The Path of the Hero King bt-2 Page 2

  They rode up Strathfillan, the upper portion of Glendochart, making for Tyndrum, where the routes forked, one to go west by south, by Glen Lochy and Glen Orchy to the foot of Loch Awe; the other north over the mouth of Mamlom and across the desert wastes of the vast Moor of Rannoch, to Lochaber and North Atholl. There was no other choice. The great mountain bar rien hemmed them in.

  The Queen and Marjory rode beside Bruce. It was nothing new for Elizabeth de Burgh, daughter of English King Edward’s greatest friend, the Earl of Ulster, to be hunted, a fugitive. Since she threw in her lot with Bruce four years before, she had known little of peace and security in a savaged and war-torn land. But for young Marjory this was her first taste of campaigning. She had been reared in care and seclusion at her dead mother’s old home, the remote, strong castle of Kildrummy in Mar, seat of that earldom, by her aunt and uncle twice over-for the late Earl of Mar had married Bruce’s sister Christian, now Lady Seton, and Bruce’s first wife had been the Lady Isabel of Mar. She had been brought south only to attend her father’s hurried coronation. Marjory saw all as adventure and pleasurable excitement.

  They had gone a bare two miles, and reached a stretch where the valley narrowed in and its floor was scored by quite a deep gorge through which the river rushed and spilled in foaming rapids, when an uproar in front halted them. The lie of the land and a thrusting shoulder of the brae side hid what went on-but there was most evidently a clash of arms.

  Swiftly Bruce reacted. He pointed Sir James, the Lord of Douglas, forward.

  “Find me what’s to do, Jamie,” he commanded.

  “Campbell sounds to have run into trouble. Discover how much.”

  He turned to Hay.

  “Gibbie -back, to halt and alert all the column.”

  Nigel spurred close.

  “If Campbell is beset, let us to his aid,” he exclaimed, his sword already in hand.

  “Wait, you,” his brother said. He looked about him keenly.

  “An ill place for fighting.”

  It was. A steep bank of heather and scree rose directly on their right, to the north, curving back out of sight. Only a dozen yards’ or so to the other side what amounted to a cliff dropped to the river in its gorge. A place with less scope for manoeuvre would be hard to imagine.

  Even as they looked, clamour and tumult broke out well to the rear, more violent than that in front.

  “By the Rude-it is a trap!” the King cried.

  “An ambush! They have us.” Quick as thought he jerked his horse’s head round to face the steep slope, signing to his wife and daughter and the other women to do likewise.

  All down the strung-out line there was confusion.

  “Nigel-forward, and tell Douglas. And Campbell. We must up. Break out of this trap, this valley.” He pointed higher.

  “Edward-back. To Hay. Get our people up out of this kennel.

  Then word back to Boyd and the rearward. Off with you.” The rest, those near him, he waved onwards, upwards.

  It was a steep climb for the horses, nearly 200 feet of rough going, demanding a zigzag ascent. They were perhaps halfway up this, in a long ragged line, perhaps 300 men, with the King and his immediate group, including the women-, well in front, when the long ululant winding of a horn sounded from above, echoing amongst the enclosing hills. This was succeeded by a wild and savage shouting from hundreds, thousands of hoarse throats. And over the skyline appeared wave after wave of yelling, gesticulating men.

  Bruce reined up in momentary indecision-although, in almost automatic reaction, he was tugging free the long two-handed sword sheathed at his back. He had suffered a grievous surprise at Methven, but never had he been so unready for battle as this.

  The women, of course, were his first anxiety. Urgently he turned in the saddle.

  “Back!” he shouted to Elizabeth.

  “Down again. Get them back.”

  The Queen, daughter of a long line of warriors, neither panicked nor hesitated. Grabbing her step-daughter’s bridle, she dragged both horses round, calling to the other ladies to follow her downhill.

  Bruce blessed her, even as he commanded his trumpeter to sound the rally.

