The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  “You heard me, Segrave? I will not have it.” Bruce drove his horse forward, into the crowd of watching men, hand on sword hilt.

  “Fool! Young swollen-headed fool!” the knight cried.

  “Have I not told you? These need suffer no hurt. Unless the Douglas woman is a deal less chicken-hearted than you are! If they hang, it is of her will. Leave men’s work to men, if you are so nice of stomach, my lord!”

  “I said set them free … Englishman!” Deliberately Bruce added that last word.

  Segrave did not fail to grasp the significance of it. He glanced around him quickly.

  “Your way, many men will die. Many children will be fatherless. Your own people’s children. And these of Douglas likewise. Remember that. My way costs a deal less!

  Cannot you see it, man?”

  “I see shame! Shame that will not be done in my presence Set them free.”

  “No.”

  Bruce’s answer was swift, in the thin skirl of steel, as his long two-handed sword was drawn from its sheath.

  “You have but forty,” he jerked.

  “I have six hundred. You will do as I say.”

  “You … you would not dare! Draw steel against the King’s own men?

  This is rebellion! Treason!”

  “Not so—since I command here. Release those hairns.”

  “No, I say! These men-they are not yours. They are the King’s men.

  All of them. They have sworn allegiance to him.

  They will do as I say, his officer. Not you, fool…!”

  “Think you so? They are Bruce’s men. Bruce of Annandale.

  We shall see who they obey!” He swung round in his saddle.

  “Swords, I say!”

  Like the screaming of the damned, the savage sound of two hundred blades being wrenched from their scabbards sounded high and shrill above the snarling, menacing growl of angry men.

  Sir Nicholas Segrave had not survived decades of warfare by being any sort of a fool. He recognised actualities when he saw them. Narrow-eyed he glared, then shrugged. He turned to his men.

  “Set them down,” he ordered shortly. He strode over to where his horse stood, and mounted.

  “You are wise in this, at least,” Bruce said evenly.

  “And you are not! For this you shall pay. Dearly!” The knight gestured to his trumpeter.

  “Sound to horse,” he commanded.

  The man blew a few short blasts, and everywhere the English soldiery turned and made for their mounts.

  “What do you intend?” Bruce demanded.

  “I leave you. To your treason. Your folly. I go. But I shall be back, my lord. Never fear! With sufficient men to teach you and your treacherous rabble a lesson. You will learn what it costs to set at naught King Edward’s authority, I promise you!”

  “How may that be? When I command. In King Edward’s name … ?”

  Segrave’s snort of contempt was converted into a shouted order to his men to follow him, as he reined round and urged his horse to a trot. The men-at-arms fell in behind him, in column, and without a backward glance at the silent ranks of the Scots, rode off south by west.

  Robert Bruce stared after them, biting at his lip.

  Chapter Four

  His men save for a few retained with him, back at their positions around Douglas Castle, Bruce paced the turf beside the empty gibbet, cudgelling his brains, and more than his brains. He was under no misapprehensions as to the seriousness of the predicament into which he had got himself. Segrave had been only too accurate when he declared that this would be looked upon as rebellion. Treason might be stretching it to far, but rebellion it would be named. By Edward’s administration in Scotland-the Englishmen, Benstead; this Hazelrig, so-called Earl of Clydesdale;

  Cressingham, the Treasurer, who now was the real ruler of Scotland;

  Surrey, the viceroy—these would see it as the revolt of a hated and despised Scots lord against the King’s authority. So it would be blazoned forth by Benstead and Segrave, and so it would be accepted. As rebellion, Edward himself would hear of it, eventually.

  But long before Edward, in Flanders, heard, there would be violent reactions here in Scotland; nothing was more sure. The English would act swiftly; they always did, instead of arguing interminably with each other as was the Scots way. Benstead himself could not find many more men for Segrave than the rest of the Lochmaben garrison, but he would apply to Lanark for them, where the governance of this south-west corner of Scotland was centred. Lanark was no more than ten miles north of Douglas, as the crow flew—and it was strange that Hazelrig himself had not set about the reduction of its castle instead of leaving it to Bruce, from Lochmaben. Except that that had been King Edward’s specific instructions. Segrave might even go direct to Lanark from here. Although he was more likely to report to Benstead first, and pick up the rest of his garrison. In two days, or three, then, there would be an English force here at Douglasdale, a heavily-armed, veteran host against which his Annandale men, however gallant, would be like chaff in the wind.

