The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  “He has likewise summoned all Scots lords and landed men to come and do him homage. At Dumfries. Before this month is out.

  On pain “of forfeiture.”

  “So! In this at least he is his father’s son! What of his army?”

  “Some of it he has already sent across Solway, it is said. They are marshalled on Your Grace’s lands of Annon.”

  “Aye! They would be! The war, then, goes on, Edward living or Edward dead! To be sure, the son would have little choice in that.

  All England is set to bring down Scotland. His lords will force him to go on with it, even should he lack the will.”

  “As to will or no, already he has appointed a new commander and Viceroy. In place of the Earl of Pembroke. The Lord John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond, his own cousin.”

  “You say so? John of Brittany again-that sour pedant! Aye, they were ever friends. So Pembroke is disgraced?”

  “You have hit him hard, Sire,” Campbell put in.

  “Caused him many defeats. Made him look a fool.”

  “Yet he is no fool. And a better soldier than ever John of Brittany will be-who indeed is no soldier at all. Which we must seek to turn to our advantage. All this will require much thought. Have you any other news for us, Master Friar?”

  “Master Balmyle said to tell Your Grace that the King, the new King, has already put the Prince Bishop of Durham, Anthony Beck, from his Court. And is very close with John Stratford Bishop of Winchester-who is an old friend of the Bishop of St, Andrews.”

  “Good! Good-that may bring some easement to my friend Lamberton. You will thank Master Balmyle for all these tidings. I shall not forget his good offices. He will have heard that the old Bishop of Dunblane has died. Tell him it will be my endeavour to see that he is elected in his place. And you also, my friend, I shall not forget. You have earned my gratitude. Your name …?”

  “Bernard, Sire. Bernard de Linton. From Mordington, in the Merse.”

  “Then I thank you, Brother Bernard. One day I shall need able and trustworthy clerks …”

  The friar withdrawn, Angus Og spoke.

  “Fair tidings in the main, Sir King. What do you do now?”

  “Nothing, friend. We wait. For Edward of Carnarvon. To see what he will do. He has still 200,000 men in arms. Not fifty miles away. To our 4,000. Besides many nearer still. In that respect little has changed. The English are still the English. Only now they are led by a weak man, not a strong.”

  “It may be so. But I did not come here to wait, to sit idly in these hills,” the Lord of the Isles pointed out.

  “My broadswords like nothing less than rusting in their sheaths! My galleys are not for gathering barnacles in creeks of Bute. I came to fight. And I have debts to pay.”

  “You shall have your fighting, my lord, never fear! Your bellyful!

  But not yet. I do not wish to force the new Edward’s hand. He is no warrior-but he commands many of the finest warriors in Christendom.

  We shall await to see what he does with them. He is concerned now

  with homage-taking, not fighting, it seems. Let him have it, then. That will do us no hurt. And we shall see how many Scots lords hurry to kiss his hand at Dumfries. That will interest me, see you!”

  “If few do, Sire-then he must needs march north,” Campbell declared.

  “He cannot sit idle, after summoning them on pain of treason and forfeiture.”

  Bruce nodded.

  “That is as I see it. We will wait till then. Meantime gathering our strength …”

  “In my country, one does not gather strength by waiting but by smiting!” the Islesman asserted strongly.

  “I do not wait patiently, to pay my debts.”

  “These debts, my lord …?”

  “In Galloway. The MacDoualls. Five hundred of my men died shamefully at their hands. Time they were avenged.”

  This was obviously a large part of Angus Og’s reason for aligning himself with them.

  “Aye. But I too have debts to pay in Galloway.

  Two brothers sent to Edward, to die! Think you I have forgotten, man? But I choose my time when to pay my debts. See you, Angus my friend, if we go raiding into Galloway now, not only do we provoke the English into action, but we cut ourselves off from the rest of Scotland. They could box us up in Galloway.”

  “My galleys could lift us out, by sea.”

  “Not 4,000 and more. When I punish Galloway, I shall do it in force.

