The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  Chapter Fourteen

  Drawing rein, Robert Bruce pointed, laughing heartily, easily, in more frank and honest mirth than his colleagues had heard from him for long. Bruce had been a mirthful young man once, too lighthearted for his father, seeing life through amused eyes wherever possible; if twelve years of war, sorrow, treachery and disaster had overlaid his high spirits, not with gloom so much as with a habit of sternness, of grim wariness, of self-protective constraint, it was all only an armour. The true man underneath was still sanguine, lightsome, laughter-loving- if scarcely, any more, young of heart.

  The occasion of mirth now was, as so often, the mild misfortune of another. Gilbert Hay’s horse had stumbled in one of the innumerable black peat-hags of the vast desolation of the moor, all but pitching its rider over its left shoulder. Gibbie, who had been dozing in his saddle in the warm afternoon sunshine of high August, had saved himself only by a major effort-but had overdone his sudden backwards and sideways jerking to such extent as to topple over the other side of the brute and into a little pool whose brilliant emerald-green coverlet was only a mossy scum to hide the thick black peat-broth beneath. Floundering in this glutinous mire, the unfortunate Lord of Erroll had covered himself more comprehensively in mud the more he struggled.

  “Peace, Gibbie—peace!” the King besought.

  “Still, you. Float on it-do not swallow it!”

  Similar unkind advice and comment came from all around, few failing to find amusement in the situation in that still fewer there had not been in something of the same predicament in these past days of mighty journeying across the rugged face of Highland Scotland.

  “A

  curse … on you all!” the bemired Gilbert spluttered.

  “This God-forsaken country!” He hurled a handful of the filth in the general direction of his monarch.

  “You are welcome … to your..

  stinking realm!”

  “Lese-majestie!” Bruce declared severely. And, as Thomas Randolph jumped down to go to the aid of his friend, added, “Put him under, Thomas-under! Lese-majestie is a grievous sin. And to throw mud at the Lord’s Anointed worse! Sir Hugh alone may do that-eh, my friend? Since you alone do not recognise me as King!”

  Young Ross’s grin faded, with his uncertainty as to how to take that

  He made a cheerful hostage, and mixed well with the others-better than the more reserved Randolph ever had done;

  but he was always uneasy at the King’s mild mockery and teasing.

  He in fact paid Bruce just as much respect as any of the company, while yet refusing resolutely to accord him the royal style and address. He got over his present difficulty by dismounting and aiding Randolph to extricate Hay.

  While this was proceeding, Bruce turned in his saddle to look back, northwards, over the fantastic scene. In all Scotland there is nowhere quite so savagely and remorselessly desolate, so enormous in its waterlogged, rock-ribbed, peat-pocketed emptiness, as the Moor of Rannoch, so awe-inspiring in the sheer sullen immensity of its seventy square miles of brooding moon-landscape, and all only intensified and thrust into starker relief by the loveliness of its frame of distant blue mountains-Buchaille Etive and all the Glen Coe giants to the north the Black Mount massif to the west, the peaks of Rannoch and Glen Lyon to the east, and all the complex of Mamlorn to the south. Here is scenery, sheer territory, on a stupendous, daunting scale, and man the merest irrelevance.

  Yet it was the men, the thousands of men, that Bruce considered, strewn over the face of the land behind him like ants on a forest floor. There were, of course, scouts ahead; but he, in the lead, had paused perhaps five miles out into the waste from the towering jaws of Glen Coe, Behind him, almost all the way back to those fierce mountain portals, his army straggled and spread. It seemed absurd even to think of it as an army, in the circumstances. After the long constrictions of the glens, where their 8,000 had perforce made a narrow column six miles and more in length, now men and animals spilled out and scattered far and wide, to pick a way for themselves across the wilderness of lochs and loc hans pools, runnels, burns, bogs and peat-mosses, as best they could, more like a plague of voles in migration than a royal and military force. The Highlanders took it all in their stride, of course; but the Lowland troops and cavalry were making heavy going, and the progress was slow indeed. If they were to be attacked now, on the verge of Lorn as they were, they would be helpless as a vast flock of stupid sheep. Except that no one could attack them effectively here, on any large scale, for the same conditions would apply to them. Bruce was not fretting, therefore, at their vulnerability, as he would have been almost anywhere else; nor even at the delay-though it did make nonsense out of his declaration that this descent upon Lorn should be swift and unheralded. MacDougall, in fact, could hardly have failed to be informed of their return, days ago. Although he could not be sure, of course, as yet, that they intended to turn due west and attack him; they could be on the way south, by Strathfillan and Loch Lomond, to Lennox and the Lowlands.

