The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  “To lay their foul hands on the Dewar! To defile Saint Fillan! May they roast on the hottest hob of hell everlastingly! May the cries of their torture ascend eternally!”

  “To be sure. To be sure,” Bruce agreed.

  “Their offence will receive due punishment, undoubtedly. But-what brings you here, my friend? To Loch Lomondside?”

  “You do. Who else? You, Sir King. I came seeking you.” Evidently Bruce’s totally unkinglike appearance did not confuse the Dewar.

  “Here? In the dark? How knew you to look for me here?”

  “Much is known to the Dewar.”

  “It is? Then, not only you will know we are here?”

  “To be sure. All the Highlands know that you are on the wrong side of Loch Lomond. But only I know how you may win away from here.”

  “Ha! You do?”

  “I have brought you a boat, see you.”

  They all stared at him, and then at each other.

  “How can you have brought a boat?” Edward Bruce demanded.

  The other did not trouble to reply.

  The King rubbed his unshaven chin.

  “My friend-I am grateful” he said.

  “But the loch shore is watched. All Glen Falloch is watched. We fear that all boats will be denied us. Even yours.”

  “You know not what you say,” the Dewar replied scornfully.

  “Come-I will take you up to it. But quietly.”

  “This could be a trap,” Bruce’s brother jerked.

  “Leading us into our enemies’ arms.”

  “Aye. Belike they sent the old man to cozen us,” Bellenden agreed.

  “To betray us. Once more.”

  “I think not,” the King said.

  “This Dewar of the Coigreach gave me Saint Fillan’s blessing. He would not betray me now.”

  “I would not trust him. I would not trust any of these Highland savages,” Edward asserted, hand feeling for dirk.

  “You would not?” Sir Neil Campbell, Highlander himself, asked thinly.

  “Enough!” the King snapped.

  “The decision is mine-and I trust the Dewar. Sir-we will follow you, and gladly. But-where is your boat?”

  “You shall see. So be these fools go quietly! Come.”

  The old man, despite his stooping shuffle, could move surprisingly quickly. Turning, he led them away from the loch side through the shadowy junipers and scattered birches, up and down amongst the knolls and hummocks, muttering to himself in seemingly disgusted fashion, but nimble-and not so much as glancing behind to ensure that they all followed. He twisted and turned, and sometimes actually doubled back on his tracks, so that his mutterings were echoed by some of those behind. And once or twice he stopped still, and waited, almost as though sniffing the air, before moving on at a tangent. In the dark, and without landmarks, it was difficult to say what general direction they were taking; but Bruce had the impression that they were going southwards and roughly parallel with the loch.

  For perhaps twenty minutes he led them on this roundabout progress, without word or indeed glance at his companions; but however irritating and mystifying a process this was, at least he led them to avoid contact with others, their enemies or the cot-houses of local clans folk -though once they heard voices at no great distance.

  At length they emerged at the waterside again-and after the constriction of the trees and knowes, visibility seemed to be enhanced.

  At least they could see that they were opposite a small tree-clad offshore island. It was difficult to say, in the gloom, how far off it was-possibly only two or three hundred yards.

  From out of the loch shore boulders at their very feet a figure rose

  to the hasty indrawn breaths of the fugitives and reaching for dirks. But the old man threw a brief word at him, and was as briefly answered; and Bruce, peering, perceived that this was in fact the younger Dewar, the custodian of the saint’s arm-bone.

  Almost without pause the old man waded straight into the loch, not so much as troubling to hitch up his trailing rags. He did not beckon them, though the younger Dewar gestured them on.

  Bruce, following fairly close behind their guide, was surprised to find the water rising no higher than his knees, as he waded out Nevertheless, in a few moments, there was a smothered yelp and some splashing behind him, and he turned to find one of his colleagues in the loch almost up to his neck. He could have sworn that, amongst the objurgations and exclamations behind, he heard the old Dewar sniggering in front.

