The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  the point, he has known me! And seems to forget it And with the assassin Ross’s daughter, of all creatures!

  My poor slain father will turn in his English grave!”

  Bruce shook his head wearily.

  “There is nothing in that, lass. A mere passing fancy…”

  “And I a past fancy! Is that to be the way of it? We shall see! I promise you, we shall see …”

  The King was grateful indeed for the sudden extraordinary noise which drowned his companion’s bitter voice. It came from the minstrels’ gallery. With the bears gone, the music had ceased, and now was succeeded by a high, wild moaning and whistling sound that rose and fell, rose and fell, for all the world like the gusting of a storm wind. Presumably fiddles and fifes, and the drones of bagpipes, were responsible. Then the splash-splash of water, skipped from pail to pail, was added. Everywhere talk died away.

  At the foot of the hall the doors were thrown open, and the representation of a large ship moved in. It was handsomely made of painted canvas on a wooden frame, with three tall masts and sails. It held a crew of a dozen, who, although they actually walked on the floor, seemed to sit within. They wore breastplates and helmets, with the Leopards of England painted on them, and from the mastheads flew stiff banners, two red Grosses of St. George flanking another Plantagenet Leopard. They came in chanting, “Death to all Scots! Down with King Hob!”

  King Hob was the English term of scorn for Robert Bruce.

  This tableau produced the expected cries and groans of execration from the company, some of those who suffered most from liquor even advancing threateningly, fists raised.

  Then, behind, emerged a smaller vessel, with only four occupants.

  These also were in armour, three with the white-on-blue Cross of St. Andrew painted on their breastplates, and the fourth, a handsome youth who stood amidships-indeed, none other than William Irvine of Drum, the royal armour-bearer- wearing the Lion Rampant and having a gold circlet round his brows. The supporting trio shouted “God save King Robert! Freedom or death!” while Irvine bowed graciously all round.

  The loud applause that greeted this party was quickly drowned in

  violent shouting and war cries, as the larger craft swung cumbrously

  round and bore down on the smaller, its crew brandishing suddenly drawn

  swords.

  A fierce and very noisy battle thereupon took place, a dozen against four, with much whacking and clashing of steel and the Scots taking some resounding knocks, the masts of their ship tending to come adrift realistically in the process-in fact, Irvine having to hold the mid-mast up. Sundry of the more excited spectators had to be restrained from forcibly joining in.

  In the midst of this stirring if unequal contest a third vessel appeared on the scene, midway in size between the other two. This was skilfully represented as a galley, with a single mast, a great square sale on which was painted the device of three red lions on gold, and three oars pulling rhythmically on each side. Its crew wore Highland dress and bonnets, and its leader the eagles’ feathers of a chief, with bunches of juniper as badge. Cheers shook the hall as the newcomers drove in towards the contestants.

  But the cheers died away to shocked silence, and then changed to varied exclamations of wrath, jeering, abuse and laughter, as it became evident that the Highlanders were in fact attacking the Scots vessel, not the English. Only then it dawned on those sufficiently mentally alert at this hour of a gay night, that the redandgold colours, the juniper badge and the three lions device on the sail, were all the marks of the earldom of Ross; and that the leader with the eagles’ feathers was a huge fat youth, made grotesquely fatter with pillows and the like.

  Bruce, drawing a quick breath, looked over at Christina MacRuarie—who smiled back at him unconcernedly. This was her doing, for certain, her way of hitting back at Ross for many things, but in especial undoubtedly for the attack on her personal galley that October day some thirty months before, in the Hebridean Sea, when Bruce had first met her. This was her method of showing that while the King might overlook and forget slights and injuries, she and others did not. The realisation of it grew on all there, and the noise was deafening.

  Not a little anxious now, Bruce glanced across to where he had last seen the Earl of Ross drinking at one of the side tables. He was still there, but now happily had fallen forward, head on arm, goblet spilt beside him. Nobody was thinking to rouse him, apparently, to view the spectacle, much as he might hear of it afterwards.

