The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  So commenced the trying, testing waiting, the enforced idleness.

  It was well enough for the men; they were all weary with the night’s exertions and lack of sleep-though most of the Islesmen continued to add to their vast supply of boulders and rocks, now marshalled for a quarter-mile along the lip of the shelf. But Bruce himself could not rest, even though lookouts were posted to give ample warning of eventualities. He sat there in the heather, staring down the long fair valley, flooded now with sunlight, while the larks shouted above him, straining tired eyes for the first hint of movement, glint of steel.

  An hour he sat, fretting, and half another, a prey to fears that he had

  misjudged, that Pembroke was not to be lured, provoked, coaxed. That,

  or else he was coming in great force, and taking an unconscionable time

  to effect it. It was neither movement nor the gleam of armour which

  brought an end to his fretting, but a thin column of smoke rising above and behind the ridge of High Minniwick, almost three miles to the south, where he had posted a picket. That meant that the English were indeed coming, and were visible from there at least.

  There was no need to strain the eyes, presently. Like a dark river alongside the silvery one, but flowing the wrong way, a dense column of men began to appear from round one of the far bends of the lower valley. It could not be a broad column, because of the constriction of the terrain; but that it was long became ever more evident. On and on came the ranks, emerging into view, seeming endless, too far away as yet for details, but by the pace, all mounted.

  There were brief breaks in the purposeful procession, but only between divisions and cohorts. New sections followed on monotonously.

  “It is an army!” Hay cried.

  “He has sent a host, no mere striking force. I have counted twelve already-twelve divisions. And still they come. We cannot challenge such numbers, Sire!”

  The King said nothing.

  At last there seemed to be an end. At a conservative estimate that column was well over a mile long. Before the tail was much past the confluence of Minnoch and Trool, the head was reaching the foot of the loch.

  “Fifteen, I counted,” Hay declared.

  “What can we do, Sire?

  Fifteen divisions of the best soldiers in Christiandom. And we have

  300. Mosstroopers and cater ans

  “We fight on our chosen field,” Bruce pointed out.

  “That means much. Besides, what means fifteen divisions? Are they in scores or hundreds or five-hundreds, How many abreast do they ride? They can scarce ride more than three on that ground. Three files of three, mounted, would take up a dozen yards and more. That is … let me count it … say, 1,200 to a mile, no more. None so vast a host.”

  It was Hay’s turn to remain silent, however eloquent he looked.

  Loch Trool was more than two miles long but less than a quarter of that in width. By the time that the head of the English column was halfway up the west side, Bruce, from his elevation, could distinguish considerable detail, not much more than a mile away across the water. He reckoned that they did indeed ride in threes, a goodly array in the forenoon sun, standards, banners, pennons flying, the steam of horses, and everywhere the gleam of armour.

  “I cannot think that there are more than a hundred to each division, Gibbie,” be decided.

  “Fifteen hundred in all, perhaps…”

  “Five times our cumbers!”

  “Aye-but in bad country for cavalry. The standards at their head-can you make them out? The colours? The Leopards of England fly at this side, yes-but what of the other? Beyond. Not the azure and gules of Pembroke, I think.”

  “It is cheque red is it not? Blue and gold?”

  “The azure and, or, cheeky, of Clifford of Brougham! By the Rude, he has sent Clifford!” Bruce’s eyes had narrowed, in more than the glare of slanting sunlight.

  “Clifford, of all men, I would bring low! Once I challenged Robert Clifford to personal combat.

  After Stirling Bridge. He refused me. I swore that one day I would repay his insults. Pray God and all His saints for me, Gibbie, that this may be the day!”

  The other mumbled something indistinct.

  “He is worse than Percy. A black-hearted savage! For the challenge I made him, he crucified all Annandale. Slew 2000 of my people. Burned Annan and a score of villages. Tortured, raped, trampled. And now he rides there!”

  “Sire-he is an evil man. But a notable commander. If you will not retire, at least give the signal to move!”

  “I said that I would let them come level with the Maiden Isle. They are not there yet. All depends on timing, man …”

  At length the glittering head of the colourful array reached the

  vicinity of the islet, two-thirds of the way up the loch. Bruce turned

  and waved to the first of a hidden chain of cater ans

  Reaction was not long in manifesting itself. From the woodland at me head of the loch, about a mile in front of the English, Boyd’s party streamed out, in flight, heading south by east for the loch-shore track, a mixed company of some fifty mounted men herding about eighty dismounted prisoners.

  Even at that distance, across the water, the watchers could hear the shouts of Clifford’s men as they saw their quarry. Equally evident was the sudden increase of pace, as the leaders spurred to the chase. Bruce nodded grimly.

  Now they must wait again, a tenser and even more taxing waiting, while they watched the drama unfold. Timing was indeed of the essence, yet so much was unpredictable and might go wrong. It demanded an iron resolution to sit there and do nothing, to withhold the next signal until the precise moment—which might well never come.