  Their guide had not, in fact, seemed to be heading directly towards the island, but slightly to one side. Then he suddenly changed direction, turning almost at right angles, as it were back on course. Bruce realised that they must be on one of the hidden underwater causeways, of which he had heard, dog-legged or zigzag, allowing access to certain islands by those who knew the secret. He turned to James Douglas, immediately behind, to warn the others to keep close and to turn exactly where he did.

  They reached the island safely, and the old Dewar consented to explain. This had been a former sanctuary of Saint Fillan, where he retired for contemplation, and there were still remains of a cell and altar amongst the undergrowth. It was the Dewars’ duty to tend this, and other shrines, and for this they sometimes required to use a boat. This they kept here.

  He showed them the craft, in a little creek at the far side of the islet, with some pride. But it was tiny, little more than a coracle, only large enough to hold two, or at a pinch, three.

  “By the Mass-is that all!” Edward cried.

  “That cockleshell!”

  “It is a boat!” Bruce declared.

  “Which is the great matter.”

  “It will carry the King across the water,” the old man said.

  “For the others of you, I care not!”

  “I am the King’s brother, fool!”

  “So much the worse for the King!”

  Bruce intervened.

  “Peace, my friends. Here is much to be thankful for. It but means that we must cross two at a time.

  So that we have not long to spare. Before dawn. Let us waste none of it.”

  It seemed that the younger Dewar was to act boatman. He declared that a patrol of Macfarlanes had passed along the shore shortly before their arrival, heading north. He thought that there would be no more, for some time at least; though there might also be patrols in boats beating up and down the loch.

  Though Bruce would have drawn lots for it, all others agreed that he must go across first-moreover the elder Dewar all but had apoplexy at any other suggestion. The King elected to take Sir James Douglas with him.

  They climbed cautiously in-for it was quite the smallest craft either of them had ever been in, and moreover gave the impression of being half-rotten in its frail timbering. The water slopping about in the bottom could have been caused by rain, of course. The King expressed his thanks to the old man, as the younger inserted himself beside them but their saviour maintained his peculiarly mocking and ungracious attitude to the end, even though the valedictory flood of Gaelic he sent after them might conceivably have been an addendum to the Blessing of Saint Fillan.

  It made an alarming voyage. The coracle was grossly overladen, with three aboard, and Loch Lomond made itself all too evident Indeed quickly it became clear that too much of the loch was coming inside with them, and the two passengers were soon as busy as the paddler, scooping the water out with their cupped hands, since bailer there was none. The possibility of enemy boats out here watching for them was never far from their minds.

  The actual crossing was probably less than a mile-but it seemed to take an unconscionable time, with the craft heavy and sluggish to a degree and, whether from its construction, inexpert paddling or overloading, seeming to sidle and move crabwise rather than straight forward. But at last the far shore loomed in sight, dark and apparently thickly-wooded. Their escort deposited them on a shingly beach and, surprisingly, considering the course followed, seemed to know exactly where he was. He told them that a little way to the right and up the steep
hillside, beside a waterfall of the first burn they came to, was a cave where they could hide.

  He advised that they hide there all the next day and only move south by night-for though this was now MacGregor country, it was only sparsely populated, and the MacDougalls, Macfarlanes and the rest would not hesitate to come raiding across if they suspected that their quarry had won over.

  Bruce was anxious about the boat on the return journey, with the Dewar unable to paddle and bail at the same time; but the other assured that with only the one in the craft, the intake of water would not be nearly so great. He launched away again with the minimum of delay.

  Leaving Douglas at the waterside, the King went in search of the cave.

  Once he had found the burn flowing into the loch over an apron of

  whitened pebbles, it was not difficult, entailing only hard climbing for some 300 feet up a steep brae face of scrub-covered rock and scree. The waterfall splashed in a drop of about thirty feet near by. It was a fair-sized cavern-although ten would tax its accommodation-formed out of a deep crevice over which a great flat rock had fallen. It was dry and secure, and better than many of their recent refuges.

