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  The Path of the Hero King

  ( Bruce Trilogy - 2 )

  Nigel Tranter

  This trilogy tells the story of Robert the Bruce and how, tutored and encouraged by the heroic William Wallace, he determined to continue the fight for an independent Scotland, sustained by a passionate love for his land.

  THE PATH OF THE HERO KING

  A harried fugitive, guilt-ridden, excommunicated, Robert the Bruce, King of Scots in name and nothing more, faced a future that all but he and perhaps Elizabeth de Burgh his wife accepted as devoid of hope; his kingdom occupied by a powerful and ruthless invader;

  his army defeated; a large proportion of his supporters dead or prisoners; much of his people against him; and the rest so cowed and war sick as no longer to care. Only a man of transcendent courage would have continued the struggle, or seen it as worth continuing. But Bruce, whatever his many failings, was courageous above all.

  And with a driving love of freedom that gave him no rest. Robert the Bruce blazes the path of the hero king, in blood and violence and determination, in cunning and ruthlessness, yet, strangely, a preoccupation with mercy and chivalry, all the way from the ill-starred open-boat landing on the Ayrshire coast by night, from a spider-hung Galloway cave and near despair, to Bannockburn itself, where he faced the hundred thousand strong mightiest army in the world, and won.

  THE PATH OF THE HERO KING

  THE BRUCE TRILOGY

  Book Two

  By

  Nigel Tranter

  Book Two

  THE PATH OF THE HERO KING

  1970 by Nigel Tranter.

  First published in Great Britain 1970 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd.

  Coronet edition 1972.

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  In Order of Appearance

  David de Moray, Bishop of Moray: Uncle of patriot Andrew Moray.

  Dewar of the Coioreach: Hereditary Keeper of St. Fillan’s staff.

  Dewar of the Main: Hereditary Keeper of St. Fillan’s left arm bone.

  Lady Elizabeth de Burgh, the Queen: Wife of Robert the First and daughter of Earl of Ulster.

  Lady Marjory Bruce: Eleven-year-old only child of the King.

  Robert Bruce, King of Scots: Fugitive, a few months after coronation.

  Sir Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick: Eldest brother of above, Sir Nigel Bruce: Next and favourite brother.

  Sir Christopher Seton: English knight and friend of Bruce.

  Second husband of Lady Christian, Countess of Mar, Bruce’s sister.

  Lady Isobel, Countess of Buchan: Sister to Earl of life. Wife of Buchan, who fought for English.

  Sir James Douglas: “The Good Sir James” Lord of Douglas, Friend of Bruce.

  Sir Gilbert Hay: Another old friend, Lord of Erroll.

  Sir Neil Campbell: Chief of Clan Campbell and Lord of Loch awe.

  John de Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl; Brother-in-law of Bruce’s first wife.

  Sot Alexander Lindsay: Lord of Crawford, a Bruce supporter, Sir Robert Fleming: Lord of Biggar, a Bruce supporter.

  Sir Robert Boyd of Noddsdale: A Bruce supporter, Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy: Chief of Clan Alpine.

  Malcolm, Earl of Lennox: A great Celtic noble, friend of Bruce.

  Angus og MacDonald: Self-styled Prince and Lord of the Isles, Second son of Angus Mor, Lord of Islay.

  Christina MacRuarie, Lady of Garmoran: Chieftainess of branch of Clan

  Donald; widow of brother of late Earl of Mar, Sir Robert Clifford,

  Lord of Brougham: English commander.

  Master Nicholas Balmyle: Official of St. Andrews: former Chancellor of Scotland.

  Sir Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke: English commander in-chief in Scotland.

  Master Bernard de Linton: Vicar of Mordington. Secretary.

  William de Irvine: Armour-Bearer to the King.

  John Comyn, Earl of Buchan: Lord High Constable of Scotland.

  Siding with the English.

  Sir Thomas Randolph, Lord of Nithsdale: Son of a step-sister of Bruce.

  Sir Alexander Comyn: Brother of Buchan, Sheriff of Inverness and Keeper of Urquhart Castle.

  Sir Hugh Ross: Eldest son of the Earl of Ross.

