The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  The King, though distinctly light-headed and scarcely in full control of his limbs, nevertheless felt more like himself than he had done for long. Possibly Campbell’s Highland water-of-life was indeed helping though he insisted that it was that which made him dizzy. Christina watched him from just behind like a hen with one chick.

  On and on up those sheep-dotted valleys they pressed, with the long bulk of Barra Hill hiding all to the left, and the land gradually shelving and opening to the northeast. In time, they had gone well past the line of Buchan’s position, even past Oldmeldrum itself, and the intervening hill was beginning to tail away into broken moorland.

  If some of Bruce’s entourage, Edward included, began to fear that his

  sickness had affected his wits, they had perhaps some excuse; but the

  King’s stern and jaw-clenched expression did not invite questioning.

  At length, with the lie of the land forcing them ever eastwards into a wilderness of moorland hummocks, Bruce called a halt to this deliberate, almost leisurely progress. And now all was changed.

  As though he had suddenly wakened from some sort of trance, he had his whole force swing directly round on itself and head back whence it had come-but now at the utmost speed of foot and horse both. Back and up to the crest of Barra Hill, he commanded, with all haste. The foot he sent running and leaping across the soft ground, directly towards the whaleback ridge; the cavalry had to take the longer roundabout route, for firmer going, before they could swing off right-handed to face the fairly steep ascent of the hill itself.

  It was a ragged, scattered and breathless rabble that eventually reached the summit ridge of Barra Hill that late afternoon of Christmas Eve of 1307, as the light was beginning to fade from the overcast sky, Bruce himself reeling in his saddle, with Gilbert Hay positively holding him up at one side, and Irvine at the other.

  There was visibility enough left to discern the situation, however.

  And none on the ridge any longer doubted the sick monarch’s wits.

  The country was spread out before them, clear and open within a five-mile radius. And half-right, only about a mile away, a great host was streaming northwards, back through Oldmeldrum, in full retiral and some obvious confusion. From here it was evident that it had been drawn up in a strong position on the terraced south-facing shoulder of the hill below the village, overlooking the low ground, the loch and the road from Inverurie, its flanks well secured. But such position would have been of no avail in any attack from the rear, the north, from behind Oldmeldrum. Bruce’s ruse had worked. Buchan’s scouts, spaced along this dominant ridge, and now fleeing after their main body, had sent word that the royal force was making a great pincers-move to the northeast.

  Lennox’s manoeuvre, plain to view on the other side, would give the same impression. The Comyn, concerned not to be trapped from the higher ground to the north, had abandoned his position and turned his whole army round, to make for a new defensive site further back. The King did not wait until all his array was drawn up on the hilltop He ordered his trumpets to blare the advance, the charge, and leaving Hay and Fraser to bring on the foot with all speed, plunged headlong downhill, in the forefront of his line, dizziness apparently gone. Edward led the cavalry on the right and Campbell on the left. Only a little way in the rear, Christina MacRuarie maintained her position, black hair streaming like a banner in the wind.

  Buchan did not fail to perceive the threat of this unexpected assault, and made swift dispositions to meet it-or tried to. But to turn a host of horse and foot round on itself, in any sort of order, is not a thing to be rushed. When the host is already strung out and scattered in some confusion by a previous sudden about-turn, and on the move to find a new position in the rear, the manoeuvre becomes little short of the impossible. Chaos developed on the northern flank of Barra Hill, as the royal array thundered down from the main ridge, trumpets braying, hooves drumming, armour clanking, with everywhere men yelling “A Bruce! A Bruce!”

  Buchan was no poltroon, and he had stout and able lieutenants, notably Sir Walter Comyn of Kinedar, Sir William Comyn of Slains, Sir Alexander Baliol of Cavers, Sir David de Brechin—who arrogated to himself the title of The Flower of Chivalry-and the veteran Sir John de Moubray. They managed to rally much of their cavalry, but had less of a grip on the infantry.

  Indeed quickly the latter got completely out of hand, milling this way and that in disorder and in panic, so that soon their own horse were riding them down, led by the knights, in their desperate efforts to turn back and create a front of sorts against the enemy.

