The Path of the Hero King bt-2

by Nigel Tranter

  He jabbed a finger in the other direction, due westwards.

  “There, on the ridge of Mealfuarvonie, MacRuarie and a thousand

  clansmen stand. Here we marshal a host of boats. There Boydthreatens

  and Comyn yields. Ross will retire, must retire, northwards.

  Up Glen Urquhart. Abandoning this line of Loch Ness and the Great Glen. He cannot make stand again until Strath Glass or Strath Farrar. So we gain a victory of sorts, and much country. Without a man slain!”

  There was a great clamour of acclaim, with everywhere men surging forward to hail the King. The knights behind Edward, as with one accord, dismounted and came to make belated obeisance.

  But Bruce had turned away, towards Randolph again, who still stood with Hay, a pace or two behind. He held out his hand.

  “Sir Thomas,” he said, “you have keen eyes. A keen judgement in some matters. And a keen notion of honour. May they serve me and my cause well hereafter. This is an auspicious day. I receive you into my peace, and gladly. You are a free man, nephew. And all that is yours shall be restored to you.”

  Randolph sank down on knee before his uncle, and took that lean hand between both of his.

  “My liege lord,” he said, thickly.

  “I

  thank you. From my heart. I pray your royal forgiveness, for past deeds done and past words spoken. Hereafter, none shall serve you more faithfully.”

  “So be it, lad.” The King looked down, and felt-indeed looked-very old compared with the unlined and nobly handsome face upturned to his, despite his own mere thirty-four years.

  “But I warn you, my service may try you hard. As it does others.”

  He turned to receive the homage of the now thronging knights.

  Presently he looked over their heads to Edward, who still sat his fine horse, set-faced.

  “Come, brother—enough of bickering and hard words. Perhaps I am too sore on you. You in particular-since I am sore on all, I fear. This is too good a day to spoil. Come, you.”

  The other’s face lightened, and he leapt down, his magnificent mail clanking, and strode to grasp the outstretched hand, wordless.

  “You are mighty fine, Edward. Whose spoil is that you wear?”

  Bruce demanded, thumping the other’s armoured shoulder.

  “My lord of Buchan’s. The spoil of Dundarg. And I have brought better for you. A whole train of it! The spoil of a province.

  And of the proudest, richest house in all Scotland.”

  “Aye. You will tell me of all your campaign presently. I have heard something of it, even in the West. All the land talks of the Harrying of Buchan. But meantime we make more play with these boats. Marshal them differently, farther down the loch a little, opposite Urquhart. With much show. As though we had changed that it has declared for us. Instead of assailing the beaches. Ross could not halt our ingress to the castle, from the loch. So he will hasten his withdrawal, I think…”

  Some time later, the cry went up that a small boat was coming sailing across the loch towards this position. Presently it was seen that what had looked like a sail was in fact a large white flag.

  “So Sir Alexander Comyn comes to make his peace with me,” the King commented.

  “Bringing the keys of his castle. We must receive him suitably. In some style.”

  “I hanged my Comyns,” Edward mentioned briefly.

  But in a little, the sharp-eyed Hay was calling that it was not Comyn in the boat. There were four occupants, two rowers and two others, both young and in Highland dress. Interested, the party round Bruce watched and waited.

  As the craft beached on the shingle, and the two young men jumped out, one holding aloft the white flag, Angus Og drew a quick breath.

  “Hugh!” he exclaimed.

  “Hugh Ross, himself. Son of the chief.

  Eldest son. He of the red hair.”

  “Ha-a-a! You say so? Ross would talk, then!”

  The redheaded newcomer was an open-faced, freckled, pleasant-looking man in his early twenties, well-built and richly clothed. He and his companion came pacing self-consciously up the beach towards the silently watchful and impressive group.

  “I am Sir Hugh de Ross, son of the Earl,” the redhead declared, in a rush. It was of passing interest to Bruce that this Highlander chose to Normanise his name thus.

  “This is a cousin, Ross of Cad boll. We have a mission from my father. To Sir Robert the Bruce, formerly Earl of Carrick.” He was addressing himself to Edward, not Robert, perhaps not unnaturally in view of the difference in their appearance.

