Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“So at least you read my letter.”

“More than once. To see if there was any kindness hidden in it.

But I found none.”

“Kindness? You looked for kindness, then? From me?”

“Women can be kind, can they not? Understanding. There was no understanding, there.”

“What did I fail to understand? You could have told me, in answer.”

He drew a long breath. It was on the tip of his tongue to speak, to explain something of his position, what he was seeking to do.

But he could not, dare not. He shook his head.

“It is of no matter,” he said curtly.

“What is of matter is why you are here. What made Percy bring you? It is concerned with me, for sure. What does he want?”

She sighed a little.

“I told you, I do not know. Is it important?”

“It could be. Did he not tell you. Give you some reason? Some task?

Perhaps to question me?”

“Think you I am Henry Percy’s spy, sir? His informer?”

“You could be. Without intending it. Why bring you? Or his wife? It is a strange time and place to bring women. And to set you here, by me.”

“It was the Bishop who did that. But I can leave you, sir, and gladly, if you please?”

He ignored that.

“Either he would have you to learn something from me. Or else to sway me. Why ?”

“That I should sway you, my lord! If he thinks so, he knows little of either of us! And what should I learn from you that he cannot ask himself? That I would tell him?”

“If I knew, I would not be asking. It seems, however, that he does not trust me.”

“And is that so strange? Men who change sides so quickly are seldom trusted.”

He bit his lip.

“Can you not conceive that I may have reasons?

That I may be more honest than you think? You, who sit secure in

English halls. In Edward’s goodwill. When a kingdom is at stake, woman!”

She eyed him closely at that, and said nothing.

Fearing that he had blurted out too much, he frowned, and changed his tack.

“Percy himself is perhaps unsure of Edward’s goodwill. with reason. If Edward returns quickly from France, heads may fall. You are close to Edward. Could it be that he would use you to gain Edward’s favour?”

“I cannot think that King Edward looks on me so warmly. I believe I may have disappointed him.”

He weighed that.

“But you are his goddaughter.”

“Is that important? In this matter? Might it not be more important that I am James the Steward’s niece? By marriage.”

“Hal” Bruce sat up.

“I had forgot. His wife is Egidia de Burgh.”

“My father’s sister. And, now I think on it, Henry Percy has mentioned the fact to me, of late. More than once.”

“This makes more sense. The Steward led this late revolt. I have been close with him. He is now being taken to join Surrey’s array, making for Dundee. Where we are going. Now that there is no king in Scotland, and Buchan the Constable lies low in the North, the Steward is the greatest officer of the realm.”

“And is he not this William Wallace’s lord? Wallace his vassal?”

“So—you know of also! Aye, Wallace’s small lands are held of the Steward.”

“Henry Percy said as much.”

“I think, then, that we get down to the roots of it now. On how the Steward and myself may make common cause with Surrey, much depends in Scotland. And Surrey’s and Percy’s reputations with it. And you, my lady, it is thought might weigh heavily with us both.”

She shook her corn-coloured head.

“It is a weighty edifice to build out of so little!”

“Perhaps. But let us make some test of it. Tomorrow, if we leave you behind here at Carlisle, I will accept that I may have misjudged. But if you are carried with us northwards, into Scotland, then I am like to be right.”

“We shall see. But I tell you, my lord, that Elizabeth de Burgh will be pawn in no man’s game—Edward’s, Percy’s … or yours!

Mind it well!”

Thereafter, for such time as the banquet continued, they got on rather better, able to talk together at least without striking sparks.

The following morning when, amidst much blowing of trumpets and shouting of commands, the various component parts of an army of over eight thousand mustered and moved off over Eden, northwards into Scotland, the Ladies Percy and Elizabeth de Burgh, to the surprise of many, rode with them.

They marched by Esk to Canonbie, and then up Liddesdale, the horse making no attempt to hold back to the pace of the foot;

but even so it was a fairly slow progress. It took the three thousand cavalry two days to cross over the Note of the Gate pass, to Hawick in Teviotdale. The day following, the leaders were at Selkirk, on the edge of the great Ettrick Forest, when a messenger reached them from Surrey’s army, now nearing Stirling, the first crossing of the long Forth estuary which so nearly, with that of the Clyde, cut Scotland in two. The courier came not from Surrey himself, however, but from Cressingham, the Treasurer, in the name of the Viceroy, Fitz-Alan. Percy had sent word ahead, by fast rider, to inform of his coming, his numbers and his route.

The reply astonished and incensed him. Cressingham, as Treasurer and cost-conscious, declared that they already had quite sufficient men in arms to deal with such as the scoundrel Wallace and his riffraff and consequently the reinforcement army would not be required. It was the Viceroy’s wish that Sir Henry returned whence he had come, and disbanded his force.

The thin-lipped, hesitant-seeming Percy’s fury was a sight to behold, on receipt of this extraordinary message. He trembled, shivered, looked almost as though he would swoon with rage. He knew well, of course, of the bad blood between Cressingham and his uncle, Surrey. Clearly this was done out of spite, the wretched Treasurer-who indeed had made himself the most hated man in Scotland-prevailing on the new Viceroy to over-ride the authority of the commander-in-chief. But out of a stuttering torrent of white wrath, it became clear that Percy had no intention of obeying.

He was a soldier, in arms, and he took his orders from the military commander, not from such a lowborn clerk as Master Cressingham. Or even Fitz-Alan. Until detailed commands arrived from Surrey himself, they pressed on.

In this he was supported vigorously by Sir Robert Clifford and most

other leaders—indeed by Robert Bruce likewise, whose plans would have been put in much disarray by any turning back now.

Three days later, on the evening of nth of September, emerging from the Pentland Hills into the West Lothian plain, with the foot now left far behind, the army was again halted by information from the north. But this time it was no mere courier who came to them, but two dishevelled knights, Sir Ralph Basset and Sir John Lutton, with a straggling party of men, some wounded.

And their tidings were of disaster.

There had been a great battle, they declared. At Stirling Bridge, over the Forth, twenty-five miles to the north. They had been tricked, betrayed, scattered and ill-led. Surrey’s army. It was no more. The man Wallace and an unnumbered great host of rascally Scots had lain in wait for them there. At this bridge. Amongst tidelands and marshes. It had been no fair fight. The work of mean men. Half of the English array across the bridge and on the mile-long causeway beyond. Wallace had attacked, through swamp and bogs. No room to fight. No room to turn. Horses hamstrung, or sinking in the mire. Arrows, spears, knives—no honest chivalry. All in confusion. The Welsh cravens fleeing back, casting away arms and armour. The bridge taken and held behind them. Hundreds drowned trying to swim back. Others still trying to swim across to their aid. Then treachery in the rear, south of the bridge. The damned Scots with Surrey, betraying them.