  Something of all this was in the King’s mind, when men’s attention was diverted from Gilbert Hay. Two of the forward scouts were coming hurrying back, Highlanders mounted on sturdy broad-hooved garrons that coped with the treacherous ground as born to it. They were nearing Campbell country here, and the scouts were drawn from that clan. As usual with the Highlanders, ignoring the King, they carried their news directly to their chief.

  “A company approaching, Sire,” Sir Neil called.

  “Some two miles ahead yet. A small company, mounted. But armoured.”

  Armour never failed to reveal itself, even at great distances, in sunlight.

  “How small?”

  “No more than two score.”

  “They may be scouts of a larger force. Take a party forward, Sir Neil, to investigate.”

  When, a little later, the King’s entourage topped one of the innumerable basalt ridges which ribbed that expanse, to view even more extensive barrenness ahead, it was also to perceive that Campbell had had no difficulty with the newcomers. He was quite close at hand, indeed, riding back with a little group of knights, handsomely equipped and mounted Lowlanders. And over these fluttered a silken banner showing a blue chief above a white field.

  “Douglas!” Bruce cried, and dug in his spurs.

  They met at no very salubrious spot, amongst reeds, tussocks and standing water; but careless of royal status or dignity, the King leapt down at the same moment as did the other, and strode to embrace the younger man heartily.

  “Jamie, lad-here’s joy! My good Sir James!” he exclaimed.

  * “What brings you here I know not. But you are welcome, by the Rude!

  Welcome indeed. For I have missed you, Jamie.”

  “Your Grace … my liege … Sir Robert!” Douglas could not find words, shaking his head.

  “It has been long …”

  “Aye, long. But our joining again the sweeter. Let me look at you.”

  He held the other at arm’s length.

  “Aye-James Douglas as ever was!”

  “Why should I change, Sire? But you-you are changed, to my sorrow! You are thin, wasted. I heard that you had been sick. You are not well, yet…?”

  “Well, yes-well again, lad. That is past” “You drive yourself too

  hard, Sire. Too much campaigning, scouring the face of the land, hard

  living. You were not bred to Urn. Bred to it? No. I was not bred

  to it Were you? Were any of us, save these Highland chieftains? Yet it is my blood and birth and breeding that has put me in the middle of Rannoch Moor this day, that set my hand to this plough. But … what brings you to Rannoch, Jamie? You, whom I left my lieutenant in the South?”

  Douglas looked down.

  “No doubt, Sire, I should not be here.

  Should not have come, myself. Should have sent couriers, letters.

  But the news is urgent And … and I hungered to see Your Grace’s face again. It is a year and more …”

  The King shook the other’s shoulder, and his
own head-but understandingly, not censoriously.

  “Aye, Jamie-we are flesh and blood, God knows! And God be thanked! Men, not graven images of duty and obedience and form. But… your urgent news?”

  “Galloway has broken out in revolt again. Major revolt. MacDouall, once more. But with English aid. Too great a task for me.

  He had Umfraville aiding him also-Sir Ingram. And an English force under Sir John de St. John. I had not the men to face them-have not sufficient, in truth, to hold what I have.”

  “Galloway again! In Heaven’s name-am I never to be free of Galloway’s spleen? And not just Galloway. Umfraville -who was Guardian of the Realm, once! Still hating me. I’ faith-hate dies slow in this Scotland …!”

  “The English still hold all the line of castles from Lochmaben to Caerlaverock—Tibbers, Dalswinton, Dumfries. Cutting off Galloway.

  And Buittle in Galloway itself—a strong place. I dared not move against them, leaving the rest of the South bare. So I left Sir Alexander Lindsay and Sir Walter de Bickerton in charge, at Selkirk in the Forest which I have made my base, and hastened north.

