Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“The realm’s affairs must go forward.”

“This joint guardianship is over,” Bruce declared shortly.

“On this at least we are agreed.” The other bowed elaborately.

“Scotland deserves fairer than that, I think,” the Primate said slowly, authoritatively, and with great dignity, looking from one to the other sternly.

“Those who take up the realm’s direction may not so toss it away, without loss to their honour. I beg your lordships to perceive it. And for your good names’ sake recollect your duty.”

Those were hard words for such as these. But William Comyn reinforced them, although in his own more suave fashion.

“I am sure that my lord of Badenoch, at least, will know his duty. And will well serve the realm, now as always.” He eyed his kinsman meaningly.

There was a pause, and then Bruce shrugged.

“To business, then,” he said.

“We will consider this of the guardianship at another time. But—I will not sit there. With that man!”

Comyn was about to speak when Lamberton forestalled him.

“Very well,” he acceded.

“The form of it matters little. Let us proceed, here standing.” He pointed.

“The clerks may use the table.” Without pause he went on.

“The matter of Sir William Wallace’s mission to the rulers has been dealt with and, I submit, is not profitable for further discussion here and now.” And before any might plunge again into those troubled waters, added, “The besiegement of Stirling Castle proceeds. My lord of Badenoch may wish to speak to it?”

Thus invoked, Comyn could scarcely refuse to participate, in his own project.

“It goes but slowly,” he said, seemingly casual.

“My people have assailed it for ten weeks. With little gain, as yet.

Save that we constrain the English closely, and have driven them into the inner citadel. But it is strong. The strongest place in Scotland. We shall have it, in time, never fear. And investing it demonstrates to the whole land that at least some will draw sword against the invader!” He tossed a glance at Bruce.

“I commend my lord of Badenoch’s assault on Stirling,” that man commented shortly.

“Even if barren of result!”

“The Earl of Carrick might have better fortune were he to take up arms against one or other of the less powerful holds the English enjoy in his territories! His own house of Lochmaben, in especial.”

None failed to see significance in that; but not all probably perceived the fuller implication. The main object behind holding this meeting here in the Forest was in order, thereafter, to lead a united assault on the great English-held base of Roxburgh, which lay some thirty miles down Tweed, near Kelso and the actual borderline. Bruce, ever chary of becoming bogged down in siege warfare, had only been persuaded to this by Comyn’s threats that he would do it alone, if need be. Such a move undoubtedly would look as though the other Guardian was dragging his feet, in the Popular view. Hence the great array of magnates and nobles, of both factions, here assembled. Yet now Comyn was talking about Lochmaben and not mentioning Roxburgh.

“I have not the same itch to take castles as has this lord,” Bruce

declared, slowly.

“Even my own. Which is very strong also. As Sir John Comyn knows—since he assumed possession of it during the short reign of King John Baliol…!”

“Whom God save and protect!” Comyn rapped out.

In duty bound, many requested the Deity to save the King.

“No doubt,” Bruce went on dryly.

“But, despite its strength, the English in Lochmaben can do us little harm. They cannot be reinforced without a major invasion.”

“I have heard it said,” Comyn observed, looking round him, with his hard grin, “that Bruce may be well content to leave the English in Lochmaben. That, should Edward triumph, he may find it a convenient stepping-stone back into the Plantagenet’s good graces I Idle ha vers no doubt…”

“Damnation! This is a malicious lie…!”

“Idle ha vers no doubt, as I say!” the other repeated loudly.

“But a warning of how men’s minds may go. Is it not?”

“My lords,” Lamberton intervened again, with a sort of weary urgency, “Lochmaben is of less importance in the realm than are the others. Roxburgh is otherwise…”

“Aye,” the Earl of Mar broke in, “Roxburgh is only a mile or two from

the Border. It can be supplied and reinforced with ease by the English

…”

“Which means, my lord, does it not, that it is scarce worth our troubling with?” Comyn asked.

“Since, even if we succeed in taking it, as soon as we are gone, the English can retake it. With ease, as you say. If worse does not befall.”

“But… but… ?”

“They are raiding from there. Becoming devilish bold!” Mar’s other brother-in-law, Atholl, supported him.

“Did we not come this far to teach them a lesson? At Roxburgh?”

“My information is that they are much reinforced. Their raiding is no more than a ruse to draw us mere. Into a trap, with large English strength waiting on their own side of Tweed.” Comyn spoke in jerking, unusual fashion, clearly ill at ease on this. But it was equally clear that, whatever the reason for this change of front, his mind was made up.

“It would be folly to advance on Roxburgh, in the circumstances.”

All men stared at him now, Bruce included. He at least had no doubts as to what this meant. It was highly unlikely that Comyn could have any new information regarding Roxburgh, or that there could be any large English force approached so near without word being brought to Bruce himself. Therefore it was merely an excuse. Comyn, now, would not proceed on any joint action. It was as simple as that. There was to be not even a token cooperation between the Guardians.

Even Buchan was taken by surprise, obviously. He peered at his cousin, and coughed.

“A simple blow, John. A show of strength,” he suggested.

“We need not make a siege of it, if the signs are contrary. But a raid, at least. Into England. Since we are here in force …”

“No!” the other snapped.

“It would be folly. I march only with my rear secure!”

There was no question what he meant by that. The guardianship was irrevocably, blatantly, split.

As all there contemplated the ruin of it, and perceived the dread shadow of internecine civil war to add to bloody invasion, Lamberton, flat-voiced, sought once more to ease the tension, to salvage something from the wreck, to make time for calmer thinking.

“The Lords Guardian have rejected the suggested raid on Roxburgh, then,” he said.

“But there is more business. Appointments.

First, the Wardenship of the West March. Sir William Douglas, in English hands, has been Warden. While prisoner, his deputy has been Sir Christopher Seton, here present. There are now tidings that the Lord of Douglas has died in the Tower of London. May God rest his soul. Whether he died of Edward’s malice, or of bodily ill, we know not. But, my lords, a new Warden is required.”

It was skilfully done. The fiery Douglas had been popular, something of a hero, if an awkward one. The announcement of his death, as a prisoner, made a major impact, and set up an angry clamour against the enemy—a healthier demonstration than heretofore. In the stir, it was agreed almost without discussion that Sir Christopher Seton, the deputy, should be raised to full warden ship He was a sound Bruce supporter.

One or two other appointments were quickly disposed of thereafter, following as far as possible the non-controversial line of Comyn nominees for those in the North, Bruce for the South.

Lamberton steered them deftly through that strange, standing assembly, with the curt nods or complete silence of the two hostile Guardians accepted as the ultimate authority of the kingdom.