  “I am King Robert. I greet the son of the Earl of Ross. And his kinsman. But how is it that you style yourself knight, sir?”

  “King Edward of England knighted me. The old king.”

  “Ah. So we have at least that in common, sir. For he knighted me also! You would seem to have served him better than I did!”

  The young man looked a little disconcerted.

  “I obey my father’s commands, my lord.”

  “To be sure. A dutiful son-if less dutiful subject! Were you at Saint Duthac’s chapel, at Tain? When your father violated that sanctuary, and tore my wife and daughter from before its altar, to hand over to your English Edward?”

  ”No, sir. I was crossing swords with Angus of the Isles—whom Isee

  now at your shoulder. In the Western Sea. I do not make war on women and children. My father must answer for himself. He was seven years Edward’s prisoner in the Tower of London. After capture at Dunbar fight. And released only on terms, four years ago. I think that he did not relish another spell in an English prison!”

  “So he sent my women there instead!”

  The other did not answer, and Bruce beat down the hot anger within him which was always so liable to rise and choke him when he most needed to be calm and clearheaded.

  “So the Earl of Ross sends you as his messenger, sir?”

  “Yes. He sends you offer of truce.”

  The gasps with which this bald statement was received came not only from the King. Nearly everyone who heard gasped. A truce!

  Offered, not sought, even. The gesture of a monarch to an equal.

  Even Angus Og, who might have adopted the same line himself, was outraged that the Earl of Ross should do so.

  “Here’s an insolent dog!” Edward exclaimed.

  “A truce, says he!

  That, from an accursed rebel! And a Highlandman, at that!”

  “What mean you by that, sir?” Angus snapped.

  “I mean here’s a treacherous rogue acting the prince. Expecting us to treat with him. A truce, he says. He offers it, by the Mass!”

  “Sir-I do not know your name. But none speaks of my father in my presence, and thinks to escape my steel! White flag or none.” The redhead took a pace forward, hand on sword-hilt.

  “Peace, peace!” the King intervened.

  “In my presence, none quarrel and bandy words! This is the Earl of Carrick, Sir Hugh-my brother. He should not have spoken of your father as he did. I declare it as unsaid. But-this of a truce. Subjects do not make truces with their monarch, sir.”

  “My father does not accept you as his monarch.”

  With a hand raised, Bruce quelled the snarl of wrath that rose around him.

  “Whom does my lord of Ross accept as his liege lord, then? Edward of England? Son of he who imprisoned him?”

  “No, sir. John Baliol. Who abdicated only under duress, and still lives.”

  “How could he be King of Scots, when he lives the life of a recluse, in France? Has not set foot in Scotland for a dozen years?”

  Bruce caught himself up.

  “But I am not here to debate my kingship with you, sirrah. I was duly and properly crowned king two years ago. And am so accepted by all save a few stiff-necked rebels, as your father. And the Comyns. The Comyns I have dealt with. Now it is your turn.”

  “No parliament has yet accepted you as King, sir,” the young an persisted.

  “Until it does, no man can be proclaimed rebel who holds to King John.”

>   “Dear God-this is too much!” Edward cried.

  “You will stand and listen to such impudence; Sire? For if you will, I will not!”

  “Patience, brother-as I seek patience. Here is a young man of courage, at least. Who takes his stand on forms and ordinances. We must humour him with the forms he respects. You would have a parliament approve my kingship, sir? So would I. But it must be a true and free parliament. And while the English invaders remain in Scotland, none such is possible. You would not deny that?”

  “A parliament can and should confirm the power of a new monarch.”

  That was the Earl of Lennox, speaking with authority.

  “But it does not make the monarch. Nor can unmake him. Once duly crowned.”

  “And I was duly crowned. At Scone. By its abbot. On the true Stone. The Bishop of St. Andrews anointing. The crown placed on my brow by one of the line of Mac Duff Your father was summoned thereto, sir. He did not come. He could have come, and made objection. He, one of the seven great earls of Scotland.

