The Steps to the Empty Throne

Bruce, stern-faced as Lamberton himself, gazed across the chancel, hearing and seeing little, aware more vividly of that other high altar and the bloodstained figure collapsing against it, a picture which would haunt him until his dying day.

While the people still shivered to the aching beauty of that lone singing, conjoined with the dread significance of the holy anointing, they were rudely roused, to the extent of almost gasping with fright, by the sudden, unheralded, furious clashing of cymbals, that went on and on, as old Robert Wishart hobbled to the altar to take up the crown. It was in fact no true crown-Edward had seen to that—being but a simple gold circlet, taken from some saint’s image; but no more valid diadem survived in all Scotland, and this must serve. To the shattering clangour of the cymbals, the aged prelate placed the slender symbol over the Bruce’s brow.

“God save the King I God save the King! God save the King!” Drowning even the clashing brass, the great cry arose and continued, every man and woman in the crowded church on their feet and shouting—save only Bruce himself and Elizabeth.

On and on went the refrain, like an ocean’s tide crashing on a shingle beach, as all gave rein to their pent-up emotions. Looking across at her husband, the Queen perceived his lips to be moving, in turn.

“God save me! God save me, indeed!” he was whispering.

She would have run to him then, if she might.

At length the trumpets triumphed, and to their imperious ululation the Bishop or Moray brought Bruce the sceptre for his right hand, from the altar, while Abbot Henry brought him the Book of the Laws. Then, from the front of the nave, the Earl of Atholl came forward with the great two-handed sword of state.

He knelt before Bruce and proffered it for the monarch to touch.

Then, holding it up before him, he took his stance behind the Stone.

The Earls of Lennox and Menteith brought up the spurs and ring, respectively, and Scrymgeour the Standard-Bearer ‘liked forward with the great Lion Rampart banner of the King* dipped it over Bruce’s head, and then laid it on the altar.

The main coronation procedure completed, Lamberton stepped across, to bow before the Queen and place another golden circlet over her corn-coloured hair. Kissing her hand, he raised her, and led her across the chancel to the King’s side, where she curtsied low and took her husband’s hand between both her own, the first to do him homage. Her throne carried over by acolytes, she seated herself at his right hand.

There remained but the ceremony of homage-giving, when all landed men and prelates might come up to take the King’s hand and swear fealty, their names and styles called out by the King of Arms, a lengthy process but not to be scamped.

At last it was all over, and the royal couple could go outside to show themselves to the common folk who had gathered in their thousands to acclaim them.

The remainder of the day, and the day following, were given over to feasting, jousting, games and entertainments for all classes and tastes, with music and dancing late into the night. Bruce made a number of celebratory appointments to his household and to offices of state, granted charters and decrees, and created knights. There was only one flaw in the colourful tapestry. A courier arrived from the SouthWest, to inform the King that Sir Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, had been appointed commander in Scotland, to succeed the somewhat feeble John of Brittany, and had arrived at Carlisle to assemble a great army. De Valence was no puppet, but a fierce and able soldier, a second cousin of Edward’s and, significantly, brother-in-law to the dead Comyn. Moreover Edward had sent the Prince of Wales on after Pembroke, gathering a second army; and he himself was preparing to come north.

It had had to come to this, sooner or later.

Two forenoons later, when Bruce was in conference with his lords, he was brought new and more surprising tidings. There was a latecomer to the coronation scene—none other than Isabel, Countess of Buchan. It was perhaps strange that the King should immediately interrupt his Council and go in person to greet this lady, the young wire of one of his most consistent enemies. But Isabel of Buchan had been Isabel Mac Duff before her marriage, sister of the Earl of life.

He found the Countess with Elizabeth and Christian, little more than a

girl, but a sonny, high-coloured, laughing girl, a strange wife for the dour, elderly High Constable of Scotland. She sank low before him.

“My lord King,” she said, “I am desolated. That I am come too late. I have ridden for twelve days. Four hundred miles. Ever since I heard. For Your Grace’s coronation. And come too late by two days. It is a sore sorrow.”

“Why, lady—here’s a woeful mischance,” Bruce said, raising her.

“Had we but known. To come so far. You must, then, have been in England?”

“At my lord’s manor of Fishwick, in Leicestershire. He has made his peace with Edward. Since … since …”

“Aye—I understand. And you left my lord behind?”

“Yes, Sire. He … he knew not that I came.”

“So! A leal subject, indeed—if less leal a wife!”

“I am, first, Mac Duff of life’s daughter! When I learned, to my sorrow, that my brother, the Earl Duncan, preferred to bide at Edward’s Court in London than play his rightful part in the crowning of his King, I made haste to come myself. That there should be a Mac Duff if only a woman, to place the crown on your head. Lacking the Stone of Scone, this at least I could do. I took my husband’s best horses. And now—now it is all too late…!” Her eager voice broke.

Bruce thrust out a hand to clasp her bent shoulder.

“Not so, lass—not so. Would you had been here two days ago, yes. But today is also a day. I do greatly esteem the presence of a Mac Duff —especially so fair a one! In order that you should do what only Mac Duff can rightfully do. You shall crown me again, forthwith.

And seat me on the true Stone of Destiny also. For it is here, despite all. The Stone of Scone. The Abbot Henry saved it. Edward has a false boulder, a worthless lump of building-stone, to cherish at his Westminster! We shall have a second crowning.

And none shall say that Robert Bruce is not truly King of Scots!”

The girl burst into tears, there and then.

So, that afternoon, in another brief but joyful ceremony, the Countess of Buchan led her sovereign to the Stone, and there placed the gold circlet over his brow, to the lusty cheers of the concourse. And, as lustily, Bruce kissed her for her services, declaring that he felt a King indeed.

Chapter Twenty-two

Although Bruce ordained that the festivities continue at Scone for some days longer, the very next morning he himself, with Elizabeth and a small Court—including the Countess of Buchan whom the Queen appointed her principal lady-in-waiting—set off on a progress through the land. Admittedly it was partly a recruiting drive, with Aymer de Valence’s invasion threat bearing heavily on his mind—but it was advisable, necessary, that the King should show himself to as large a number of his people as was possible.

Meanwhile emissaries, including his brothers Thomas and Alexander, and the Bishops of Glasgow and Moray, rode south, east and west, to raise troops and rouse the country—especially south-west, where lay the greatest opportunity to harry and distract Pembroke.

The King chose to travel northwards, for it was there that the Comyn influence was strongest and must be countered. His progress was not entirely formal and processional, for he took the English-held royal castles of Forfar and Kincardine on the way.