  Back at the shore, Bruce found that the second boatload had not yet arrived. Indeed they had to wait for some time before Edward Bruce and one of the men-at-arms were delivered.

  At this rate it would be dawn long before the ferrying was done.

  In the event, dawn broke with only six of the party across. Fortunately it was a still morning, and the mists that rose everywhere on the surface of the water might serve to hide the little boat When, after what seemed an endless wait, the watchers on the east shore did spot it again, certainly the craft was quite close inshore before it emerged from the vapours. Moreover it looked so low in the water, so lump-like, that it could almost have been a floating log. This impression was caused, it turned out, not only by the fact that the coracle was at least half-full of water, and that the three passengers were leaning forward almost flat and paddling that way with their hands; but that Wal Jardine, one of the two who could swim, was actually in the loch behind, clinging on with his hands and kicking out with his feet. This was the entire company, for since the boat did not have to be returned after this trip, the young Dewar had remained behind and would come for his property on some other occasion.

  He and his elderly colleague had sent a message, however, by Gilbert Hay. The King and his party should not move from the cave; not until nightfall. Not until a guide had been brought, to lead them southwards, “The fools! They think that we must be led like barns!” Edward exclaimed.

  “That we cannot find our own way here. As we have done before.”

  Campbell nodded.

  “Our own guides we will be.”

  “We owe these Dewars much,” Bruce demurred.

  “This at least we can do.”

  “To what purpose? We are our own best guides. And if MacGregor is indeed loyal, what need…?”

  “”I have said what we shall do, my lord,” the King observed evenly.

  “Saint Fillan’s blessing I will honour.”

  “As you will, Sire.” That was the first sire, or my lord either, to have been heard in that company for days.

  Emptying the waterlogged boat, and hiding it amongst the loch side alders, they climbed to the cave.

  All day they lay hidden up there on the stony face of Creag an Fhithich, the Raven’s Crag, and though they slept, two were always awake, on watch. And, intermittently, there was much to watch. A mere mile away, on the far shore of the loch and on the hillsides beyond, frequently activity was evident, by groups large and small. In the afternoon, boats appeared on the loch, searching shore and islets. And later, a strong company actually came down their own side of the water, only a few hundred feet below them.

  That they were not MacGregors seemed evident by their wary and heedful attitude; they were watching as much as searching. Fortunately they were not concerned with the steep stony brae face directly above.

  All the King’s party were awakened for this-and few felt disposed to sleep again thereafter.

  By dusk all were fretting to be off, but Bruce insisted that they wait. Besides, to move before it was fully dark would be folly. But it was long past dark, and tempers strained, before a watcher reported movement up the burn-channel. The fugitives crept out of the cave, to crouch and hide amongst the rocks around. They were not going to be caught in any trap.

  Two men materialised out of the shadows, panting heavily. One was recognisable as the stocky person of the Dewar of the Main;

  the other was much larger in every way, a tall and massive figure, gasping the more in consequence.

  “Sir King,” the younger man said hoarsely, “is it yourself?”

  “I am here, yes. We were fearing that you were not coming. It is late, man.”

  “Late, yes. We dare not come sooner. To be seen …”

  “Dare not? Watch your words, man!” That was his large companion.

  “Lest we be seen. To come here…”

  “You have brought us a guide?” Bruce said.

  “To lead us south to Lennox.”

  “In a way of speaking.” The younger man gestured.

  “MacGregor.”

  The big man inclined his head.

  “MacGregor,” he repeated.

  “Yes. That is well. Think you there will be enemies-MacDougalls and Macfarlanes -on this side of the loch? Still? Some passed below us early!”

  “It may be so,” the Dewar nodded.

  “They may well now fear that you have crossed. Your boat, therefore,

  should hold well to mid-loch, see you. Boat No more boats, by God!”

  That was Edward.

  “We had enough of your boats, last night.”

  “By boat, yes,” the MacGregor guide said shortly.

  “It is my decision.

  “Your decision, by the saints! We make our own decisions, fellow!”

  “Quiet, Edward …!”

