Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“We have come for a word in your private ear, my lord,” the Bishop said.

“Believing that you will heed. And come to some agreement with us.”

That was not strictly true. Lamberton may have believed it, but Bruce was highly doubtful. He had come only at his friend’s strong persuasion and almost against his own better judgement.

The Primate had argued that, for the first time, Comyn had that day acted, if not in cooperation with Bruce, at least in parallel.

Had even commended Bruce’s step before all. Here was opportunity not to be missed, therefore.

“Agreement?” Comyn repeated.

“You grow ambitious, my lords!”

“Perhaps. For Scotland. It is time, I think, that we grew ambitious for this unhappy realm. All of us. For her freedom. For her very survival.”

“Scotland’s? Or your own? Bruce’s? Which?” The words were a little slurred, but the challenge was swift enough.

“The survival of us all. As other than slaves. Wallace’s fate may be our last warning. His dying cries our final awakening.

Then, at least, he will not have suffered in vain.”

“Fine words, Sir Bishop. But what do they mean?”

“They mean, Comyn,” Bruce interposed bluntly, “that if Scotland is to be saved, then first and foremost you and I must come to agreement. The realm cannot afford your faction fighting mine.

Either we come to terms, or the Kingdom of Scotland can be forgotten.

Become but a memory. And Wallace has given his life for nothing.”

“Terms?” the other said.

“And what are Bruce’s terms? To Comyn.”

“Scotland needs a king. Only an acknowledged monarch will now rally her. To take up arms against the conqueror. Ballot’s arrow is shot. None will fight for him now. Not even you, I think.

He does not desire the crown. I say the crown should be mine.

You say otherwise …”

“An old story, Bruce. These terms?”

“One of us must be the King of Scots. Mine is the direct claim Through the old line of our kings. Yours only through the discredited Baliol. But … I offer terms, that this impasse may be resolved. Withdraw your claim and support mine, and I will hand over to you all the Bruce lands in Scotland—save only some small properties for my brothers. Or …” He took a deep breath.

“… or hand over to me all the Comyn lands, and I will stand down in your favour as King.”

The other stared, moving a step or two forward from the door.

“You are in your right mind, man?” he demanded.

“I am.” Bruce jerked his head.

“My lord Bishop will confirm what I say.”

“That I do,” Lamberton nodded.

“My lord of Carrick’s offer is a true one. Made on my own advising.

For the sake of the realm.

His the crown and yours the lands. Or yours the crown and his the lands. If the Scots people will accept you as King. Which would you?”

“But … this is scarce believable! To offer up the Bruce lands.

The greatest in Scotland …!”

The other two exchanged quick glances. It was significant that it was the broad acres that Comyn thought of first, rather than the empty crown.

Swiftly the Primate took him up.

“Aye, the greatest in Scotland.

A notable offer, such as never has been made before. Especially since your claim to the throne is now weakened. This would make you a greater lord and earl than ever Scotland has known.”

“And, if my claim is so weak, why make this offer?”

“Because, weak or no, there can be no true decision as to the kingdom while you hold to it. Without dividing the land. Internal strife. If we are to unite against the English, at last, one of us must stand down. So I offer all that I have to offer.” That was Robert Bruce.

It was not often that John Comyn appeared at a loss. In fact never had Bruce seen him irresolute, before this night. He paced the small chamber, biting his lip. He stopped, presently.

“If this is a trick…!” he said.

“No trick,” Lamberton assured.

“In the name of Saint Andrew of Scotland. I swear it. And will do, before any company you name.”

“Save that it must be kept secret,” Bruce put in.

“This, coming to Edward’s ears, would be my death-warrant!”

Comyn looked at him, long and hard.

“Which do you choose, my lord?” Bruce challenged him.

“It … it would require to be written. And sealed,” the other declared.

“I would so require.”

So would we!” Lamberton agreed grimly. He reached inside his damp

travelling-cloak and brought out a leather satchel, from which he took

four folded papers, a pen, a horn of ink, and a block of wax. Also flint and under.

“All is in readiness, my lord.

Four indentures. Two promising the throne to my lord of Carrick, and his lands to you; and two the other way. Sign which you will. My lord here will sign its neighbour. And the other two we shall burn. Each will keep a copy. Secretly. Yours is the choice.

For the realm’s fair sake.”

Only Comyn’s heavy breathing sounded as he took the papers closer to the lamp, reading closely. He took an unconscionable time about it, seeming to weigh each word of all four indentures.

But, at length, he laid them down on the table.

“The pen,” he said.

Wordless, Lamberton handed over the quill and opened inkhorn.

John Comyn looked up into Bruce’s eyes for a long moment, then stooped and dashed off his bold signature, quill spluttering.

It was on one of the papers that conceded the crown to Bruce, and the Bruce lands to himself.

His rival emitted a long sigh, and picked up the pen Comyn had thrown down. Without comment he signed the companion document.

“I sign as witness to both,” Lamberton declared.

“Have you your seals to hand, my lords?”

And so the thing was done. As the heated wax, with the two seals impressed thereon, cooled, and the last black fragments of burned paper fluttered to the floor, the three men looked at each other.

“When do I get your lands?” Comyn asked.

“On the day I am crowned King.”

“Will that day ever dawn?”

“We must see that it does. Between us.”

“With the aid of Holy Church,” Lamberton added.

“Why should you … why should we be able to achieve now what we could not do before?”

“Because we are fighting, in the main, one man. Edward. And Edward is not the man he was. Edward’s sickness could be Scotland’s saving.”

“He recovered well.”

“Aye. But once the heart gives such warning, no man is ever the same.

The finger of God is on him,” Lamberton said.

“And we have heard that since he returned to London he has had another slight seizure. A sign to him. And to us. To be ready.”

“It could be years, even so.”

“It could be, yes. But at least we can be prepared. To move. Not to await his death. To act when Edward himself cannot lead his hosts northwards. For that day we wait.” Bruce spoke urgently.

“So secrecy is all-important. You will see it. I charge you, Comyn, tell no man of this night’s work. If it got to Edward’s ears, all would be lost. My life not worth a snap of the fingers!”

“And my lord of Badenoch’s life also, I would point out!” the Bishop added, significantly.

“Edward would feel little more kindly to the one than the other. Both would be taking from him the Scots crown which he usurps.” He picked up the two sealed papers, assured that the wax was firm, and handed each man that with the other’s signature.

Almost reluctantly now they took the fateful documents, wordless.

Abruptly Comyn turned to open the door, and held it wide for his visitors.

They parted no better friends than heretofore.

Chapter Nineteen

With much trepidation, however much he tried to hide it, Robert Bruce waited amongst the gaily-dressed and glittering throng, his wife at his side. He had been against bringing her, first to England at all, and then to this Palace of Westminster. But she had insisted on both, declaring that she would not let him come without her. Not that he himself had been anxious to come;