by Jack Whyte
Murray nodded gently. “That is true, I suppose … But would you not agree, Cousin, that a long series of inconclusive fights and a complete lack of victories, even small ones, amounts to overall defeat?”
Fillan made a face. “Mayhap … I might … I would, in fact. So what are you saying, Andrew?”
“I have already said it, Fillan. Buchan has learned from experience, and I now suspect that he really might not want to fight us— and I don’t simply mean here on this road. I think he might not want to fight us at all.”
“But he’s here, is he not?” Fillan said. “And with an army big enough to kill us all. How can you say he doesn’t want to fight?”
Andrew looked at him and wrinkled his nose, sniffing loudly. “Say I can smell it in the air, Fillan. Look,” he said, “there are two ways to consider this situation. The first is to see it as it appears to be, plain and simple and seemingly straightforward. The other, though, is to look beyond what appears to be, and see what is really happening here. The truth is that Buchan is here with an army because he is under oath to Edward, but I think that is open to challenge. His oath was taken under duress, as a quid pro quo, paroled freedom in return for a commitment to fight in Gascony.
“To fight in Gascony, Cousin. Understand that clearly. In Gascony, but not here, not in Scotland. I would stake my life—and in fact that is precisely what I intend to do—that there was no mention at the oath-taking of fighting here in Scotland. The world is aware that an oath sworn under duress has no validity, but that’s of little import here. The fact is that we have had no indication to this point that Buchan wants to fight us.”
He paused, surveying the road below. “He is also down there with an army because his orders were changed, brought to him on the road by Edward’s messenger. Those changes required him to march north from Aberdeen to Inverness and relieve Castle Urquhart. That was not necessarily an order to fight, for in Edward’s mind, a sufficient show of strength might have been adequate to win the day. But the fact remains that the road my lord of Buchan is on right now is the sole route that would permit him to discharge that obligation. The fact that we are here on the same road, waiting for him, is incidental. He’s a Comyn, born and bred up here in the north, and he has known from the outset that we would be waiting for him somewhere along the way.
“Then again, that he is moving with such obvious caution tells me something more, for he is using far more of it than I would ever have expected him to. It tells me he has been listening to scouts, informants, perhaps spies, and taking note of what they report. He’ll have a good idea of our strength as being close to his own or perhaps even greater, and so he’s taking no chances.” He quirked one eyebrow and looked at each of us in turn. “Be sure of this, though: that has nothing to do with fear—either of us or of his situation. It simply means that he’s a veteran campaigner. He knows this country as well as anyone, including me, so he’s aware of the dangers of the Ingie for an army like his. And believe you me, he will take no chances in the Bog of Gight. The Earl of Buchan is more likely to sprout wings and fly away than he will be to let us lure him off the road and into the bog where we can destroy him.”
Alistair blew out a breath of air. “D’ye mean we’re no’ goin’ to fight him at all?”
Andrew answered without looking at his cousin, his eyes fixed on the spectacle below. “I would have scorned you had you asked me that last night, Alistair,” he said. “But what I’ve seen this morning makes me wonder what we have to gain from forcing a fight here. We can’t fight them there on the road, where they can dictate the terms of fighting. We’d be slaughtered. We know that and Buchan knows it, too, and it’s going to stay like that because His Grace cares nothing for the time he wastes in avoiding being attacked. The same goes for the bog—I had hoped to lure him into there, but it’s clear now we have no chance of that. For now I’ll watch him and wait. And I’ll let him see us watching him at every step along the road from here on. He won’t come against us from the roadway, for he can’t. He has no room for his army to deploy. All he can do is keep them huddled close for safety, and what’s safe for him and his, in this particular place, is safe for us, as well.”
But Fillan had other thoughts. “What happens once we cross the Spey? The country opens out up there. He can spread his forces into ranks anywhere up there.”
“Aye, and so he might. But he’s not likely to, if what I suspect is true. I believe he’ll rest content to march in defensive order all the way to Elgin. And if he does that, then in all probability he will turn west and continue all the way to Inverness.”
