The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  Then something about one of the foremost figures became plain.

  It was the strained backward-leaning gait of a man who restrained a dog from too hurried a pace. This, and two other figures, moved out from the denser shadows into the moonlight cautiously. Obviously many more remained behind, hidden.

  “So-o-o!” Bruce breathed out.

  “No friends would so come. Led by a bloodhound! They must have followed Boyd’s and my cousin’s tracks, back here.”

  “Quickly, Sire-back to the cave. While we are still unseen.”

  “No. They have to cross this burn. And it is not easy. Here is the place to hold them. Go you back for our people, Gibbie.”

  “You go, Sire. Allow that I wait here …”

  “Do as I say, man. But, Gibbie -give me your sword.” Bruce, for his preoccupied moonlight walk, had come away unarmed save for the dagger which never left his hip. Hay had been more circumspect.

  Reluctantly the other yielded up his blade. He slipped away.

  Sword in hand the King watched. The three men and the bloodhound were crossing the open belt of dead bracken to the waterside. One of the trio was very tall and massive, armour glinting.

  He clearly held the third man by the shoulder-and that man kept his hands behind his back in unnatural fashion, probably tied there. He could be seen to be wearing the short philabeg of the Highlands. Some others of the newcomers have moved a little way out from the trees. Bruce could distinguish only one horse. And no helmets gleamed in the moonlight.

  The watcher deduced much from what he saw-and recognised more immediate danger than he had anticipated. These were no English soldiers. Probably Galloway men, under a tall chief. And they had a captive Highlander, which meant probably that they had ambushed Boyd’s little party and taken at least this one prisoner.

  And here was the menace of it-this man would know the secret of this ford.

  At the waterside it was obvious that the captive was indeed

  demonstrating the route across-no doubt it was the price of the poor

  devil’s life. The newcomers would be all across the ford long before

  Bruce’s people could arrive. How many they might be he could not

  tell. But they must be delayed, if at all possible. Nowhere “ else was there such an advantageous place to hold up an enemy.

  The King raised hand to mouth.

  “Ho, there!” he shouted.

  “Stand you! Who comes? Like robbers in the night?”

  There was a startled pause. Then a voice answered.

  “I am Roland MacDouall of Logan. Brother to Sir Dugald MacDouall, Who challenges MacDouall in these hills?”

  A wave of cold fury came over Robert Bruce at the mention of that hated name. Here was the brother of the man who had delivered up Tom and Alex to shameful death. Come seeking hint, now!

  “Robert Bruce challenges you, traitor!” he called back, voice quivering.

  “The King of Scots. You have come to judgement!”

  Again there was a pause, no doubt of surprise-as well there might be, at that answer. The Gallovidians would not, could not, know that he was alone, of course; but they could probably see that no large party awaited them.

  No words replied, at any rate. For answer the big man turned with his prisoner and hurried back to the others. There, after a few words to his followers, he mounted the horse, and with two others now gripping the Islesman prisoner, led the way down to the ford, sword drawn. A great surge of men streamed after them, on foot-more than the watcher had anticipated.

  The most elementary discretion decreed that Bruce retire hastily after Hay: But he was in no mood for discretion. Longstrided, he went down the bank to the burn again.

  “Come, MacDouall!” he cried.

  “Come pay for my brothers’ blood!”

  King and horseman reached the water’s edge at the same moment, ten yards apart. Bruce had tossed away his plaid, to free his arms. Even in that twilight he could have looked little the monarch.

  MacDouall, with the hound-leader to guide him to the exact crossing-place, rode straight in. Bruce, a little downstream because of the dog’s-leg bend in the underwater rock formation, went to meet him. A yard or so short of the actual bend, he halted, the cold water swirling about his knees.

  The other was no fool, and the seeming confidence of the single royal defender would give him pause. He had undoubtedly been told of the narrowness of the causeway, and the fierceness of the torrent was obvious. In swordery the mounted man should have the advantage; but if he had no room to manoeuvre and so must make a direct frontal attack, his advantage was much reduced. And no horse is at its best in rushing water.

  The chieftain made a hasty reappraisal. He pulled up, switched the sword to his left hand, whipped the short lance that flew his pennon from its socket at the back of his saddle, and almost in the same swift movement hurled it at his opponent.

  Bruce, the moment he saw that transfer of the sword, guessed what was coming. He both dodged and ducked, but he had little more room for any change of stance than had the horseman. He all but overbalanced, his left foot actually slipping off the rocky platform.

  Staggering, he remained approximately upright only by a fierce effort and the use of his sword dug down as support. The spear-like lance-tip ripped along his right arm, tearing open his doublet sleeve, its pennon actually flicking across his face. With a yell, MacDouall spurred forward.

  Bruce had only moments. Though still teetering unsteadily, he twisted round and, following the other’s example, grasped his sword-hilt with his left hand. The lance had plunged into the water, and the current had swung its shaft round against his right leg. Quick as thought he stooped to grab it up and, raising it high, hurled it back-although the effort nearly overturned him again.

