The Steps to the Empty Throne

The other was silent.

“I am waiting, sir. And tired I Your business in England?”

“I am not at liberty to tell, my lord.”

“You will not long be at liberty to refuse!” Bruce commented grimly.

“Do you carry letters?”

Nibbling his lip, the younger man shook his head.

“I think that you do. Tell me who they are for, and if you know their purpose. If you do, I may not require to do more than look at the superscription and seal.”

“I will not, cannot, do it.”

“Fool I Who knows, the letter may be for me! I have been in England.

Comyn could well be writing to me. A warning, perhaps.”

“The letter is not for you, Earl of Carrick.”

“Then, a God’s name, who is it? You have admitted you have a letter.

As Sheriff of this shire I require you to let me see.”

The unhappy courier shook his head stubbornly. Bruce jerked a brief command to his men. They kneed their mounts close. One drew sword, to point at the esquire’s throat. Two pinioned each an arm. Two more engaged the guard behind, who only put up token resistance. A sixth reached out to fumble in the victim’s bulging saddlebags.

It took a little while, amidst some shouting and protest, for the

horses sidled and pranced. But at length this last man brought out a

scaled paper package. He handed it over to Bruce, Apart from the seal, which showed the Comyn arms of three golden wheat sheafs on a blue ground, the package was entirely plain, without superscription. Unhesitantly Bruce opened it. Inside was another sealed package. But this one had a superscription.

It read:

TO HIS HIENES EDWARD KING OF IN GLAND AT WESTMINSTER

“Ha!” Bruce leaned over, to show this to Elizabeth.

“See where John Comyn’s letter goes!” He swung back to the courier.

“You knew this. You were taking this to King Edward, in London.

You must have known. But—do you know what is in it?”

White-faced now, the other shook his head.

“Tell me. Or I shall open it.”

“I do not know. My lord said that it was most secret. That… that I guard it with my life!” The young man’s voice broke.

“Aye.” With a swift gesture Bruce broke open the second seal, and unfolded the stiff paper.

The inner side was written upon. But enclosed in it was another folded paper. And this bore another seal. But not Comyn’s.

This was Bruce’s own. With his signature likewise. Witnessed by William Lamberton.

“Christ… in … His… heaven!” he whispered.

“Robert! What is it?”

“What is it?” he got out, thickly.

“It is death! It is my neck!

My headsent to Edward! For execution! By the living God-our bond! I did not believe … that any man … could sink so low! My death-warrant. And Lamberton’s. Here is infamy beyond all telling!”

She reached over and took Comyn’s copy of the crown-and lands agreement, which Bruce had signed that November night in the Blackfriars Monastery at Stirling.

With fingers that trembled now with emotion her husband smoothed out the folds of the enclosing letter. It was notably brief:

Hienes, Since you require proof of the matter wch I wrote to you before.

Here is proof. I desire to receive it back by bearer. Also that yr Hienes seems not to have seen it. For it is mch value and dangerous.

Bruce has the other like, with my name and seal. If yr Hienes takes him you will win it for yr proof and purpose.

I remain yr Hienes servant, Jno Comyn of Badenoch “The forsworn dastard! For this John Comyn shall die! I swear it, by all the saints!”

Anxiously, Elizabeth looked at her husband. She had never seen him like this, so black of brow, so savage of expression.

“It is vile treachery, yes. Thank God that we won out of London when we did! This was what Edward was meaning. He knew of this, all the time.”

“Aye. Comyn had written him, betraying all. Edward demanded proof. For my trial! Had we not bolted when we did, I would never have left London alive. Gloucester saved my head!”

“What will you do, Robert? Now?”

“Do? I will do what needs to be done. What I should have done long since. Make a reckoning with John Comyn! I will…”

He paused, looking at the anxious courier.

“Here is not the time and place to talk of that.-Nor are these two the men to hear it.

They must remain silenced. Close warded. Until the matter is resolved.

We will take them with us, to Lochmaben.”

“My lord—here is no fault of mine…” the esquire faltered.

“None. Save to own a dastard lord I You will suffer nothing, so long as you cause no further trouble. Do as you are bidden. But I cannot let you go free, until I have come to a conclusion with your master. That is certain.”

They rode on northwards for Lochmaben, and the shadow of evil was like a threatening cloud about them.

Chapter Twenty

The red-stone town of Dumfries was busy that frosty February morning, with Edward’s English justices in session at the castle, and half the lords and lairds of the SouthWest summoned to be present, either to speak to complaints, seek redress, support charged feudal vassals, or give account for their heritable jurisdictions.

Soldiers and men-at-arms were everywhere, English and Scots. The citizenry, well aware of the potential explosiveness of this mixture, tended to keep indoors and out of sight.

Bruce had been heedful about the numbers of his own men he brought into

town from Lochmaben. Too many would arouse comment, might seem like a

challenge, and provoke trouble with the English. On the other hand,

that he might well require a substantial force of men went without

saying. On the principle that a great lord was entitled, in most

circumstances, to a train of fifty to a hundred, just to maintain his

dignity, he had brought about seventy-five selected horsemen. But, as well, he had arranged that certain of his more important local vassals and sup.

porters should make independent entry to the town, with their own smaller followings. With these, he reckoned that he could call upon a couple of hundred men, at short notice, if the need arose.

His information that Comyn would be in town today was quickly confirmed. He learned that his enemy, who was much involved in this bout of litigation, had installed himself at the small monastery of The Franciscan or Grey Friars, founded by the Lady Devorgilla, Baliol’s mother, in the Castle Wynd, conveniently close to the castle itself. Here Bruce sought him—to learn that his quarry was at present attending the court nearby, but would be back. Bruce declared grimly that he would wait.

He had with him his brothers Nigel and Thomas, and his new brother-in-law Sir Christopher Seton, whom Christian of Mar had recently married. As Bruce anticipated, the news that he was back in Scotland and in fact here in Dumfries, very speedily was conveyed to Comyn in the castle, who promptly found his business there insufficiently vital to detain him from coming to verify the matter.

With a party of relatives and supporters he arrived at the monastery, and even though warned, the sight of Bruce sitting waiting for him before the fire of the refectory undoubtedly perturbed him. He stared.

“I had not looked to see you, my lord. Back. Here in Scotland,” he jerked.

“So soon.”

“No? I warrant you did not I But I am here. Safe and in order.” Bruce’s voice may have sounded steady enough, but only iron control hid the quivering tension that had been part of the man since the fact of Comyn’s treachery had struck him four days before.

“You come from London? From Edward?”

“From Edward, yes. That surprises you?”

“Only that you are not long gone. To return so soon …”