“Without a fight? Once we’re across the Spey, we could force him to fight anywhere we choose.”
“We could, Fillan. Of course we could. But if we do, his men will kill a host of ours and we will kill a large number of his and all we’ll end up with will be hundreds of dead Scots. And the more I think of that, the less I like it. Hundreds of dead Scots. All killed for England’s cause. That makes no sense at all. Especially when they’ll soon be fighting by our side anyway.”
Fillan blinked in bewilderment. Perhaps we all did. “What d’you mean, fighting by our side?”
“Buchan and all the other magnates will join us, Fillan, sooner or later. That’s why he doesn’t want to fight us at this stage. He’s waiting to see how matters develop. And when he’s grown convinced we will prevail, he’ll cast off his false oath to Edward and declare for us and for the realm.”
“He will?” Even Alistair seemed stricken by Fillan’s obtuseness, for he turned his eyes away to study a giant clump of gorse far below.
“Of course he will,” Andrew said. “They all will—all the Comyns and their ilk, forbye all the MacDougalls and MacDowells, the MacDonalds and the Stewarts, the Campbells and the Grants— all of them will come together for Scotland. You wait and see.”
“I will,” Fillan said. “I’ll wait and see. But why should they? They never did before.”
I saw the consternation that sprang into Andrew’s eyes at the simple truth of that statement.
But the amiably witless Fillan was already nodding vigorously. “Of course,” he said, bubbling with enthusiasm, “we’re going to win easily.”
Andrew Murray’s eyes, unreadable in his emotionless face, swivelled to meet mine, and he closed one eyelid in a conspiratorial wink that I construed as a warning to say nothing that might discourage Fillan’s enthusiasm. Then he led us back down the rear of the ridge to where we had left our mounts.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SILVER STARS AND GOLDEN STOOKS
Andrew was right: John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan, along with his namesake and marching companion John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch, and their assorted allies, was being careful to provoke no confrontation. The group clearly had no wish to alienate their own people by appearing to align themselves too blatantly with the hated English and their rapacious King. At the same time, no open rapprochement between the supposed antagonists was possible, for fear of reprisals against those hapless captives remaining in Edward’s prisons in England. And so an appearance of hostility had to be maintained.
From the moment the two armies first came into view of each other, it was evident that the contest to be played out would be one between a hedgehog and a tortoise. The Highlanders of Moray had developed a technique for defending themselves against English heavy cavalry, using dense infantry formations they called schiltroms. These tapering, double-ended wedges were safe from even the heaviest-massed cavalry, because the defenders presented bristling walls of extremely long, thick-shafted spears against their attackers, whose mounts balked at impaling themselves. The English footmen, on the other hand, took shelter from attack beneath a protective roof of upraised, interlocking shields that the ancient Romans had developed almost two millennia earlier, and they were equally impregnable.
I watched the developments from the outset, though as a noncombatant and a diplomatic observer I had nothing to contribute. I merely held myself ava
ilable to be consulted should anyone show interest in my opinions, and, as I had expected, no one did. The English advanced doggedly, steadfastly keeping to the road and refusing to be coaxed off the beaten path, and the two equally matched armies lumbered awkwardly around each other at every stage of the journey north to Elgin, neither one daring to attempt an attack in the face of almost certain failure and defeat. The result? Not one drop of blood was spilled on either side.
Late on the evening of the second day of these manoeuvres, immediately after the evening meal, a visitor arrived in our camp demanding to speak with Sir Andrew Murray. Even muffled and cloaked to the eyes as he was, his clothing made it obvious to the guards who first challenged him that he was a nobleman, and so he was taken directly to the command area, where Andrew was relaxing with some of his commanders. I was there, too, minding my own business by the fire, when the stranger arrived. He stood stiffly between two escorting guards and uncovered his head. I was astonished to recognize, once again, the Earl of Carrick’s goodbrother, Gartnait of Mar.
