The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  Before the misty dawn, the King and the Marischal’s force, leaving only a small garrison in the captured castle, were on their way northwards through the sleeping hills for Turnberry, riding as fast as the night would permit. The Earl of Atholl would have a pretty puzzle to unravel in the morning.

  Bruce learned from Lamberton’s courier, another friar who had been searching for him for two days, that the truce was indeed broken with a vengeance. He had known that Edward of Carnarvon was mustering troops but that strange, unpredictable man had done the same before and then failed to use the assembled host, to the fury and despair of his nobles. Indeed, latterly his lords had been ignoring his summonses. Now, it appeared, he had acted with unusual haste and vigour, and made a sudden dash northwards from York-possibly to impress his notorious favourite, Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, who was with him. Bishop Lamberton was actually with him also, taken along as an adviser apparently.

  The Primate had managed to send off this friar from Alnwick, five days

  before. Berwick should have been reached by the army, of about 75,000,

  two days later. The Earls of Gloucester and Surrey, with the Lords

  Percy and Clifford, were with King Edward. Lambertonbelieved the

  English to be heading across Scotland for Glasgow, before going on to relieve beleaguered Dundee.

  At Turnberry, Bruce sent out couriers in all directions, to his so scattered captains. All present operations were to be suspended immediately. Most groups were to rejoin him with all speed. There was to be no large-scale confrontation with the main English army.

  Harassing of flanks, rear and lines of support might be engaged in, but all the major effort was to be concentrated on laying waste the land in front of the advancing invaders, denying them supplies and shelter. Any stand to be made would be made at or near Stirling;

  but that was for the future.

  Scouting parties were, of course, sent off south-eastwards to ascertain the enemy progress. Because of the delay with the news, they could be expected by now to be well into Scotland. From Berwick, if they were in fact making for Glasgow-as was reasonable, so that they could relieve besieged Bothwell and Kirkintilloch also-they would almost certainly move diagonally across country by Roxburgh, following the Tweed up through Melrose and the Forest to Peebles, and then over the mouth of Tweedsmuir and the high spine of Southern Scotland, to the upper Clyde valley. There was not much that could be done to devastate the land before and through the Ettrick Forest-where there was little to devastate indeed-so that Bruce’s main attention must be to the grim, heartrending business of destruction of the fair Clyde valley and its surroundings-Douglas country. He had done it before, more than once, and he could do it again-but it went even more sorely against the grain, this harsh and wholesale eviction and impoverishment of his own people. But it was the only way that he could eventually halt the mighty invader, since he refused utterly to risk all in a great battle which was what the English wanted, with their preponderant power in numbers, heavy cavalry and hosts of archers. But a huge army of scores of thousands had to live largely on the country it passed through, and inevitably eventually ground to a halt if it could not gain food for its men and, above all, forage for its horses.

  Keith was sent off, therefore, with a small contingent, to do what he could by way of delaying tactics in the Forest area, while Bruce headed for upper Clydesdale, calling for men from all quarters to aid in the terrible work. Once it was confirmed that King Edward was to come this way, across the watershed, they would start. And he called a council-of-war at Cadzow for five days hence.

  Joined by Douglas, the King was at Lanark with just over a thousand men, when a messenger from Keith confirmed that the English were coming indeed. Roxburgh, Melrose, Selkirk and Peebles were ablaze, and, on the fringes at least, the Forest was beginning to hang with dead men.

  So the order was reluctantly given, and the great burning of fertile Clydesdale began, and Douglasdale with it, James Douglas acceding. The people were dispossessed and herded into the hills;

  all houses great and small, all barns, mills and other buildings, even churches, unroofed; all grain, hay and standing crops burned-and where the latter would not burn, trampled and flattened and wasted methodically; all bridges were demolished and fords made impassable; river banks and mill-lades were breached, pastures flooded, wells fouled with the car cases of all stock which could not be herded away. Inexorable, Bruce drove his manmade desert north by west, on a vast ten-mile-wide front. It took him back over the years to 1299, when he had first ravaged this same country, though in the other direction. And still they were fighting for Scotland’s very existence. Eleven years! How long, oh Lord-how long?