  He would have had less excuse, even so, for missing his mark than had MacDouall; for it was at the horse that he aimed, and the beast was no more than eight or ten feet from him. The lance-point took the creature in the neck, full in the soft of the gullet, and drove in deep.

  With a gasping, bubbling whinny, the brute rose high on its hind legs, spouting blood, forefeet beating the air. Sidestepping away to its left, it toppled over the edge of the causeway into deep water, in thrashing ruin.

  MacDouall just managed to throw himself out of the saddle in time. But because of the way his mount collapsed, his leap to clear himself from whose lashing hooves brought him down just beyond the causeway, at the other, downstream, side. Desperately he clutched down at the slippery rock for a grip, in the rushing torrent, weapon relinquished.

  Bruce did not hesitate in any chivalric gesture. Sword back in his right hand, he brought it down with all his force on his attacker, where neck joined trunk. MacDouall’s scream choked away to swift silence as his head went under, and the dark current swept him away.

  The mass of the enemy had held back at the burnside, while their

  mounted leader opened the attack. Now, with yells of rage, they came

  on, struggling with each other as to who should be first, unaware of

  the full hazards of the crossing, its slippery narrowness. Quickly

  they became better Informed, as, right and left, men fell or toppled or were pushed into deep water. There was an interval of complete chaos before the situation became clear, with Bruce, in mocking shouted invitation, urging them on.

  Somebody did take charge, ordering all back, and to advance again only two at a time, shoulder to shoulder. So they came on in a long line, not a broad front, feeling their way with their brogans” toes, out towards the defiant lonely figure in midstream.

  There a situation had developed calculated both to aid and to hinder them. The horse in its death throes had got itself held across the causeway, its heavy saddle presumably having caught against the upstream edge of the rock. So that there it lay stranded, mostly under water, flailing and churning the stream in foam and spray.

  It made it fairly obvious just where the bend in the passage lay; but on the ot
her hand it constituted a distinct barrier for men to advance past.

  Bruce did not fail to perceive this last, and moved up as close as he dared to the obstacle.

  The first pair reached the other side of the animal, yelling their hate. It is possible that they might have preferred a more wary approach, but they were pressed on by those behind. The leader sought to engage the King with his sword, over the horse’s body, while his colleague scrambled past. Bruce acquiesced in this long’ arm sword-play- but when the climber was almost over, drew swiftly back, and turning, ran the man through with the greatest of ease, heaving his sprawling person off downstream, before returning to the sparring.

  Another man quickly took the casualty’s place; and now, with the horse’s struggles dying away, the first swordsman and self appointed leader pressed closer, to give the climber better support But not good enough yet, for no man could effectively get himself over a largely submerged horse in a swift-running torrent and engage someone standing behind it with his sword at the same time. The moment when he must ease himself down, to find a foothold again on the slippery stone beneath, was vital-or fatal. Bruce let this individual get exactly so far, them stepped back, and with a backhand slash sent him sprawling after his predecessor.

  The leader could not but perceive the insufficiency of this tactic, and tried an improvement. He himself, and another, plunged forward to clamber over the carcase at the same time, whilst a third moved up close behind and above them, sword swinging. Bruce crouched low, to be under the sweep of the blade, which could not be depressed for fear of flaying the others, and from this position jabbed a vicious thrust that took the first man over in the groin.

  The other got further, but while still floundering for a foothold and raising his blade, the King’s swiftly disengaged steel swung sideways and upwards and knocked him staggering, a buffet rather than a sword-stroke, but one which, on that precarious stance, drove its victim over the edge into deep water. As despairingly he sought to gain a grip on stone, to save himself, Bruce had ample time to aim down a shrewd lunge that finished the matter off, and then to turn and put out of his misery the screaming agonised companion.

  Two more were already struggling to take the places of this pair, and getting in each other’s way in the process. These were the easiest victims yet. Panting, the King jabbed and hacked down on them. They fell away without contributing the least advantage to their cause other than the tiring of the defender’s arm.

  That was six disposed of-seven counting MacDouall himself.

  Bruce began to laugh aloud, although something gaspingly.

  Now, the second leader gone, the attackers suffered a period of major confusion. They could be no means flee in the face of this one swordsman, even though he might be the King of Scots; but nor could they see a way to overcome him. Moreover more and more of their people were pressing on along the narrow causeway behind, unable to see what went on, in danger of pushing the foremost off into the river. Bruce’s laughter, jeers and challenges scarcely helped.

  As so often is the case in such a situation, all this frustration and lack of direction boiled up in a sudden, furious and disorganised rush forward-which, in other circumstances, by sheer anger and weight of numbers, might well have succeeded in its object; but on that cramped and unsure stance only precipitated further disaster.

  Yelling men crowded, jostled and impeded each other, were pushed this way and that, especially from behind and still were unable to get at their quarry, whose flickering, darting steel kept them at the far side of the horseflesh barrier-save for three who fell, pierced, across the horse, two remaining caught there and actually heightening the said barrier. The third was swept away in the current.

  Somebody threw a sword, javelin-like. Bruce saw it coming and eluded it with ease, for such weapons make but unwieldy missiles.

