The Steps to the Empty Throne

Edward himself would have seen through it and clamped down sternly. De Botetourt may have suspected, but he could prove nothing, and was somewhat beyond his depth in dealing with Bruce. Moreover he could not deny the need to put down all armed rising in the rear of the Prince of Wales’ army, and was much aware of the threat of a link-up with Wallace, who was still active in the central forests and marshes between Clyde and Forth—a danger which Bruce never failed to stress. The Prince, too, was unhappy in his Galloway adventure, finding that vast province a most awkward place to campaign in, as others had done before him. He sent conflicting demands to Botetourt and the Sheriff of Ayr—and Bruce was glad on more than one occasion to despatch south to him parties of men who should have gone north to Edward.

But it was a dire and sorry business, for all however great a relief it was to be quit of the monarch’s personal presence. His bastard made a sullen and unattractive companion, and Bruce had also to put up with quite a lot of his old foe Clifford, whom the Prince had installed as a sort of governor of Annandale and keeper of Lochmaben. Oddly enough, Clifford had as lieutenants two men who Bruce had thought to be dead—the Lord Segrave, demoted and disgraced but still alive; and Sir Robert Neville, also alleged to have been slain at Roslin. Apparently Master Benstead had not been entirely to be trusted as informant and courier.

It was with mixed feelings, men, that in early October, Bruce received a peremptory summons from Edward, sent from the castle of his own nephew and ward, at Kildrummy in Aberdeenshire, to come north forthwith, still in de Botetourt’s care. Presumably the King had come to accept the fact the West experiment had failed, and that Bruce would be of more value in the North where, for his own interests, he might be expected to desire to keep down any resurgence of the Comyn power. Edward had cancelled his appointments as Sheriff or Ayr and Lanark, making him instead Sheriff of Moray, Nairn and Inverness, and reminding him that he was keeper of the royal forests of Kintore, Darnaway and Longmorn, as well as controller of the earldom of Mar. In name, at any rate. Edward himself was returning south, to winter at Dunfermline in life; Bruce was to hold the North, in his name, against any attempt of Comyn. But he would not be left to hold it alone; he would have ample help. Which meant that he still would be a well-guarded prisoner.

So, with the shortening days, Bruce and de Botetourt rode northwards

through a ravaged, shattered land. Only the hope that he might find

Elizabeth at the end of his journey gave the former any satisfaction.

In this, at least, he was not disappointed. Edward had left behind at Kildrummy, as well as some few thousand Englishmen, both Elizabeth and her father, Richard de Burgh, to ensure Bruce’s good behaviour and cooperation in the Norm.

Kildrummy was good for Robert Bruce. As on the previous visit, he was able partly to relax, here amongst the skirts of the great Highland mountains. The air, the people, the entire tempo and tenor of life was different, easier, more genial. The stresses and strains of war and dynastic manoeuvre seemed far away, and even Edward’s heavy hand had made but little impression on this mighty land of vast horizons. He had burned a few towns in Aberdeenshire and Moray, yes; but the people hereabouts did not live in towns and villages, being a pastoral folk wide-scattered over a thousand hills and valleys. It was strange that this should be the fierce Comyn’s land, for it seemed out of sympathy with all he stood for. Or so mused Bruce that Yuletide, as 1303 gave way to 1304.

He had not, in fact, come to blows with John Comyn as yet, that man having kept his distance. Word of him came intermittently from places wide apart, mainly in the West—Galloway, the Lennox, Argyll, and as near as Lochaber He was still free, still resisting after a. fashion, still sole Guardian of Scotland; but he could effect little, fugitive rather than commander or ruler, and for some reason he avoided the North-East, where Bruce, in name at least, now governed—and where he and Buchan and the other Comyns might between them have raised many thousands more men. Bruce often wondered why—but he was thankful.

Such thoughts were always at the back of his mind—even as he stood this Yuletide night in the hall of Kildrummy, eyeing the pleasantly domestic scene. By the light of two great log fires and many candles, a children’s game was in progress, involving Donald, the boy Earl of Mar, Marjory Bruce, and young John de Strathbogie, heir to the Atholl earldom. Assisting were Elizabeth, Christian, Countess of Mar who was taking her widowhood philosophically, and, crawling about on hands and knees, none other than Richard, Earl of Ulster. The last, with a few drinks to aid him, made an excellent charger for Donald, replacing Bruce, exhausted and sore of knee. The ladies undoubtedly had the best of this game, requiring only to look gracious, curtsy occasionally, and commend the noisy activities or the children. Elizabeth and Christian were already close friends, although so different in temperament. The former was taking her new step motherly duties seriously.

Bruce was laughing heartily and heartlessly at his father-in law, an excellent thing, when a servant came unobtrusively up to him.

“My lord, a friar has come seeking you. A ragged, wandering friar, but asking for your lordship’s self. Secretly. He says you will see him if I say he comes from Stowburgh or some such.”

“Stowburgh .. ? Ha—Stobo! Stobo, is it?” Bruce glanced over at the others quickly, caught his sister’s eye, and shook his head briefly.

Then he slipped out, with the servit or

It was Lamberton, as he had guessed, a weary and dishevelled figure to be Primate of Scotland. This device of dressing as a begging friar might enable him to move about the land with some freedom, but only on foot and with the minimum comfort.

The Bishop looked almost an old man, although he was little more than forty. Last time Bruce had seen his friend, he had been disguised thus. It was two years ago.

Stiffly formal until they could be alone in a private room, the two men then gripped each other with some emotion.

“God be praised for the sight of you!” Lamberton said unsteadily.

“It is long, long. I have feared if ever I would see you again. Feared that I was a done and broken man. Priest of a done and broken land. And you lost to both of us…”

“Not that, my friend—not that. I am not lost. Yet! Although at times I know not where I go. Which way. Whether indeed there is anywhere to go. Save into the Plantagenet’s bloody arms!

Where most men think me already, I swear!”

They looked at each other.

“Were we wrong, then? In error?” the Bishop asked.

“In what we put our hands to?”

“God knows. But we have achieved little. Or, I have. Save sorrow and affliction, the land destroyed. Everywhere, save in Galloway, Edward supreme. Myself a watched puppet, forced to dance to this tune. You, head of the Holy Church, a furtive skulker, forced to creep and crawl, hungry …!”

“The land is not destroyed. Not yet. Nor, pray God, ever will be.

Sore stricken, yes. But not beat, not destroyed.” He paused for a