The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Wait you,” he called, out of it.

In haste they drew on and rearranged their clothing—though even so there was a quiet calm and dignity about mat young woman’s movements that seemed to be part of her very nature.

They were only approximately restored to respectability when Elizabeth went to open the door. Bishop Lamberton stood there, with another man who lou ted low respectfully. If the Primate noted anything amiss, in heightened colour and dishevelment, he did not remark on it.

“Your pardon, my friends, for this intrusion,” he said.

“I

would not trouble you, with my lord so newly returned. But I believed that you would wish to hear this man’s tidings, without delay. He comes from England. From Essex, Robert.”

“My lord, I come from Hatfield Broadoak. Sent by the steward of the manor. Your father, my lord—he is dead. I have ridden day and night to bring you word.”

Bruce drew a long breath.

“I am sorry,” Lamberton said.

“But he had retired from this world for long, Robert. He would not be loth to go, I think.”

Elizabeth turned to her husband.

“A father is a father,” she said.

“Aye. God rest his soul.” Bruce nodded.

“I was no good son for him. We never agreed, all my days. I do not weep for him, in death—when I scarce thought of him in life. That would be folly.

But at least I acknowledge that, as son, I failed him.”

There was silence in that little fire-lit room. Then Bruce asked the courier for details. He rewarded him generously, and dismissed him to find food and rest. Lamberton remained.

“So we have a new situation, Robert,” the Bishop said, when they were alone.

“You are now Scotland’s heir. Rightful king of this unhappy realm.

Its only hope.”

“Hope!” Bruce barked the word.

“What hope am I? What hope is there in me, or for me? Or for Scotland? I have long ceased to hope, my friend. Or … or had. Until… until…”

“Until you heard of Edward’s sickness? Aye, there could be hope there. We must not wish his death. But if he is stricken in body, the man might think more of his latter end and less of imposing his will on Scotland. For this we may lawfully pray.

Though, they tell me that he is already much bettered. So that he may not yet heed God’s warning.”

“I do not think he will. Edward is too old to change now. His hatred the strongest part of him! My hope is not that he will change, but…!” He left the rest unsaid.

“You have reason for bitterness, my friend. Who in Scotland has not?” the Primate commented.

“But if Scotland is to survive, you must survive. To be its king. You are no longer your own man, my lord. Nor even this lady’s. You are Scotland’s man now.

And Scotland never more greatly needed a man, strong, wise, constant, patient…”

“God help me—I am none of these!”

“I think that you are. Or can be. Must be. Great things are demanded of Robert Bruce, now. But a great reward, a great heritage awaits you. In all true men’s eyes you are now the only possible aspirant to the throne. You, or one of your young brothers after you. Comyn based his claim on being Baliol’s nephew. Baliol, a wrong choice from the first, is now totally discredited and debarred, his name a hindrance and no aid. Moreover, Comyn, in surrendering not only himself but the whole kingdom to Edward, has forfeited any personal support….”

“I also yielded, you will mind! On your advice.”

“But not in the same degree. Or on the same conditions. It was Comyn’s misfortune to surrender as Guardian and commander.

He has thrown away any claim to the throne.”

“But what can I do? The throne of Scotland I What is it? Even if I could reach it.”

“It is the symbol and surety of the continuance of this ancient realm and people. Lacking it, we are nothing. Supporting it and supported by it, we are a kingdom, a community of men, small, poor perhaps, but proud, independent, masters under God of our land and destiny. It is our grievous weakness that we are so prone to disunity. To this end, if no other, we need a king, an undoubted monarch, to rule and unite us. That monarch should be, must be, Robert Bruce.”

“Should be, perhaps. But what is possible? While Edward lives?” That was Elizabeth.

“Only patient waiting. Readiness. Quiet preparation. Resolution.

Only these are possible meantime. And notable caution. For when Edward hears of the Lord of Annandale’s death, he will the more closely watch his son. Knowing that he holds the throne which should be that son’s.”

”He could watch me no closer than he does!”

“He might seek to hold you in ward. A prisoner, in truth.”

“Would that be any worse than what he does? Shame me?

Mock me? Send me to capture Wallace… ?”

“Ah yes, Robert—yes!” the young woman cried.

“To be held.

Shut up. Lodged in a cell. Taken from me…!”

“It would be more grievous, friend. Assuredly. And you did not, indeed, catch Wallace. I did not think you would!”

“It was grievous enough. If Wallace had been taken, and I had had hand in it…!”

“That would have been bad. For more than Wallace. But I believe he will never be taken. Unless he is betrayed. But he has the love of the people. Could any man sell Wallace?”

“I do not know. I do not know. Even Comyn would not do that. But some lost, damned soul, eaten with gall, there might be.”

“Pray that. you are wrong. And pray that none betray him and bring him before you, as one of Edward’s three governors. You have heard of this? That with Moubray and my lord of Glasgow, you are appointed to the rule. Until John of Brittany comes.”

“I shall refuse to rule Edward’s Scotland.”

“Are you sure, Robert? Think you. It is your Scotland—not Edward’s. You might do much to soften the worst of an English harshness. And, one day, when you are King, your people will know that you are also their friend.”

“When I am King.” The younger man shook his head, looking away and away.

Elizabeth came to slip her arm in his.

Chapter Eighteen

The stink of fire and stale burning still clung to the Great Hall of Stirling Castle—really the parliament-hall of the kingdom, and the most splendid apartment in Scotland—emanating from the charred timbers of the fine lofty hammer beam roofing, set alight by Edward’s own ballistas and siege-engines, with their flaming missiles, a year before. The place was draughty too, that early November afternoon, from the gaps in the masonry made by the English mangonels, trebuchets and battering rams in the long siege, and as yet inadequately patched. It was not, in fact, a suitable venue for such a meeting, and the group of a dozen or so who sat at one end of the vast table built to seat hundreds, looked somewhat lost and uncomfortable in all this decayed and battered magnificence. But John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond, King’s Lieutenant of Scotland, was a stiffly formal, dignified man, an holder of ceremonial and etiquette, markedly unlike his puissant uncle, and he insisted on holding his council-meeting herein.

The assembled councillors were uncomfortable in more than their surroundings. Added to their normal resentment at having thus to obey the summons of an alien governor, and their mutual suspicions and hostilities, but little healed by general adversity, they were more sorely divided today than usual. Wallace had been captured three weeks before; and this, the successor of the Privy Council of Scotland, was split into three over the business—those who were sadly depressed thereby, those who were not, and those who cared little for the fact of it but reserved the right to cast disapproving glances at the man whose lot it had been to deliver up the national hero to English Edward.