The Steps to the Empty Throne

The rest of them. By now. Take heed, man!”

Neither Kirkpatrick nor any of the others so much as looked back.

Rapping out an oath, Seton turned and hurried after them.

Whether with the cold, or just the passage of time, Bruce’s trance-like shock was beginning to wear off. He was still shaken and not himself, but he became increasingly aware at least of the dangers inherent in the situation. He shook off his brothers’ hands.

“My trumpeter,” he jerked.

“Get him. Quickly. To me. Up at the castle-yard. You, Tom. Nigel—gather some men. Find and take the Comyn horses. Away with them. Then join me up at the castle. See to it.”

“You are well enough …?”

“Yes. Go. Quickly. There is no time to lose.”

Left alone for the moment, Bruce stared bleakly, unseeing, before him. Then he looked down at his hand. It was splashed with blood. Hastily he sought to wipe it away, his breath catching.

Then he desisted. No amount of rubbing would wipe away this day’s work. He might as well accept that. The deed was done, and there could be no turning back. What lay ahead he could not tell—save that nothing would ever be the same again for him. He had slain a man. Not in honest battle, but in blind anger. Committed murder. Done the unforgivable thing. Taken another man’s life with his own hand. And in God’s house, before His very altar. The unholy upon the unforgivable … Even that was not all. He had murdered the most powerful man in Scotland. With a following great enough to turn the land upside-down. Moreover he was completely lost with King Edward.

Nothing could repair that break now. Suddenly all his ropes were cut.

He was a bark adrift in a rising storm.

Or not quite adrift, perhaps. Alone, yes. For ever alone now.

Anchors and warps gone. Sore beset. But still he had a rudder.

And a purpose. Made simpler now. Wholly simplified indeed, since it was now all or nothing. There was nothing left to him now but to fight. Fight to the death. Fight to win, or to lose. No alternative course, any more.

To the fight, then! With a new enemy to face, instead of John Comyn.

His own conscience.

He set off, heavy-strided, up the cobbled climbing street.

The shrilling trumpet brought men streaming up on to the grassy hillock on which Dumfries Castle was built-no major fortress this but rather an administrative centre in a provincial walled town. All sorts of men came to that imperious summons, by no means all Bruce levies; many were, if not neutral, at least little involved, some were Comyn supporters, and not a few were English men-at-arms. But Bruce’s people were there as a disciplined body, under the personal command of their, lord. Moreover they all were mounted. They displayed all the difference between men of purpose and authority, and mere onlookers.

Nigel was one of the last to join his brother on the seething castle hill, where an air of strange and heady excitement prevailed, with rumours flying thick and fast.

“The Comyn horses are driven off,” he reported.

“The leaders’ beasts, that is. And many others. Little trouble.”

“Yes. And Christopher? Kirkpatrick?”

“I have not seen them. Do you think …?”

“I think if any can look to themselves, these can.”

“What do you do now?”

“Take Dumfries. I have no choice.”

“What…?” Astounded, Nigel stared at him.

“I have crossed my river, now,” his brother said evenly, almost sternly.

“There is no turning back. I can only go forward. Whatever the cost.

But that is for myself. You-you need not go where I go. You, or any. For it will be a sore road. There is time, still, to turn back. For you. If you will.”

Nigel looked across at his younger brother, brows raised.

“You are not wandering? In the head? That blow …”

”Look,” Thomas pointed.

“Christopher. And the others.”

Seton, Kirkpatrick and Lindsay, with some small following were hastening up the rise towards them. They had the look of victorious men. Others made way for them automatically.

“Well?” Bruce, the new Bruce, barked the single word.

“You were right, my lord,” Kirkpatrick shouted back, grinning.

“A botched blow! He was still alive. I finished your work.

The Red Comyn is dead. And others with him. Not a few I And this world the sweeter!”

A long shuddering sigh broke from the listening crowd.

Bruce looked at the newcomers long and levelly. Then he spoke, tonelessly.

“Very well. I thank you for completing my work.”

He took a deep breath, and turned.

“And now, there is more work to do, my friends. Much more. This castle, for a start.” He pointed upwards, to where the Leopards of England flew above the highest tower.

“That banner. I’ll have it down, see you.”

There was a corporate gasp from the company, a gasp that developed and changed into a rumbling roar as men perceived something of the significance of this declaration. Englishmen in the crowd began suddenly to look alarmed.

There were a number of men-at-arms at the castle gateway, but these were a ceremonial guard for the justices rather than any sort of garrison. Already, from the sitting in the hall, the chief magistrate, Sir John Kingston, had sent officers to enquire the reason for the trumpeting and noise outside, and to demand respectful quiet. As Bruce led his mounted cohort directly for the gateway, these turned and hurried away.

If the captain of the guard-house was of heroic stuff he wisely decided, in the face of a force ten times the size of his own, that this was not the occasion to demonstrate it. He and his men exchanged eloquent glances and promptly took themselves off after the officers.

There was no moat and drawbridge here, and Bruce led his men through the gatehouse pend and into the courtyard, without hindrance. There he halted, sitting his horse, while he gave his lieutenants orders to secure all gates and strong points to man the parapets, and to bring him that banner. To Nigel he gave special instructions.

“My compliments to King Edward’s justices,” he said, “Inform them that their duties here are now over. And that I will provide them with safe-conduct over the Border. Forthwith.”

His brother laughed aloud, and without dismounting, he or his men, rode indoors.

Soon he was back.

“They have locked themselves into the hall “ he reported.

“I shouted your commands. But they said they will have no dealings with rebels. And that you are to disperse our force at once. Or all will be arraigned for treason.”

“For judges, they much lack judgement!” Bruce declared grimly.

“Have woodwork chopped down. And brushwood from outside. Those whins on the brae side will burn well. Pile all against doors and windows, and set alight. See how they judge that!” Nigel’s chuckling was stilled by the steely expression on his brother’s face. He hurried off to do as he was told.

A warning shout from high above was followed by a muffled clatter that set Bruce’s horse sidling. The Leopard standard of Plantagenet, wrapped round an English guard’s helmet, and cast down from the parapet aloft, lay there on the flagstones.

A hoarse cheer rose from all who saw. Bruce had the thing handed up to him.

It was not long before, without the incendiaries waiting for brushwood, smoke was billowing along the corridors and vaulted passages of Dumfries Castle. And swiftly if belatedly the judicial qualities of those within asserted themselves. A messenger emerged from the smoke-enshrouded hall to request passage for His Majesty’s judges.

Bruce ordered the pile of burning woodwork at the main hall door to be cleared a little to one side-but only a little. The justices, clerks, officers, litigants, prisoners and soldiers alike, in consequence, had to hop and skip nimbly through as they emerged.