Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“No. Do you not see?” Exasperated, finding this long-range discussion trying in the extreme, he shook his head.

“The English will be back. They must come back. It is Edward’s command.

They will come in strength. They will have you. And in ill mood.

You must see it? Yield your house to me, now, and I will make a show of spoiling it. Then I will take you away. And your children.

Before they come …”

“Where? Take me where, my lord?” Clearly he was interrupted.

“To a safe place …” There was another interruption, more shouting, but from behind him this time. And Bruce was almost thankful for it, at his wits’ end as he was for what he might say to convince and reassure the woman. Some of his men were waving to him, urgently, and pointing. Beside them was a helmeted and leather-jerkined newcomer, obviously an English man-at arms, and a steaming horse.

“A messenger, lord,” the cry came.

“Frae Lochmaben. Wi’ tidings. Instant tidings, he says …”

Bruce hesitated, concerned with how this would look from the castle. Then he called back “Send him to me.” Towards the gatehouse he added, “Your pardon, lady.”

The courier came forward, far from eagerly, escorted by none.

He was clearly as tired as he was doubtful.

“Well, man? You are from Sir Nicholas Segrave? What is your message?”

“Not so, lord. It is Sir Nicholas that I seek. First. To him I was

sent. By Master Benstead “Eh? Then … then you have not seen him?

Segrave? Met with him?” Bruce stared.

“How came you here?”

“By a great weariness of hills, lord. By Moffat town, see you.

And Abington. And Roberton Water.” This was a singsong voiced Welshman, not English, and of some intelligence.

“So! You missed them, then. They would go back as we came—by Lowther. Sir Nicholas returns to Lochmaben. For … for more men.”

“And is like to need them I But will not find them there, lord.

Master Benstead’s tidings are of rebellion. War!”

“You mean this Galloway revolt?”

“That, and a deal more. They have broken out of Galloway and marched

north, these rebels. They are none so far off, look you-nearing Ayr

…”

“Ayr, you say?” That was making north, with a vengeance!

Nearly fifty miles north of the Galloway border. No more man thirty miles west of this Douglas, indeed.

“Then none are opposing them?”

“So it looks, lord. All the country rises to join them. But that is not the worst. The Lord Earl of Clydesdale is dead. Slain.”

“Hazelrig? Dead? You mean, in battle? He sought to halt them ..

.?”

“No, lord. Not these. Another. He was murdered. Slain in his own town of Lanark. By one Wallace. Some brigand, leading broken men, outlaws. Lanark is now in their hands.”

“By the Rude I Lanark fallen? Then these are no broken men!

Think you such could take the Sheriff’s town of Lanark, and Hazelrig’s castle? Stuffed full with Edward’s soldiery …!”

“Scarce that, lord. It was cunningly, shrewdly done. Most of the Sheriff’s force had been sent towards Ayr. To stem the rebels from Galloway. This man Wallace—they say he is the son of some small Renfrew knight, a vassal of the Steward’s—struck by night. He is not as the other rebels, led by lords and bishops. A man of no account, a brigand hiding in the hills and forests. By some trick he gained entry to Lanark Castle, and slew the Earl.

They say in vengeance for his wife’s death. Then turned on the town.

The townsfolk aided him. By daylight Lanark was his.”

“But, man-this is scarce believable! What were Hazelrig’s captains doing? It is the garrison town of the SouthWest.”

“One, Sir Robert Thorn, hangs from the castle’s keep, in place of King Edward’s banner, they say! The other it was came to Lochmaben with these tidings, looking for men. Sir Hugh le Despenser. Wounded. Finding no men there, he rode on for Dumfries.”

“So-o-o! The SouthWest is aflame? Edward’s iron grip prised

“Meantime, Lord-meantime, only I But only the SouthWest.

Master Benstead says that there are revolts in the North also. In Ross, wherever that may be. And Argyll, or some such place, gut these are afar off. Here is the danger. These sheriffdoms of Lanark, Ayr, Carrick and Galloway—the command of these is vital to the King, Master Benstead says.”

“Aye. No doubt he is right. And who does command here now, with Hazelrig dead? And Despenser wounded and gone? Who commands in Edward’s name, now?”

The courier raised an eloquent hand.

“Saving your lordship’s presence,” he said, diffidently, “you do! That was what I was to tell Sir Nicholas, look you. That now he must act in the name of the Earl of Carrick. Meantime. There is none other of earl’s rank. My lord Earl of Surrey is at York, they say. Until he appoints other, you command, lord. With … with the advice and direction of Master Benstead and Sir Nicholas Segrave, to be sure.

I was to say that, mind you …”

Robert Bruce’s bark of laughter drowned the rest.

“I command?

God save us-The Earl of Carrick commands now, for King Edward, in the SouthWest! Here’s a jest, by all that’s holy!”

“In name, lord. Under direction. Master Benstead was strong on that. You are to gain this castle of Douglas with all speed, and then march for Lanark. Guided by Sir Nicholas. Seek to join with the Lanark force that went to Ayr, to hold the rebels. Threaten Lanark together, but await further orders from Master Benstead .”

“Orders? To Edward’s commander?”

The Welshman coughed.

“Instructions, lord. Guidance. Counsel-call it what you will. I am a rough man, lord. No doubt I word it ill. But I was sent, in truth, to Sir Nicholas. He it was was to speak with you …”

“You speak full clearly, my friend! And to the point. Never fear.

And I thank you for it. Is … is that all?”

“Yes, lord. Have I your permission to go? I must still seek Sir Nicholas.”

“He will be back at Lochmaben before you are. A shorter road than you

came. But go if you will. Tell Master Benstead that I have his

message. And his… guidance! Now, I must speak with this woman

…”

As the courier went back towards the others. Bruce, his head in a whirl, faced the gatehouse. Somehow, he must have time to think. All was now changed. In the light of it all, so much called for decision. Instant decision. He must have a little time … “Lady,” he called.

“My regrets that I have kept you waiting. I have important tidings. Of the utmost importance. To us all You likewise. But not such as I may shout out to all the world I I must speak with you. Privily. It is essential.”

“Very well, my lord,” she answered.

“Have I your word, as an earl of Scotland, that you will only speak?

Will make no move to take or harm me?”

“You have. On my oath.”

“Then the drawbridge will be lowered. Part-lowered. So that I may walk out on it. None of your people to come near, my lord.

Only you. It is understood? And you must wait a little.”

He nodded. The longer he might wait, the better. Had ever a man so much to decide in so short a time? Here was a crossroads in his life. Which road he took now might determine all his future.

Sending back his impromptu standard-bearer, Robert Bruce commenced to pace up and down the bank of the moat.

He scarcely heard, presently, the clanking of the portcullis chains or the creaking of the timbering as the massive drawbridge began to come down. His mind, his judgement, his emotions, his whole character and personality, were involved in a turmoil of debate, of contradiction, of conjecture, as never before And yet, somehow, behind it all, the decision was already made.

With the bridge lowered to within some ten feet of its base, so that it formed only a moderate incline, armed men appeared from the gatehouse arch. And out from among them walked two persons—a woman and a boy.