficient to maintain such vast numbers of men in a devastated land for many months. It was early May before the mighty host began to move northwards.

Inevitably it moved slowly. But there was no hurry. Nothing could possibly withstand so enormous a concourse of armed men, nothing even delay it—save only its own ponderous size and weight. Some said that there were 250,000 men; but who could tell, or try to count so many? By its very size and complexity there was little of the atmosphere of war and fighting about the expedition—the more so in that Edward had brought along his Queen and she her ladies. Many of the great lords did the same.

Elizabeth de Burgh, although no longer the Queen’s principal

lady-in-waiting, was still one of her entourage, and as such

accompanied her husband. Bruce was not exactly a prisoner, as had

almost been his position in the South; indeed superficially he might

have seemed an honoured member of Edward’s Court—save that other men

now were chary indeed of any association with nun. But he was well

aware how closely the King watched him, now iron-firm was the hand

which gripped as well as sometimes patted his shoulder. For Edward,