The Steps to the Empty Throne

Comyn shrugged.

“You saw the King? Spoke with him?”

“I did.”

The other obviously was nonplussed, “He treated you …

kindly?”

“Not kindly, no. Edward is seldom kind to Scots.”

“Did he speak… of me?”

“What he said is for your privy ear, my lord.”

“Ah, yes TO be sure.” Comyn looked around him at all the ‘interested throng of his own supporters and Bruce’s, filling the all refectory. He beckoned to the Prior, who fussed about, in a flutter with all this splendid company.

“Where may I speak alone with my lord of Carrick?” he demanded.

“My poor house is full, my good lord. With all this of the assize. I can dear a chamber for your lordships, if you will. But if you would but talk together, for a short time, the chapel is nigh. And empty.”

“The chapel, yes. That will serve. Take us there.”

The Prior led them out of a side-door and down a cloister walk. At a short distance behind them Bruce’s brothers and Sir Christopher Seton followed on, as did Comyn’s uncle, Sir Robert, and his Kinsman Master William.

Their guide opened another door at the end of the cloister, which proved to be the vestry entrance to the little church, leading directly into the choir.

Gesturing to the others to stay at the door, Comyn beckoned Bruce forward to just before the altar itself.

“We may speak safely here,” he said.

“A strange place for what falls to pass between you and me!”

the other commented.

“As well as another. What have you to tell me, Bruce?”

“Sufficient to prove you a viler scoundrel than I knew defiled the face of this Scotland!”

“Christ God! You dare to speak so!”

“Aye, and more! And speak with good cause. Dastard I Judas!”

Comyn’s hand dropped to the jewelled hilt of his dirk.

“You will unsay that, Bruce!” he whispered.

“No man speaks so to John Comyn, and lives!”

“Unsay it? I will prove it!”

The other’s dagger was half-out of its sheath before he realised that Bruce’s hand was reaching into a pocket, not for his own dirk.

“What say you to this?” Bruce held out his signed bond, and the enclosing letter to Edward.

Comyn’s swiftly indrawn breath was as eloquent as any words.

He stared at the out-thrust offering.

“I am waiting?”

His opponent moistened his lips.

“Where … did you … get that?” he got out.

”What matters it? Since I have it now.”

“I have been betrayed, then …”

“Betrayed! You to speak of betrayal! You, who made this compact with me. To be your King! And then betrayed me to Edward-to a certain death! Lamberton also-since he signed witness.”

“Haugh I To betray traitors is no fault!”

“Traitors! You name me traitor? Is it possible … that this forsworn wretch … should so name Bruce?” And his hand rose, to point a quivering finger at the other.

Swift as thought Comyn smashed down the accusing hand with his own clenched fist-his left, since his right was still clutching the dagger-haft.

“Aye—traitor, as I have ever known you I Sold to Edward, always.

Sold, for his favour. And his Ulsterwoman, de Burgh …!”

Whether at the snarling mention of Elizabeth’s name, or at the physical blow to his arm, the second such that Comyn had struck him, something snapped in Bruce’s overwrought brain as surely asa breaking bowstring, releasing a scalding red tide which rose swiftly to engulf him. The tingling down struck hand went straight to his dagger. Scarcely knowing what he did, certainly not hearing the cries from the doorway, he whipped out the weapon and, beating aside the still upraised hand that had struck him, drove the steel deep into John Comyn’s breast.

With a choking, bubbling groan, the other collapsed sideways against the altar, handsome features contorted, limbs writhing, and slid to the stone floor.

Dazed, unseeing, Robert Bruce stood, panting for breath.

The horrified shouting of the watchers by the door changed to action.

Sir Robert Comyn, nearest, came running forward, drawing his sword. Nigel Bruce sprang after him, but the two clerics threw themselves in his way; while young Thomas stood appalled, paralysed. Not so Seton. A veteran soldier, he knocked Master William to the ground with a single blow, and leaping over him, raced after Sir Robert.

Comyn’s uncle, cursing in fury, rushed on Bruce, who stood unmoving, as though stunned by what he had done. He did not attempt to parry or even dodge the blow which the older man aimed at him.

The other’s sword-thrust was rageful rather than shrewd. And Bruce, unlike his fallen enemy, had anticipated that this might be the day in which armour would be a wise precaution, and was clad in a jerkin of light chain-mail. The slashing angry swipe drove him staggering backwards against the altar, in turn, but the steel did not penetrate the mail.

With a great roar, Seton hurled himself upon Sir Robert, his own blade nigh. Down it crashed, not in any wild swiping but in sheerest expert killing, on the unprotected neck of the older man.

Head all but severed by that one stroke, Robert Comyn fell, spouting fountains of blood, over the body of his nephew.

Nigel came running to his brother now.

“Robert!” he cried.

“You are hurt? Stricken? Curse him I Robert speak! God’s mercy—are you sore hurt?”

Bruce did not answer, did not so much as shake his head.

“Rob—answer me!” Nigel was running over his brother’s steel-girl torso with urgent hands.

“He is but dazed, man,” Seton panted.

“His harness would save him …”

“Quick!” Thomas Bruce exclaimed, hurrying to them, and pointing backwards.

“They have gone. The churchmen. To tell the others. The Comyns.

They will be back. Seeking blood! Let us away from here.”

“Aye,” Seton agreed grimly.

“That is sense, at least. Come.

Take his arm. An arm each. He will be well enough. The other door.

To the street. Haste you!”

So, without a glance at the fallen Comyns, a brother supporting him on either side, the silent, glazed-eyed Bruce was led, hustled indeed, down the nave to the little church’s main door, Sir Christopher striding ahead, reddened sword still in his hand.

They emerged into the cold, frost-gleaming Castle Wynd. The alleys and entries of the climbing street were filled with chilled, waiting Bruce supporters. Nigel yelled for horses.

Men came starting out, at sight of their lord’s party and the bloody sword. Shouts filled the crisp air.

Two knights came running, drawing their own swords—Sir Roger Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, nearby, and Sir John Lindsay, a kinsman or Crawford’s. Nigel was still demanding horses, but Kirkpatrick came right up to his feudal master.

“What’s to do?” he demanded.

“My lord—are you hurt? What is this?”

Bruce shook his head.

“Get our men assembled,” Seton cried.

“There will be trouble.”

”They are near. On the green. And on the castle hill. And behind

yonder church. A trumpet blast will summon them. But . what’s to do? That blood? Whose is it?” Kirkpatrick, a big, rough, fierce man” was not to be put off.

At last Bruce spoke.

“I doubt … I have slain .. the Comyn,” he said, slowly, distinctly.

“God’seyes! Comyn? Himself? Where?”

“God pity me—at the altar. In the church.” That came out as a groan.

“In the church? Praises be-where better? For that snake!

And you doubt it? Doubt he’s slain? Then, by the Mass—I’ll make sure of it!” Kirkpatrick thrust past them, on the word, and into the church doorway, followed by Sir John Lindsay, Sir Robert Fleming and a few other men, “Watch you!” Nigel shouted after them.

“They will be there.