The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  “Clifford, man?” the King interrupted.

  “What of Clifford?”

  “He fought his way through us, Sire. We could not hold them.

  There were more of them than there were of us, even so. We in front could not do more. They cut through us, and on southwards.

  Fleeing…”

  “You mean Clifford has escaped? A curse on it-I have lost him!”

  “What could we do, Sire? When it came to close combat, they were better armed, armoured and horsed than we. Clifford and his knights. We went down before them. We lost not a few. Boyd is wounded …”

  “Aye. I am sorry, Sir Robert. It is but that I sought him. Wanted Clifford for myself. A… debt of honour. A selfish whim!”

  “At least, the Lord Edward pursues him hotfoot. I think he will not stop until he reaches Cree.”

  “Perhaps. Aye, perhaps, friend. Who knows, it may be as bitter a notion for Clifford to have to live with than if I had worsted him here in Glen Trool. But… that man will seek vengeance. And take it, as he has done before, on innocent folk, I fear.” The King shrugged.

  “Another time, perhaps.” He straightened in the saddle.

  “Go you back, Sir Robert. My compliments to Boyd. You have done well. I hope he is not sore hurt. And tell Gilbert Hay to send his fleetest rider after my brother. With my royal command that he is to turn back forthwith. Not to continue the chase. It is profitless, dangerous. Back with him. And Hay to bring on all able men to the ford at the loch-head. Quickly. We may need every man, yet. You have it?”

  The two men parted, each to hurry whence he had come.

  But back at the ford in the wood, nearly two miles away, Bruce found no battle either. Sir Neil Campbell, mud-covered from a fall from his horse in the bog, revealed that it was all over here too.

  The English flanking party, on meeting the refugees of the main body fleeing across the ford, had evidently decided that only fools threw good money after bad. They had not even waited to oppose the Scots themselves taking the ford, as they might have done successfully, but set off southwards, down the west side of the loch, at speed, still a disciplined if un blooded force amongst their broken and unhappy compatriots. Campbell had a picket trailing them -but he reckoned that they had seen the last of that squadron of wise men.

  The King drew a long quivering breath.

  “So the day is ours, Neil-all ours! I thank God-and you all-for it. We needed it, I’ faith! But … that is today. Tomorrow-what of tomorrow?

  Pembroke is not yet committed, did not come himself. And he has a mighty force. Tomorrow they will be aswarm in these valleys like a wasps’ nest disturbed.”

  “Enough for today that we have won this battle, at least,” the other grunted.

  “It was no battle-only a skirmish. But we shall call it a battle, yes. Make much of it-for our own purposes. So long as we do not deceive ourselves. The battle of Glen Trool, no less-the first battle we Scots have won against the English in the field since Stirling Brig! So let the word go out, that men may take heart. All over the land.

  But we know better, Neil …” The King reined round.

  ”Now-to work. I want to be far from here before nightfall.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was well over a year, not indeed since his coronation, that the King had sat at ease, or at all, under a roof of his own. That he should be able to do so now, even though the roof was a small and unimportant one, was perhaps a sign, an encouragement, however modest. That it should be back within a few miles of the point where he had made his February landing on the Carrick shore of the mainland, nearly three months before, could be another satisfaction-although it could also be the reverse, depending on which way the thing was viewed. Progress, or the lack of it. At any rate, Bruce did stretch before a hearth that he could call his own, that early May evening, and was moderately thankful-that is, for so long as he carefully kept his mind on the immediate situation and did not contemplate the appalling dimensions of the task before him.

  Tired, after a long day in the saddle, he sat in the little hall of the Tower of Kilkerran, house of one of his Celtic vassals, Fergus son of Fergus, amongst the green foothills of the pleasant Water of Girvan, four miles south of Maybole, capital of his own Carrick, and only eight miles inland from Tumberry. Turnberry Castle itself was still held against him, and must remain so for the foreseeable future; he had neither the siege equipment nor the time for reducing powerful fortresses. But it was only the great castles which were held against him in Ayrshire now. Elsewhere he and his could ride at large, a month after Glen Trool.