  Indeed it was his duty, if he believed me usurper.”

  “Did the Lord of the Isles, here, attend your coronation? Or any other from the Highlands-save only the Campbell?”

  “Have done with this folly of words!” Angus Og broke in.

  “Words and more words! The sword speaks truer.” And he gripped his own.

  “Sir King-send this puppy whence he came, I say.”

  “Aye-so say I!” It was not often that Edward Bruce and the Islesman agreed. Indeed, now, led by Neil Campbell, most of the notables there raised their voices to like effect.

  “Wait, my friends,” the King insisted.

  “If we accept the sword as the truest speaker, then the strongest rules all, and the weaker must fall. Like right and justice. This Sir Hugh Ross has invoked forms and allegiances. So be it. We will show him that in these we are stronger also. For this is a realm I seek to rule, not a tournament, nor a bear-pit! You, sir-you say that your father denies recognition of my kingship, and accepts John Baliol’s. You deny John Baliol’s abdication. Who forced that abdication? The King of England.

  Therefore the King of England is John Baliol’s enemy. And therefore your father’s. Is he not?”

  Wary, the other inclined his head slightly.

  “Yet, I have here a letter from your father. To the King of England.

  Captured, two days back.” Bruce turned.

  “Master Bernard -you have the letter? Aye-give it to me. This, Sir

  Hugh, is your father’s signature and seal? He writes to the King of

  England asking for soldiers, money, aid, to fight against his own

  fellow subjects in Scotland. This letter then, by your own showing,

  by every form and observance, is treasonable. The work of a traitor.

  To me-or to John Baliol! Deny it!”

  The young man bit his lip, eyes darting, silent.

  “So! Now-this your mission here? What does the Earl of Ross say to the King of Scots?”

  Sir Hugh cleared his throat, obviously much put out.

  “He offers ,.. he suggests a truce, my lord. In any fighting between you. For a time. Three months. Six months-as you will. Each side to swear no advance on present positions, or any armed conflict. Each side to yield hostage to that effect. As pledge.”

  “Why?” That was barked out.

  “Why-in the name of God?” Angus Og burst out.

  “Need you ask why? Because he is outflanked and outwitted! Because he would hold Ness-side and not have to retire up Glen Urquhart to Strath Glass. Because he would give himself time to gather more men. To await the coming of winter, when the passes are closed against you and you cannot attack him. Save by sea. We can all see why!”

  “You mistake me, my lord,” Bruce answered coolly.

  “I asked not why there should or should not be a truce. But why he would have me yield a pledge. A hostage. Me, the King.”

  The young man blinked.

  “It was my father’s word,” he said.

  “And your father’s word requires such support, sir? It does not stand of itself? So-what pledge does the Earl of Ross offer me, to reinforce his promise?”

  “Me,” the other answered simply.

  “Myself.”

  “I’ faith-you! You, as hostage?”

  “Yes, sir. His eldest son. Heir. To remain with you. In token of his honest intentions that there shall be no breaking of the truce.”

  “I see.” Bruce paused, and actually smiled slightly.

  “You have made something of a strange entry to my Court and company, Sir Hugh Ross! But-who knows, you may come to adorn it well!

  Like, I hope, Sir Thomas Randolph. You two should agree well together! But, see you-this may be my lord of Ross’s pledge and , surety. Mine is otherwise. My simple royal word. The word of the King of Scots. I give no other surety to any subject, or any man. So send you your cousin here to tell your father so. It is all the surety he will get or require. You understand?”

  The redhead bowed.

  It was some moments before it dawned on the company what was here involved. The King was accepting the truce. Uproar broke out.

  Bruce allowed his friends their head for a little, and then rapped out

  a stern “Silence!” Even so, the required quiet took some time

  “This truce I will uphold,” he declared strongly.

  “It may serve the Earl of Ross. It also serves me. We shall come to a conclusion another day. A three months’ truce, Sir Hugh. As from this day. It is agreed.”

  “Yes, sir. Three months. That means until early November.

  Until then, each side holds its hand.”