  There was no time for any positioning, any marshalling. The attackers had not much more than 200 yards to cover from their hidden waiting-place behind the rise. They were afoot, bare shanked Highlanders to a man, but leaping, bounding in their charge almost as fast as cavalry, brandishing their Lochaber-axes and claymores, and yelling their slogans, a terrifying sight. Few wore more than the short kilt, to fight in, and many had cast away even these and were completely naked save for their rawhide brogans. On the face of it, mounted men in armour should have been vastly superior as fighting-men to these unprotected howling savages. But Bruce knew better than that.

  For one thing they had an enormous advantage in numbers; and they were

  on their own ground Also they had the benefit of surprise, with the

  horsemen scattered. But most serious of all, the Highlanders were charging and the mounted men were not only stationary but were so on a steep and slippery downwards slope.

  The Earl of Atholl, the Bishop, Sir Alexander Lindsay, Sir Robert Fleming and one or two others had spurred forward to the King’s side, past the hurrying women. All along the hillside the knights and men-at-arms were seeking to draw together, to consolidate for mutual aid and protection.

  There was insufficient time for this. Like an angry flood the Highlanders were upon them. Bruce, still in front, found half a dozen attackers leaping at him, each with a claymore in one hand and a dirk in the other.

  His damaged shoulder, relic of the Methven fight, was a grievous handicap in wielding the great five-foot-long two-handed sword.

  Nevertheless, standing in his stirrups and aided by this elevation he cut down three of his assailants with his first tremendous right and-left slashes, before the residual wrench of his swing so tore his shoulder as to leave him gasping and it numb and useless. Hit efforts thereafter to lay about him with the one hand were less than successful. When only his chain-mail saved him from two crippling thrusts, he tossed his sword at one of the bounding men, and drew his battle-axe instead.

  All around was chaos, complete and desperate. There was no line, no certainty-save that the mounted chivalry was getting the worst of it Each horseman was an island in a sea of milling, smiting clansmen. And the island were steadily growing fewer. For the Highlanders were attacking in especial the horses, darting in and ducking beneath them, to slash open the bellies with their dirks.

  Everywhere the screaming, rearing brutes were falling, their armoured riders crashing.

  Bruce, with a swift glance around, perceived that there was only one end to this, and that would not be long delayed unless something was done at once. Bending low over his mount’s neck, he slashed furiously with his axe in a figure-of-eight motion, to drive back the two men who were at the moment assailing him, at the same time seeking to knee the horse round. It was the rearing beast’s pawing hooves rather than the battle-axe which knocked over one of the men; but the other, a gigantic figure, claymore gone, hurled himself bodily upwards, hands clawing, in a crazy attempt to clutch the King and drag him from the saddle. Bruce managed to twist aside, kicking spurs into his horse’s flanks. The giant failed to grasp the monarch’s person, but one hand closed on the fine cloth-of-gold heraldic cloak that Bruce wore instead of the usual surcoat, embroidered with the red Lion Rampant of Scotland worked with the Queen’s own hands. Tearing it away at the magnificent jewelled brooch that clasped it in place, the Highlander fell back clutching not the King but this trophy.

  Bruce’s trumpeter had disappeared, and his master had to shout, as he spurred downhill, lashing out at those who tried to stop him, with that wicked red-gleaming axe.

  “A Bruce! A Bruce!” he yelled.

  “To me! To me A Bruce!”

  That was a slogan for charge and victory, not for retreat and defeat. But something had to be done to break off this dire and fatal struggle, and to try to
save the women.

  Gathering blessed momentum the King plunged downhill, his brute sliding and almost sitting on its haunches. Momentum-that was what was required against these cater ans mounted momentum.

  Sadly few of his company were in any position to perceive their sovereign’s manoeuvre, or successfully to break away to join him.

  Close pressed and confined, most could by no means win free. By the time that Bruce was through the melee and could glance back and about him, no more than fifty or sixty out of the original three hundred appeared to be even mounted.

  He did not slacken the speed of his descent, but plunged on down to the shelf above the gorge, where Elizabeth had the women clustered in an anxious, great-eyed knot, ten or eleven of them. Fortunately all were fairly young and good horsewomen-or they would not have been in this fugitive company in the first place.

