The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  Bruce gave orders to stop all pursuit of the fleeing enemy. The Earl of Gloucester, with the main body of English infantry from Galloway, was not far away. They were not finished yet. If these could be kept from joining Percy … The hunting-horn sounded the recall, and reassembly.

  Edward Bruce was, as ever, one of the last in.

  “We have them running!” he cried.

  “Running like whipped curs! Now they know who is master in Scotland!”

  “Master, brother?” The King asked.

  “I am not yet master of this my own Ayrshire! And Ayrshire is but one county of Scotland. We have met the English in one field, and prevailed. By our wits. That is all. And Edward Plantagenet sits at Carlisle and musters his hundreds of thousands. Let us never forget that man-for he will not forget us!”

  “He is dying…”

  “I should still fear Edward, even were he dead! Such hatred will

  survive even the grave, I do believe Chapter Ten

  Almost against his better judgement Bruce was besieging the town and castle of Ayr -after a fashion. It was rather ridiculous in fact, with the numbers of properly armed and disciplined men he had at his disposal, and with no sort of siege equipment. But both the English themselves and his own subjects seemed to expect it, and he was in something of a quandary as to what to do next, anyway.

  So he made pretence of encircling Ayr -and was ready to be up and away at short notice.

  After Loudoun Hill he had managed to trap his cousin’s husband Ralph de Monthermer, Earl of Gloucester, and the mass of English infantry-the same who had timeously sent him the spurs and the shilling that night in London a year and more before, and so undoubtedly saved his life from Comyn’s betrayal and Edward’s vengeance.

  There, in the hills behind Cumnock, there had been a great slaughter, by night, when the English and Welsh archers could not see to draw on their foes. The darkness had aided escape also, of course, and Gloucester himself, with large numbers of his force, had fled here to Ayr, to join Percy therein. Pembroke had apparently fled from Loudoun Hill in the other direction, for Bothwell.

  But Clifford, somewhat in disgrace no doubt, had been bringing up the English rear and baggage, from Minnigaff and the Cree, and getting word of Gloucester’s disaster, had avoided all engagement and likewise made hurriedly for Ayr. So that there was now a large if somewhat demoralised force in the town, many thousands strong, including two of Bruce’s chief est foes.

  But there was more than these in Ayr. There were some thousands of townsfolk, as well as men thronging there from all Carrick, Kyle and Cunninghame. Their King’s victories, small as they were, at last were beginning to rouse the people, to give them hope, to stir up young men to join their liege lord in arms. The hostility of these, with the citizenry, undoubtedly preoccupied the invaders, and added to the siege-like atmosphere.

  Indeed daily the numbers of Bruce’s force increased hearteningly.

  Few great men as yet committed themselves-although with so many of these dead, prisoners or in exile, this was scarcely to be wondered at; while many had always been in the Comyn camp. But the sons of this laird or that, with a dozen or a score of men, variously armed, came riding in every day, as well as great crowds of master less common folk. Feeding, marshalling and controlling these was an ever-growing problem, and took up much of the time of Bruce and his little band of lieutenants. That this could better be achieved in the fertile and populous lowlands surrounding Ayr, than in the wilderness where he would have preferred to be, was another reason why the King lingered, though warily, in his sham siege-while he kept his rear free for quick retiral into the hills.

  He had taken up his residence, meantime, in his cousin Christian of Carrick’s house of Newton-upon-Ayr, Turnberry still being held strongly against him, and was able to live in more comfort than he had known for long. It was pleasant, of an evening, to dine well here, and to contemplate Clifford and Percy, only a mile or two away, tightening their belts-for food was known to be getting very scarce in Ayr’s citadel these June days-although undoubtedly those two would be the last to starve.

