The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  But impressive as it might be, it was not the castle nor this fluttering galley which held the watchers’ gaze, in the end. Farther west than the castle-rock another headland reached out, considerably lower but farther into the sea than the other, to curve round southwards in a crook and to act as a mighty breakwater.

  And in the sheltered anchorage thus formed, protected from the ocean rollers and the prevailing winds, was a sight as strange as the cliff-top castle. Row upon row of true, long, low, lean galleys lay there, their masts and great slantwise spars a forest-but a disciplined forest-their white sails furled like a flock of seabirds’ folded wings, their tall carved prows up-thrust like the heads of a host of sea-monsters. Someone counted twenty-seven of these killer-wolves of the Western Sea, another thirty. Lying tethered there, motionless but menacing, they made a startling impact.

  “I’ faith-Angus Og himself must be at Dunaverty this day!”

  Bruce exclaimed.

  “None other could have that pack of hounds in leash! And, unless I mistake, that is the un differenced Galley of the Isles flying above yon hold.”

  “Does it bode good? Or ill?” Edward Bruce demanded.

  “God knows! But Angus Og MacDonald hates Alexander MacDougall of Lorn!”

  “The Steward sent word of your coming here, to the captain of this castle, Sire,” Campbell said. James the High Steward of Scotland, from Bute, had provided this ship.

  “So they know that we come.”

  “And this MacDonald has come in person to receive us!” the King’s brother snarled.

  ”I’d sooner lack him! I trust none of these Highland savages. “Sir

  Neil Campbell, although he himself had no love for the MacDonalds, stiffened. One day there would have to be a reckoning.

  “My Highland subjects are no more savage, neither better nor worse than most of those nearer home, Edward,” the King re.

  proved.

  “And, it seems, we are in their hands now. Do not forget

  Nevertheless, Bruce drummed fingers on the hilt of his great sword. What they were seeing undoubtedly represented a complication, and a drastic one. Dunaverty Castle, at the very tip of the great peninsula of Kin tyre which thrust out towards Ireland, was in fact, save for the Isle of Man, the southernmost outpost of the former kingdom of the Isles, and most strategically situated to dominate the sea-lanes between the Hebridean north and Ireland, Man and England. On his assumption of the crown, Bruce had sent Sir Robert Boyd here, to make sure of Dunaverty, one of his first acts. And Boyd had, somehow, taken the castle, and left it in the care of a captain. Now, it seemed, Angus Og of the Isles had taken it, in turn. What did this imply? Were they running their heads into a noose, here? Not that they could turn back now.

  And even if the self-styled Lord of the Isles had decided that Dunaverty should be his, why was he here in person? Impressive as this outpost was, it was nevertheless a very unimportant corner of the vast and far flung territory of the Isles, which included not only the Inner and Outer Hebrides, bat great portions of the West Highland mainland, not excepting this seventy-mile-long peninsula of Kintyre. That Angus Og, its lord-or prince, as he still called himself-should happen to be at Dunaverty this day, was highly significant, whether by chance or otherwise.

  “Those galleys are not long in from the sea,” the experienced chief of Clan Campbell pointed out.

  “See-men work on them, wash down decks, coil ropes. I would say that they were not here last night.” He did not sound overjoyed.

  None commented.

  Turning into the bay, the King’s ship made for necessarily humble and inferior moorings at the tail-end of the tethered fleet.

  Campbell and Edward Bruce were for once in agreement that it would be wise to send an emissary to the castle, first, to test the climate of welcome; but the King would have none of it. No skulking and standing off could avail them anything here. Their vessel, however stout, could neither out sail nor better in fight even one of these leashed greyhounds. They had come to Dunaverty as the nearest secure hold which their enemies would be unlikely to challenge.

  For better or for worse, here they were. There was nowhere they might flee from the Lord of the Isles.