  The King had no pride in what he did. To be leading the flight from a stricken field was gall and wormwood for the Bruce. But it was necessary, if any were to survive-and no one else was doing it Down to them he came, his mount’s slithering hooves scoring great red weals in the brae side He pointed.

  “Westwards!” he shouted.

  “On. Only way.” Most of the women were in fact facing in the other direction.

  “Robert! You are hurt?” the Queen cried.

  “Your shoulder?”

  “Nothing,” the King threw back.

  “Wrenched, that is all.” He looked back. Atholl and Lindsay were close behind, Bishop Moray and Fleming and a few others followed after, two horses bearing double burdens.

  They dared not wait. Putting himself at the head of the little group

  of women, Bruce led on along the track above the river, westwards, at a

  canter. The foremost survivors caught up with them to form a sort of

  cordon, while others trailed along at varying distances. It made a sorry scene.

  After only a few moments, rounding the bend in the glen-floor, they met Nigel Bruce, Douglas and Campbell with the residue of the advance guard, fleeing in the opposite direction. It was a pathetic remnant of not more than a score out of the eighty, with again some horses carrying two men.

  Bruce only reined in, did not halt, and wasted no words on inessentials.

  “How many? In front?” he demanded, waving to the newcomers to turn round again.

  “Two hundred. Three,” Campbell panted.

  “Took us by surprise.

  Rocks rolled down. Arrows. Houghed the horses …”

  The King cut him short with a chopping motion.

  “They follow?

  Pursue you?”

  “Yes. If you continue thus you will run into them …”

  “Better that than back. Thousands behind! More in rear. A trap.

  Come-form a wedge. Quickly. We must cut through…”

  He did not have to explain. The wedge, or arrowhead cavalry attack, was a classic formation, given bold or desperate men and trained horses. Plus fierce momentum. Pressed close in a tight inverted V behind a purposeful and unflinching leader, each man keeping exactly his position, there was practically nothing, in flesh and blood at least, that could stop or withstand such a charge-even when, as often happened, the said leader, the tip of the arrowhead, and his immediate flanking men, who bore the brunt of the impact, were carried along dead or dying by the necessary momentum, borne up by the close press of the rest. All knew it. But not with a core of women and a bairn for the arrowhead!

  They worked themselves into formation, nevertheless, a company of about forty now, hedging the women in, with stragglen adding themselves all the time. It was not so well-shaped and tight a wedge as many would have wished, but at least it made a solid and determined body, driving on at a fast canter once more.

  Round a further bend of the trough, they suddenly were face to face with the enemy. Running along the shelf and some way up the bank to the north came a horde of Highlanders, in wild spirits and no sort of order or discipline, a bloodthirsty crowd elated with victory, chasing a defeated foe. Undoubtedly their shock was great at abruptly being confronted, instead, by a charge of cavalry however modest in numbers. The check in their racing advance was obvious and eloquent. But still they came on, though with less confidence.

  The King, at the apex of his formation, did not hesitate. Instead he shouted, “Faster! Faster!” and raising his battle-axe on high, yelled, “A Bruce! A Bruce and Scotland!”

  His companions took up the cry bravely, even some of the women skirling their shrill contribution.

  Somewhere at the rear of the Highland party one of their war horns began to wind, leadership tardily asserting itself. But it was too late, whatever the signal represented; indeed, probably it only increased the confusion, as some held back or faltered while the majority pressed on.

  The horsemen crashed into the flood of wild-eyed, shouting men with enormous impact. No amount of valour or fighting skill could withstand it. Bowled over like ninepins, the Highlanders went down in swathes, more felled by the impetus and the lashing hooves than by the flailing weapons of the riders. As he was swept on through the throng of bodies, in fact, Bruce’s own battle-axe never once made contact with a foe. His useless shoulder greatly hampered him, of course; but even so he was borne up and carried forward so closely by the press of his companions that there was little that he could do to affect the issue, other than to retain his position and shout his Bruce slogan.

