Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

It is my prayer that he was not deceived. That he knows it false.

I think it so. For, two years after he took it, he sent an ill band of Englishry back here, to wreak their fury on this place again. They came only here, from Stirling. They smashed and raged and defaced, in fury. They broke down everything that had been left and that we had set up again—the doors of this church, the refectory, dormitories, cloisters. Laid axes to every cupboard, chest, casket and plenishing. It was hate, naught else. I think Edward knows well that he was cozened—and does not like it. But dares not confess it, lest all men conceive him fooled I So the English are saddled with their stolen false Stone, and can scarce come back for this one. Is it not a joy?”

Shaking their heads, the other two considered the diminutive cleric—and Bruce found a smile, even if Lamberton did not.

Next day, therefore, the King of Scots at least was enthroned on the Stone of Destiny, even though there was no Mac Duff to place him thereon. To the deafening clamour of trumpet fanfares the new monarch strode alone up through the crowded church to the high altar, and there seated himself upon the ancient Stone, which legend claimed to have been Jacob’s pillow in the wilderness, brought to Ireland by Scota, Pharaoh’s daughter, from whom the Scots took their name; but which was more likely to have been the portable altar of a travelling saint, possibly Columba himself, fashioned out of a meteorite. There Bruce sat while Abbot Henry brought up his Queen to sit on a throne opposite him, and the Primate, leading the Bishops Wishart and David of Moray, paced out of the vestry, themselves gorgeously attired, bearing magnificent robes of purple and gold in which to deck the King. These were canonicals, saved and hidden by Wishart at the sack of Glasgow, and now produced for this momentous occasion.

The trumpets silenced, a great choir of singing boys chanted sweet

music, while the bishops and abbot robed Robert Bruce ceremonially,

and acolytes filled the air with the fragrance of swinging censers.

The service that followed was impressive, if inevitably length conducted by the Abbot and the Primate, the sonorous Latinities of the Mass rolling richly, the anthems resounding, the silent pauses dramatic. Then to the high, pure liquid notes of a sin singer reciting the Gloria in Excelsis, William Lamberton took the ampulla, and consecrating it at the altar, turned to anoint the King with oil.

Bruce, stern-faced as Lamberton himself, gazed across the chancel, hearing and seeing little, aware more vividly of that other high altar and the bloodstained figure collapsing against it, a picture which would haunt him until his dying day.

While the people still shivered to the aching beauty of that lone singing, conjoined with the dread significance of the holy anointing, they were rudely roused, to the extent of almost gasping with fright, by the sudden, unheralded, furious clashing of cymbals, that went on and on, as old Robert Wishart hobbled to the altar to take up the crown. It was in fact no true crown-Edward had seen to that—being but a simple gold circlet, taken from some saint’s image; but no more valid diadem survived in all Scotland, and this must serve. To the shattering clangour of the cymbals, the aged prelate placed the slender symbol over the Bruce’s brow.

“God save the King I God save the King! God save the King!” Drowning even the clashing brass, the great cry arose and continued, every man and woman in the crowded church on their feet and shouting—save only Bruce himself and Elizabeth.

On and on went the refrain, like an ocean’s tide crashing on a shingle beach, as all gave rein to their pent-up emotions. Looking across at her husband, the Queen perceived his lips to be moving, in turn.

“God save me! God save me, indeed!” he was whispering.

She would have run to him then, if she might.

At length the trumpets triumphed, and to their imperious ululation the Bishop or Moray brought Bruce the sceptre for his right hand, from the altar, while Abbot Henry brought him the Book of the Laws. Then, from the front of the nave, the Earl of Atholl came forward with the great two-handed sword of state.

He knelt before Bruce and proffered it for the monarch to touch.

Then, holding it up before him, he took his stance behind the Stone.

The Earls of Lennox and Menteith brought up the spurs and ring, respectively, and Scrymgeour the Standard-Bearer ‘liked forward with the great Lion Rampart banner of the King* dipped it over Bruce’s head, and then laid it on the altar.

The main coronation procedure completed, Lamberton stepped across, to bow before the Queen and place another golden circlet over her corn-coloured hair. Kissing her hand, he raised her, and led her across the chancel to the King’s side, where she curtsied low and took her husband’s hand between both her own, the first to do him homage. Her throne carried over by acolytes, she seated herself at his right hand.

There remained but the ceremony of homage-giving, when all landed men and prelates might come up to take the King’s hand and swear fealty, their names and styles called out by the King of Arms, a lengthy process but not to be scamped.

At last it was all over, and the royal couple could go outside to show themselves to the common folk who had gathered in their thousands to acclaim them.

The remainder of the day, and the day following, were given over to feasting, jousting, games and entertainments for all classes and tastes, with music and dancing late into the night. Bruce made a number of celebratory appointments to his household and to offices of state, granted charters and decrees, and created knights. There was only one flaw in the colourful tapestry. A courier arrived from the SouthWest, to inform the King that Sir Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, had been appointed commander in Scotland, to succeed the somewhat feeble John of Brittany, and had arrived at Carlisle to assemble a great army. De Valence was no puppet, but a fierce and able soldier, a second cousin of Edward’s and, significantly, brother-in-law to the dead Comyn. Moreover Edward had sent the Prince of Wales on after Pembroke, gathering a second army; and he himself was preparing to come north.

It had had to come to this, sooner or later.

Two forenoons later, when Bruce was in conference with his lords, he was brought new and more surprising tidings. There was a latecomer to the coronation scene—none other than Isabel, Countess of Buchan. It was perhaps strange that the King should immediately interrupt his Council and go in person to greet this lady, the young wire of one of his most consistent enemies. But Isabel of Buchan had been Isabel Mac Duff before her marriage, sister of the Earl of life.

He found the Countess with Elizabeth and Christian, little more than a

girl, but a sonny, high-coloured, laughing girl, a strange wife for the dour, elderly High Constable of Scotland. She sank low before him.

“My lord King,” she said, “I am desolated. That I am come too late. I have ridden for twelve days. Four hundred miles. Ever since I heard. For Your Grace’s coronation. And come too late by two days. It is a sore sorrow.”

“Why, lady—here’s a woeful mischance,” Bruce said, raising her.

“Had we but known. To come so far. You must, then, have been in England?”

“At my lord’s manor of Fishwick, in Leicestershire. He has made his peace with Edward. Since … since …”

“Aye—I understand. And you left my lord behind?”

“Yes, Sire. He … he knew not that I came.”

“So! A leal subject, indeed—if less leal a wife!”

“I am, first, Mac Duff of life’s daughter! When I learned, to my sorrow, that my brother, the Earl Duncan, preferred to bide at Edward’s Court in London than play his rightful part in the crowning of his King, I made haste to come myself. That there should be a Mac Duff if only a woman, to place the crown on your head. Lacking the Stone of Scone, this at least I could do. I took my husband’s best horses. And now—now it is all too late…!” Her eager voice broke.