The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  “The same that the young Lord of Badenoch spoke of—the Stone of

  Destiny. King Edward took it from Scone Abbey, and carries it south

  with him. To London. As symbol that there is no longer any king to be

  crowned in Scotland. So he misuses it thus—as stool for his viands

  …”

  “God’s curse on him!” somebody snarled, though low-voiced.

  “I faith-you say so?” Robert Bruce was interested now.

  “That ugly lump of red rock the famous Stone of Destiny? The Palladium of Scotland? Who would have thought it?”

  “Only fools would think it!” That was Sir John Comyn again, scornfully.

  “This is not the Stone of Scone. It is some quarry man block!”

  [”Then why is it here, at the King’s side?”

  “Edward Plantagenet says it is the Coronation Stone. And whatever else he is, he is no fool!”

  “Nevertheless, that is not the true Stone, I tell you,” Comyn posted.

  “I know. I have seen it. At King John’s coronation, at Scone. My

  kinsman Buchan placed him on the Stone, and put the crown on his head.I stood close by, holding the sword of state for him. Think you I would not know the Stone again if I saw it?”

  “Hush, man—hush!” The Abbot of Melrose sounded agitated.

  “Then what is this?” Lundin demanded.

  “God knows! Some bore stone for a standard, perhaps. But it looks to me new-quarried. Fresh. Sandstone. The true Stone is quite other. It is higher—to be sat upon. Dark, almost black.

  Harder stone. Polished. And carved. Carved with figures and designs.

  Erse designs. Not a dull lump of soft sandstone, like that …”

  “Of a mercy, my lord—hold your tongue!” the old Abbot exclaimed, tugging at Comyn’s sleeve.

  “They will hear …”

  “What of it?” Comyn, known as the Red—although that was a family appellation and not descriptive of his colouring—was a fiery hawk-faced character, about Robert Bruce’s own age, lean, vigorous, contentious. His father had been one of the Guardians of Scotland during the interregnum that ended with Baliol’s enthronement, and had married Baliol’s sister. The son, as heir of the Red branch of the most powerful family in all Scotland, a family that boasted three earls and no fewer than thirty-two knights, was a man whom few would wish to counter.

  Nevertheless, even this proud and passionate individual must now bow the knee to English Edward—and bow it, mortifyingly to Edward’s uncaring back—or be forfeited, dispossessed of his wide lands, and imprisoned as rebel. Owing to the fact that the three men in front of him were churchmen, and there appeared to be some dispute as to the lands they were to do homage for, Comyn was beckoned forward, there and then, and ordered to kneel. With ill grace and muttering, he obeyed.

  The form of words, which all had heard ad nauseam, mumbled or chanted monotonously from the moment of entering that Hall, was once again read out. It committed the taker to fullest and sole obedience, worship and fealty to his liege lord Edward, by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland and Duke of Guyenne, and to him only, his heirs and successors, to the swearer’s life’s end, on pain of death in this world and damnation in the next. It was noteworthy that Edward was not now calling himself sovereign of Scotland, Lord Paramount or other title which could imply that there was in fact any kingdom of Scotland at all. After the oath followed the list of lands, Baronies and offices, in each county, for which the homage was being done, as feudal duty.

  In Comyn’s case this extensive list, however rapidly gabbled through, took a deal longer than the oath itself to enunciate. Sir John, features twisted in sourest mockery, went through the required procedure, deliberately mal forming the words from stiff lips. Then he rose, took the proffered quill, and signed the sheepskin with a contemptuous flourish, made the three required valedictory bows to the royal back at speed, and flung out of the chamber while his cleric neighbour was still on his knees.

  Quickly it was Robert Bruce’s turn. As he stepped to the table and one of the attendants demanded his name, rank and lands, he raised his voice loudly, addressing not the clerks but the dais table.

  “Here is error,” he called.

  “I, Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, have already done homage to my liege lord Edward. At Wark, in England. In the month of March. His Majesty, that day, gave me his ring.” He held up a hand on which a ruby gleamed warmly.

