The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  “Well said, Sir Provost. Your point is taken. I shall not forget Aberdeen and its good folk, never fear. Do any others wish to speak further to this matter?”

  “Sir King,” Angus Og said, “Malcolm of Lennox spoke of John MacDougall threatening the SouthWest. I say that he is more like to turn north. I have the word that he has been sending messengers to William of Ross.

  They were ever un friends until this. But since neither love you…”

  “The Earl of Ross!” Bruce’s voice actually quivered, with the fierce effort of suppressing the flood of emotion that name aroused in him the man who had taken his wife and daughter from the sanctuary at Tain, to hand over to the English.

  “He … he … MacDougall joins hands with Ross?”

  “So goes the word in the West. Any day now the high passes will be open, the snows gone and the floods subsided. Then, I think, John of Lorn will turn northeast, not southwest, to join up with Ross. And then, Sir King, you will be faced with trouble enough for any man!”

  A shaken silence greeted his words. He did not have to underline the size of the threat for any man there. The Earl of Ross was second only to the Lord of the Isles himself in power in the North West. The third most powerful man was MacDougall of Lorn. Ally these two in a joint campaign, throwing in their whole might, and there was nothing north of the Highland Line that could withstand them. Even Edward Bruce, for once, made no comment His brother drummed finger-tips on the table.

  “My lords,” he said at length, “if this is indeed so, then the danger is great and we must take steps to meet it, somehow. Yet my lord of Carrick is right also, about the Comyns. As is the good Provost of this Aberdeen about the danger to his city. And I have scores to settle with the Earl of Ross!” He paused.

  “See you, in this letter I spoke of, sent me by my lord Bishop of St. Andrews, he says that the King of England has betrothed himself. To the twelve-year-old Isabella of France. He is even now gone to France for the nuptials-you might think in some haste considering the years of his bride! He has planned a great coronation for the new Queen, when he returns. In May. He is much fond of such celebrations, is this Edward of Carnarvon.

  Moreover, he has much offended his lords by raising up his pretty favourite, the Gascon named Piers Gaveston, and creating him Earl of Cornwall. Now he has left all England in his charge, while he is abroad, a puppet of no stature, hated by all the nobility of his realm. So there will be trouble, my friends-that I warrant.

  What with Edward’s absence in France, the coronation when he returns, and the offence of his lords. Bishop Lamberton believes, and I agree with him, that there is like to be no large invasion of Scotland this summer. So, at the least, we need not be ever looking over our shoulders to the south.”

  Satisfaction was voiced by all at this news.

  “So now, my lords-here is my proposal. My brother, the Earl of Carrick, will take our main force and proceed forthwith to deal with the Comyns. Wait you-wait! I myself, with the Lord of the Isles, the Earl of Lennox and Sir Neil Campbell of Lochawe with a lesser force, will cross to the West, to join the Islesmen already there, collecting what more we may from the Lennox, the Campbells and other leal chiefs. We will be there, not to come to grips with MacDougall, but only to threaten him, at this juncture-since we have not the might to challenge him and the Comyns both. But if we do this, and I am there in person. I do not believe that MacDougall will risk marching north to join up with Ross, leaving me on his border. Moreover, I will seek to prevail on the Lady Christina of Garmoran to have her people make a similar sally along the eastern shores of Ross, to distract the Earl. And my lord of Moray, your men to feint at Easter Ross and the Black Isle.

  Then, my friends, when the Earl of Carrick has harried the Comyn country into submission, we will march north to meet him at Invernessin three months’ time, may be. To face Ross united again.

  And when we are finished with Ross, turn back to deal with MacDougall in earnest! How say you? We must use this campaigning season to bring all the North to heel, if we can, whilst the English are otherwise occupied.”

  There was a great storm of acclaim and approval, round that table, men almost unanimous in their enthusiasm and their recognition of the breadth and sweep of this comprehensive programme, this proposed solution of the deadlock. Even Angus Og was impressed;

  and Edward was of course highly delighted. His abilities were being

  recognised, at last. Bruce let the exclamation and comment continue

  for a little, and then brought the Council to order again.

  “This is no light task,” he said.

