The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Sir Nicholas Segrave—cut those children free and let them go,” Bruce shouted hoarsely.

There was no response. The English men-at-arms went on with their grim work.

“You heard me, Segrave? I will not have it.” Bruce drove his horse forward, into the crowd of watching men, hand on sword hilt.

“Fool! Young swollen-headed fool!” the knight cried.

“Have I not told you? These need suffer no hurt. Unless the Douglas woman is a deal less chicken-hearted than you are! If they hang, it is of her will. Leave men’s work to men, if you are so nice of stomach, my lord!”

“I said set them free … Englishman!” Deliberately Bruce added that last word.

Segrave did not fail to grasp the significance of it. He glanced around him quickly.

“Your way, many men will die. Many children will be fatherless. Your own people’s children. And these of Douglas likewise. Remember that. My way costs a deal less!

Cannot you see it, man?”

“I see shame! Shame that will not be done in my presence Set them free.”

“No.”

Bruce’s answer was swift, in the thin skirl of steel, as his long two-handed sword was drawn from its sheath.

“You have but forty,” he jerked.

“I have six hundred. You will do as I say.”

“You … you would not dare! Draw steel against the King’s own men?

This is rebellion! Treason!”

“Not so—since I command here. Release those hairns.”

“No, I say! These men-they are not yours. They are the King’s men.

All of them. They have sworn allegiance to him.

They will do as I say, his officer. Not you, fool…!”

“Think you so? They are Bruce’s men. Bruce of Annandale.

We shall see who they obey!” He swung round in his saddle.

“Swords, I say!”

Like the screaming of the damned, the savage sound of two hundred blades being wrenched from their scabbards sounded high and shrill above the snarling, menacing growl of angry men.

Sir Nicholas Segrave had not survived decades of warfare by being any sort of a fool. He recognised actualities when he saw them. Narrow-eyed he glared, then shrugged. He turned to his men.

“Set them down,” he ordered shortly. He strode over to where his horse stood, and mounted.

“You are wise in this, at least,” Bruce said evenly.

“And you are not! For this you shall pay. Dearly!” The knight gestured to his trumpeter.

“Sound to horse,” he commanded.

The man blew a few short blasts, and everywhere the English soldiery turned and made for their mounts.

“What do you intend?” Bruce demanded.

“I leave you. To your treason. Your folly. I go. But I shall be back, my lord. Never fear! With sufficient men to teach you and your treacherous rabble a lesson. You will learn what it costs to set at naught King Edward’s authority, I promise you!”

“How may that be? When I command. In King Edward’s name … ?”

Segrave’s snort of contempt was converted into a shouted order to his men to follow him, as he reined round and urged his horse to a trot. The men-at-arms fell in behind him, in column, and without a backward glance at the silent ranks of the Scots, rode off south by west.

Robert Bruce stared after them, biting at his lip.

Chapter Four

His men save for a few retained with him, back at their positions around Douglas Castle, Bruce paced the turf beside the empty gibbet, cudgelling his brains, and more than his brains. He was under no misapprehensions as to the seriousness of the predicament into which he had got himself. Segrave had been only too accurate when he declared that this would be looked upon as rebellion. Treason might be stretching it to far, but rebellion it would be named. By Edward’s administration in Scotland-the Englishmen, Benstead; this Hazelrig, so-called Earl of Clydesdale;

Cressingham, the Treasurer, who now was the real ruler of Scotland;

Surrey, the viceroy—these would see it as the revolt of a hated and despised Scots lord against the King’s authority. So it would be blazoned forth by Benstead and Segrave, and so it would be accepted. As rebellion, Edward himself would hear of it, eventually.

But long before Edward, in Flanders, heard, there would be violent reactions here in Scotland; nothing was more sure. The English would act swiftly; they always did, instead of arguing interminably with each other as was the Scots way. Benstead himself could not find many more men for Segrave than the rest of the Lochmaben garrison, but he would apply to Lanark for them, where the governance of this south-west corner of Scotland was centred. Lanark was no more than ten miles north of Douglas, as the crow flew—and it was strange that Hazelrig himself had not set about the reduction of its castle instead of leaving it to Bruce, from Lochmaben. Except that that had been King Edward’s specific instructions. Segrave might even go direct to Lanark from here. Although he was more likely to report to Benstead first, and pick up the rest of his garrison. In two days, or three, then, there would be an English force here at Douglasdale, a heavily-armed, veteran host against which his Annandale men, however gallant, would be like chaff in the wind.

What to do? If he could quickly reduce this castle, of course, and have it occupied and its chat elaine prisoner before such punitive force arrived, he might redeem his reputation with Edward’s men. That was possible, but by no means certain.

Segrave and Benstead would consider themselves insulted—and the insulted Englishman was not readily appeased. They would insist on humbling him, demand reparation, reprisals—and none in Scotland in the year 1297 had any doubts as to the style of English reprisals. Edward’s example at Berwick was to be a model as well as a warning. Undoubtedly an angry punitive force would do much more than hang two or three children. His gesture here, then, would be nullified, wasted, thrown away. And his reputation, in another sense, with it.

What alternative was there, then? He could bolt. Run. Gather his men and take themselves off, into the empty hills, before the English arrived. Scarcely a noble course, but perhaps wise. Or was it? He would have become a fugitive. For what? Outside Edward’s peace, and with nothing to buy himself back into it.

Moreover, would these men of his be prepared to turn fugitive with him? Abandon their homes, holdings, womenfolk, to the English ire? For nothing.

But, suppose he could take the Lady of Douglas with him?

Persuade the castle to yield, and instead of waiting for the English, take her and her family with him. Into the hills. The great Forest of Ettrick was less than a score of miles to the east. No English would follow them there. Then he would have something to bargain with. Burn the castle and capture its lady—had not these been his orders? If he had achieved them, could Edward’s men claim he was in rebellion? The Lady Douglas would make a valuable hostage for him; something to chaffer with. Again less than knightly perhaps—but could he afford knightly sentiments in this pass?

There was always a last resort, of course. He could throw in his lot with the true rebels. With the High Steward and the Bishop of Galloway and their like. Make for Galloway. Accept the man Segrave’s charge of revolt, and become a rebel indeed. There were times without number, these last grim months, when he had been brought to the contemplation of it, had toyed with the notion. As would any man of spirit deliberately and consistently humiliated. Even that Elizabeth de Burgh had all but suggested it. What was it she said? That he was loyal to Edward but should be loyal to Scotland. And he had asked her what Scotland was?

And rightly so. But … these English could go too far. Yet, outright

rebellion? It would mean war to the knife, for him. With Edward. The

King would never forgive him. And Edward, unforgiving, was a dire