Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“But an oath taken under duress is not binding.”

“So that is how you keep your word! Why, then, should you expect me to keep mine now? As to these so-called terms.”

“Your Majesty assented to the terms under no duress. You could have rejected them. We could not have rejected your oath, at Berwick, and saved our heads.”

“You have a nice sense of honour, sirrah! As well for you Edward of England is otherwise. For, by the Mass, the heads of every one of you should fall this day! As forsworn rebels and traitors. But … I honour my word. Even to such as you. The terms stand. Your lives are spared, your lands are not forfeit. And the laws, customs and liberties of this part of my realm shall remain unchanged. Some of you I shall require to go into exile north of Scotland, at my pleasure. For the better peace of this my realm.

In exchange for these mercies, I accept your fullest surrender.

Yours, and that of all who have risen in arms against me. Save one—the base murderer Wallace! Him I will nowise accept to my peace. Now or ever. It is understood?”

Lamberton seemed about to speak again, despite the King’s warning, but Bruce’s quick head-snaking halted him.

Edward leaned forward, pointing that imperious finger at Comyn.

“My lord, where is he? I do not see the man Wallace.

Yet I commanded that you bring him with you. To me. Bound.

Where is he?”

“Wallace is not a man easily bound. Or brought. Or found. Of this

Your Majesty is well aware. Your servants have sought him often enough

…”

“Where is he, man? Do not bandy words with me!”

“I do not know, Sire. Wallace … is Wallace. A man apart. He heeds no man’s voice …”

“He shall heed mine, by God’s wounds! And you also. All of you. See you, Comyn—I want Wallace and shall have him. I give you command to find him. To deliver him. And I do not give you overlong. Wallace was at that devilish massacre at Roslin. When you slew, as prisoners, better men than yourselves. You commanded there, my lord of Badenoch. With Sir Simon Fraser, Sir Alexander Lindsay of Crawford and Sir David Graham of Dundaff.

I require Wallace of you all. I will do most favour to whosoever shall capture him, in expiation of that vile deed. And let the others beware!”

“Sire—this was no part of the terms…”

“Silence! You have heard me. See you to it.” As so often happened, Edward Plantagenet tired suddenly of the scene he had himself prepared. Without warning he stood up.

“It is enough.

This audience is over. Away with them.” He reached over and almost lifted the Queen out of her chair, and turning his back on the entire alarmed assembly, strode with her up the chancel, to the vestry-door, and out.

Belatedly the trumpeters grabbed their instruments and blew a notably ragged and uneven fanfare.

The eyes of Bruce and Comyn met in a long hard glare, before the heralds pushed the latter round and hustled him oft.

Few there contemplated the festivities to follow with any delight.

Chapter Seventeen

Heavily, even tripping a little with weariness on the worn stone steps, Robert Bruce climbed the narrow turnpike stair of the Sea Tower of St. Andrews Castle—well named, with the spray from the surging waves below actually coming in at him through the arrow slit windows as he mounted, and the chill March wind of the North Sea flapping his long mud-stained travelling-cloak. The angle smoking pitch-pine torch-flame, flickering and waving wildly in the draughts, did little to light his footsteps. He cursed as he stumbled for the third time, sword clanking, spurs scraping—but his cursing was spiritless, automatic, and not only with physical weariness. It seemed a long time since he had even cursed with spirit and enthusiasm.

The door on the third-floor landing was thrown open before even he reached it, and Elizabeth held out welcoming hands to him.

“My dear,” she said, “I prayed that it might be you. Thank God that you are back!”

He took her in his arms, and she clung to him, wet as he was.

“Bless you, lass! You are the first sight to gladden my eyes in three weeks.” He kissed her hungrily, and then held her away at arm’s-length.

“Dear God—you are bonny! Fairer, more beautiful, than ever, I swear!

You are the saving of me, and that is plain truth.”

“Has it been so bad, Robert?”

“Bad? Worse than bad. I have been mocked and trodden under by these English like any condemned felon. Day in, day out. To send me to hunt Wallace was ill enough. But to place me under Clifford, who has ever hated me, and who lords it over my Annandale! And Segrave, a man soured with disgrace. And that bastard Botetourt. This was beyond all bearing. Yet, God forgive me, I had to bear it I A round score of days and nights of it.

Of Clifford’s and Segrave’s spleen. Safe to bait me as they would.

By Edward’s permission!”

“One day you will repay them, my heart. But … Wallace?

Did you catch him?”

“No. For that, thank all the saints I A fine dance he led us. All over the Forest, in foulest weather. But never once were we within reach of him. Fraser we almost caught, twice. At Peebles and at Tweedsmuir. But Wallace, never. He was always an hour gone from every hiding-place we flushed—though we quartered Ettrick Forest for him. More than once, mind, I was able to lead those devils the wrong road—for none of them knew the Forest as I did …”

“Oh, I am glad I Glad.” Elizabeth was aiding him off with his soaking and mud-stained outer wear, before the blazing fire in the little tower chamber which was all that even Lamberton could provide for the Bruces in his overcrowded Castle of St. Andrews, where Edward was holding his parliament.

”Aye. Had we indeed captured Wallace, I scarce know how I would have

done. That Edward should send me on such errand, and in such company … I But he will be beside himself now.

Beyond all in fury. For if he hates me, tramples me, it is as nothing to his hatred of Wallace.”

“He has, I think, more to dwell on tonight than your failure to bring him Wallace,” the young woman interrupted.

“The King is ill, Robert.”

“ill? Edward ill? Sick?”

“Yes. It was at today’s parliament. He was speaking. Very angry that Stirling Castle still holds out against him. When he was seized. A great choking and gasping, that felled him. I was with the Queen, watching. His face was blue, like to burst with blood I Always he has had too much blood. We feared him dead …”

“Feared! By the Rude—why fear?” Bruce cried, eyes alight as they had not been for long.

“Edward dead might mean life for many. For us. For this Scotland.

But… he is not dead? Only ill, you say.”

“Ill, yes. And making recovery, they say. I am not long back from the Queen’s chamber. She is much upset. They are bleeding him. The fever abates. But it is a warning. To be heeded …”

“Heeded, yes. Pray God he does not heed it!”

She shook her fair head.

“Do not say it, Robert. He can be hard, cruel. But he can be kind, too. I have known much kindness from him. He is my father’s friend. He is a king, and kings are not to be judged as other men.”

“They need not become monsters I As he has done. I esteemed Edward once. But he has forfeited all esteem.”

“And yet, he still has esteem for you. In some measure. Today, before the parliament broke up, he appointed you, with Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow, and Sir John de Moubray, to take rule in Scotland. Until his nephew, the Lord John of Brittany, can come to be Governor …”

“A trap, I vow! Another trick. An empty title, with his underlings firm in control. Have you forgot that he made me Sheriff of Ayr and Lanark? Aye, then Moray. With no more power than a babe at the breast I Wishart is an old done man. And Moubray is a creature of the Comyn’s. So much for Edward’s esteem I He would but use me again.”