  “I call as witnesses to that homage Anthony Beck, Bishop of Durham;

  John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey; Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford.

  All here present, and at the King’s table!”

  There was a momentary hush in that room. Even Edward Plantagenet paused in his talk for a second or two. Then he resumed his converse with Richard de Burgh, without a glance round, as though nothing had happened, raising a goblet to his lips. A sigh seemed to ripple over the company. Bishop Beck gestured down peremptorily to the clerks.

  “Kneel, my lord,” the chief clerk said, agitatedly.

  “The oath.

  All must swear it. His Majesty’s command.”

  “If my previous oath, willing, is considered of no worth, shall this, constrained, be the better?” Bruce cried hotly.

  Furiously Beck rose at the dais-table.

  “Guard!” he roared.

  “Your duty, fools!”

  Edward chatted on to Ulster—though that man looked less than comfortable. The Lady Elizabeth, at his side, was now considering not the line of Scots but her fingernails, head lowered.

  Mail-clad guards stepped forward to grasp the Bruce’s arms and

  shoulders. Perceiving that further resistance not only would avail

  nothing but would probably result in his Carrick lands not being

  restored to him but given to another, he dropped to the floor—but on

  one knee only. There he muttered the terms of the oath, after the

  clerk—and on this occasion this minion was so relieved that he did not issue the usual’ warnings to speak clear.

  Rising, Bruce took the quill, signed with barely a glance at the sheepskin, bowed briefly and only once, and stalked to the door.

  None sought to bring him back to complete the triple obeisance.

  He was striding in black rage down the slantwise castle courtyard towards the outer bailey, to be off, when his brother caught up with him. And not only Nigel—an officer of the guard.

  “My lord of Carrick,” this individual said stiffly.

  “A command.

  A royal command. His Highness the King commands that you attend him at the banquet and entertainment he holds tonight.

  In this castle at eight of the clock. You understand, my lord ? It is the King’s pleasure and command that you attend tonight.”

  “God in His heaven!” Robert Bruce exploded.

  “Who is crazed -he or I?”

  It was the same Great Hall, crowded still, and with minstrels playing—but with an atmosphere that could hardly have been more different. All now was colour and ease and laughter—King Edward’s the heartiest of all. When the Bruces arrived, deliberately late, four dwarfs were entertaining the company with a tumbling act, aided by a tame bear, which seemed to amuse the warrior-king immoderately. Indeed he was pelting them with cakes and sweetmeats from the tables, in high good humour, and even roared with mirth when the chief dwarf actually threw one back approximately in the royal direction. The brilliant company, taking its cue from its master, was in the best of spirits, with wine flowing freely. No least emanation from the dead, corpse filled town below penetrated here.

  Looking round on all that glittering and animated throng, the newcomers could see no other Scots. They knew a great many of those present, of course, for Robert in particular had been around the English Court, off and on, for years, holding almost as great lands in England as in his own country. But the constraint of the afternoon’s proceedings was very much with them still—and obviously with others also, for such glances as came their way were all
very quickly directed elsewhere, and none of the other guests came to speak to them. Not even Gloucester, or any other of their English kinsmen, came near their corner.

  The dwarfs’ act over, the King called for dancing. The floor was cleared and the musicians reinforced. Now the notable shortage of women was emphasised, and comparatively few of the men could take the floor for lack of partners. Edward headed up a lively pas de deux, with jovial gallantry choosing Elizabeth de Burgh as partner, her father following on with the Countess of Gloucester.

  All others must press back to give the dancers space, so that the young Bruces, though hemmed in, were no longer lost behind a crowd. And when the heavily playful monarch and the graceful young woman glided past, both undoubtedly noticed the brothers standing there. Indeed Edward obviously made some comment, with a smile, to his partner. She did not smile, however. Nor did Robert Bruce.

  The dance over, and a soulful lute-player taking over the entertainment while the guests refreshed themselves at the laden tables, a page brought a summons for the Earl of Carrick to attend on His Majesty. Set-faced, wary, Robert moved after the youth. Everywhere men and women watched, even though they pretended not to.