  Bruce himself led the way ashore-perforce across the decks of three or four galleys, where tough, bare-torsoed and kilted clansmen eyed them grimly, and pointedly returned no greetings. On dry land, staggering slightly after the rolling and pitching of the notoriously hazardous sea passage round the Mull of Kintyre from the sheltered waters of the Firth of Clyde estuary, the royal party proceeded round the bay beside the crashing lace-white combers, to where a long, zigzag flight of steps was cut sheerly in the naked face of the cliff, a dizzy ascent but apparently the only access from shore to castle.

  The climb, on worn and uneven steps, without so much as rope as guard or handrail, was not for the light-headed. There was not a little pressing against the inner rock wall and keeping of eyes steadily averted from the outer drop. In the dark, or in a storm of wind or rain, the thing would have been nothing short of suicidal. Fortunately the King had a good head for heights-and where he led, none could decently refuse to follow.

  At the cliff-top these stairs evidently led to a tiny post em-gate in the soaring castle walls, the start of whose masonry was barely distinguishable from the living rock. But since the steps were on the cliff proper, and the castle crowned the almost detached stack, it was necessary to bridge the gap. This was achieved by a lengthy, sloping and removable gangway which reached across the yawning abyss at a somewhat acute angle, some forty feet long by not much more than three feet wide, this again without handrail. A less enticing approach to a house would be hard to imagine.

  The landward access appeared to be by drawbridges over three deep water-filled ditches across a narrow neck of ground. But the outer of these bridges was up, and men were clearly waiting for the visitors at the narrow postern across the ghastly gangplank.

  Bruce did not hesitate. Without even a backward glance at his companions, he stepped out on to the sloping spidery planking, and strode up. It was at least ribbed with cross-bars for the feet to grip-though equally these could cause the feet to trip. He did not once look down but kept his gaze firmly on the group who watched and waited beyond. Nevertheless he was far from unaware of the appalling drop so close on either side. Was this typical of Dunaverty’s reception of guests?

  Certainly the appearance of the men so silently awaiting them was fierce enough, off-putting. Half a dozen of them stood in or beside the narrow doorway in the beetling wall, big men made bigger by the tall pointed helmets they wore, mostly furnished with flanking pinions of sea-eagles, or curling bulls’ horns, in the antique Norse style.

  These did not wear the stained and ragged tartans, but saffron tunics,

  belted with gold, some with chain-mail jerkins and some with piebald calfskin waistcoats, great swords slung from every shoulder, dirks at hip, and hung about with massive silverware and barbaric jewellery. None were bearded, but all save one had long and heavy down-turning moustaches which hid their mouths and produced a distinctly menacing impression.

  The man who lacked the moustache was different from the rest in other ways also. He was younger for one thing, in only his mid twenties, very dark, almost swarthy, and though not short-indeed well-built- the least tall of the group. He wore no helmet or mail, only the plain kilted saffron tunic, and carried no sword but only a ceremonial dagger. It may have been in contrast to those fiercely down-turning moustaches, but his lips, visible where the others were not, seemed almost to smile. He stood in the centre of the party, and there was no doubting the authority with which he held himself, however careless.

  “Wait you!” a voice rang out, while Bruce was still only two thirds across that alarming planking. It was not the young man who spoke.

  “Who comes unbidden to Dunaverty? Is it Robert Bruce, who calls himself King of Scots?”

  Bruce halted-although it demanded all his hardihood on that grievous perch, and he kn
ew that those behind him must be equally preoccupied.

  “I am Robert, King of Scots, yes,” he answered, “Come seeking the love, protection and hospitality of Angus, Lord of the Isles. Do I find it at Dunaverty?”

  “I am Angus of the Isles,” the young man agreed.

  “How can I serve Robert Bruce?” His predecessors had been careful never to admit specifically allegiance to the Crown of Scotland, even when Alexander the Third had bought the alleged suzerainty of the Isles from Hakon of Norway.

  “By holding out the hand of friendship, my lord. And … and by letting me off this accursed tree! I vow I grow giddy!”

  Angus Og laughed aloud at that frank avowal.

  “Well said, Sir King!” he cried.

  “Come, then. Myself, I near grow ill but looking at you all!” And he held out his hand.

  Bruce’s sigh of relief was drowned in those from behind him. He waited for no further invitation.

