Tom! Oh, God-it is more than I can bear! First Nigel. Now Alex, Tom! Paying the price, all paying the price of my sin. The price of John Comyns blood!
The price of Edward Plantagenets savage hate, I say! The man is no
better than a ravening brute-beast Edward is … Edward. But II
am accursed! Lost. Excommunicate, indeed! Forsaken of God and man.Scarce that, Sire. You still have leal friends. Leal to their lair breaths…
Aye-to die for me also! And so to add to my guilt The other was silent He looked sidelong at his stricken liege lord as they went.
Sire, he said at length, his normally strong voice uncertain.
I have still more news.
Bruce strode on, set-faced. He might not have heard.
It concerns your ladies. The Queen. The Princess. Your sisters…
The suddenly indrawn quivering breath was more eloquent than any words.
The King stopped in his tracks.
They are not … not slain, Boyd went on hurriedly, almost gabbling for so slow and deliberate a speaker.
The Queen is sent, a prisoner, to a house in Holdemess on the Humber.
To be held close. Alone. The child taken from her…
Edward does that! To Elizabeth. His own god-daughter, whom he claims to love?
Yet that is the best of it, Sire. Hear me. Marjory, the child-she is sent to London. Alone. To the Tower. Not to be spoken to by anyone. There to be hung in a cage. On the outer walls of the Tower. For all to gaze at. Like an animal. In the open, A cage, of timber and iron.
What…! That was a strangled cry.
The Lady Mary, your sister, also. She to be hung in a similar cage. On the walls of Roxburgh Castle. Day and night. In cold and heat. The Countess of Buchan likewise, who crowned you-she on the walls of Berwick… The knights voice tailed away.
Bruce was staring at the other unseeing, his features working strangely. Then he turned to stride on, at something near a run;
and when Boyd would have hurried with him, flung round and pushed him away, violently. He stalked on alone up that twisting climbing path, not a word spoken.
The Lady Christian, Countess of Mar, Sir Robert called after him desperately, as though he must at all costs be quit of the last of his terrible news.
Your other sister. To be confined to a nunnery, for ever…
There was no sign from the King. Boyd turned and held the others back, duty done. At least he could gain him solitude for his agony.
But presently they caught up with Bruce, at the edge of the boisterous burn whose glen this was. It was near the foot of the tall crags of naked rock which had been pointed out from a mile away, with the valley now very narrow and steep, almost a ravine. Oddly enough the burn was actually wider here than it had been through out; but here was the only place where it might be crossed, at a brief stretch of comparative shallows, perhaps thirty feet across, with a spray-spouting waterfall just above and foaming cataracts below.
Expressionless the King turned to Boyd, Hay and the lady, as they came up.
Cousin-let me carry you across, he said levelly.
The rest, follow exactly where I tread. A foot wrong, and you will be swept away. Lead each horse with great care. It is like a causeway, smooth rock, and slippery. And it is not straight. That sounded almost like a childs learned lesson repeated.
He picked up the woman in his arms, and now she found nothing to say to him, in the face of that granite-like sternness of expression.
He stepped into the swirling water with her, and waded across with steady deliberate pacing, counting the steps until making a dogs-leg bend two-thirds of the way over. Setting his burden down, wordless, at the far bank, he paused, to watch the progress of the others. Gilbert Hay, eyeing him, thought that he had never seen a face so abruptly and direly changed. It was as though the living flesh had been overlaid and cast in hard, unyielding bronze, the lively eyes hooded and dull-glazed. No man sought to catch those eyes.
When all were across the hazard of the torrent, Bruce led on slantwise uphill, away from the water, to skirt the foot of the crags, amongst the rock-falls and screes. For perhaps a quarter-mile more they climbed, until they came to a single Highland sentinel beside a great boulder. Beyond was a sort of re-entrant in the cliffs, with a scooped dip before it and at the foot, the yawning mouth of a cave.
There was no room here for the horses, and Hay took them, and the men-at-arms, down to a hidden green hollow near by, amongst gorse-bushes and scattered hawthorns, where the few beasts left from Tumberry were hobbled. Bruce ushered his principal guests into the cave. Behind the lady, he paused, turning to Boyd.