“Come and sit,” Andrew said, rising to embrace him. “You’ll have a cup of wine, I hope?”
Gartnait looked about him quickly and shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice hard-edged. “We need to talk privily, Cousin. You and I, alone.”
“Of course.” Andrew turned to the assembly and gently waved us all away. “My friends, leave us now, if you will. I wish you all a good night’s sleep, and may tomorrow’s morning be as bright as this day’s was.”
I was probably no more disgruntled than any of the others around that fire at being so effectively excluded from what was to pass between our leader and the envoy from the enemy’s ranks. I returned to my own tent, where I lay wondering what the two were saying to each other. I must have dozed off, though, because I was startled awake by angry voices, and I had swung my legs out of my cot and onto the cold ground before I understood that I was hearing but a single voice, and that it belonged to Andrew Murray, summoning his guards.
I was crouched over on the side of my cot, my arm outstretched in search of my sandals, when I heard Fillan’s voice.
“Name of God, my lord Murray, what’s amiss?” Something about his tone held me in place so that I stayed still and listened, not even bothering to draw back my hand.
“Nothing’s amiss, Fillan—save for this sorry world and the English folk who pollute it.” His voice was loud and angry. “Our guest here, the young lord of Mar, has outstayed his welcome and will now return to report to his masters.” He stopped, ominously, then continued, slightly louder. “To report failure to his masters, both in Scotland and in England.”
His voice changed slightly as he addressed Gartnait of Mar directly. “Tell them, though they should know full well by now, that Murray is not for sale. Not for English silver, nor for rich grants of English lands. And tell them, too, they have no place here in Scotland and no right to be here. And as for surrender, they will have no such thing from us until we are reduced too far and bled too weak to stand and fight them longer.” His voice changed again. “Fillan, see his lordship to the edge of the camp and on his way to Buchan, and instruct your guards to bar him from any camp of ours from this time on. I’ll have you out of here now, my lord of Mar, without the need to see your face or hear your voice again. Fare ye well, among your English brethren.”
I listened as the guards formed up and led Gartnait away, but no one spoke after Andrew’s parting words, and soon I heard the slow, muffled footsteps of people drifting away quietly. Eventually I lay down again and made myself comfortable, listening to the silence. It took no great mental effort to know that Andrew would be in no mood for pleasant conversation for the remainder of that night.
On my way back from saying Mass the next morning, soon after dawn when the camp followers were busily engaged in breaking down our overnight camp, I caught sight of Andrew headed for the latrine pits below the campsite, and though he was a long way from where I stood, I could tell, simply from his bearing and the way he strode, stiff-legged, that he was still angry. When we took the road again he rode ahead of everyone else for much of the morning, so that long before noon the word had spread throughout the entire host that the chief was in a foul frame of mind and should be avoided. By the end of the afternoon, by which time he had found fault, ill temperedly and loudly, with what appeared to be every single detail of the day’s march, people were audibly cursing Gartnait of Mar, John Comyn of Buchan, their entire army, and their damnable English arrogance.
The morning after that, as I was preparing to mount my horse, he came striding in my direction, resplendent in a fresh white surcoat with his crest of three white stars against a field of deep blue on his chest. He was frowning deeply, unaware of me, I thought, but then he stopped and dipped his head to me in greeting, eyeing my mount as he did so. I returned his nod and he flipped a hand, beckoning me.
“Come, ride with me a while,” he said, and so I stepped up into my saddle and followed him slowly to where a groom stood waiting for him, holding his horse’s reins. He took the reins from the boy and pulled himself easily up into his saddle. I rode behind him in silence as he led me around and between piles of baggage rolls and groups of wagons until we had left the camp and its people behind us and were cantering almost side by side across a stretch of open heath. He looked back at me over his shoulder.
“You look as though you want to ask me something, Father James,” he shouted over the thumping of our horses’ hooves.
I kicked in my heels and pressed my mount forward until we were side by side. He turned and looked at me squarely, and I was surprised to see him smiling.