  Angus Og’s hand-grip was that of an equal and no vassal, but Bruce did not find fault with it. Sufficient that it was strong and frank.

  “Well met, my friend,” he said.

  “Your fame is known.”

  “As is yours. And your misfortunes.”

  “Those, yes. But they will pass. Here is good fortune, at least-to find you at Dunaverty.”

  Introductions followed, in the crowded narrow court within the postern, the King’s party impressive only in their names and titles-for though Lennox and the Steward both had sought to rig them out in better clothing, the fugitives still were less than well and appropriately clad, the King himself little better than the rest. Their martial-looking opposite numbers turned out to be the chiefs of Jura, Gigha, Ardnamurchan and others of the great Isles confederation.

  By and large they were civil, but no more than that.

  It seemed that Angus Og MacDonald’s presence here was indeed something in the nature of a coincidence. He had called in Dunaverty some days previously, on his way to a meeting on Rathlin Island with one Malcolm MacQuillan of Antrim, an Irish kinglet who had in fact been occupying Dunaverty when Boyd had taken it for Bruce just before the coronation. MacQuillan was now demanding back the castle, and Angus, who had sent his minions to eject Boyd’s captain, had had a look at it before meeting MacQuillan.

  When the Steward’s courier, therefore, had come to Dunaverty two or three days before, he had been sent straight on to Rathlin which, although off the coast of Antrim, was only fourteen miles from Dunaverty. Angus had interrupted his conference with MacQuillan, and come back to receive Robert Bruce-for good or ill.

  The implied question was clear. What did Bruce want with the Prince of the Isles?

  The King was frank.

  “Two things I seek of you, my lord,” he said.

  “First, refuge. Shelter for me and mine, who have been hunted men for too long. While we rest. Regain our strength. Plan our course. None may give us this better than yourself. And second, your support. In arms.”

  “Against whom, Sir King?”

  “Against those who occupy my kingdom. Against Edward of England. And against the Comyns and their friends, who support him. Such as MacDougall of Lorn and Argyll!”

  The younger man looked at him from under down-drawn brows.

  “You have many enemies. And Comyn, I think, has many friends.

  Are these all yours?” And he gestured towards the little group with the King.

  Bruce drew a deep breath.

  “These represent thousands. Many thousands. My lord of Lennox can field six thousand. My lord of Douglas four thousand. Campbell of Lochawe as many-more, it may be. My lord of Erroll, a thousand. The High Steward two thousand. My own lands of Carrick, Annandale and Galloway …”

  “Can field, Sir King! Can. But do not!”

  ”My lord-all these have fielded their men. And will do so again. For

  eight years we have been fighting the might of Edward…”

  “And losing!”

  “And losing, yes. Though not always. When we fought aright And in unity. Pitched battles we do not win. Against many times our numbers. Edward’s chivalry, and the English bowmen. But a different kind of war we can win. Wallace taught us that. Small actions. Castle by castle. Using the land against him. Burning all before him. Starving him and his hosts. Edward may win the battles. But he grows old. Sick. Tired. God willing, will win the war!”

  “With … help!”

  “With help, yes. Yours, I hope, my lord. With others. Since I thought to count you my friend.”

  “Some friendships may cost a man dear.”

  “Well I know it And I have nothing to offer. Meantime. One day, I hope…”

  “The friendship of Angus of the Isles is not to be bought.”

  “I know it. But a King, his kingdom won, can and should reward his friends and helpers.”

  For moments they eyed each other. Then the Islesman nodded.

  “It may be so. We shall see. For the first, for refuge, shelter, you shall have it. In my islands. For the other, for men and swords and ships, I must needs think. And consult with my friends. We shall see, King Robert Bruce. Meantime, my house is yours. For as long as you will…”

  With that they had to be content

  The windy, lofty house of Dunaverty was not Bruce’s for long, despite its present lord’s assurance. The very next day a visitor arrived, having come hotfoot across Kintyre after sailing from Arran -Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale, no less; the same who had taken this castle, for Bruce, six months before, and whom the King had last seen after the rout in Strathfillan, wounded, and leaving to escort the Queen’s party northwards to Kildrummy. Boyd, of course, was taken to Angus Og before he saw the King-but that young man was not long in bringing him.