Cages, you said? In the open air? On walls? In winter? For a child! And women! He spoke as though he used a foreign language, carefully, without intonation.
I did not mishear?
Cages, Sire. High on the outer walls of London Tower, Roxburgh and Berwick Castles. Boyd raised his eyes to his monarchs face, and quickly dropped them again.
They went inside.
Later, with Boyd and two men sent to escort his cousin through the
night-bound hills back to her small property of Newton, south of
Maybole, Bruce crouched at the back of the cave, where it bent and lowered to form almost a separate little chamber, hidden from the rest. A log as seat, he sat hunched, staring with unseeing eyes at the spluttering, smoking makeshift lamp, contrived from melted fat and a wick of cord in, strangely, a handsome silver quaich or drinking-vessel, one of the spoils of Turabeny though with the Bruce arms engraved thereon.
Alone he had sat there, for how long he knew not, facing the beetling dark walls and the hell of his own lot. He had been low before, all but crushed by the hammer-blows of fate, of treachery, of Edward Plantagenet. But he had never been so low as this.
Before his tortured minds eye had passed the long appalling procession of his friends and kin and supporters, those whom he or his cause had brought to ruin, shame, agony and death. Wallace, barbarously butchered. Andrew Moray, slain. The Graham, slain.
Gartnait of Mar, his brother-in-law, assassinated. Simon Fraser, tortured and hanged-like his brother Alexander, like Hays brother Hugh. Somerville of Camwath, Barclay of Cairns, David de Inchmartin, Scrymgeour the Standard-Bearer dying the death of Wallace. William Lamberton, his closest friend and ally, chained a prisoner. As was old Bishop Wishart of Glasgow. Nigel, laughing, lively Nigel, hanged, drawn and quartered. And now Alex and Tom hideously executed also. Christopher Seton the same. His Elizabeth in solitary confinement. His little daughter like a caged beast for all to mock at. One sister and Isabel of Buchan likewise. Another, gay, lightsome Christian, walled in a convent.
Randolph, his nephew, in prison. Others, countless others, suffering or past suffering. Because he had presumed to defy the usurper and put on the fatal crown. Or because he had stabbed John Comyn at Gods own altar… He had been King a year. And what of his kingdom did he hold?
This cave, in his own lost earldom of Carrick. His strength? One remaining brother, the least loved, and a small handful of knightly friends. Less than 400 men. Nearly all wild Highlandmen, with him not for him or his cause but for love of their chieftainess. His lieges, the folk of his realm? They turned from him, stayed at home-as who would blame them! The invader was everywhere supreme, buttressed by unlimited power and numbers, sustained by traitors, egged on to consistent atrocity by the burning hatred of their lord, Edward. Edward, who would never relent, never for a moment relax the pressure.
Edward the scourge of God on Scotland and on Robert Bruce.
There it was, the scourge of God! God had raised His hand against the presumptuous man who, a murderer, had dared to claim the holy anointing. Robert Bruce, the Lords Anointed!
Heaven help Scotland, with such for monarch! A King whom Holy Church had put forth, as anathema. To whom no priest dare offer the sacraments. The Bruce
, outcast of God and man. Today a hunted, haunted fugitive. Tomorrow …?
Tomorrow-what betterment could be looked for tomorrow, in the name of truth? None. No least likelihood of improvement. The reverse, indeed. For after Turnberry, every English nerve and sinew would strain to punish and revenge, Edwards fury beyond all bounds. If forty men was all the response of Scotland to the night of Turnberry and her Kings return-and these the gift of a kinswoman who had ever foolishly doted upon him-what hope of the future? A fool, he had said that she gave him hope and faith.
Boyd and she, then, had taken such back with them again. For there was no hope, no faintest gleam of hope, in all the grim scene, in fact. And faith was not for such as Robert Bruce.
