Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“In a storm a man may not always choose the haven he would.”

“Ha-neatly put, kinsman!” John Comyn acceded.

“No doubt you are right. So there we have it. Joint Guardian—heh?

With Bruce! God save us all!”

It was moments before it sank in. That this was acceptance.

That Comyn was in fact going to say no more. That, smiling and lounging in his chair, he was reaching for his goblet, to drink.

And that he had pocketed his half of the seal. The thing was

As the recognition of this dawned, the company broke forth in excited chatter, comment, speculation. There was no longer any semblance of order. Men rose from their places and went to their friends and fellow clansmen. Chiefs and lords beckoned their knightly supporters, prelates put their heads together and rubbed their hands. Down at the foot of the table, Wallace sat expressionless.

But after a while, as the noise maintained, the big man signed to the Bishop of Galloway. That cleric raise his hand, called out, and when he could make no impression, banged a flagon on the table for silence.

“My lords—this matter is well resolved. But it falls to be confirmed.

To be accepted and duly made lawful. By a parliament, I, therefore, as Chancellor of this realm, for and on behalf of the Guardianship, do call such meeting of parliament tomorrow, at noon, in the former abbey here. To be attended by all and sundry of the three estates of this kingdom. At noon, my lords, gentles and clerks. So be it. God give you a good night.”

Bruce rose, and looked down at Comyn.

“This means … no little … accommodation, my lord,” he said slowly.

“It will tax our patience, I think, ere we are done.”

“You think so? Patience is for clerks, and such folk. It is not a quality I aspire to, Bruce!”

“Nevertheless, you will require it, if I am not mistaken I As shall

I!”

“If you esteem it so high, then I shall leave it to you! Myself, I see the case calling for quite different virtues. Valour. Daring.

Resolution. Spirit. These, and the like.”

“Such as the Comyns showed at Falkirk field?” That erupted out of Robert Bruce.

The other was on his feet in an instant, fists clenched.

“By the Rude—you dare speak so! To me! You—Edward’s … lackey 1” “For that, Comyn … you shall … suffer! As God is my witness!”

For moments they stared eye to eye. Then John Comyn swung about, and stormed from the hall. Few there failed to note it.

There was a deep sigh at Bruce’s back, from William Lamberton.

Next day, in the ruined abbey, a tense and anxious company assembled,

anticipating trouble naked and undisguised. And they were surprised, relieved, or disappointed, according to their varying dispositions. A night’s sleeping on it, second and third thoughts, and the earnest representations of sundry busy mediators—mainly churchmen, and Master William Comyn in especial-had produced a distinct change of atmosphere. Nothing would make Bruce and Comyn love each other, or trust each other; but it was just conceivable that they might sufficiently tolerate each other to work, if not together, at least not openly in opposition.

At any rate, John Comyn arrived at the abbey, with his supporters, apparently in a different frame of mind. He favoured Bruce, even, with a distinct inclination of the head, did not address him directly, but appeared to be prepared to co-operate in some measure with Wallace, Lamberton and the Chancellor.

Presently he allowed himself to be escorted to the Guardian’s seat by the Steward, while Buchan, stiffly, silently, did the same for Bruce. They sat down, a foot or two apart, not looking at each other but not fighting either. The Primate said a brief prayer over their deliberations, and the Bishop of Galloway, as Chancellor, opened the proceedings by asking if it was the Guardians’ will and pleasure to declare this parliament in sitting-even though lacking required 40 days’ notice.

Two nods from the chairs established the matter.

There was much routine business to get through, administrative detail which had piled up during Wallace’s regime and which required ratification by parliament, most of it of minor importance or un contentious There was, in especial, the new French treaty and its ramifications to discuss. John Comyn, who had been sent to take a leading part at its negotiation, now sat silent, allowing his able kinsman, Master William, of the Chapel Royal, to speak of this-which he did clearly and persuasively.

The King of France’s promises regarding armed help and intervention were noted and approved—and queries as to how much they were worth were kept to a minimum. Lamberton then gave some account of his negotiations with the Pope, at Rome, on Scotland’s behalf, with assurances of Papal sanctions against Edward. Indeed, he had to announce that this, plus France’s representations, had already resulted, they had just heard, in Edward releasing King John Baliol and his son from strict ward; they were now more or less free, in the custody of the Pope, at Malmaison in Cambrai.

No cheers greeted this news. Indeed a pregnant silence fell, as men looked at Bruce to see how he took it. He sat motionless, expressionless. In a parliament it was normal for the King to preside, but not to intervene in the actual discussions unless to make some vital and authoritative pronouncement. The Guardians were there as representing the King. Bruce could scarcely express forebodings about John Baliol’s limited release.

Then there were a number of appointments recently made by Wallace, which fell to be confirmed, few of any prominence. But one raised eyebrows. Alexander Scrymgeour, of Dundee, his own standard-bearer in all their affrays, had been appointed Standard Bearer of the Realm, and Constable of Dundee—the former a new office of state.

Buchan was on his feet to question it immediately.

“My lord Chancellor,” he said, “here is a strange matter. A new office. Is this the time to create new offices of state? Such should be by the King’s own appointment. And … and if Standard-Bearer there must be, it should be one of the King’s nobility. I move against.”

There were a number of ayes from the assembly—but some growls also; the first sign of a clash.

“Do you contest the right of the Guardian to create such office, my lord?” the Chancellor asked mildly.

The Constable hesitated.

“No,” he admitted, after a moment.

“But it requires confirmation by this parliament. And by the new Guardians. I move that confirmation be withheld.”

“Noted.” Galloway looked round.

“Does any other wish to speak on this matter?”

“Aye, my lord Chancellor—I do.” Wallace, standing in a lowly position but tending to dominate by his very presence, spoke up.

“With great respect to my lord Earl, I would say that the creation of this office is no whim or caprice. Nor the filling of it by Alexander Scrymgeour. In this our realm’s warfare, none I swear will question who suffers most. The common people. Few will deny who has achieved most in it, as yet. The common people. Even you, my lord Constable, will not gainsay that if the people of Scotland lose heart, or fail in their full support, then the realm is lost. The common folk, then, must see that they are considered.

Represented. Given their due place. I say, who are more fitted to bear the Royal Standard of Scotland than one of themselves?

And of them, who more fitted than Alexander Scrymgeour, who has fought

in every conflict against the English, fought with valour—and stood

his ground! I crave, my lords temporal and spiritual, barons of

Scotland and gentles all—confirm the office and appointment both.”

There was a curious sucking noise as the Steward, rising, sought to control his saliva.