Nigel Tranter: The Steps to the Empty Throne

Over the hollow-sounding timbers of the bridge that spanned the dry

ditch surrounding the towering ramparts, they reached, at length the

arched stone pend that thrust beneath the gatehouse itself. Here a

burly perspiring master-at-arms, supported by halberd-bearing minions

in dented jacks and morions, scrutinised each arrival, and roughly

separated sheep from goats, his rich Dorset voice hoarse with much

shouting. As the Bruces drew close, awaiting their turn, Robert sought

to occupy himself and his sorely-tried temper by considering the

present state of the handsome flourish of heraldry carved above the

archway. It represented the Douglas coat-of-arms, of a blue chief with

stars on a silver field; but it was now hacked and defaced, spattered

with dried thrown horse-dung, with hung over it a derisory bull’s

testicles and prickle, shrivelled in the sun. The veteran Sir William

le hardi Douglas had commanded here, and had held out in this castle

throughout the Sack of Berwick, surrendering to Edward only when water

and food had run out. The surrender had been on honourable terms; but

Douglas was said to be still in chains, and walking all the way to London Tower, like a performing bear, for his pains.

When they reached the master-at-arms, the fellow hardly so much as glanced at them.

“English? Or Scots?” he demanded unceremoniously.

Bruce threw up his head.

“I am the Earl of Carrick,” he said shortly.

“English or Scots, I said, man. Did you not hear?” That was weary but curt.

“Fool! Did you not hear?” Nigel cried.

“Bruce! Earl of Carrick.

We are Scots, yes—since our father should be King of Scots.

But we have great English manors. In Durham, Yorkshire, Sussex and Essex. And our father is Keeper of Carlisle for King Edward …”

“I care not, cockerel, which dunghill your sire keeps! You are dirty Scots, curse you—so to the left you go, withe rest. Off wi’ you. Next…”

When the Bruces would have protested, their arms were seized by the supporting guards, and they were ungently pushed and hurried through the pend.

Fiercely Robert broke free.

“Hands off Bruce, cur!” he exclaimed, and at the sudden sheer blaze of fury in those steel-grey eyes, even the rough soldier blinked and released the arm, dropping his hand to his sword-hilt instead. Utterly ignoring him thereafter, the other stalked on, to turn left inside the outer bailey, his brother hurrying after him.

“Edward shall hear of this!” he grated—and then all but snapped off Nigel’s head as he began to deliver himself of his own opinions.

It appeared after a few moments however, that King Edward might be some little time in hearing of the offence offered to his illustrious friends and supporters. For the Bruces found themselves joining another and still longer queue that wound its sluggish way round this side of the outer bailey, through a side postern door in the next tall parapeted rampart, and into the inner bailey, there to cross the cobbled courtyard to the kitchen entrance to the castle proper. This slow-moving column was strictly hemmed in and controlled by a double rank of armed guards, shoulder to shoulder—and when the Bruces perceived their lowly scullions’ destination and tried to break away, in righteous wrath, they were savagely restrained and manhandled.

Nor were they permitted to turn back, as they would have done.

Jabbing dirks and halberd-points left them little scope for argument or manoeuvre. Along with more amenable visitors, they were herded willy-nilly along towards the kitchens.

It took a long time to reach that lowly doorway and the dark sweating-stone, food-smelling passages beyond, where the cream of Scotland’s quality edged forward, pushed and jostled by cooks, servitors and menials carrying haunches of beef, trussed fowls, fish and the like. Climbing the narrow corkscrew stairways beyond, step by slow step, in the choking reek of pitch-pine torches, and making room for the impatient flunkeys and domestics with their trays and flagons, seemed to take an eternity—and even here the restricted space was much taken up with a lining of stationary scowling guards. It was the best part of an hour after reaching the outer gatehouse before the Bruce brothers stepped, by the service entrance, into the Great Hall of Berwick Castle, Robert at least seething with a cold rage such as he had never known, nor had cause to know, hitherto.

The Hall was a vast apartment, full of noise, colour and activity, heartening at first sight after all the weary trailing-although not all would confirm that impression after a second glance. Up one side of the great chamber were set long tables, groaning with good cheer, served by the busy menials, at which sat or lounged or sprawled drunk a gay and well-dressed company of laughing, talking or snoring men and women. At the head of the room was a raised dais, and on this was set a much smaller table, at one end of which sat King Edward in a throne-like chair, with Bishop Beck, the Earls of Surrey and Hereford, his commanders, and Master Hugh de Cressingham, a Justiciar of England. Nearby, and being used as an additional side-table for bottles, flagons and goblets, was a curious lump of red sandstone, flat and roughly oblong. High above, half way to the vaulted ceiling, in a little gallery, minstrels played soft music.

So much for the first glance. The second revealed a different aspect

of the scene. The long queue of Scots notables still maintained its

formation and patient shuffling progress. It was strictly confined to

the other and right-hand side of the Hall, all but pressed against the

stone walling indeed by drawn up ranks of guards—though all others

ignored it. Right up to the steps of the dais area it went, to another

table at which clerks sat, a table on which were no viands and which

was placed directly behind the King’s back, though at the lower level.And here, as each Scots landholder reached it, his name was called out, ticked off a list, and he was required to kneel on the floor and thus take an oath of homage to Edward of England for every inch of land he held. Here was no taking of the monarch’s hand between his own, as homage was normally done, the oath not administered by any prelate; the monarch indeed never so much as glanced round from his eating and talk, and the clerks it was who demanded the oath, gabbling out its terms and ordering its repetition.

Thereafter, homage done, the ignored suppliants were allowed to rise, bow low, and then sign their names or make their crosses on one of a great pile of sheepskins, each already lettered with the wording of the oath of fealty, sign or mark for each holding of land in each county or sheriff dom of Scotland, for each office or position held. Whereafter, the signatory was hustled away by men-at-arms to a side door, and out. They were being put through two at once, and as quickly as possible, but even so it took a deal of time. Hence the queue’s lack of momentum.

“Dear God-see this!” Nigel Bruce cried.

“See what they do!

Look—there is Mar kneeling now. Gartnait, Earl of Mar, your own wife’s brother. With that bishop. Save us—is it possible?”

His brother did not answer. Pale, set-faced, he was eyeing all that scene, noting all. He noted that it was only the English who sat at the long tables—all who ate and drank were Norman English, or perhaps Norman-Irish or Norman-Welsh or Norman French. He noted that none save the clerks at the signing table paid the least attention to the oath-taking, least of all those at the King’s high table. He noted that none of the Scots, however illustrious, were being permitted to remain in the Hall after signing.

His wrath rose to choke him. Suddenly he strode out, bursting from the painful procession, pushing through the steel barrier of the guards.