What, then? What remained for him? He was not yet old-though he felt ages old. He was but thirty-three. He was unlikely to die yet awhile, save by violence. He could seek that violent end, and find it no doubt, with little difficulty, many aiding. But would that not almost certainly involve the end of these last few who still trusted in him, his handful of leal friends?
Douglas, Hay, Campbell, Boyd. And Edward, his headstrong brother?
Would he have their blood also on his soul? Not that..
Lead them back to Arran, then? Secretly. Thence to the Isles, where they could sell their swords to Angus Og for his Irish wars. A sad descent for such as these-but it would save them from the Plantagenet. He himself go on, alone, and lose himself in the greater world, beyond. Put all behind him, and go. Go where? Was there anywhere for him in all that world? Would he not be better to end it all, quietly, in the empty sea? The king without a kingdom, the earl without an earldom, the knight without honour, the friend whose friendship spelt death.
The knight without honour? He had vowed those vows of knighthood once madness that it was Edward Plantagenet himself who had conferred that knighthood, heard those vows!
Edward! Those vows he had taken before another altar. Amongst them, to take up his sword in the cause of the true faith, against the Infidel. Not to rest while the savage Unbeliever occupied Christs holy places. His father and grandfather before him had both fulfilled that knightly vow-Edward, even-and gone on a Crusade.
Was that at least not left to him? Was that not a better way to die?
A single, simple knight again, to throw himself against the Saracen,
and so make an end. Might there not just possibly, conceivably, be some small, faint glimmer of credit for him there? One drop of remission in the ocean of his guilt?
Thus far the man had got, in that dark hole beneath the crags of Doon, and thereafter lapsed into a state of almost mindless depression and stupor, when, out of it, he perceived that though his wits had sunk into dull vacancy, his eyes had not. He had, in fact, been heavily watching a spider which was striving assiduously to attach its slender thread to a point on the sheer rock wall of the cave. He realised that he had watched as four times it went through the difficult and involved process, without success. Its thread hung from the cave roof some three feet above Bruces head, and the point on the vertical wall to which the creature wished to link its web was roughly the same distance lower and two feet to the left. The spiders method was to race down its line, from the ceiling, at such speed as to generate a strong pendulum swing, in the hope that this would carry it sufficiently far to the left to reach the lateral wall. In this it was successful twice out of the four attempts; but each time the contact with the comparatively smooth surface was too brief to gain a footing. Thereafter the spider had to swing back to the perpendicular again and then scramble up its long thread once more all the way to the roof, to repeat the process.
The mans lethargic watching grew to interest and a sort of actual concern, as the fifth attempt again ended in failure, and after a momentary hold on the wall the creature was dragged back once more, again to recommence its laborious upward climbing.
The sixth effort showed intelligence as well as determination.
This time the spider swung itself at a slightly different angle, to reach a spot a couple of inches to one side and fractionally higher.
It looked as though this might work, possibly giving a slightly better foothold-but no, gravity was again too great, and once more thread and spider fell backwards, frustrated.
It is of no avail, the King muttered, shaking his head.
Can you not see it? Too stark …
But the animalcule would not admit defeat. Undeterred, before even its line stopped swinging it was clawing up again to the roof, to launch itself downwards with unabated resolve. And this time, when its pendulum swing brought it to the wall, it managed to hang on. Almost breathlessly the man watched it, willing the creature success.
It remained on the vertical rock, its thread pulsing gently in the smoky, flickering lamplight.
Now, by the saints-here is a wonder! Bruce exclaimed aloud.
A sign, if ever there was one! If this creeping mite in a hole no in the earth can so set its will to conquer, can Robert Bruce, crowned King of this realm, do less? Six defeats did not deter it Shall I despair more easily? He stood up, stooping since he must in that place.
Here is my lesson-from heaven or from hell! I shall not give in yet awhile. Nor yet awhile to seek my death amongst the Saracens! That can wait. Yet, I do swear to God, if He will hear me this once, out of this pit, that, my battle here in Scotland won, I will go to His holy places, and draw sword for His name. By all that is holy! But … first, this my realms freedom!
