The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  “Save us, friend-here’s generosity indeed! Another thousand!

  You put me greatly in your debt. But I can use it, I’ll not deny. Your last provision is near done-spent in the main in feeding and arming men. I thank you, from my heart.”

  “Thank-not me. Thank my lord Primate. It is on his orders, and from the revenues of his See of St. Andrews, that the money comes.

  I still administer it for him, as best I may.”

  “Then thank God for William Lamberton and Nicholas Balmyle both, say

  I!”

  “The other matter I am less sure of Your Grace’s gratitude,” the little cleric said, in his slightly pedantic, composed style.

  “I but serve my lord of Douglas in this. He sends loyal greetings-and a prisoner.”

  “Jamie? You have seen James Douglas, my lord? How goes it with him?

  Is all well?”

  “Well enough, Sire. He is in health, but kept direly busy. He is a scourge to every Englishman not shut up safe within castle walls!

  He has become a notably fierce young manas he must needs be, to be sure. But with something of innocence also. He seldom sleeps two nights in one bed, ranging the Lowlands from one end to the other, his sword never out of his hand.”

  “Aye. I laid a heavy burden on his shoulders, in leaving the South in his care. But of my close lieutenants him I could best trust with the task. And as lord of Douglasdale, and his famed father’s son, he bears a name and style that men must respect. But my service has borne hard on him.”

  “As to that he makes no complaint, I think. But he has captured this notable prisoner, and sends him to you, by my hand. He waits without. Have I Your Grace’s permission to bring him in?”

  The King nodded.

  “I have not a few sins on my soul, other than the death of John Comyn,” he said slowly.

  “You speak of James Douglas’s innocence yet. But it is the rape of his innocence that bears sorely on my conscience. I taught him to hate. And to slay without qualm, without mercy. That sword you spoke of, I put into his hand. He was young, and good, and his heart gentle, and I made him killer…”

  Bruce’s grieving words faded as Friar Bernard ushered a fourth man into the room, a tall, darkly handsome, well-built young man, with a flashing proud eye and a noble brow, possibly the most handsome man that Scotland could produce in that age. He stared.

  “Thomas…!” he whispered.

  His own nephew, Sir Thomas Randolph, Lord of Nithsdale, bowed stiffly

  and remained silent. “My lord of Douglas captured Sir Thomas in a

  fray in Ettrick Forest. Along with Sir Alexander Stewart of Bonkyl -who I understand also used to be Your Grace’s friend. Their troops were English, however. Stewart was wounded. But this being Your Grace’s own kinsman, my lord asked me to bring to you. For… for disposal!”

  “Yes. To be sure. I thank you, my lord Bishop.” The King, still eyeing Randolph, was frowning darkly in perplexity. He had liked this young man, spirited and talented as he was good-looking, and hitherto namely for being upright to a degree, his half-sister’s son. Bruce’s own mother, Marjory, Countess of Carrick in her own right, before she wed his father had been married to one Adam, Lord of Kilconquhar, of the ancient lofty line of Mac Duff Earls of life. A child of that marriage, a daughter, had wed Sir Thomas Ranulf of Nithsdale, another Celtic lord who had Normanised his name to Randolph. Here before him was the fruit of that union, a sprig of the most purely Celtic nobility, allegedly the soul of honour and the mirror of chivalry, whom Bruce himself had delighted to honour with knighthood at his coronation, Scot of the Scots, with no taint of Norman blood in him. Yet there he stood, a traitor caught in his treachery, a man who had, it seemed, bought his life at the expense of his honour. He had fought for Bruce at Methven, been captured, and almost alone of the long list of noble prisoners, escaped shameful execution, to fight thereafter for Edward Plantagenet.

  “I have not seen you since Methven fight, nephew,” the King said, controlling his voice.

  “Though I have heard of your doings. I believe you were at Loudoun Hill. At Pembroke’s side!”

  “I was,” the younger man agreed, as carefully.

  “To my sorrow.”

  “Your sorrow? You regret it, then?”

  “My sorrow is for this Scotland. And for you, my lord. That so sorry a travesty of battle should have been fought in the name of this realm. My regret for myself only that I had no opportunity to use my sword against your person.”