  “Let us make no mistake about what this course will demand of us. Of us all. Patience, discretion, the holding of our hands. For any major defeat, at either side of the country, would spell disaster for both. We must all fully recognise what are our objectives, and hold to them strictly. Going no step further, to endanger all. In the West we are there only as a gesture. We will fight no great battles. And this is equally so with you, my lord of Carrick. Your business is not to hazard my main force in battle-mind it! Your task is to subdue the Comyn country so that never again will that house threaten mine. Heed not their castles, unless they are easy. It is their lands, these vast lands from which they draw their men, the great masses of their men these are your objective. So long as the Comyn threat, of mighty armed intervention, remains, the English have us by the throat. My throne remains insecure. And many in this realm, God knows, take their lead from Comyn. So-an example must be made. For the good of the kingdom. The whole province of Buchan must be taught its lesson, who is King in Scotland. You understand, Edward?” That was rapped out, Bruce’s features graven grim, his eyes hard.

  “Your task is to harry Buchan, not to fight battles. For that purpose and that only, you shall have my main host. And with it the Bishop of Moray, Sir Robert Boyd, Sir Robert Fleming and Sir Alexander Fraser, to aid and advise you. I shall expect them all, and the host no less in numbers, at Inverness in three months’ time. And Buchan laid low so that no Comyn shall raise voice or sword against me, ever again! You have it? All of you-you have it? Answer me!”

  It was not often that Robert Bruce played the imperious autocrat He did so now advisedly, deliberately, and with good reason.

  No man failed to be affected, and Edward Bruce for once was positively subdued.

  There was some little remaining business, mainly concerned with the containing of the English in Aberdeen Castle, and defensive works to prevent any invasion by sea. Also the implications of Lamberton’s letter that he had been now given a sort of limited freedom, on the payment to King Edward of 6,000 mer ks fine, and on the strict injunction that he did not return to Scotland, Edward indeed apparently believing that he could use him to help bring the Scots to heel. The Council agreed that, in the circumstances, Lamberton should seem to go along with the English in this, and at the same time, if possible, both serve as spy and encourage that King in his follies.

  But the pressure had gone out of the conference, and all were eager to be away from the table, and at ease to talk, discuss and argue freely. The King drew the proceedings to a close, therefore -and rising, beckoned Gilbert Hay to his side.

  “Gibbie,” he said quietly, “you did not hear your name spoken in all that. Because I have an especial task for you. I think you used to be friendly with Thomas Randolph, my nephew?”

  “Used to be, Sire-but not since he turned traitor!”

  ‘”There are traitors and traitors, Gibbie.”

  This one the greater, in that he is your own kin. All should be dead! I heard that he had been brought here. What is Your Grace’s will for him?”

  “What would you do with Thomas Randolph, once your friend?”

  “I would hang him. As his friends have hanged so many of us.”

  “If I was to hang all those who take part against me, I fear I would be hanging half of my subjects! No-I still have hopes for my sister’s son. He conceives himself to be a man of honour-and myself otherwise! I want you to take
him in hand, Gibbie. He is in close ward, yes. But we will take him with us, into the West. Get his parole-and, an honourable man, he will keep it! He will be in your charge. Entreat him kindly, but firmly. Work on him-as the English have already done. He is surprisingly innocent, I am convinced.

  He has much to learn. You are the best man to show him his error. Show him that I am not the brigand he takes me for.

  Show him that the knightly code will not win a war against ten times our numbers. Show him how the English really fight, behind their glitter of chivalry.”

  “If so you command, Sire. But I think you are too nice, too soft of heart. I’d take rope to him, and be done!”

  * “It is my head, not my heart, that commands in this, my lord of Erroll! Any fool can hang his prisoners. But there may be many who think like Randolph, many of my subjects. I may serve my cause a deal better by showing mercy and persuading that young man to be my living friend than my dead enemy! He is a man of parts, with great lands. And of the old race. I have not so many of these that I should hang them, when I might convert them. And Thomas Randolph converted would sound loud in Scotland. See you to it, my friend.”

  Less than convinced, Hay bowed.