  Sir James Stewart: 5th Hereditary High Steward of Scotland.

  Walter Stewart: Son of above.

  William, Earl of Ross: Great Celtic noble.

  Alexander MacDonald of Argyll: Chief of clan. Enemy of Bruce.

  Sir Robert Keith: Hereditary Knight Marischal of Scotland.

  Lady Matilda Bruce: Youngest sister of the King.

  Lady Isabella de Strathbogie: Sister of Earl of Atholl.

  William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews: Primate. Friend of Bruce.

  Master Thomas Fenwick: Prior of Hexham-on-Tyne.

  Sir Henry de Bohun: Nephew of Earl of Hereford.

  Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester: Nephew of Edward the Second.

  Ralph de Monthermer: Stepfather of above. Second husband of Edward the First’s daughter.

  Sir Marmaduke Tweng: Veteran English knight. Former keeper of Stirling Castle.

  Sir Philip Moubray: Scots knight. Keeper of Stirling Castle for the English.

  Henry, Earl of Hereford: Lord High Constable of England.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  The Abbey of Glendochart was a ruin, of course. Had been for centuries. But there was a little shrine there still, amongst the grassy mounds and moss-grown stones that nestled under the high heather hills. It could not be called a church or chapel, either from its appearance or its intrinsic character-indeed Holy Church itself would have been the first to deny it any such title, just as she would sternly condemn any suggestion that the mounds and heaps of masonry, of which this was the last remaining entity, had ever been a true monastic limb of the Body of Christ. Holy Church was, as ever, very strong about such matters, however much she might bend to the winds of expediency in others. And the ancient Celtic Church of the Culdees, long put down, God be praised, was still anathema.

  That was why David de Moray, Bishop of Moray, though a cheerful and anything but pompously clerical exponent of the Church Militant, sat outside and a little way off, his back turned to the low, squat and entirely plain little building, more like a croft house than a sanctuary, and contemplated instead the magnificent soaring skyline of Ben More and Stobinian, 3,000 feet above them, where the cloud-shadows sailed serenely across the quartz-shot stone and the purple July bell-heather, and the desperations of men seemed remote indeed. The Bishop, however, did not wholly idle away this rather deplorable interval; he honed the edge of his great two-handed sword with a most rhythmic and methodical stroke.

  At a little distance, on the grassy haugh lands of the River Fillan, the men lay at ease, some 500 of them, mainly Lowland men-at arms but with some clansmen from the Southern Highlands, Campbells, MacGregors, MacLarens and the like, eyeing each other with no love lost, but glad enough to laze for a little in the smile of the July sun. They anticipated little lazing hereafter, for some time to come. Some of them took the opportunity to wash soiled and bloodstained bandaging in the clear sparkling water of the Fillan.

  Inside the small low-browed building it was dark, by contrast, and not

  a little stuffy; indeed a blunt man might have called it smelly

  despite the illustrious quality of the folk who crowded it-for unchanged clothing, untreated wounds and horse-sweat added to the human variety, can make a potent admixture, even without the smoke from the two guttering wicks that burned in beaten iron bowls at either end of the rough stone altar at the east end of the cabin. There were perhaps forty people crammed into that confined space, some kneeling or squatting but most stand
ing, happy when they could lean against the walling, about ten of them women. Some bowed their heads reverently, some yawned, some frankly slept, with one or two emitting quite un knightly snores-though more than that, obviously, was required to halt the flow of liquid, musical-sounding Gaelic, quite unintelligible to almost all of them, that went on and on. Two men, up at the altar, produced this-and when one faltered for lack of breath, the other took over without pause.