  Those days the King was bad company indeed, a savagely-fierce unapproachable man, black-browed, bleak-eyed, as he burned the realm he had dedicated his life to saving, made homeless the people he had vowed to protect. Even Gilbert Hay and James Douglas kept their distance, warily.

  Lanark itself was soon overtaken into the pattern of desolation and left a blazing pyre. The council-of-war was put forward two days and called now for Rutherglen.

  Edward Bruce arrived, the next day, from Galloway with 400 cavalry and the word that 1,500 foot was coming on, by forced marches, behind him. He brought more bad news. Another English force had crossed Solway from Carlisle, under the Earl of Richmond, and was ravaging and slaying its way up their own Annandale and Randolph’s Nithsdale. As angry a man as his brother, if in a different, hotter fashion, he asked, demanded, permission to take the main force and give battle in the passes of Moffat and Dalveen and Enterkin -and was curtly refused.

  Lennox was the last to arrive, from besieging Kirkintilloch -for Angus Og and most of the other Highlanders were meantime back in their own territories. The Earl was sadly depressed.

  Were they back where they had started, after all the years of bloodshed and sorrow? For once he got only short shrift from his friend.

  The council at Rutherglen was a sorry one, difficult, rancorous, with

  disillusion heavy upon all. Edward led a strong group in a mood of hot

  defiance, urging attack, attack. If they had to go down, let them go

  down fighting, like men-not running, savaging their own people.Campbell urged a retiral forthwith to Stirling, there to stand to the end, at the narrow waist of Scotland, abandoning all the South as hopeless but making a stronghold of the North. Reluctantly Lennox, Boyd and Douglas agreed. But Bruce was sternly adamant that they continue to drive their slow way north-westwards. They could by no means defeat the Plantagenet -but they could starve and sicken him. And this Edward would sicken more quickly than his sire. Abandon the South to him and he would install his armies in Glasgow and Edinburgh, if necessary for the winter, supply them by sea, and so be in a state to marshal his fullest force against the crossing at Stirling when he was ready. That way lay ultimate disaster-whereas his brother’s way was to make disaster immediate.

  Timeously, during the council, another courier arrived from Lamberton, forwarded by Keith from Biggar. It was to report that King Edward was now aiming, after relieving Bothwell, not at Glasgow but towards the sea-or at least, the mouth of the Clyde, in the Inverkip-Renfrew area. John MacDougall of Lorn had been sent to Dublin to collect and captain a fleet of shipping and Irish galleys from the Anglo-Irish there, with their mercenaries, and to sail up the Clyde with them. On the Renfrew coast he would make contact with the King, and ferry over the main English force to Dumbarton and the Lennox, so that it could then turn east, by passing Stirling, and make direct for Perth and Dundee, avoiding the natural bastion of the Forth and Clyde and intervening wilderness of the Flanders Moss. Thereafter, John of Lorn would take his fleet northwest into the Hebrides, to win back his father’s Argyll and to deal with the Lord of the Isles.

  Much shaken, the council listened to these tidings-which of course

  made nonsense of much that had gone before. But it only confirmed

  Bruce in
his determination to wear down the English before ever they

  reached the sea. The devastation policy would go on. In addition,

  wrecking parties would make for all the Clyde ports and havens, from

  Carrick northwards, to destroy and make unusable all harbour

  facilities, so that, on the west coast at least, hungry angry, soiled,

  frustrated and almost mutinous, the King had lost all taste for so inglorious an adventure-and Piers Gaveston with him. John of Lorn had not yet put in an appearance; the weather was bad, and there was famine in the land. Moreover Bruce was apparently prepared to burn all Glasgow and the West before him indefinitely. In petulant rage, he ordered a retreat by Linlithgow and Lothian, to Berwick, where they would winter. He did not trouble to try to inform John MacDougall.

