Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Bruce drew a swift breath. Then he let it out again, slowly and raised his wine goblet to his lips.

“My lord of Carrick has put himself more in Edward’s disfavour than has any other in Scotland,” Wallace said heavily.

“He burned the SouthWest in Edward’s face, forcing him to call off his campaign. Much of the land burned Bruce’s own. As for Lord Percy, I think he is scarce likely to call my lord his friend, now!”

“Yet the woman Bruce is like to marry is Percy’s kinswoman.

And bides with him, at Alnwick, does she not? While her father fights for Edward in France. Against our French allies!”

“Curse you, Comyn! I am not like to marry Elizabeth de Burgh. Edward would have had it once—but now would not, you may be sure!”

“Yet she is a comely wench. And well dowered, I swear I Ed Ward’s god-child-a useful go-between…”

”I’ll thank you to spare the Lady Elizabeth the soiling of your

tongue!” Bruce exclaimed, leaning forward to glare round Wallace.

“My lords! My lords-of a mercy!” the big man cried.

“Moderate your words, I beg you. Here is no way to speak to each other.”

“Have I said aught against the lady? Save that she is Edward’s goddaughter. Bruce has a guilty conscience, I think, to be so thin of skin!”

“What knows a Comyn of conscience!”

“My lords—at my table, no guest of mine will be insulted. By

whomsoever. I ask you to remember it.” Wallace brought down his vast

fist on the board with a crash to make the platters, flagons and

goblets jump—and not a few of the company also. Then

Pushing back his chair abruptly he rose to his full commanding eight.

All eyes upon him, he raised his tremendous vibrant voice.

“My lords and friends, fellow subjects of this realm, I, William Wallace, Guardian of Scotland, crave your close heed. I took up that duty and style seven sore months ago. Now the time has come to lay it on other shoulders than mine. They have been ill months for our land. We have survived them only at great cost. But there are as bad, and worse, to come. Let none doubt it.

The man, Edward Plantagenet, is set on this. He will make Scotland part of his crown. A lowly servile part. If he can. While breath remains in him. That is sure. And he has ten men for every man of us.”

He paused, and though all present were aware of all this, men hung on his careful words.

“I say to you that I know now what I should have known before—that I cannot fight Edward the King. I can fight his underlings and minions. I can, I have done, and I will. But not Edward himself. Only Edward’s own kind can fight Edward—I see that now. And I am … otherwise. Scotland’s own king it should be who fights him. But since that is not possible now, it falls to the Guardian. Therefore, I cannot remain Guardian. Falkirk proved that. The Guardianship must be in the hands of Edward’s own kind.” Deliberately he looked round on them all.

“In this realm today there are two men who could, and should, be Guardian. Two men whom all must heed, respect, obey. For what they are, and who they are. They are here at my side. Sir Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, grandson of Bruce the Competitor; and Sir John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, nephew to the King.

King John. On these two, who are both of Edward’s kind, I lay my Burden. Jointly and together. These two can, and must, unite this realm against the English usurper. These two I charge, in the name of God and of Scotland—fight Edward! Save our land.” He pointed.

“My lord Bishop of Galloway—the seals.”

As men exclaimed, from further down the table, the Chancellor rose, to bring up the two silver caskets that were his charge, and set them before Wallace, opening them to display the Great Seal of Scotland, and the Privy Seal.

The first the big man took out, and raised up—and it required both hands to do it. Not because it was so heavy, but because its bronze was in two parts, two exact halves. He held them high.

“My friends,” he cried, “Here is the Great Seal of this realm and nation. I broke it. This day I broke it. For the good of all.

Now, before anything may be established and made law, bearing the Seal of Scotland, these two parts must be brought together and set side by side. One, in the name of the Crown, the magnates and the community of this ancient realm, I give to Sir Robert the Bruce, Earl of Carrick. The other to Sir John the Comyn, of Badenoch. I do now declare them both and together to be Joint Guardians of Scotland. To them I hereby pass the rule and governance. Declaring that I, William Wallace, will from now onward be their leal and assured servant. God save them both, I say.”

As all men stared, the giant thrust his chair far back, and bowing to Bruce first, then Comyn, turned and strode down the length of that great table, right to its foot, where he gently pushed aside his own standard-bearer, Scrymgeour, modestly seated there, and sat himself down in his place.

Something like uproar filled the hall.

Each holding his half of the Great Seal, Bruce and Comyn gazed at one another before all, wordless.

Gradually the noise abated, and men fell silent, all eyes upon the pair at the head of the table, clutching their half-moons of bronze. All knew that these two hated each other. All knew that they represented mutually antagonistic claims to the throne.

Moreover, there could be few indeed who could have accepted Wallace’s dramatic gesture in itself as any kind of valid appointment.

It was not for the outgoing Guardian to appoint a successor;

that was for the barons of the realm to choose, their choice to be

confirmed by a parliament. What Wallace had done in itself carried no

real authority. Yet, if these two indeed elected to accept it as such, none there were in a position to contra vert it, even if they so desired.

The hush was broken by the scrape of Bruce’s chair on the rush-strewn flagstones, as he rose.

“My lords,” he said thickly.

“Here is a great matter. Here is the need for decision. I, for myself, do not want this duty, this burden, that Sir William Wallace has laid upon me. I am young, with no experience of the rule of a realm. I have much to see to, without that. My lands are devastated, great numbers of my people homeless, hungry, living in caves and under tree-roots. Winter is coming upon us—a winter that will test us hard. And in the spring, Edward will return.

But… all this, if it is true for Carrick and Annandale and Galloway, is true also for much of Scotland. Save, perhaps, the North.”

He glanced down at Comyn.

“The land faces trial. Destiny. All the land. The people. The need is great. And in this need, unity is all-important. Only unity can save us from Edward of England.

None shall say that Bruce withstood that unity. If you, my lords, will have it so, I accept the office of Guardian. With …

whomsoever.” He sat down abruptly.

There was acclaim. But it was tense, almost breathless, and brief.

Every glance was on John Comyn.

That man sat still, toying with the segment of bronze. He seemed to be under no strain, no sense of embarrassment that all waited for him. His sardonically handsome features even bore a twisted smile, as he examined the broken seal in his hand. The seconds passed.

When a voice was raised, it was Bruce’s.

“Well, man?” he demanded.

“This of the seal was cunning,” the other said, almost admiringly amused. He looked up, but not at Bruce.

“How think you, my lord Constable?” he asked his fellow-Comyn conversationally.

Buchan huffed and puffed, looking towards his brother, Master William, the cleric, some way down the table. Almost imperceptibly that smooth-faced man nodded.

“Aye. So be it,” the earl grunted.