Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“It is not enough. For Wallace. After Falkirk. Fifteen thousand died on field, and he takes the blame to himself.”

“Fifteen thousand …? So many?”

“Aye. In a battle which he now says should never have been fought. He takes all the blame—however much others blame the lords who rode off. Says that he should have known better than to front Edward so. Or to trust these others.”

“The man must be ill. In his mind. A defeat, by the largest most powerful army ever to invade Scotland, is no disgrace. All commanders must accept defeats. And fight on …”

”Wallace will fight on, never fear, my lord. But not as Guardian.

Especially as the Comyns threaten to impeach him.”

“What! Impeach? The Comyns…?”

“Aye. Buchan and the others claim that he mishandled all. Did not send for them. Indeed of intention would have kept them away. From the battle. They claim that he has divided the land …”

“God forgive them! This is beyond all. And you would have me to work with these?”

“Wallace would. And, since he will by no means remain Guardian, I deem him right in this, at least. Many other lords and knights follow the Comyns. Would even make Red John the King.” Lamberton looked at Bruce shrewdly, there.

“John Ballot’s nephew. There is only one way to unite the realm, in face of Edward, Wallace says. A joint Guardianship. You, and John Comyn of Badenoch.”

“I say it is madness. We can scarce exchange a civil word!

How could we rule together?”

“It would be difficult. But not impossible. What is not difficult, today? You are not hairns, my lord. So much is at stake. If Bruce and Comyn would agree, the nobility would be united. And Wallace working with you, carrying the common people with him, for he has learned his lesson, he says. And myself, speaking for the Church. The three estates of the realm. As one, for the first time …”

“Comyn would never serve with me. He hates me. Besides, he is in France.”

“Wallace has sent for him. To come home. With this offer. If you do not accept, I swear Comyn will! And who else is to control him, as joint Guardian? The Steward? Buchan, his own kinsman, another Comyn? Mar? Atholl? Menteith…?”

Helplessly Bruce shook his head again.

“No—none of these.

But … John Comyn I Even Buchan himself would be less ill to deal with

…”

“Buchan led the flight at Falkirk. That will not be forgotten by the people. They would never accept him as Guardian. But the Lord of Badenoch was not there. And whatever else, he is a fighter. None doubts his courage.”

Bruce halted in his pacing, to stare at his visitor.

“How many of the Scots folk accept me! I am told they think of me as Edward’s man.”

“They did, yes. But no longer. You did not fail at Falkirk. You saved Wallace.”

There was silence for a little. Then Bruce shrugged.

“If I say that I will consider the matter, it must not be taken I agree,” he said, heavily.

“That I promise anything. Better to convince Wallace to continue as Guardian.”

“He will not. That I promise you.”

“Where is he now?”

“At Scone. Above Perth. Assembling men. That is where I have come from.”

“And Edward? They tell me he is moving into the West?”

“That is true. He hoped to find food. The English are hungry, my lord. Are not we all? But they are scarce used to it! Edward has heard that the famine has not hit the West so badly. Moreover, he has work to do here I And the West is not yet burned in his face. Wallace burned all before him, right up to Perth. Perth itself. After Falkirk, Edward went to Stirling. There he found all burned black. Save the Dominican Priory. He lay there fifteen days, a sick man. Kicked by a horse they say. But his armies did not lie. He sent them north and east and west. To Perth and Gowrie. To Menteith and Strathearn. To Fothrif and life. Seeking food. And harrying, slaying, devastating the country.

“Use all cruelty,” he ordered—Edward Plantagenet! How many thousands they have slain, God knows. Far, far more than on the Falkirk field. Women and children. Especially on the lands of those who supported Wallace—the old Earl of life’s lands. Menteith’s.

Strathearn’s. Murray of Tullibardine’s. And the Church’s.

Mine. My St. Andrews is now a smoking desert. He spares neither kirk nor monastery, monk nor nun. Dunfermline. Balmerino.

Lindores. Dunblane. Inchaffray. All these abbeys and their towns.

And many another. No mercy. All to be destroyed.

And now he has turned west. To punish Lennox, the Steward, Crawford.

And yourself, my lord!”

“Aye.” That came out on a long sigh.

“Edward, at least, will no longer think me his man! He comes here, you think?”

“He has sworn to punish all whom he says rebelled against his peace! Will he spare Bruce, whom once he held close? But who now holds the SouthWest against him. You should know, if any!”

“He will not. But … I cannot hold the SouthWest against him. Not against this great host. You know .”

”I know it. But you can do what Wallace has done. Deny him food,

drink, comfort. Burn the land before him, my lord. Leave him nothing. Burn this castle and town. For, God knows, what you do not burn, he will I Alas for this poor Scotland! But only so shall we save her freedom.”

“Freedom, yes. And freedom …? Is it worth this, my lord Bishop?

This cost?”

“Freedom is worth this and more, my friend. Freedom is worth the last breath we draw. Freedom is life. And the life after life. Is there aught greater? Faith, worship, charity, peace—what are these, without freedom to exercise them? Freedom is the soul of the nation. What profit all else if we lose it?”

Long Bruce gazed at the wary man’s stern face, deeply moved by his vibrant words. He inclined his head.

“Very well. Tell Wallace that I burn the SouthWest. For freedom. As my brothers even now are burning over the Border. The Lord Nigel I sent to Annandale, then to Galloway, to raid over the West March. But . dear God—it is easier to burn other men’s lands than your own!”

“I know it, friend. How many men have you assembled here?”

“Four thousand. So few against Edward’s hordes.”

“Four thousand men can do a deal of burning…!”

So Edward Plantagenet, leaving a blackened smoking desert behind him at Glasgow and the lower Clyde, marched south, up Clyde with his legions—and found only smoking desert before him. Rutherglen, Bothwell, Lanark, he found empty, black, smouldering, and all the land around and ahead billowing unending smoke-clouds in the hazy autumn sunshine. Like an army of Goths and Vandals, grim-faced, their eyes red-rimmed from more than their own smoke, Bruce’s men of Carrick, Cunninghame and Kyle, with volunteers from far and near, efficiently, methodically, destroyed the land, their own land, herding the people with roughest kindliness into the hills. Towns and villages were emptied, the matches pulled off the roofs to burn in the streets, with all stored food and fodder mat. could not be carted away. Churches and monasteries were denuded of all mat made them places of worship, and left vacant shells. Castles and manors were cast down, where possible, rendered untenable, un defendable and left open, deserted. Farm lands were wasted and despoiled, hay and grain fired, standing corn trampled flat, all beasts and poultry that could not be driven off into the hills slaughtered and tossed on to the blazing barns and byres and cot-houses. Mills, markets, fisheries, harbours, hutments—all were cast down and devastated, in a twenty-mile belt from the sea to the burgeoning purple heather of the wild uplands—now fuller of folk than they had ever been before. From Clydesdale right down into Galloway the pattern was repeated, and the smoke rose over a once-fair land, by day a black rolling pall that darkened the sun, by night a murky red and ominous barrier stretching from horizon to horizon. The folk cooperated, in the main, even did their own burning. There was short shrift for those who objected.