  “On MacGregor land, I make the decision, whatever. Mind it, Southron!

  I am Malcolm, son of Gregor, son of Hugh.”

  “I care not whose son you are! I am the King’s brother, now Earl of Carrick …”

  “Fool! Think you such new kingship is of any moment to a son of Alpin?”

  “Alpin!” Bruce exclaimed.

  “Malcolm, you said? Son of Gregor, was it? Son of Hugh. You are not MacGregor himself? Of Glenorchy? The chief..,?”

  “I am MacGregor, yes. Himself. And my race is royal. None so royal.”

  “MacGregor is come to take you to the great Earl, Sir King,” the Dewar explained.

  “The Earl of Lennox. His friend …”

  Bruce scarcely heeded. That this, one of the proudest men in all the Highlands, in all Scotland indeed, should have come in person to act their guide, was significant, whatever way it might be considered.

  The MacGregors were not one of the greater clans, as far as numbers went, but they had an importance far beyond their size.

  They claimed to be descended from Gregor, brother of King Kenneth Mac Alpine and if so, were the most direct representatives of the original Scots royal line, a dynasty lost in the mists of antiquity. Their main territories were Glen Orchy and Glen Strae, at the head of Loch Awe, but there the Campbells had been encroaching and there was bad blood between the two clans. This area on the east side of Loch Lomond comprising Glen Gyle and Inversnaid was of minor importance, and the chief’s presence here was a surprise.

  Was it for good or ill? This could mean a welcome accession of support-or, equally, it could mean more treachery.

  Bruce glanced quickly at the Campbell chief. In these Highlands, clan feuds mattered a deal more than national wars. Sir Neil, never a diplomatic or forthcoming individual, could precipitate immediate trouble. But would he do it on MacGregor territory?

  Apparently not.

  “I am Neil, son of Colin Mor, of Lochawe, of the line of O’Duin,” he said briefly.

  “I had heard that you were of this King’s comp
any,” the MacGregor returned, equally cryptic.

  “We are honoured, much honoured, MacGregor, to have your company’” Bruce said hurriedly.

  “We had not looked for so notable escort.

  “You are on my lands,” the other returned simply.

  Bruce was afraid that his brother might blurt out that, in theory at least, all the land in this realm was the King’s; it was the sort of thing that Edward would do, in his present frame of mind. Fortunately, he forbore.

  “The Earl of Carrick has made himself known to you. Here now is Sir James, Lord of Douglas. Sir Gilbert, Lord of Enroll. Sir William Bellenden. And other friends …”

  “Let us be done with this talk,” Edward jerked.

  “This of the boat? Do we hazard this?”

  All knew what he meant. MacGregor could be leading them into a trap.

  “I have the blessing of Saint Fillan,” Bruce said slowly, carefully.

  There was silence, while men considered that.

  “None could be more potent, at all,” the Dewar observed.

  ‘”MacGregor will agree.”

  “That is truth,” the chief nodded.

  “That saint is patron to my name and line. At his call I am here. For this, and because you are the friend of my friend.”

  If the King thought that MacGregor should rather have come out of loyalty to his liege lord, he did not say so, content that these other loyalties should ensure his good faith.

  “That is well,” he acceded.

  “My friend, and yours? Do you mean the Earl of Lennox?”

  “The same. Malcolm, son of Malcolm, son of Maldwyn, son of Aluin, son of Aluin, of the Levenach. To him I can take you. And only I.”

  “Only …? Why so?”

  “Because he is in hiding.”

  “Hiding? The Earl? In his own Lennox?”

  “Even so. His castles are all occupied by your enemies. He pays dear for supporting King Robert Bruce!”

  “Aye. Nor Lennox only.” Sombrely Bruce nodded.

  “We are in your hands, then, MacGregor. Take us to Lennox. If you will.”

  They left the cave, not to clamber down to the waterside again, but to

  climb upwards by a steep and difficult ascent amongst the rocks and

  slippery screes -this apparently because just a little farther to the