  Pembroke had been unexpectedly inactive since that affair. Not to be wondered at, perhaps, if it was true, as rumoured, that he had been summoned once more peremptorily to Lanercost in Cumberland to give an account of himself before the angry Edward Plantagenet. Bruce admittedly would not have enjoyed being in de Valence’s shoes, in that respect; but by the same token, it could be assumed that it would not be long before he was back again, greatly reinforced and spurred on to mighty endeavours against the hated Scots-he or another.

  But meantime the King’s cause could be said to prosper, even though not spectacularly. With the main English army still at the Cree, holding that vital hinge between the Borders and Galloway, Bruce had moved north into Ayrshire. Daily men came to join him from Carrick, Kyle and Cunninghame, not in their thousands admittedly, not great lords and barons, but lesser men-a few knights, many lairds, and common folk. More important, perhaps, even than those who actually joined him, was the climate of opinion, the acceptance, at least in these parts, that the royal cause was no longer hopeless and to be shunned at all costs. Turnberry, Loch Doon, and Glen Trool had had their effect. Scots in more than Ayrshire held their heads a little higher.

  None knew better than Robert Bruce, of course, how small-scale and ephemeral was such success. But at least it was a change from failure, from disaster and near despair. Even though that very day he had heard that Sir Philip Moubray, one of the Comyn faction -the same who had unhorsed him and nearly captured him at Methven eleven months before was heading south from Stirling with 1,000 men, to try to drive him back into the arms of the English on the Cree. Bruce’s commanders were summoned here to Kilkerran for a council on this, tomorrow, when his scouts should have reports for him.

  It was not one of the commanders however who presently was announced as seeking audience with the King, but a very different sort of visitor.

  “Master Nicholas Balmyle, Official of St. Andrews, craves word with Your Grace,” Gilbert Hay informed, at the door.

  “Will you see him?”

  “Balmyle?” Bruce sat up.

  “By the Rude-yes, I will see Master Nicholas!”

  The man who was ushered in was small, neat, compact, richly dressed in clerical garb, self-possessed and still-faced. He bowed slightly, but made no move to hurry forward to kiss the royal hand.

  Bruce eyed him keenly, as well he might. Here, reputedly, was one of the cleverest men in Scotland, and one not hitherto notable for wearing his heart on his sleeve. He had indeed been Chancellor of Scotland for two years, under de Soulis’ Guardianship-which made him the last Chancellor, or chief minister, the realm had had, before all Scots government was swept away. The two pairs of eyes met and held-Bruce’s sterner than he knew, the cleric’s level, emotionless but shrewd.

  “Here is surprise, Master Nicholas,” the King said carefully.

  “It has not been my pleasure to see you, for long. Even at my coronation!”

  The former Chancellor, Official of St. Andrews and Canon of Dunblane, had been one of the many notable absentees from that ceremony.

  “That was an occasion for the great, Highness,” the other returned composedly.

  ”Not for lowly servants of Holy Church, such as myself.”

  “Lowly?” the King joked.

  “You?”

  “Aye, Sire. Younger son of a small life laird. A mere canon, an official in holy orders. And my good father-in-God’s humble messenger and steward.” />
  “Ha!” Bruce’s somewhat suspicious glance widened.

  “You mean…?”

  “That I have brought Your Grace a letter from my master.

  From the Lord Bishop of St. Andrews, Primate of this realm.”

  “From William Lamberton! From my friend!” That was eager.

  “Yes.” Balmyle drew out from within his dark cloak an unaddressed folded paper, battered and crushed but still sealed closely.

  “This reached me only days ago. By devious means. Within another, instructing me to convey it to Your Grace forthwith. And in person.”

  “From England?” Bruce took the letter.

  “A friar in the train of Bishop Beck of Durham brought it Secretly. My lord Bishop is held at Barnard Castle, on the Tees.

  Opening the seals, the King strode to the window, to read. But he turned, and gestured to the table.