  It was all a matter of pace and distance and ground; the contrasting

  paces of a fast-riding pursuit and a slow-moving huddle of dismounted

  prisoners; of a gap between, short enough to lure on the former beyond all hesitation, yet long enough to allow the latter to be kept ahead until the next stage of the programme; and this situation affected, complicated, by the fact that, in the woods which Boyd’s party had just left, was the hidden barrier of the lock’s main feeder-river to be got over bridge less and the marshlands of the loch-head beyond, difficult for horsemen.

  So that, although the English van made up on the Scots at a great rate, reaching the loch-head trees while Boyd and Fleming were still ploutering with their charges through the bogs less than half a mile ahead, it was a little longer before Clifford and his knights emerged from the trees again, into view. And meanwhile there occurred behind them a great pile-up of the long English train, and not a little confusion.

  The marshland forced Clifford to a walking pace and to practically single-file progress. Even so, he was into its emerald-green uncertainty before Boyd’s party was out at the other side, no more than 500 yards separating them now.

  But thereafter the going improved, as the Scots and their unhappy captives gained the firm though narrow loch side track.

  Driving the prisoners like a flock of unwilling sheep, shouting and beating them with the flats of their swords, the Annandale moss troopers hurried them along, while behind them the trumpets shrilled, neighing cavalry orders.

  Sir Gilbert Hay could not keep still, in his alarm and concern, biting his nails and declaring that disaster was inevitable unless there was a miracle, that the English must catch up far too soon for their project to work. The King should blow his horn now, and let Boyd and his men save themselves at least and leave the damned prisoners. Clifford would still pursue … Bruce did not so much as glance at him.

  Clifford was no fool. When he and his nearest won Out of the marsh and on to the start of the track, he was little more than a quarter-mile from his quarry. But behind him only a sparse, attenuated thread of men were picking their way through the quaking water-meadows as yet, most of his host still hidden by the woods, some even still in sight beyond, held up in the queue to cross the river. The watchers could almost see him fuming there, a splendid
figure in colourful heraldic surcoat over shining armour, magnificently mounted, the blue-and-gold plumes of his helmet tossing, while his numbers so slowly grew.

  Bruce and Hay could see, now, that the enemy was not so stupid as to make a wholly blind and headlong advance through this obviously dangerous country. A fair-sized column had detached itself, and now emerged from the trees to the northwards following the river up to where it split into the two tributary glens-obviously to stop any flank attack from that quarter. Clifford would well know that the fifty or so herding the prisoners was not all Bruce’s force.

  Campbell was up there in the right-hand glen. But Campbell had his instructions-and at least he had hill men as his little force, Annandale moss troopers not low-country heavy cavalry.

  Boyd was now almost directly below Bruce and his waiting Islesmen. A few of the prisoners had fallen by the way, jumped or been pushed down to the shore or into the water, and had been left. But the great majority were still being herded along southwards.

  Clifford was displaying exemplary patience. He could see, of course, the entire empty flank of Muldonach Hill ahead of him and of his quarry, and would reckon time to be very much on his side.

  Slowly his following was catching up with him.

  When, at length, a trumpet announced the resumption of the advance, he still did not hurry off at a canter. The narrowness of the track meant that they could not ride more than two abreast, sometimes not even that. Any rush along it would mean only a few reaching the Scots unsupported. A slow trot would serve them well enough.

  Hay, in his efforts to report exactly how far both Boyd and the enemy had got, down below, was in danger of showing himself, and was sharply rebuked by the otherwise silent monarch.

  “But they are within bowshot of Boyd now,” he exclaimed.

  “Clifford is almost directly below. Almost upon them. Another minute or so and it will be all over!”

  “Not so. Clifford and his knights do not use bows and arrows!

  Boyd knew his task-a sound veteran. He will draw them along until the last moment. Minutes yet. Even then he will put the prisoners between him and Clifford-a hold-up on that path.”

  Bruce had drawn himself forward in the heather, to peer over and down.

  “Wait you, Gibbie. How much of a commander’s task is but waiting!”

  No more than 200 yards now separated the tail of one party from the head of the other. Boyd was stretching it manfully. The climax could not be long delayed now; but every second counted, with more and more English committed to that hillside path.

  Boyd made his move. Abandoning the captives at last, he pulled out his men, past and through them, and trotted on beyond-but even now not at top speed.

  The prisoners promptly turned to face the other way. But if they

  expected any rapturous welcome from the rescuers, they were

  disappointed Clifford’s shouts to them to get off the track and out of the way could be heard right up at the high terrace.

  They did not do so with any alacrity, perhaps understandably, and there was a certain amount of delay and disorder as the pursuit reached them. More men went rolling down the steep bank, amidst curses and shrill cries of protest. Then Clifford was through, his pace increased to a canter, after the fleeing Scots.

  Bruce was almost counting the yards now. Boyd was nearing the ravine where Edward was hidden. He was to ride straight on, over the burn and past. But the English could hardly fail to notice the hoof-marks of Edward’s company turning off. Then would be the moment of truth.

  Clifford was out of sight of Bruce’s position now, his long tail of men stretched across the wide skirts of the hill. How to tell the precise moment? Whether he would in fact rum in, on Edward, go on after Boydor take fright, and send back warning, so that full surprise would be lost?

  Thinly, the noise of distant shouting came from in front.