  From the start of the charge the Comyns had only some five or six minutes to turn, reform and take up a defensive position, before the King’s cavalry was upon them. It was not possible. While still the leaders were seeking to bring up and marshal their scattered men, the foremost ranks of the royal horse surged up in a yelling smiting tide. As might be expected, it was the right wing under the fiery Edward Bruce which reached them first.

  Even so, Buchan’s knights and chivalry put up a good fight, less than prominent as was their master in the business. But against the impetus of that charge, the lack of central direction, the utter chaos behind with the foot useless and fleeing, they were beaten before they started-especially when Lennox’s squadron put in an appearance along their right flank. Moreover, almost certainly the fact that the King himself was seen to be leading the assault in person under his renowned royal standard, had a notable effect, not least on his High Constable. Bruce’s reputation as a strategist had swept the country in these last ten months-and Buchan for one had thought him safely prostrate on his sickbed.

  At any rate, the Comyn line broke well before the loyalist foot reached

  the scene of battle-and once broken, Buchan himself was one of the

  first to be off. With Edward Bruce most evidently trying to hack his

  way through the press to him directly, he disengaged, leapt down from

  his heavy charger, grabbed a fleeter riderless mount, and clambered into the saddle with remarkable agility for a man of his years and bulk, in massive armour. He galloped off northwards. Many perceived it, and followed him-though Brechin and Moubray, scorning such behaviour, continued the fight.

  But with the arrival of Hay and Fraser with the infantry, obviously it was all over. Most of the remaining armoured knights managed to draw together into a small, compact and fiercely effective phalanx, and so cut their way out and back. Had Bruce himself been in any state for serious fighting, it is probable that none would have escaped. But he was not, keeping upright in his saddle being his main preoccupation now; and Edward was of course in hot pursuit of the fleeing Buchan, despite the swiftly falling darkness.

  Enough was enough, the King decided-especially with Christina MacRuarie at his elbow vigorously proclaiming the fact. The day was won, and with minimum loss. It was becoming too dark for effective tactics anyway, or any major pursuit. He ordered Irvine to sound the recall. Edward would pay no heed even if he heard it.

  So leaving Hay, Campbell and the Fraser brothers to deal with the wounded, the prisoners and the battlefield generally, the King, with Christina and Lennox, not un thankfully returned to ride the few miles back to Inverurie, his couch drawing him now, in reaction, like a magnet.

  It was late evening before Edward of Carrick returned, having pursued Buchan all the way to Fyvie, almost ten miles to the north, where there was a strong castle held by the English. He was hot that the victory had not been properly followed up-and since he could scarcely blame the King, he blamed Lennox and Campbell instead, the former in especial, who, he pointed out, had been fresh and with scarcely opportunity to draw sword.

  His brother, sighing, called him over to his couch.

  “Edward,” he said, low-voiced, for in that small chamber all might have heard.

  “You lack nothing in courage. And you are a good commander of light cavalry-few better. But let us pray God that my life is spared to me! For as King of Scots in my place you
would not survive a month! Of a mercy, use your wits, man! Command, leadership, rule, demand more than throwing yourself at the nearest enemy like a bull, and berating all others for not doing likewise!

  You must have friends as well as defeated foes. Remember it, I charge you-for I need friends if you do not!”

  That night Bruce was not content to be cherished and mothered his cot-house bed. Later, after the man was asleep, Christina, beside him, lay and gazed up at the smoke-blackened but fire lit roofing, and she frowned as often as she smiled.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Men “ declared Christina MacRuarie, “are all fools! Greater or lesser in degree, but all fools. Even kings, it seems! And never so great fools as where women are concerned.”

  Robert Bruce kept his back turned, and wisely forbore to answer.

  “You are the great ones. Under heaven, you rule all! All save your own silly wits. How think you would manage without women?”

  “More quietly, at the least,” the King said, and sighed.

