Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“I say that he will. Edward is proud, yes. But he is a man of deeds, not of words. Because Wallace is of the same kidney, he will respect him where he would not you, sir. Or myself, indeed.

Think you he cares for any Scots lord? But the man who defeated Surrey in proper battle is altogether different.”

The Comyns were not quieted yet.

”I know Edward also—to my cost!” That was Buchan, the Constable.

“He docs not eat his words. He has named Wallace outlaw, cut-throat, promised to hang him. Think you he will swallow that, and deal with him?

Never I Moreover, the Guardian of Scotland speaks in the name of the absent King of Scots. How can this man do ? He is not even a knight! You, my lord, of all men, should know better.

The Kingdom cannot be represented by one who is not of the noblesse, the men of honour. How shall knights and lords follow and yield their voices to one who is not even of their order …?”

“By the Rude—is that what concerns you, my lord?” Bruce cried.

“Then we shall see to it!” He swung on his heel, and strode across the moss-grown flagstones, spurs clanking, to where Wallace had stood quietly amongst his own group throughout, a grimly silent spectator of the scene. In front of the giant he halted, and with a screech of steel drew his sword, the short travelling sword that hung from his golden earl’s belt.

“William Wallace,” he declared, voice ringing, “I, Robert Bruce, knight, earl of this realm, do hereby dub you knight. In the name of God and St. Andrew.” He brought down the flat of his blade on one great shoulder, then on the other—where it clashed against the long up thrusting handle of the other’s own famous and enormous two-handed brand that was said even to sleep with the man.

“Earned on the field of battle, if ever knighthood was. Be you faithful, fortunate and bold I Stand, Sir William Wallace!”

There were moments of utter silence, surprise, elation, even consternation. Then, in that green ruin-strewn hollow of the hills, pandemonium broke out, to make feeble and pedestrian even the tumult that had succeeded Bruce’s previous proposal of Guardian. In wild emotion, men went all but crazy with jubilation, approbation and a sort of unholy glee. The thing was done, suddenly, dramatically, totally unexpectedly, there before them all—and could nowise be undone. Sir William Wallace!

While undoubtedly there were not a few present who questioned the wisdom, the propriety, even the taste of what Bruce had done, none could doubt his right so to do. In theory, any duly dubbed knight could himself dub another, provided that he had proved his prowess on the field of battle or in single combat, and was accepted as a man of renown; but in practice, only kings, princes, commanders of armies, and very great nobles ever did so, the last but seldom and in special circumstances. Nevertheless, as the holder of one of the ancient Celtic earldoms of Scotland-and knighted most royally by no less than King Edward himself—none could contest the validity of Bruce’s action, even without his claim to being second heir to the throne.

Even the Comyns, therefore, stood dumbfounded, impotent, silenced by their own cherished code. Everywhere the nobility and chivalry of Scotland were in like case.

The Earl of Mar was the first to move. As the din continued, he walked over to Wallace and clapped him on the shoulder, wordless. Words could not have been heard, anyway. The Earl of Lennox came to do the same. These were the only earls present, apart from Carrick, Strathearn and Buchan. Then the Steward stood, and came from his seat to congratulate the new knight.

Crawford followed suit, and others, some others, likewise.

As for Wallace himself, for once he seemed quite overcome by events. He stood there, his open features working, his great hands gripped together in front of him-, knuckles showing white. He did not speak, had not spoken throughout, appeared all but dazed by his abrupt transition. The last man to be called a respecter of persons, or impressed by mere forms and ceremonies and titles, he was nevertheless very much a man of his age, and only too well aware of what this unlooked-for metamorphosis could do for him.

By one brief and simple rite, in that chivalric age, he had been made respectable, transferred to the ranks of the men of honour, given a status that none could take away from him. Knighthood, in 1298, was no empty honour. Much that had been almost inconceivable only a few moments before was now possible. William Wallace was no fool, and however reluctant to be beholden to young Bruce, or any other lord, he would not have rejected this accolade, even if he could.

Bruce was not finished yet. Into the gradually ensuing hush, he spoke.

“As Earl of Carrick, and therefore member or the high council of this kingdom, I do now request of that council to declare and appoint Sir William Wallace of Elderslie, Knight, to be Guardian of Scotland, as from this present.” He looked first at the Steward, and then nodded to his brother-in-law, Mar.

It was a shrewd thrust, addressing his nomination to the high or privy council. Such body undoubtedly existed, but it had not met formally for long. More important, for his present requirements, it had had no new members appointed to it for years.

Therefore, save for one or two elderly men, only those who

automatically belonged to it by virtue of their high office or

position, could at the moment claim to be members. These were the

great officers of state, the senior bishops, and the earls. At one

blow, Bruce had silenced much of the opposition. The Red Comyn, for

instance, undoubtedly would have been a privy councillor if that body had been properly appointed; but lacking King or Guardian, no recent additions had been made.

Mar was about to speak, when Lennox forestalled him. As another of the old Celtic nobility, he had no love for the Normans in general and the Comyns in particular.

“I, Malcolm of Lennox, agree,” he said.

“I say Sir William Wallace for Guardian.”

“Aye. As do I,” Mar added.

“No!” That was Buchan, gazing round him anxiously. As well he might. Apart from the Earl of Strathearn, and the Steward himself, there was only one other certain privy councillor present, the Bishop of Galloway—and coming from that airt, he was almost bound to be a Bruce supporter. He was.

“I also say for Wallace,” the Bishop announced briefly.

“As do I,” Malise of Strathearn nodded.

There was a brief pause, and the Steward, licking his lips, spoke.

“Does any other … of the council … say otherwise, my lords?”

“I protest!” Sir John Comyn cried hotly.

“At this, of the council. It is a trick, a ruse. Who knows who is of the council? It has not met. These three years and more. Bruce would trick us all. I say all lords and knights may speak. And vote.”

There were cries of agreement from not a few, but Bruce shouted through them.

“I declare that the voices of individual lords and knights, however puissant, have no authority in this. Only a parliament duly summoned, or else the council, can appoint a Guardian. This assembly cannot be a parliament—since who had authority to call one? Therefore, the council only may speak for the realm.

And there are councillors enough here.”

“So … so I hold and sustain,” the Steward nodded, though obviously uncomfortably.

“Can you deny it, my lord Constable?”

Unhappily Buchan eyed his cousin.

“In other circumstances” he began, and waved a helpless hand.

“I call the vote,” Lennox said.

“Aye.” James Stewart acceded. Does any other member of the council speak?”

There was none other to speak.

“I see no need to vote, then. The issue is clear. Five have spoken for-no, six. One against. If I myself were to vote, nothing would be altered. My lord Constable—will you withdraw your opposition, that all may be more decently done?”