The Steps to the Empty Throne

“But … this is scarce believable! To offer up the Bruce lands.

The greatest in Scotland …!”

The other two exchanged quick glances. It was significant that it was the broad acres that Comyn thought of first, rather than the empty crown.

Swiftly the Primate took him up.

“Aye, the greatest in Scotland.

A notable offer, such as never has been made before. Especially since your claim to the throne is now weakened. This would make you a greater lord and earl than ever Scotland has known.”

“And, if my claim is so weak, why make this offer?”

“Because, weak or no, there can be no true decision as to the kingdom while you hold to it. Without dividing the land. Internal strife. If we are to unite against the English, at last, one of us must stand down. So I offer all that I have to offer.” That was Robert Bruce.

It was not often that John Comyn appeared at a loss. In fact never had Bruce seen him irresolute, before this night. He paced the small chamber, biting his lip. He stopped, presently.

“If this is a trick…!” he said.

“No trick,” Lamberton assured.

“In the name of Saint Andrew of Scotland. I swear it. And will do, before any company you name.”

“Save that it must be kept secret,” Bruce put in.

“This, coming to Edward’s ears, would be my death-warrant!”

Comyn looked at him, long and hard.

“Which do you choose, my lord?” Bruce challenged him.

“It … it would require to be written. And sealed,” the other declared.

“I would so require.”

So would we!” Lamberton agreed grimly. He reached inside his damp

travelling-cloak and brought out a leather satchel, from which he took

four folded papers, a pen, a horn of ink, and a block of wax. Also flint and under.

“All is in readiness, my lord.

Four indentures. Two promising the throne to my lord of Carrick, and his lands to you; and two the other way. Sign which you will. My lord here will sign its neighbour. And the other two we shall burn. Each will keep a copy. Secretly. Yours is the choice.

For the realm’s fair sake.”

Only Comyn’s heavy breathing sounded as he took the papers closer to the lamp, reading closely. He took an unconscionable time about it, seeming to weigh each word of all four indentures.

But, at length, he laid them down on the table.

“The pen,” he said.

Wordless, Lamberton handed over the quill and opened inkhorn.

John Comyn looked up into Bruce’s eyes for a long moment, then stooped and dashed off his bold signature, quill spluttering.

It was on one of the papers that conceded the crown to Bruce, and the Bruce lands to himself.

His rival emitted a long sigh, and picked up the pen Comyn had thrown down. Without comment he signed the companion document.

“I sign as witness to both,” Lamberton declared.

“Have you your seals to hand, my lords?”

And so the thing was done. As the heated wax, with the two seals impressed thereon, cooled, and the last black fragments of burned paper fluttered to the floor, the three men looked at each other.

“When do I get your lands?” Comyn asked.

“On the day I am crowned King.”

“Will that day ever dawn?”

“We must see that it does. Between us.”

“With the aid of Holy Church,” Lamberton added.

“Why should you … why should we be able to achieve now what we could not do before?”

“Because we are fighting, in the main, one man. Edward. And Edward is not the man he was. Edward’s sickness could be Scotland’s saving.”

“He recovered well.”

“Aye. But once the heart gives such warning, no man is ever the same.

The finger of God is on him,” Lamberton said.

“And we have heard that since he returned to London he has had another slight seizure. A sign to him. And to us. To be ready.”

“It could be years, even so.”

“It could be, yes. But at least we can be prepared. To move. Not to await his death. To act when Edward himself cannot lead his hosts northwards. For that day we wait.” Bruce spoke urgently.

“So secrecy is all-important. You will see it. I charge you, Comyn, tell no man of this night’s work. If it got to Edward’s ears, all would be lost. My life not worth a snap of the fingers!”

“And my lord of Badenoch’s life also, I would point out!” the Bishop added, significantly.

“Edward would feel little more kindly to the one than the other. Both would be taking from him the Scots crown which he usurps.” He picked up the two sealed papers, assured that the wax was firm, and handed each man that with the other’s signature.

Almost reluctantly now they took the fateful documents, wordless.

Abruptly Comyn turned to open the door, and held it wide for his visitors.

They parted no better friends than heretofore.

Chapter Nineteen

With much trepidation, however much he tried to hide it, Robert Bruce waited amongst the gaily-dressed and glittering throng, his wife at his side. He had been against bringing her, first to England at all, and then to this Palace of Westminster. But she had insisted on both, declaring that she would not let him come without her. Not that he himself had been anxious to come;

very much the reverse. But what could he do? Edward’s summons, although courteous, even friendly, had been a command not a request, for the attendance of his well-loved Lord Robert at the celebration of the royal birthday, his sixty-seventh. To have refused would have been a declaration of war, premature and foolhardy; yet this acceptance was putting his head into the lion’s mouth, with a vengeance. It was Elizabeth’s belief that her presence with her husband could do no harm, and might possibly do good.

The pair from Scotland were interested, and to some extent encouraged,

by the attitude and bearing of the courtiers who thronged around them,

waiting for the royal entrance to this great reception and

entertainment. All were respectful, attentive, and at least as

friendly as they were ever likely to be. Which presumably meant that

if Edward had sent for Bruce to rend him, he had let no hint of it

escape to those close to him—for nothing was more certain than that

if he had, it would have been reflected in the quality of the Bruces’ reception by his Court. Not only this night but in the four days they had been in London. That the King had not sent for them for personal audience during that time, admittedly could be interpreted either way; but at least it implied that the Plantagenet was not in any fury of haste to explode his anger on them. Edward was unpredictable, of course.

The new Gloucester, Ralph de Monthermer, who had succeeded Bruce’s late cousin Gilbert de Clare, as husband to King Edward’s daughter—and bore the title by courtesy while the child was a minor—stood beside them with his somewhat horse-faced countess. Gloucester gave no impression of wrath to come. A friendly, modest man, he could not keep his eyes off Elizabeth-who was tonight looking at her loveliest.

“The King’s health?” Bruce asked—by no means the first such enquiry he had made since coming south. He hoped always to hear some inkling, some clue as to the true condition of the royal heart.

“Eh? Ah, yes. The King.” With difficulty Ralph of Gloucester partially withdrew from contemplation of more pleasing subjects.

“His health, yes. It is improved. Indubitably much improved.”

“Excellent,” Bruce commented heavily.

“After that last small seizure. In the autumn, was it? Nothing more?”

“Nothing. He is himself again. For which God be praised. For Edward of Carnarvon is little fit for the throne. Not yet.”

“He lacks his father’s fire, yes.”