  He was gazing out of the window of his bedchamber, which was in fact the sub-Prior’s room of the Blackfriars’ Priory of Aberdeen, looking pensively northwards towards the Castlehill and the towering walls of Aberdeen’s fortress, still held by a strong though beleaguered garrison of Englishmen. He was not really thinking, at the moment, about that symbol of the enemy’s unrelenting grip upon his kingdom-although it, and so many others like it, was a constant preoccupation, a challenge, which one day would have to be faced and dealt with; but not yet; he was not ready for the expensive and time-consuming business of reducing major fortresses.

  His mind was more immediately concerned with the projected programme for that very afternoon of early April-if only the woman would be quiet and let him think.

  But Christina was in no mood for quiet contemplation. She had a

  grievance. And a woman with a grievance is no aid to cerebration

  * especially one so masterful as the Lady of Garmoran.

  “Am I not just as entitled to sit at your Council as any man?”

  she demanded, not for the first time.

  “I have supplied you with men and aid and shelter. I know as much of affairs in these parts as do any of your lords. I have given you better advice than most. I have even been at your side in battle. What do I lack for a seat at this Council-table? Tell me, Robert-what do I lack? Other than proud and arrogant manhood. And … and its dangling equipment!”

  He smoothed hand over mouth, at that, lest she saw the grin reflected in the window-glass.

  “Nothing,” he admitted.

  “That only.

  Manhood. And you have other equipment that more than compensates, my

  dear! But, sec you-that is the nub of it, as I have told you. Because you are a woman the others would resent your presence. At a Privy Council. Never, I think, has any woman attended such-even a queen. I know their minds on this. They like you well, admire you. Edward indeed would bed you if he might, as you know! But a Council is men’s business …”

  “A Council is for counsel. And I can give better counsel than who will sit there. Than wit lings like Gilbert Hay. Clerks like the Bishop of Moray. Nice fumblers like Lennox. Or fat lowborn burghers like this Provost of Aberdeen-a fellmonger, a tanner of hides!”

  “Then give your counsel here, Christina. In my own ear. Always you have my privy ear. You can reach me when and where the others can not…”

  “That is naught to the point, and you know it. This Council is for debate. Discussion. Hearing the word and advice of others, and to make comment, support, or discover error. For that I must be there. You are to discuss Angus of the Isles’ plan to invade Lorn and Argyll. My lands flank Lorn to the north. Think you I do not know more of this matter than your Southrons? You will talk of a campaign against Ross. I and my clan have been fighting Ross for many years …”

  “Christina-all that is true. And your guidance I shall value. As I have done hereto. But a woman at my first true Privy Council I cannot have. I know my fellow-men. This Council is allimportant.

  Aberdeen is the first city in all my realm to fall into my hands-even though its castle still holds out. All the kingdom will hear what is done and said today. I have taken much thought to the style of it…”

  “The more reason that a woman’s voice should be heard. And be known to be heard. Abroad. Are not half your subjects women?”

  A discreet knock sounded at the door-for which Bruce was decidedly grateful. He strode to open it, to find there young William Irvine, son of the Annandale laird of Bonshaw, who had joined him as esquire and armour-bearer after Glen Trool, relieving Gibbie Hay of certain such duties.

  “Your Grace-my lord Bishop of Dunblane is new come. And seeks audience. He is below, in the chapter-house.”

  “Ha! Nicholas Balmyle? Here, in Aberdeen! Yes, he shall have audience. I will be down to the chapter-house forthwith.”

  Bruce turned back, to complete his dressing, belting the cloth-of gold tunic with the splendid embroidered scarlet Lion Rampant of Scotland, and donning the purple cloak trimmed with fur, which was the gift of the citizens of Aberdeen. He was to be very fine today, part of the stage-managing of this his first real Privy Council wherein he planned to act the monarch rather than just the soldier. Much would depend on this afternoon, and he was at least concerned to look the part. He had once, it seemed in another life, been something of a dandy in his dress, little as more recent appearances would have suggested it.

  “You look a very picture of elegance,” the woman observed sourly-which was strange, for partly this dressing-up had been her idea, the handsome thigh-length tunic made under her supervision.