  So that the MacDoualls will not forget. It will be no hurried raid. But… I will make you a promise. Hold your band until the English show what they will do. And then, if we can be free of them for a space, I will come with you to Galloway. I want your thousand men close to my hand.”

  Angus Og shrugged.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Eleven

  Robert Bruce lay on his back and gazed up at the cobweb-hung rafters of the roof. It was a poor way to pass Yuletide, and a poor place-even though, in a fashion, the house was his own. Did that make it easier? He was long past caring greatly where he laid his head, or how lowly his couch-but this Mill of Uric was cold, draughty and moreover bug-infested. He was all too well aware of all three imperfections.

  He lay still, however, motionless-apart from the frequent uncontrollable shivering, that is-not even allowing himself to scratch at the bug-bites. Though these were a minor irritation, compared with the other sores and grievous itching. He forced himself to forbear, not so much because the friar had advised it-he was not the man to set store by the instructions of any mumbling physician, however holy-but partly as a discipline for himself, and partly because he found that the least movement, the rubbing of the plaids that covered him, on his sores set them itching beyond all bearing. There were so many of them, his entire skin a red and angry patchwork, dry and flaking.

  It required no little effort to hold himself still, not only on account of the itch and the cold, but because of the febrile restlessness that possessed every muscle of his body, urging him to toss and twist and jerk; but he did not cease to tell himself that if he could master his unruly spirit and errant emotions, and hoped to master a kingdom, then he could surely hold his body still. So he lay, as he had lain for seemingly endless days and nights.

  No doubt he had been foolish. The sickness had first struck him some

  weeks before, when he had first reached Aberdeenshire. All of course,

  including the plaguey old monk, with the undoubtedly wholly unjustified

  local reputation for healing powers and piety both, that Gibbie had

  found for him, had urged him to take to his bed there and then. But he

  had not come all this way into the North to lie in bed and shiver. He

  had come to show the Comyns, and their allies, who was King in

  Scotland, up here in their own territory. So he had refused to halt in

  his Comyn-devastated lordship of the Garioch, to become an invalid,

  insisting on pressing on, up towards Buchan, to get to grips with John

  Comyn, Earl thereof, who still called himself High Constable of

  Scotland, and still was prepared to accept Edward of Carnarvon as Lord Paramount of Scotland rather than recognise Bruce as King-even with his own young wife hanging in a cage on the walls of Berwick Castle.

  Fevers and foolish weaknesses of the body could and must give place to the imperatives of rule and war. For over two weeks, then, in winter Aberdeenshire, in the great rolling lands of Mar, Cromar, Midmar and Formartin, he had hunted and harried the Comyns, in their enormous outlying domains, latterly carried in a litter. He had done great damage, burned many houses, hanged many men, but fought no battles-for Buchan himself lay infuriatingly low, allegedly in his great and remote castle of Dundarg on the far North Buchan coast, assembling his strength. At length, with no decision achieved, and his own weakness ever growing, shamefully, inexorably, until he was too limp to make more than feeble protest, his brother Edward ever taking more the command, they had brought him back here in his litter to this wr
etched Mill of Uric beside the burned-out ravaged shell of his castle of Inverurie, messuage-place of the once-great lordship of Garioch, how many days ago he could not tell.

  A knock at the rough plank door brought a frown to the man’s already set features, but only that. A second knock, and a third, went equally unanswered. He wanted no company, no chattering, fussing, pitying attentions, no gawping witnesses of his helplessness, however sympathetic. But the door opened nevertheless, and Gilbert Hay came in. And for as long as it was possible for that loyal uncomplicated young man to look apologetic, he did.

  “Your Grace-the monk is here. Brother Mark,” he said.

  “To attend you. Anoint you and salve your sores …”

  “No!” the King said.

  “But it is time, Sire. Past time, he says. Four times each day, the friar says, it is necessary …”

  “No!” That was a bark, the voice strong if nothing else was.

  “Begone!”

  Hay retired.

  Bruce lay, muttering. It was hard enough to lie still, to master every itching, agonising, shuddering inch of him, without having to put up with fools and hypocrites.

