Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

It turned out, ominously, that the other Guardian had brought, as well as Buchan, Alexander, Earl of Menteith; William, Earl of Sutherland;

Malise, Earl of Strathearn, Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Lorn, his brother-in-law; Sir Robert Keith, the Marischal;

Sir David Graham, Lord of Dundaff; and others of similar prominence.

It looked as though this was to be a trial of strength with more than the English.

Lamberton, more than aware of all the stresses and strains, was taking his own precautions. Churchmen were everywhere, with all the trappings of religion, relics and the like. Also heralds, with the King of Arms busy with formal pomp and circumstance.

Massed trumpets signalised the appearance of Bruce’s contingent, and

re-echoed from all the round green hills. The Primate was seeking to

smother animosities in formality.

The two sides mingled in the wide haugh land with a sort of grim wariness, watched over and fussed around by the droves of clerics.

There was no dear cut distinction between North and South, for there

were Comyn supporters in the South and Bruce supporters in the North;

but by and large the division was fairly clear, and none the less because external danger threatened.

John Comyn himself did not come to greet the newcomers, and there was no association until the leaders forgathered in the Bishop’s dining-chamber for the evening meal; no real association even then, for Lamberton placed one Guardian at each end of the long table with himself in the middle. The hospitality was lavish, and music, minstrelsy and entertainment went on throughout and continuously, so that there was little opportunity for either cooperation or clash. Wine flowed freely, and it was clear that there would be no serious talking that night with all tired after long riding. A great council was arranged for the following forenoon.

It could not be called a parliament, for such required a summons of forty days; but with most of the Privy Council present, it would carry sufficient authority for practical purposes.

The Guardians had not exchanged a single word, directly, by the time that the company broke up to retire to bed, Comyn in the Dean’s tower, Bruce in the manor-house itself. The latter and Lamberton, however, talked late into the night.

In the event, it was driving rain in the morning, shrouding the hills, and no conditions for holding a large meeting in the open, as had been intended. The largest room of the Bishop’s manor-house was much too small, as was the church. The nearest large chamber was the Hospitium of St. Leonard’s, at Peebles, a few miles to the east. There was a castle there also, actually a royal hunting lodge, but it was a small place.

So to the town of Peebles a great company rode, through the rain, by a Tweed already grown brown and drumly with the hill burns’ swift spates. Men forgot their dynastic and clan rivalries for the moment, to look anxiously up at the lowering clouds, and to hope that the good weather was not broken for long and the harvest put in jeopardy.

But in the refectory of the Hospitium at Peebles, even as the Prior welcomed his numerous distinguished guests, all the churchmen’s efforts at peace-keeping were abruptly brought to naught.

Upraised voices in angry altercation drowned the Prior’s. All eyes turned.

“… jumped-up scum I Those lands are mine, I say. And I’ll have them back, Wallace or no Wallace 1” The speaker—or shouter, rather—was the Lord of Dundaff, Sir David Graham, younger brother of Wallace’s friend, Sir John, who had died heroically on Falkirk field. But brother of a different kidney, a vociferous supporter of Baliol and Comyn. Now he was shaking his fist up in the face of a tall and rather gangling man, largely built but giving the appearance of being but loosely put together, who flinched somewhat at the truculence of the smaller man’s outburst.

“The lands are not yours, sir. Never were,” this other protested.

“They but neighbour yours. And you may covet them. But they were granted to my brother, granted by my lord Guardian .”

”Unlawfully granted! Those lands of Strathmartine are ours.

Graham’s. Always we have claimed them. No upstart bonnet laird from the West shall have them, I say. The Earl of Carrick had no right to grant them. Any more than he should have knighted such as you …!”

“Sirrah!” Bruce rapped out, sharply.

“Watch your words.”

“It is truth. Strathmartine is Graham land. And you gave it to a felon!”

“Knave!” Stung to fury, the big shambling man dropped his hand to the hilt of his dirk. He was Sir Malcolm, Wallace’s brother, recently knighted by Bruce out of respect for his brother’s fame. A very different man from the giant Sir William, he was like a blurred, indeterminate and somehow bungled version of the other.

Still more swiftly the Graham’s hand dropped, and his dagger was whipped out.

“Fool! Put that away. Are you mad?” Bruce cried.

“This… mountebank called me knave! Me, Graham!”

“Sir David! Drawn steel, in the presence of the realm’s Guardians, is treason 1” That was Lamberton, in his sternest voice. He pushed forward towards the irate knights.

“Sheath your dirk, man. I command you. Sir Malcolm—stand back.”

“Treason!” Graham cried, beside himself.

“You, Wallace’s creature, to say that! And what of Wallace’s own treason? He is (bolted. Gone. Fled the country. In time of our need. Without the permission of the Guardians! Here is treason, if ever there was.

And you say treason to me!”

“You babble, sir. Bairns’ ha vers the Primate declared coldly.

Sir William has gone overseas. On a mission to the rulers of nations. To the King of Norway, the Pope, and the King of France. To seek bind them together against Edward of England.

“How dare you raise your voice against the man who saved this realm!

The man your own brother died for!”

from the straitjacket of his emotion. Like an uncoiling spring he hurled himself against his brother, beating aside the dagger.

Comyn had not stirred, even flinched.

“No!” he cried.

“No! My quarry I Mine. Mine only.” Panting, still with one hand on his brother’s wrist, he pointed with the other.

“Comyn—I should kill you. For that. Now. Before all. But but it is not the time. Or the place. Not yet. One day, I will pay that debt. I promise you! As all these, and God and His saints, will be my witness! Till then—wait, you! Wait, and regret!”

“Thank God, my lord—thank God!” Lamberton exclaimed.

“For your lenity. Your forbearance. Fortitude.” He swung on Comyn.

“And you, my lord-shame on you! Here was infamy.

Unworthy. Unworthy of any noble knight…”

“Quiet, priest!” the Red Comyn jerked, from stiff lips.

“Enough.” He looked at Bruce.

“At any time, my lord of Carrick, should you wish to take this matter further, I am at your service.

And shall cherish the day!”

“Do so. For it will be your last!” the other said levelly.

Master William Comyn, of the Chapel Royal, laid a hand on the arm of his brother Buchan, who was about to speak, and raised his own mellifluously soothing voice.

“My lords and gentles all—we have come here for urgent business. A council. Not for profitless wrangling. Much is at stake. I pray that we may move to that business. If the Lords Guardian will take their seats. At the Prior’s table …”

“Sit!” Bruce swung on him, eyes wide.

“Think you that I will sit at any table? With him ? Now! Do you, man?”

“Here’s a mercy, at any rate! I am to be spared that!” Comyn found his smile again.

“My lords, my lords—think! Consider. You are both Guardians and governors of this realm, still.” Lamberton supported his fellow-cleric.