The Path of the Hero King bt-2 Read online

  Their waiting, at least, was not quite unproductive, whatever the result of their praying. In a couple of hours the King’s party, hidden in the woodlands, had almost doubled itself, fugitives finding their way thither in ones and twos, exhausted, dazed, wounded or just dispirited, but none on horseback. Edward Bruce and Sir Gilbert Hay were amongst the last to arrive, the former, still unsteady from being unhorsed and all but stunned by his own armour. The tail of the column had been as badly cut up as the rest, they reported, being overwhelmed before either of them could reach it. They had seen nothing of Boyd’s rear guard and feared the worst.

  A long silence had now settled on the weary and dejected company. So far, the MacDougall host had not come seeking them here. But all knew that it was only a question of time. They would be reorganising, and possibly waiting for darkness. For if Bruce’s own survivors could pick out this wooded hillocks area as an obvious refuge, then undoubtedly the Highlanders could do the same, The King had been pacing, alone, a patch of green turf amongst the heather between two knolls, with the twisted gait of a man in physical pain, and the twisted expression of equal mental pain, Abruptly he halted, and it was his brother he looked at, not his wife and daughter.

  “There is nothing for it,” he said harshly.

  “We must part company. We cannot go on, thus. We are but playing our enemies’ game. Here is no country for knights and chivalry. Or for women!

  Yet, out of these mountains, if I survive, I can raise thousands.

  Moreover, all else is closed to me. If I am to win back my strength, as your king, to challenge Edward of England, and the Comyns again, I must have time. As it were to lick my wounds, as might a lion. A sorry lion! And only in these Highland hills may I do it. But not as proud leader of a knightly host. As a cateran against cater ans rather. That way only lies survival.”

  It was a strange speech for the Bruce, for any monarch. They all gazed

  at him, unspeaking, waiting. “So Nigel-you will take the Queen and

  the ladies. With strong escort Take them far north and east To Kildrummy, in Mar. Out of this west country. To safety…”

  “No, Robert-no! Not that…!” Elizabeth cried.

  “Yes, my heart It must be. I say yes. Indeed, it is my royal command. Here is no life for women. You would not tie our hands? Nigel will take you to Kildrummy. You will take all the horses that are left us for you will need them, and they will serve us nothing who remain here. We shall do better afoot. We shall make for Sir Neil’s country of Loch Awe in Argyll. And come to you again, when we may.”

  The Queen could not dispute openly, of course. But she looked unconvinced.

  “And what if Edward Plantagenet comes for us at Kildrummy?”

  Nigel asked.

  Then you will go north. Even further. Ever north. Beyond the great firths. As far as you must, to gain these ladies’ safety. Where Edward cannot follow. Even to the North Isles, if need be. They will receive you kindly, for our sister’s sake who is their queen in Norway. These who I hold most dear, I trust into your hand. The married men, and the wounded, will go with you. My lord of Atholl. Sir Christopher Seton. Sir Alexander Lindsay. Sir Alan Durward. Sir John de Gambo. My lord Bishop of Moray. The rest will turn cateran, here. With Robert Bruce!”

  The bun of excited exclamation and comment that followed was interrupted by the arrival, mounted, of Sir Robert Boyd and about a dozen of his rear guard weary and battle-scarred. Boyd was lifted down from his horse, sorely wounded in the leg. He gasped out his report. They had been caught between the two enemy forces, and had had no option but to fight their way out, towards their main body, with appalling losses. Boyd, who had been one of William Wallace’s closest lieutenants, was a doughty veteran, though but thirty, and his survival of major importance; but the loss of almost nine out of ten of his rear guard was dire news. It meant that out of a total force of some five hundred, Bruce had now not one fifth remaining.

  Boyd’s leg-wound was also a. blow. It meant that he would be unable to remain with the King’s dismounted party-and he was the most experienced guerilla leader they had. But at least he was strongly in favour of the King’s plan, and would be a source of strength to Nigel’s party. He declared that the sooner they split forces the better. His own flight hither undoubtedly would have been observed, and it would be guessed that the royal survivors were assembling here. He urged that the Queen’s company should make off immediately due northwards through the Mamlom passes before these could be cut The rest could then filter off through this open forestland in small groups, on foot, to come together again at a chosen rendezvous. In Glen Lochy perhaps. Campbell would know… That was accepted. Bruce drew Elizabeth aside a little way.

