Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

The visitor proved to be none other than Sir John de St. John, newly appointed English Warden of Annandale and Galloway, and one of Edward’s closest aides. A dignified, handsome, courteous man of middle years, richly dressed, he was almost necessarily soldier as well as courtier, a veteran of the French wars and the man sent by Edward to deputise for the Earl of life, whose right it had been to seat John Baliol on the Stone of Destiny at his crowning at Scone, nine years before. Bruce knew him, and liked him better than most of the Plantagenet’s entourage—even though he came as usurping master of Bruce’s own territories.

St. John made it clear that, for this visit, he would prefer that his nominal position vis-ii-vis Annandale, Carrick and Galloway, should be ignored.

“I have come, my lord, directly and secretly, from His Majesty,” he declared when they were alone.

“King Edward.”

“I hear what else you bring, Sir John!”

The other smiled thinly.

“You are sceptical. But my master can be generous and far-seeing. I believe that he is being both, in this.

He has always esteemed you, as you know well. Even though he has had to move against you, on occasion. And not without cause, you will concede.”

“I concede nothing, Sir John. Save that your master is a hard and crafty tyrant, a cruel invader and usurper, who has devastated this land time and again. And my lands. Left me nothing but my name. And a modicum of wits. What does he want now?”

“These words are extreme and foolish, my lord. I had hoped, as had the King, you might have learned to use those wits to guard your tongue. However, as far as I am concerned, they have not been spoken. You have suffered greatly, yes, in a mistaken cause. You have been cheated and cozened and used, yes—but not by His Majesty. The King believes that it is time that you returned to his peace.”

“Ha! Edward’s peace! Say Edward’s maw, his slavery, rather.

Is this his generosity?”

St. John was patient.

“The King was your friend once. He believes that he could be your friend again. Better, a deal better, than many with whom you have been working. Trusting. The Lord of Badenoch, for instance.”

“M’mmm. I have not trusted the Lord of Badenoch for some time!”

“As well! He docs not love you. He aspires to the Scots throne.

And is willing to do anything to gain it. Anything, I say. He cannot do so, of course, since that throne is now united with that of England. But he will try. And since he sees you as an obstacle, you will suffer, my lord.”

”You are tender for my interests, sir.”

“I am not. But the King is.”

“Why?”

“He has not lost all his love for the Earl of Carrick. And he has never loved John Comyn.”

“So he would use me to bring down the other? And so preserve for him the stolen throne of Scotland!”

“I say that you judge harshly. And foolishly. Since you have not heard what the King proposes.”

“Then tell me.”

“The King offers you a return to his peace. With all of fences

absolved and forgotten. He promises to consider well your advice on

all Scottish problems. Indeed to set you over much of his realm here,

if so you would have it. He offers compensation for your lands

destroyed in war. Maintenance from his privy purse while your fortunes

recover. Freedom from disinheritance of any lands which my lord your

father may leave you in England. Permission to visit your father

…”

“Hal Now why should Edward, in his goodness, offer me that?”

“Your father is ailing. An old and sick man. You would wish to see him. Possibly to bring him back to Scotland. To be under your closer regard.”

“Aye. No doubt. His Majesty is… thoughtful.”

“He offers that if any rights of yours, or your father’s be brought in dispute by the Lord of Badenoch, or others, you shall have justice in His Majesty’s own courts.”

Bruce looked up sharply.

“Rights? Which rights, Sir John?”

“The King did not specify which. His words were ‘any rights’.”

“I would remind you that my father claims rights—indeed sole rights—in the Scots crown!”

“Claims, yes. That fact is known to the King. After all, he judged against your grandsire’s claims, nine years past.”

“I see. So that is the sort of justice we would get in His Majesty’s courts!”

“Justice is justice. A hearing you would receive. Any rights, His Majesty said. And you have others that maybe threatened, have you not? Your very earldom of Carrick? The lordship of Annandale? John Comyn would deprive you of these, if he could.”

“Perhaps. But might find it difficult!” The younger man shrugged.

“But why does King Edward send you to offer all this.

So long a list of graciousness I He must greatly desire me in his peace. Why?”

“I am his servant, my lord—not his confessor. He does not open all of his mind to me. But this is his will. And he thinks kindly of you still.”

“I take leave to doubt it…”

“Before you do so, here is token of it. He would have you to wed the daughter of his closest friend. The Lady Elizabeth de Burgh.”

“God in His heaven! Again?”

“Yes, my lord. And the fair lady herself sends you warm greetings.

And hopes that she may see you. Soon.”

“See… ? She is here? In Scotland?”

“The Queen is come to join the King, at Linlithgow. And the Lady Elizabeth with her.”

Bruce turned away, too disturbed to risk speech.

St. John tactfully went to warm his hands at the fire. Over his shoulder, he went on.

“One last token of the King’s goodwill. He would grant you the

wardship and marriage of the young Earl of

“Eh? Wardship? What do you mean?” Surprised out of his emotion, Bruce looked round.

“You have mistaken, sir. Mar is my sister’s husband. And is older than I am.”

It was the Englishman’s turn to show surprise.

“Is, my lord?

Do not tell me that you did not know? Gartnait, Earl of Mar, is dead.

Slain in a tussle with Comyns. In his own country.”

“By the Mass I Gartnait dead? Slain? And by the Comyns…!”

“We believed that you would know of it.” St. John coughed.

“It is… regrettable. But—by granting you the wardship of your nephew, the Earl Donald, my lord, the King gives you in effect another earldom. Mar as well as Carrick. Until the lad is of age.

And an earldom in the North. Adjoining Comyn’s country! You have a lordship up there, do you not? The Garioch. Mar could serve you notably well.”

Bruce required no such reminders. Mar was a great and ancient earldom which Gartnait, gentle man, had never exploited. The wardship of its heir, so long as Edward dominated Scotland, was a potentially powerful weapon.

“Edward must require my services greatly!” he said slowly.

“A mistaken view, my lord. His Majesty can achieve all, master Comyn,

and Scotland, without Bruce. But can Bruce now achieve anything

without King Edward? I urge that you consider it. Consider it well. I return to Peebles. And shall come again tomorrow. For your decision. I hope, my lord, that it will be to conduct you to Linlithgow.” St. John paused, clearing his throat.

“The Lady Elizabeth said to give you this last word. A wise rebel, she said, knows what to rebel against. That is all. She believed that you would understand. And she would see you at Linlithgow.”

Two days later Robert Bruce, with Sir John de St. John, rode down into the West Lothian plain of the Forth, to the vast armed camp surrounding the red-brown castle on its green hill above the wide loch. He scarcely recognised the place. A whole new wooden city had been erected in regimented lanes and streets to house an army and its followers and horses, through a Scots winter.