Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

”Not Majesty, friend,” Bruce told him.

“In this Scotland we leave majesty to such as Edward Plantagenet! Grace, we say. By God’s grace. Majesty I do not aspire to. But if ever a man required God’s grace, I do!” He gave his brother-in-law his hand nevertheless.

“Aye, Sire.” Taking the hand flat between his own two palms, Seton kissed it, then so holding it, said, “I, Christopher Seton, swear before Almighty God and all His saints, to be Your Grace’s true man, in fealty and homage, in life and in death. I hereby declare Robert, King of Scots, to be my liege lord, and no other.

Amen!”

This brought every other mounted man of gentle blood off his horse and into a clamorous queue, Kirkpatrick foremost. It was Seton himself who held them off, belatedly insisting that the King’s brothers must have precedence. So Nigel and Thomas each took Robert’s hand within their own, stumbling and stuttering in their near-distraction—yet even so somehow looking askance at their brother’s set, stern features.

Before the rest of the eager columns of aspirants took the oath, Bruce raised the much-kissed hand for quiet.

“My friends all,” he said.

“I warn you. My service will be a hard one. It cannot be otherwise.

English Edward will not smile on those who kiss this hand, this day.

Think well before you do so. For me there can be no turning back now. I win this realm of Scotland’s freedom, or die. But for you the die is not yet cast.

Think well, I say.”

Whatever brief stouns at the heart those ominous words may have aroused amongst his hearers, not one of the queue left place. Indeed more urgent was the clamour to reach his hand.

Bruce suffered the long oath-taking ceremonial with a grim patience.

But as soon as it was finished, he commanded silence again.

“I cherish your loyalty, value your trust,” he declared.

“But now we have work to do. Only one castle, one town, and a few hundred of men, at this moment acknowledge the King of Scots.

All must be brought to do so, willingly or unwillingly. I go back to Lochmaben, and command that all leal men rally to my standard there. But on the way I must take Dalswinton Castle, Comyn’s house—for we can afford to let no enemies hold it. Likewise we must take Tibbers, which, though mine, is English-held. It commands the Nith pass into Ayrshire. Sir Christopher—I charge you to take it. And hold it. I give it to you. Sir John Lindsay—Caerlaverock must be secured. In these Solway marshes. The passage from Carlisle. See you to it. Surprise will be our most potent weapon. To strike before any look for war. This will serve us. Go now-enough of talk. And if I could, I would say God go with you! To work.”

“God save the King’s Grace!” somebody shouted.

“God bless King Robert!” Immediately the cry was taken up by the entire gathering in a ringing and repeated chant, amidst cheers. To its resounding echoes, Robert Bruce rode downhill from Dumfries Castle, into the town, making for the north gate.

Elizabeth and Christian Bruce were sitting before the fire in the February dusk, stitching tapestries and watching the children play, when the brothers got back to Lochmaben. Bruce stood in the doorway eyeing this pleasantly domestic scene almost guiltily, before venturing in.

Elizabeth looked up, a little anxiously for her. She was well aware, of course, that-her husband had gone to Dumfries day specifically to confront Comyn with his treachery. However cosy the scene seemed now, she had been on edge all day. But she did not question him, waiting for the man to speak.

Not so Christian of Mar, now the Lady Seton. She seldom waited for anyone to speak first.

“So, my brave brothers,” she greeted them, “are you struck dumb by our beauty? Or has that reptile Comyn escaped you?”

“No,” Bruce said briefly.

“No? What does no mean? Have you settled with the man?”

“I have, yes.”

“Then I vow you are precious dull about it, Robert! And what have you done with my great ox of a husband? Do not tell me you let Comyn master Aim!”

“No. Christopher is well enough. He is gone on an errand for me. To Tibbers.”

“Tibbers? And why, a mercy’s sake? Why go to Tibbers? The English hold it, do they not?”

“It is my hope they will not, for much longer.”

“So! You send my foolish Yorkshireman to ask his fellow Englishmen to give you back your Tibbers! You are become mighty bold, my Lord Robert, of a truth…!”

Elizabeth raised a hand to quell her irrepressible sister-in-law.

“Let him tell it at his own pace,” she urged.

But Nigel could contain himself no longer.

“Quiet, you, by all the saints, Christie!” he burst out.

“Your tongue is like a bell in the wind! And show something more of respect, I charge you. Call your brother Grace, now—not Lord!”

“Grace…? What folly is this?”

Elizabeth did not speak, but her hand went up to the white column of her throat.

“He is the King!” Thomas exclaimed excitedly.

“He has taken the kingdom.”

Bruce looked at his wife, not his sister.

“Scarce that!” he said.

“The kingdom will require a deal of taking, I fear!”

“Robert, You… you … what have you done?”

“Well may you ask, my dear. What can I say…?”

“I’ll tell you what he has done,” Nigel declared.

“He has slain the Comyn and assumed the crown. Here is Robert, King of Scots!”

The two women stared, even Christian silenced. They both rose to their feet.

Bruce, still in his armour, strode forward to take his wife’s hand.

“My heart,” he said, “What can I say to you? I have done what is beyond telling, this day. I come to you with hands stained with blood. I slew Comyn, yes. But not in fair fight. I dirked him, with this hand. And in church. Before God’s altar! I come to you, a murderer…!”

“No!” Nigel insisted.

“It is not so. He struck him down, yes.

But not to the death. Kirkpatrick it was that killed him. Later.”

“Besides, Comyn called him traitor! And struck him with his hand. I saw it, heard it.” Thomas told them, voice breaking with emotion.

“I murdered him,” Bruce repeated evenly.

“Whoever finished my work. Drew on him, when his hands were empty…”

“In a church, you say?” Elizabeth faltered.

“An altar…?”

“Aye—God pity me! He fell… against the altar.”

“So long as he fell!” Christian commented briefly.

“That man is better dead.”

Elizabeth bit her lip.

“I am sorry, Robert.”

“Yes. It was ill done. I lost my wits. A kind of madness. I scarce knew what I had done. Until too late…”

“God in His heaven!” Nigel cried exasperatedly.

“All this talk of what is of no matter anyway! The death of a proven traitor-who had to die. And naught said of what matters everything! That now you are King of Scots. And you, Elizabeth, are Queen.” He ran forward, to half-bend one knee, as far as his armour would let him, and took her hand.

“Highness!” he said, kissing it.

“Your most faithful subject and servant.” His younger brother hastened to follow suit.

Elizabeth shook her head.

“It is less simple than that, I fear,” she said sadly.

“Aye. Nigel speaks in innocence,” Bruce agreed grimly.

“Would that innocence were mine! Apart from the guilt on me, do you not see what this must cost? I am no true King until my coronation. And for that I require the aid of Holy Church. Think you Holy Church will smile on a murderer?”

“Why must you call it murder … ?”

“Because that is what it was. Moreover, it is what my enemies will call it.”

“But the chief churchmen are your friends, not your enemies.

Lamberton, Wishart, and the rest.”

“Not all. Cheyne, of Aberdeen. Andrew, of Argyll. Both Comyn men.