Filled now with a sudden access of restless strength and the need for action, or at least movement, Bruce strode out past the sleeping ranks of his men in the outer cave, out into the starlit night. A half moon was rising to the southeast, washing the crowding hillsides in wan pewter and inky shadow. With a brief word to the two watchful sentinels, the King paced away along the track they had made at the foot of the crags.
It was not long before he realised that he was being followed, at a distance. He turned.
Who is mat? I would be alone, he jerked.
It is but Hay, Sire, the Lord of Erroll called.
In case you need aught.
Aye, Gibbie. Do not heed me. Go back and sleep.
He moved on until he came to the burnside, where earlier he had brought the others across. And there, with the moonlight glittering quicksilver on the dancing waters, he sat himself on a boulder, to stare out into the night, unseeing. But now his mind dwelt no longer on the past, on his sorrows, even on his wife and daughter in their extremity. He counted and assessed and planned.
Galloway, partly his own Bruce sphere of influence, had stabbed him in the back, yes. Because the MacDoualls, who claimed anciently to have been princes thereof, had seen opportunity to strike a savage, grudging blow for their long lost hegemony. That might be forgiven-but not the sending of Tom and Alex, wounded and bound, to Edward of England. That must be avenged. But, more important than any vengeance, a gesture must be made to show all Galloway, all Scotland indeed, the royal cause was still potent, not to be flouted. That the King would avenge his own and strike down traitors. The English could wait awhile-if they would!
This was between him and his own subjects.
Galloway was a great and wide province, and ill to conquer-as even
Edward Plantagenet had found to his cost. No country for a handful of
men to assail. But its mountainous north was different, fierce, empty,
cut off by high passes, where a few, knowledgeable and desperate, could
make the land fight for them. Not far from these Carrick hills indeed
the one ran into the other. And he knew them well.
A limited campaign in North Galloway, then. Entice his enemies therein, to ambuscade, skirmish, attrition, raiding. Wallaces warfare again. Even these sixty men in such territory could, skilfully deployed and led, engage hundreds. Where, then? The Glenkens?
The Rhinns of Kells? Merrick? Glen Trool?
Bruce was go
ing over in his mind the North Galloway geography, visualising each stretch of that far-flung, lofty terrain, and the lowlying areas which might be successfully raided from each, when he started up, suddenly alert. Above the steady noise of the water, he had heard a different sound. It had seemed like the baying of a hound.
Tense, he listened. But the sound was not repeated. Could it have been only the call of some night-bird? Or a wolf? There were still wolves in these hills, though seldom seen now. Yet it was hound that his innermost mind had said, immediately-a hound baying in the night. And so far as he knew, there would be no hound within a dozen miles, with Loch Doon Castle in ruins.
After a while Bruce sat again, and sought to return to his possible strategies and tactics. But now he was listening all the time, his mind less wholly concentrated.
It was not a hound that he heard, presently, but the bounding clatter of a stone rolling down a steep hillside. From across the burn, some way to the left he thought, nearer to the main valley.
He cursed the noise of the waterfall above and the rapids below, which drowned all but higher and intrusive sounds. Rising, he climbed higher up the bank, in an attempt to rise above the rushing, splashing interference.
Suddenly movement close at hand made him jump like a nervous horse. But it was only Gilbert Hay again, coming down the track.
Somebody comes, Sire, the other whispered.
I heard a hound, back there, I swear. As I sat.
This was no occasion for berating Gibbie for disobeying a royal command.
I heard, Bruce nodded.
Could it be Boyd, back already?
Too soon, by far. But it might be some of our friends. Returning with aid.
They waited, staring towards the shadowy wooded hillside. Presently they thought that they caught the chink of metal against stone.
If we can hear that, they are very near…
And come mighty quietly. Secretly! Would any of ours come go? I think not…
There, Sire! Movement. Hay pointed.
The hawthorns and scrub ended perhaps thirty yards from the waters edge, across there. Now there were darker shapes, and stirring, amongst the shadows of the trees. Peer as they would, the watchers could distinguish no details.
The Path of the Hero King bt-2 Page 14
