Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Come.”

He reined his all-but foundered horse around—the fourth he had ridden since leaving London—and led his silently protesting party back the way they had come for a little distance, to a thicket of scrub oak and thorn in a marshy hollow, which they had passed through a minute or two before. Into this he turned his people, right and left, to hide amongst the trees.

The two horsemen appeared presently, trotting unconcernedly.

One was young, well-dressed, an esquire presumably; the other a bearded man-at-arms riding slightly behind. Bruce allowed them to come nearly up to his hiding-place, then spurred forward into their path.

“Wait you, friend,” he called.

“One moment. How come you to ride this road to England, this day?”

The young man had drawn up, startled, hand dropping to sword-hilt. Behind, the soldier was quicker, his whinger whipped out with a scrape of metal. Looking round, the former was in time to see four of Bruce’s own men-at-arms emerging from the thickets at the other side of the road.

“What is this, sirrah?” he demanded hotly.

“How dare you!”

“I but asked your business, sir. The Border is but a mile away, and no place between. It concerns me who crosses that Border.”

“Why should it? I am on lord’s business. A great lord, Comyn, Lord or Badenoch’s business. Do you dare, sir, to question?”

“I do,” Bruce answered, mildly enough.

“And with cause. For I am Sheriff of Dumfries. And was Scots Warden of this March when Scots wardens meant anything.”

“Sheriff …!” the other repeated falteringly. He looked round again, and saw that he and his man were now quite surrounded.

“Who are you, sir?”

“The name is Bruce. You may have heard of it? You are a long way from Comyn country, friend.”

“Bruce? The … the earl!”

“The same. You do not look, friend, as though you had ridden from Badenoch and the Spey?”

“No, my lord. Only from Dalswinton. From my lord’s house near to Dumfries …”

“Comyn is there? At Dalswinton?”

“Yes. The Justiciary Court meets this week at Dumfries. My lord attends.”

“And you? Your business, sir?”

“My lord’s business. Not mine. Nor yours, my lord!”

“Mine, yes. If you are for crossing this Border. And on this road you can be going nowhere other. But… see you, your lord and I are in bond to each other. You have naught to fear.”

The other was silent.

“I am waiting, sir. And tired I Your business in England?”

“I am not at liberty to tell, my lord.”

“You will not long be at liberty to refuse!” Bruce commented grimly.

“Do you carry letters?”

Nibbling his lip, the younger man shook his head.

“I think that you do. Tell me who they are for, and if you know their purpose. If you do, I may not require to do more than look at the superscription and seal.”

“I will not, cannot, do it.”

“Fool I Who knows, the letter may be for me! I have been in England.

Comyn could well be writing to me. A warning, perhaps.”

“The letter is not for you, Earl of Carrick.”

“Then, a God’s name, who is it? You have admitted you have a letter.

As Sheriff of this shire I require you to let me see.”

The unhappy courier shook his head stubbornly. Bruce jerked a brief command to his men. They kneed their mounts close. One drew sword, to point at the esquire’s throat. Two pinioned each an arm. Two more engaged the guard behind, who only put up token resistance. A sixth reached out to fumble in the victim’s bulging saddlebags.

It took a little while, amidst some shouting and protest, for the

horses sidled and pranced. But at length this last man brought out a

scaled paper package. He handed it over to Bruce, Apart from the seal, which showed the Comyn arms of three golden wheat sheafs on a blue ground, the package was entirely plain, without superscription. Unhesitantly Bruce opened it. Inside was another sealed package. But this one had a superscription.

It read:

TO HIS HIENES EDWARD KING OF IN GLAND AT WESTMINSTER

“Ha!” Bruce leaned over, to show this to Elizabeth.

“See where John Comyn’s letter goes!” He swung back to the courier.

“You knew this. You were taking this to King Edward, in London.

You must have known. But—do you know what is in it?”

White-faced now, the other shook his head.

“Tell me. Or I shall open it.”

“I do not know. My lord said that it was most secret. That… that I guard it with my life!” The young man’s voice broke.

“Aye.” With a swift gesture Bruce broke open the second seal, and unfolded the stiff paper.

The inner side was written upon. But enclosed in it was another folded paper. And this bore another seal. But not Comyn’s.

This was Bruce’s own. With his signature likewise. Witnessed by William Lamberton.

“Christ… in … His… heaven!” he whispered.

“Robert! What is it?”

“What is it?” he got out, thickly.

“It is death! It is my neck!

My headsent to Edward! For execution! By the living God-our bond! I did not believe … that any man … could sink so low! My death-warrant. And Lamberton’s. Here is infamy beyond all telling!”

She reached over and took Comyn’s copy of the crown-and lands agreement, which Bruce had signed that November night in the Blackfriars Monastery at Stirling.

With fingers that trembled now with emotion her husband smoothed out the folds of the enclosing letter. It was notably brief:

Hienes, Since you require proof of the matter wch I wrote to you before.

Here is proof. I desire to receive it back by bearer. Also that yr Hienes seems not to have seen it. For it is mch value and dangerous.

Bruce has the other like, with my name and seal. If yr Hienes takes him you will win it for yr proof and purpose.

I remain yr Hienes servant, Jno Comyn of Badenoch “The forsworn dastard! For this John Comyn shall die! I swear it, by all the saints!”

Anxiously, Elizabeth looked at her husband. She had never seen him like this, so black of brow, so savage of expression.

“It is vile treachery, yes. Thank God that we won out of London when we did! This was what Edward was meaning. He knew of this, all the time.”

“Aye. Comyn had written him, betraying all. Edward demanded proof. For my trial! Had we not bolted when we did, I would never have left London alive. Gloucester saved my head!”

“What will you do, Robert? Now?”

“Do? I will do what needs to be done. What I should have done long since. Make a reckoning with John Comyn! I will…”

He paused, looking at the anxious courier.

“Here is not the time and place to talk of that.-Nor are these two the men to hear it.

They must remain silenced. Close warded. Until the matter is resolved.

We will take them with us, to Lochmaben.”

“My lord—here is no fault of mine…” the esquire faltered.

“None. Save to own a dastard lord I You will suffer nothing, so long as you cause no further trouble. Do as you are bidden. But I cannot let you go free, until I have come to a conclusion with your master. That is certain.”

They rode on northwards for Lochmaben, and the shadow of evil was like a threatening cloud about them.

Chapter Twenty

The red-stone town of Dumfries was busy that frosty February morning, with Edward’s English justices in session at the castle, and half the lords and lairds of the SouthWest summoned to be present, either to speak to complaints, seek redress, support charged feudal vassals, or give account for their heritable jurisdictions.

Soldiers and men-at-arms were everywhere, English and Scots. The citizenry, well aware of the potential explosiveness of this mixture, tended to keep indoors and out of sight.