The Steps to the Empty Throne bt-1

by Nigel Tranter

  Bruce and Moray went for their mounts. The horse-lines of the host were down at the main encampment, between the comparatively small Seagate Castle and the river. By the time they got back, Wallace and his band had gone, but left Sir John the Graham behind to bring them on. Wallace was making for Ayr by the coast, he told them. They would have to hurry to catch up -for that one never daundered, however indifferent the quality of his horseflesh.

  The three young noblemen-for Moray, the eldest, was no more than twenty-five-skirted the town to the south-west and rode fast, southwards, by the rolling sandy links of Fullarton and Gailes, with the long Atlantic tide sighing along the glimmering strand of Irvine Bay, on their right. It made easy, unobstructed riding, for night-time, with the moon giving just sufficient light to warn them of the few obstacles of the open bents. Nevertheless, better mounted as they were, it was long before, almost at the squat salmon-fishers’ huts of Barassie, they perceived the dark mass of the main body ahead of them. They were one-third of the way to Ayr.

  Riding hard, talk was difficult. But Bruce did ask of the Graham if he knew why the man Wallace was so set on an attack on Ayr?

  “He has debts to pay. At Ayr,” the other threw back, in snatches.

  “His mother’s brother, Sir Ronald Crawfurd of Crosbie, was Sheriff of Ayr. Edward made Percy—Henry Percy of Northumberland—Sheriff.

  In his place. Percy appointed as deputy one Arnulf. Of Southampton. This Arnulf, an evil man. Called a justice-ayres there. Called Sir Ronald. And others. Sir Bryce Blair.

  Sir Hugh Montgomerie. Others. To advise him, he said. He slew them, when they came. Out of hand. A trap. Hanged them. From the beams of the new barracks. Wallace has sworn vengeance.”

  “And that we do tonight?”

  “We shall see.”

  With the narrow curving headland of Troon reaching out into the bay, on their right, they at last caught up with Wallace.

  After crossing the further links of Monkton and Prestwick, Wallace turned inland, to skirt Ayr town to the east. They forded the river at The Holm, and then circled round through a terrain of knolls and broken pastureland, back towards the sea, south of the town. They climbed a long low ridge of whins and outcrops, startling sleeping cattle, and drew up on its grassy summit.

  Sir William Douglas had been right about English precautions at the Castle of Ayr. Down there, flanking the estuary of the river, the town lay spread before them, dark, sleeping. But, a little way apart, nearer, on a mound to this south-east side, the new castle was not dark and gave no aspect of slumber. No fewer than eight bright beacons blazed from its high walls, making the place almost seem to be afire, and casting a red and flickering glow over all the surrounding area. From this ridge it was too far to See men, but there could be little doubt that watchers patrolled those battlements.

  “English Arnulf does not sleep without watch-dogs!” Graham commented.

  “Even watch-dogs may blink. Or be chained,” Wallace returned easily.

  Leaving the three nobles, he gathered his band around him, and splitting them up, gave them instructions, pointing this way and that. Bruce could not make much of the snatches he heard, save that somebody called Scrymgeour was to take charge of the castle. It seemed a large order.

  In two groups the men rode off downhill, westwards, and were lost in the shadows. Wallace returned with only half a dozen, including the slim youth, whose name was Boyd, and the priest, Master John Blair.

  “Come with us, my lords,” he called.

  “If creeping and skulking is not too much for your stomachs!” In the field, he sounded rather less respectful of noble blood than he had done in Seagate Castle.

  After a bare half-mile further, nearer the sea, they were directed to dismount and leave their horses, tied up, in a leafy hollow.

  Then they went forward quietly. Bruce perceived, from the beacons, that they were heading away from the castle vicinity, half-left, towards the coast. A halt was called presently, and Wallace went on alone. When Bruce and Moray exchanged a few wondering words, the priest curtly ordered them to be silent.

  Wallace came back after quite an interval, and beckoned them on.

