Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“It may be so. But what are we disadvantaged? They make this excuse for us—this of us rebelling because we do not wish to take our men to France. Which none of us had so much as heard of, by the Mass I This must mean they do not want a clash. I say we should take advantage of this. Rise again, as the Steward says, when they and their great host are gone south again…”

”No!” That was young Andrew Moray, in a burst of hot anger, “This is

betrayal! Did we raise the banner of freedom for this?

To yield without a blow struck? I, for one, will not do so. My lord of Carrick—will you?”

Bruce cleared his throat.

“My Lord Steward,” he said, not looking at Moray.

“This of hostages? Assurances. What is meant by that? What hostages do they want?”

“That is not certain. So Sir Richard Lundin has gone to Clifford.

To discover their mind on this. When we hear…”

“What matters it?” Moray interrupted, his normal quietness gone.

“Our position, our duty, is clear. We have taken up arms against the invader of our land. We have not been beaten. We stand in our own land, amongst our own folk. I say we cannot yield thus, whatever their terms. I was for attacking, before Percy joined up with Clifford. I was against making any move to the north. Now, I say, better that than this shameful submission” “Aye! Aye!”

“No! The Steward is right.”

“We still would have to face the fifty thousand. At Glasgow.

The weaker for moving.”

“Fools…!”

There was uproar in that mill. In it, Moray turned on his companion, urgently.

“Bruce! Why did you not speak out? You who wanted to attack? Why ask about hostages? You came here to have them fight. Not surrender. Why have you kept silent, man?”

“Because I am using my head, Andrew,” the other said.

“As others would be wise to do. This needs thinking on. Why do the English act so? It is not like them. I know them better man do you. This is a strange thing—in especial when they have a great army nearby. This finding excuse for us. But… Edward himself is far away. And Surrey is a very different man …”

“Dear God you would not submit, man? Surrender?”

“Submit! Surrender? These are but words, I tell you. There are times to fight. And times to talk. If the English wish to talk, I say, let us talk. And fight another day, when we are in better case.

It may be the Steward and Lindsay are right. Today, I fear, we cannot win. So let us talk.”

“This is strange talk,” Moray insisted.

“From you. Less than honest, I think! There is something in all this, more than you say. You see more in this than these others?”

Bruce took his time to answer.

“It could mean so much. Some too

thing new. Something that could transform all Scotland’s state.

Clifford, Percy, Surrey, would not dare to send such message about this of the French war being unpopular unless it was indeed so. Unless they knew that Edward had indeed made a great mistake.

Unless, I think, there was near to revolt in England itself.

Edward has been long at war. All his reign he has been making war. Against Ireland, Wales, Scotland. Now France. It may be that his own people at last have had enough of their blood shed, their treasure spent. If they are turning, at last—then all could be changed, for Scotland. Do you not see it? We should not fight the English, then—but rather aid them.”

Moray shook his head, bewildered.

“This is beyond my understanding .”

There was more talk, continuing argument, and no decision.

Then there was an interruption. Wallace and Graham arrived-and immediately the scene was changed. Decisions crystallised, hardened. Wallace was like that. No half-measures or uncertainties survived his presence.

“My lords, my lords!” he cried, stilling all other voices.

“What is this I hear? I spoke with Lundin. On his way to Clifford. Not only will you not attack, he says. But you talk of submission. I cannot believe this is true. Tell me that he has taken leave of his wits, my good lords!”

There was a profound silence—the first Fullarton Mill had known that day. Men glanced at each other, rather than at the clenched-fist giant. Douglas, who normally filled any vacuum with his strong voice and views, would not demean himself to submit answers to such as William Wallace. Others either felt similarly, or dared not meet their inquisitor’s hot eye.

Save Bruce, that is. After a few moments, he spoke.

“Sir—a new situation has arisen. Did Sir Richard not tell you? Of this matter of a muster for France. And the English offer. This may change all.”

“How may it change our struggle for freedom, my lord?”

“It may foreshadow revolt in England. Or, if revolt is too great a word, discontent, resistance. I do not believe they would make such offer to us, this excuse for us, otherwise. If it is so, Surrey may wish to have his fifty thousand back in England!”

“Is that not the more reason to fight? If they are of two minds.

Looking back over their shoulders?”

”I say probably not. I say that if the English would indeed bring

their arrogant king to heel, we should aid them in it. Not fight them.”

“What the English do with their king is their concern, not ours. Or, not mine. Though, to be sure, it may be yours, my lord I I have feared as much.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean that your conversion to our cause was something sudden, my lord of Carrick! You have large lands in England. All knew you one of Edward’s men. It may be that you are still more concerned with Edward’s case than Scotland’s!”

There was a shocked murmur, as Bruce raised a pointing hand.

“You doubt my honesty? You!”

“I doubt your interests. Your judgement. Where your heart lies. I doubt the judgement of any man who even for a moment considers submission to the English, my lords!” And Wallace stared deliberately round at them all, head high, in reproach and accusation both.

“Curse you …!”

“This is not to be borne!”

“How dare the man speak so? To us…!”

“My lords-friends,” Bishop Wishart cried.

“This talk will serve us nothing. Wallace is a man of fierce action. He has wrought mighty deeds. But we must needs take the long view, here. Consider well our course. For the best …” The old man’s words quavered away.

Wallace obviously took a major grip of himself.

“I regret, my lord Bishop, if I spoke ill. But—what does the Earl of Carrick propose? Surrender all our force? Accept this English offer?

Make our peace with Edward? If this is so, I say—not Wallace!

Never Wallace!”

“Nor Graham either!” the younger man at his side declared.

Bruce was also mastering his hot temper.

“I say, since we cannot fight fifty thousand, let us talk with them.

Talk at length.

Learn what we can. Gain time. And while we talk, send messengers privily to raise the country further. It may be that we will find the English glad to wait. If trouble is brewing in England. I say, let us talk, dissemble, prevaricate, make time.”

“We shall make time better, my lord, by remaining free men,” Wallace declared, almost contemptuously.

“The realm will be freed by war, not talk. Better the sword than the tongue, I say!”

“For your sort of war, may be. The surprising of a garrison, here and there. The burning of this castle, or that. The raid by night. This is all we may do with our present support and numbers.

It is good-but not good enough, my lords.” Bruce was speaking now, earnestly, to them all.

“We will not free Scotland of the English so. They are notable fighters, with many times our numbers. They have their bowmen, their chivalry, their hundreds of thousands. Think you we can counter these by night raids, fires and hangings?”