Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“Rob—answer me!” Nigel was running over his brother’s steel-girl torso with urgent hands.

“He is but dazed, man,” Seton panted.

“His harness would save him …”

“Quick!” Thomas Bruce exclaimed, hurrying to them, and pointing backwards.

“They have gone. The churchmen. To tell the others. The Comyns.

They will be back. Seeking blood! Let us away from here.”

“Aye,” Seton agreed grimly.

“That is sense, at least. Come.

Take his arm. An arm each. He will be well enough. The other door.

To the street. Haste you!”

So, without a glance at the fallen Comyns, a brother supporting him on either side, the silent, glazed-eyed Bruce was led, hustled indeed, down the nave to the little church’s main door, Sir Christopher striding ahead, reddened sword still in his hand.

They emerged into the cold, frost-gleaming Castle Wynd. The alleys and entries of the climbing street were filled with chilled, waiting Bruce supporters. Nigel yelled for horses.

Men came starting out, at sight of their lord’s party and the bloody sword. Shouts filled the crisp air.

Two knights came running, drawing their own swords—Sir Roger Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, nearby, and Sir John Lindsay, a kinsman or Crawford’s. Nigel was still demanding horses, but Kirkpatrick came right up to his feudal master.

“What’s to do?” he demanded.

“My lord—are you hurt? What is this?”

Bruce shook his head.

“Get our men assembled,” Seton cried.

“There will be trouble.”

”They are near. On the green. And on the castle hill. And behind

yonder church. A trumpet blast will summon them. But . what’s to do? That blood? Whose is it?” Kirkpatrick, a big, rough, fierce man” was not to be put off.

At last Bruce spoke.

“I doubt … I have slain .. the Comyn,” he said, slowly, distinctly.

“God’seyes! Comyn? Himself? Where?”

“God pity me—at the altar. In the church.” That came out as a groan.

“In the church? Praises be-where better? For that snake!

And you doubt it? Doubt he’s slain? Then, by the Mass—I’ll make sure of it!” Kirkpatrick thrust past them, on the word, and into the church doorway, followed by Sir John Lindsay, Sir Robert Fleming and a few other men, “Watch you!” Nigel shouted after them.

“They will be there.

The rest of them. By now. Take heed, man!”

Neither Kirkpatrick nor any of the others so much as looked back.

Rapping out an oath, Seton turned and hurried after them.

Whether with the cold, or just the passage of time, Bruce’s trance-like shock was beginning to wear off. He was still shaken and not himself, but he became increasingly aware at least of the dangers inherent in the situation. He shook off his brothers’ hands.

“My trumpeter,” he jerked.

“Get him. Quickly. To me. Up at the castle-yard. You, Tom. Nigel—gather some men. Find and take the Comyn horses. Away with them. Then join me up at the castle. See to it.”

“You are well enough …?”

“Yes. Go. Quickly. There is no time to lose.”

Left alone for the moment, Bruce stared bleakly, unseeing, before him. Then he looked down at his hand. It was splashed with blood. Hastily he sought to wipe it away, his breath catching.

Then he desisted. No amount of rubbing would wipe away this day’s work. He might as well accept that. The deed was done, and there could be no turning back. What lay ahead he could not tell—save that nothing would ever be the same again for him. He had slain a man. Not in honest battle, but in blind anger. Committed murder. Done the unforgivable thing. Taken another man’s life with his own hand. And in God’s house, before His very altar. The unholy upon the unforgivable … Even that was not all. He had murdered the most powerful man in Scotland. With a following great enough to turn the land upside-down. Moreover he was completely lost with King Edward.

Nothing could repair that break now. Suddenly all his ropes were cut.

He was a bark adrift in a rising storm.

Or not quite adrift, perhaps. Alone, yes. For ever alone now.

Anchors and warps gone. Sore beset. But still he had a rudder.

And a purpose. Made simpler now. Wholly simplified indeed, since it was now all or nothing. There was nothing left to him now but to fight. Fight to the death. Fight to win, or to lose. No alternative course, any more.

To the fight, then! With a new enemy to face, instead of John Comyn.

His own conscience.

He set off, heavy-strided, up the cobbled climbing street.

The shrilling trumpet brought men streaming up on to the grassy hillock on which Dumfries Castle was built-no major fortress this but rather an administrative centre in a provincial walled town. All sorts of men came to that imperious summons, by no means all Bruce levies; many were, if not neutral, at least little involved, some were Comyn supporters, and not a few were English men-at-arms. But Bruce’s people were there as a disciplined body, under the personal command of their, lord. Moreover they all were mounted. They displayed all the difference between men of purpose and authority, and mere onlookers.

Nigel was one of the last to join his brother on the seething castle hill, where an air of strange and heady excitement prevailed, with rumours flying thick and fast.

“The Comyn horses are driven off,” he reported.

“The leaders’ beasts, that is. And many others. Little trouble.”

“Yes. And Christopher? Kirkpatrick?”

“I have not seen them. Do you think …?”

“I think if any can look to themselves, these can.”

“What do you do now?”

“Take Dumfries. I have no choice.”

“What…?” Astounded, Nigel stared at him.

“I have crossed my river, now,” his brother said evenly, almost sternly.

“There is no turning back. I can only go forward. Whatever the cost.

But that is for myself. You-you need not go where I go. You, or any. For it will be a sore road. There is time, still, to turn back. For you. If you will.”

Nigel looked across at his younger brother, brows raised.

“You are not wandering? In the head? That blow …”

”Look,” Thomas pointed.

“Christopher. And the others.”

Seton, Kirkpatrick and Lindsay, with some small following were hastening up the rise towards them. They had the look of victorious men. Others made way for them automatically.

“Well?” Bruce, the new Bruce, barked the single word.

“You were right, my lord,” Kirkpatrick shouted back, grinning.

“A botched blow! He was still alive. I finished your work.

The Red Comyn is dead. And others with him. Not a few I And this world the sweeter!”

A long shuddering sigh broke from the listening crowd.

Bruce looked at the newcomers long and levelly. Then he spoke, tonelessly.

“Very well. I thank you for completing my work.”

He took a deep breath, and turned.

“And now, there is more work to do, my friends. Much more. This castle, for a start.” He pointed upwards, to where the Leopards of England flew above the highest tower.

“That banner. I’ll have it down, see you.”

There was a corporate gasp from the company, a gasp that developed and changed into a rumbling roar as men perceived something of the significance of this declaration. Englishmen in the crowd began suddenly to look alarmed.

There were a number of men-at-arms at the castle gateway, but these were a ceremonial guard for the justices rather than any sort of garrison. Already, from the sitting in the hall, the chief magistrate, Sir John Kingston, had sent officers to enquire the reason for the trumpeting and noise outside, and to demand respectful quiet. As Bruce led his mounted cohort directly for the gateway, these turned and hurried away.

If the captain of the guard-house was of heroic stuff he wisely decided, in the face of a force ten times the size of his own, that this was not the occasion to demonstrate it. He and his men exchanged eloquent glances and promptly took themselves off after the officers.