Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Bruce did not feel it incumbent upon him to argue.

“Speak, then—curse you!” the King roared suddenly, jabbing a finger towards Bruce, all men jumping.

“Speak, man. You-Bruce! These are your friends, your precious countrymen. You are all alike—murderous rebels!”

The other gestured with his hand.

“How may I speak, Sire, until Your Majesty informs me what’s to do? I know nothing of this.”

“Aye—you would say I Why should I believe you? Are you more to be trusted than the rest? Working against me, despite all I have done for you? There has been bloody rebellion in Scotland.

Widespread attack. The slaughter of my servants. It is the ruffian Wallace—I swear it I Behind all. Returned, and spurring on lesser rogues and knaves to murder and treason. It is not to be borne! You Knew Wallace had returned, I vow?”

“I had heard so, Sire. But I have been in England with you, since before the truce expired in November. If hostilities have now been resumed …”

“Hostilities resumed …!” Edward all but choked.

”Traitorous revolt and shameful massacre—and you name it

hostilities!” The King, crouching, part rose from his throne as though he would launch himself down the chamber at Bruce. But, drawing a deep gulping breath, he swung round instead, to point at a cleric who sat at a side table.

“You,” he commanded, “tell him.”

It was the same Master John Benstead, former royal pantryman who had once lorded it at Lochmaben. Bruce had not noticed him. He stood, a hunched crow of a man, bowing deeply.

“Your gracious Majesty-where do I begin? I do not know how much the Earl of Carrick, and these other lords, may know.”

“Begin at the beginning, fool! But be quick about it.”

“Yes, Sire. To be sure, Sire.” The Pander turned his chalk-white face in the direction of Bruce.

“Since the truce ended there have been small risings all over South Scotland. Attacks on castles, on the King’s garrisons. Ambuscades. The work of the man Wallace and his brigands, no doubt. Sir John Lord Segrave, His Highness’s Governor, made protest to him they call the Guardian, the Lord of Badenoch, who followed on Sir John de Soulis. You know of this …?”

Bruce nodded. De Soulis had relinquished the guardianship in order to go in person to France, with Buchan and de Umfraville, on the return of Wallace and Lamberton, with new proposals about Baliol; and John Comyn had had himself appointed sole Guardian in his place, with the Bruce faction for the time being out of the running.

“The Lord of Badenoch made insolent reply. So His Majesty commanded Governor Segrave—brother to Sir Nicholas, whom you had occasion to know, my lord, at Lochmaben I—to march north from Berwick. With 20,000 men. To punish Wallace’s outlaws, who were in the Tor Wood of Stirling. He reached Roslin, in Lothian, in the valley of the Esk, his army in three divisions.

And encamped for the night…”

“The fool! The thrice-accursed dolt!” Majesty interrupted.

“To encamp, apart. In three arrays. In such close valley as the Esk.”

“Yes, my lord King. The Scots, under the Lord of Badenoch himself, fell upon Sir John’s array, while yet it slept. With great slaughter. In unfair fight. A shameful thing, unworthy of Christian men! Many were slain, some fled, but most were taken prisoner. Sir John himself, and his son. Also Sir Nicholas, his brother. And my own self. Then came the word that our second array was warned, and advancing to our aid, under Master Ralph Manton, Cofferer to Your Majesty’s Wardrobe. The Scots were then beyond all in villainy. Before facing Manton, they slew all the captives. In wanton slaughter. Without mercy. Sir John and Sir Nicholas with the rest. Sixteen other knights, and all their men. Myself and one or two others they spared. Because we were priests. But all others were butchered …”

“Wallace’s work, Satan roast him, for a surety!” the monarch cried.

“The man is no more than a savage beast.”

“I think not, Sire,” Bruce intervened, greatly daring.

“Sir William Wallace fights hard. But he would not slay defenceless prisoners. This I warrant. I know him. The night attack, while they slept—this could be his work. But not the slaying.”

“Aye, you know him, my lord. All too well! You had the presumption to dub him knight—this oaf, this savage! A mockery of knighthood. But all men know that he is no true knight.”

“If he is not knight, Sire, then nor am I, who knighted him.

And you knighted me!” Bruce swung on the cleric.

“You, Master Benstead—did you see it? With your own eyes, did you see Wallace slay a single captive? Or hear him order it done?”

“Not… not of myself, no.”

“Who gave the orders, then?”

“The Lord of Badenoch himself, Sir John Comyn.”

“Aye. That I can believe I But Wallace—where was he…?”

“This is not a court of law, and Bruce the judge!” Edward thundered.

“Keep silent, sirrah. Proceed, Clerk.”

“Yes, Sire. Ralph the Cofferer’s army was ill led. His people fought stoutly, but Comyn had 8,000 horse. They were forced to yield …”

“Forced—bah! What forced them to yield? A craven spirit?

A clerk leading!”

“Not so, Majesty. I myself saw Master Ralph cut down three before he yielded. But he had ridden into a trap. He tried to retire, in the narrow valley, but could not. He was captured, with much booty—payment for Your Majesty’s garrisons.” At the monarch’s fight for breath, Benstead hurriedly went on.

“Scarce was the fighting over when the third division, under Sir Robert

de Neville, came up. And again, to free themselves of the prisoners,

the Scots slew all. Even Master Ralph himself. I heard him pleading

for his life, to Sir Simon Fraser who had captured him, claiming his

priestly immunity. But the dastard Scot pointed to his armour and said

lewdly that he trusted to this rather than to God’s protection, and

that the sword he had yielded up was bloody. Then this blasphemer, Fraser, drew his own sword and struck of? first the Cofferer’s left hand, then his right, and finally, with a single great blow, his head—God’s curse on him everlastingly I This I saw.”

“Sim Fraser! That renegade, whom once I cherished!” Edward exclaimed.

“You see, my lord of Carrick, how much faith is to be placed in the Scots?”

“I see, Sire, men at war, fighting for their lives and land. As Your Majesty has done times a many. May I ask Master Benstead how fared Sir Robert Neville?”

The cleric shrugged.

“What chance had he? Unawares he rode to his death. He and his fought well, and long, but without avail.

This time there was no quarter, no prisoners taken. Save for a few who escaped by flight, all died.”

“Out of 20,000 who left Berwick, how many survived, man?

Other than a handful of frocked priests!”

“A few hundreds, perhaps, Highness. No more. I was exchanged.

For three Scots knights, held at Berwick…”

“Aye—and scarce a good bargain! Enough of this, then. Sit down, man.” The King pointed at Bruce.

“Now, my Scots lord—what have you to say?”

The younger man looked about him, at the others, and spread his hands.

“What is there for me to say? I have accepted Your Majesty’s peace.

Am I to be responsible for those who have not?

I condemn this slaying of prisoners. What else can I say?”

“You can admit that the Scots are of all men the most perfidious and vile I Ingrates. Liars. Assassins. Brute-beasts to be stamped underfoot as I would stamp on an adder! Admit that, sirrah!”

Bruce remained silent, tightlipped.

“So! You will not? You disobey my royal command—preferring your animal countrymen! So you are one with them.

And deserving equally of my righteous retribution. That, if you will not admit, you cannot deny.”