The Steps to the Empty Throne

Behind him came Lamberton, the Steward, Buchan the Constable and the Earls of Lennox and Strathearn. The Steward was better dressed than the others; perhaps his wife had managed to smuggle clothing to him. The Primate was not in his wandering friar’s rags, but not a great deal finer. Buchan was limping from a leg wound. Lamberton exchanged a quick glance with Bruce, and then gazed straight ahead.

There followed the main body of the Scots lords, temporal and spiritual, led by de Umfraville, the former Guardian, the Lord of Crawford, the Bishops of Glasgow and Galloway, Master William Comyn. De Soulis was still in France, Wallace’s enormous figure notably absent.

The sight of them all stirred a great wave of emotion in Bruce.

These grim years he had sought to steel himself against emotion, a weakness he could not afford. But in the face of his former associates and comrades in arms, thin, war-ravaged, humiliated, he groaned a little—though he did not know it. He saw himself as they must see him, and swallowed.

Edward, smiling genially and tossing comments and identities to his

wife loudly, waited until no more of the surrendered Scots could be

crammed into the great church. Even after a trumpet had stilled the

mournful music and a herald demanded silence for the King’s Majesty,

he chatted on, apparently casual, to the Queen, to Ulster, to Bruce—however un forthcoming the latter.

Then, as the ranks before him fidgeted, stirred, he gestured to them.

“Welcome, friends, to my peace,” he exclaimed.

“You come belatedly to my Court and presence. But now here, you are welcome.”

None attempted answer to that.

“So many faces well known to me,” the King went on, jovially.

“Some less ruddy, it may be, than when last I saw them! So many who swore fealty to me at Berwick, that day—eh, Robert my friend? You were there assisting!”

“Scarce assisting, Sire. Then. Any more than today.” That was level, almost expressionless, from stiff lips.

Edward ignored it.

“Friends of yours. Friends of my own—or so they swore! Absent friends—so long absent. Now wisely returned to my peace. But … less wise than you, Robert. Better that they had followed your lead the sooner?”

Biting his lip, Bruce forced himself to meet Comyn’s baleful stare.

Edward actually turned in his throne, to grin at the younger man.

“You are silent, lad? Does the sight of these your friends distress you? On my oath, it should not! For you greatly aided in bringing them here, did you not?”

“You credit me with too much, Sire,” Bruce got out.

“I have done nothing. Towards this.”

“Ha—you were not always so modest, Robert! How say you, my lord of Badenoch? Are not you—is not all this Scotland-beholden to my lord of Carrick for leading the way into my peace? And then labouring valiantly to establish it.”

Comyn bowed, wordless.

“Another modest man!” Edward’s smile was wearing thin.

“Yet you both set yourselves up to rule this realm of mine. In my place. And that is treason is it not, my lords?”

Into the quivering quiet which greeted the enunciation of that dread word, it was William Lamberton who spoke.

“My lord King,” he said clearly, firmly, “the Lord of Badenoch, as Guardian of Scotland, has surrendered on terms. We with him. To which terms Your Majesty has assented. We are here to claim those terms. There was not, and could not be, treason. From Scots, to the King of England. But even had there been, you annulled it. By treating. This is established usage, known by all.

Which none can contest.”

“God’s eyes-you are bold, Sir Priest! You will be the clerk, Lamberton! Whom the outlaw Wallace raised up.”

“I am William Lamberton, appointed to the see of St. Andrews by the Guardian and Council of Scotland, and consecrated Bishop thereof by His Holiness of Rome.”

“The Crown appoints to bishoprics, sirrah! And I am the Crown!”

Edward thundered.

“Hereafter keep silent. No man speaks in my presence save by my invitation.”

Bruce flashed a glance of acknowledgement at his friend, who had so evidently sought to divert the Plantagenet from his strategy of seeming to establish Bruce as largely responsible for the downfall of his fellow-countrymen, and so still more deeply dividing Scotland.

Edward turned back to Comyn.

“You, my lord—if you still have a tongue in your head! Did you or did you not swear fealty to me at Berwick, eight years ago? Do you deny your signature on that Ragman’s Roll?”

“I do not, Sire,” the other admitted.

“But an oath taken under duress is not binding.”

“So that is how you keep your word! Why, then, should you expect me to keep mine now? As to these so-called terms.”

“Your Majesty assented to the terms under no duress. You could have rejected them. We could not have rejected your oath, at Berwick, and saved our heads.”

“You have a nice sense of honour, sirrah! As well for you Edward of England is otherwise. For, by the Mass, the heads of every one of you should fall this day! As forsworn rebels and traitors. But … I honour my word. Even to such as you. The terms stand. Your lives are spared, your lands are not forfeit. And the laws, customs and liberties of this part of my realm shall remain unchanged. Some of you I shall require to go into exile north of Scotland, at my pleasure. For the better peace of this my realm.

In exchange for these mercies, I accept your fullest surrender.

Yours, and that of all who have risen in arms against me. Save one—the base murderer Wallace! Him I will nowise accept to my peace. Now or ever. It is understood?”

Lamberton seemed about to speak again, despite the King’s warning, but Bruce’s quick head-snaking halted him.

Edward leaned forward, pointing that imperious finger at Comyn.

“My lord, where is he? I do not see the man Wallace.

Yet I commanded that you bring him with you. To me. Bound.

Where is he?”

“Wallace is not a man easily bound. Or brought. Or found. Of this

Your Majesty is well aware. Your servants have sought him often enough

…”

“Where is he, man? Do not bandy words with me!”

“I do not know, Sire. Wallace … is Wallace. A man apart. He heeds no man’s voice …”

“He shall heed mine, by God’s wounds! And you also. All of you. See you, Comyn—I want Wallace and shall have him. I give you command to find him. To deliver him. And I do not give you overlong. Wallace was at that devilish massacre at Roslin. When you slew, as prisoners, better men than yourselves. You commanded there, my lord of Badenoch. With Sir Simon Fraser, Sir Alexander Lindsay of Crawford and Sir David Graham of Dundaff.

I require Wallace of you all. I will do most favour to whosoever shall capture him, in expiation of that vile deed. And let the others beware!”

“Sire—this was no part of the terms…”

“Silence! You have heard me. See you to it.” As so often happened, Edward Plantagenet tired suddenly of the scene he had himself prepared. Without warning he stood up.

“It is enough.

This audience is over. Away with them.” He reached over and almost lifted the Queen out of her chair, and turning his back on the entire alarmed assembly, strode with her up the chancel, to the vestry-door, and out.

Belatedly the trumpeters grabbed their instruments and blew a notably ragged and uneven fanfare.

The eyes of Bruce and Comyn met in a long hard glare, before the heralds pushed the latter round and hustled him oft.