The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  Bruce became aware of something of this when, tripping over a body and down on one knee, momentarily endangered, he perceived that it was Kiloran.

  Recovered, thanks to his friends, he perceived something else hitherto unnoticed-that the group at the head of the poop steps, towards which he was driving, was in fact centred round a woman.

  This was sufficiently unexpected to disconcert him somewhat, slightly to put him off his stroke. But when a sword-tip ripped open his doublet sleeve, scoring a shallow flesh wound along his forearm-the first actual blood he had shed in this encounter-he very quickly retrieved his due concentration. The more fiercely vehement on account of his lapse-and of the stinging pain-he leapt in under the swordsman’s dropped guard, and cut him down from shoulder to breastbone.

  The fight, although it continued with unabated fury, was subtly changing its character. It was, in fact, becoming more coherent and meaningful, as lack of leadership was replaced by a more positive urge at least amongst the Rossman. As though by some sort of telepathy, these began to accept that they had probably bitten off more than they could conveniently chew, and that a return to their own galleys would be the reaction of reasonable men. As yet there was no breaking off, no acknowledgement of defeat-for undoubtedly the attackers still outnumbered the others; but the climate of battle had altered. Possibly it was the advent of the Lowlanders, with their strange weapons and unexpected tactics, that disconcerted the raiders.

  At any rate, the birl inn poop quite quickly became a deal less crowded-even though there was not so very much more room to stand because of all the sprawling bodies on the deck. For the first time since jumping aboard, Bruce, gasping for breath, had opportunity to glance around him. The scene was confused, but only moments were required to establish the basic situation. Robert Boyd waved to him from the prow platform, giving the thumbsup sign. Nodding, the King turned back.

  The woman, four men with reddened swords and dirks close guarding her, stood watching him, braced against some of the mast cordage. She was fairly young, he saw now, and darkly striking, with great eyes, long raven hair that blew in the breeze, and skin of an alabaster whiteness that gave the impression of transparency.

  But not for a moment did Bruce imagine that her whiteness had anything to do with fear or alarm. Every line of her bearing proclaimed a proud unconcern for danger or indeed bloodshed. There was blood on one forearm, raised to shield her eyes against the blaze of the sinking sun-but it was almost certainly not her own.

  She appeared to be concerned only with an inspection of himself.

  In the circumstances, Bruce could do no other than adopt a similar attitude, leaving the final stages of the battle to others Secure in his reliance upon the two stalwart knights immediately behind, he bowed, panting. Axe-wielding is breathtaking work.

  “Who are you, sir?” the lady called, clearly above the din.

  “I am Christina MacRuarie of Garmoran. Whom do I have to thank for this deliverance?”

  So it was Christina herself. A notable character, and in a sort of way, a kinswoman of his own.

  “You have to thank … our fallen friend, there. MacDonald of Kiloran,” he told her, pointing down at the deck.

  “Myself, I am Robert of Scotland. The Bruce. I greet you warmly. And rejoice to name you cousin.” He flattered himself that was not bad for a man who had been laying about him with a battle-axe moments before, shortage of breath notwithstanding.

  She was not really his cousin-no blood relation whatever, Christina of

  the Isles, as she still signed herself, was the only child and heiress

  of the late Alan MacRuarie, Lord of Garmoran. This Garmoran, which

  included the great mainland tracts of Knoydart’Moidart, Morar and

  Arisaig, and the islands of Rhum, Eigg and Gigha of the Inner Hebrides, and Uist and Barra of the Outer, was one of the principal divisions of the Isles confederacy. Christina therefore was the great-great-granddaughter of the mighty Somerled, just as Angus Og was the great-great-grandson, their grandfathers brothers. The link with Bruce was only by marriage, for she had wed Duncan, younger son of Donald, Earl of Mar. Duncan had been Bruce’s first wife’s brother. He was now dead, and here was his young widow, married at fifteen and now ten years older.

  “Bruce! The King! Himself!” she cried.

  “Dial -here is a wonder! Can it be true?”

  “True, yes. Think you any but himself would covet Bruce’s name and style, this day?” the King said wryly.

  She pushed forward, between her wary guards.

  “Your Grace!” she exclaimed.

  “How come you here I know not. But you are welcome to my territories.

  And for more than this service you do me.”

  She took his hand, dripping blood as it was. But she did not curtsy, nor raise it to her lips. Instead she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She was a tall, lissome creature, only an inch or so shorter than Bruce himself.

  “You are kind,” he jerked, a little taken aback, both at this gesture and her ability apparently to divorce herself entirely from the battle and carnage which still raged elsewhere than on this poop-deck. He himself was less detached, gazing round him and catching the eyes of Douglas and Hay.

  “The day-it goes well, I think. They have had enough. They go back. These Rosses. If that is what they are. Back to their own galleys…”

  “To be sure. They know what is good for them. Let them go. But “.

  Your Grace’s arm? You are wounded.”

  “A nothing. The merest scratch.”

  “Let me see …”

  “Better that you look to Kiloran.”