  Edward was up at the dais end of the Hall again, selecting sweetmeats for Elizabeth de Burgh from dishes lying on the lump of red sandstone, which had not been moved since the afternoon.

  He turned, as Bruce came up and paused some distance off, bowing’ Ha Robert my friend!” he cried, in most genial welcome, holding out his hand.

  “Come, lad. Here is a lady to turn all hearts and heads! Even yours, I vow! The Lady Elizabeth of Ulster has made thrall of me quite. Let us see what she can do with you.

  Since someone must needs do so, it seems, on my behalf and service!”

  Bruce inclined his head, but came only a little nearer that outstretched hand.

  “The Lady Elizabeth and I have met, Sire. This afternoon. Before … before what was done here,” he said stiffly.

  “And her undoubted charms are not necessary. To win my loyal devotion to your service.”

  “No? Is he being ungallant, my dear? Or just plain Scots? For they are a stubborn and stiff-necked crew, God knows I What think you?”

  She looked at the young man levelly, gravely.

  “I think that perhaps he conceives Your Majesty to have mistreated him.

  And sees not what any woman has to do with it!”

  ”Mistreated? I, Edward, mistreated him? No, no—the boot is on the

  other leg, I swear. Have I mistreated you, Robert?”

  Bruce swallowed, but raised his head a degree higher.

  “I say so, Sire.”

  “Damme—you do?” The King looked incredulous, sorrowful and amused in one.

  “You, that I have nurtured I Lavished gifts upon. Paid your duns and creditors. By the Mass—here’s ingratitude!”

  “No, Sire. Not so. For what you have done for me, in the past, I am grateful. But, if I needed aid, debts paid, was it not because I had lost all in Your Majesty’s service? My lands of Carrick, Cunninghame and Kyle, taken from me by Baliol for supporting your cause. I became a pauper, Sire …”

  “Ha! A pauper, you say—for Edward! Behold the pauper!”

  The King gestured mockingly at Bruce’s rich velvets, jewellery, gold earl’s belt.

  “Would you say, my dear, that my lord of Carrick starves on Edward’s bounty?”

  The girl shook her head, wordless, obviously reluctant to be involved in this clash. Indeed, she was sketching an incipient curtsy, preparatory to moving away, when Edward reached out and held her arm.

  “I humbly suggest that Your Majesty has had good value for the moneys you have disbursed on my behalf,” the younger man declared carefully, picking his words.

  “You have had the use of a thousand Bruce swords and lances. Of our great castle of Lochmaben.

  We have kept Galloway in your peace…”

  “All of which it was your simple duty to render, I’d mind you, Robert,” the monarch interrupted. But he said it conversationally, almost sadly.

  “Else what for was your oath of fealty?”

  “That I wondered, Sire. This afternoon! When you forced me to a second and shameful oath-taking. Abasing me before all, as though I were some defeated rebel!”

  “Forced, boy? Needs must I force you to show your lealty to me?”

  Edward shook his leonine head, and turned to Elizabeth.

  “You see the stubborn pride of this young man? What am I to do with him? The signing of today’s Roll, this Ragman’s Roll, was too much for him. All others who hold land in Scotland must do new homage for it—as is only right and proper, since there is no longer any King of Scots. But not our Robert! I wonder why-on my soul I do? Could it be …? Could it be he has high tastes, the lad? In more than clothes and horses and the like—as my purse knows full well! Could it be that he sees himself, perhaps, as one day sitting in John Baliol’s throne?” That was still directed at the young woman—indeed the King still held her arm. But the mock-sorrowful voice had suddenly gone steely.

  “His father, see you, had such notions. And his grandsire before him.

  How think you, my dear?”

  “I do not know, Your Majesty. These are matters quite beyond my ken.”

  “But not beyond mine, Sire!” Bruce said, “And I say that you misjudge if you so think. No such notion is in my mind. My grandfather claimed the throne, yes. And Your Majesty chose Baliol rather than he. To the hurt of all, as it has transpired. But that is an old story. If my father still hankers after an empty crown, I do not.”