  That resentful man found Angus Og waiting for him at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde, and there was a great sea battle. It would be difficult to say who won-but MacDougall it was who broke off, and limped southwards, to vent his spleen on the Isle of Man for want of better target.

  One more breathing-space gained-but at a price that could not continue to be paid.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “These larks, I swear, must be traitor birds!” James Douglas cried, gazing up into the pale cold blue of the early April sky, laughing.

  “Hear how they shout for joy. They cheer us on.”

  “I say they are Scots larks, blown south by some storm,” Gilbert Hay declared.

  “No English fowl could sing so sweet and true.”

  “Sweet, perhaps.” It was Thomas Randolph who took him up.

  “But true? Who are we to talk of Scots being true! I think the English are truer than we.”

  “Well may you say so!” Campbell accused quickly.

  “He means but that they breed the fewer traitors, I think,” Hugh Ross said, coming to the aid of his friend. These two had grown close since that day on Loch Ness-side three years before.

  “You should know-both of you!”

  “Peace, dolts!” the King said, but easily, almost automatically-for this was a perennial dissension.

  “Every man in this host will depend on every other for his life, from here on. So who should talk of traitors? Gibbie is right. These are Scots larks, strayed a little. Like ourselves! Perhaps we should sing like them, now-lest we cannot sing hereafter!”

  That brought them back to reality. They had, hitherto, been almost too

  carefree this sunny morning, blithe as any larks, apt to sing indeed,

  in a fashion highly unsuitable for great officers of state, sheriffs

  and the like. It was high time to adopt a more sober mood-though

  surely not a bickering, carping one. In their lighter travelling

  armour, under colourful heraldic sur coats, very fine, they sat their steaming mounts and looked back from the higher ground as the last files of their little army splashed across the ford of Esk near Kirkandrews. It was not in fact an army, but a hand-picked, tight-knit striking force of a thousand men, with a high proportion of them young knights, laird lings or the sons thereof, superbly mounted, finely accoutred and armed.

  Here was indeed the cream of Southern Scotland-or such part of it as supported King Robert-selected thus for more reasons than one.

  They stood, now, on the soil of England. It was five years since Bruce had last done that-and, as it happened, it was exactly here, at this remote and little-used ford that he had then crossed the Border, though then in the other direction, fleeing from Edward Longshanks’ fury, a day or two before he had slain the Red Comyn. Now he was back, a king himself, and with a gallant if hard-hitting company.

  It was against all his normal and cherished policy, a reversal to the old more brash Robert Bruce-or so it seemed. Yet he alone had decided upon it, and of a set purpose, just as he had carefully selected the men to take with him. This, in its own way, was in fact almost as much of a play-acting and demonstration as had been his St. Andrews parliament. Morale demanded that the risk be taken-the frustrated, angry morale of his own eager young captains and leaders, the knightly class, whom he had held back from battle during all the English invasion in the autumn and turned baleful incendiary instead; and the sagging, uneasy morale of the Northern English, whose men made up the bulk of King Edward’s army, still kicking its heels at Berwick after the idle winter. That army had waited for this spring for campaigning weather again, when the passes would be free of snow, the rivers cross able the bogs somewhat drier. Bruce had determined to move first, taking an enormous but calculated risk: The larks at least commended him.

  They rode on through the gradually rising empty grassy moors, scarcely high enough by Scots standards to be called hills, into Cumberland. Deliberately Bruce had chosen this lonely unfrequented route. One thousand men, however disciplined, are not transported through the countryside without attracting notice, and at this stage he desired the minimum of attention.

  As well as the route, he had chosen his destination with great care. It must be remote enough to receive no warning of approach, far enough into England to be significant, yet large or important enough to cause considerable heart-burning amongst the English.

  There should also be secondary targets in the area. Moreover, for preference, it should belong to Robert Clifford-or some of it! He had a long score to settle with the Lord of Brougham. The valleys of the Irthing and the upper South Tyne fulfilled all these requirements in general, and the Gillsland area in particular.

