Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“I so move,” he got out, and sat down.

This was it, then. So soon. The moment of decision. All eyes were fixed on the two new Guardians who sat side by side looking straight ahead of them, rather than on the Chancellor, Wallace or Buchan.

Galloway, tapping fingers on the stone recumbent effigy of a former abbot, which served him as desk, looked in the same direction as all others.

“Before putting this to the vote, I think, the minds of the two Lords Guardian should be known,” he said, and for once his confident sonorous voice was uneven.

Promptly Bruce spoke.

“I accept the office, and accept and agree to confirm Alexander Scrymgeour as Royal Standard-Bearer of Scotland.”

Seconds passed as all waited. Then John Comyn smiled suddenly, that brilliant flashing smile of his which not all found an occasion for joy.

“Why, then, we are in happy accord, my friends,” he declared easily.

“For I too accept and accede. Let the excellent Scrymgeour bear his standard … so long as he can!”

The sigh of relief that arose was like a wind sweeping over the Forest outside. Men scarcely noticed the Chancellor’s declaration that he thought there was no need for a vote, or Buchan’s snorting offence and the angry look he cast at his kinsman. Everywhere the thing was seen as much more than just Scrymgeour’s appointment; it was the sought-for sign that these highborn rivals might yet sink their personal preferences for the common good.

But even as the Chancellor, like others, relaxed a little, he was suddenly alert once more. John Comyn was speaking again.

“Since appointments are before us,” he said crisply, sitting a little forward in his chair, “here are some that I require. For the better governance of this kingdom. My lord of Buchan to be Justiciar of the North. Sir Alexander Comyn, his brother, to be Sheriff of Aberdeen and keeper of its castle. Sir Walter Comyn to be Sheriff of Banff, and keeper. Sir William Mowat to be Sheriff of Cromarty, and keeper thereof. Sir Robert Comyn to be Sheriff of Inverness. Sir William Baliol to be Sheriff of Forfar. And Master William Comyn, of the Chapel-Royal, to be Lord Privy Seal and elect to the next bishopric to become vacant. All that due rule and governance may be established in the land.”

Bruce all but choked, as all around men gasped and exclaimed.

Never before had a parliament been presented with such demands from the throne, such an ultimatum. For clearly that is what it was. This, then, was Comyn’s price for superficial cooperation.

He had come prepared. Already the Comyns possessed enormous power in the North; with these key positions in their hands, they would be in complete control of all the upper half of the kingdom, not only theoretical but actual control.

Bruce bit his lip, as the startled Chancellor groped for words, looking in agitation for guidance, first at Bruce, then at Wallace and Lamberton. Agog, the assembly waited.

Bruce had only brief moments for decision, a decision there was no avoiding. Either he accepted, or refused agreement—and was thereupon branded as the man who broke up the Joint Guardianship, refused to make it work, out of enmity to Comyn. After Comyn had made his gesture of acceptance. The fact that was on a tiny matter, a mere empty title, while this was a wholesale grab for effective power and dominance, would not help him.

That Comyn had chosen to cast down the gauntlet now, before all, had obviously come prepared to do so, was evidence that if he, Bruce, countered him, the Joint Guardianship was finished before it had begun. Nothing was more sure..

Yet, how could it possibly continue, or succeed, on these terms?

As good as a knife at his throat. Was there any point in going on with the farce?

There was only one faint glimmer of light that presented itself to Robert Bruce in those agonising moments. All the appointments Comyn had so blatantly demanded were in the North.

Apart from the question of the Privy Seal and bishopric, he was at the moment confining his hegemony to the North. Always Scotland had tended to divide into two; the land south of the Forth, and north, echo of the old kingdoms of the Northern and Southern Picts, and their Celtic successors. It might be that Comyn was more or less proposing, not joint guardianship but divided guardianship, one to rule north of Forth, the other south.

If this was so, it could change the entire situation. The South was smaller in territory but infinitely more rich and populous.

Or had been, before it had burned itself. And it was the South that

must bear the brunt of Edward’s ire … Lamberton was speaking—and

clearly he had been thinking along the same lines as Bruce. “… since

such appointments undoubtedly would strengthen the rule of the Joint

Guardians. In the North. To the internal peace and security of the realm. A similar list of nominations-, made by the Earl of Carrick, for the South, would be to the advantage of all. A … a balanced responsibility.

Of the Joint Guardians. On such joint security the kingdom might rest firm. In this pass.” He was looking hard at Bruce—as indeed were all others.

That young man took a deep breath.

“Very well,” he said, shortly.

“I accept these appointments. And shall produce my own, in due course.

Proceed.”

In the buzz of talk that followed, John Comyn turned in his seat to stare at his companion long and levelly.

After that there was little more than formalities. The main confrontation and decisions had been made, and all knew it. In effect, Scotland would be partitioned into two mighty provinces, North and South. It was the natural, age-old division, and in line with the two great houses’ spheres of influence—for though the Comyns held lands in Galloway, and the Bruces in Garioch and Angus, these were very marginal to their main power.

There was, of course, an unspoken corollary, which few failed to perceive. When Edward struck, the South would have to face him first. And it would be wise, then, for Bruce to look back over his shoulder. And if Edward over-ran the South, and could be held again at Stirling, as before, then the North would become all there was of Scotland. In which case, there might well be a new king in the land.

The parliament in the Forest broke up. It was agreed that the Guardians should meet again at Stirling, where North and South joined, in a month’s time, to confer, and sign and seal edicts, charters and the like, with their two halves of the Great Seal.

Robert Bruce, with his brothers, rode south again for Annandale, ruler, in name at least, of Scotland south of the Forth.

Chapter Eleven

So commenced months of trial and frustration as difficult as any Bruce had experienced, with problems multiplying, patience taxed to the limits, and his hatred and distrust of John Comyn gnawing like a canker within him. He felt himself to be hamstrung, almost helpless, ruler in little more than name, able to achieve as little for himself and the Bruce cause as for the country as a whole, a land burned out and a people in dire straits, living in makeshift shelters and ruins, and on the verge of starvation.

It was a wet and dismal winter, with little snow but floods making travel difficult—and Bruce seemed to spend his time in wet and uncomfortable travel, constantly on the move, though having little to show for his journeyings. He had nothing that he could feel was home, no real base or headquarters even—for Annandale was too far south for practical use, and his castles of Turnberry and Ayr, like all others, were but burned and blackened shells, and Lochmaben, the all-but-impregnable, was back in English hands. He went to Stirling monthly, for his formal meetings with Comyn—grim and profitless episodes which he loathed—and which only were made bearable by the patient ministrations and devices of the churchmen, especially Lamberton and William Comyn—the last proving himself to be able, shrewd and cooperative, however clearly ambitious. Without these two the Joint Guardianship would not have survived even the first acrimonious encounters.