  Quietly they followed him past a pair of cot-houses, where the smell of

  smoored peat-fires was strong, and across some tilled land, where they

  cast long shadows to the left, in the glow of the castle fires, quarter

  of a mile off. There was rising ground beyond, of no great height,

  dotted with black shadows—some of which proved to be bullocks, but most whin and broom bushes. At the knobbly crown of this, where there was ample cover amongst the prickly bushes, Wallace, crouching low himself, waved them down on their knees.

  “As far as you may come,” he said softly.

  “Wait you here. Do not move from it, see you, if you value your lives.

  For any man, not of my band, who moves out there tonight, dies!”

  “What do you do?” Bruce demanded.

  “Why bring us here?”

  “You will see, my lord—never fear. Just wait.”

  “Is there nothing that we can do, man?” Graham demanded.

  “No work for highborn knights!” the other returned, grimly.

  “But, if I have not come for you before two hours from now, you may do as you will, my lords. For William Wallace will be no more!

  With no further directions for them, the big man slipped away, extraordinarily quiet and agile for so vast a person. The three rejected nobles round that the rest of the party had disappeared also, and they were alone on their whinny knowe.

  “He thinks as little of us as he trusts us!” Bruce said, frowning “Perhaps he has reason,” Graham gave back.

  “What mean you by that?”

  “He knows us not—and there are many false, these days. Myself he knows a-little—I fought with him at the Corheid. A small fray. But that was nothing. And you—you, my lord, yesterday were Edward’s man. By repute. Were you not?”

  Bruce shrugged, “It I seemed so, it was because I was not Ballot’s man. I am no more Edward’s man than are the many whom he forced to take the oath. The Steward. Your father, Moray. Lindsay. Bishop Dalton. All these swore fealty.” He paused, and smiled a little, in the dark, if twistedly.

  “Although, to be sure, I learned but yesterday that I am now Edward’s chief-est commander in the SouthWest! Now that Hazelrig is dead.

  In name. Because I am earl. And here I crouch, this night!”

  His companions had no comment to make on that.

  They seemed to wait a long time, so that they grew stiff and chilled. Once they thought that they heard a suddenly choked-oft cry from somewhere fairly near at hand—but it might have been only a night bird. There were unseen rustlings amongst the whin bushes below them, though these again could have been caused by bullocks. Otherwise, the environs of Ayr, that night, might have been as quietly peaceful as was usual and suitable. Time passed heavily for high-spirited young men of high degree.

  Then, and this time there was no doubt about it, a high thin scream rang out from no great distance in front of them, its mortal agony raising the hair at the back of the listeners’ necks. And quietly thereafter a blaze of flame leapt up, seemingly only about two hundred yards ahead. It grew in size and brightness and was followed by another nearby. Then another. And still another. The crackle of fire sounded, and then muffled clamour, yelling.

  Swiftly the fires increased, fanned by the sea breeze. And by their ruddy light, the watchers at last perceived something of what was happening. In front of them, across a dip, was a great building on a low parallel ridge, simple in design but long, bulky, two-storeyed, gabled and obviously timber-constructed. At a guess it might be two hundred feet long and forty wide. And against its many doors and windows, at ground floor level, fires were blazing up—evidently gorse and broom and straw had been piled high at every opening and set alight. Sparking, spluttering, flaring like great torches, this under like and resinous stuff roared devouringly -and dark figures could be seen
piling on more and more of the fuel that grew so profusely all around. Already the wooden walls of the place were beginning to burn.

  “The Barns!” Graham cried, need for whispering past.

  “The English barracks. God’s Blood—look at that! Wood–it is all of wood. It will burn to ashes.”

  “It is … it is full? Of men … ?” Bruce’s voice faltered.

  “Full, yes. You heard Eglinton. The English, from Lanark, were quartered there. No room in the castle for hundreds. They will be … inside there!”

  “Saints of Christ-this is a hellish thing!” Moray groaned.

  “Aye.” Sombrely Bruce nodded.

  “But did you see Berwick town?”

  The muffled shrieks and cries and cursing from within the building were terrible now, rising high above the throbbing roar of the flames. They saw a door crash down, in a great fountain of sparks, and dark frantic figures came rushing out—to be met by slashing, stabbing steel that flashed red in the firelight. A huge leaping shape could be distinguished, silhouetted against the glow, great sword high.