  The Bishop coughed, and seemed about to rebuke the young man, but Bruce held up his hand.

  “You would have fought me, slain me, then? At Loudoun Hill?

  If you had been able?”

  “I would have fought you there. Or other where In fair and knightly combat. To redeem, if I might, the honour of my mother’s house!”

  “Fair and knightly combat! Yet it was I who knighted you, man.

  At Scone. Four years ago. Have you forgot?”

  “I have not forgot-and judge it my greatest shame, my

  Bruce drew a long breath.

  “You do not mince your words, nephew. It seems that you do not like me. Yet we used to be friends, as well as kinsmen.”

  “I used to deem you honourable, sir.”

  Again Bruce restrained Balmyle.

  “I see that you name me sir, not Sire. Lord not Grace. Yet you helped make me King, at my coronation, Thomas.”

  “You have besmirched that anointing and coronation. You have dragged the royal dignity in the mire of murder and brigandage.

  You have tramped the code of chivalry underfoot. I no longer recognise you as my King. And would God I need not admit you as kin!” The young man’s pleasantly-modulated voice quivered a little, there.

  As Bishop and friar stirred with disquiet, appalled indeed, Bruce’s patience was heavy, ironbound.

  “So you took Edward Longshanks for King? Edward who disembowelled knights. Who hanged three of your own uncles and your aunt’s husband. Who hung another aunt and your kinswoman Isobel of Buchan in cages on castle walls. You preferred his kingship to mine?”

  “The old King’s misdeeds do not wash out yours, sir. And in the field he fought fairly, honestly, at least. The greatest warrior in Christendom. But you-you slay by night, like any thief. You ambush, you trick, you deceive. You have become no better than the man Wallace. You have not once battled in fair fight since your flight to Ireland.”

  “Ireland …? What is this of Ireland?”

  “After Methven, when I was captured, you fled your realm.

  Leaving others to bear the English yoke. That is what I mean. And then returned with a horde of hired Irish cut-throats, foreign savages, to gain by terror and murder what you could not gain by honest means…”

  “So that is what they told you!” Bruce eyed the other with dawning comprehension.

  “You have been cozened, Thomas. Fed with lies and half-truths. Led by cleverer men than you are, so that you might be used as a stick for my back, a dagger under my armour. My own nephew! Do you not see it? I was never in Ireland.

  I never left my own realm. I was in the Highlands and the Hebrides.

  The men I landed with again at Turnberry, from Arran, and those my

  brothers led into Galloway, were my own subjects. Islesmen -when none

  in the Lowlands would rise for me! “The other looked momentarily

  nonplussed.

  “They said … they said…”

  “Aye, they said! And you believed. Did James Douglas tell you no better?”

  “Douglas! He is no better than yourself! Trained in your school.

  His knightly vows forgotten. I would have no truck with him-though once I judged him honest.”

  The King sighed. He could have shaken this good-looking, headstrong son of his sister. Shaken him for the ignorant, self-righteous puppy he was. Yet, at the back of his mind, he knew a sort of relief, too. Relief that at least his blood, his mother’s Celtic blood, had not after all apparently curdled to dastardly treachery as he had feared. Not
in vile, craven self-seeking, at least. Whatever else he was, this young man before him was no craven. For if he believed that he, Bruce, was as he said, then his present defiant words and attitude could only lead to the rope or cold steel. It had been one of the hurts that nagged at him in many a sleepless night, that young Randolph should have changed sides, sold his King and his kinsman, in cowardice. Now he was at least beginning to understand.

  After all, only a few years ago, even though it seemed in another life, when he was Randolph’s age, he had thought much as this one did, filled with fine chivalric ideals, judging all by the knightly code, seeing war as only an extension of the tournament. Thus they had been brought up, to look on Edward Plantagenet, for instance, as the epitome of romance, Christendom’s model, the crusading prince, the Norman-French influence allimportant- even though Randolph was in fact pure Celt. Even James Douglas had been of this mind-until rudely taught otherwise. This other still lacked the teaching, that was all.

