Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“It may be so. But at least he seems to honour you. And more.

You three are empowered to work out a new policy for Scotland.

The new Scotland as he names it. What he called a constitution.

To be presented before a great parliament at Westminster in the autumn of the year …”

“What is this? A constitution? A new constitution for a new Scotland! For a beaten, humbled vassal Scotland, in thrall to the Plantagenet. A province of England, ruled from Westminster.

This he would have me to make up—Robert Bruce!”

“It might give you opportunity to serve Scotland well,” she pointed out.

“Better that you make up such a constitution than some others, is it not?”

“I faith, no I Think you Edward will accept anything that does not give him all he wants? And then can use my name, and Wishart’s to take the blame for it, when the bite hurts. Bruce, the traitor, contrived this I Do you not know Edward yet, my dear?”

“You cannot concede him any good, Robert? Anything?”

“The only good thing I will concede to Edward Longshanks is that he desired me to marry you, my dearest I For that, and that only, I am his debtor.”

She smiled.

“You still believe yourself favoured in that? Still find me to your taste?”

“To my taste? Save us, girl—I’ll show you how much to my taste you are! Here is simple proving. As I have been desiring to prove since I entered this room I Why waste we time talking!”

And he advanced on her, weariness apparently quite forgotten.

“No, no!” Laughing, she backed away.

“That is not what I asked. You rise too fast, my lord I I but questioned whether you still find me a good and dutiful wife … ?”

“And that is what you yourself will prove, young woman. Here and now!” he declared. It was not a large apartment, and her backing away soon was halted.

“Foolish fool! Here’s no time. Besides … you will be hungry.

I have food and drink …”

“Hungry, yes! Well you may say it. But they have not starved me of food, set you!” He had her now, urgent, knowledgeable hands pressing, moulding, caressing. Her protests were vocal only, and easily stopped with kisses; and her person made no resistance—indeed her hands were soon aiding his with her gown.

In glorious disorder he picked her up bodily in his arms and, no “8 weight as she was, strode with her to the couch.

Elizabeth de Burgh was all woman, and no passive partner in love-making. In mutual fervour and uninhibited passion they took and received each other, mounting swiftly, joyfully, to tremendous cataclysmic fulfilment.

As well they were so swift. Scarcely were they lying back, in

murmurous relaxation, than they heard footsteps on the stairway, and voices. They waited, for there were two more storeys above;

but when a knocking sounded at their door, Bruce sat up, cursing again—although this time the spirit and vigour had returned.

“Wait you,” he called, out of it.

In haste they drew on and rearranged their clothing—though even so there was a quiet calm and dignity about mat young woman’s movements that seemed to be part of her very nature.

They were only approximately restored to respectability when Elizabeth went to open the door. Bishop Lamberton stood there, with another man who lou ted low respectfully. If the Primate noted anything amiss, in heightened colour and dishevelment, he did not remark on it.

“Your pardon, my friends, for this intrusion,” he said.

“I

would not trouble you, with my lord so newly returned. But I believed that you would wish to hear this man’s tidings, without delay. He comes from England. From Essex, Robert.”

“My lord, I come from Hatfield Broadoak. Sent by the steward of the manor. Your father, my lord—he is dead. I have ridden day and night to bring you word.”

Bruce drew a long breath.

“I am sorry,” Lamberton said.

“But he had retired from this world for long, Robert. He would not be loth to go, I think.”

Elizabeth turned to her husband.

“A father is a father,” she said.

“Aye. God rest his soul.” Bruce nodded.

“I was no good son for him. We never agreed, all my days. I do not weep for him, in death—when I scarce thought of him in life. That would be folly.

But at least I acknowledge that, as son, I failed him.”

There was silence in that little fire-lit room. Then Bruce asked the courier for details. He rewarded him generously, and dismissed him to find food and rest. Lamberton remained.

“So we have a new situation, Robert,” the Bishop said, when they were alone.

“You are now Scotland’s heir. Rightful king of this unhappy realm.

Its only hope.”

“Hope!” Bruce barked the word.

“What hope am I? What hope is there in me, or for me? Or for Scotland? I have long ceased to hope, my friend. Or … or had. Until… until…”

“Until you heard of Edward’s sickness? Aye, there could be hope there. We must not wish his death. But if he is stricken in body, the man might think more of his latter end and less of imposing his will on Scotland. For this we may lawfully pray.

Though, they tell me that he is already much bettered. So that he may not yet heed God’s warning.”

“I do not think he will. Edward is too old to change now. His hatred the strongest part of him! My hope is not that he will change, but…!” He left the rest unsaid.

“You have reason for bitterness, my friend. Who in Scotland has not?” the Primate commented.

“But if Scotland is to survive, you must survive. To be its king. You are no longer your own man, my lord. Nor even this lady’s. You are Scotland’s man now.

And Scotland never more greatly needed a man, strong, wise, constant, patient…”

“God help me—I am none of these!”

“I think that you are. Or can be. Must be. Great things are demanded of Robert Bruce, now. But a great reward, a great heritage awaits you. In all true men’s eyes you are now the only possible aspirant to the throne. You, or one of your young brothers after you. Comyn based his claim on being Baliol’s nephew. Baliol, a wrong choice from the first, is now totally discredited and debarred, his name a hindrance and no aid. Moreover, Comyn, in surrendering not only himself but the whole kingdom to Edward, has forfeited any personal support….”

“I also yielded, you will mind! On your advice.”

“But not in the same degree. Or on the same conditions. It was Comyn’s misfortune to surrender as Guardian and commander.

He has thrown away any claim to the throne.”

“But what can I do? The throne of Scotland I What is it? Even if I could reach it.”

“It is the symbol and surety of the continuance of this ancient realm and people. Lacking it, we are nothing. Supporting it and supported by it, we are a kingdom, a community of men, small, poor perhaps, but proud, independent, masters under God of our land and destiny. It is our grievous weakness that we are so prone to disunity. To this end, if no other, we need a king, an undoubted monarch, to rule and unite us. That monarch should be, must be, Robert Bruce.”

“Should be, perhaps. But what is possible? While Edward lives?” That was Elizabeth.

“Only patient waiting. Readiness. Quiet preparation. Resolution.

Only these are possible meantime. And notable caution. For when Edward hears of the Lord of Annandale’s death, he will the more closely watch his son. Knowing that he holds the throne which should be that son’s.”

”He could watch me no closer than he does!”

“He might seek to hold you in ward. A prisoner, in truth.”

“Would that be any worse than what he does? Shame me?

Mock me? Send me to capture Wallace… ?”

“Ah yes, Robert—yes!” the young woman cried.

“To be held.

Shut up. Lodged in a cell. Taken from me…!”