The Steps to the Empty Throne

Thereafter, homage done, the ignored suppliants were allowed to rise, bow low, and then sign their names or make their crosses on one of a great pile of sheepskins, each already lettered with the wording of the oath of fealty, sign or mark for each holding of land in each county or sheriff dom of Scotland, for each office or position held. Whereafter, the signatory was hustled away by men-at-arms to a side door, and out. They were being put through two at once, and as quickly as possible, but even so it took a deal of time. Hence the queue’s lack of momentum.

“Dear God-see this!” Nigel Bruce cried.

“See what they do!

Look—there is Mar kneeling now. Gartnait, Earl of Mar, your own wife’s brother. With that bishop. Save us—is it possible?”

His brother did not answer. Pale, set-faced, he was eyeing all that scene, noting all. He noted that it was only the English who sat at the long tables—all who ate and drank were Norman English, or perhaps Norman-Irish or Norman-Welsh or Norman French. He noted that none save the clerks at the signing table paid the least attention to the oath-taking, least of all those at the King’s high table. He noted that none of the Scots, however illustrious, were being permitted to remain in the Hall after signing.

His wrath rose to choke him. Suddenly he strode out, bursting from the painful procession, pushing through the steel barrier of the guards.

“My lord King!” he shouted.

“My liege lord Edward I I protest!

It is I—Robert Bruce of Carrick. Majesty—I crave your heed.”

There was much noise in that place, but even so his outcry must have been heard by most. Certain faces at the long table did turn towards him—but none up on the royal dais.

The guards were not slow to react. At first hesitating, in their surprise, they swiftly perceived that no sign came from the King, and a number hurled themselves upon the protester. He did not resist, knowing well that it could be accounted treason to brawl or engage in physical violence in the presence of the monarch. But he did raise his voice again. And this time it was directed not at Edward but at one of those who sat quite nearby at the long table.

“Cousin-my lord of Gloucester!” he called.

“Your aid, I pray you.” The guards were pushing him towards a door, not back to lis place in the queue, as he said it.

A tall, thin, grave-faced man rose at the table—Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, son-in-law of King Edward and cousin of the Bruces’ father. He did not speak nor make any gesture towards his young relative, but after a moment, unhurriedly went stalking in stiff crane-like fashion up towards the dais table. At sight of this the guards halted in the pushing of their prisoner, and waited.

Gloucester bowed before the King, and said something low voiced, turning to point back down the Hall. Edward glanced thither wards shrugged wide shoulders, and made a remark that ended in a hoot of laughter. He waved a careless hand. At the other end of the room, Bruce’s pale face flushed scarlet. Gloucester came pacing back.

“Permit my lord of Carrick to return to his place in the file,” he told the guards curtly, and without a word to his cousin, went back to his chair at the table.

Further humiliated, almost beyond all bearing, Robert Bruce was pushed back in the queue beside his brother. On the face of it no further attention was paid to him, any more than to the others. Nigel’s muttered sympathy was received.in stiff-lipped silence.

The Bruces’ creeping progress towards the signing-table proceeded frozen-faced thereafter—until perhaps, half-way there, exclamation was in fact wrung from both brothers by the elaborate arrival of newcomers on the scene—not by any humble servitors’ entrance these, but by the main Hall door. It was thrown open by a bowing chamberlain, and in strode Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster, followed by his daughter. A buzz of interest ran round me great chamber—to be lost in the louder noise of rising and pushing back of chairs, as Edward himself rose and turned to greet these honoured guests warmly, and perforce all others awake and sufficiently sober must rise also.

When they mounted the dais, the King slapped his old comrade on the

back heartily, and raising the curtsying Lady Elizabeth, kissed her

cheek with a smack, at the same time managing > nudge her father in the

ribs in jocular fashion, obviously paying masculine tribute to her

appearance. And admittedly she was very lovely, changed from her travelling dress into a magnificent shaped gown of pale blue satin, high-throated and edged with pearls, which highly effectively set off her fair beauty and splendid figure. She wore her plentiful ripe-corn-coloured hair looped with a simple circlet of blue cornflowers instead of the more usual elaborate headdress with net and horns. No large number of women were present, for the English were not apt to take their ladies campaigning with them, and the Scots summoned to the signing were all men; but such as there were shone but dully beside Elizabeth de Burgh, and by their expressions, knew it.

Little of admiration was reflected on the face of the Bruce brothers either. Indeed Robert’s carefully maintained and haughty lack of expression was now cracked into something like a glower.

“A plague on them! This is beyond all!” Nigel growled.

“Must we suffer this too? She will, she must see us here. Crawling like, like worms! Vanquished.”

The man immediately before them in the column turned.

“We are vanquished men, my lords,” he said simply. It was Sir Richard Lundin, a middle-aged life knight known slightly to both.

“You may be. But we are not, sir,” Bruce declared heatedly.

“We ever fought on Edward’s side. Opposed the usurper Baliol.

And now—this!”

“My heart bleeds for you, my lords!” A young man looked back from further up the queue, speaking mockingly.

“To have betrayed your own crowned liege lord and realm, and to have received this in reward!” That was Sir John Comyn, younger of Badenoch, nephew of King John Baliol and kinsman of the Constable, Buchan.

“Comyn! You to speak I You, who stole my lands. Bruce has never acknowledged any king save Edward, since Alexander died.

Comyn swore fealty to Edward likewise. Can you deny it? And then turned rebel. Jackal to Baliol! For which treachery you were given my lands. And you talk of betrayal!” During John Baliol’s three-year reign, he had forfeited the Bruces and divided their Carrick lands in Ayrshire amongst the Comyns, his sister’s family.

“John Baliol was, and is, King of Scots. Nothing that you, or that tyrant there, can say or do can un crown him. Crowned at Scone, on the Stone of Destiny. You it is, Bruce, that is rebel…”

“My lords, my young lords!” In between them the old Abbot of Melrose raised imploring hands.

“Peace, peace, I pray you. This can serve no good. For any of us. Of a mercy, watch your words.

Already they look at us …”

That was true. Despite the general noise and the evident policy of ignoring the Scots, the young men’s upraised voices had attracted some attention, the fact that it was the Earl of Carrick again no doubt contributing. Edward himself had not glanced in their direction, but Surrey, his chief commander, now looked round and down. And sitting at the King’s table now likewise, Elizabeth de Burgh was also considering them thoughtfully.

Perceiving the fact, Robert Bruce cursed below his breath, and looked determinedly elsewhere. Never had he felt so helpless, in so intolerable a position—he who should be Prince of Scotland if he had his rights. And to have that chit of a girl sitting there looking down on his ignominy … I His brother was also looking carefully anywhere but at the dais table. To change the dangerous subject was as essential as was not meeting the young woman’s interested gaze. He tapped Robert’s arm.