Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

There was no moat and drawbridge here, and Bruce led his men through the gatehouse pend and into the courtyard, without hindrance. There he halted, sitting his horse, while he gave his lieutenants orders to secure all gates and strong points to man the parapets, and to bring him that banner. To Nigel he gave special instructions.

“My compliments to King Edward’s justices,” he said, “Inform them that their duties here are now over. And that I will provide them with safe-conduct over the Border. Forthwith.”

His brother laughed aloud, and without dismounting, he or his men, rode indoors.

Soon he was back.

“They have locked themselves into the hall “ he reported.

“I shouted your commands. But they said they will have no dealings with rebels. And that you are to disperse our force at once. Or all will be arraigned for treason.”

“For judges, they much lack judgement!” Bruce declared grimly.

“Have woodwork chopped down. And brushwood from outside. Those whins on the brae side will burn well. Pile all against doors and windows, and set alight. See how they judge that!” Nigel’s chuckling was stilled by the steely expression on his brother’s face. He hurried off to do as he was told.

A warning shout from high above was followed by a muffled clatter that set Bruce’s horse sidling. The Leopard standard of Plantagenet, wrapped round an English guard’s helmet, and cast down from the parapet aloft, lay there on the flagstones.

A hoarse cheer rose from all who saw. Bruce had the thing handed up to him.

It was not long before, without the incendiaries waiting for brushwood, smoke was billowing along the corridors and vaulted passages of Dumfries Castle. And swiftly if belatedly the judicial qualities of those within asserted themselves. A messenger emerged from the smoke-enshrouded hall to request passage for His Majesty’s judges.

Bruce ordered the pile of burning woodwork at the main hall door to be cleared a little to one side-but only a little. The justices, clerks, officers, litigants, prisoners and soldiers alike, in consequence, had to hop and skip nimbly through as they emerged.

Sir John Kingston would have made suitable and dignified protest, out in the courtyard, but Bruce curtly cut him short.

“Enough, sir. Spare us this. We in Scotland have seen enough of English justice. More than enough to have any respect for its practitioners. Have you forgot the justice Sir William Wallace received?”

The angry growling from the onlookers was enough to convince Sir John that the moment was inopportune.

“You will be escorted to the Border, at Carlisle. You will be roped together, until then.” And when shocked heads were raised, Bruce added, “And you may praise God that the ropes are not used to hang you!”

Without further exchange, Edward’s representatives were marched under

guard, the summons-bell rope of the castle, used symbolically, a loop round each neck, to link them together.

The roar of derision and unholy joy from the waiting throng outside, as these feared and hated dignitaries passed out from the gatehouse, could have been heard all over Dumfries.

So was struck the first blow of the second War of Independence suddenly, without warning, almost by accident.

When Bruce himself rode out from the castle, it was to find the crowd vastly increased, the citizenry now obviously present in large numbers. Bruce’s appearance was greeted with loud and prolonged cheering. If there were not a few nominal Comyn vassals and supporters there, they did not proclaim the fact. Confused and leaderless, yet caught up in the vital sense of occasion and excitement, for the moment they went with the tide.

With his people marshalled into a great semi-circle behind him, Bruce faced the throng, and had his trumpeter blow for silence.

He spoke slowly, almost broodingly, with nothing of triumph and drama, however dramatic might be his actual words.

“My friends—this day, the tenth of February, of our Lord the thirteenth hundred and sixth year, we commence to cleanse our land. We have commenced here at Dumfries. Sir John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, turned traitor and is dead.”

There was an uneasy stirring amongst the crowd, but no outcry.

“Cleansed, yes,” Bruce went on steadily.

“We have also cleansed this castle. The English are gone from it, with scarce a blow struck.” He picked up the Leopard standard from his saddlebow, and shook out its handsome folds.

“Here is the usurper’s banner, from the tower.” He crumpled it up in his fist, and tossed it to the ground, contemptuously.

“It will serve for a shroud for Comyn. He has well earned it!”

There was reaction now, but no shouting, no clamour. Something in the manner, voice and expression of the young man who sat his horse and spoke so sombrely, precluded that. Men whispered, shuffled, stared at each other. And waited.

Bruce held up his hand.

“This castle is but the first of many which we must take and cleanse. Till all the land is cleared. And that will take long. Long. Let none doubt it. Edward of England will come for his banner—nothing more sure. We shall have to fight. Fight as we have never fought before. But not for so long, I think. For Edward is grown old. And sick. This is in our favour.”

He paused, and looked round.

“Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, you will be captain of this Castle of Dumfries. To hold it secure. You will hoist another and better banner on that tower. And see that it flies there, against all comers.”

“To be sure, my lord,” Kirkpatrick cried, loudly.

“Trust me for that. Bruce’s banner will not fall like that rag, there!”

“Who said Bruce’s banner?” Very slightly Bruce raised his voice.

“Find you our royal standard of Scotland, my friend. The Lion Rampant, red on gold. And raise that, see you.

For all to see. In my name. For this day, I, Robert, do claim, take and assume my rightful and true heritage, the throne of Scotland.

I stand before you now as your liege lord, Robert, King of Scots!”

For endless breathless moments there was complete and astonished silence. Men and women questioned their own ears. Only the slow ringing of the Greyfriars Monastery bell, tolling for the dead, broke the hush.

It was the Yorkshireman, Sir Christopher Seton, who first recovered himself. Wrenching out his sword for the second time that day, he held it high.

“God save King Robert!” he cried.

“God save the King! The King!”

It was as though a damned-up flood had been abruptly released.

Pandemonium broke loose. The entire company went almost crazy in a frenzy of excitement and emotion. Men shouted, laughed, capered, threw their bonnets in the air, shook hands, even embraced each other. Women skirled, sang, wept, fell on their knees and prayed. Hardened knights and veterans of the wars kissed the cross-hilts of their swords and blinked away weak tears. The least demonstrative just grinned foolishly.

Nigel and Thomas Bruce, as amazed and dumbfounded as anybody else, were too overwhelmed to do more than gabble and stammer and stroke their brother’s arms.

Of all that great gathering only the central figure himself remained apparently unaffected. Bruce sat unmoved and unmoving amongst the wild tumult, stiff and upright in his saddle as though carved there in stone. Never had he looked less pleased, less jubilant or exultant. And never more determined.

Out of the joyous confusion a pattern developed. Again it was the Englishman, Seton, who initiated it. He jumped down from his horse, casting away his sword with a clang. He came to Bruce’s side. Half-bending on one armoured knee, he held up two hands, open and a little apart.

“Majesty,” he exclaimed hoarsely, “I would be first to swear my oath of fealty. Give me your royal hand.”