Nigel Tranter: The Steps to the Empty Throne

Some few of the watching throng bowed as the first chained man hobbled past, but most certainly did not. Many indeed laughed, some hooted, one spat. Robert Bruce of Carrick stared expressionless. Or nearly so, for his lip curled just a little; his was an expressive face, and it was schooled less perfectly than was intended.

The knightled, scullion-finished group clanked and shuffled its way up to the chancel steps, and it was strange how, despite all the humiliation, the light seemed to go with it, drawn to and beamed form by all the colour, the jewels and gems and gleaming gold. At the steps they were halted, with exaggerated abruptness, by the knight. At last the gorgeously-apparelled man looked up-and he had to raise his head high indeed to seek the face of him who sat the great warhorse champed and sidled forth.

“My lord King,” he said, quietly, uncertainly. He had sensitive, finely-wrought features and deep, dark eyes under a lofty brow—but there was a slackness of the mourn and delicacy of the chin which spoke worlds.

The big man on the horse looked down at him, and in the silence of the moment all could hear that he was humming some tune to himself—and doing it flatly, for he had no music in him.

He did not speak, or in anyway acknowledge the other’s greeting as the moments passed. Then he glanced up, to consider all in that church, unhurriedly, and yawned hugely, before his gaze returned to travel indifferently over the man waiting before him and to settle on the stocky, pugnacious-jawed individual with the tonsured head who stood at his stirrup.

“My lord Bishop of Durham—see you to it,” he said shortly.

“Do what is necessary.” He snorted.

“And in God’s name be not long about it, Tony!”

Something like a corporate sigh went up from all who watched and waited and listened.

Anthony Beck, Prince-Bishop of Durham and captain-general of Saint Cuthbert’s Host, perhaps the toughest unit of all Edward’s army, stepped forward.

“Sire,” he said, bowing.

“As you will.” Then he turned to the shackled man, and thrust the round bullet-head forward, jaw leading.

“John de Baliol, traitor!” he rasped.

“Miscreant! Fool! Hear this. I charge you, in the name of the high and mighty Prince Edward, King of England and of France, of Wales and Ireland, Duke of Normandy and of Guyenne, and suzerain and Lord Paramount of this Scotland. I charge you are forsworn and utterly condemned. You have shamefully renounced your allegiance to your liege lord Edward and risen against him in arms. You have betrayed your solemn vows.

You have treated with His Majesty’s enemies, and sought the aid and counsel of wicked men. You have in all things failed and rent your realm of Scotland. Have you any word to say why you should not forthwith be removed from being its king?”

The other drew a long quivering breath, straightening up, to gaze over the Bishop’s head. He did not speak.

“You hear me? Have you nothing to say?”

“Nothing that I could say would serve now,” the King of Scots muttered, low-voiced, husky.

“You will speak, nevertheless, I promise you!” Anthony Beck looked up at his master.

Edward Plantagenet did not so much as glance at either of them.

“What would you have me to say, Sire?” King John asked.

The other monarch patted his charger’s neck.

Angrily Bishop Beck thrust out a thick forefinger at his victim.

“You will speak. You will repeat these words. Before all. After me.

By the King’s royal command …”

He was interrupted.

“If His Grace will not speak, I will!” It was John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, from behind.

“Neither you, sir, nor your king, have any authority so to command him. His Grace is King of Scots, duly crowned and consecrated. He owes allegiance to no man. Only to God Himself.”

Frowning, Edward flicked a hand at the Bishop, who strode forward, past the Scots monarch and the escort who still clasped his shoulders, and raising a mailed arm, smote Buchan viciously across the face.

“Silence, fool!” he cried.

“How dare you raise your voice in the presence of the King’s Majesty!”

Blood running from his mouth, the bandaged Earl answered back “Base-born clerk I I am Constable of Scotland, and have fullest right to speak in this realm, in any man’s presence.”

A second and still more savage blow sent the older man reeling, and shackled as he was, he would have fallen had his guards not held him up. As it was, the crown and sceptre were flung from the cushion he held before him, and fell with a clatter to the floor.

Cursing, Beck was stooping to pick them up, difficult for a man in full armour. He thought better of it, and was ordering the guards to do so, when Edward Longshanks spoke.

“Let them lie,” he said briefly.

“His Grace of Scotland will pick them up!”

The unsteady Buchan made choking exclamation, and sought to bend down for the fallen regalia, but his guards jerked him back. King John turned to sign to him, with a shake of the head and a sigh. Stooping, he recovered the symbols of his kingship.

He stood, holding the crown in his right hand, the sceptre in his left.

At a nod from Edward, Bishop Beck went on.

“You will speak now, sirrah. Say after me these words. Before His Majesty, and all these witnesses. Say “I, John de Baliol, King of Scots by the grace, permission and appointment of my liege lord Edward of England”” For long moments there was silence broken only by the stirring of the horse. Then, head bent again, and in a voice that was scarcely to be heard, the other repeated.

“I, John de Baliol, King or Scots, by grace, permission, appointment of my liege lord Edward…”

“Speak up, man I We’ll have no craven mumbling. Say “I do hereby and before all men, admit my grievous fault and my shameful treasons.”

“… admit my grievous fault. And … and my shameful treasons.”

‘”Do renounce and reject the treaty I made against my said Lord Edward, with his enemy the King of France.”” “… renounce and reject… the treaty with France.”

‘”And do renounce and reject, and yield again to my Lord Edward, my kingdom and crown.”” A choking sob, and then the broken words, “… renounce my kingdom. My crown.”

“

“And do throw myself and my whole realm humbly at the feet of and upon the mercy of the said noble Prince Edward, King of England and Lord Paramount of Scotland.”” “No I Never that!” a voice cried, from the back of the church.

Other voices rose also, to be overwhelmed in the roars of anger and the clash of steel and the thuds of blows, as James Stewart, fifth High Steward of Scotland, and others near him, were rushed and bundled out of the building by ungentle men-at-arms.

Scowling, though King Edward appeared faintly amused, the Prince-Bishop waited until approximate quiet was restored.

“More of such insolence, folly and disrespect, and heads will fall!” he shouted.

“You have my oath on it!” He jerked that thick finger again at John Baliol.

“I am waiting. My lord the King waits. Speak, man.”

“Do not say it, Sire,” Buchan burst out from behind him.

“Not this. Of the realm. Not Lord Paramount. There is none such.

Save you, Sire. It is a lie…!”

He got no further. This time the guards, even the scullion at his back, did not wait for Beck. With one accord they set upon the Earl and beat him down under a hail of blows. He fell to the stone floor, there at the chancel steps, and so lay.

High above, Edward Plantagenet watched from hooded eyes, a smile about his lips.

yours are the King’s prisoners; your lives, as traitors and felons,

are his to take and do with as he will. In the name of Edward, King of England.” He turned, and handed up the crown to his master, Edward seemed almost as though he would reject it. Then, shrugging great shoulders, he took it, turned it this way and that in his hands, casually inspecting it. But he seemed little interested.