  Soon the walls of the barracks were well alight and there was no need

  for further fuel. The number of waiting figures around increased. Men

  were jumping, now, from upper windows, in a frenzy, many with hair and

  clothes ablaze. None could fail to be seen in that lurid fatal light, and none who escaped hot fire escaped cold steel. The sounds that came across the shadow-filled dip from the Barns of Ayr were now blood-curdling, indescribable.

  The shrill neighing of a trumpet, from the direction of the castle, drew the three watchers’ eyes momentarily. They could not see what went on at that distance, nearly quarter of a mile away—but they could guess.

  “They will come out. Lower the drawbridge and sally out. To aid these. And Sandy Scrymgeour and his men will have them,” Graham declared excitedly.

  “They cannot sit within, and watch this!”

  “The man is a devil! Wallace! To plan such savagery. Godless I It is unchristian, heathenish!” Moray said.

  “True men do not fight so.”

  “Maybe so. But I will tell you one man who would not blink an eye at what is done here tonight,” Bruce returned grimly.

  “Edward Plantagenet! Nor Bishop Anthony Beck, either.”

  “Aye. It may be that Scotland needs such as this William Wallace, in this pass,” Graham nodded.

  “But … it takes a deal of stomaching.”

  The roof of the barracks was ablaze now, the entire long building a flaming pyre.

  Fewer men seemed to be waiting around the doomed barracks, with no sign of Wallace’s gigantic figure. No doubt the main scene of operations was shifting to the castle vicinity. The roar of the fire drowned any noises that might be emanating from there.

  Restlessly and with very mixed feelings, the trio waited amongst the whins. Their every instinct and urge was to move out, to be active, involved—but Wallace’s warning as to possible consequences had been as convincing as it was grim. And nothing that they had since seen inclined them towards disobedience.

  Though they would not, could not, call it that, of course; obedience was not an attitude that fell to be contemplated by such as these.

  They waited where they were, then, in major frustration and impatience, pacing about amongst the bushes to keep warm, since there seemed no further need to hide themselves.

  A most unpleasant smell was now reaching them on the sea wind, from the burning building. It was a considerable time since they had seen any men jumping from the upper windows; in deed, no upper windows were now visible, in the unbroken wall of flame.

  A scattering of lights showed in the town.

  Eventually the priest, Blair, materialised, face streaked with soot, dark eyes glittering in the ruddy light.

  “Wallace requires your presence, my lords,” he said shortly.

  “Come with me.”

  It was eloquent of the effect of the night’s experiences on the three that they none of them took active exception to the summons or the ragged cleric’s abrupt delivery thereof, but followed him without comment or question.

  Turning their backs on the blazing Barns of Ayr, they made for the castle, finding themselves on a roadway between the two buildings.

  Soon they were aware of people. Over on their left, a crowd was standing, silent, townsfolk obviously. Dimly seen in the light of the flames, they stood in their hundreds, unmoving, huddled there seemingly rooted, watching, only watching, strangely noncommittal.

  The priest ignored them entirely.

  The walkers came across the first bodies lying sprawled about a hundred yards from the castle’s dry ditch. They lay scattered, as though cut down individually, in flight perhaps. Bruce stooped to peer at one or two—for the beacons on the castle ramparts were fading now, untended. These were men-at-arms, all similarly clad, in jacks and small pointed helmets with nose guards—English obviously. There were perhaps a dozen of them, dotted along the roadway. Then, near the drawbridge-end, was a dark heap, almost a mound. Here men had died fighting, not running, back to back probably, assailed and surrounded as they issued from the castle. How many there might be there was no knowing. None moved, at any rate. The priest, his hitched-up robe flapping about leather-bound legs, led on without pause or remark—though once he muttered as he slipped on blood, and recovered his balance with difficulty.

  ‘ Four ruffianly characters, swords in hand, greeted them less than respectfully at the bridge-end, but let them pass. Men were leading out horses from the castle, fine beasts, laden with miscellaneous gear.

  They crossed the inner bailey, where more bodies lay. Somewhere a woman was screeching hysterically, and there were groans from nearer at hand.

