The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Yes. But he asks for this further audience. He says that he has something to show to Your Grace…”

“A mercy, friend I While we are alone, must you so grace and sire me?

I was Robert before. And to you, would be Robert still.”

“Very well, Robert my friend—if it is your royal wish…”

“It is. Now—what would this abbot show me?”

“That he must declare himself. So he assured me…”

So King and Primate went in search of the Abbot of Scone, and presently found that busy man superintending the decoration of the great semi-ruined, church for the next day’s ceremonies.

Master Henry was an old man, but bore his years and trials lightly. Small, grizzled, eager, he was almost monkey-like, the negation of the pompous cleric, quick and agile, but shrewd. He chuckled and laughed and rubbed his hands much of the time, and would abide no doleful monks in his establishment, declaring that there was more amusement and hearty joy to be won from religion than from any other subject, that God was the prime humorist and that the major sin against the Holy Ghost was a sour and gloomy piety.

When Lamberton beckoned him to the King, he came grinning, and making a most sketchy obeisance, led them aside, to announce, in a stage whisper, that he had something to disclose.

Then almost on tip-toe, he conducted them through a side-door and down a winding stair. On the ledge of the last slit-window was a lantern, which he lit with a flint, and led on downwards into the dark honeycomb of crypts beneath the main church.

“Save us—is it a corpse you have for us, man?” Bruce asked.

“Wait you,” the little man advised.

Amongst the damp and dripping vaults, stone and lead coffins and rusted iron yetts of that shadowy, chill place, the Abbot selected one massive door, and opened it with one of the keys hanging from his girdle. Stepping inside a small vaulted cell, he held the lantern high.

The two visitors stared. The place was empty save for a solid block of stone that gleamed black and polished in the lamplight.

“By all the Saints!” Lamberton murmured.

“The Stone! The true Stone …”

“The Stone …?” Bruce demanded.

“You cannot mean the Stone of Destiny? The Stone of Scone? Itself!”

Master Henry skirled laughter that echoed in all the vaults.

“I do that, my lord King. None other.” He rubbed his hands.

“Yon’s the right Stone. Your Coronation Stone, My Stone.”

“So-o-o! I heard that Edward took a false Stone to London. Or so some said. But… how did you do it, man?”

“Did you expect me to let the accursed Southron have Scotland’s most precious talisman?” the little man demanded.

”I am Abbot of Scone. Custodian of Scotland’s Stone. It belongs he

at Scone. And there it is.”

“But how, man? How?”

Lamberton was kneeling beside the thing, running his hands!

over it. The block was about twenty-four inches high and twenty-?

eight long by twenty wide, a heavy, shiny black cube, its top dipped slightly in a hollow, the whole curiously wrought and carved with Celtic designs. It had two great rolls, or volutes, like handles, sculptured on either side, to carry it by—but when the Bishop sought to raise it, he could not do so much as move it an inch.

“Aye—this is it. The true Stone,” he exclaimed.

“I saw it. At Bailors coronation. This… this is next to a miracle!”

“No miracle,” the Abbot chuckled.

“Just cozening. I cozened Edward Longshanks -that is all.”

“Out with it,” Bruce commanded, impatiently.

“Och, well—see you, it was not mat difficult, Sire. King Edward had sworn, yon time, to destroy Scotland. To bring down its throne, to burn this abbey, to take away its Stone. Sworn before all. The Stone was in my care. Was I to allow that? I could scarce prevent him from burning my abbey. But I could try to save the Stone. He had warned me. Three days warning I had.

So I had it taken from its place hard by the altar. By night. Secretly. Eight stark men bore it, in a covered litter. They bore it down Tay, four miles. To Boat of Moncrieffe. And ferried it across. Then they carried it up Moncrieffe Hill, and hid it in the cave where Wallace sheltered one time, Sir John Moncrieffe of that Ilk aiding them.” The old man licked grinning lips.

“And myself, I had the masons cut a great skelb of stone out of the quarry here. A rude block enough, but stout and heavy. And this I set before the altar. For Edward of England!”

“And … he took it. Your lump from the quarry. Knowing no better?

It is scarce believable.”

“As to that, Sire—who knows? Yon Edward is a man with the pride of Lucifer. He had sworn he would carry Scotland’s Stone back to London. He may have jaloused that this was false.

But there was none other—and a stone he must take. It would serve as well as the other, for most I It has served, has it no’ ?”

“By the Rude—here is a wonder!” Bruce cried.

“Perhaps that is why he was so angry, that time at Berwick? Knowing it false.

Man—I have never heard the like!” He stepped forward to touch Scotland’s famed talisman with reverent hand.

“The Stone of Destiny. For my crowning. Here is good augury, indeed.”

“Here is the work of a leal and stout-hearted man,” Lamberton said, deep-voiced.

“You are right. My lord Abbot—for this I owe you more than I can say. All Scotland is hereby in your debt. I thank you. The Stone could scarce have had a better custodian.”

“My simple duty, Your Grace. And my pleasure.” The little man performed almost a skip of glee.

“Nights I lie awake, and think of Edward Plantagenet with his lump of Scone sandstone!

It is my prayer that he was not deceived. That he knows it false.

I think it so. For, two years after he took it, he sent an ill band of Englishry back here, to wreak their fury on this place again. They came only here, from Stirling. They smashed and raged and defaced, in fury. They broke down everything that had been left and that we had set up again—the doors of this church, the refectory, dormitories, cloisters. Laid axes to every cupboard, chest, casket and plenishing. It was hate, naught else. I think Edward knows well that he was cozened—and does not like it. But dares not confess it, lest all men conceive him fooled I So the English are saddled with their stolen false Stone, and can scarce come back for this one. Is it not a joy?”

Shaking their heads, the other two considered the diminutive cleric—and Bruce found a smile, even if Lamberton did not.

Next day, therefore, the King of Scots at least was enthroned on the Stone of Destiny, even though there was no Mac Duff to place him thereon. To the deafening clamour of trumpet fanfares the new monarch strode alone up through the crowded church to the high altar, and there seated himself upon the ancient Stone, which legend claimed to have been Jacob’s pillow in the wilderness, brought to Ireland by Scota, Pharaoh’s daughter, from whom the Scots took their name; but which was more likely to have been the portable altar of a travelling saint, possibly Columba himself, fashioned out of a meteorite. There Bruce sat while Abbot Henry brought up his Queen to sit on a throne opposite him, and the Primate, leading the Bishops Wishart and David of Moray, paced out of the vestry, themselves gorgeously attired, bearing magnificent robes of purple and gold in which to deck the King. These were canonicals, saved and hidden by Wishart at the sack of Glasgow, and now produced for this momentous occasion.

The trumpets silenced, a great choir of singing boys chanted sweet

music, while the bishops and abbot robed Robert Bruce ceremonially,

and acolytes filled the air with the fragrance of swinging censers.

The service that followed was impressive, if inevitably length conducted by the Abbot and the Primate, the sonorous Latinities of the Mass rolling richly, the anthems resounding, the silent pauses dramatic. Then to the high, pure liquid notes of a sin singer reciting the Gloria in Excelsis, William Lamberton took the ampulla, and consecrating it at the altar, turned to anoint the King with oil.