  What to do? If he could quickly reduce this castle, of course, and have it occupied and its chat elaine prisoner before such punitive force arrived, he might redeem his reputation with Edward’s men. That was possible, but by no means certain.

  Segrave and Benstead would consider themselves insulted—and the insulted Englishman was not readily appeased. They would insist on humbling him, demand reparation, reprisals—and none in Scotland in the year 1297 had any doubts as to the style of English reprisals. Edward’s example at Berwick was to be a model as well as a warning. Undoubtedly an angry punitive force would do much more than hang two or three children. His gesture here, then, would be nullified, wasted, thrown away. And his reputation, in another sense, with it.

  What alternative was there, then? He could bolt. Run. Gather his men and take themselves off, into the empty hills, before the English arrived. Scarcely a noble course, but perhaps wise. Or was it? He would have become a fugitive. For what? Outside Edward’s peace, and with nothing to buy himself back into it.

  Moreover, would these men of his be prepared to turn fugitive with him? Abandon their homes, holdings, womenfolk, to the English ire? For nothing.

  But, suppose he could take the Lady of Douglas with him?

  Persuade the castle to yield, and instead of waiting for the English, take her and her family with him. Into the hills. The great Forest of Ettrick was less than a score of miles to the east. No English would follow them there. Then he would have something to bargain with. Burn the castle and capture its lady—had not these been his orders? If he had achieved them, could Edward’s men claim he was in rebellion? The Lady Douglas would make a valuable hostage for him; something to chaffer with. Again less than knightly perhaps—but could he afford knightly sentiments in this pass?

  There was always a last resort, of course. He could throw in his lot with the true rebels. With the High Steward and the Bishop of Galloway and their like. Make for Galloway. Accept the man Segrave’s charge of revolt, and become a rebel indeed. There were times without number, these last grim months, when he had been brought to the contemplation of it, had toyed with the notion. As would any man of spirit deliberately and consistently humiliated. Even that Elizabeth de Burgh had all but suggested it. What was it she said? That he was loyal to Edward but should be loyal to Scotland. And he had asked her what Scotland was?

  And rightly so. But … these English could go too far. Yet, outright

  rebellion? It would mean war to the knife, for him. With Edward. The

  King would never forgive him. And Edward, unforgiving, was a dire

  thought. It would mean the life of an outlaw, hunted day and night.The forfeiture of all the great Bruce lands. Not only in Scotland but in England. And what hope had these rebels, in fact? Against the power and might of England and the fury of the Plantagenet?

  So Robert Bruce paced and harried his wits and his heart and his conscience—and came to no conclusion. Save only this, that it was growing towards dusk and someth
ing must be decided before darkness fell—for it would be difficult indeed to ensure that there was no break-out from the castle under cover of night.

  If his quarry were to steal away in the dark, he would be left without even a bargaining-counter, however poor.

  His mind made up thus far at least, Bruce stripped off his handsome heraldic surcoat of linen, and tying it to a lance point like a banner, gave it to one of his men to carry by his side. Hoping this would serve as a flag of truce, he and an extremely doubtful companion paced slowly, on foot, towards the castle ditch once more.

  It made an unpleasant walk. But no arrows came at them, no reaction of any sort was evident, no challenging shout was raised.

  At the drawbridge-end, Bruce halted and lifted up his voice.

  “Hear me. Hear me, I say. The Earl of Carrick would speak again with the Lady of Douglas.”

  He was answered at once.

  “You are a bold man, Lord of Carrick. Whatever else! Wait you. I send for my lady.”

  Bruce nodded and wafted, seeking to collect his thoughts.

  It was some time before the woman’s high voice sounded, from a small gatehouse window.

  “I am here, my Lord Robert. What kindness would your King Edward do me now?”