  His sons however were not thus spared. Sir Hugh, beside Bruce’s young sister, looked discountenanced and unhappy; while Sir John, with his Comyn wife, fumed and spluttered. Farther over, Edward Bruce laughed loud and long, his arm still possessively round Ross’s blushing daughter.

  “Your Isleswoman has a nice wit, at least!” Isabel Strathbogie observed.

  “Pay heed to what she is telling you, Sire.”

  The King said nothing. A policy of statesmanlike forgiveness and unity

  might be well enough for the monarch, but it seemed to be less than

  popular with his subjects. How to impose it, then? Of his close

  friends only Lennox supported it, and that scarcely wholehearted And

  yet, was there any other way to face the greater menace, the English?

  These thoughts were temporarily banished by still another disturbance at the door. Into the hall swept a fourth vessel, and this quite the most eye-catching of all, magnificent indeed. It was all white and gold, another galley, everything-sail, mast, hull, oars, hanging shields-dazzling white picked out in gold. The crew were all in white also-but any insipidity in this was banished by the fact that they were all young women. There were a score of them in the galley, all but one clad wholly in diaphanous snow white lawn or cambric, of a clerical fineness of quality that was only made for high churchmen’s surplices-indeed, these were all surplices, only a little adjusted almost transparent. That the ladies wore nothing else beneath was swiftly apparent to delighted male and scandalised female eyes. The glow of pinkish flesh, with darker patches here and there, through the white, as well as the arms and legs more frankly bare, was the only failure, if such it could be called, in the white-and-gold harmony. Each girl bore a gold-painted wand in her hand.

  The one exception to this un warlike company was a splendidly built, laughing-eyed young female who stood alone on the raised poop of the galley, holding a golden arrow. She wore a handsome white-painted helmet above her cascade of corn-coloured hair, the wings on either side golden. A steel breastplate, also white, only partly hid her otherwise unclothed upper parts, and the very obvious fact that it had been designed to fit other than a particularly pronounced and rounded feminine form only enhanced effect. The back, save for the armour’s straps, was wholly bare. A sort of brief skirt of chain mail and tall riding-boots, both whitened, completed the costume-though leaving notable stretches of delectable thigh uncovered.

  Needless to say this boatload aroused a masculine enthusiasm far outdoing even that for the stoutly-battling but sadly outclassed royal craft, the King himself cheering heartily.

  “Hussies!” the Lady Isobel observed succinctly, at his side, to choke him off. After all, it was a monastery.

  The galley of the nymphs, or whatever they were, bore down on the other embattled three-and now the wild storm music sank and dwindled to a gentle melody. Out from the canvas craft the maidens rose, to step over into the other vessels, lightly waving their wands before the receptive faces of the sword-whacking warriors, or at least those opposing the four heroes in the royal barge, now in dire danger of becoming a casualty indeed. The breast plated lady remained in the stern of her own galley, directing all with her arrow-like weapon. With remarkable speed and unanimity the Englishmen and the Rosses alike collapsed before this potent assault-not so remarkable perhaps in view of the closing in of all this unusually underclad femininity. In a disappointingly short time, in the circumstances, Scotia’s rescue was accomplished and the heroic monarch was safe-t
hough he still was landed with the task of keeping upright the swaying mid-mast and sail, to his evident embarrassment. At this stage the nymphs’ leader vacated her poop and, stepping over into the Ross galley, poked her dart approximately into the stomach of the stout chieftain, in formally dramatic fashion, whereupon he sank away out of sight below the gunwale, clutching his middle and howling horribly. The music rose to a triumphant crescendo. Evidently this belated coup de grace had some especial significance.

  The resounding applause was cut short by Christina MacRuarie, who stepped out into mid-floor beside the victorious galley, hand raised.

  “Hear me,” she called, in her softly lilting Hebridean voice, into the eventual hush.

  “Hear me, all you most noble of Scotland’s race, Highland and Lowland.

  And others!” Her pause was eloquent.