  “Thomas,” he said, with a major attempt at reasonableness, “you berate me for not waging fair fight, as you name it. For ambushing and tricking my enemies. Winning my battles by my wits rather than the strength of my right arm. You conceive this not to be knightly, or the kingly way. I agree with you that it is not knightly.

  But a king has more than chivalry to think on! But, at Methven -was that a knightly fray? When Pembroke, with whom you seem proud to fight, stole upon us by night, forced us to battle scarce awake. Did you conceive that knightly, that night?”

  When the other made no answer, the elder went on.

  “Pembroke so acted because this was war, not jousting. Not the lists and the tourney-ground. We are fighting now, not for honour, or glory; but for freedom, our very lives. And the continuing existence of Scotland. So I fight to win, lad, as best I may, using what weapons I have …”

  “You fight for a throne! A kingdom, for yourself. And would lunge all that kingdom in blood to gain it! Is that freedom?”

  “Would you have the English to rule Scotland?”

  “Once you did not find that so ill! When Baliol would fill the throne, not Bruce. Is Plantagenet any worse a king for Scotland than Bruce? Or Baliol? Or Comyn? When Plantagenet would spare the land the everlasting bloodshed, the fire and famine and devastation?”

  They stared at each other for long moments, two strong men more like each other than they knew.

  At length Bruce shrugged.

  “I have not time to deal with you now,” he said.

  “You have drawn sword against your liege lord. You swore me fealty at my coronation. So you broke your oath and committed treason, both. For that, you know the penalty?”

  “I do. I seek no mercy at your soiled hands, my lord.”

  “Yet I would show mercy if I might. For you are of my own blood.

  Nephew-let us start afresh.” He extended a hand, open, palm upward.

  “We will talk of it more fully later. But meantime be reconciled. You have for a while forgotten your allegiance.

  Now, let us be reconciled.”

  “No, sir. I have been guilty of nothing to my shame. You arraign my conduct. It is yourself who ought to be arraigned. Since you have chosen to defy the King of England-to whom you more than once took oath of fealty-why do you not debate the matter like a true knight, in a pitched field? If you dare! Until you do that, I am no man of yours-whatever my blood.”

  “That may come hereafter, nephew. Who knows how long hereafter? I shall choose that day, not the invaders.” His voice changed and he made a gesture of finality.

  “Meantime, since you are so rude of speech, it would be fitting that your proud words should meet their due punishment. But… for the sake of my sister’s memory, I shall hold my hand. You will be put close in ward until you know better my right and your duty. Master Bernardsummon the guard…”

  At the long refectory table of Aberdeen’s Blackfriars Priory, the first Council of the reign sat in session. Bruce was at the head and his brother at the foot, and between them at either side were about a score of men, the King’s close companions with an assortment of others, carefully chosen; Angus of the Isles, who had come from containing MacDougall in the West; the Bishop of Moray, ridden south especially for the occasion, leaving his force to watch the Comyns in the North;

  their host, the Prior of this establishment; and the Provost of the

  Burgh of Aberdeen, a man much overawed by the company he was keeping. A notable absentee was Bishop Cheyne of Aberdeen, a Comyn nominee and supporter. The new Bishop of Dunblane sat near the King, and on his other side, at a small table of his own, Master Bernard sat with ink-horn, quills and paper.

  Edward Bruce was holding forth, urgently, thumping the table in no council-chamber manner. “… And so first things first, I say!

  Let the Lord of Argyll and his MacDougalls wait, I say. We will deal with them in due time. They will do but little harm in the West, meantime. With Campbell to the south of them, the Lady of Garmoran to the north, and my lord of the Isles to the west, surely they do not threaten us unduly?” He glanced fleetingly at Angus Og.

  “Whereas, I tell you, the Comyns do! Still they do. Their defeat at Barra was not properly followed up. It hit their pride but left them but little diminished. My later defeat of Buchan at Aiky Brae, to the north, was more complete, with more men slain. But it was still only the remnants from Barra. The Comyn power is still scarce touched. And it is the greatest power in Scotland today, even yet. Their castles of Dundarg, Slains, Kinedar, Rattray, Kelly and Ellon -and these are only the great ones-control the country. The English, I say, are less menace than the Comyns, since they are more scattered and have to hold down the countryside.