  “My dear,” he said, “I am sorry. But… better this way.”

  “Better for whom? Not for me.”

  “For you, yes, also. In the end. Would you relish being a hunted fugitive?”

  “So long as I was with you.”

  He shook his head.

  “I would not have my wife harried like a run deer. Nor can I have our men having ever to think of women’s safety. You must see it, my love. But, by the Rude, I am going to miss you! The thought of it is like lead at my heart.”

  “Miss, yes. For me, life will be no more than an emptiness. And it may be long, long.”

  “Not a day, not an hour, longer than needs must. That I promise you.”

  “Must? Must? Robert-must indeed you do this? Must you go on with a hopeless struggle? You have tried and tried again. Why continue? Why not come north also? North indeed. Let us go to the North Isles. Together. To the Orcades. In your sister’s husband’s realm. Where none will assail us. Where we may live together in peace, you and I. Until a better day dawns. Edward of England is an old man, and sick. He will not live for very long. We are young, and can wait …” Her voice tailed away in a manner strange indeed for that strong-minded young woman.

  The Bruce stared at her, closely. Never had he heard Elizabeth speak like this, the woman who had been his strength and stay, “Dear God,” he whispered.

  “You ask that?”

  Slowly she raised a troubled downcast gaze to meet his. And then her chin rose also, suddenly proud again.

  “No!” she said.

  “No, That was not I who spoke. Not Elizabeth de Burgh. Not your wife.

  Not the Queen. Forget that it was said. Said by a tired and foolish woman, in sorrow for herself. Heed it not, Robert-but go and do your duty.”

  He all but broke, then, more affected by her self-rebuke than by her pleas.

  “My love, my sweet, my very own,” he said.

  “It may be that you have the rights of it. Who knows? But … I took

  the crown, for better or for worse. I swore to free and save this

  realm, if it is within my power to do so. As yet, I have proved but a

  sore king for Scotland. Two battles, and both shamefully lost.Neither were battles Both traps set by traitors, rather.” That was more like Elizabeth.

  “Perhaps. But in both I was taken by surprise. And should not have been. I thought that I had learned my lesson, at Methven. But no. Many have died for my error. I set up advance and rear guards yes-but forgot that in these mountains that is not how war is fought. I must redeem myself, Elizabeth-not flee to safety.”

  ‘”Yes, I know it. Forgive me. But I hoped that, though the other women, and Marjory, went… that I might stay with you. For I am strong of body, and care nothing for discomforts of camp and field. But… I see that it cannot be. I will go to Kildrummy, with your daughter. Or if need be, to the Isles. And await you there.

  There to assail the ears of all the saints in heaven continually, to watch over and preserve you, and bring you back to me!”

  “Amen to that,” he said.

  “Now-Marjory…”

  So the leave-taking was got over” with haste and not a little foreboding-for none there required to have spelled out to them the chances against any swift or happy reunion. To Nigel the King spoke at greater length-for though he was
his favourite brother, and trustworthy to the end, he was of a carefree and happy-go lucky disposition, and Bruce was entrusting to him not only his wife but the heiress to his throne. He urged him, privily, to be guided by Boyd rather than by Atholl or Lindsay, more lofty in rank as these might be.

  Elizabeth was the Queen again, calm in control of her women and herself. She bade her husband farewell with steadfast dignity and restraint, even though her lip quivered in the process. Mounting, they were gone, leaving about thirty men amongst the evening shadows of the trees.

  They gazed after the departing riders, all young men, the King in fact the second oldest there, some ten knights and esquires, with a score of personal attendants and men-at-arms, all horseless for perhaps the first time in their lives. Whatever they said, whatever had been implied, they could not but feel themselves as lost, naked and abandoned-all perhaps save Sir Neil Campbell, the only Highlandman present A month before, these had been amongst the very flower of Scotland’s chivalry; today they were little better man broken men, hunted outlaws.