  The young man shrugged.

  “I speak not for Edward Plantagenet now, lady. But for myself,” he said.

  “I regret what was done. Before. The shooting of arrows. While we talked. It was against my commands. Segrave’s Englishry …”

  “No doubt, sir. It was ill done. But what we might have looked for, from Edward’s men. As what they sought to do later. with the children.”

  “You saw?”

  “We saw, yes. They are gone?”

  “Aye, gone.”

  “Your Segrave would have slain those children? Hanged them, before our eyes!”

  ‘ I do not know. In the end. Perhaps he would not. Only the threat.

  To cozen you. I do not know.”

  “But I know. His kind have done the like before. Many times.

  If I had still refused him, he would have hanged them. And you?

  You would not have it?”

  “No. I would not. Could not.”

  “I fear you are too tenderhearted to be Edward’s man, my lord.”

  “Sir Nicholas Segrave, I mind, said the same!” Bruce gave back. This shouting was difficult.

  “I … I would speak with you, lady. Not thus. But decently. As becomes our quality.”

  “I am content to judge your quality from here, my lord I What have you to say?”

  Bruce sighed.

  “Just this. Now that the English are gone, you would do well to open to me. You may trust me, Bruce. You have naught to fear from me.”

  “Then, my lord, why sit you round Douglas Castle? Go back whence you came. If I have naught to fear from you, I will do very well here!”

  “No. Do you not see?” Exasperated, finding this long-range discussion trying in the extreme, he shook his head.

  “The English will be back. They must come back. It is Edward’s command.

  They will come in strength. They will have you. And in ill mood.

  You must see it? Yield your house to me, now, and I will make a show of spoiling it. Then I will take you away. And your children.

  Before they come …”

  “Where? Take me where, my lord?” Clearly he was interrupted.

  “To a safe place …” There was another interruption, more shouting, but from behind him this time. And Bruce was almost thankful for it, at his wits’ end as he was for what he might say to convince and reassure the woman. Some of his men were waving to him, urgently, and pointing. Beside them was a helmeted and leather-jerkined newcomer, obviously an English man-at arms, and a steaming horse.

  “A messenger, lord,” the cry came.

  “Frae Lochmaben. Wi’ tidings. Instant tidings, he says …”

  Bruce hesitated, concerned with how this would look from the castle. Then he called back “Send him to me.” Towards the gatehouse he added, “Your pardon, lady.”

  The courier came forward, far from eagerly, escorted by none.

  He was clearly as tired as he was doubtful.

  “Well, man? You are from Sir Nicholas Segrave? What is your message?”

  “Not so, lord. It is Sir Nicholas that I seek. First. To him I was

  sent. By Master Benstead “Eh? Then … then you have not seen him?

  Segrave? Met with him?” Bruce stared.

  “How came you here?”

  “By a great weariness of hills, lord. By Moffat town, see you.

  And Abington. And Roberton Water.” This was a singsong voiced Welshman, not English, and of some intelligence.

  “So! You missed them, then. They would go back as we came—by Lowther. Sir Nicholas returns to Lochmaben. For … for more men.”

  “And is like to need them I But will not find them there, lord.

  Master Benstead’s tidings are of rebellion. War!”

  “You mean this Galloway revolt?”

  “That, and a deal more. They have broken out of Galloway and marched

  north, these rebels. They are none so far off, look you-nearing Ayr

  …”

  “Ayr, you say?” That was making north, with a vengeance!

  Nearly fifty miles north of the Galloway border. No more man thirty miles west of this Douglas, indeed.

  “Then none are opposing them?”

  “So it looks, lord. All the country rises to join them. But that is not the worst. The Lord Earl of Clydesdale is dead. Slain.”

  “Hazelrig? Dead? You mean, in battle? He sought to halt them ..

  .?”

  “No, lord. Not these. Another. He was murdered. Slain in his own town of Lanark. By one Wallace. Some brigand, leading broken men, outlaws. Lanark is now in their hands.”

  “By the Rude I Lanark fallen? Then these are no broken men!