  I believed you to be assailing the Earl of Ross, in Moray and the Great Glen. But I learned in Atholl that you had come to terms with him which I could scarcely believe-and had turned south, by Lochaber, for the West. So I came hotfoot, by Tummel and Rannoch.”

  Bruce’s expression had returned to normal-grim, guarded, narrow-eyed, calculating, the brief interlude of naturalness, of being himself over.

  “So-o-o!” he breathed.

  “The Scots remain … the Scots! Preferring far to fight each other than the enemy! What curse is there on this people, what devil’s seed sown in us, that we must ever stab our brother’s back rather than our foe’s?” He swung round to face the semi-circle of his leaders.

  “My friends-have you heard? My lord of Douglas brings ill tidings.

  Galloway is in open revolt again. With aid both Scots and English. Umfraville, no less. With the Comyn fall, he will now lead the Baliol faction. I had hoped him either tamed or tired! And Sir John de St. John-he who led me to Edward Longshanks at Linlithgow, and my wedding! One of the ablest of the English. This is no small MacDouall insurrection.”

  “Christ God’s curse upon them all!” the Lord of the Isles exclaimed.

  “I told you! I call all to witness-I told you! At Loch Doon. That we should lay Galloway low. Not any petty ride around the place, waving a flag and hanging a few scoundrels, as we did. But with our fullest power, and no quarter. Fire and sword, to the whole accursed province! As you have done with Buchan.

  But you would have none of it. I had 500 Islesmen to avenge in Galloway!”

  The King held in his own temper. Only Angus Og would have addressed him so. But Angus was Angus, and this no time to stress style and courtly manners.

  “My lord, you did so advise,” he admitted.

  “But it was not vengeance that was my great concern. It was the new King Edward’s plans. Which we did not know. I had to think of all my kingdom, not just Galloway. I conceived that a light lesson would serve. I was wrong. It has not done so. And now we must pay for my error, and do what should have been done a year ago.”

  “It will be but the harder.”

  “True. But we are the stronger.”

  The Islesman looked bleak indeed.

  “I will take my galleys to Galloway!” he said, almost whispering.

  “They shall learn what it means to have insulted MacDonald!”

  Eyeing him a little askance, the King said, “We shall see. This must be well considered …”

  Edward Bruce had come up from a visit to Lennox in the rear, during the Douglas greeting. Now he broke in.

  “We now abandon one savage for another? MacDougall for MacDouall!

  Leave Lorn and fall on Galloway.”

  “No!” Campbell cried.

  “That would be folly. Lorn is at hand, Galloway far …”

  “And MacDougall a menace to your Campbell lands in Argyll!

  Have you thought of Carrick? Annandale? Which MacDouall and the English harass?”

  “My lords-we are not fighting for lands or properties. Any more than for vengeance,” Bruce intervened.

  “We fight for the freedom of a whole people, the saving of a kingdom. If you forget it, I do not. Let me hear no more of such talk. Win the kingdom, and all the lands therein shall be yours. But win the kingdom first!”

  Sir Thomas Randolph spoke up.

  “Sire-my lands of Nithsdale are near to Galloway, and so menaced. But

  I say to strike at this Lorn first. “”You are uncommon noble,

  nephew!” his uncle mocked, as Douglas looked up, interested in his late prisoner’s new role.

  “But then, we can well understand that you would rather fight MacDougall’s Highlandmen than your late friends the English!”

  Randolph flushed hotly, caught the King’s eye, and swallowed.

  “You have other reason for urging that we hold to Lorn, Sir Thomas?”

  “I have, Sire. Galloway stands alone. Even in successful revolt, it would not bring down all the South. But allow Lorn and Ross to join forces, and you could lose all the North again, truce or none.”

  “You have it, nephew! That is as I myself see it. MacDougall is still the greater danger. I proceed to Lorn, therefore, as planned.

  But Galloway -that wound must be staunched before it bleeds us white. I will think on this…”

  So the great sprawling array straggled on across the Moor of Rannoch.

  And now the King fretted again, at the slow rate of progress.

