The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  But-this is not a cattle-mart! Do you have me here to price and sum?”

  He yawned cavernously.

  “Your Grace,” the Abbot said severely.

  “Here is new life for your kingdom. Yesterday we shed sweat and blood. Here is life’s blood of a different sort. But a sort that the realm must have.”

  “I know it, friend. Know also that to you, as Chancellor, this is allimportant. But for myself, I am more concerned to hear the figures of our losses yesterday, which still you do not find for me.”

  “It takes time, Sire. Until the Lord Edward comes back. And Sir James, with the Marischal. And Sir Neil, and the others, pursuing the enemy. We cannot know for sure. Even bodies counted are no sure token. For who can tell a Scots corpse from an English, sunk in mire? Stripped. Drowned in Forth. But-comfort Your Grace-we believe that our losses are small, as against those of the English. In dead. Even in wounded. Of these, they say there are more men injured by their own splintered pike-staffs than by enemy steel. Of knights we do know numbers. But three are dead.

  Sir William, younger son of the Earl of Ross. Sir William de Vipont. And Sir William Airth. Only these, though more are wounded. Against already counted thirty-five English barons and nobles, over 200 knights and 700 esquires and gentry. Dead. So great a victory is scarce believable …”

  There was an interruption. A small party of Islesmen came into the hall, pushing before them a white-haired elderly man dressed only in bloodstained silken shirt and breeches, his fine features lined with pain and fatigue. Yet this man, though roughly handled, still clutched a sword to him, determinedly though not aggressively.

  After a word with the guard at the door, the little party was permitted to approach the King.

  “Lord,” their spokesman said, in the soft Gaelic, “this man we have but now found. In a bush. He says that he will yield his sword to none but you. He said we could kill him before he gave it up.

  Almost we did …”

  “Enough of this heathen gibberish!” the old man interrupted strongly, for so frail-seeming a captive.

  “I am Marmaduke Tweng. Will Your Majesty accept my sword?”

  “Ha! Sir Marmaduke!” Bruce actually rose to his feet.

  “I greet you, sir. Yours is a name all men would honour. You are

  hurt? “”Honour …?” the other demanded.

  “Is there honour for any Englishman hereafter? Our honour is fled!

  Better that it was trampled in yonder mire!”

  “Not so, sir. Honourable men do not lose their honour so easily.

  Because others forget theirs. Yours is safe, I say. It came intact from Stirling once before!”

  Sir Marmaduke Tweng was, in fact, one of the very few notable Englishmen who had come out of Wallace’s campaigns, especially the Battle of Stirling Bridge, seventeen years before, with name unsullied even though he had held Stirling Castle against the Scots for long years thereafter. Wallace had said that if there were but a few more Twengs in England, Scotland would never win her freedom.

  “Aye-this foul corner of Scots mire has been the curse on me! I say, the curse of me.” He had to shout, above the clamour of the bells.

  “King Robert-will you accept my sword?”

  “That I will not, Sir Marmaduke! Keep your sword. No man wears one more worthily. You are no prisoner. So you pay no ransom.” Bruce turned to the Chancellor.

  “Give these MacDonalds something for their trouble. A gold spur perhaps. And let them go.

  You, Sir Marmaduke, may not have lost your honour or your sword-but you have lost much, I see. Blood, it seems-and armour, helmet, mount, shield, seal? See you-take what you will from here.” He waved a hand at all the stacked booty.

  “And choose you a horse. Moreover, show yourself to my physicians. You are my honoured guest until you leave this Scotland.”

  The older man’s voice quavered now, and was barely to be heard above the bells.

  “You are kind. Noble. There speaks a king indeed!” He coughed, to hide his emotion.

  “Would … would we had such a king, in England. May I… kiss your Majesty’s hand?”

  He raised his white head.

  “One matter more, Sire-of your patience. I have a friend. Sir Edmund de Mauley. Lord Seneschal of England. Do you know …?”

  “I fear he lies in the chapel crypt, here, sir. With … others. He at least did not flee.”

  “And … and my cousin? Sir William, Lord of Higham? The Lord Maisbal of Ireland?”

  “He also, Sir Marmaduke. Their honour is safe.”

  “For that I thank God …”

  A disturbance turned all eyes. A gorgeously-clad figure in splendid surcoat and gold-inlaid armour was being carried in on a cot house door, a great eight-pointed cross picked out in rubies on his breast, one who had escaped the mud-but not the blood. Gilbert Hay escorted the body in. “Sire-I know not who this is. None know. They found him beneath a heap of slain. But the cross, of St. John. Of Rhodes. A stranger knight. But important, I think …”

  “Important, yes.” That was Tweng, strongly.

  “I know who that is. He was with the King. But turned back when the King fled.

  Saying it was not his custom to flee. He would not run. Not he who is named the third greatest knight in Christendom!”

  “Dear God!” Bruce exclaimed.

  “You mean …?”

  “Aye, you should know-since you yourself are called the second such, Sir Robert! The first is the Emperor Henry of Luxemburg.

  And this, Sir Giles d’Argentin, was the third. God rest his noble soul!”

