Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Such thoughts were always at the back of his mind—even as he stood this Yuletide night in the hall of Kildrummy, eyeing the pleasantly domestic scene. By the light of two great log fires and many candles, a children’s game was in progress, involving Donald, the boy Earl of Mar, Marjory Bruce, and young John de Strathbogie, heir to the Atholl earldom. Assisting were Elizabeth, Christian, Countess of Mar who was taking her widowhood philosophically, and, crawling about on hands and knees, none other than Richard, Earl of Ulster. The last, with a few drinks to aid him, made an excellent charger for Donald, replacing Bruce, exhausted and sore of knee. The ladies undoubtedly had the best of this game, requiring only to look gracious, curtsy occasionally, and commend the noisy activities or the children. Elizabeth and Christian were already close friends, although so different in temperament. The former was taking her new step motherly duties seriously.

Bruce was laughing heartily and heartlessly at his father-in law, an excellent thing, when a servant came unobtrusively up to him.

“My lord, a friar has come seeking you. A ragged, wandering friar, but asking for your lordship’s self. Secretly. He says you will see him if I say he comes from Stowburgh or some such.”

“Stowburgh .. ? Ha—Stobo! Stobo, is it?” Bruce glanced over at the others quickly, caught his sister’s eye, and shook his head briefly.

Then he slipped out, with the servit or

It was Lamberton, as he had guessed, a weary and dishevelled figure to be Primate of Scotland. This device of dressing as a begging friar might enable him to move about the land with some freedom, but only on foot and with the minimum comfort.

The Bishop looked almost an old man, although he was little more than forty. Last time Bruce had seen his friend, he had been disguised thus. It was two years ago.

Stiffly formal until they could be alone in a private room, the two men then gripped each other with some emotion.

“God be praised for the sight of you!” Lamberton said unsteadily.

“It is long, long. I have feared if ever I would see you again. Feared that I was a done and broken man. Priest of a done and broken land. And you lost to both of us…”

“Not that, my friend—not that. I am not lost. Yet! Although at times I know not where I go. Which way. Whether indeed there is anywhere to go. Save into the Plantagenet’s bloody arms!

Where most men think me already, I swear!”

They looked at each other.

“Were we wrong, then? In error?” the Bishop asked.

“In what we put our hands to?”

“God knows. But we have achieved little. Or, I have. Save sorrow and affliction, the land destroyed. Everywhere, save in Galloway, Edward supreme. Myself a watched puppet, forced to dance to this tune. You, head of the Holy Church, a furtive skulker, forced to creep and crawl, hungry …!”

“The land is not destroyed. Not yet. Nor, pray God, ever will be.

Sore stricken, yes. But not beat, not destroyed.” He paused for a

moment.

“And something is achieved, at least. What I came chiefly to tell you.

Comyn will yield. He is seeking terms from Edward.”

“So-o-o I Comyn! He is beat, then?”

“Aye. Or, shall we say, forced to a new course. There has been great talking, great debate, great wrath. John Comyn sees no nope of success in this warfare. He will yield if Edward accepts him to what he calls his peace. And restores him to these his Comyn lands.”

“His lands! Aye, his lands. Now that the North, his lands, are in Edward’s hands, the man is less bold a campaigner I While it was the South, it mattered not! His lands are his price, then!”

“Part of it. And I think that Edward knew it, always. He is shrewd, cunning. That is why you are here, my friend. Edward knew that you, sitting supreme in the Comyns lands, was more than the man could stomach. If it had been just the English, he might have bin low, left them and hoped for better days. But Bruce … So he yields to Edward. On terms. And your removal from the North, his sheriffdoms back again—these are his terms.

As Edward foresaw from the first, I do swear!”

“Dear God I Plantagenet … and Comyn I Curse them both-they are the

bane of my life! They stand between me and all that is worth having

…”

Lamberton looked at him steadily.

“At least the throne is safe from him, now. Him and Baliol both. This of France and the Pope. Ill as it is, it means Baliol will never return to Scotland.

So… the throne stands vacant. As never before.”

Bruce drew a long quivering breath. Then abruptly he changed the subject.

“Comyn would yield, then. But what of the others?

There is more man John Comyn opposing Edward.”

“All see it as Comyn does—save one. All will yield. Save William Wallace.”

“Ha—Wallace! Aye, Wallace will not yield. Ever. And who supports Wallace?”

“None. Save his own band. And William Lamberton!”

“Save us—so it has come to mat? We are back to where we started!”

“Not quite, friend. Not quite. There is an evil here you may not have thought on. When Comyn yields, it will be as Guardian of Scotland. This Edward requires, and this Comyn will agree.

So he yields Scotland, not just John Comyn. And yielding Scotland to

Edward’s peace, leaves Wallace, who will not yield, an undoubted and

disavowed rebel and outlaw. And those who aid

“But that would be betrayal! Throwing him to the wolves!”

“Will Comyn care for that? He has ever hated and despised the man. Though, see you, we must give Comyn his due. He has fought bravely and ably. Moreover, there is more to the terms he seeks than just his own weal. In surrendering Scotland he asks that our laws and liberties be protected. And that there should be no disinheritance of other lords’ lands as well as his own. But he will not speak for Wallace.”

“What are we to do, then? What can we do?”

“Nothing, I fear. I tried to sway Comyn, but to no avail. Wallace will have to look to himself. Edward will never treat with him. But the people will aid him. He has their love …”

“Aye. And what guidance do you have for me? In my present state?”

Bruce asked.

“That you endure, Robert—that is all. Endure. Seem to go along with Edward, where you may with any honour. Your time, if it comes, will only come out of patient endurance. As will Scotland’s.”

Bruce’s sigh of acceptance of that was almost a groan.

Lamberton would not, dare not, stay at Kildrummy, tired as he was. At any time someone might recognise the Primate. Given food and money for his further journeying, he was not long in taking leave of his friend, commending him to God’s care, and then slipping out into the cold and windy dark, quietly as he had come. He was going to Wallace, somewhere in the Tor Wood, a hundred miles to the south.

A month later, in early February, the anticipated summons had come from Dunfermline. The Earl of Carrick, no longer it seemed Sheriff of Moray, Nairn and Inverness, was to be brought south without delay, by order of the King’s Majesty. As bald and unvarnished as that.

The Kildrummy party found a changed atmosphere prevailing when they reached the ancient grey town on the north side of Forth, from which Malcolm Canmore had ruled Scotland. The smoke of war had dispersed, superseded by the smell of triumph.

The Scots had finally surrendered-or all of them that were worth

acknowledging. Comyn, the so-called Guardian, was due to yield himself

two days hence, at Strathord near Perth, and Edward was in expansive

mood. He welcomed them all affably, publicly commended Bruce for his alleged notable aid in bringing the rebels to heel in the North, and announced more or less unlimited wassail and celebration to mark the establishment of peace, Edward’s final and distinctive brand of peace. A parliament would be held to formalise matters—an English parliament, of course, but with some suitable Scots taking their places.