Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Buchan sighed, and nodded, in one.

“So be it. I declare Sir William Wallace, Knight, to be Guardian of this Scotland-in the name of the famous prince, the Lord John, by God’s grace King of Scots.”

Strangely, there was comparatively little acclaim and demonstration now. Men seemed to be sobered suddenly by what was done, what the implications were, what this dramatic action foreshadowed.

It was as though an irrevocable step had been taken, an assured order all but overturned. All were for the moment abashed. Even Bruce, who should have protested about this being done in the name of Baliol, did not do so.

All looked at Wallace.

That giant appeared to come out of a trance. Almost like a dog shaking itself, he heaved his huge shoulders and raised his auburn head. He gazed round on them all, out of those vivid blue eyes, unspeaking still, a tremendous, vital figure, the very personification of innate strength, vigour and resolve. Then slowly, waving his supporters back, he began to pace forward from his transept.

Not a sound was heard as he stalked up the choir steps and came to stand before the Steward. That man rose, and after a moment, bowed deeply before the other. Then he moved slightly aside, and gestured to Wallace to take the seat he had vacated, the simplest of tokens, but fraught with significance.

Something like a corporate moan rose from the great company.

Wallace inclined his head, and moved into the Steward’s place.

But he did not sit. He turned, to face them all, and raised a hand.

“My friends,” he said, and his deep voice shook with emotion.

“I thank you. I thank you, with all my heart. For your trust. I swear before Almighty God that it will not be betrayed.

God and His saints aiding me, I shall not fail you. Much is needed. I shall demand much of you. But, for myself. I shall give all. This I vow-and you are my witnesses.”

The murmur that swept the crowd as like the distant surge and draw of the tide on a long strand.

“And now, my friends, to work.” With a flick of his hand Wallace seemed to thrust all that had transpired behind him.

Emotion, by-play, ceremony, had had their moment. Typical of the man,

all was now decision.

“There is much to do, I told you.

Most can and must be done hereafter. But it is right that some shall be done here, before you all—and be seen to be done. The council, for one. I know but little of these things—but it is clearly in need of renewing, of enlarging, as my lord of Badenoch says.

My first duty, therefore, as Guardian, is to see to this. I now ask Sir John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, to join it. Also Sir Alexander Lindsay, Lord of Crawford; Sir Alexander Comyn, Lord of Lumphanan;

Sir Alexander de Baliol, Lord of Cavers; Sir William Murray, Lord of Tullibardine; and Master William Comyn, Provost of the Chapel-Royal.”

Even Bruce gasped at this swift recital, rapped out like the cracking of a whip. At first, like others, he had thought it unsuitable lacking in fitness, for Wallace to plunge so immediately into the exercise of his new authority. But now he saw, as all men of any understanding must see, how astute a move this was.

Wallace had been appointed in the face of Comyn opposition; and since they were the most powerful family in the land, he would have them as a burden on his back. But, by this sudden move, he had changed the situation dramatically, and put the Comyns, especially Sir John, into a position of acute difficulty. He had singled out three of them for advancement, in this his first official act. The Red Comyn had himself indicated that the council was in need of new blood. Now, to refuse to sit on it, especially in the company present, was almost unthinkable. Yet it meant that the mighty Comyns were thereby accepting favour at Wallace’s hands, the very first to do so, demonstrating to all their acknowledgement of his authority. He had them in a cleft stick.

Bruce almost laughed aloud as, after an agonising moment or two, Sir John inclined his arrogant head, unspeaking. The other surprised nominees murmured varied acceptance.

Apparently satisfied, Wallace went on, “Two other matters.

This realm had an ancient alliance with France. The French are now attacked by the same foe as are we—Edward of England. We must see to it that both realms act in common against him. Make a treaty of aid, one with the other. If Edward, as is said, does return from France to lead attack against us again, then the French should attack England in the south. It is our blows, here in Scotland, and into England, that will have brought him back.

This must be our enduring policy. King John saw this three years ago, but was forced by Edward to denounce his treaty. We must renew it. I say that we should send envoys at once to King Philip, new envoys. It is in my mind to send Master John Morel, Abbot of Tedburgh. And Sir John Wishart of the Carse, brother to the imprisoned Bishop of Glasgow.”

Men stared at each other. The proposal was a sound one, and the envoys named no doubt suitable enough. But none could fail to be astonished at this naming of names. That Wallace should already not only have his road mapped out, but have men in his mind to carry out his designs, could only mean that he had been prepared beforehand for some such eventuality. But his knighting and appointment to the Guardianship had been wholly at Bruce’s sudden instigation. How then … ?

Bruce himself, listening, came to the conclusion that he had underestimated and misjudged his man. He had thought by these actions of his, he had hoisted him into the Guardian’s seat;

it looked now very much as though Wallace had been prepared to assume it, on his own.

Distinctly chagrined, if not humbled, Bruce listened to a further demonstration of the big man’s forethought and sheer ability.

He, the former pud aw and small laird, had the effrontery there and then to create a new Bishop of St. Andrews and Primate of all Scotland-or, at least, to take the essential steps there for He did it, first by adding Master William Comyn’s name as a third envoy to France; then by announcing senior bishop present, Galloway, as Chancellor of the realm, or first minister of state;

and finally proposing one William Lamberton, Wishart’s chancellor of Glasgow Cathedral, as Bishop of St. Andrews, in the room of the late Bishop Fraser—adding on his necessary visit to Rome to be consecrated, he should also present to the Pope the Scottish realm’s entire and leal duty to His Holiness and its request that the Holy See declared its disapproval of Edward of England’s invasions and savageries, and threaten him with outlawry from Christendom, anathema and excommunication if he persisted in such wicked warfare.

Quite overwhelmed, the company listened. Never had anyone present heard the like of this, such vehement forcing of the pace, such high-sounding a programme, such confidence of delivery-and all done before a great gathering of the people, not behind the closed doors of the council-chamber.

The Comyns were silenced-for Master William had undoubtedly been hoping

for St. Andrews for himself, as a senior member of the chapter and

brother of the Constable; Galloway Bought off, who might have claimed

the Primacy, Wishart being a captive and Crambeth of Dunkeld overseas;

and all muffled up and confused by this ambitious bringing in of the Pope as possible ally in the struggle.

“For what? Amongst Wallace’s group of immediate supporters, a tall, strong-faced, keen-eyed churchman stood beside the Benedictine friar, John Blair. By the way the others were looking at him, it was evident that this man must be Master William Lamberton.

A long sword-hilt peeped from beneath this individual’s black robe.

Another Benedictine, and a fighting one, apparently.