  “Amen!” the King said.

  “D’Argentin! The Crusader. Name me not in the same breath with this man, sir. A man whose harness I am scarcely worthy to unloose! One day, I had hoped-do hope-myself to carry my sword against the Infidel. He, d’Argentin, would have been my choice as leader. Sweet Christ-what a loss is here! Had I but known his presence …”

  “What could you have done, Sire …?”

  Hay’s words were drowned in the clatter of hooves and clank of armour outside. A new and larger party came stamping into the refectory, to bow, the Earl of Moray leading.

  Bruce sighed, and shook his head.

  “Well, nephew?” he said, but scarcely welcomingly.

  “Stirling Castle has surrendered, Sire,” Randolph declared.

  “Your standard now flies over it, at last. Here is Sir Philip Moubray, the governor.”

  “Ha-Moubray!” Bruce stared at the narrow-faced, prematurely grey, youngish man, one of his principal enemies.

  “Moubray, who has cost me dear indeed. He gives me back my principal fortress?

  And himself! What shall I do with him, nephew?”

  “Hang him, Sire!” Hay asserted, briefly.

  “I asked my lord of Moray, Gibbie. Let him answer, for he is his prisoner, it seems.”

  “Your Grace,” Randolph said slowly.

  “I would urge you to do with him as you did with me.”

  “You would? He is a traitor, my lord.”

  “As was I.”

  “You were my own kin.”

  “You seek my mercy on him, then?”

  “I do. Two nights ago you praised my stand. At the Pelstream.

  Offered me reward. Now I ask it. This man’s life. He was my friend

  once. He is a valiant knight. He would not have cost you so dear were

  he not. You have need of such still, I think.””M’mmm. Sir Philiphow

  say you? It was on Methven field last we met, was it not?”

  “Yes, Sire.” The prisoner came forward, and fell on his knees.

  “I struck you from your horse. Sought to capture you. I have never failed to be your foe.”

  “Why?”

  “I believed your cause wrong. And Comyn’s right.”

  “And now?”

  “I do not beg for my life, Sire. But if you choose to grant it, I will serve you faithfully until its end.”

  Bruce took a turn away, and looked down at the dead face of Sir Giles d’Argentin.

  “So b
e it, Sir Philip,” he said.

  “Too many brave men have died, to no advantage. Live, then-and serve me as well as you served my enemies.” And he gave him his hand to kiss.

  When the King sat down again, the Abbot Bernard spoke as low voiced as was practical, in the bells’ clamour.

  “You are overgenerous, Sire,” he complained.

  “Needlessly so. Mercy is good. But..” Sir Marmaduke Tweng is a rich man. He could well have paid a great ransom. And this Sir Philip Moubray has great lands. In Lothian. They should be forfeit. Your Treasury needs all such, with a whole realm to build anew.”

  “It will take more than siller to build it anew, Master Bernard! All this accounting and inventory is turning you huckster. Let us not become merchants, in this our deliverance. Forbye, we have plenty. Plenty for ransom, have we not? What did you say? Thirty five lords and barons? 200 knights …?”

  “No, no, Sire-that was the numbers slain. Captured, and for ransom, there are but twenty-two lords. Though some 500 of knightly rank.”

  “Mercy on us-and you grudge me Sir Marmaduke!”

  “Yesterday Your Grace freed the Earl Ralph. He would have brought a mighty ransom. I but remind you not to be too kind in your triumph, too gentle …”

  “Gentle! Save us-do you really esteem me so gentle, man? My brother Edward once named me that, I mind. But you are a wiser man, I thought! I am nothing gentle. I but choose my victims!

  Some, I swear, will not find me kind, nor gentle, hereafter.”

  The next visitors to Cambuskenneth Abbey proved the King’s words, despite all their nobility. For this was a noble band indeed, brought in by Edward Bruce and Robert Boyd, weary with long riding, all of them, but proud still.

  “These I have brought from Bothwell Castle, in Lanarkshire,” Edward announced, without ceremony.

  “Fleeing, they took refuge there. But that place’s governor, one Gilbertson, decided to turn his coat He delivered them all into my hands, in return for his own life.” He paused, grinning.

  “Henry de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, Lord High Constable of England. Robert de Umfraville, Earl of Angus. Sir Ingram de Umfraville, former Guardian of this realm.

  Maurice, Lord Berkeley. John, Lord Segrave. Hugh, Lord Despenser.

  John, Lord Ferrers. John, Lord Rich. Edmund, Lord Abergavenny.

  Sir Anthony de Lucy. Aye-and a troop of lesser men outside.”

  “So-o-o! Here is the cream in the pitcher!” This time Bruce did not rise to his feet.

  “Save for the illustrious dead, here is England’s pride and glory! With some leavening of my own! I thank you, my lord of Carrick. And Sir Robert Boyd. You have done notably well. You have not heard how James Douglas fares? Chasing the Plantagenet? And Pembroke? And my good-sire?”

  “Pembroke left them behind Stirling,” Edward reported.

  “There he halted, they say, to rally his own fleeing Welsh march men and archers. He has over 1,000 of them. He is marching them to Carlisle.