  At last, that evening, the feast given by the Guilds of Aberdeen for

  the monarch and Council over, Robert Bruce had privacy to draw from his

  doublet the unopened letter which had been contained within the other

  sent by William Lamberton, Even the sight of the strong and somewhat

  carelessly formed handwriting set his heart stirring. Feasting, drinking and dancing still went on below, and would for hours yet, if he knew his brother Edward; but he had managed to slip away, he hoped scarcely noticed, leaving the same Edward cavorting with a Christina who was at some small pains to show her liege lord a certain coolness. That suited the King well enough this night. He was as fond of gaiety as any-he had been accounted too gay, once-and had been starved of it, like the others, for too long; but that crushed unopened letter had lain over his heart for long hours, setting up its own vibrations within him.

  Now, in his own bedchamber, he broke the seals.

  He read:

  My loved lord and dear husband.

  I have written you many letters these weary months, for my own heart’s ease only, knowing they could not come to you. And so burned them in the fire, that in their very smoke some small waft of their love and aching might sail on an air kinder than men north and north over the long leagues to Scotland and my dear. Foolish woman that I am.

  But now, I write in sudden gladness, so that I can scarce hold this quill from trembling, and you may scarce be able to read these feeble words for splutters of ink and tear-drops- I who am no weeper, as you know. Fool, indeed. But these are tears of joy, my sweet, in that at last I may write in the hope that you may read.

  For Bishop Lamberton is come to me, the first friend’s face I have seen in more than a year. Who says that he has means to carry a letter to you secretly. I thank God for it.

  I thank God also, Robert, for the tidings the Bishop gives me of you. Hereto they have told me only that you are a hunted outlaw, a murderer, a slayer of the innocent, harried and driven. Or else that you are fled the country, gone beyond the seas, in Ireland or Norway. Yet since you cannot be both, in truth, I have taken heart from their lies. And know at least that you were alive, and a trouble to these my captors.

  Now, the saints be praised, I learn that you are indeed still your own true man, and mine, a scourge to your enemies, winning victories and waging war for your kingdom. So prayers are answered after all, and I rejoice.

  I am held close prisoner here, but you must not deem me illused or woeful. I see no friendly faces, and live the plainest. But I have a garden to walk in and dwell, I swear, a deal more comfortably than does my lord. None treat me as Queen, but at least I am the Earl of Ulster’s daughter. When I hear of what is done to the other women of our company, and to your poor daughter Marjory, I could hate my own betterment. But Robert, how I do long for you.

  Estate, and bodily wellbeing, these matter less than nothing when I have not you in company. Would that you had heeded me in Strathfillan, and allowed that I remain with you. No privations and wanderings and dangers, at your side, could have matched the sorrows of this long separation.

  I heard, my dear, what King Edward, the old Edward, did to your brothers. To the gallant Nigel, and to Thomas and Alex. As to Christopher Seton. My heart bleeds for you. I pray nightly for the souls of them, as for the damnation in hell of he who did these monstrous things. It is almost beyond belief that a man could be so vile. Yet I thought not ill of my God-sire once. I believe that only a sickness of the mind could have served for this.

  Who knows how the new King will deal with us. He is much other to his father and a lesser man in most things, I am sure. But I do not believe that he will relent in any degree towards Scotland or to yourself. And therefore to me. So I do not deceive myself that he will let me return to you, save you make him. And God knows how that is to be done, for I do not. Although I pray for it unceasingly.

  The Bishop, it is clear, thinks as I do, and he knows this King better than do we. Robert, my good Robert-how in Christ’s sweet name are we to come together again?

  Ah, forgive me, my brave lord, that I should write so. It is no wife’s part to assail your eyes and ears with my woman’s wails.

  Indeed, the fact that I can be no wife to you is the worst of me. For my body, as my mind and heart, does long for you. And you know that I am near as lusty of temper as you are. You wed no modest, gentle milk-white Queen, my lord King, no meek sufferer, so that sometimes I do fear for my reason … These last sentences had been scored through with a spluttering pen, but were readable enough. And eloquent.

  Heed me not, Robert. This is not my true self that writes so. I am but carried away by this so unexpected link with you. Somehow you have of a sudden seemed to come very close, so that I feel I must needs grasp out at you, to hold you, keep you, lest you go from me again. When indeed all there is, out there, is a patient Bishop waiting for this foolish paper. But it is too late to write another, better letter now. I have kept your friend waiting too long already.

