The Steps to the Empty Throne

“So what now?” the impatient Christian asked.

“Now I send letters. I inform Edward—as one monarch to another” Almost he smiled.

“Who knows—the news might even serve our cause enough to stop his heart I More urgent, to William Lamberton. This very night. Nigel—you had best go. He is at Berwick still, I think—summoned there by Richmond, as adviser.

He must be told all, with nothing hidden. I will ask him to arrange an immediate coronation. If he will…”

“Lamberton will do it,” Nigel asserted, “He has been your friend always. You have a bond with him, have you not?”

“A bond cannot tie a man’s conscience. In especial, a churchman’s.

I can only hope. And you—you can pray!”

Elizabeth looked at him long and searchingly “My love,” she said gently, “I think that you should come with me. A little quiet refreshment. Write your letters later.”

He drew a hand over his brow.

“Later. Later, yes.”

“When last did you eat?” she asked.

“Eat? I… I do not know.”

“I thought as much. And even kings must eat! Come… Sire!”

Chapter Twenty-one

Hurriedly assembled though it was, the train that set out northwards from Lochmaben that bright and breezy March morning was a splendid one—the King of Scots on his way to Scone for his coronation. Whatever the dark uncertainties of the future, and all the thronging problems of the present and the guilt of the past, Bruce had sought to lay all aside for this great and significant event.

His coffers had been drastically raided, scraped indeed, his feudal vassals summoned from far and near, his womenfolk charged to prepare a magnificence of raiment and gaiety of colour and spectacle not seen in Scotland for half a century. Five hundred rode on this leisurely, seemingly joyful, 100-mile pilgrimage, a third of that number ladies, with scarcely a suit of armour or shirt of mail in sight-although, not in sight but far out on either flank, powerful armed contingents rode a parallel course, to ensure against any surprise attack from Richmond’s occupying forces, Comyn sympathisers, or other enemies. A company of mounted instrumentalists and minstrels led the procession, dispensing sweet music; banners fluttered by the score; gorgeously-caparisoned horses, heraldic ally-emblazoned litters, silks, satins, velvets and jewellery, dazzled the eye. Bruce himself wore a cloth-of-gold tabard, with the Lion of Scotland embroidered in red front and rear, picked out in rubies; and his queen was in royal purple velvet, tight of bodice and long flowing of skirt, high-standing collar and cuffs trimmed with seed pearls. Marjory, now a delicately lovely child of eleven, and making her first public appearance, was dressed wholly in white taffeta. Christian, with her sisters Mary and young Matilda, the baby of the family, her son Donald of Mar, and the four Bruce brothers, were little less fine.

But perhaps Bruce’s greatest satisfaction, in all this display, was in what was immediately in front of him and behind the musicians, where rode three churchmen-the Dean of Glasgow, the Abbot of Inchaffray and the Vicar of Dumfries. They carried a gold and jewelled pectoral cross, a great banner with the arms of the See of Glasgow, and a precious relic, allegedly a bone of Saint Kentigern.

But more important than what they carried was what they represented—the support and blessing of Holy Church, proved by a parchment in Bruce’s own possession, signed by Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, the diocese in which the deed was committed, granting him full absolution for the death of John Comyn, on grounds of personal and national necessity. Bruce’s conscience may have been little the lighter for this document, but his wits indeed were.

And, despite all this brilliance of circumstance and colour, he required every scrap of encouragement which he could muster.

For, although it was nearly six weeks since the day when he had stabbed Comyn and proclaimed himself King, the fact was that so far no large proportion of the nation had rallied to his standard.

Here in the SouthWest, his own domains, the response had been good;

but elsewhere it had been patchy indeed. He had issued a twenty-four hour warning for mobilisation, to the whole realm-but what response there might be to it, who could tell? The common people, who had followed Wallace, had greeted the claiming of the crown with enthusiasm, in the main. But these had little to lose, and at this stage not a great deal to contribute. It was the landed men, the nobles, lairds and knights, whom he must have, able to provide armed men, horses, money. And these held back. They were scarcely to be blamed, perhaps—even Bruce did not condemn them too fiercely. The land was in English occupation, and though Richmond’s forces were limited, anyone coming out in Bruce’s support was a marked man for the inevitable day when Edward sent his legions north again to wipe out this affront. By then, that Bruce would be in any position to withstand, or to protect his supporters, was highly questionable.

Ten years of bitter warfare had borne too heavily on such as these to leave many starry-eyed enthusiasts.

It was, therefore, with roused feelings that, riding down towards the grey town of Lanark, Bruce saw a tight and strong well-mounted company of about a hundred come spurring over a grassy ridge from the east, to meet the royal cavalcade at a tangent, lances glinting under a large blue-and-white banner. There were not a few Scots families which flew blue-and-white colours—but here in Lanarkshire the chances were that it was Douglas.

A young man, slender, swarthy, dark-eyed, graceful of carriage, led this squadron on a magnificent stallion. He drew rein a little way in front and to the side of the advancing column, and leapt down, to stand, waiting.

Bruce had his trumpeter sound the halt, and sitting his horse, beckoned the young man forward.

“Who are you, my friend?” he asked.

“And would you ride with me to Scone, this day?”

The other bowed deeply.

“I would ride with you farther than to Scone, my lord King,” he said impulsively, clear-voiced.

“I am James Douglas. Whom once you took out of Douglas Castle. To Irvine, and my father.”

“Ha! James Douglas? Sir William’s son. To be sure. I mind you now.

Save us—you make me feel old I A boy then, a man now.”

“Your man, Sire.” He took the outstretched hand between his own.

“Four days ago, only, I was of age. For long years I have waited for this. To come to you. Even when you were not King.

With my strength. As Lord of Douglas. Before, I could not. Others held me back. Now they can do so no more. And now I am come.

In time for your Grace’s crowning! God be praised!” All this was jerked out with a breathless urgency.

Bruce looked down into the eager dark eyes, and found an unaccountable lump in his throat.

“Aye, lad,” he said.

“And I am glad. But … why? What did I ever do for you? Save escort you and your step-mother to your father? Whose soul rest in peace.

All those years ago.”

“Nine years, Sire. I have well counted them. Five of them in France. Think you I could forget what you did that day? Outside the walls of Douglas. How you saved the children from hanging.

By Segrave. How you defied King Edward’s commands. How you came to us in courtesy, offered us rescue, conducted us to safety.

Then threw in your lot with the rebels. You, who were named Edward’s chief commander in the SouthWest! I vowed then that when I was a man, I would seek to be a man like the Earl of Carrick!” James Douglas paused, and swallowed.

“Your Grace’s pardon. I… I forgot myself!”

“Would God more in this realm would forget themselves, my lord of Douglas!” Suddenly Bruce rose in his stirrups, and dismounted. Hastily everywhere men jumped down, not to remain seated when the monarch stood.

“Give me that sword, lad,” he said.