  But she insisted on herself examining and ministering to his hurt, gesturing to others to look to the fallen MacDonald-who indeed proved to be dead.

  Edward Bruce, Neil Campbell and Robert Boyd had taken charge elsewhere, and the situation was rapidly coming under control.

  Already one of the attacking galleys was sheering off, and the remaining Rossmen were fighting their way back to the other. The issue obviously settled, few contestants were now anxious any more to risk their lives on either side, and the final exchanges were more or less formalities. Some badly placed boarders jumped or were pushed into the sea, but by and large the retiral was effected with minimal opposition, the grapnel-ropes cut, and the second vessel pulled away. Cheers and jeers from the birlinn and the MacDonald galley proclaimed the end of the engagement.

  None of the King’s party had been killed, and of the few wounds none were serious. Undoubtedly the bloodiest part of the fray had been before they arrived. Nevertheless, Bruce and his colleagues found themselves deriving the greatest credit from the affair and, by Christina downwards, were acclaimed as the victors and rescues _ which was a little embarrassing, being scarcely true. Nothing would do but that they should all accompany the chieftainess to her house of Castle Tioram in Moidart -to which she had been making, from South Uist, when attacked. With Kiloran dead and his second-in-command wounded, it seemed a reasonable programme.

  Moidart, on the mainland just north of the great Ardnamurchan peninsula, was apparently little more than an hour’s sail away. And Christina MacRuarie was obviously a determined and autocratic young woman.

  Castle Tioram, which they came to in the blue October dusk, sat impressively on an abrupt rocky half-tide island almost stopping up the narrow mouth of the sea-loch of Moidart, whose heavily wooded shores rose high and dark on either side, shadowy in the twilight. The castle, though less spectacularly sited than Dunaverty, was larger, and clearly of considerable strength, built on the antique plan of a lofty perimeter wall of enceinte, some thirty feet high, that followed the irregular outline of the rock, topped by a parapet and wall-walk, with embryo flanking towers at sundry corners and no central keep. Within this embattled perimeter indeed, when their hostess had led her visitors in at the narrow and portcullised sea-gate above the galley-pier, it was not like a castle at all; but rather a village, consisting of a long low hall-house with thatched
roof, a chapel, cot-houses, storehouses, stables, byres and the like, all scattered within the curtain-wall- more like a walled town in miniature. Resinous pine torches, lit by the score for their welcome, bathed all in a ruddy flickering glow broken by inky shadows, and the smell of wood-smoke, animals and roasting meats was highly acceptable to hungry voyagers.

  The hall-house, however un defendable in itself, was infinitely more

  commodious and comfortable than any castle. Christina was obviously

  used to dispensing hospitality in a large way, and found room for

  Bruce’s people with seeming ease. The King was given a large room

  which, he suspected, was the lady’s own, and had certainly no

  complaints to make. If any of the Lowlanders had had a notion that

  they would have to endure semi-barbarous conditions, they were speedily disillusioned. The feast that followed, considering the speed with which it had been conjured up, was on a scale and of a quality worthy of any great noble’s establishment in the south, and the wines better than most could offer. Fully a score of Gannoran chieftains sat down with the visitors, in a sort of court-although Christina herself was the only woman present-their wolfhounds making up for their lack of womenfolk. But the behaviour of these was civil and orderly-indeed more so than many a hallful of belted knights and lords. If most were loud in their assertions as to what they would have done had they known of their lady’s danger at the hands of the dastardly Rossmen, that was only natural.

  Taking their time from her, they were all notably respectful towards the Lowland King, for Highlandmen.

  Only the entertainment which accompanied the meal was somewhat strange’ to the visitors. Instead of minstrels, tumblers, clowning dwarfs or even dancing bears and the like, here were men, not all ancient by any means, who told endless stories about fabulous heroes and quite unbelievable deeds, interspersed with lengthy genealogies which seemed to be an integral part of the performance—and which were listened to, surprisingly, with evidently rapt attention. Since all this, however, was in the Erse, or Gaelic, which few of the newcomers understood-the Bruces did, since they had had a Celtic mother—and since it was not the southern custom to pay any close heed to mere background entertainment during a banquet, the King’s people by and large tended to talk through it all-which clearly did not commend itself to their hosts, though there were no overt reproaches. Bruce, on Christina’s right, grew uncomfortable; but his brother Edward, on her other side, was not affected, himself being fairly completely preoccupied by the lady’s charms-and making it very clear. Edward was ever interested in the opposite sex.

  Christina MacRuarie, who looked quite capable of telling guests at her table, or anybody else for that matter, to be quiet if she so desired, did not do so. She appeared to listen to Edward with OAP ear, while at the same time she did not neglect the King on her right, keeping his platters and goblets filled-yet managing also to seem to attend to the storytellers.

  But presently, with a venerable, white-bearded seannachie bowing himself out, to unaccountable applause, and the youngest tale-teller of all stepping forward from halfway down the great table to take his place, the atmosphere began to change. Even Edward Bruce sat forward to watch and listen.