  Bruce waited no longer. Rising, he stepped back, and raised his hand, to wave. Right and left he turned, waving.

  All along the lip of that hillside shelf the Islesmen sprang into furious action. Within a few seconds of the signal, scores of boulders, great and small, had been tipped over the edge of the terrace, to begin their headlong bounding descent.

  The King turned to Hay, at last, and threw the Highland hunting-horn to him.

  “Now, Gibbie!” he cried.

  “Sound! Blow you, loud and long!”

  High and hollow, its winding, hooting belling never to be confused with the brassy blare of trumpet or bugle, the horn’s message wailed and echoed amongst the thronging hillsides, far and near.

  Before it died away, the screams of men and horses were ringing out from directly below.

  The first rocks were smashing down upon the English line, hurtling indiscriminately but in such numbers as to be utterly, comprehensively disastrous. There could be no taking action to avoid the bounding, crushing, erratic hail of them. The horsemen were totally without protection on that naked brae face beasts and riders flung like skittles, in utter ruin.

  On and on the fusillade of grey granite continued, each stone, even the smallest, a projectile of fierce velocity by the time it had plunged down the hundreds of yards of steep slope. The enemy cavalry was spread two abreast along that narrow track for well over a mile, and within a few brief seconds, practically all its central files, for almost half a mile, were swept clean away in mangled bloody chaos, down in flailing hooves and limbs to the water.

  There was no need for all the collected rocks to be launched away, in fact. Indeed, Bruce, himself all but appalled by the scene of blind havoc he had conjured up, was in two minds whether to order the downhill charge planned, to complete the immediate debacle below. It was scarcely necessary, and the Islesmen’s eager broadswords could be needed elsewhere.

  “Gibbie!” he yelled.

  “Take a few. Two score. Down there. To finish the task. Then along, to aid Boyd and Edward. You have it?”

  “Aye, Sire. And you?”

  “I take most. Right. Campbell has the heavy end of this. And fewest men. Though not Clifford. Give me the horn …”

  So, desisting in the rock-rolling, the Highlanders divided into two unequal companies, both surging over the edge, to go bounding downhill, shouting their slogans, broadswords out. The lesser number went straight down, though spread along quite a wide front, to finish off the broken horror of a column which now largely littered the loch-shore; the greater went racing slantwise, right handed, northwards, down towards where the stone fusillade had tailed off, Bruce leaping at their head, thankful indeed for action.

  Down there confusion enough reigned already. Utter disaster ahead, and cut off from their main leadership, the long files of horsemen were most obviously in doubt whether to press on to the aid of their fellows, and meet possibly a similar fate, or to turn back and get off this devilish constricting track and exposed hillside.

  The sight of Bruce’s horde of charging cater ans bearing down on them seemed to convince the majority, at least. Not without difficulty and delay, the truncated column turned on itself and began to hurry back whence it had come.

  But now the noise of clash ahead became evident to them.

  Campbell had not led his seventy-five straight down out of the eastern-most side glen, which would have brought him into the soft marshland, but slightly uphill to the south, over the base of a shoulder of Muldonach. Now, in extended order, they flung themselves down at the vital hinge of the enemy line, where it left the solid ground of the track-head for the quaking water-meadows. His move, of course, would have been entirely evident to the detached English flanking party sent up to stop the mouths of the two glens;

  but these were on the wrong side of a rushing mountain torrent, and helpless to do more than hasten down again to the ford in the woodland, half a mile below.

  Campbell’s charge, with all the benefits of impetus and purpose, as

  well as surprise, swept another sizeable section of the enemy into

  irretrievab
le disorder. There were still many hundreds __ _ English array disengaged, but they were strung out over a great area and on hopeless ground for cavalry. Pockets of resistance and discipline developed, but by and large panic took its fatal grip.

  The sight and sound of Bruce’s yelling Islesmen clinched the matter as

  far as the enemy south of the marsh was concerned. None who could get

  away awaited their impact. Some, rather than queue to take the winding

  marsh-path, plunged into the loch itself; but most risked the quagmires

  of the water meadows

  Many got away, of course. But large numbers did not. For those green levels were treachery indeed for horsemen. And hunting the floundering cavalry like baying hounds came the leaping Islesmen, agile and light-footed. Great was the slaughter in that bog.

  Bruce left the cater ans to it. Campbell’s moss troopers on the lighter garrons of the Annandale hills, were chasing what was left of the fleeing column, by the single marsh-track. It seemed obvious that there would be no English stand this side of the river-and possibly not beyond it. The King grabbed a riderless horse, and set off back along the hillside track.

  He reached the area of shambles where the stones had done their fell work, to find only dead and dying there. Hay and his men had already completed their task, and hurried on towards the ravine.

  Bruce spurred his heavy English charger in their slippery, blood soaked tracks.

  He had not gone far when a single horseman rode to meet him.

  It was Sir Robert Fleming, a sallow, thin-faced youngish man with great brown eyes almost like a woman’s.

  “All is by with, Your Grace,” he called out, excitedly.

  “They are fled. When the Lord Edward came out on them, from the rear, and we turned back on them, from the front. They were caught. In no formation. They fought for a while, as best they could. But…”