  Here is the truth of it, Robert. I need you. I miss you beyond all

  telling. But I can wait. Oh yes, I can wait, never fear. One day,

  God willing, I will be wife to you again. But meantime, my love, I

  know your man’s need. I know you to be a hot man. Meet your need for

  women as best you may, Robert. I wed you knowing that need. But of a

  mercy do not tell me of it. I am foolish. You have my understanding

  in this. But scarce my blessing. Take who you will my, Robert-but oh

  my heart, love only your

  ELIZABETH

  That last line and signature was scarcely decipherable, a straggling scrawl, blotted and tailing away. The reading of it brought quick tears to the man’s own eyes.

  Long Bruce sat, on the sub-Prior’s bed, with that letter in clenched hand, motionless, though sometimes his lips moved, and once or twice he groaned a little. From below, the sound of music and revelry rose faintly-strange sounds from a monastery.

  Then he stiffened as another sound came close. There was a brief knock at the door, and Christina MacRuarie opened it. She stood there slightly flushed but looking very handsome.

  The King looked at her, but scarcely saw her.

  “You read your letter again, rather than dance? Or even sleep?”

  she demanded.

  “Are bishops’ letters so much to your taste?”

  “It is from my wife,” he said slowly.

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Oh,” She stared, biting her red lip.

  “Your pardon. She … the Queen? She is well?”

  He inclined his head.

  “Then, Sire, I think … that you will not be requiring me? This night?”

  “I thank you-no,” he said.

  “A … a
goodnight to you, Christina.”

  She shook her head, and in those darkly vivid eyes was a strange expression, compounded of pain and pity, regret and a deep understanding.

  And something more. Without a word she turned and left him there.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The singer’s voice rose strong, clear, tuneful, yet with a haunting sadness, to pause on a rising, questioning note that was at once and strangely both plaintive and challenging, a note that was allowed to die away into the blue hush of the night and merge with the lap lap of the wavelets on the loch shore and the sigh of air in the scattered Scots pines whose sturdy gnarled trunks redly reflected the glow of the camp-fires. Quivering, the composite liquid sound seemed to soar away over heather and water, for long breathless moments before the tremendous, fiercely positive refrain crashed out again from a thousand throats, yet in perfect unison and unbroken melody. Robert Bruce shivered, though not with cold, as his mother’s Celtic blood responded to the ancient magic of it, even though he understood only a little of the distinctively West Highland Gaelic of the saga’s wording. Words are by no means essential to emotion, especially of a summer’s night amongst the endless mountains that throng long Loch Ness.

  It was a young giant who sang, clad in saffron tunic, piebald calfskin jerkin and gem-studded harness, with strongly mobile features and shoulder-length tawny hair which, like the great ox-horned helmet he had laid by, spoke of the Norse influence which for centuries had permeated the Gaelic Hebrides. Only in the Celtic civilisation, with its emphasis on the arts of living, in music and song and poetry, design and beauty would a young man who sang thus, before all, not be considered effeminate; this singer need fear no such imputation, at any rate, for he was a renowned warrior, Seumas son of Donald, son of Ranald, of Oronsay, one of Angus Og’s chieftains.

  As the rich, vibrant tenor commenced yet another verse of the ballad the tenth, or perhaps the twelfth-the King, aspr awl on a springy couch of pine-twigs and bracken, gazed round at the scene with some measure of real satisfaction. For here, surely, was something that he had achieved, and only he. Never before, since the realm of Scotland became a unity, had a King of Scots been able to do what he was doing. Here was a wholly Highland host, only the Earl of Lennox-who was a sort of tamed Highlander himself-sitting at his right, and Gibbie Hay, with his charge Thomas Randolph, were Southrons, the former frankly asleep, the latter looking stiffly bored. All the rest, chiefs and chieftains, from Angus of the Isles and Neil Campbell of Lochawe, down to the running gillies and horse-boys, were clansmen, Highlanders to a man-Islesmen of the MacDonald and MacRuarie confederation;