  “As well, lad—as well!” Sibilant, soft, there was nevertheless something almost terrifying in the older man’s voice, despite the smile.

  “For that folly is done with. You hear? Done with. As Almighty God is my witness, there shall be no King of Scots again. No realm of Scotland. Mark it, Robert Bruce. Mark it, I say.” He jerked his head.

  “Why, think you, that Stone lies there?

  On its way to Westminster. Why?”

  “That I wondered,” the girl said.

  “So strange and rude a thing.

  So, so lacking in any grace …”

  “Graceless, aye! Like the people who cherished it. Rude and hard—but none so hard to break! I take it to London because, from time beyond mind, the ancients have declared that where that Stone lies, from there will Scotland be governed. Every petty king of this unhappy land has been crowned thereon. But none shall sit on it again. The Kings of England hereafter shall use it as their footstool! In token that the realm of Scotland is dissolved.

  Gone. For all time to come. I say mark it well, Robert.”

  “I mark it, Sire. I mark also that it is not as described by those who have seen the Stone of Scone! It is different. Not carven.

  Bare a foot high. Soft sandstone, rough-hewn. It is said that the true Coronation Stone is otherwise …”

  “Dolt! Numskull! Insolent puppy!” Suddenly Edward Plantagenet was blazing-eyed, in quivering rage.

  “How dare you raise your ignorant voice in my presence! That is the Stone of Destiny.

  I, Edward, say it. I took it from Scone. I burned its abbey. I cast

  down its custodians. That it should be so ill-seeming a thing is out

  to be expected of this barbarous, damnable country! That is Scotland’s

  uncouth talisman!” He leaned forward abruptly, snatched up a flagon,

  and smashed it down in fierce violence on the top of the sandstone

  block, with a crash. Wine and fragments splashed over all three of them.

  “And that is its worth and honour, by the Mass!”

  At the noise the lutist faltered to a halt, and everywhere men and women fell silent gazing alarmed up towards the trio at the dais.

  Edward raised a jabbing hand, to point at the musician.

  “Sing, fool! Did I command you to desist?” He glared round at all the company.

  “What ails you? What ails you, I say?”

  Hastily all turned away, began urgently to talk with e
ach other, to resume their eating and drinking.

  Bruce wiped with his velvet sleeve some of the wine which had splashed up in his face.

  “Have I your permission to retire, Sire?” he asked.

  “No, you have not!” The King swung on him, fierce eyes narrowed.

  “That Stone. Do you still, in your impertinence, say that it is not the Stone of Destiny?”

  “No, Sire.”

  “As well!” He took a pace or two away, and then back.

  “Why in God’s good name are you such a fool, Robert?” he demanded, but in a different voice.

  “Fools I cannot abide.” He turned on the young woman—whose fine gown was now sadly stained with wine.

  “What think you? Is his folly beyond redemption? Could you redeem it, girl?”

  She shook her head.

  “I myself am but a foolish woman, Your Majesty. If my lord of Carrick is indeed so foolish, then other than I must deal with him.”

  “Hal Is that the way of it? You see—she does not want you, man! And I cannot say that I blame her.”

  The young man looked quickly from one to the other. “7 cannot say that I understand you, Sire. In … in anything.”

  “Because you are a fool, as I say. You lack understanding. Let us hope that is all you lack! Think on that! I had plans for you.

  Other than just the payment of your debts. But I swear I must needs think again.” Edward tapped Elizabeth’s shoulder.

  “My dear, I fear the matter is beyond redemption. But see if a woman may inst il a modicum of sense, if not wisdom, into that stubborn head. For I confess I have lost all patience with it.”

  Without a further glance at either of them, majesty stalked off, beckoning to the ever-watchful Bishop of Durham.

  Mystified, Bruce stared at the young woman.

  “Of a mercy-what means all that?” he demanded.

  “Has he taken leave of his wits? Or is he drunken? What does he mean?

  What has he conceived against me? And how come you into it?”

  Troubled, she bit her lip.

  “He is strange, yes. But you know him better than do I. Before today, I had not seen him since I was a child.”