  The castle’s interior still smelt of mortar and new wood, though

  overlaid now by the smells of blood and burning. Master Blair conducted his charges up the wide turnpike stairway to the hall. There many torches flared, to reveal a dramatic scene. William Wallace stood up on the dais, at the far end, towering over all, with the man Scrymgeour, head bound with a cloth, young Boyd, and one or two others, nearby. Half-way to the door a group of older men stood, white-faced, in some disarray of dress, none armoured, their agitation very evident. Above all, three men hung on ropes from the beams of the high roof, one in armour, one part-clothed, the one in the centre wholly naked. This last was middle-aged, heavily gross, paunchy, his body lard like and quite hairless, obscene in its nudity. He twitched slightly.

  “Ha, my lords!” Wallace called, at sight of the newcomers.

  “Come, you. Here are the provost and magistrates of this good burgh of Ayr. Some of them. And there,” he pointed upwards, “is one Arnulf, who called himself Deputy Sheriff. Also the captain of this castle’s garrison, and his lieutenant.” To the townsmen he added, “You see before you the Earl of Carrick, the Lord of Bothwell and Sir John the Graham. I ask these lords to receive this town and castle, in the name of John, King of Scots.”

  Moray looked doubtful, Graham glanced at Bruce, and that young man raised his voice.

  “I will not, sir,” he said loudly, clearly.

  “There is no King of Scots, today. John Baliol was a usurper, and failed the realm. He has vacated the throne. He is now in France. I, for one, can accept nothing in his name.”

  His companions did not speak.

  Wallace looked thoughtfully at them, tugging his beard-which was noticeably singed on one side.

  “So that is the way of it!” he said.

  “All men may not hold as you do, my lord.”

  “That may be so. But I so hold. And state.”

  “Who, then, may speak in the realm’s name? This burgh and castle is taken. In whose name?”

  Bruce saw that Wallace was concerned to live down the name of brigand and outlaw that had been pinned upon him, that he sought an aspect of legality for what he did. That was why they had been brought here.

  “Who better than the High Steward of Scotland?” he said.

  “I

>   shall receive Ayr in his name, if so required.”

  “Aye. Very well. My lord Earl of Carrick, heir of the House of Bruce, receives Ayr burgh and castle, cleansed of the English invader, in the name of James, Lord High Steward of Scotland,” the big man intoned impressively.

  “Is it agreed?”

  No one being in any position to say otherwise, the thing was accepted, with nods and shuffles.

  Eyeing them all, Wallace smiled thinly.

  “So be it. My lords, no doubt you will now ride to acquaint the Steward of this matter.

  Sir John—you could aid me here, if you will. You, my friends of Ayr—get you back to your town. I want every house searched.

  For Englishmen. Some there may be yet, in hiding. A great grave to be dug. The streets and wynds cleared of folk. All to return to their homes. You have it?” Briskly he issued these orders, and stepped down from the dais.

  “Now—I have work to do …”

  Bruce and Moray, finding themselves dismissed as well as redundant, were not long in making their way back to their horses, a little aggrieved perhaps that Graham should have been singled out for employment, and had left them so promptly. They did not go near to the burning barracks. The roof had fallen in now, and some of the walling collapsed.

  In thoughtful frame of mind the two young men rode for Irvine again. Some distance on their way, after crossing the Holm ford, they looked back. New fire was rising at Ayr, from the castle now—and it was not the wall beacons rekindled. The keep itself was ablaze.

  “I faith—that man does nothing by the half!” Moray said.

  “He has ungentle ways. Fears neither God nor man, I swear. But … with a few more Wallaces this Scotland would soon be clear of the English, I say.”

  “You think so? I do not.” Bruce shook his head.

  “Your father, I believe, would not say so. He is hostage in an English prison, is he not? Like I have, he has seen Edward’s might. His armies in battle array. His chivalry by the thousand. His archers, longbow men, by the ten thousand. It is these must be defeated before Scotland is free of Edward Plantagenet. This Wallace can surprise a garrison, capture a castle, slay a few scores, even hundreds. But against the, English massed power what could he do? Or a score like him?”