The Steps to the Empty Throne

Sir John Kingston would have made suitable and dignified protest, out in the courtyard, but Bruce curtly cut him short.

“Enough, sir. Spare us this. We in Scotland have seen enough of English justice. More than enough to have any respect for its practitioners. Have you forgot the justice Sir William Wallace received?”

The angry growling from the onlookers was enough to convince Sir John that the moment was inopportune.

“You will be escorted to the Border, at Carlisle. You will be roped together, until then.” And when shocked heads were raised, Bruce added, “And you may praise God that the ropes are not used to hang you!”

Without further exchange, Edward’s representatives were marched under

guard, the summons-bell rope of the castle, used symbolically, a loop round each neck, to link them together.

The roar of derision and unholy joy from the waiting throng outside, as these feared and hated dignitaries passed out from the gatehouse, could have been heard all over Dumfries.

So was struck the first blow of the second War of Independence suddenly, without warning, almost by accident.

When Bruce himself rode out from the castle, it was to find the crowd vastly increased, the citizenry now obviously present in large numbers. Bruce’s appearance was greeted with loud and prolonged cheering. If there were not a few nominal Comyn vassals and supporters there, they did not proclaim the fact. Confused and leaderless, yet caught up in the vital sense of occasion and excitement, for the moment they went with the tide.

With his people marshalled into a great semi-circle behind him, Bruce faced the throng, and had his trumpeter blow for silence.

He spoke slowly, almost broodingly, with nothing of triumph and drama, however dramatic might be his actual words.

“My friends—this day, the tenth of February, of our Lord the thirteenth hundred and sixth year, we commence to cleanse our land. We have commenced here at Dumfries. Sir John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, turned traitor and is dead.”

There was an uneasy stirring amongst the crowd, but no outcry.

“Cleansed, yes,” Bruce went on steadily.

“We have also cleansed this castle. The English are gone from it, with scarce a blow struck.” He picked up the Leopard standard from his saddlebow, and shook out its handsome folds.

“Here is the usurper’s banner, from the tower.” He crumpled it up in his fist, and tossed it to the ground, contemptuously.

“It will serve for a shroud for Comyn. He has well earned it!”

There was reaction now, but no shouting, no clamour. Something in the manner, voice and expression of the young man who sat his horse and spoke so sombrely, precluded that. Men whispered, shuffled, stared at each other. And waited.

Bruce held up his hand.

“This castle is but the first of many which we must take and cleanse. Till all the land is cleared. And that will take long. Long. Let none doubt it. Edward of England will come for his banner—nothing more sure. We shall have to fight. Fight as we have never fought before. But not for so long, I think. For Edward is grown old. And sick. This is in our favour.”

He paused, and looked round.

“Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, you will be captain of this Castle of Dumfries. To hold it secure. You will hoist another and better banner on that tower. And see that it flies there, against all comers.”

“To be sure, my lord,” Kirkpatrick cried, loudly.

“Trust me for that. Bruce’s banner will not fall like that rag, there!”

“Who said Bruce’s banner?” Very slightly Bruce raised his voice.

“Find you our royal standard of Scotland, my friend. The Lion Rampant, red on gold. And raise that, see you.

For all to see. In my name. For this day, I, Robert, do claim, take and assume my rightful and true heritage, the throne of Scotland.

I stand before you now as your liege lord, Robert, King of Scots!”

For endless breathless moments there was complete and astonished silence. Men and women questioned their own ears. Only the slow ringing of the Greyfriars Monastery bell, tolling for the dead, broke the hush.

It was the Yorkshireman, Sir Christopher Seton, who first recovered himself. Wrenching out his sword for the second time that day, he held it high.

“God save King Robert!” he cried.

“God save the King! The King!”

It was as though a damned-up flood had been abruptly released.

Pandemonium broke loose. The entire company went almost crazy in a frenzy of excitement and emotion. Men shouted, laughed, capered, threw their bonnets in the air, shook hands, even embraced each other. Women skirled, sang, wept, fell on their knees and prayed. Hardened knights and veterans of the wars kissed the cross-hilts of their swords and blinked away weak tears. The least demonstrative just grinned foolishly.

Nigel and Thomas Bruce, as amazed and dumbfounded as anybody else, were too overwhelmed to do more than gabble and stammer and stroke their brother’s arms.

Of all that great gathering only the central figure himself remained apparently unaffected. Bruce sat unmoved and unmoving amongst the wild tumult, stiff and upright in his saddle as though carved there in stone. Never had he looked less pleased, less jubilant or exultant. And never more determined.

Out of the joyous confusion a pattern developed. Again it was the Englishman, Seton, who initiated it. He jumped down from his horse, casting away his sword with a clang. He came to Bruce’s side. Half-bending on one armoured knee, he held up two hands, open and a little apart.

“Majesty,” he exclaimed hoarsely, “I would be first to swear my oath of fealty. Give me your royal hand.”

”Not Majesty, friend,” Bruce told him.

“In this Scotland we leave majesty to such as Edward Plantagenet! Grace, we say. By God’s grace. Majesty I do not aspire to. But if ever a man required God’s grace, I do!” He gave his brother-in-law his hand nevertheless.

“Aye, Sire.” Taking the hand flat between his own two palms, Seton kissed it, then so holding it, said, “I, Christopher Seton, swear before Almighty God and all His saints, to be Your Grace’s true man, in fealty and homage, in life and in death. I hereby declare Robert, King of Scots, to be my liege lord, and no other.

Amen!”

This brought every other mounted man of gentle blood off his horse and into a clamorous queue, Kirkpatrick foremost. It was Seton himself who held them off, belatedly insisting that the King’s brothers must have precedence. So Nigel and Thomas each took Robert’s hand within their own, stumbling and stuttering in their near-distraction—yet even so somehow looking askance at their brother’s set, stern features.

Before the rest of the eager columns of aspirants took the oath, Bruce raised the much-kissed hand for quiet.

“My friends all,” he said.

“I warn you. My service will be a hard one. It cannot be otherwise.

English Edward will not smile on those who kiss this hand, this day.

Think well before you do so. For me there can be no turning back now. I win this realm of Scotland’s freedom, or die. But for you the die is not yet cast.

Think well, I say.”

Whatever brief stouns at the heart those ominous words may have aroused amongst his hearers, not one of the queue left place. Indeed more urgent was the clamour to reach his hand.

Bruce suffered the long oath-taking ceremonial with a grim patience.

But as soon as it was finished, he commanded silence again.

“I cherish your loyalty, value your trust,” he declared.

“But now we have work to do. Only one castle, one town, and a few hundred of men, at this moment acknowledge the King of Scots.

All must be brought to do so, willingly or unwillingly. I go back to Lochmaben, and command that all leal men rally to my standard there. But on the way I must take Dalswinton Castle, Comyn’s house—for we can afford to let no enemies hold it. Likewise we must take Tibbers, which, though mine, is English-held. It commands the Nith pass into Ayrshire. Sir Christopher—I charge you to take it. And hold it. I give it to you. Sir John Lindsay—Caerlaverock must be secured. In these Solway marshes. The passage from Carlisle. See you to it. Surprise will be our most potent weapon. To strike before any look for war. This will serve us. Go now-enough of talk. And if I could, I would say God go with you! To work.”