  By noon, the long, fast-moving column was almost twenty miles deep into England, heading east, and leaving behind the empty moors for lower ground. They had passed one or two remote villages, inevitably, as well as shepherds’ houses and granges; but they had left them all severely alone, and their occupants were not such as were likely to hastily send off messengers to Berwick, or even Carlisle. Crossing Bolton Fell they had had to negotiate a great drove of cattle, being herded south to Brampton market-and the drovers would assuredly tell what they had seen; but fortunately such herds moved very slowly over rough country, and by the time the drovers might give the news, it should not matter.

  They came to the summit of Banks Fell, the last long rolling ridge before the Vale of Irthing, and from the shelter of scrub woodland surveyed the scene. It all looked notably fat and fertile, prosperous and peaceful, with flocks and herds grazing far and near, fresh green everywhere with patches of new tilth showing brown, many farms and granges and hamlets scattered wide, and in the centre the sizeable town of Gillsland, grey-walled and red roofed, sending its blue chimney-smoke into the clear air. A little to the east rose the warm yellow masonry, tall and fair, of Irthing Priory, amongst spreading, gardens and orchards. Yet it was in the other direction, westwards, that Bruce’s own glance kept turning.

  Some three miles away, taller, handsomer, more splendid walls soared, amidst its own larger township-Lanercost Abbey itself.

  Lanercost, where the old Edward had so long made his headquarters for the subjugation of Scotland, and from which he had set out on his last journey of hatred, to die at Solway cursing Bruce.

  “A-a-aye!” the King breathed.

  “There is Lanercost, where my ruin, Scotland’s ruin, was plotted. And here,” he pointed closer at hand, “Here is my lord Clifford’s domain of Gillsland, with his priory of Irthing.” Sir Robert had recently been created a Lord of Parliament.

  “He has burned Annandale of the Bruces four times.

  And your Nithsdale twice, Thomas. I promised him a reckoning, once.

  This is not it, since he is not here. But it could be a first payment!

  For both of them.”

  The rumbling growl from those who could hear his words was a

  frightening thing. There was an involuntary surge forward of urgent

  horsemen. “Wait you!” the King commanded.

  “This is to be done heedfully. My way. I will have no unnecessary slaughter, no women ravished, no bairns savaged, no men hanging from trees. If any there be, oth
ers of you will hang with them, before we leave! Wallace made three mistakes. To fight at Falkirk. To trust a Halyburton.

  And to fail to keep his men under good control when he raided into England. So that he created here not fear and panic and a refusal to invade Scotland again, but a burning hatred, the more set on vengeance. It is not for that we are here, see you. We have not come for vengeance either-although, God knows, I could wish we had! We are here for set purposes. To create alarm and unrest in the English camp at Berwick, so that they do not march north into Scotland. To show the rest of the North of England what is like to happen to them if they continue to provide men for the Scottish wars. And last, to gain treasure.” He smiled slightly.

  “I will not deny that it displeasures me nothing that it is my lord Clifford’s lands, and those of the Abbey of Lanercost, that we work our purpose on!” And as an afterthought, he added, “I said treasure. Only such treasure as may be carried conveniently.

  None must lumber themselves with booty. All else is to be destroyed.

  And, I charge you-such treasure is not for your pouches, my friends! But for my Lord Treasurer’s coffers. That our warfare may be maintained.”

  Men chuckled at that, and a better temper for the business was engendered.

  Bruce went on to make his dispositions. At this stage, the force would split. He would take half, to Lanercost Douglas would lead the rest down to Gillsland itself, and Irthing Priory. They had not unlimited time. But seven hours until sunset. By which all this valley must be destroyed, and themselves over into the next and greater valley southwards-the upper South Tyne. There, seven miles beyond, lay the market town of Haltwhistle, as well as the castles of Bellister, Featherstone, Unthank and Blenkinsopp.

  Fleeing men from Gillsland would carry the tale of the her ship of Irthing to these. They must not be given time to muster and prepare.

  Haltwhistle, therefore, must be taken before dark, and the castles isolated. Four hours only for the sack of Gillsland and Lanercost, and all on their swift way to Tyne. Was it understood?