  But others saw this as a preferable alternative to close-range death, and projectiles began to fly, clubs and daggers as well as swords.

  Few were effectively aimed, for of course on such a narrow front the

  men ahead got in the way. But Bruce was much preoccupied in dodging

  the hurled objects, and more than once all but lost his footing in the

  process. Once indeed he was struck, but only a glancing blow that did no damage.

  He perceived that this development could change all, and urgently decided to risk a ruse. As another dirk spun past his ear, he produced a high yelp, as of pain, and went down on one knee in the water, steadying himself thus with difficulty against the pull of the river, and leaning forward on his sword as though stricken.

  The effect was immediate. There was a great shout of triumph, and the long narrow column surged forward again to the barrier.

  Bruce waited until two men were almost across it, and at their most vulnerable, and then leapt up, sword flailing. Unready for this, the pair were disposed of in four slashing strokes. He was able to run through a third, behind them, before the others flung themselves back against the pushing tide of their fellows. One tripped as he did so, probably over a leg of horse or man, and the King managed to disengage his blade and make a wild, weary hack at the floundering man which, more by luck than skill, struck him on the side of the head and knocked him off the causeway on the downstream side where it was deepest. He disappeared.

  Gulping for air and dizzy from fatigue, Bruce reckoned that was fourteen slain, or at least put out of action.

  His pounding heart sank as more dirks now came whirling through the air at him-for this was the greatest threat, and it was surely only a question of time until one found its mark. And then, above the angry baffled yells in front, he heard other and more distant shouting behind, higher up the hill. Gibbie seemed to have been a long time about bringing aid-though probably that was only an illusion.

  The enemy heard the shouting also-and possibly even on the whole welcomed it. They were by no means poltroons, but leaderless, out-manoeuvred, and perceiving no way out of their punishing predicament, they now had the excuse to turn tail and extricate themselves from a thoroughly unprofitable engagement-which they could scarcely have done in the face of just one man. At any rate, as with one accord, those on the causeway turned the other way and began to stream back to dry land again.

  Hay and the Islesmen came scrambling down the bank, crying their slogans, with the Carrick men-at-arms a little way behind..

  Distinctly unsteady on his legs, Bruce waded back to meet them.

  “After them, Gibbie,” he panted, as his friend came up.

  “Before they can reform. No leaders now. Keep them running and they will not stop. For long.”

  “How many of them, Sire?”

  “About 200. Less … less fourteen! See-there is a horse to get over…”

  Somewhat light-headed, the King sat himself down heavily on the same boulder that he had used “earlier, while his men surged past. He realised, that there was a long score down his right forearm, dripping blood, but fortunately not deep. In something of a daze he heard the noise of conflict receding, across the burn, the wild eldritch whoops of the Islesmen sounding more like a hunt than a battle. The Gallovidians would, presumably, know that there were only some sixty to oppose them-since their prisoner would have told them-but failure is a progressive business, and lack of direction notably bad for morale. None evidently any longer were preoccupied with victory.

  Presently Sir Gilbert returned, with most of the Carrick men and some few prisoners.

  “They flee, Your Grace-they flee,” he announced.

  “They make no stand. You, Sire? You are well?” He perceived the blood on the bare arm.

  “You are wounded? Dear God-Your Grace is hurt?”

  “Nothing, Gibbie. The merest scratch. Of a lance-point. Thank heaven no others had lances, but their leader. And this small blood he paid for! One MacDouall. From Galloway.”

  “MacDouall? Not Sir Dugald …?”

  “His brother. A start is made in the payment of treachery also.”

  “
The saints be praised for that! And that you are yourself again…

  “The saints-and a spider, Gibbie. A spider, I say!”

  Chapter Eight

  It was not everyone who loved Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe, a dark, unsmiling, secret man, un forthcoming alone. But Bruce, in these last testing months, had conceived a fondness for him, an appreciation of his unflinching quiet loyalty, as well as his dependability and courage. After all, he of them all was making the most immediate sacrifice in remaining with this small company round the King, the only Highland chief amongst them. His territories in far Argyll were in little danger from the English invaders.

  He could go home and live in security and at ease at any time.

  Bruce embraced him now, heartily, when Campbell dismounted, despite

  the mere score of men he had brought back, as a result of his long absence, to this beautiful wooded basin of Glen Trool amongst the mighty glooming Galloway mountains, however mocking Edward Bruce might look, and disappointed as were the others.

  “It is good to see you back safe, Neil my friend,” he said.

  “I

  feared that you might have come to ill in this Galloway. No place for a friend of mine, these days!”

  “No,” the other agreed.

  “Your Grace’s cause scarce flourishes amongst these traitors. You… you have heard the evil tidings? Of your brothers?”

  “I have heard,” the King returned briefly.

  “I am sorry. What may a man say?”

  “Nothing. It is time for doing, not saying. And we have made a start.”

  “Aye-so I heard. Even in Galloway your doings are spoken of.

  The blows you have struck against the invaders and their minions..

  I had little difficult in learning that you were in these mountains.

  But finding you was none so easy. We have been in every valley of this land, I think, seeking you!”