  He tried, for the thousandth time, to concentrate his mind on the military situation and its threats. He was direly short of men again, having had to leave James Douglas and fully two-thirds of his total force, to hold the SouthWest and watch the Border. It had been taking an enormous risk to dare this northern expedition at all, of course but the Comyn threat had to be met before any progress could be made in Scotland. After spending weeks at Carlisle and Dumfries, holding fealty ceremonies and a parliament, the new King Edward had, in September, made a purely token advance into Scotland, with most of his vast host, perhaps 150,000 men. It had been a triumphant procession rather than any campaign for, since opposition would have been pointless, Bruce had made none, remaining deep in the Loch Doon mountains and restraining his brother Edward and Angus Og both, with difficulty. Moving only a few miles a day, the English had taken weeks even to reach Cumnock in Ayrshire. And there King Edward had halted, held court, made sundry proclamations to the effect that he was satisfied that his realm of Scotland was securely in his peace, knew its master and would hereafter be more kindly governed; and then turned his army round to face the south again, and deserting it, with most of his high nobles, hurried off ahead to far-away London for his coronation, leaving John of Brittany to rule Scotland. In these circumstances, after a brief punitive expedition into Galloway, to fulfill his promise to Angus Og -though it had scarcely satisfied that warrior-Bruce had turned to the North, to show his face and flag to more of his waiting, watching kingdom.

  But he had gathered fewer troops on the way than he had hoped for. The English grip on the centre of the land was strong, with all the great fortresses in their control, with large garrisons at Edinburgh, Glasgow, Stirling, Dunfermline and Dundee. It was no part of the King’s present intention to fight his way northwards county by county, and he and his small mixed force had had to go by devious ways, holding to the high ground, the marshes and empty areas and avoiding centres of population. This had produced very disappointing recruiting, and with a wet summer, very late harvest and winter approaching, the countrymen had shown little enthusiasm for military adventuring. The Lord of the Isles, disgusted, had been sent off on a parallel northerly course up the West Highland side of the land, to prevent any link-up between the forces of Buchan and MacDougall of Lorn, if possible. So, with only small contingents of men joining him in Perthshire and Angus, Bruce had come across Dee, to the Garioch and the start of the true Comyn country, with no more than 700 men-to find his lordship devastated and almost devoid of the manpower he had hoped to raise there. Few English were up here, but many Comyn bands. Fortunately, here Sir Alexander Fraser of Touch, and his brother had joined the royal array with 300 men; but even so it was a tiny force with which to face the Comyn country. But David, Bishop of Moray, had come south from the Black Isle of Ross to his own diocese of Moray, with a force of Orkneymen.

  It had been to link up with him that Bruce had pushed on and on,

  northwards, ill as he was. With Buchan himself keeping his distance at this stage, and Angus Og still not come over from the difficult mountainous terrain he had to traverse in the West, it had been only tip-and-run warfare hitherto, infuriatingly small-scale, time-wasting, with Edward Bruce making most of the running.

  Of Bruce’s band of close companions, only Gilbert Hay remained here with him at Inverurie, captaining a mere 200 men.

  Edward, fretting with impatience, had gone with the Frasers to show the King’s banner in the coastal areas of Formartin, north of Aberdeen, as much to try to coax Buchan out of his strongholds as anything else.

  Neil Campbell had left them weeks ago, at Perth, with Angus Og, to slip

  home to Argyll, to see what the MacDougalls might have done to his

  patrimony there, and to try to return with a force of Campbells

  * although he was scarcely hopeful in this, for a Highland chief who deserted his clan territories for a long period, as he had done, could seldom count on much loyal support. Boyd was away recruiting in West Garioch, and Robert Fleming sent ahead northwards to make contact with Bishop David.

  How to deal with Buchan himself, of course, was the problem which most agitated Bruce’s fevered and at present ineffective mind. John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, in his person, his position and his influence represented the major Scottish threat to the King.