  It was in such frame of mind that Bruce and his companions, after a long day trying to lick into shape the heterogeneous collection of volunteers, lounged in the Lady Christian’s apple-orchard, when the lookout from the tower’s parapet shouted that ships were appearing from around the Heads of Ayr to the south, many ships. Cursing, all lethargy banished in an instant, the King was up and running for the tower-door. This had been one of his fears-that King Edward might send up relief and reinforcements by sea to his beleaguered minions at Aye. His bastard, Sir John de Botetourt, it was said, had developed a taste for seafaring, these days, and had earlier been savaging the Clyde ports and havens in a campaign of sheer piracy and plunder-a truer son of his father than was Edward, Prince of Wales.

  When Bruce reached the high parapet, however, with the watch shouting that it was a great fleet, it was to know something of relief, at any rate.

  “Those are galleys, man!” he cried.

  “Highland galleys-not English ships.”

  The watch, who had not said that they were English, wisely held his peace.

  The King’s relief was only partial. There were fully twenty large galleys out there, their hundreds of oars flashing with rhythmic motion as they caught the light of the sinking sun. Whose they were was not apparent. Not many Highland chiefs could muster such a fleet-but two who could were MacDougall of Lorn and the Earl of Ross.

  Then, as the leading vessels turned directly into the bay, and their

  great square sails bellied to the westerly breeze, the vivid emblem of

  the Black Galley of the Isles stood out clear on each, un differenced unmistakable.

  “Angus Og!” Bruce exclaimed.

  “Thank God it is he! Whatever may bring him here. Jamie! Neil! Down to the boat-strand with you. To wave them in. In case they make for the harbour. Take my. banner.” The English still held Ayr’s harbour, dominated by the castle.

  “If it is Angus Og himself, pay him all respect. And bid him here, to me.”

  So presently, heralded by the shrill music of strutting, blowing pipers, a colourful company came up the north side of the River Ayr, across the water from the town proper, ken speckle in saffrons and tartans, horned helmets and eagles’ feathers, piebald calfskins and gleaming Celtic jewellery. Bruce awaited them before his cousin’s gatehouse.

  Angus Og, in full war panoply, and flanked by an almost overwhelming phalanx of chieftains in barbaric splendour, stalked in front-and he at least was smiling.

  As they came up, James Douglas at his side, raised hand and voice.

  “Sire-here is the noble Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of the Isles…”

  His words were drowned in the blast of a horn, and a much more powerful voice followed it, to shout “Angus, son of Angus son of Ranald, son of Somerled the Great, of Islay, King of the Isles and Lord of Kintyre. To Robert, King of Scots, greeting!”

  Bruce swallowed. So they were back to that, again! But he smiled also-and when Robert Bruce smiled, the stern graven lines, in which his features had set these days, were transformed quite. He stepped forward, hands out.

  “My lord and good friend Angus!” he said.

  “I rejoice to sec you.”

  The other came to meet him, and they gripped hands and clasped shoulders, as equals and comrades-in-arms rather than as monarch and subject.

  “I salute you, King Robert,” he returned.

  “Here is a day to remember. Seannachies will sing of it.”

  “You say so?” Bruce blinked.

  “Then I am glad. You have brought news?”

  “I have brought myself, and mine.” That was simply said.. “News enough, I would think.”

  “M’mm. Yes. To be sure. And you are welcome, my lord. All of you.”

  Angus Og did not actually frown, but his open boyish though swarthy face stiffened.

  “I am glad that I am welcome, sir. I had not expected otherwise, with one thousand broadsw
ords!

  “I faith-you mean…?”

  “I mean, Sir Robert, that I am come to make cause with you.

  Against our enemies. With a score of galleys, two score chieftains and a thousand men. Straight from Ireland I have come.”

  “By the Rude-do I hear aright?” The King did not attempt to hide his surprise.

  “You have come to fight? Angus of the Isles joins my host…?”

  “He comes to aid your host, shall we say?”

  The other was not concerned to split hairs over the definition, there and then. He gripped the Highlander’s arm.

  “Here is a great, notable day indeed. You have changed your mind, my friend, since that day at Rathlin Island?”