  “I

  thank you,” he returned, smiling.

  “I am glad that I please you in this, at least!” And he escaped.

  Downstairs he found the calmly self-contained person of Nicholas Balmyle, newly appointed Bishop of Dunblane. And with him the dark Benedictine friar Bernard de Linton, the same who had brought Bruce the news of the late King Edward’s death, at Loch Doon. They bowed, the King greeting them warmly.

  “Sire,” Balmyle said, “we rejoice to see you afoot and all but yourself again, after your grievous sickness. We thank God and His saints for your delivery.”

  “Aye, my lord Bishop-do that. But also thank you the Earl of Buchan. Who contrived to effect my final cure, after his own fashion! At Barra Hill.”

  Balmyle looked mystified.

  “You say so? But two days before we came north from St. Andrews seeking Your Grace, I heard from a source you know of that my lord of Buchan has fled Scotland and is now in Yorkshire. To the displeasure of King Edward, who it seems had newly appointed him warden of Annandale, Carrick and Galloway.”

  “Buchan in England? I’ faith-here is good news. After two small defeats, and with still a round dozen of his strong castles in his Comyns’ hands, he flees the country? I had scarcely hoped for this. It should make my task the less sore. But… you had the word of it from my friend? From Bishop Lamberton? Have you also a letter for me? Is that why you have come here, my lord?”

  “In part, Sire. Here is a letter. It was enclosed within one from the Primate to myself.”

  Bruce took the folded paper, bulkier than that he had received beforehand still sealed. He did not open it, as Balmyle went on.

  “I have come on other account also, Sire. Another letter has reached me. From Rome. His Holiness has approved of my appointment to the See of Dunblane. And summons me to the Vatican for consecration.”

  ”Then here also is excellent news, my lord. Far the Pope doe snot

  love me, or my cause, and I feared that he might refuse to confirm you bishop. To your loss, and mine. For you have proved my friend. And I need the support of lords spiritual as well as temporal. And few of either are prepared to give that support, I fear.”

  “They will, Sire-they will. In time. But while the English remain in possession of most of the land, is it to be wondered at?

  With death by hanging and disembowelling the p
enalty. Not all have Your Grace’s strong courage …”

  “But you have, my lord. And our friend, here.” He looked at the friar.

  “To venture all this way, through enemy-held land, with this letter and your news.”

  The younger man, de Linton, inclined his head. He was sensitive-looking, gaunt, stringy and tall, with prominent bones.

  “My courage is but weak, Your Grace. But my conscience is the stronger.”

  “Aye. Well said, Master Bernard.”

  “I had to come to seek your royal permission, Sire, to leave the country,” the Bishop went on.

  “To journey to Rome for my consecration.

  And while in Rome to seek to have the Primate’s revocation of Your Grace’s excommunication confirmed by the Pontiff.”

  “Aye. Though whether you succeed in that is more in doubt. My enemies will do much to prevent it. All the English and French bishops-aye, and some of the Scots! Yours will be a lone voice, my friend. But, yes-you must go. To Rome. And Godspeed.

  Though I shall be the poorer for your absence.”

  “I thank you. And shall hasten my return. Meantime I have brought you Master Bernard. To remain with you, if so you will have it. To be a link between you and Holy Church. With myself, and with Bishop Lamberton, my father-in-God. That letters may still pass. As well, he is an able scribe, well versed, and I have found him both wise and true. He will serve you in many ways.”

  “That is well thought of. I’ faith, I need a secretary. A King needs pen as well as sword. You will be my secretary, Master Bernard.

  And, by the Rude, you could not have come more aptly. For today, within the hour, I hold a high council. You shall act secretary thereat. And you, my lord Bishop, shall attend it, as of right.

  With Bishop David of Moray, who is here. It falls out most aptly, does it not?”

  “Sire, I thank you,” the Bishop acknowledged.

  “But may I trespass on your time a little longer? I have brought more than my news to Aberdeen. Two items. Another thousand mer ks in silver, for one …”