  Think you such could take the Sheriff’s town of Lanark, and Hazelrig’s castle? Stuffed full with Edward’s soldiery …!”

  “Scarce that, lord. It was cunningly, shrewdly done. Most of the Sheriff’s force had been sent towards Ayr. To stem the rebels from Galloway. This man Wallace—they say he is the son of some small Renfrew knight, a vassal of the Steward’s—struck by night. He is not as the other rebels, led by lords and bishops. A man of no account, a brigand hiding in the hills and forests. By some trick he gained entry to Lanark Castle, and slew the Earl.

  They say in vengeance for his wife’s death. Then turned on the town.

  The townsfolk aided him. By daylight Lanark was his.”

  “But, man-this is scarce believable! What were Hazelrig’s captains doing? It is the garrison town of the SouthWest.”

  “One, Sir Robert Thorn, hangs from the castle’s keep, in place of King Edward’s banner, they say! The other it was came to Lochmaben with these tidings, looking for men. Sir Hugh le Despenser. Wounded. Finding no men there, he rode on for Dumfries.”

  “So-o-o! The SouthWest is aflame? Edward’s iron grip prised

  “Meantime, Lord-meantime, only I But only the SouthWest.

  Master Benstead says that there are revolts in the North also. In Ross, wherever that may be. And Argyll, or some such place, gut these are afar off. Here is the danger. These sheriffdoms of Lanark, Ayr, Carrick and Galloway—the command of these is vital to the King, Master Benstead says.”

  “Aye. No doubt he is right. And who does command here now, with Hazelrig dead? And Despenser wounded and gone? Who commands in Edward’s name, now?”

  The courier raised an eloquent hand.

  “Saving your lordship’s presence,” he said, diffidently, “you do! That was what I was to tell Sir Nicholas, look you. That now he must act in the name of the Earl of Carrick. Meantime. There is none other of earl’s rank. My lord Earl of Surrey is at York, they say. Until he appoints other, you command, lord. With … with the advice and direction of Master Benstead and Sir Nicholas Segrave, to be sure.

  I was to say that, mind you …”

  Robert Bruce
’s bark of laughter drowned the rest.

  “I command?

  God save us-The Earl of Carrick commands now, for King Edward, in the SouthWest! Here’s a jest, by all that’s holy!”

  “In name, lord. Under direction. Master Benstead was strong on that. You are to gain this castle of Douglas with all speed, and then march for Lanark. Guided by Sir Nicholas. Seek to join with the Lanark force that went to Ayr, to hold the rebels. Threaten Lanark together, but await further orders from Master Benstead .”

  “Orders? To Edward’s commander?”

  The Welshman coughed.

  “Instructions, lord. Guidance. Counsel-call it what you will. I am a rough man, lord. No doubt I word it ill. But I was sent, in truth, to Sir Nicholas. He it was was to speak with you …”

  “You speak full clearly, my friend! And to the point. Never fear.

  And I thank you for it. Is … is that all?”

  “Yes, lord. Have I your permission to go? I must still seek Sir Nicholas.”

  “He will be back at Lochmaben before you are. A shorter road than you

  came. But go if you will. Tell Master Benstead that I have his

  message. And his… guidance! Now, I must speak with this woman

  …”

  As the courier went back towards the others. Bruce, his head in a whirl, faced the gatehouse. Somehow, he must have time to think. All was now changed. In the light of it all, so much called for decision. Instant decision. He must have a little time … “Lady,” he called.

  “My regrets that I have kept you waiting. I have important tidings. Of the utmost importance. To us all You likewise. But not such as I may shout out to all the world I I must speak with you. Privily. It is essential.”

  “Very well, my lord,” she answered.

  “Have I your word, as an earl of Scotland, that you will only speak?

  Will make no move to take or harm me?”

  “You have. On my oath.”

  “Then the drawbridge will be lowered. Part-lowered. So that I may walk out on it. None of your people to come near, my lord.

  Only you. It is understood? And you must wait a little.”

  He nodded. The longer he might wait, the better. Had ever a man so much to decide in so short a time? Here was a crossroads in his life. Which road he took now might determine all his future.