  “Meats. Drink, Master Nicholas”

  The folded paper contained another within it, this addressed to the High and Mighty Prince, Robert King of Scots, wherever he might be found. This opened, read:

  My liege lord and good dear friend.

  I have learned that there is occasion that this writing may be conveyed to Scotland in secrecy. I hasten to advantage myself, and pray God that it may in due course reach Your Grace.

  My hope is that it finds you in good health. I think that this must be so for the word reaches this Durham, where I am held, of the works of no ailing man, of shrewd blows struck against the invader and those of your own subjects who betray their king. That you may prosper in these efforts is my constant prayer. And that I, held close here, may not aid you in your struggle is my as constant sorrow.

  It may be that I can offer some small guidance even so, confined as I am, my lord Robert. I gain certain informations here from a source that you might not look to. That source is the Prince Edward of Carnarvon, styled as of Wales. His father the King loves him not, as you will know. I find this prince a very different man from his sire. He is much here at this castle, for King Edward mis likes to have him overmuch at Lanercost, preferring his bastard Botetourt. Yet the prince must be near for councils, since in name he commands part of the English host. He speaks much with me, being a man greatly confused and in need of spiritual guidance, yet wilful and petulant. And gets little guidance from Anthony Beck who the King makes all but his keeper.

  “But to the nub of it, Sire. King Edward is more ill in health than is

  told. His son believes that he will not see another winter, for he

  fails fast. His hatred for you and for Scotland fails nothing nevertheless, and he is mustering another great army of invasion for

  the summer. But he cannot himself lead it, that is certain.

  When God takes Edward Plantagenet to Himself and England has a new king, it may be that I may be of some small service to you, my friend. For he esteems me in some measure, that I know.

  He will be beset around by hard and strong men, his father’s men, and he loves not Scotland. But he lacks his sire’s resolution and on that I may be able to play. So that I pray that this my captivity may not be all loss.

  Of other tidings. I learn that your lady-wife the Queen is at Burstwick Manor, in Holderness in Yorkshire, no great distance from here. If I may I shall seek to get word to her. I have heard that King Edward has reduced his shameful command that your daughter the Lady Marjory should be hung in a cage on the walls of London Tower. His own Queen is said to have besought him for the child. She is to be held in the Tower, alone, but not caged, God be praised. Ill as that is. Others are less fortunate, at Berwick and Roxburgh, it is said. But of this wickedness you may know better than I. If this writing reaches you, it will be by the hand of Nicholas Balmyle, my Official of St. Andrews. I commend him to Your Grace as an able and reliable servant whom you may use in my place, in my absence. Through him I seek still to guide Holy Church in Scotland, in some measure. I have asked him to bring you the tokens of that Church’s support. You may trust Balmyle.

  And now may God Almighty guard, keep and strengthen you, and His peace rest upon you, my son. I pray for you daily, and weary for the sight of your face.

  I subscribe myself your father-in-God, true friend, and most leal subject.

  WILLIAM W Episcopo Sancti Andrea.

  Written in bonds at the Castle of Bernard Baliol in the County of Durham, this 15th day of April from our Lord’s birth 1307 years.

  Much moved, the King stared out of the window over the fair green

  prospect bathed in the mellow light of the setting sun, before turning back to his visitor.

  “Master Balmyle,” he said, “I owe you much for bringing me this letter. From one who is close to my heart It is of great value to me. And comfort. I thank you.”

  The other, from sipping wine, laid down his goblet “I rejoice Sire, if I have been the means of bringing you solace. It may be that I may have brought you even more. Of other sort.”

  “You say so? My friend, I have learned the folly of pride. All your comfort and solace I will esteem. I am a glutton for it!”

  The other nodded.

  “Below, in one saddle-bag, my servant guards gold to the value of 5,000 mer ks From the treasury of the Diocese of St. Andrews, for Your Grace’s needs.”

  “Five thousand mer ks Of a mercy-here is generosity! Princely generosity to a penniless prince! Solace indeed, Master Balmyle.”

  “My lord Bishop’s instructions.”

  “I scarce thought so much gold remained in this Scotland! That the English had not stolen.”