  It was not a matter of piercing a front, for the Highlanders were merely a mob streaming along a terrace of the hillside. It was like cleaving the current of a rushing torrent, rather, with loss of momentum the direst danger. So the riders spurred their foaming, frightened mounts even more than they wielded their swords; and spectacular as was the downfall of the foe, probably no great numbers failed to rise again thereafter. Not one of the horsemen was brought low, at any rate, and the women within the shield of steel and horseflesh scarcely saw their enemies.

  At last they were through the main crowd. But the King spurred on as hard as ever, well aware that the clansmen would rally behind them and that all could yet be lost. On up the glen he led the hard-riding company, on to where Campbell’s advance party had been ambushed, marked all too clearly by the litter of dead and dying men and horses. Here some dismounted and slightly wounded survivors emerged from hiding-places to join them-but the King had to steel his heart against any waiting for these, meantime.

  Some few got pulled up, pillion, behind riders, but to most Bruce gestured upwards, shouting that they should climb out of that fatal gut of the valley, north by west into the empty hills. He drove on.

  He was making for a levelling of the trough which they could see some

  way to the west, where it looked as though horses would be able to get

  out without the dangers of steep, slow climbing. Beyond,half-right,

  there appeared to be a jumble of small, low hillocki with open woodland-the sort of cover they required.

  They saw no more of the enemy and were able, presently, to set their beasts’ heads to the lessened slope on the right and at last to win out of that grim valley. Half a mile more and they were amongst the knowes and scattered birches that spread over a wide area to the north of Tyndrum, the outskirts of the Forest of Mamlom.

  Here, surely, they would be secure, for the moment. Thankfully Bruce drew rein, and turned to his wife and daughter.

  “God be praised at least you are safe here!” he gasped.

  Marjory, who had kept up throughout as well as any, now bunt into tears of reaction. Elizabeth leaned over to put an arm around her.

  “Hush you, hush you,” she murmured.

  “It is by with, now. Remember -you are a king’s daughter!”

  “You have done well, lass,” her father said.

  “Very well. All of you.” He looked at the women.

  “Would that I could say as much for myself!” Sheathing his axe, he reached a hand out to his wife, “My dear-you ill chose a man to wed!” he said.

 
“I chose well enough. It is the others who chose ill!” The Queen shook her head.

  “There are over many traitors in your realm, my lord King!”

  “Do not name them traitors. Not yet. I am too newly their king.

  I need time to win them …”

  “An eternity will not win you MacDougall!” his brother Nigel broke in.

  “That was he. The Lord of Lorn and his clan. Come out of the west.

  Seeking you. He is wed to Comyn’s sister …”

  “MacDougall! So great a man! Then … Lorn is closed against us.

  Argyll. A whole province.”

  “I could have foretold it, Sire,” Sir Neil Campbell declared sourly.

  “Not the ambush, but MacDougall’s hatred. As Comyn’s kin. He has been brought here by Macnab. They are close.”

  “Macnab, then, has cost me dear this day! Called both Buchan and MacDougall down on us, from east and west. To trap us in his Glen Dochart. What have I ever done against Macnab…?”

  “While his creatures, those Dewars, kept you constrained, bethralled, with their heathenish mummery! Bait to his trap!” That was John de Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, married to a sister of Bruce’s first wife, and bleeding from two slight wounds.

  “No! That I will not believe,” the King cried, “The Dewars would not do that. Not so misuse what they hold most sacred on earth. The old man, I swear, was honest. His blessing true.”

  None might flatly contradict the monarch-but only one was prepared to agree with him; his wife.

  “True, yes,” she said.

  “These you may trust. The blessing was -me.” Whether she believed it or no, Elizabeth de Burgh knew what that blessing meant to her husband.

  “You were caught from the rear?” Nigel asked.

  “The main body? Where is Edward? Hay? The others …?”

  “God knows! They came on us from above. In their thousands.

  We had to cut our way out. For the others, we can but wait. And in pray..