  “Here is the Princess Aoife, of Skye, mighty heroine, and mother of Cuchullin’s son, come to the rescue of the King of Scots, with her train of pure maidens and her mystic gaebolg, the dart of justice and truth, from which there is no known protection so be that it is hurled over water. Thus the King’s saving and sure support came from across the water, the Western Sea, as the seannachies of old have foretold. So long as King Robert remembers the true Celtic origin and honour of his kingdom, so long shall he triumph and his throne be glorious.”

  There was more applause, but some murmuring too from the non-Highland part of the assembly, which saw this all as rather too blatant a piece of propaganda for the barbarous Erse and Islesmen.

  As undoubtedly it was, of course, a flourish, but a warning too.

  Bruce recollected something of the saga of Aoife of Skye, the semi mythological heroine of many a Highland camp-fire, Lady of the Sea, Princess of the North, mistress of the legendary Cuchullin after whom the Skye mountains were named, and mother of the beautiful but ill-fated Conlaoch, whose invincible belly-dart was only effective over water. Bruce glanced round to seek for the Lord of the Isles. Angus Og would have had a hand in this, to be sure.

  Christina, helping down the voluptuous dart-wielder from the Ross

  galley, and beckoning young Irvine from the royal wreck-so that he had

  to dispose of his wretched mast to one of his colleagues -led the two

  principals across to present them to the King.

  “Here is Marsala MacGregor of Glenkinglass, niece to the MacGregor,” she introduced.

  As the bold-eyed, high-coloured and excitingly-made girl sank in deepest curtsy before him, she might have been naked to the waist, as far as Bruce was concerned, her breastplate, by its very nature, weight and shape, being no protection to her in the least. Nor did the curtsy increase the efficacy of the chain-mail skirt. Clearing his throat, he leaned over to raise her up.

  “Lady … Mistress … my dear,” he said huskily, “I thank you.

  Indeed I do. We all do. You are most… superb! My felicitations.

  You are a credit to Clan Alpine, on my soul! A … joy to us all. I shall tell your uncle so.” When she would have backed away, he held her arm and turned her, so that she stood by his side, flushed, radiant. The King was relieved to see that the Lady Isa had somehow removed herself.

  He nodded to the young armour-bearer: “You wrought nobly, Willie,” he acknowledged.

  “As who would not, knowing how you were to be delivered! You must act my tutor in some matters hereafter, I see!” He turned to Christina.

  “As for you, my Lady of Garmoran—I am beyond words! Your talents are such that we all are left speechless. Which, it may be, is as well! It is my hope that my lord Prior will so remain. Equally my lord of Ross! But… you have delighted our eyes and our … sensibilities. You and all those who have so ably entertained us. I thank you all.” He found that he was clutching the MacGregor girl’s arm, made to loose her, and then forbore.

  “All shall be rewarded, as is meet, I assure you!” And Tina MacRuarie could make what she would of that.

  Sir John Ross, with his wife, turned and stalked from the hall, without any of the required bowing towards the monarch. It was difficult to say who led who.

  Save for the King’s captive, the galley-maidens fled for their lives and virtue, not only their late victims in hot pursuit.

  The hour was late, and this obviously had been the highlight of the evening. There followed more music and dancing, and there was still cheer of more solid sort for all who desired it. But all was now by way of anticlimax. When the King decently could detain his fair prisoner no longer, and yielded her to Christina, he moved over for a word with Hugh Ross, to soothe susceptibilities and to ensure that the old Earl was got discreetly off to bed. He advised his young sister, in the by-going, that it was time that she too retired from the scene. He looked for Edward, but was too late for that active operator, who had already disappeared, and Isabella Ross with him.

  Thereafter, commanding Gibbie Hay to see that all remaining guests obtained hospitality to their repletion, Bruce quietly slipped from the Guest Hall to make his way alone through the now deserted, night-bound streets to the Bishop’s Castle and his own tower bedchamber. He was glad enough of the fresh North Sea air to clear a throbbing head.

  It was William Irvine’s duty, as page rather than armour-bearer, to attend at the King’s chamber-but this night Willie would be otherwise preoccupied. After a word or two with the guard on duty, mounting the narrow corkscrew stair to his room at the tower-top, Bruce, at the door, paused, his nostrils catching the faintest whiff of woman’s perfume. He smiled a little. He had a feeling that possibly Christina might seek him out, this night, for more than explanations. And, of a truth, he could do with a woman!

