Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

From Newcastle when the King marches into Scotland we women are to be left at the Percy’s castle of Alnwick where I was beforetime. Near to you in your Border hills although I cannot conceive that we should meet. I do much fear for you and yours, in Edward’s wrath. Keep you out of his way my lord Robert.

I hear the Queen returned below.

I know not whom I may obtain to bring this letter to you.

Another wandering friar will be safest, it may be. God be with you. I am in haste.

From York, in the night of sixth October, by Elizabeth de Burgh.

Humphrey de Bohun, of Hereford! That puppy! Bruce frowned fiercely on the fire lit night. A dandified young fool. And shamefully rich. He could no more manage Elizabeth de Burgh than he could fly in the air!

The reader forced his thoughts to the more immediately vital matter of the date. The letter had taken three weeks to come from York, via the Bishop of Galloway—for it was now the end of October. Edward, then, might well have left Newcastle, by now, on his murderous way. Stirling, she said. Making for Stirling, to relieve the siege. Lamberton must be warned. And Comyn, of course. And Wallace was not yet home from across the seas … Mar, panting with the climb, arrived back at the parapet-walk with a young esquire, a stranger, who looked as though he had fallen into more than the one bog on his way to Lochmaben.

“Courier from Seton. Warden of the March,” he burst out.

“Edward is at Berwick! God save us-Edward is at Berwick, Robert!

This… here is the Earl of Carrick.”

“My lord-my master, Sir Christopher Seton, salutes you,” the youth said, his voice declaring his fatigue.

“He sends this message. The King of England is at Berwick with a great host.

But Sir Christopher learns that he has trouble. His greatest lords have refused to advance into Scotland. Thus late in the year. His first aim was to relieve Stirling Castle. But they will by no means accompany him. There is great upset in the English camp. But… Sir Christopher hears that the King comes here. Instead of Stirling .”

“Here! You mean—Lochmaben?”

“So says Sir Christopher, my lord. He has spies-in the English camp;

The word is that the King’s wrath is beyond all telling. But his earls are solid against this venture. He has heard of your siege of this castle. Belike he does not know that it is fallen. He swears that he will teach the Earl of Carrick a lesson, at the least.

He rides tomorrow for Lochmaben.”

“The fiend take him I And these earls? Will they follow him to Lochmaben? But not to Stirling?”

“No, my lord. They and their levies—the main host—move not out of England. But the King has men enough of his own, and hired Welsh archers, with the Cumberland levies of Sir Robert Clifford, to serve for this.”

“How many?”

Sir Christopher says near to ten thousand. Half of them Welsh long

bowmen

Dear God I And I have less than a third of that. And not two hundred of them archers!”

”Robert! Can you get more? In time?” Mar demanded, in agitation.

“No. Not enough, by half. Not men to face Edward—the greatest soldier in Christendom I Not archers. Or armoured chivalry.”

“Then… then what? What will you do?”

“Do what I must,” Bruce answered grimly.

“Go. Retire before him. Give up Lochmaben again. Play the craven I Give Comyn cause for glee I I can do no other. I cannot hold this castle against Edward—even if I would. I cannot fight him in the field, with hope of success. Even survival. So I retire. It is simple as that.”

“Where? To Ayr? Lanark? Turnberry?”

“No. Edward could follow to any of these. But we think that he will not go so far as Stirling. There is the best battle-ground of all Scotland. So to Stirling we shall go. Lamberton keeps his Church host watching Stirling. Scrymgeour, with Wallace’s people, will come there. Comyn is there. Bruce must needs go also.

If a stand is to be made, it should be there. We retire to Stirling.”

“Aye. That is best. And quickly.”

“Tomorrow. At first light. No sleep for us this night. Nor for the townsfolk. For they must go. Flee again into the hills or Edward will visit his wrath on them. But—by God, we will play Edward’s own game, this time! Sir Nicholas Segrave and his captured men go with us. And I leave a letter for the Plantagenet.

Any slaughter of my people of Annandale, and Segrave hangs.

With his garrison. Every one. Come—we have work to do…”

The driving late-November rain blattered against the small half-shuttered windows of Torwood Castle, on the high ground above the plain of Forth, and the wind shook the doors and lifted the reeds and rushes strewn on the stone flooring of the draughty hall. Comyn had not so much as thrown off his soaking cloak, and drips from it fell on to the parchment, to the distress of the clerks, as scornfully he added the flourish of his signature to the document.

“Here’s a waste of ink and paper!” he declared.

“What worth in it? Think you Edward of England will pay heed to such as this? I say he will throw it on his fire!”

“Yet it will have been worth the sending, my lord—even if he does so,” Lamberton insisted, stooping to append his own signature.

“For it will strengthen our hands with the Holy See, and with the states of Christendom. To have said that we nave made the offer of truce. See you, Edward’s claim is we are rebels. fits lieges in rebellion. This letter makes it clear to all men that we write as the Guardians of an independent realm. After receiving this, though he may spurn it, yet he cannot say that we have accepted his over lordship—we, who act for the King of Scots.”

“Bah I Clerkly ha vers Sir Bishop! Words written on paper, however fine, will no more affect Edward than a fly on his sleeve.

The sword, and a strong arm behind it, alone does he recognise…”

“He recognises the wrath of Almighty God, sir, with the power of Holy Church to display it!” the Primate said sternly.

“He recognises His Holiness of Rome, and his spiritual powers. He is much at his devotions these days, my lord of Carrick has heard.

And this offer of truce is, in fact, written as much for Pope Boniface as for Edward Plantagenet. The copy which goes to Rome may achieve more than that which goes to England. I work for the threat of excommunication.”

Bruce, who had already signed the impressive parchment, spoke—but carefully addressed his words to Lamberton only.

“Moreover, my lord Bishop, although Edward would wish to reject this, he may find it convenient. He is much at odds with his lords. He cannot proceed further against us meantime, without their aid. He has already returned to Berwick from Lochmaben.

A truce might serve him well enough. Give him the time he needs to come to, terms with his earls …”

“Aught that serves Edward well can only serve us ill,” Comyn interrupted.

“We are not all so concerned to please him!”

Wooden-faced, evenly Bruce went on, still looking only at the Primate.

“If he accepts this letter, this truce, and acts on it, even to his own advantage, it is more to ours. Not only giving us time also. But it commits him to dealing with us as a sovereign kingdom, not as rebels. Here is its importance. Before all men. We loudly make it known to all Christendom. Copies to all rulers. If Edward accepts the truce, he accepts our right to make it. Yet if he does not, he will seem to do so. For he cannot invade us again, with any hope of success, until next spring. And until he has won round his lords. So we have him, by this. Lochmaben was but a gesture. Brief, unimportant, to save his face…”

“Is Bruces face the fairer for that gesture?” Comyn barked.

”To have yielded his own castle, without a blow I To the man who paid