  If the Bishop outside did not look particularly priestly, in chain mail and sword-belt, at least he had a cross and a mitre painted on his ragged surcoat. These two had not a single sacerdotal emblem or vestment between them. One was a young man, of stocky but good physique, red-haired, dressed in a short kilt of faded saffron stuff, with an open and sleeveless calfskin waistcoat, black and white, and nothing else. The other was an elderly stooping ruin of a man, of once mighty build, wrapped in a voluminous ragged tartan plaid, and grey-bearded right down to the massive gold belt of snake-links that winked in the flickering lamplight and kept his tatters approximately in place. They made strange ministrants for the singsong liturgical chanting which they gabbled endlessly. Yet none, north of the Highland Line at least, would have questioned their authority. They were two of the hereditary Dewars of Saint Fillan, custodians of the sacred relics of that royal saint of the ancient Celtic Church; the old man, the Dewar of the Coigreach, Fillan’s bronze-headed pastoral staff of six centuries before, which now lay along the altar-slab; and the young, Dewar of the Main, the saint’s left arm-bone encased in a silver reliquary, which lay beside the staff. The other three Dewars, custodians of less important relics, were not present, being unfortunately under the thumb of Macnab, Mac-an-abb, chiefly descendant of the hereditary Abbots of Glendochart, a supporter of the unlamented and abdicated King John Baliol and of his Comyn kinsmen. But these two were the principal Dewars, and if anyone could convey the blessings of Saint Fillan and of the strange former Culdee Church, these could.

  Crowded as the place was, a little space was left in, as it were, the

  first row before the altar, for three persons who knelt-a man, woman

  and a child. The man, in mail, auburn head bare, was in his

  thirty-second year, medium-tall of build, wide-shouldered,

  strong-featured with a rough-hewn sort of good looks, but strained

  seeming, drawn, and bearing one shoulder slightly lower than the other

  as though in pain. The woman was tall, well-made, and of a proud and

  generous beauty, five years younger, her heavy corn coloured hair bound

  with a golden fillet, richly dressed in travelling clothes somewhat

  crumpled and stained. The child, a girl of eleven, slight, dark and great-eyed, daughter of the man and stepchild of the woman, stared about her in the half-dark and coughed with the lamp-smoke. She at least made no gesture at prayerful reverence.

  Strangely enough it was her father, not normally a prayerful or very religious-minded man, who seemed most impressed by the proceedings, most anxious to take part, to be identified. Occasionally his lips moved. His wife eyed him sidelong almost as often as she looked at the altar and the two strange figures before it. She was attentive, concerned-but her concern was not really with what went on but with its effect on the man at her side. None knew so well as she did how important this curious interlude was for the King.

  Almost, indeed, it represented a sort of salvation for a man sunk in guilt, the guilt of both murder and sacrilege, excommunicated by the Pope of Rome-whatever his own Scots bishops might say-beaten in battle within weeks of his coronation, a fugitive in his own country. This blessing and acceptance, by even this attenuated remnant of the former Church of the land, put down by the Romish order for over two centuries but persisting in these mountains in some degree still, was of vital moment. And not only to his bruised and harried spirit. The two extraordinary figures before him, lay Dewars though they were, nevertheless were accepted as holy men of major importance all over the Celtic Highlands and Islands. And since all the Lowlands, south, east and north, were barred to Robert Bruce, occupied by the English invaders, or his enemies the Comyns and their supporters, his future, in the meantime, must lie in these Highlands and Islands. This day’s proceedings, therefore, represented hope.

  Not all his followers, huddled in the ruins of Glendochart Abbey in

  Strathfillan, understood how vital all this was to the King, or looked

  on it as more than a passing madness on the part of a man tried to the

  limits. Catholics all, good, indifferent or only nominal, they looked

  askance at this outlandish performance by a couple of heathenish

  Highland cater ans in what was little better than a cattle-shed- and

  the only praying they did was it would soon be over. Only those

  closest to Bruce-his brothers Edward and Nigel; his sisters Mary and Christian, with the latter’s husband, Sir Christopher Seton; the Countess of Buchan who had placed the crown on his head those weeks before; and one or two of his surviving nearest friends, like Sir James Douglas and Sir Gilbert Hay, had any idea how much their cause might be affected by this weird ceremony.

  How long it might have gone on had they not been rudely interrupted, there was no knowing. A messenger came hurrying in and pushed his way to the front, stumbling in the dark and cursing audibly. He reached and spoke to Edward Bruce, who rose, but gestured him on to the kneeling King.

  “My lord King,” the man whispered hoarsely.