  “Holy Church makes shift, Sire, to protect her own. So that she may cherish her own, in need.”

  “Aye. But I had not thought to hear the name of Robert Bruce on that roll!”

  The little cleric made no change of expression.

  “The Church is fallible and can make mistakes. But she recognises her own sheep. Even when at times they stray. So long as they are repentant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Sire, that in my other saddle-bag below is different solace. More costly than any gold. Priceless. The wafer and the wine. That can be the Sacrament of our Lord.”

  “What… what are you saying, man?” That was little more man a whisper.

  “The Sacrament! Holy Communion! For me? You must know that I am excommunicate. From Rome …”

  “We believe that the Holy Father was misinformed. Ill advised.

  In this matter. My lord Bishop believes that if he was free to visit His Holiness, or even to send an envoy, he could have the excommunication lifted. He is convinced of your penitence for the slaying of Sir John Comyn. Therefore, he would not have the misfortune of his imprisonment to limit the mercy of God towards you. By his command I am to dispense the Holy Sacrament to you. If so you will. After preparation.”

  “The mercy of God …!” The King stared at him.

  “The mercy of God indeed! Dear Jesu—I had not looked for God’s angel in the person of Nicholas Balmyle!”

  The other permitted himself a small smile.

  “When?” Bruce demanded.

  “You speak of preparation…?”

  “Your Grace lives amongst al arums and perils. Later tonight, if you will. An hour of prayer, perhaps…”

  His al arums and perils must have seemed altogether too apt, for the sudden sounding of a trumpet, the drumming of hooves and the shouts of men halted the cleric in his speech. Bruce moved back to the window.

  A large company of mounted men, some hundreds strong, was approaching at a canter from the north, with a stirring aspect of dash and elan, well-horsed and armoured. And at their head fluttered a large silken banner, white with an azure chief on which three silver stars stood out.

  “Douglas!” the King exclaimed.

  “Jamie Douglas!” Swinging about, he brushed past his surprised visitor, out from the hall, and went down the winding turnpike stairway three steps at a time, in scarcely regal fashion.

  Douglas came clattering into the tower’s little courtyard just as Bruce reached
it, and drawing up his splendid charger to a slivering, caracoling halt, with sparks striking from the cobblestones, flung himself down and strode, spurs jingling, the few paces to the King, and dropped on one knee. He reached for the royal hand.

  “My liege lord Robert!” he panted.

  “God be praised! For the sight of you again.”

  The King smiled.

  “Sakes, Jamie-am I so fine a sight? I’d not have thought it. You, now-that is a handsome mount you have there. You have me envious, I vow! And your fine armour-gold- inlaid, no less! Whom have you been robbing, lad?”

  “The armour is my dead father’s. And something big for me! And the stallion was Cliffords’s. Yours now, Sire.”

  “Clifford’s? You also have been crossing swords with that miscreant?”

  “Not in person, to my sorrow. Although I heard that you had, Sire. But I have dented his shield, at least! He had been given my castle of Douglas.”

  “Ha! And now he is the poorer, eh?”

  “Yes. He will not sit in my hall again!” Douglas’s rather delicate nostrils flared a little as, narrow-eyed, he looked away.

  Bruce searched his young friend’s face keenly. There was something

  different about James Douglas. He had been away only some six weeks,

  but he seemed older by a deal more than that. Somehow, somewhere,

  those boyishly good-looking features had hardened, set, matured. He

  held himself differently too, with an assurance and command not

  formerly evident, to give balance to his eagerness. “I perceive that

  you have much to tell me, Jamie,” he said, taking the other’s arm.

  “Come you inside. See, we have a roof above us! A table to sit at.

  Even wine to drink. Not only my Lord of Douglas is fine, this day! Come-tell me this of your castle. And where you got all those stout fellows …”

  “That I shall, Your Grace. But there is other news that you should hear first, I think. More urgent. You have heard this of Philip Moubray? The dastard who struck you at Methven field. He is now keeper of Stirling Castle, for his treachery.”