The Steps to the Empty Throne

“That piece of stone? With the flagons on it. What is it?” he asked.

“How comes it here?”

His brother shook his head.

“They say that it is the Coronation Stone, my lord,” Lundin informed.

“The same that the young Lord of Badenoch spoke of—the Stone of

Destiny. King Edward took it from Scone Abbey, and carries it south

with him. To London. As symbol that there is no longer any king to be

crowned in Scotland. So he misuses it thus—as stool for his viands

…”

“God’s curse on him!” somebody snarled, though low-voiced.

“I faith-you say so?” Robert Bruce was interested now.

“That ugly lump of red rock the famous Stone of Destiny? The Palladium of Scotland? Who would have thought it?”

“Only fools would think it!” That was Sir John Comyn again, scornfully.

“This is not the Stone of Scone. It is some quarry man block!”

[”Then why is it here, at the King’s side?”

“Edward Plantagenet says it is the Coronation Stone. And whatever else he is, he is no fool!”

“Nevertheless, that is not the true Stone, I tell you,” Comyn posted.

“I know. I have seen it. At King John’s coronation, at Scone. My

kinsman Buchan placed him on the Stone, and put the crown on his head.I stood close by, holding the sword of state for him. Think you I would not know the Stone again if I saw it?”

“Hush, man—hush!” The Abbot of Melrose sounded agitated.

“Then what is this?” Lundin demanded.

“God knows! Some bore stone for a standard, perhaps. But it looks to me new-quarried. Fresh. Sandstone. The true Stone is quite other. It is higher—to be sat upon. Dark, almost black.

Harder stone. Polished. And carved. Carved with figures and designs.

Erse designs. Not a dull lump of soft sandstone, like that …”

“Of a mercy, my lord—hold your tongue!” the old Abbot exclaimed, tugging at Comyn’s sleeve.

“They will hear …”

“What of it?” Comyn, known as the Red—although that was a family appellation and not descriptive of his colouring—was a fiery hawk-faced character, about Robert Bruce’s own age, lean, vigorous, contentious. His father had been one of the Guardians of Scotland during the interregnum that ended with Baliol’s enthronement, and had married Baliol’s sister. The son, as heir of the Red branch of the most powerful family in all Scotland, a family that boasted three earls and no fewer than thirty-two knights, was a man whom few would wish to counter.

Nevertheless, even this proud and passionate individual must now bow the knee to English Edward—and bow it, mortifyingly to Edward’s uncaring back—or be forfeited, dispossessed of his wide lands, and imprisoned as rebel. Owing to the fact that the three men in front of him were churchmen, and there appeared to be some dispute as to the lands they were to do homage for, Comyn was beckoned forward, there and then, and ordered to kneel. With ill grace and muttering, he obeyed.

The form of words, which all had heard ad nauseam, mumbled or chanted monotonously from the moment of entering that Hall, was once again read out. It committed the taker to fullest and sole obedience, worship and fealty to his liege lord Edward, by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland and Duke of Guyenne, and to him only, his heirs and successors, to the swearer’s life’s end, on pain of death in this world and damnation in the next. It was noteworthy that Edward was not now calling himself sovereign of Scotland, Lord Paramount or other title which could imply that there was in fact any kingdom of Scotland at all. After the oath followed the list of lands, Baronies and offices, in each county, for which the homage was being done, as feudal duty.

In Comyn’s case this extensive list, however rapidly gabbled through, took a deal longer than the oath itself to enunciate. Sir John, features twisted in sourest mockery, went through the required procedure, deliberately mal forming the words from stiff lips. Then he rose, took the proffered quill, and signed the sheepskin with a contemptuous flourish, made the three required valedictory bows to the royal back at speed, and flung out of the chamber while his cleric neighbour was still on his knees.

Quickly it was Robert Bruce’s turn. As he stepped to the table and one of the attendants demanded his name, rank and lands, he raised his voice loudly, addressing not the clerks but the dais table.

“Here is error,” he called.

“I, Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, have already done homage to my liege lord Edward. At Wark, in England. In the month of March. His Majesty, that day, gave me his ring.” He held up a hand on which a ruby gleamed warmly.

“I call as witnesses to that homage Anthony Beck, Bishop of Durham;

John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey; Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford.

All here present, and at the King’s table!”

There was a momentary hush in that room. Even Edward Plantagenet paused in his talk for a second or two. Then he resumed his converse with Richard de Burgh, without a glance round, as though nothing had happened, raising a goblet to his lips. A sigh seemed to ripple over the company. Bishop Beck gestured down peremptorily to the clerks.

“Kneel, my lord,” the chief clerk said, agitatedly.

“The oath.

All must swear it. His Majesty’s command.”

“If my previous oath, willing, is considered of no worth, shall this, constrained, be the better?” Bruce cried hotly.

Furiously Beck rose at the dais-table.

“Guard!” he roared.

“Your duty, fools!”

Edward chatted on to Ulster—though that man looked less than comfortable. The Lady Elizabeth, at his side, was now considering not the line of Scots but her fingernails, head lowered.

Mail-clad guards stepped forward to grasp the Bruce’s arms and

shoulders. Perceiving that further resistance not only would avail

nothing but would probably result in his Carrick lands not being

restored to him but given to another, he dropped to the floor—but on

one knee only. There he muttered the terms of the oath, after the

clerk—and on this occasion this minion was so relieved that he did not issue the usual’ warnings to speak clear.

Rising, Bruce took the quill, signed with barely a glance at the sheepskin, bowed briefly and only once, and stalked to the door.

None sought to bring him back to complete the triple obeisance.

He was striding in black rage down the slantwise castle courtyard towards the outer bailey, to be off, when his brother caught up with him. And not only Nigel—an officer of the guard.

“My lord of Carrick,” this individual said stiffly.

“A command.

A royal command. His Highness the King commands that you attend him at the banquet and entertainment he holds tonight.

In this castle at eight of the clock. You understand, my lord ? It is the King’s pleasure and command that you attend tonight.”

“God in His heaven!” Robert Bruce exploded.

“Who is crazed -he or I?”

It was the same Great Hall, crowded still, and with minstrels playing—but with an atmosphere that could hardly have been more different. All now was colour and ease and laughter—King Edward’s the heartiest of all. When the Bruces arrived, deliberately late, four dwarfs were entertaining the company with a tumbling act, aided by a tame bear, which seemed to amuse the warrior-king immoderately. Indeed he was pelting them with cakes and sweetmeats from the tables, in high good humour, and even roared with mirth when the chief dwarf actually threw one back approximately in the royal direction. The brilliant company, taking its cue from its master, was in the best of spirits, with wine flowing freely. No least emanation from the dead, corpse filled town below penetrated here.