Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Men stirred, shuffled and fidgeted as the formalities were hurried through.

Undoubtedly all now were anxious for the uncomfortable proceedings to

be over. Yet men dreaded what might follow, once the two factions were released from the Primate’s dexterous handling and patient but firm authority. That these two men, Comyn and Bruce, could go on ruling Scotland conjointly, for the kingdom’s wellbeing, or their own, was manifestly impossible. But neither was going to resign and leave the other in supreme power. And even if both were to resign, who could effectively replace them?

They represented the two great power-divisions of the country, and any other successors would in fact be nothing more than the nominees and puppets of these two. For a land which so desperately needed unity, Scotland was in a sorry state.

As the half-desired, half-dreaded moment arrived, when the proceedings were being closed by William Comyn, the Lord Privy Seal, announcing that the necessary papers and charters were there on the table for the Guardians’ signature and sealing, it was a much less smooth and assured clerical voice which at this last moment galvanised the company. Old Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, had aged noticeably from his spell in an English dungeon.

He quavered painfully.

“My lords—we cannot break up so. The government of the realm, in this disarray. It is our bounden duty, before God and the people of Scotland, to take further steps for the better rule of the land. My Lords Guardian, you must see it?”

“I see it.” Bruce acceded briefly, but shrugged helplessly.

Comyn showed no reaction.

“The Crown rests in two hands,” the old prelate went on, panting a little, “Those two hands may be strong, but they … they are scarce in harmony. Why should there not be three hands? If there is joint guardianship, there could likewise be triple guardianship.

I commend such to you. I commend to you all my lord Bishop of St. Andrews, Primate and spokesman of Holy Church in this land, as Joint Guardian with the Earl of Carrick and the Lord of Badenoch.”

Into the hum of excited comment, James the Steward, Wish art’s old colleague, managed to make thick interjection.

“I agree. I say, I agree.”

Bruce was about to announce hearty and thankful approval, when Lamberton himself caught his eye and almost imperceptibly shook his head, before looking expectantly at Comyn. Bruce held back, in belated recognition that what he signified approval of, his rival would almost automatically oppose.

Comyn> narrow-eyed, kept them waiting, while he weighed and calculated.

It was his kinsman, the Lord Privy Seal, who, spoke.

“Here is a notable proposal. Which could well serve the realm, I think.” Whatever was his reason, Master William was being very cooperative this day.

Ignoring Bruce entirely, Comyn turned to Buchan.

“How think you, Cousin? Shall we have the priest?”

Lamberton actually raised a hand involuntarily to restrain the hot flood that rose to Bruce’s lips.

The Constable had the grace to flush.

“The rule of the realm must go on,” he muttered.

“Very well. So be it.” The Red Comyn turned away, with a half-shrug, towards the table.

“Now—these papers … ?”

“My lord …!” Robert Wishart gasped.

“My lord—the Earl of Carrick I Do you agree?”

Strangle-voiced, Bruce got it out.

“Aye.”

“God be praised!” The old man’s voice broke.

“Then … I declare … he is … I declare the Bishop of St. Andrews is Guardian of the realm. My lord, my good lord …!”

The assembly at last broke up in disorder. But the thing was done. There were now three Guardians in Scotland. And one, men acknowledged with relief, was strong enough and supple enough perhaps for the unenviable task of holding the balance between the other two.

After the signing and sealing there was no pretence at further cooperation between the two great factions. It was clear that despite the rain, Comyn was for heading north again at once. He was going, he declared loudly, back to real work, after his bellyful of clerks, idlers, poltroons and their talk, back to the siege of Stirling. Others could go where they would—to hell, if need be I Watching the Comyns and their following ride off, Bruce pale faced, fists clenched, found his shoulder gripped by William Lamberton.

“My son, my very good friend—may God reward you for your restraint this day,” the Bishop-Guardian said.

“It cost you dear, I know. But—it saved the kingdom. Not once, but many times. I thank you, my lord, from the bottom of my heart.”

“I reel soiled. Besmirched. The name of Bruce spat upon. Trampled by that… that devil! That braggart!”

“I know, I know. But do not fear—no men think Bruce reduced by this

day’s work. Quite otherwise. You have added to your stature, my good

lord. That is certain. But… do not name Comyn braggart, I pray

you. Do not delude yourself. Whatever else he is, he is not that. It will pay us to remember it” “Perhaps. But, whatever he is, he will suffer for today. On that I give you my oath! Before Almighty God!”

The older man sighed, and shook his head.

“Perhaps God will save you from that oath—who knows? But—what do you now?

Roxburgh?”

“No. I am none so keen on castle-baiting. Time can be better used.

There is much else for me to do.”

“Nevertheless, I think it would be well to heed one matter that Comyn said, my friend. Lochmaben. You were wise to lay siege to Lochmaben. What he said, of men’s talk, could be true. At least make the gesture of investing your castle.”

“You think … ? Men do talk so of me? It is not just Comyn’s spleen?

That I reserve Lochmaben, for Edward’s favour?”

“Men are foolish. And uncharitable. I have heard the like talk.

Better that you should proclaim it false, by your deeds.”

Bruce looked away and away, beyond the rain-shrouded Peebles hills.

Chapter Thirteen

Fires blazed redly against the October blue night sky, on every rounded height that flanked the seven lochs of Lochmaben and were reflected in the prevailing blue-black waters, scores of conflagrations that burned brightly and were being replenished, flames that would be seen from great distances, from all Annandale and Nithsdale and the plain of Solway, even from far Carlisle and the English Cumberland fells behind. And for once they were not burning homes and farmsteads and churches, not even bale fires of warning; but bonfires of joy and celebration. For Lochmaben’s great castle was in its own people’s hands again, after long enemy occupation, the captured garrison imprisoned in the dungeons which had held and seen the last of so many Annandale folk these past years. Now there was no single English held enclave in all the SouthWest. Moreover, the harvest was safely in at last, and the weather held. There was cause for rejoicing and bonfires.

Robert Bruce, pacing the timber bretasche, or overhanging parapet-walk of the main central tower of Lochmaben high on the mote-hill of earth, and looking out at it all over the surrounding waters, recognised that he had cause for gratification.

He it was who had given permission for those beacons to be lit. A success was welcome indeed, after all the months of labour and frustration. The sheer military action itself, the overcome challenge, had been welcome—and the acceptance of Sir Nicholas Segrave’s surrender a notable satisfaction—even though the deplorable pantryman, Master Benstead, it seemed, had been withdrawn to England almost a year before. But satisfaction was not really in the man’s mind, that night, nevertheless.

None knew better than he how superficial, how temporary, was this celebration. Lochmaben might be his again, meantime—but for how long? This harvest was gathered and secured—but would there be another? The basic situation was unchanged. The monstrous shadow of Edward Plantagenet loomed over all divided Scotland still, behind those joyous bonfires, and there was little reason to believe that the future would be any brighter than the past.