  “You have changed it for me, Sir King. At Rathlin, I said that I would war with Edward of England for-my own hand and in my own time. Your cause was scarcely hopeful. You have made it otherwise, these last months. The Glens of Antrim are not so far away that I have not heard of your doings. I have come to make your war mine. I have matters to settle with the English and their friends, over that sorry business at Stranraer. When your brothers were defeated. Many of the men slain then were mine, hired to you. Murdered, after the battle. And my friend, Malcolm MacQuillan, Prince of Antrim, beheaded. We can settle these scores together, you and I.”

  “So-0-0! Here then is the most sure sign of belief in my final victory, I swear! Of any I have received. That Angus Og should deem it prudent, worth his while to support me!”

  If the Islesman sensed criticism in that, he did not say so.

  “Even so, it could be that I erred. Deemed wrongly,” he said.

  “You are going to need my support sooner than I thought. As we came up the firth we spied and ran down an English craft, making for Wigtown Bay and the Cree. It bore couriers. Edward the King marches. Edward is on his way.”

  “What!”

  “We took his messengers. With orders for Pembroke, Botetourt and the rest. Edward has risen from his sickbed. He has given his travelling-litter to the cathedral at Carlisle, as a thank-offering for recovery, and mounted his war-horse again. He leads a host of 200,000, for the Border. To wipe Robert Bruce off the face of this Scotland!”

  Stricken to silence, the King looked at him.

  “I near thought again, as to joining you, then,” Angus Og added, grimly.

  “But here I am.”

  “He is on his way? Now? He could be in Scotland by this?”

  ”Scarce so fast. It was at noon today we took his vessel. It had

  sailed from the port of Silloth only at first light. Edward was then making for the fords of Solway.”

  “Then we have a little time. To get away from Ayr. Into the high hills. It is back to the mountains with us. But tomorrow’s dawn will serve. I will give orders for all to be ready to move with daylight. To a place where Edward cannot reach us. God’s curse on the man-his spleen is as good as life to him! Will I never be free from his malice?”

  The other shrugged.

  “He will die one day.”

  “His body, yes. But will his hate? Such all-consuming bitterness?”

  Bruce drew himself up.

  “But, my sorrow that I should hold you standing here, my lord. You and yours. Come-this is my cousin’s house. But she keeps a good table. Tonight we can still take our ease. And tomorrow, march. What will you do with your galleys, friend?”

  “Send them across to the Isle of Bute. To the old Steward, at Rothesay. They can await my summons there …”

  It was two weeks later, in the lofty lonely hills around Loch Doon again, on the Galloway border, before Bruce gained sure news of Edward, news that he could trust. Every spy and scout reported tales and rumours, not only his own but his various commanders’ scouts-for the Scots host was now split up, inevitably, since none of these high narrow valleys could contain and support large numbers, and the royal force now totalled nearly 4,000. The tales said that King Edward was here, or there, making for the East March, or Edinburgh, or Galloway, or even returned to Carlisle.

  Pembroke, it was known, had come back to Ayr, with a Comyn army plus more MacDougalls; while Botetourt was lying off the coast, with shipping.

  It was, as so often was the case, a friar who brought firm tidings for because of their cloth, these could move about the country more freely than other men, and their Orders were international.

  This one, a Benedictine, came to Bruce in his cave above Loch Doon -the same in which he had watched and taken heart from the spider-where he and Angus Og, Neil Campbell and one or two others who were not off with detached commands, sat round a crackling log fire and grilled venison steaks on spikes. He announced that he came from the Abbey of Melrose, across the Forest of Ettrick, sent by Master Nicholas Balmyle.

  “The King of England is dead, Sire,” he declared.

  “Edward is no more!”

  Bruce laid down his steak carefully, features schooled, expressionless, and slowly rose to his feet. All around him men held their breaths.

  “Say that again, Master Friar,” he got out, thickly.

  “And speak truth, if you value your soul!”

