Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Bruce remained in his room, perusing his letter. And even when Nigel came running up the narrow turnpike stair to tell him that Comyn waited below, he curtly dismissed him. He would be damned if he would go hastening to meet the fellow.

Lamberton mounted the stairs, after a while. He looked weary, older, but greeted Bruce with a sort of rueful affection. He glanced quickly at the letter in the younger man’s hand, but asked no questions. He contented himself, after the normal civilities, with mentioning that there were a great number of papers for the Guardians’ signature and sealing, and that the Lord of Badenoch was in vehement mood, and spoiling for a gesture against the English, claiming to have 20,000 men under arms and ready for a move.

That brought Bruce back to realities, and he went downstairs with the older man in more sober frame of mind.

The hall at Torwood was no more than a moderately-sized room and was already overcrowded with Comyn’s entourage.

Bruce would have had them all out, for it seemed to him no way to conduct the business of state before all this crew; but he had had this out with Comyn before, and an unseemly argument it had been—worse probably than putting up with the crowd’s presence, since this was the way the other wanted it. There were larger measures at issue.

Comyn himself lounged at the table, and did not pause in his eating, although the others all bowed at his co-Guardian’s entry.

“Ha, Earl of Carrick,” he cried, from a full mouth, “where have you been hiding yourself in this rat’s hole? I’ faith, I feared I would have to send for you!”

“Send, my lord?”

“To apprise you of my presence. And that I have come a long way. And have no desire to spend the night in this rickle o’ stanes!”

Their host, Sir John le Forester, Hereditary Keeper of the Forest of the Tor Wood, clenched his fists, but kept silence.

“No doubt Sir John will be relieved to hear it,” Bruce returned shortly.

“Since we already must bear grievously on his household.”

“He will be paid.” Comyn shrugged.

“I say that it is unsuitable that we should continue to meet in such a place. Like furtive felons. Well enough for Wallace and the like. But not for Comyn.

We represent King John, and should meet in King John’s palace of Stirling.”

“I cannot believe that it has escaped your lordship’s notice that Stirling Castle is still in the hands of Englishmen!”

“Aye. After all these months. And not only Stirling. But Edinburgh.

Both in Scotland south of the Forth. Not to mention Roxburgh.

And your Lochmaben. A poor state of affairs.”

“Meaning, sir?”

“Meaning, sir, that you are lord of the South. That these strongholds are all in your territory. And that no attempt has been made, I think, to expel Edward’s lackeys from any of them.”

Bruce strove to keep his voice steady.

“My lord, you know very well that these are four of the greatest fortresses in the land.

In determined hands, all can withstand siege for months, for years if may be. Well provisioned, and with their own deep wells, they are impregnable. Without great siege engines—of which I have none.

Moreover, with a territory in ruins, I have more to do than waste men

in idle siegery. Isolated, these fortresses can do us little harm.”

“I say there speaks folly. While Edward holds these castles, and denies us the use of our own land, we are still in his occupation.

Not free men. They are a reproach and a scorn. I say we cannot make pretence to lead this Scotland while these remain held against us. Stirling and Edinburgh, in especial.”

“Then, sir—you reduce them I If you can. You have the men assembled, I hear. Your North is not devastated. And you do not have to watch a hundred miles of Border.”

“Will Bruce have Comyn free his castle of Lochmaben for him!”

“Reduce Stirling first, and we shall see!”

“Very well. I shall move against Stirling, forthwith. And when Edward marches, we are the nearer at hand.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, almost spoke, but did not.

“My lords,” Lamberton said, “is it wise to waste your strength on these castles? When King Edward crosses the Border it will be in mighty force. We shall not be battling for castles, but for our very lives. Using the land against him again, tiring him, starving him, wearing him down. I see little virtue in seeking to take these castles, which he may be able to retake in but a few months time.”

“There speaks a clerk, beat before he so much as draws sword!” Comyn scoffed.

“You do not talk of war, my lord Bishop, but or brigandage. Think you I have mustered 20,000 men-and will muster more—to skulk and hide, to pick and peck? We shall face Edward like men-but choosing our battlefield, not his. As Wallace did at Falkirk, a mis-fought field if ever there was one. Let Bruce here slink and stab if he will. Comyn will fight to win, not to weary.”

“Brave words, my lord,” Bruce grated.

“And where do you think to hold Edward thus? Where do you choose your battlefield?”

The other grinned.

“Why, at Stirling belike! The best place, is it not? In all the land. Even Wallace could win, there. Aye, I shall hold the English again at Stirling. And meantime take Stirling’s castle.”

“Abandoning all the South to Edward!”

Comyn shrugged.

“That is your responsibility, is it not? If you would have my counsel, it is that you should retire behind Forth yourself. The Bishop here has admitted you cannot hold Edward in open battle. South of Forth it may be true. Only harass and impede. That is not sufficient. I say give him the south to starve in, then fight at Stirling. Fight to win.”

There was a murmur of agreement from his supporters.

“No! Only a man lacking heart would say that. The best of Scotland is in the South. The richest, fairest land. The greatest number of the people …”

“And the Bruce lands!”

“You would abandon all this to the invader? I say no.”

“How many men have you assembled? To face Edward?”

Bruce cleared his throat.

“I do not keep many so assembled.

There is overmuch for men to do in this stricken land. But in a week I can muster 7,000. In two weeks, four times that.”

“Can? Hope that you can! Will Edward give you two weeks?

I prefer my army as men, not as promises! With my men, then, I shall assail Stirling Castle. With your promises, my lord, do what you will!” Comyn rose to his feet, as though he had granted an interview and it was now over.

“My Lord Privy Seal—where are the papers to sign? These plaguey papers…!”

Bruce was actually trembling with suppressed rage and the effort to restrain his hot temper, the fists gripping his golden earl’s sword-belt clenching and unclenching. Lamberton, watching them both closely, intervened.

“It is probably well decided, my lords. One policy to support the other. But not only my Lord of Badenoch will be at Stirling.

Holy Church has made shift to muster men from its own lands.

No mighty host, but sufficient to achieve much. A balance, shall we say? Four thousand of them, 1,500 horsed. And Wallace has lent us Scrymgeour, the Standard-Bearer, to lead. With Wallace’s own host—now 15,000, I am told—my lord of Carrick’s rear should be secure.”

Both lords looked at the Primate quickly, at that—and Comyn went on looking. Neither commented, though a little of the tension eased out of Bruce.

“The papers for signature, my lords Guardian,” Master William Comyn said, setting down a sheaf of documents before them on the table.

“The lead for the sealing is heating below…”

Later, with the Northerners gone, Bruce, in his own small chamber again, turned to Lamberton.

“It is good to hear of your Church host. A comfort.” Bruce took a pace or two about the room.