  “Sir Robert Boyd sends me. From your rearward. The Earl of Buchan comes up Dochartside. In force. From the Loch of Tay. Two thousand hone, Sir Robert says. English with him, under Percy.”

  “A curse on it! They have found us, then …”

  “Aye, we are betrayed again,” Edward Bruce declared, from behind, not troubling to lower his voice.

  “Buchan, you say? The Comyns?” The King glanced over his shoulder, shrinking with the pain of it, to where the Countess of Buchan knelt behind his sisters, his wife’s principal lady-in-waiting and wife of the Constable of Scotland who was thus pursuing him even into these mountains. He sighed, and rose to his feet, lifting a hand to the Dewar of the Main, the young man, who was presently holding forth.

  “My friend,” he called, “I am sorry. Your pardon-but we must go. The enemy approaches. In strength. We must ride. I thank you…”

  Had it been the old man, he probably would have paid no heed and continued haughtily with the ritual. But the other faltered into silence and became suddenly just a young and somewhat embarrassed Highlandman. His companion glared, tugging his long beard, and grabbed his staff off the altar in protest.

  “I am sorry,” the King repeated.

  “Your blessing I much value.

  Your faith and order I will seek to cherish. But now we must go.

  Remembering kindly Glendochart.” He took the Queen’s arm and nodded to the Princess Marjory.

  “Come.”

  Out in the sunshine the Bishop was waiting for him, leaning on his sword.

  “Trouble, Sire?” he asked.

  “Not the English? In these hills…!”

  “The Comyns. Buchan leads them. With Percy.” Bruce turned to the messenger.

  “How near are they?”

  “They were past Luib when I rode, Sire. Sir Robert retiring before them. To the loch-foot…”

  “Then we have but little time. Two thousand, you say? Too many for us, by far, as we are. We can but run for it.”

  “Where? Encumbered as we are with wounded. And women.”

  Sir Edward Bruce, the eldest of the King’s four brothers, was dark, thin, wiry and of tense-nerved disposition.

  “I say that we should fight. Seek a place to ambush them. Use this, land against them…”

  Sir Nigel, a little younger, handsomely dashing, laughter-loving and the King’s favourite, agreed.

  “To be sure. Even though they are four to one. We have skulked and hidden enough, by God!

  Here, in this boggy
valley, with the river and the hills, is no place for their chivalry. Hemmed in. We can bring them to battle on our terms…”

  There were cries for and against amongst the circle of lords and knights that clustered round the King, fairly evenly divided.

  Bruce shook his auburn head.

  “Use your wits,” he requested his brothers.

  “Think you I would not stand and fight, if I might with any hope of success? But if the Comyns are riding up Glendochart, it is because they have been led here. No host would venture into these trackless mountains by chance. They must be guided to us.

  Which means that we have been betrayed. And the only folk who could betray us hereabouts are the Macnabs. When Patrick Macnab came not to greet us, in his own country, I deemed him no friend. Now, I see why he did not come! He has hastened to bring our enemies down upon us. And if they are so led, then think you we could ambush them? Take them by surprise? In daylight? This is their land. They will know every inch of it. And we have no time to wait for darkness. They would be on us in an hour. No-we have no choice, my friends. We must ride. And westwards. We must make for Sir Neil’s country on Loch Awe. With all speed that we may. Forthwith. Sir Neil Campbell-you will lead…”

  The Campbell chief, a dark, swarthy, youngish man of sombre looks but a notable fighter, was nothing loth. He had been anxious not to linger in this area of Breadalbane and Mamlom, Saint Fillan’s land or no, these last five days; it was too close and linked to the domains of his hereditary enemies, the MacDougalls of Argyll and Lorn. And the Lord of Lorn was wed to a sister of the late, murdered Sir John Comyn the Red, Lord of Badenoch.

  Despite the complaint that they were encumbered with women, and wounded

  from the disastrous battle of Methven nearly three weeks previously,

  the King’s small host was not slow about moving off. They had a

  sufficiency of practice. Campbell, with an advance party of four

  score, went first Half an hour after the arrival of Boyd’s courier, the haugh land of the Fillan was empty save for the two Dewars and some of the local folk. With the enemy only about six miles behind, this was not too soon.