Nigel Tranter: The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Aye, Sire. You have undone what you did three years ago.

Unchosen your choice. You can make good now what was wrong done then.

There was another choice. That you, in your wisdom rejected—for this. The Bruce claim. You can make me King of Scots, Sire. And complete your work.”

Edward Plantagenet’s florid face had been growing purple.

Now he burst out.

“Lord God in His Heaven! You tell me what I should dot Me, Edward. You. You came from Carlisle, a hundred leagues, to tell me this! Make you king? By the Blood of Christ—have I nothing else to do but win kingdoms for such as you I Out of my way, sirrah!”

Expressionless, Bruce inclined his grey head, as the furious monarch kicked huge jagged spurs into his charger’s flanks.

But Edward reined up again in only a few yards, and turned in his saddle to look back over his heavy shoulder.

“Mind this,” he shouted, as everywhere men cringed.

“You, Bruce. All of you.

Scots curs. There is no King of Scots. Nor will be again. There is no kingdom of Scotland. It is now and henceforth part of my realm of England. A wretched, discredited province-but part.

Your king I have deposed. Your Great Seal I have broken in four

pieces. Your charters and records I have commanded to be sent from

Edinburgh to London. Your Black Rood of St. Margaret is sent to my

Archbishop. Your Stone of Scotland I shall take from Scone to Westminster. Your crown and sceptre are there—playthings for my men. There is nothing—nothing left for any man to play king over. And hereafter, all men shall take the oath of fealty to me, as King, for every inch of land in this Scotland. For every office. On bended knee. On pain of treason. Hear—and heed well.”

He moved on.

But at the very door, again he drew up, and turned his head once more, this time over his other, his left shoulder—and his manner had undergone one of its drastic transformations.

“Where is the whelp?” he demanded, almost jovially.

“My friend the younger Robert? Ha, yes—there you are, my lordling of Carrick I See you, I counsel you, my young friend, to look to your father. If you would remain my friend! Look well. Your old grandsire, The Competitor, was trouble enough. He is well dead.

I am a peaceable man, God knows—and want no more trouble.

With Bruce. Or other. See you to it, boy—if you would have me to pay any more of your debts! Pay for all the fine velvet you are wearing! See that my lord of Annandale, your father, is escorted back to his charge at Carlisle—henceforth not to leave it lacking my express command. And you, then, join me at Berwick town, where we will consider your latest list of creditors!” Edward hooted a laugh.

“Would I had had so lenient a liege lord!” He faced front again.

“Come, my lords. Surrey—muster the guard.”

Robert Bruce the younger stared across at Robert Bruce the elder, and his brow was black. Apart from that he offered no other recognition of his father, or indeed of anybody else, as he pushed out of the church. Pew indeed now so much as glanced up towards the chancel steps, where the lawful King of Scots stood, forgotten as he was rejected.

Chapter Two

Impatiently the hard-riding little group pulled off the Tweedside roadway, splattered through the flooded water-meadows to the side, and the horses had to clamber, hooves slipping, up the raw red earth and outcrops of the broom-clad knowe beyond, to win back to the road again, in front of the slow-moving throng blocked it. Young Robert Bruce cursed, in the lead. It was not that he was in any particular hurry; just that when he moved, he liked to move fast. And patience was not outstanding amongst his virtues. But it had been like this almost all the way from Galloway. All the world seemed to be heading for BerwickonTweed—and all the world, on the move, tends to be a slow process.

Seldom had Bruce made a more frustrating journey. It was as though everyone was on holiday, making for some great fair, important enough to pull them right across Scotland.

Not quite everyone, perhaps, and not quite in the fair-going spirit. It was the pride and circumstance, the substance of the land, that took its way by every road and highway, to Berwick, August day, nobles, knights, lairds, landowners great and small, prelates and clerics, sheriffs, justices, officers of the higher degrees. And none looked in festive mood, or really anxious to reach their destination. Few, of course, by the very nature of things, were youthful, like the Earl of Carrick and his little troop of Annandale moss-troopers, who esteemed hurry for the sake of haste. For, in fact, Bruce himself was not especially eager to reach Berwick. His urgent mode of travel was merely habitual. Moreover, he had his nineteen-year-old brother at his side, and young brothers of age needed to be left in no doubt as to what was what, and as to how to behave in a chivalric society.

Robert’s snort of disgust was eloquent indeed as they spurred round the bend of the broomy knowe and there saw the road blocked once more, immediately ahead, and by a larger, slower and more ponderous company than heretofore.

“Save us—more of them!” he complained.

“And crawling.

Cumbering all the road. More fat clerks, for a wager—churchmen! Look at the horse-litter. Only some prideful, arrogant prelate would ride in such a thing. Filling all the highway …”

“Let us give him a fright, then!” his brother Nigel cried, laughing.

“Shake up his holy litter and liver, intone! His bowels of compassion

…!”

Nothing loth the other dug in his spurs, and neck and neck the two young men raced onwards, their grinning men-at-arms a solid pack close behind.

They were very obviously brothers, these two, and close friends.

Robert had the stronger face—though the years might alter that-the slightly more rugged features. Nigel was the more nearly handsome.

But both were of arresting looks, medium of height, slender but with

good wide shoulders, fresh-complexioned, grey eyed and with wavy auburn

hair—the touch of red in it no doubt inherited from the Celtic

mother. They had keen-cut almost bony features, vivid, mobile and expressionful, with something of their father’s stubbornness of chin without the petulance of mouth.

They looked a pair who would burst into laughter or sudden rage with equal readiness; yet there was a sensitiveness about their faces, especially Nigel’s, which warred with the rest.

As they thundered down on the company ahead, the younger shouted.

“A banner. Forward. See it? A bishop, at least!”

“Our own colours—red and gold! Can you see the device…?”

“A cross, I think. Not a saltire and a chief, like Bruce. A red cross on gold. We’ll make it flap…!”

The other looked just a little doubtful now—but here was no occasion for hesitation. No man of spirit could pull up now, and have his followers cannoning into his rear while he mouthed excuses for a change of mind. A man must never look a fool before his men—especially if they were Border moss troopers Moreover, churchmen were all insufferably pompous and requiring of diminishing. They hurtled on.

Horsemen at the rear of the leisurely cavalcade were now looking back, at the urgent drumming of hooves. There was a certain amount of alarmed reining to this side or that. The riverside road was not only fairly narrow, but here, near Paxton, cut its way along a steep brae side of whins and bracken and thorn trees, with the ground rising sharply at one side and dropping steeply at the other. There was little room for manoeuvre—although if the company ahead had ridden less than four abreast, there would have been room for a single file to pass.

If there was some last-moment drawing aside towards the rear of the column, it did not extend to the middle, where an elaborate and richly canopied litter in red and gold was slung between a pair of pacing white jennets, something between a hammock and a palanquin, curtained and upholstered. This swaying equipage, with its two horses, took up almost the full width or the track.