  Entering the apartment, where a lamp was already lit and a fire burned brightly, the King was therefore not surprised to see the shadowy shape of a cloaked woman, back turned, over by the turret window. Small wonder the sentry downstairs had been rather more familiarly paw ky than usual.

  “Ha!” he said.

  “You should have allowed me to escort you here in person, my dear.”

  “Oh no, Sire. That would have been unseemly!” That was said with a giggle. And, though the voice was softly Highland-it was not Christina’s.

  “On my soul…!” Bruce stared, as the woman turned round. It was the MacGregor girl. She had discarded her helmet, but the long cloak, hanging open, revealed that she was still dressed approximately as before-if dressed is the word.

  She sketched another curtsy.

  “I hope that I please Your Grace?”

  that was just slightly uneasy.

  “Save us, girl-how did you get here?”

  The Lady Christina brought me.”

  “She did? And… where is she now?”

  Again the giggle.

  “Gone, Sire. To her own chamber. In the Gatehouse. She said that she thought that she would not be required further! Tonight.”

  “So-0-0!” Plunging, his mind sought for reasons. Why had Christina

  done this? They had not bedded since Aberdeen. Because of the letter

  from Elizabeth. He had indeed bedded no woman since then. A long

  time. Could it be …? She sensed his need-that would demand no

  Highland second-sight! But had divined also that there was a bar

  between them in this matter, an obstruction to break down? And had chosen to break it down by means of a stranger, this MacGregor wench! A young lusty, compliant creature whom she could scarcely doubt had taken his eye, taken every man’s eyes. Was that it? This Marsala was to prepare the way for.

  Christina again. If he slept with her, could he deny the other his bed, once more?

  It was the best that Bruce’s somewhat bemused mind could do at this hour and with that piece of uncomplicated and quite distracting womanhood before him.

  She had moved over to the fireside, and was holding out her hands to the blaze, though the room was warm enough, one booted foot on the raised fender-which meant that much of a white thigh and bent knee projected from the folds of the cloak, as well as the two
bare arms. She smiled at him over her shoulder in simplest invitation, and shrugged the cloak a little, so that the cloth slipped further. Nothing could have been less subtle-or more effective.

  Grinning, Bruce went over to her.

  “The Lady Christina is thoughtful and probably wise,” he said.

  “We must not disappoint her! May I take your cloak? Marsala, is it not?”

  She unfastened the clasp with alacrity, and stood revealed in her extraordinary but provocative costume. Her giggles were, in the circumstances, suitable, unexceptionable.

  “You played your part well,” he told her.

  “In the masque. But this heavy steel must irk your fair flesh sorely?”

  “It does,” she agreed, “I will be glad … to be quit of it!”

  Nodding, he proceeded to unbuckle the strapping at her bare back-and found the contact with her soft, warm and firm skin set his fingers trembling; which, for a mature man, experienced and a monarch at that, was a sorry commentary on prolonged celibacy.

  Marsala MacGregor aided him.

  The clumsy breastplate fell away to reveal breasts quite breathtaking in their shape and size. Too large, no doubt, in proportion to the rest of her, and likely in a few years to get quite out of hand and make her one of those top-heavy, quickly-ageing women. But that was no man’s concern tonight. He found no fault as she turned towards him so that the thrusting points of her brushed his damnably quivering hands. It crossed his mind that she was better at this than he had been with Christina, earlier in the evening.

  “You are … all delight,” he said throatily.

  “This chain mail

  How is it secured…?”

  She had anticipated him there, and at a little more than a touch from him the heavy if brief skirting fell to her feet with a satisfactorily solid crunch. Whatever may have been under it previously, there was nothing now save generous swelling womanhood, suitably framed and garnished.

  Even as he looked down her white belly seemed to ripple and wave-or was that his own eyesight, affected by the liquor he had drunk? Or another symptom of his humiliating youth-like excitement and urgency?