  “Trouble,” he said briefly, gesturing.

  The veteran Sir Robert sank on his knee before Bruce, and took his hand to kiss it. He brought startling tidings. An expedition was assembling at Dumbarton, under Sir John Stewart of Menteith, the governor thereof, and Sir John de Botetourt, Edward of England’s bastard son. It was known already, somehow, that Bruce had sailed for Dunaverty, and sea-going ships were being requisitioned all up and down the Clyde to carry this expedition in pursuit. The Steward had heard that de Botetourt alone had 3,000 men. They might have sailed from Dumbarton by this.

  Angus of the Isles looked as thoughtful as did Robert Bruce, at these tidings.

  It seemed as though they had been betrayed again. Treachery haunted Bruce. It had never occurred to the King, even though his enemies discovered where he was, that they would pursue him into these island fastnesses. Edward Plantagenet must be very determined indeed to have him-and very angry. This was grievous, in more than just the renewal of pressure on hunted men; it meant that Angus Og would be forced to come to some sort of decision about his attitude before he was ready. Bruce had hoped to be able to work on the man. This could hardly fail to be to his disadvantage.

  It did not take the Lord of the Isles long to make up his mind at to immediate tactics, at least. Eyeing his fierce-looking chiefs, he turned back to Bruce.

  “Sir King,” he said, “I fear that you cannot remain at Dunaverty.

  My sorrow that it is so-but your Englishry leave me little choice. Either you must go, or I must fight them. And I do not know that I am prepared to go to war with Edward of England!”

  “I understand,” Bruce nodded.

  “This I feared.”

  “Do not mistake me,” the younger man went on.

  “It is not that I am afraid to fight Menteith and this Botetourt. They have many more men than I have here present-but my galleys, I swear, would tear their ships apart, like eagles amongst lambs! But that would be to challenge Edward. War. This I may do. One day. But then it will be my war. Not another man’s.”

  As men drew breath, the King bowed stiffly, silent Angus Og shrugged.

  “I speak plainly, friend-for I am a man of plain speech. But what I say I mean. And I have named you friend. My friend you are. I will not leave you to be taken by your enemies. We sail with
tomorrow’s dawn. I return to Rathlin, where I have business to finish. I promised you refuge. You shall sail with me to Rathlin. And from there go whither you please. All my isles are open to you. Or you could go to Antrim. Ireland. The Irish coast is but four miles from Rathlin. I go thither, to Antrim. Yours is the choice. A galley of mine shall carry the King of Scots where he will.” A long speech for Angus Og.

  Bruce raised his head.

  ”For that I thank you, my lord. If Icannot be your suzerain, I can

  and do at least accept your friendship!”

  Their eyes met, and each smiled slightly. These two at least understood each other, however their respective supporters might glower.

  When the Islemen had withdrawn from the King’s apartment, Boyd, grave-faced, asked that he might speak to Bruce privily.

  They moved together out on to a parapet-walk that hung vertiginously above the wrinkled sea.

  “Your Grace-forgive me,” the knight said, “but I have more grievous tidings for your ear than these you have heard. My sorrow that it is I must bear them.”

  “Grievous? What, man? Out with it.”

  “Sire-your brother. The Lord Nigel. He is dead. And not only he.

  Your good-brother, Sir Christopher Seton. And his brother John …”

  “No! Dear God-no! I’ll not believe it…!”

  “It is true, Sire, God’s truth. Kildrummy Castle fell. We reached Kildrummy, with her Grace and the ladies. In time. But de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, knew it and was there within a day or two. Besieged us. And the castle was betrayed. Set fire to, from within …”

  “Betrayed again! Will it never end?” Suddenly Bruce gripped the other’s wrist.

  “Elizabeth? My wife. The Queen. She is …?”

  “The Queen, Sire, is escaped. And your daughter. Won safe away. When the Lord Nigel learned that Pembroke approached, he sent them away hastily, secretly. With the Earl of Atholl. For the North Isles ..”