Nigel Tranter: The Steps to the Empty Throne

“I am sorry, friend,” he said, when there was a pause.

“I do not know what you say.”

The other looked him up and down disapprovingly, then shrugged the bent tartan-draped shoulders.

“You are Robert son of Mariot, daughter of Niall, son of Duncan, son of Gilbert, son of Fergus, son of Fergus?” he demanded, and added, “Ard Righ,” almost grudgingly.

Bruce at least knew those last two words, which meant High King. He nodded.

“I am he.”

“And I—I am the Dewar of the Coigreach,” the other said dramatically and waved his staff.

Bruce dredged in his bemused mind for what this might signify.

And then recollected. The Coigreach, of course. It was the legendary pastoral staff of Saint Fillan, one of the most celebrated of all the ancient Celtic saints, a prince of the royal Dalriadic house, out of which the united kingdom of the Picts and Scots had come, and Abbot of the long defunct Culdee Abbey of Glendochart—and a leper, it was said. A precious relic since the eighth century, this crozier was handed down in a long line of hereditary custodians, known as Dewars or Diors, who were venerated, all over the Celtic Highlands and islands as holy men.

“I greet you, Dewar of the Coigreach,” he acknowledged.

“How can I serve you?”

The other snorted.

“I came to serve you!” he corrected.

“I have come to bless you. Who is this woman?”

“She is the Queen. My wife.”

The Dewar sniffed, and shrugged. But he raised the crozier, with its curious, elaborately-wrought bronze head, and extending it over the royal couple, launched into a stream, a flood, of Gaelic.

When he at length lowered the staff, he added factually, “You are now blessed with the Blessing of Saint Fillan.”” “I thank you,” Bruce said, level-voiced.

“But I would remind you that I have been excommunicated by the Pope.

His Holiness of Rome.”

“The Pope? Who is the Pope?” the Dewar asked haughtily.

“And where is Rome? It is not in Ireland, the Cradle of the Church.

Do you question the authority of Saint Fillan?”

“No.” Bruce swallowed.

“No, I do not.”

“As well.” The ancient scratched amongst his rags, eyed Elizabeth balefully, and then, without any leave-taking, even so much as a nod, turned and went stumping off down the hill, as independent as he had come.

Bruce, from looking after him, stared at his wife.

Elizabeth’s eyes were shining.

“Robert! Robert!” she cried.

“It is a miracle! God be praised! See you, the Old Church has come to the rescue of its prince. The Romish Church may excommunicate you—but this is a Church older than Rome. And it blesses you! Takes you for its own.” Her laughter was high pitched, tinged almost with hysteria, but with its own joy.

“Here is a lesson, as well as a blessing. For the King. To remember whence he came. It was a Celtic kingdom, not a Norman one.

And you are half a Celt. I am less so—but I have some Celtic blood.

And, and I do come from Ireland I The Cradle of the Church, no less!

It is a sign, my dear. Come most timely.”

“A sign, yes.” He nodded, a new light in his eye.

“I believe that it is. A sign. Perhaps I have been led to Saint Fillan’s land. To this Glen Dochart where his abbey was. He was, you might say, a forebear. In some degree. Since King Malcolm Canmore, my ancestor, was of his line.” He raised one shoulder.

“And Malcolm’s Romish wife, Margaret, it was who brought down the Celtic Church I An old story. Another Queen stronger than her husband ….” He looked at her.

“I am not that.” Elizabeth shook her head.

“In much I am weak, foolish. But in my love for you, Robert, I am strong. Strong with your strength. It was your strength that first drew me to you.

You are strong still—only weary. In pain. Mourning your friends.

And alone. As only a king may be alone. But now I am with you again. To restore part of your strength. That I had borrowed—in exchange for my heart!”

He drew her to him, there on the hillock in sight of all.

“Quiet, you,” he said gently.

“You have said enough. Done enough.

Done it all. I will be strong, yes. Strong, now. Until one day I give you a whole realm to cherish. Instead of one stumbling man, Elizabeth de Burgh.”

“To that I will hold you, Robert Bruce,” she agreed, glad-eyed.

“I… and Saint Fillan!”

Hand in hand they turned, to face downhill.