Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Come with me.”

It was eloquent of the effect of the night’s experiences on the three that they none of them took active exception to the summons or the ragged cleric’s abrupt delivery thereof, but followed him without comment or question.

Turning their backs on the blazing Barns of Ayr, they made for the castle, finding themselves on a roadway between the two buildings.

Soon they were aware of people. Over on their left, a crowd was standing, silent, townsfolk obviously. Dimly seen in the light of the flames, they stood in their hundreds, unmoving, huddled there seemingly rooted, watching, only watching, strangely noncommittal.

The priest ignored them entirely.

The walkers came across the first bodies lying sprawled about a hundred yards from the castle’s dry ditch. They lay scattered, as though cut down individually, in flight perhaps. Bruce stooped to peer at one or two—for the beacons on the castle ramparts were fading now, untended. These were men-at-arms, all similarly clad, in jacks and small pointed helmets with nose guards—English obviously. There were perhaps a dozen of them, dotted along the roadway. Then, near the drawbridge-end, was a dark heap, almost a mound. Here men had died fighting, not running, back to back probably, assailed and surrounded as they issued from the castle. How many there might be there was no knowing. None moved, at any rate. The priest, his hitched-up robe flapping about leather-bound legs, led on without pause or remark—though once he muttered as he slipped on blood, and recovered his balance with difficulty.

‘ Four ruffianly characters, swords in hand, greeted them less than respectfully at the bridge-end, but let them pass. Men were leading out horses from the castle, fine beasts, laden with miscellaneous gear.

They crossed the inner bailey, where more bodies lay. Somewhere a woman was screeching hysterically, and there were groans from nearer at hand.

The castle’s interior still smelt of mortar and new wood, though

overlaid now by the smells of blood and burning. Master Blair conducted his charges up the wide turnpike stairway to the hall. There many torches flared, to reveal a dramatic scene. William Wallace stood up on the dais, at the far end, towering over all, with the man Scrymgeour, head bound with a cloth, young Boyd, and one or two others, nearby. Half-way to the door a group of older men stood, white-faced, in some disarray of dress, none armoured, their agitation very evident. Above all, three men hung on ropes from the beams of the high roof, one in armour, one part-clothed, the one in the centre wholly naked. This last was middle-aged, heavily gross, paunchy, his body lard like and quite hairless, obscene in its nudity. He twitched slightly.

“Ha, my lords!” Wallace called, at sight of the newcomers.

“Come, you. Here are the provost and magistrates of this good burgh of Ayr. Some of them. And there,” he pointed upwards, “is one Arnulf, who called himself Deputy Sheriff. Also the captain of this castle’s garrison, and his lieutenant.” To the townsmen he added, “You see before you the Earl of Carrick, the Lord of Bothwell and Sir John the Graham. I ask these lords to receive this town and castle, in the name of John, King of Scots.”

Moray looked doubtful, Graham glanced at Bruce, and that young man raised his voice.

“I will not, sir,” he said loudly, clearly.

“There is no King of Scots, today. John Baliol was a usurper, and failed the realm. He has vacated the throne. He is now in France. I, for one, can accept nothing in his name.”

His companions did not speak.

Wallace looked thoughtfully at them, tugging his beard-which was noticeably singed on one side.

“So that is the way of it!” he said.

“All men may not hold as you do, my lord.”

“That may be so. But I so hold. And state.”

“Who, then, may speak in the realm’s name? This burgh and castle is taken. In whose name?”

Bruce saw that Wallace was concerned to live down the name of brigand and outlaw that had been pinned upon him, that he sought an aspect of legality for what he did. That was why they had been brought here.

“Who better than the High Steward of Scotland?” he said.

“I

shall receive Ayr in his name, if so required.”

“Aye. Very well. My lord Earl of Carrick, heir of the House of Bruce, receives Ayr burgh and castle, cleansed of the English invader, in the name of James, Lord High Steward of Scotland,” the big man intoned impressively.

“Is it agreed?”

No one being in any position to say otherwise, the thing was accepted, with nods and shuffles.

Eyeing them all, Wallace smiled thinly.

“So be it. My lords, no doubt you will now ride to acquaint the Steward of this matter.

Sir John—you could aid me here, if you will. You, my friends of Ayr—get you back to your town. I want every house searched.

For Englishmen. Some there may be yet, in hiding. A great grave to be dug. The streets and wynds cleared of folk. All to return to their homes. You have it?” Briskly he issued these orders, and stepped down from the dais.

“Now—I have work to do …”

Bruce and Moray, finding themselves dismissed as well as redundant, were not long in making their way back to their horses, a little aggrieved perhaps that Graham should have been singled out for employment, and had left them so promptly. They did not go near to the burning barracks. The roof had fallen in now, and some of the walling collapsed.

In thoughtful frame of mind the two young men rode for Irvine again. Some distance on their way, after crossing the Holm ford, they looked back. New fire was rising at Ayr, from the castle now—and it was not the wall beacons rekindled. The keep itself was ablaze.

“I faith—that man does nothing by the half!” Moray said.

“He has ungentle ways. Fears neither God nor man, I swear. But … with a few more Wallaces this Scotland would soon be clear of the English, I say.”

“You think so? I do not.” Bruce shook his head.

“Your father, I believe, would not say so. He is hostage in an English prison, is he not? Like I have, he has seen Edward’s might. His armies in battle array. His chivalry by the thousand. His archers, longbow men, by the ten thousand. It is these must be defeated before Scotland is free of Edward Plantagenet. This Wallace can surprise a garrison, capture a castle, slay a few scores, even hundreds. But against the, English massed power what could he do? Or a score like him?”

“Then … then you believe this vain? Of no avail? Yet you joined us.

Left Edward’s side for ours.”

“Aye. But not to play outlaw. Not to war with dagger and torch and rope! This may serve its turn, give the common folk cause for hope.

Rally doubters. But, if Scotland is to gain her freedom, it is not the

Wallaces who will win it, I say. It is ourselves, man. Those who can

command and lead thousands, not fifties. Mark it—it is not those we

have left behind in Ayr who can save Scotland, in the end. But those

we ride to Irvine, to tell And their like.”

“And these—these bicker and dispute. And hold their hands!”

“Aye. There you have it. These cannot agree. There is no leader. I know Edward and the English. Divided counsels, pinpricks, gestures, will not defeat them. Only armed might. And a firm and ruthless hand directing it.”

“Wallace has such a hand, at least…!”

“Wallace! Think you the lords of Scotland will follow such as Wallace, man?”

The other was silent.

Chapter Six

The sun was warm, the scent of the yellow gorse flowers was strong, the larks trilled in the blue above, and men relaxed, sat, sprawled, strolled or slept all along the Irvine waterside. For hours they had waited there, at first drawn up in serried ranks, foot in front, cavalry behind, bowmen in knots—pitifully few, these last. But now, in the early afternoon, the ranks were broken, the groups scattered, and men relaxed, all the urgency gone out of the host and the day. Which was no state for any army to be in.