Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Wallace …?” he said.

“You return to St. Andrews, my lord Bishop? Just across Tay from

Wallace at Dundee. You will see him? Soon? Good. Then, will you

tell him, from me, secretly, that we need not look for Edward’s invasion. Not this spring.”

“Not…? No invasion …?”

“No. Not this year, I think. Edward will be otherwise employed.

He weds again.”

“Dear God! Edward will wed? Soon?”

“Aye. He goes on a pilgrimage to St. Albans. In preparation.

Weds at Canterbury. This summer. To the Princess Margaret of France.

I fear we risk losing our French allies!”

“Saints cherish us—this is news indeed! You are sure of it? No idle tale?”

“I have it… from one I trust. Close to Edward’s person.”

“So! Then … then we have time. We have been given time, precious time. Thank God, I say!” The Bishop paused.

“But, my lord-you did not tell him. My lord of Badenoch. You said naught of it…!”

“I said naught,” the younger man agreed heavily.

“Better that he does not know, I think.”

“Is that right, my lord? He is your fellow-Guardian.”

“Right? I do not know if it is right. But I deem it wise. Let Comyn learn it in his own time. Tell Wallace. But others need not know. Yet. I require the time more than does Comyn.”

When Lamberton left him, Bruce asked him to have sent up to him paper, a quill and ink. Also a lamp, for the window was small and the light beginning to fade.

It was dark long before the young man finished. Letter-writing did not come easily to him, and in his vehemence he had to send for three more quills before he was finished. He wrote:

My lady, I do greatly thank you. Your letter came to me this tenth day of April, at the Torwood of Stirling, and I received it with much favour. Your God-speed and goodwill I do treasure. And, I think, do much require. For I am in sorry state here. But the better for your heed for me.

I counsel you to beware of Guy de Beauchamp. He is a man of ill living. Do not consider him. Beware, I say, of any whom Edward would have you to wed. He would but use you, as he uses all, for his own purposes.

The word of his marriage is of great moment and does much aid to my mind’s ease. For this I do thank you. Even Edward is scarce like to come warring to Scotland quickly after his wedding.

The more surely in that his wife will be sister to King Philip, with whom we are in treaty of mutual aid. I have no doubt that treaty will be brought to nothing hereafter. But meantime it stands.

This gives us time, in Scotland. But God knows, not I, whether I can achieve what is required, in time.

You say well when you conceive that my present state will not bring me joy-Being Joint Guardian of Scotland with this man John Comyn is so ill a fate as to drive me all but from my wits. I think that you know of him, a masterful man of ill tongue, respecting none. But strong, in his own parts, as well as heading the power fullest house in this realm. We have never agreed, nor ever shall. To act with him in amity is not possible. To bear with him is beyond all supporting. Yet I needs must, on the face of it, if the kingdom is not to fall apart before Edward. Only Comyn and Bruce, it seems to be, can so unite the lords and barons of the land into one, and so oppose England. But the good God alone knows if it is possible, for I do not.

Comyn will be king, if he may. Nothing is more sure. That would be an ill day for Scotland, and I would die first. For it would be the end of Bruce, I think. Anything better than that.

I do not believe that you are a shrew, my lady. Haughty it may be.

I would have news of my father. We are not close, but I am sufficient his son to wish to know how “he fares. And he is true heir to Scotland. I fear that Edward may wreak wrath on him because of me. Where he is I do not know. He spoke of proceeding to Norway, to my sister, but I do not think it. He is like to be living on one of his English manors, which you know of, if Edward has not warded him. If you can learn aught and will write it to me, I shall be the more indebted. I think much of you, Lady Elizabeth. I do not believe that we are better thus far parted. I believe I am less stubborn than I was.

The salutations and esteem of Robert Bruce of Carrick, Guardian of Scotland.

Those last three words he scored out, and wrote beneath;

Here is folly, for I am guardian of nothing, scarce even of my own pride and honour. I pray God that He keep you. Also that He holds off Edward until our sown corn may be grown, and reaped, so that we may fight him at least with full bellies.

Chapter Twelve

The land was fair again, green—better even, turning golden under the August sun, the rigs of corn already yellowing on every valley side beasts looking sleek and fat again on the braes. It was a wonder, a transformation, and men rejoiced with an elementary rejoicing at the recurrent bounty of the seasons, a thing which they had not had occasion to consider, in Southern Scotland, for long. Another month. Give them another month, and honest weather, and the harvest would be in. One more month.

But there were ominous signs if not in the landscape. The English, who had withheld all these spring and summer months, were becoming active again. They had reinforced Edinburgh, Dunbar and Roxburgh Castles, and were sending out probing sallies from the latter and Berwick into the East March of the Borderland, even into Ettrick Forest. Why? They would not restart this without orders. King Edward was gone south to his wedding, yes—but he had issued commands for public prayers to be made in all parts of his kingdom for the success or his arms against the rebellious Scots. He had not forgotten, in his newfound felicity—and as a bridegroom of exactly sixty summers, he might well be content with only brief honeymooning. But they would have another month, surely… Even Robert Bruce, who these days had developed something of a hunch to his wide shoulders, and a sombre, brooding aspect to his expressionful rugged features, felt the lift and release of it all, of what he saw. The land was no longer black. He had prayed for this, these months, and had been granted them. Nigel sang cheerfully at his side, as they rode, and he almost joined in more than once—unsuitable as this might be for Scotland’s Guardian.

Eastwards from Lanark, where Bruce had been conducting an assize of justice, they climbed into the hills out of Clydesdale, by Biggar and Broughton, moving into the unburned land of Ettrick Forest.

This time, Bruce rode at the head of a great company of lords, knights and men-at-arms. He had learned this lesson, at least; that dealing with his fellow-Guardian called for display as well as patience. Moreover, this was not just to be another meeting or council, but with action contemplated. So he had, riding behind him and his brothers, as well as James the Steward and his son Walter; Gartnait, Earl of Mar;

John de Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl; Lindsay, Lord of Crawford; old Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, out of English hands again; Sir John de Soulis of Liddesdale; and Sir Ingram de Umfraville, brother to the Earl of Angus. As well as many other notables. A thousand and more horsed and armed retainers jingled behind, on long column of march, through the winding valleys.

They made not for Selkirk this time, but for Bishop Lamberton’s rich manor of Stobo, on the upper Tweed west of Peebles.

This was because of the English raids from Roxburgh, one of which had recently penetrated sufficiently deep into the Forest to burn Selkirk and part of the lower Ettrick and Yarrow valleys, as warning and foretaste. It was as reprisal for this, and in answer to Comyn’s taunts regarding military inactivity, that Bruce now rode eastwards.

They came to the wide haugh of Tweed, at Stobo, in the late afternoon, to find its meadows and pastures a great armed camp, out of which the church on its knowe, the Bishop’s manor-house and the Dean’s little tower, rose like islands. Comyn had arrived first, from his prolonged siege of Stirling Castle, and clearly he had come well supported, as the colourful host of banners flying down there indicated.