  “So be it. And you, sir? I am prepared to accept your father’s word in this. You may return to him.”

  The young man hesitated, and then jutted his chin.

  “No, my lord. I still obey my father’s commands. To remain with you, as his hostage. That he ordained, that I will do.”

  Bruce eyed him directly, thoughtfully, for a few seconds, seeking to assess the reasons behind this. He conceived this young man to be honourable-which was more than he did of his sire. Was that it, then? Hugh Ross himself did not trust William Ross, and was seeking to ensure his father’s good faith thus? It could be.

  “Very well,” he said briefly.

  “Send your cousin back with this word. Then put yourself in charge of Sir Thomas Randolph, my nephew. You will have much in common! That is all.”

  The Rosses bowed, and went back to the boat.

  The King slowly searched the faces of those around him.

  “I see you doubt my judgement. All of you,” he said.

  “I am sorry for that But the decision is mine, and I have made it.

  Rightly or wrongly.”

  “It cannot be right, Robert,” Edward exclaimed.

  “To come to terms with the man who betrayed your wife and Marjory. And my sisters. I cannot understand how you could stomach it, ‘fore God!”

  “It is the King who stomachs it-not the husband and father and brother!” Bruce grated.

  “Even so …”

  “The King to accept an offer of truce from a rebel!” Campbell said, dark head shaking.

  “This I could not have believed, Sire.”

  “When you have Ross forced to retire!” Angus Og weighed in.

  “Of all times not to hold your hand! We are fighting-men, are we not? We came here to fight Ross. And now, when your stratagems have succeeded, and he sees that he is in trouble, you treat with him. If he needs this truce, you do not.”

  “I say that His Grace is right,” Thomas Randolph put in, greatly daring, as all stared at him in surprise and offence.

  “This way much bloodshed will be spared. Time gained and no harm done.

  Ross holding the North behind this line will not hurt the rest of the

  kingdom, or His Grace’s cause. For three months or six. So the King may turn his attention elsewhere.”

  “Thank you, nephew,” Bruce nodded.

  “I see that you have more in that h
andsome head than mere notions of chivalry and honour!”

  He turned to the others.

  “See you-Ross needs this truce, as my Lord of the Isles says. He says I do not. But I can use it. Ross sent that letter to King Edward. He hopes for help from England. We know, thanks to Lamberton, that he will not get it. Even though he writes other letters which we do not intercept. Edward of Carnarvon is otherwise occupied. Ross no doubt still hopes for aid from MacDougall of Lorn. This we must see that he does not obtain. But-be sure that he wants help! That is what matters. If we ensure that he gets none, then three months will not save him.

  Nor harm us. And meantime, we can go back and deal with MacDougall!

  With all our power, this time-no gesture. When he least expects us!”

  When no one found anything they could controvert in that, he went on.

  “This truce allows me to come to grips with Lorn this year. Still time, before the winter sets in. Here is a great matter. If we can bring down MacDougall and the West before this truce expires, I cannot see Ross in haste to seek battle with us thereafter. This could save me a year of campaigning-as well as the much war and bloodshed Randolph speaks of.”

  Lennox nodded.

  “Here is good sense, true judgement Thank God for your quick wits, Sire.”

  Angus Og, who much preferred to fight on the coasts rather than inland, so that he could use his great fleet of galleys, shrugged acquiescence.

  “What do we now, then?” Edward demanded.

  “Between our two hosts, we have 8,000 men. And not to strike a blow!”

  Bruce smiled, relaxing.

  “Never fear, brother-there will be blows aplenty for you. And before long. We march to Inverness forthwith. Receive the surrender of that castle, and demolish it-allowing the English to sail away. Leave the Bishop of Moray to hold that town and watch this line. We shall turn southwest For Argyll and Lorn again. I would be knocking at MacDougall’s door before he hears of this truce, if that may be! From now on, we move fast” Even Edward could not complain of that programme.

  “Master Bernard-before we march, prepare me a paper to send to Sir Alexander Comyn yonder. Appointing him my Sheriff of Inverness. To work with Bishop David. He is an able man. We must use him, keep him content in our service …”