  The Comyns have their force here concentrated, in Buchan and Moray and Badenoch. They must be dealt with first, and at once.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the majority of those present.

  “I support my lord of Carrick, Sire,” Bishop David of Moray said, an unlikely-looking cleric, the church-militant indeed.

  “You say that you have word that the Earl of Buchan has fled into England.

  That may be good-or not so good. He is no longer young and they say he is ailing. A disappointed man. He has not led the Comyns with the fire and thrust of the late Lord of Badenoch, his kinsman. Now, if he is gone, another may take his place. In the leadership of the Comyns. He has a brother, Sir Alexander-he who holds the castles of Urquhart and Tarradale. And many cousins, fiercer even than he. I know them. I have lived my life amongst them. They are smarting now, from Your Grace’s blows.

  But they are far from defeated. They could raise 8,000 against you, Sire. Perhaps 10,000, given opportunity. And they will, if you let them. We must strike them before they mink to act without Buchan’s palsied hand.”

  “The Bishop fears for his own fat Moray lands, I dunk!” Angus Og declared “These Comyns are licking their wounds. They may be all these lords say. But they have been twice beat, and will not seek another beating meantime, for a wager. But MacDougall has not been beaten. The old man, Alexander, son of Ewan, son of Duncan, son of Dougall, is also ailing, like this Buchan. But his son a not. I know John Bacach of Lorn-alter ill, we are kin. His mother was a Comyn, Badenoch’s sister. He loves you less than does his father, Sir King. And he is strong. Strong as a man, and strong in men. These talk of 10,000 Comyns. I shall believe that number when I see them! But John of Lorn can field 5,000 broadswords at a snap of his fingers! And you learned their quality at Strathfillan, did you not? I have been fencing with them these past months, keeping your left flank. I believe John Bacach MacDougall is finished with fencing. That is why I am here. I say you must deal with him before all else.”

  “I agree with my lord of the Isles,” Neil Campbell put in.

  “The Comyns may still prove a threat. But John of Lorn is a threat now!”

  “I think that true, Sire,” Lennox nodded.

  “The MacDougalls have allies right down the West-as you learned to your cost.

  Macnabs, Macfarlanes
, MacLarens, MacMillans, MacAlisters. I know John of Lorn also. He is a different man from his father-and it is he we have to deal with now. If my lord of the Isles believes him set on battle, he could set all the West on fire, right down to the Clyde. And then the SouthWest lies open before him. With only young Douglas holding it…”

  “The West! The West!” Edward interrupted scornfully.

  “These lords are all from the Highland West, brother. MacDougall is a rogue and a traitor, and must be taught his lesson, yes. But his thousands are but Highland sworders. Good at a tulzie, yes. I ask none better in an ambush or a night’s raiding. But the Comyn’s main might is in armoured horse. Cavalry. Such as win wars, not tulzies!”

  The King opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. This was a Council and he was here to be advised. He would let them have their say. He nodded encouragement to Aberdeen’s portly, red-faced Provost, sitting on the edge of his chair and evidently eager to speak but diffident in the presence of all these great nobles and bishops.

  “Your royal Grace,” he began hoarsely, and faltered, looking round the table.

  “If it may please Your Highness, I… I would say a word.”

  “You have our ear, friend. Say on.”

  “Aye, weel. This town o’ Aberdeen. It has welcomed Your

  Highnessright kindly, has it no? Right kindly. The folk favour you.

  But you ha vena taken the castle. It’s stuff it full o’ Englishry yet. It’s ower strong to be taken. And it can be supplied frae the sea. We canna stop that, for it glowers ower the harbour. And the English hac ships at Dundee. So, Highness, by your leave, I’d say dinna go stravaiging through to the West after thae wild Hielantmen and leave us to the mercy o’ the Comyns and the English bai th Or it’ll be the end o’ us. Buchan is no’ that far awa’but twenty miles. If you dinna put doon the Comyns first, they’ll be doon here chapping at our doors afore you’re across the Mounth! And the English frae the castle in our backyards And Your Highness will hac lost Aberdeen.

  And we … we’ll hac lost mair’n that!”