The Steps to the Empty Throne

”Sir—this is beyond all!” Richmond declared.

“Have you lost your wits? Sit down, my lord …”

“No. I leave the loss of wits to you and yours! To your master and

kinsman, in especial I To have turned ravening savage and brute-beast

…!”

“Silence, sir!” De Sandale the Chamberlain was on his feet now, pointing.

“To so asperse His Majesty’s name! And in the presence of His Majesty’s Lieutenant! How dare you …!”

Bruce did not so much as glance at him.

“Wallace was a noble man. Not noble as we here are noble, perhaps—but nobler than any here by his deeds! A man all here should have been proud to call friend. And did not, to our shame! In him was the true spirit of this Scotland. And Edward Plantagenet dealt with him as he would not a dog!” Furiously he shouted down the protesting English.

“Wallace was no traitor. How could he be? To an English king, when he fought only for the Crown of Scotland? Which Crown … which Crown …” He faltered, as well he might, even wincing at the vice-like urgency of the Primate’s grip on his arm.

But he went on, a little differently.

“A traitor is traitor only to his country, or his friends, or to those that trust in him. Was Wallace ever traitor to his country? Was Edward ever his friend? Did Edward ever trust him? Some here might, by others, be named traitor. I have been! But not Wallace. And yet, he is treated worse than any murdering scullion!”

“You have run mad, my lord of Carrick!” Richmond said, as Bruce paused for breath.

“What you say is stark treason.”

“Mad? The madness is not mine, but Edward’s. Madness indeed.

Do you not see it? The folly of it, as well as the sin? The people of Scotland loved William Wallace. Better than any man who ever lived in this kingdom. As they do not love any here.

Edward, by this evil, will set every heart in Scotland ablaze against him. As all his burnings and slayings and conquests have not done. They are a strong, hard people, as Edward has learned.

This will turn them to steel. Against himself. Against his rule.

The blood shamefully shed at your Smithfield is but the first of a flood, I tell you! It will make ill ruling of this land, my lord of Richmond, that is certain. And I—I will not aid you to do it.” He made a final gesture with his hand.

“I have asked your permission to withdraw, my lord. Now I go.”

“Aye, go! Go, Earl of Carrick. Before I have my officers take you.

As I ought. Throw you into close ward …!”

Bruce did not answer, being already on his way to the door, with uncertain officers and clerks hesitating. It was John Comyn who interrupted.

“You must needs take Comyn also, then, my friend!” he said, rising” For once, Robert Bruce has the rights of it! I never conceived this Council of worth. I will no more serve on it, now, than he I, nor mine.” He looked down at the Earl of Buchan. The Constable, puffing and grunting, rose to his feet.

Despite Richmond’s protests, amidst a great scraping of chairs, the Council broke up in disorder.

Bruce found Comyn at his shoulder, in the passage outside.

“I

did not think it was in you to do it!” the latter said.

“Edward will not like it.”

“I do not do only what Edward likes.”

“You do much that Edward likes!”

Bruce swung on the man.

“You think so? Why then does Edward hate me? Tell me that, Comyn. He hates me almost as much as he hated Wallace. Why, if I do his will?”

The other looked at him searchingly.

“And you? You hate Edward?”

“Aye. I hate Edward. And all that he stands for.”

Lamberton was there, now.

“My lord-less loud! Those words could be a rope round your neck I If another such was needed! I advise that you put distance between yourself and this Stirling.

And as swiftly as you may.”

“Aye-do that, Bruce.” Comyn laughed.

“Hide, you! And if your South will not sufficiently hide you from Edward Plantagenet, come North I Come to Badenoch I Can I offer you fairer… ?”

But despite all the good advice, Bruce was still in Stirling town that night-and, oddly enough, at Lamberton’s urging. Indeed the Primate was his sole companion as they hurried through the dark, narrow streets, heads down against the of chill November rain.

Comyn was lodged in the Blackfriars’ Monastery, where one of his clan was Prior. Lamberton summoned the Prior to his own door, and required a private room and the Lord of Badenoch privily informed.

Comyn came presently. Although not actually the worse for liquor, clearly he had been drinking. He stood with his back to the door of the small sparsely-furnished chamber, eyeing his visitors curiously in the mellow lamplight.

”So soon!” he commented.

“Bruce takes refuge with Comyn.

already? From Edward’s wrath!”

“We have come for a word in your private ear, my lord,” the Bishop said.

“Believing that you will heed. And come to some agreement with us.”

That was not strictly true. Lamberton may have believed it, but Bruce was highly doubtful. He had come only at his friend’s strong persuasion and almost against his own better judgement.

The Primate had argued that, for the first time, Comyn had that day acted, if not in cooperation with Bruce, at least in parallel.

Had even commended Bruce’s step before all. Here was opportunity not to be missed, therefore.

“Agreement?” Comyn repeated.

“You grow ambitious, my lords!”

“Perhaps. For Scotland. It is time, I think, that we grew ambitious for this unhappy realm. All of us. For her freedom. For her very survival.”

“Scotland’s? Or your own? Bruce’s? Which?” The words were a little slurred, but the challenge was swift enough.

“The survival of us all. As other than slaves. Wallace’s fate may be our last warning. His dying cries our final awakening.

Then, at least, he will not have suffered in vain.”

“Fine words, Sir Bishop. But what do they mean?”

“They mean, Comyn,” Bruce interposed bluntly, “that if Scotland is to be saved, then first and foremost you and I must come to agreement. The realm cannot afford your faction fighting mine.

Either we come to terms, or the Kingdom of Scotland can be forgotten.

Become but a memory. And Wallace has given his life for nothing.”

“Terms?” the other said.

“And what are Bruce’s terms? To Comyn.”

“Scotland needs a king. Only an acknowledged monarch will now rally her. To take up arms against the conqueror. Ballot’s arrow is shot. None will fight for him now. Not even you, I think.

He does not desire the crown. I say the crown should be mine.

You say otherwise …”

“An old story, Bruce. These terms?”

“One of us must be the King of Scots. Mine is the direct claim Through the old line of our kings. Yours only through the discredited Baliol. But … I offer terms, that this impasse may be resolved. Withdraw your claim and support mine, and I will hand over to you all the Bruce lands in Scotland—save only some small properties for my brothers. Or …” He took a deep breath.

“… or hand over to me all the Comyn lands, and I will stand down in your favour as King.”

The other stared, moving a step or two forward from the door.

“You are in your right mind, man?” he demanded.

“I am.” Bruce jerked his head.

“My lord Bishop will confirm what I say.”

“That I do,” Lamberton nodded.

“My lord of Carrick’s offer is a true one. Made on my own advising.

For the sake of the realm.

His the crown and yours the lands. Or yours the crown and his the lands. If the Scots people will accept you as King. Which would you?”