  Bruce himself after a few moments, deliberately set the pattern of it. Twisting round, and grimacing at the pain of his shoulder, he called, “To me, Jamie. Aid me out of this shirt of mail. Such wear is not for us, my friends. Hereafter. Off with your armour and helmets. Put away two-handed swords, battle-axes, maces and the like. Henceforth we use dirks and daggers. Tonight, after dark, we go down again to the field of battle. They will scarce look for us were. To rob the slain. The MacDougall slain. We want plaids and tartans and sheepskins.

  Brogans for our feet. Broadswords. Targes..

  From now onward we forget that we are knights and lords. Food we shall require, likewise-and must win it where we may.”

  The young Lord of Douglas, but newly of age, aiding his hero out of the chain-mail, tender for a damaged shoulder, protested, “Your Grace cannot turn cateran. Like any lowborn bare shanked Erse bogtrotter…!”

  “My Grace can, and will. Indeed must. Since only so will any of us survive. And I intend to survive, my friends. Do not doubt it.

  Come-we have work to do…”

  Chapter Two

  Survival is a very compelling preoccupation, taking undoubted precedence over all others, in the last resort. Moreover, it carries its own built-in mental and emotional security system, excluding all other influences and anxieties which might endanger the individual’s physical preservation. Long-term, hypothetical, even ethical problems tend not only to become largely irrelevant but fade altogether from the mind, in the said last resort Concentration on survival of necessity becomes basic.

  So it was with Robert Bruce and certain of his comrades in the month that followed. Certain only, because, in the test, some inevitably fell by the wayside, one way or another. Some were not of the stuff of survival, mentally or physically; some were unfortunate;

  some came to conceive that anything would be better than a continuation of these conditions, and opted out; some, quite simply, died. Four weeks after the Glendochart debacle, ten men only remained with the King-his brother Edward, the lords Douglas, Hay and Campbell, an obscure knight named Sir William Bellenden, and five common soldiers.

  Not that there was now any observable difference between the men;

  indeed, if there was any ranking amongst the ten, leadership was

  frequently taken by a squat and uncouth Annandale moss trooper named

  Wal Jardine, whose sheer powers of survival and self-help exceeded all

  others All were equally filthy, unshaven, lean, brown and

  weather-beaten, half-naked in ragged tartans. Not once in those weeks

  had they slept under a roof. They had eaten raw meat more often than

  cooked, from stolen cattle and hunted deer and wild-fowl- even raw

  fish, although it turned their stomachs -but more often had to fill

  the said stomachs with blaeberries, fungus and wild honey. They had been hunted like brute beasts-and like beasts they had rounded and rended and slain, when they might. They had come to look on all men as their enemies, and the empty wilderness their only friend, night and storm their occasional allies.

  They had never reached Argyll. The Campbell’s territories which stretched from Loch Awe to the Western Sea, were hemmed in unfortunately from the east by part of Lorn, Mamlorn and Nether Lorn, as well as the lands of the Macfarlanes, MacNaughtons and MacLachlans, chiefs allied to MacDougall. In consequence every glen and pass and access they found held against them, with the whole country roused. Each shift and attempt they made ended in failure-and the diminution of their numbers.

  Moreover, Neil Campbell now feared that even if they reached his lands, they would there be invaded by forces too great for him to withstand.

  So they had at length turned back. Malcolm Earl of Lennox was believed to have escaped after Methven, and now represented the only major noble free, and committed to the King’s cause. South towards the Lennox they had turned, therefore, avoiding all the main glens and making their indirect and secret way around the lofty shoulders of the great mountains. Ben Lui, Ben Oss and Ben Vorlich, and many lesser peaks.