  In good order. Too many for me to hunt, with my sixty horse.

  Besides, I had another game!”

  “Aye. Aymer de Valence plays the man, at last! But-the King?

  Ulster?”

  “Douglas will never catch them. They have better horses and near an hour’s start. We heard that they had not drawn rein by Linlithgow! And they were still passing their own baggagetrain heading north! They will be in Berwick, by this.”

  “A pity. I would have welcomed a word with my good sire.

  About his daughter!” Bruce looked for the first time directly at the galaxy of stiff-necked if wary-eyed English lords-for the Umfraville brothers, though they held the Scots earldom of Angus, through marriage, were English in all else.

  “My lords,” he said, “I have been accused this day of being over-kind, over-gentle.

  Insufficiently a huckster, a merchant! You are all King Edward’s menthe old Edward. He trained you, as he sought to train me.

  You know how he would have acted, had he sat here today!”

  There was absolute silence. All knew only too well what their master, Edward the Hammer of the Scots, would have done.

  “He slew my brothers, as prisoners-three of them. Hanged, drawn and quartered. And my good-brother, Seton. And innumerable of my friends. Wallace he butchered unspeakably. Your King hanged his prisoners, my lords-and the earls he hanged highest of all! Tell me why should not I do the same with you?”

  “We are not rebels, sir,” Hereford said, coldly.

  “Ha! Not rebels, no. You still say we were?” And when none answered that, Bruce went on tensely.

  ”I would you had been rebels I would have honoured you more. One

  rebel I have freely pardoned. Moubray! You are not rebels-you are cowards! Dastards!

  Your late liege lord Edward Longshanks would not have lifted a single finger to save you, this day. You know it. He would have forsworn you all. He, from being a noble knight, grew to become a savage, a brute-beast! But he was never a coward. Never would he have fled a field leaving scores of thousands who still could fight. As did his son. And as did you, my lords!”

  “I pray you-spare us your strictures, sir,” the Lord Berkeley requested with heavy patience.

  “We are your prisoners, and there’s an end to it. Do your worst-but no preaching. From a brigand, a rebel! Of a mercy!”

  Bruce motioned to his brother, and the other Scots, for patience, “You are courageous with your tongue, at least! Or is it mere proud English insolence? You are my prisoners, yes. And a brigand would hang you, out of hand. Would he not?”

  “I think not. A brigand, impoverished and beggarly, would sell us! As you will do. For as high a price as he could gain! Never fear, Robert Bruce-we will pay our ransoms!”

  Fists tight clenched, the King looked at the row of cold, arrogant, all but bored-seeming faces. Urgently he sought to control his temper.

  “Sir Marmaduke Tweng -who stayed to fight-named me the second knight in Christendom. You name me rebel and brigand. Which is it to be, my lords? How do you elect to be treated? By the knight? Or by the brigand? Choose now, and make no complaint hereafter.”

  “What matters it? The leopard does not change its spots.”

  “Nor the jackal become lion because it dons a king’s robe!” That was Ferrers.

  “Sire-you have won a battle. You will not stain it with dishonour?”

  That was Ingram de Umfraville, the former Guardian, who, with his brother, was in somewhat different case from the others, being, in theory at least, Scots citizens-and therefore ipso facto themselves rebels.

  “So be it,” Bruce said.

  “I shall disappoint none of you, my lords.

  You shall all go into the deepest pits of Stirling Castle. Each alone, You shall not hang-not yet! Bread and water shall be your, diet-lest you grow contented with your chains. And there you will lie until your ransoms are paid. A brigand, I will sell you for a high price, as you say!”

  “And your price, sir? What is it?” That was Hereford, the Constable.

  “We are not paupers. We will pay your price, in gold or silver, never fear. How much?”

  “Gold and silver? Aye, that too. But I will have more than gold and silver, my lords.” Bruce leaned forward, speaking slowly, carefully.

  “I will have what is mine restored to me, first. And you have much that is mine, in your England. My wife. My daughter. My sisters. The Countess of Buchan. My friends a-many. Held prisoner for long years. Shut away. In cells and cages. Grown old in your foul prisons. I have waited long for this. You cannot give me back my dead brothers. But every one of these shall be returned forthwith.

  My Queen first of all. Before any one of you see the light of another day from your deep pits. The surest messengers and fleetest horses are yours, to send for them, this very day. And if they do not come, within six weeks-no, a month-then you die. All of you.

  Die as my brothers died, as Wallace died, hanged, disembowelled and your entrails burned before your eyes! You understand …”

  Without waiting, w
ithout daring to wait for an answer, the King of Scots rose, his heavy chair thrust back to fall with a crash, and turning, strode from the refectory without a backward glance, lest any should see the tears that streamed from his eyes.

  Outside in the Abbey garden, as the bells clanged their joyful paeans across the marshes, Robert Bruce stared away and away southwards, blinking.

  “Elizabeth!” he whispered.

  ”Elizabeth, my heart…!”

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: af580907-66f8-4df3-b991-0a3224ad2377

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 7.4.2013

  Created using: calibre 0.9.25, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Nigel Tranter

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