  “It is verily so, Your Grace. Master Nicholas had the word direct from Carlisle. Sent by a canon there, who is kin to him. King Edward the First is dead. And his son proclaimed King Edward the Second.”

  Bruce’s face worked strangely. Then abruptly he turned and stalked away, out of the cave-mouth. A babble of excited talk rose behind him.

  It was a minute or two before he returned.

  “Your pardon, Sir Friar,” he said.

  “Your news affected me. Have they offered you meat, drink, after your journey? Sit at ease, while you tell me all that you know.”

  “He died, Sire, at Burgh-on-Sands, but eight miles north of Carlisle.

  Still on English soil, making for the fords across the Solway sands, with his mighty host. He breathed his last, they say, facing Scotland. And cursing it.”

  Silent, the King nodded.

  “His bile was stronger than his body,” Angus Og said.

  “His black heart could not carry the weight of him, in armour and a-horse, after his sickness. He had too much blood, all men knew!”

  “Yes, lord. But, as we were told, it was the news of Loudoun Hill, of King Robert’s victory, that struck him down, rather than the journeying. He was stricken with an apoplexy.”

  A sort of choking groan came from Bruce.

  “So… so I killed Edward! In the end, I killed him.”

  None remarked on that.

  “He recovered his wits before the end,” the friar went on, eyeing the King doubtfully.

  “The Prince of Wales was summoned to his side. As was the Bishop of Carlisle-who told it to this canon.

  King Edward charged his son straitly. He caused him to swear an oath, to God and all His saints, in the presence of his lords and barons. That he would continue the fight to the death against the Scots. That he should not rest until he had brought down Robert Bruce to the dust, to die a felon’s death. As had his brothers and the man Wallace.”

  Only the crackle and hiss of the fire made comment.

  The speaker, a dark, youngish man, moistened his lips, his glance darting around uneasily. But he forced himself to go on.

  “Further, the King required the Prince to promise that so soon as the

  breath was departed from his body, he would take that body and boil it

  in a great cauldron. Boil it until the flesh was separate quite from

  the bones. The flesh could be buried, where mattered not But not the

  bones. These his son was to carry with him against Scotland, then and thereafter. To remain with him, night and day.

  And as so often as the Scots might in insolence rise in rebellion against England, he should assemble his fullest strength, and carry the bones against them. Not to be buried or laid to rest until that contumacious nation was totally subdued.” The friar swallowed.

  “Only then did Edward Plantagenet yield up the ghost.”

  A long quivering sigh
escaped from Robert Bruce’s lips. It was many seconds before he spoke, none venturing to precede him.

  “Edward!” he said, almost whispering.

  “Edward-who once loved me as a son, he said! God pity him. God pity me, also! His mercy on that tortured soul-as on my own. I see it all. The knife turned in his heart. Satan laid his dark hands on each of us! Damnation-before the Day of Judgement!”

  “Do not say it, Sire.” That was Neil Campbell, harshly.

  “Edward is dead. The manner of his going matters nothing. We should be rejoicing, not glooming dark thoughts.”

  “He is right,” Angus Og agreed.

  “No profit in such. Your chief est enemy is no more. Thank God for it, and be done!”

  Bruce eyed them, almost as though they had been strangers.

  “Little you know,” he said. Then he shrugged.

  “Very well, my friends. Edward is dead. But Edward’s might and his armies remain, his commands and his commanders. And his son. What of Edward the Second?”

  “The word from Carlisle, Sire, is that the new King has a mind of his own. He has not obeyed his father over the boiling and the bones, oath or none. He is sending the old King’s body back to Westminster for due and decent burial.”

  “Ha-he is? So that is the style of him! I’ faith-he has long lacked love for his father. But never dared to show it, until now!”

  “He has summoned all his barons and lords spiritual and temporal to come pay him fealty, at Carlisle, forthwith. Already he has made new appointments …”

  “Aye, no doubt. But what of Scotland? What does he say of Scotland?”