  Now they were on the dark edge of long Loch Lomond, near the north end. It was a mid-August night, and for two days they had been in hiding in Glen Falloch to the north, resting up by day and prospecting the possibilities of escape by night. For they were still in Macfarlane country, enemy territory, and their presence in the area known. They were being sorely hunted. Just across the loch was MacGregor land, where they would expect to be comparatively safe-for though MacGregor was not necessarily a King’s man, at least he was at permanent feud with Macfarlane, Macnab, and to a lesser degree with the MacDougalls. The Campbells also, as it happened-but that probably would not seriously affect the issue. Moreover, south of the MacGregor lands lay the great country of Lennox, the first of the West Lowlands. Somehow the fugitives must get across the mile-wide and twenty-five-mile long loch-for the valley-floor to the north, in Glen Falloch, was watched for every yard of the way by the Lord of Lorn’s minions, as they knew to their cost. Search parties were scouring the area for them, and Falloch had become too hot to hold them.

  Unhappily, Macfarlane had obviously decreed that all the many boats of

  the small loch side communities should be put beyond the

  SO

  reach of the refugees. Bruce and six of his companions now sat silent, in a cranny amongst the rocks above the black lapping waters, having each pair covered their allotted search-area, at great risk, even as far as half a mile inland, but without the least success. All boats on the west side of Loch Lomond, that night, were evidently securely hidden or under lock and key.

  The silence was grim rather than dispirited or despairing. These men were long past that. They were now fined down to surviving from hour to hour. Disappointments, failures, losses, reverses, were but incidental, to be accepted and absorbed into the pattern of survival. Any who indeed survived this prolonged ordeal would emerge very different men, men of steel, tried, tested, tempered.

  And ruthless.

  James Douglas and Dod Pringle, one of the men-at-arms, emerged like silent shadows out of the gloom, and squatted down beside the others.

  “Nothing,” the young lord said briefly, flatly.

  “No,” the King acknowledged.

  “A raft. Of driftwood. Tied with ropes of twisted bracken,” Campbell suggested.

  “For ten? To sail a mile?”

  “Two can swim. They can draw it.”

  “It will be dawn in two hours. No time. We would be seen.”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “If we live.”

  “Some will. You must.”

  The use of titles and honorifics had long since been given up.

  Edward Bruce, always highly strung, a man like a coiled spring had become almost half-crazed these last weeks, in glittering-eyed tension, his hand seldom far from his dirk-hilt. One of their number he had already slain, in a sudden fit of rage. He was a killer n
ow, and even in that fierce company men eyed him warily and kept their distance. He spoke now.

  “Back there. A mile. There are two cot-houses. At the loch side

  Women in them. I heard them. A boat they will have. Somewhere.

  I will make them talk.”

  “No,” his brother said.

  “Not women.”

  “I say yes. Cross this loch we must. Squeamish folly will serve nothing.”

  I do not make war on women. I have enough on my mind.”

  That was final.

  There were mutterings for and against-for no man’s word was kwin this company now.

  They were interrupted. Another little group emerged from the shadows

  of the alder thickets on the left, the remaining pair, Sir William Bellenden and the Annandale moss trooper Jardine. But there was a third figure, whom Jardine had gripped in a savage.

  arm-twisted hold, and bent forward almost double. At first Bruce thought the prisoner was an old woman, hung about with rags.

  Then he perceived the long grey beard.

  “Found him by the loch side the moss trooper jerked.

  “Spying on us, for a wager! Jabbers nothing but his heathenish Irish.”

  The King, leaning closer to peer, distinguished even in the darkness the dull sheen of gold at approximately the waist, the entwining serpents of a magnificent belt.

  “Fools!” he cried.

  “This is the Dewar! The Dewar of the Coigreach. Unhand him. He is a friend.”

  “Then why does he lurk here? At this hour?” Bellenden asked.

  The old man launched into a flood of Gaelic, furious, vituperative, outraged, however unintelligible. Jardine would have silenced him with a buffet, but the King caught his arm.

  “Say on, Master Dewar,” he directed.

  “But in the tongue we may understand, of a mercy!”

  The other obliged, and eloquently.

  “Spawn of the devil!

  Offspring of Beelzebub!” he declared, with a sibilant vehemence that lacked nothing in venom for all the Highland softness of intonation.