  For this young man, although he had his head bandaged and one arm hung limply at his side, was an orator of a different order. Full of energy and fire, his words came out in rushes and spurts and flourishes, with dramatic pauses, and gesturings of his sound arm-and although the words themselves were still in the Gaelic, something of their import and urgency reached even to those who could not understand them.

  Bruce listened keenly, especially when he heard his own name coming into it all-not as a king but as a renowned warrior travelled from a far country. The oration was in fact an extempore, vivid and highly styli sed and elaborated version of the afternoon’s galley-fight, with everything dramatised and turned into heroics, all noblest valour, fairest beauty, blackest treachery and haunting romance-a sort of instant saga. Thus, evidently, were the famed Celtic epics born. Bruce perceived that he was very much this one’s hero, as his hostess was the noble heroine whom he had come so far to rescue. Somewhat embarrassing as this might be, he was not blind to-the advantages it might have for his cause in these latitudes, amongst people at once so warlike, extravagant and histrionic as these.

  All but exhausted, the young man finished on a telling note of the victorious Robert of Alba, the noble blood of his wounds being staunched by the beauteous Christina of the Isles, who then conducted him and his noble band to her ancestral halls amongst the fairest prospects of all the Hebrides. He was summoned to the head of the table to receive his lady’s congratulations and thanks amidst the plaudits of all. Bruce did some swift thinking. The orator was introduced to him as Ranald MacRuarie of Smearisary, son of Christina’s natural half-brother Roderick. He had, in fact, though young, been captain of the attacked birl inn He was, therefore, of some consequence in the Gannoran polity. The King stood up.

  “That sword?” he said, pointing to a huge two-handed brand which hung on the wall near by, beneath a tattered banner.

  “Whose is it?”

  “That is the sword of my ancestor, Somerled the King,” Christina told him.

  “So much the better,” he said.

  “I crave your permission?”

  Assuming the said permission, he strode over and took the weapon down. Returning, he raised it high-with difficulty, on account of its weight and the stiffness of his now bandaged arm.

  “Come, friend,” he said to the young man.

  “I, Robert of Scotland, salute you. In your words and in your deeds.”

  He brought down the great blade, more heavily than he intended, on one

  of the somewhat alarmed orator’s shoulders. He should have tapped the

  other shoulder also, but feared in his stiffness that he was mote likely to strike the already bandaged head in between, and contented himself, letting the weighty weapon sink to the floor.

  “I dub thee knight. Be thou a good and true knight until thy life’s end.

  Stand, Sir Ranald MacRuarie MacDonald!”

  There was a few moments of silence, and then exclamation and outcry from all over the hall. There was wonder, acclaim and criticism in it the last from some of his own people, his brother in eluded, shocked at this debasement of knighthood on little better than a young savage.

  Bruce was not perturbed by the note of disapprobation, especially when it was so clearly over born by the acclaim and even glee. He himself had no doubts that his impulse had been a sound one. He had, with a single stroke of a sword-and Somerled’s sword at that-not only made a notable impression on these people and given a unique impetus to a new-forming legend which might well prove extremely useful to his cause, but had established the fact of his kingship and royal prerogative before them all, doing something that no other could or would do. Moreover he had established a precedent, made a Highlander a knight-and if this was accepted, as it looked like being, it implied also the acceptance, here at least, of his suzerainty.

  If the young man himself seemed quite dumbfounded, Christina at least was obviously delighted. She actually clapped her hands.

  “A King indeed?” she cried.

  “Here is a royal chivalry, honour. I thank you, Sire-on my heart I do!”

  “This young man is your substitute and deputy, lady,” he returned, bowing.

  “Might knighthood be bestowed on a woman, on your fair shoulders would fall this blade. In salutation.”

  “Your Grace is kind-and I am grateful. But perhaps there may be … other salute? More meet for a woman!” And she met his eye frankly.

  Bruce inclined his head, but found this a good moment to make a display of handing over the sword to the new knight. They seated themselves again, and the banquet continued.

  It was already late and Bruce, smothering yawns, was debating how he might, without offence to his hostess-who certainly gave no impression of weariness-intimate that
his couch called, when an elderly man whom he had seen before, frail and stooping, came to whisper in Christina’s ear. She raised her brows, and turned to the King.

  “Sire-this Murdo Leigh is the physician who looked to your wounds, you will recollect. He now attends to others. Amongst whom is one of the prisoners from the Ross galleys. A man of some substance, it seems. He talks of your affairs. Murdo fears that he is dying) but does not believe him deranged. He believes that you should see this man. For he speaks of your wife. The Queen.”

  Bruce rose at once, frowning.

  Together they followed the old man out and across the courtyard and into a reed-thatched lengthy bunkhouse, but dimly lit by a few flickering torches. Here many men lay on sheepskin litters, some groaning. They were brought to one, huddled very still beneath a ragged plaid, grey of face, eyes closed. They feared that he was already dead.

  But presently the eyelids flickered, and the old physician kneeled, to speak in his ear.