“Well?” he shouted. “Have you been stricken mute?”
“Not me,” I shouted back. “But you’ve been quiet yourself … for a while now.”
He reined in his mount, slowing it to a walk and standing in his stirrups to peer all around before he settled back into his seat. “So,” he said then, turning to look at me directly. “Ask your questions.”
“There’s but one. What did Gartnait of Mar say to make you so angry?”
He smiled. “He said I must make sure that everyone believed I was angry at him. I have to assume I was successful.”
I hauled back on my reins, pulling my horse to a standstill, and he stopped beside me. I stared at him. “That—that was all a ruse? It was! Of course it was. A nonsense, all of it. You’re not angry at all.”
“Not a bit.” He grinned. “But Gartnait was right and I knew it. We had to make the whole encampment think he had insulted me past bearing—past friendship and kinship.”
“Why?”
His eyebrows shot up. “You need to ask me why? I thought it was obvious. We had no choice, Jamie. We needed everyone to think there is bad blood between us and the Comyns now. Having seen and heard for themselves what was said and done, none of our folk would ever imagine for a moment that there might be anything friendly going on between us. And that means we don’t need to worry about any unguarded word or drunken slip of the tongue that might betray to the English in Inverness that we acted in collusion to defeat Edward’s purposes.”
“And are you?”
He quirked his mouth into a lopsided grimace. “We are. That’s why Gartnait came here—to propose a compromise dreamed up by Buchan and Badenoch and to work with me to hammer out the details. A truce of kinds, though none of us can ever let it be known such a truce exists. That knowledge would vex Plantagenet, and once vexed sufficiently, there’s no telling what that man might do to those of our countrymen left in his prisons. He’s supposed to be a civilized and Christian King, but I’ve seen the man up close and he frightens me. By my lights there’s little in him that’s Christian, Father, and I would not want to cross him and remain within his reach. I doubt we’ve seen the worst of him yet.”
He broke off, his gaze distant, then seemed to shake himself. “Be that as it may, the truth of the matter is that I was right. The Comyns have no wish to fight on Edward’
s side here in Scotia. So they sent Gartnait, and we arrived at an agreement. We will proceed as we are now, equally on guard and alert for treachery and attack, until we reach Elgin and turn west for Inverness.”
“And what will happen then? Surely once the Comyns are safe in Inverness, they’ll have to fight you. They’ll be surrounded by their bloodthirsty English allies, all of them clamouring for your blood.”
“Let them scream their heads off.” He grinned. “I won’t be there.”
“You won’t? You mean you’ll let them do whatever they want then, free of threat?”
“God, no, man! What d’you take me for, an idiot? They won’t know I’m not there. Sandy Pilche will bring his garrison the seven miles from Auch to Inverness under cover of night, and I’ll move off with a strike force, including you, that same night. When the sun comes up, no one in Inverness Castle will be able to tell that the army in front of them is different from the one that was there the previous day. It might seem a bit smaller, but they’ll have no wish to test it. Mark my words.”
“And where will you be?”
“I’ll be where you said I need to be! On my way to Aberdeen.” He laughed aloud, almost crowing at my slowness in understanding what he had said. “They’ve left the place defenceless, Jamie, in their rush to get up here. They brought most of the garrison with them, never thinking that we might jouk around them and go there ourselves. Aberdeen lies undefended. Gartnait let that slip when we were talking—I don’t think he even knows he said it. So we’ll purge the castle like a dose of salts, and once we have the town in our hands, we’ll claim the cargo waiting for us in the harbour. We’ll load it into wagons, distribute the weapons, and then head south, towards Dundee, where we’ll join up with Will and his group.”
“And what about the rest of your army? D’you mean you’ll leave them here in Moray?”
“Not at all.” He peered at me from beneath lowered eyebrows. “You really have no high opinion of my strategies, do you? The folk I leave in place will threaten the English in Inverness for another week, then they will disengage and head directly south through Badenoch to join us at Dundee for the march to Stirling.”