  That other John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch, had left a young son, and his kinsman, the High Constable, had assumed guardianship, and with it leadership of the greatest family in the land, a family which could field thirty knights and some 10,000 men, without calling on all the many and powerful allies and connections, such as MacDougalls of Lorn, the Earl of Ross and all the many Baliol branches. He had cooperated with the English, even while hating Edward Longshanks who had so shamefully humiliated him at Stracathro years before; how much more so might he be expected to aid Edward of Carnarvon, of whom he was said to approve?

  The King had made little headway in his bed-bound strategy, when there was a further knocking at the door. Once more Gilbert Hay stood there.

  “Sire,” he said, “visitors.”

  “No.”

  “But these Your Grace will wish to see. I swear it.”

  “Be off, man! Think you I do not know my own mind?”

  Hay was pushed aside, and Neil Campbell entered the cold and shabby room.

  “Lord, Sire-here’s a sorry business! I never thought to see you abed at this hour.”

  The King eyed him sourly, and offered no welcome.

  “This sickness-how bad is it? Your stomach is it?” the other demanded.

  “Nothing that a flagon of uisge-be atha will not cure, I vow! Our good Highland spirits. Drive out these vapours, and make you a man again in short time. I have brought many flagons.”

  “Fool!” Bruce snarled.

  “Spare me your witless chatter, if that’s the style of it! I hope you have brought me more than liquor from Argyll, since you are come? How many men?”

  “Four hundred. The most I could raise, in the time. More will follow. MacDougall has borne sorely on my lands, curse him! But I have brought you more than men and uisge-be atha Sire. From the West…”

  The invalid was no longer listening to him, nor even looking at him. He was gazing past the man’s shoulder. Christina MacRuarie stood there, behind, smiling at him.

  All his resolutions about non-movement and bodily control were forgotten, as he raised himself on an elbow, to stare.

  “Christina!” he panted.

  “You! How come you here?”

  “With Sir Neil, as he says, my lord Robert. Grieving to see you so. I was in Lochaber, where I have lands, when I heard that Sir Neil was back on Lochaweside. I hastened there to gain news of Your Grace, learned that he was returning to your side, and prevailed on him to bring me with him.”

  Bruce bit his lip.

  “This is no place for a wo
man,” he muttered.

  She looked around her, mouth turning down.

  “Nor for a man!

  Any man, least of all a King! More meet for cattle.” She came forward to the bedside.

  “You are not displeased to see me, Robert?”

  He gave a jerk to his head, a gesture which might have been variously interpreted, but did not speak.

  “I am sorry indeed to find you in this state,” the woman went on.

  “As well that I came, I think. It looks as though I am needed here!”

  “I will be well enough. Shortly.”

  “That we must ensure. But lying in this cold kennel will not help.”

  Christina turned to Hay.

  “Is this the best you can do for him, Sir Gilbert?”

  “He … His Grace would have it so,” that unfortunate asserted.

  “The castle is but a burned shell. The steward’s house likewise.

  This mill is the only roofed house left in Inverurie …”

  ”The more reason for making better of it, sir. Not so much as a

  fire.

  Let him be,” Bruce intervened.

  “I chose this place.”

  “Then you must have lost your wits as well as your health!” she returned spiritedly.

  “Any hovel of a cot-house, with a fire and a woman’s care, would be better than this. Are you grown men, or bairns?”

  The King sank back on his couch, and turned his head away.

  “I

  would be alone,” he said.

  “Yes-leave us alone,” the Isleswoman agreed promptly, “My lords-or your mercy, begone!”

  The groan of protest from the bed was wasted on all. The two knightly cravens seized the opportunity to escape without delay.

  The woman came round to the other side of the bed, to sit on it.

  “What is your trouble, Robert?” she asked in a different voice.

  “What has stricken you so? This is not the Robert Bruce I know.”

  “How can I tell? Some fever. It struck me some weeks back.

  Soon after Campbell left me. A weakening sickness. I am weak as a child. My joints ache. My skin burns. Yet I am cold, cold.”