The Steps to the Empty Throne

moment.

“And something is achieved, at least. What I came chiefly to tell you.

Comyn will yield. He is seeking terms from Edward.”

“So-o-o I Comyn! He is beat, then?”

“Aye. Or, shall we say, forced to a new course. There has been great talking, great debate, great wrath. John Comyn sees no nope of success in this warfare. He will yield if Edward accepts him to what he calls his peace. And restores him to these his Comyn lands.”

“His lands! Aye, his lands. Now that the North, his lands, are in Edward’s hands, the man is less bold a campaigner I While it was the South, it mattered not! His lands are his price, then!”

“Part of it. And I think that Edward knew it, always. He is shrewd, cunning. That is why you are here, my friend. Edward knew that you, sitting supreme in the Comyns lands, was more than the man could stomach. If it had been just the English, he might have bin low, left them and hoped for better days. But Bruce … So he yields to Edward. On terms. And your removal from the North, his sheriffdoms back again—these are his terms.

As Edward foresaw from the first, I do swear!”

“Dear God I Plantagenet … and Comyn I Curse them both-they are the

bane of my life! They stand between me and all that is worth having

…”

Lamberton looked at him steadily.

“At least the throne is safe from him, now. Him and Baliol both. This of France and the Pope. Ill as it is, it means Baliol will never return to Scotland.

So… the throne stands vacant. As never before.”

Bruce drew a long quivering breath. Then abruptly he changed the subject.

“Comyn would yield, then. But what of the others?

There is more man John Comyn opposing Edward.”

“All see it as Comyn does—save one. All will yield. Save William Wallace.”

“Ha—Wallace! Aye, Wallace will not yield. Ever. And who supports Wallace?”

“None. Save his own band. And William Lamberton!”

“Save us—so it has come to mat? We are back to where we started!”

“Not quite, friend. Not quite. There is an evil here you may not have thought on. When Comyn yields, it will be as Guardian of Scotland. This Edward requires, and this Comyn will agree.

So he yields Scotland, not just John Comyn. And yielding Scotland to

Edward’s peace, leaves Wallace, who will not yield, an undoubted and

disavowed rebel and outlaw. And those who aid

“But that would be betrayal! Throwing him to the wolves!”

“Will Comyn care for that? He has ever hated and despised the man. Though, see you, we must give Comyn his due. He has fought bravely and ably. Moreover, there is more to the terms he seeks than just his own weal. In surrendering Scotland he asks that our laws and liberties be protected. And that there should be no disinheritance of other lords’ lands as well as his own. But he will not speak for Wallace.”

“What are we to do, then? What can we do?”

“Nothing, I fear. I tried to sway Comyn, but to no avail. Wallace will have to look to himself. Edward will never treat with him. But the people will aid him. He has their love …”

“Aye. And what guidance do you have for me? In my present state?”

Bruce asked.

“That you endure, Robert—that is all. Endure. Seem to go along with Edward, where you may with any honour. Your time, if it comes, will only come out of patient endurance. As will Scotland’s.”

Bruce’s sigh of acceptance of that was almost a groan.

Lamberton would not, dare not, stay at Kildrummy, tired as he was. At any time someone might recognise the Primate. Given food and money for his further journeying, he was not long in taking leave of his friend, commending him to God’s care, and then slipping out into the cold and windy dark, quietly as he had come. He was going to Wallace, somewhere in the Tor Wood, a hundred miles to the south.

A month later, in early February, the anticipated summons had come from Dunfermline. The Earl of Carrick, no longer it seemed Sheriff of Moray, Nairn and Inverness, was to be brought south without delay, by order of the King’s Majesty. As bald and unvarnished as that.

The Kildrummy party found a changed atmosphere prevailing when they reached the ancient grey town on the north side of Forth, from which Malcolm Canmore had ruled Scotland. The smoke of war had dispersed, superseded by the smell of triumph.

The Scots had finally surrendered-or all of them that were worth

acknowledging. Comyn, the so-called Guardian, was due to yield himself

two days hence, at Strathord near Perth, and Edward was in expansive

mood. He welcomed them all affably, publicly commended Bruce for his alleged notable aid in bringing the rebels to heel in the North, and announced more or less unlimited wassail and celebration to mark the establishment of peace, Edward’s final and distinctive brand of peace. A parliament would be held to formalise matters—an English parliament, of course, but with some suitable Scots taking their places.

Bygones would be bygones.

The first large-scale demonstration of the new genial dispensation was not the parliament but an elaborate reception, at Dunfermline, of the surrendered Scots leadership. Edward had a fondness for defeated opponents in clanking chains, wearing sackcloth and ashes, and otherwise emphasising the evident; but on this occasion it was to be different. The victor would be magnanimous, and the vanquished made aware of how mistaken and foolish, as well as wicked, they had been.

The ceremony was held in the Abbey itself, since the English earlier had burned down the Great Hall of the palace, one of the finest buildings in the land. It was packed, for the occasion, with half the nobility of England, and all foreign ambassadors.

Bruce found himself very much part of the proceedings, to his discomfiture. The King and Queen had thrones set up within the chancel, with the Prince of Wales seated a little to one side. Bruce was commanded to come and stand directly at Edward’s left hand, with Ulster at the right, Elizabeth being required to take up a similar position beside the Queen, with her aunt, the Steward’s wife, at the right. Not only so, but the Bruce brothers, with the exception of Alexander, who was still at Cambridge, had been summoned to Dunfermline also, and were now placed behind the thrones. None looked any more happy than their elder brother; but there was no doubt that the impression given was the Bruce family was the principal support of the King as far as Scotland was concerned.

When all was in readiness, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and the great church doors were thrown open. Then, as musicians played a funereal dirge, the Scots filed in.

Edward evidently had been concerned to make this a very different affair from the somewhat similar occasion eight years before, at Stracathro parish church, when John Baliol had made his submission. Now the iron fist was to be hidden in the velvet glove. There was no armour, little steel, and certainly no warhorses in sight. The King and his whole Court were in a glittering splendour of gold, silver and jewellery, velvets, satins and silks. The Scots had also been told to eschew all armour and warlike garb—and a sorry, ragged, threadbare crew they looked in consequence, patched and out-at-elbows. For these were men surrendered only after long and unsuccessful campaigning in the field, living rough and in the saddle. Their armour, however rusty and battered, would have had some dignity; but denied it they had come to court little better than a band of scarecrows.

They held their heads the higher therefore, of course—but it was difficult to maintain any martial carriage shuffling forward to the slow strains of a dirge.

Three gorgeously-apparelled English heralds led, setting the desperately slow pace. Then, alone, paced John Comyn, the Guardian.

Bruce, watching, was almost sorry for his enemy. Not that the man looked humbled, or other than a proud fighter forced to take part in folly; but unkempt, unshaven, shabbily-clad and obviously weary, he represented defeat, a grievous state for the Lord of Badenoch. He did not hang his head, however, but, avoiding looking at the King, stared levelly at Bruce as he walked.