  They won out of that terrible wilderness, and down towards the wooded shores of lovely Loch Tulla, as evening fell, with the mountains closing in again and the going becoming firmer, surer. Bruce decided to camp here, where there was shelter and fuel, and the possibility of deer in the woods for skilled hunters to kill-for the feeding of so large a host in empty country was an ever-present headache. He had been preoccupied, thoughtful, since Douglas’s appearance. Now he called his lords together, round him.

  “I halt the main host here, early, although we have covered but little ground this day,” he told them.

  “For tomorrow we shall be into Lorn, and it is best that the men be well rested and fed, in fighting trim. If may be. Out of this Loch Tulla flows the River Orchy, down to Loch Awe and the Western Sea. We follow it, tomorrow. Here then, we part Most to camp for this night. But some to push on swiftly.”

  “Who?” Edward jerked.

  “You, brother, for one. I have considered this thing well. In the campaign against MacDougall, the heavier Lowland cavalry will be of scant use. I fear. Wasted, in mountain warfare. I would have you take most of it-say 600 men-and ride hard for the South. By the mounth of Marlom,. Strathfillan, Loch Lomond, across Clyde, and so down to the Forest of Ettrick. And thence to Galloway.”

  “Ha!” Edward breathed.

  “So you have come to sense, Robert!”

  “I have come to decision, my lord! You are strong for harrying and slaying! Here then is a task after your own heart. Collect what men Lindsay and Bickerton can spare you from Douglas’s force in the Forest. Gain as many as you may from our own lands of Carrick and Annandale.

  You have my royal authority to call for all support wherever you may. Then descend upon Galloway with all speed. Waste no time on the English-held castles. Avoid set battles, if you may. But deal with Galloway!”

  His brother was grinning, fiercely. They were very different men.

  “It shall be so, by the Mass!” he declared.

  “Galloway shall pay the price, this time. I shall deal with Galloway as I dealt with Buchan.”

  “No,” the King said.

  “Not quite that, Edward, I charge you.

  This war, not punishment. And glutted men fight but slackly. The English will always be at your elbow. This will not be Buchan again. But, see you-win me Galloway, and you shall be Lord of Galloway. Your province, brother.”

  There were moments of silence, as the significance of this sa
nk in. It was a notable promise, of an enormous heritage, a princedom indeed-the first such kingly bestowal of the reign. It would spur on Edward, or any man. But also, of course, if Galloway was to be his own thereafter, Edward would not wish to destroy and harry it any more than he must. None there failed to see the meaning of this.

  “I thank you, Sire,” the other said, carefully.

  “Aye. Sir Robert Boyd will be with you, as lieutenant. Heed his counsel. You shall have most of my knights. And hereafter, if I can spare more of my main host, I shall send it.”

  “Does Douglas come with me?” Edward undoubtedly was jealous of James Douglas’s position in the King’s esteem.

  “No. Not yet. My lord of Douglas remains with me here.” He turned.

  “My lord of the Isles-you also, if you will, to move swiftly tonight. Ahead, to the sea. Secretly. Your galleys lie off Kerrera isle, still? In the Firth of Lorn, threatening MacDougall?

  Yes-then will you make shift to reach them, and bring them to my aid? MacDougall lies in Dunstaffnage Castle, at the mouth of Etive. There I shall seek him. He will try to halt me before that, to be sure. But Dunstaffnage is my target. Will you menace it by sea?

  And bring your galleys up Loch Etive, to support my advance” “I would sooner sail south. To strike at Galloway.”

  “No doubt. And so you shall. Aid me at Dunstaffnage and Etive, and then sail for Galloway. Your galleys will travel more swiftly than men and horses.” He took Angus Og’s agreement for granted.

  ”How soon can you have your ships in Loch Etive?””If they are still in

  the anchorage of Kerrera, as I commanded, I can have them sailing up Etive in two or three hours. But I must get to Kerrera first. Through MacDougall country. Or skirting it.

  Forty miles. To Gallanach. Then a boat across to Kerrera island.”

  “Starting now, my lord? How long?”

  “Riding through the night, I could be down Glen Orchy and crossed Loch Awe by sunrise. Through the Glen Nant and Glen Lonan hills to the Sound of Kerrera in daylight, Campbell country.

  I could be at the sea by nightfall. At this hour tomorrow I could be with my galleys.”