Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Is this why you left Edward’s camp to join us, my lord of Carrick?” demanded the Graham bitterly.

“To tell us that we could not win? To sap our wills and courage?”

“I did not! I came because I must. Because I saw that I must needs choose between Scotland and England. Not John Baliol’s Scotland-my Scotland! I’d mind you all, my father should be King of Scots today I Let none forget it.”

There was silence in that mill, again. Not even Wallace spoke.

“I chose Scotland then. But not to beat with my bare fists against castle walls! More than that is required. Wits, my friends-in this, we must use our wits. We need them, by the saints! Wallace, here, can do the beating at the walls. He does it well. Moreover, I would mind you, he cannot talk with the English. They would hang him out of hand! As outlaw and brigand! He knows it.”

Bruce jabbed a pointing finger at the giant.

“We all know it. But it is not so with us, my lords. They offer to treat with us. I say treat, then, in this situation. I know Surrey. I know Percy, his nephew. I know Clifford, of Brougham. These are not of Edward’s wits, or Edward’s ruthlessness. I would not say treat with Edward Plantagenet, God knows! But these are different. Treat.

Talk. Discover what is in their minds. What worries them. Something does, I swear. Gain time. This, I counsel you, my lords.

And let Wallace go fight his own war. With our blessing!”

An extraordinary change had come over the arguing company.

Without warning, as it were, young Robert Bruce had established himself as a leader-not merely the highest in actual rank there, but a man who had come to know his own mind. He had not convinced them all, by any means. It is doubtful, indeed, if many fully understood or accepted what he said. But suddenly he had grown in stature before all. It was as though a new voice had spoken in unhappy Scotland. And more important even than the voice was the manner.

“There is much in what the Earl of Carrick declares,” Bishop Wishart said, into the hush.

“I believe he has the rights of it.”

”I, too,” the Steward nodded.

“There is wisdom in this. I agree.”

“And I do not!” Wallace cried.

“I agree with my lord only in this-that the English will hang me if they can I For the rest, I say that you deceive yourselves. Myself, I waste no more time, my lords. There is much to be done. It you will not do it, I will. I give you good day—and naught else!”

“I am sorry for that …” Bruce began, and paused. The big man, turning on his heel, had halted as the priest, Blair, came hurrying in, to speak a few words in his ear.

Wallace looked back.

“You have company it seems! Company I would not care to meet. They approach under a flag of truce. I do not congratulate you, my lords. I have no stomach for supping with the devil! I am off.”

“And I with you,” Sir John the Graham cried.

Moray of Bothwell took a single step as though to follow them, but drought better of it.

There was a stir of excited talk at the word of the English approach.

The debate was not now whether to receive them, but who should do so, and on what terms. There was no more agreement on this than on anything else. In the end, the entire company trooped out of the mill—to find the Englishmen, with Sir Richard Lundin of that Ilk, to the number of about thirty, assembled in the yard outside.

The two groups stared at each other, for a little, grimly wordless.

Then a tall, willowy young man, who sat his horse under the proud blue and gold banner of Northumberland, held just slightly higher than the white sheet of truce, dismounted, his magnificent armour agleam in the afternoon sun. Thin-faced, pale of hair and complexion, almost foxy of feature, he scanned the assembled Scots, his manner nervous-seeming. At sight of Bruce his glance flickered. At his back, another man got down, slightly older, dark, solidly-built, heavy-jawed, tough-looking. The rest of the English remained in their saddles. Lundin came round to stand amongst his compatriots.

“I am Percy,” the willowy young man said, in a voice as high and reedy as himself.

“I come in the name of my uncle, John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, Viceroy of this Scotland.”

None answered him.

“I am Clifford,” the darker man declared harshly.

“Warden of the West March.”

“The English West March!” That was Douglas, who himself had been the Scots Warden of that March.

“The West March,” the other repeated, flatly.

Sir Henry Percy, Lord of Northumberland, looked quickly away from Douglas. His glance was of the darting sort. Now, insofar as it was directed at any, it flickered around Bruce.

“My Lord Robert,” he said, “I regret to see you here.” And added, with a little cough, “Kinsman.”

Bruce smiled briefly. Their relationship was of the most distant sort, and had not been stressed hitherto. He took it this mention implied some need felt by the Percy.

“I am nearer to my earldom of Carrick, here, my lord, than you are to your Northumberland!” he returned.

“I am the Sheriff of Ayr,” the other said.

“Edward of England’s sheriff!” Douglas countered.

“The King’s Sheriff. As I am the King’s Warden!” Clifford jerked.

“England’s king. Not Scotland’s.”

Percy and Bruce both cleared their throats at the same time, and caught each other’s eye. Clearly there was as much difference of temperament and approach between the two Englishmen as between Douglas and Bruce. Clifford, son of Isabel de Vieuxpont, of Brougham, one of the greatest heiresses in the North of England, was another plain soldier nevertheless, who spoke his mind.

Percy had not come to speak his mind, it seemed. And he took precedence in rank, and as representing Surrey. It was perhaps not Bruce’s place to speak, for although he was the only earl amongst the Scots, the Steward was one of the great officers of state, as well as an initiator of this revolt, and the Bishop of Glasgow was senior in years. But neither Steward nor Bishop raised their voices, and much might depend on what was said now. Also how it was said.

“You ride under a flag of trace, my lords,” he observed.

“I

think you did not bring that to Irvine to discuss offices and positions?”

“No. That is true.” Percy nodded, with apparent relief.

“We have come to discuss terms. To, to offer you an … accommodation.”

Terms?

Accommodation? We are not suitors for such, my lord.”

“Then the bigger fools are you!” Clifford barked.

”We learn from Sir Richard Lundin that you would know more fully what

we propose.” Percy went on.

“And what do you propose?”

“That you, who are rebels, surrender on terms. Generous terms, I say.”

Clifford was making his position very clear.

“Surrender, sir? Without a blow struck? In our own land? To an invader?” Bruce kept his voice almost conversational.

“Surely you misjudge, my lords.”

“By God, we do not! We could crush you rebellious dogs like that!”

Clifford snapped his steel-gauntleted fist shut eloquently.

“But have not yet attempted the feat, sirrah! I would think that the time to talk terms or surrender is when one or other is prostrate in defeat?”

Percy waved a hand.

“Sir Robert—I will speak. In the name of the Viceroy. If you please.” He coughed again.

“If we do battle, my lords, we must win. We know your numbers. We have many times as many. You are brave men, no doubt, and would fight well. But the end could not be in doubt. Do you wish to die? Is there need for so much bloodshed? Amongst fellow-subjects of King Edward?”

There was a muttered growl at that. Douglas hooted.

“You all have sworn allegiance to Edward,” Percy reminded.