Thereafter, each day inevitably they covered fewer miles, and more slowly. The magnificent light cavalry host of the warrior King of Scots, one of the most renowned and potent striking forces in all Christendom, was no longer magnificent, scarcely even any longer cavalry. It had become a horde of hungry, silent, scowling men, dragging themselves northwards with only a dogged determination not to leave their prominent bones here in an alien land.
It was perhaps as well that the enemy seemed no more inclined to fight than they were. Starvation may not make for peace and goodwill, but it certainly limits war.
At Rahan, on the 10th of April, they heard that Mortimer, with de Burghs men, if not de Burgh himself, was as good as sacking Dublin, and that the savaged citizenry were wishing that they had opened their gates to the King of Scots. Widespread civil war appeared to be breaking out between the English and the Anglo-Irish.
These, at least, were apt to have enough food in their stomachs to sustain the effort.
But even this news was insufficient, now, to distract Bruce and his people from their course. It did mean, however, that they could probably risk moving further to the east in their northwards march.
They turned to cross the bare uplands of Westmeath, towards Trim, and, they hoped, fatter lands.
But now the concomitants of under-nourishment were taking their toll. Sickness and disease were growing rife, and men were dying in increasing numbers. Horses also, so that starving cavalrymen were now concerned to eat their mounts while still they represented sustenance. Only the sick rode, any more, and not all of them.
For Bruce to maintain a degree of discipline in his host, in the circumstances, was no small feat-especially as he was now a sick man himself, His old trouble of fever, vomiting and itching skin had come back-and on an empty stomach vomiting bore especially hard.
Nevertheless he sought vehemently to retain his hold both on himself and on his men, to keep it a unified and manageable force, to uphold the morale of all. He had seldom had a more testing task. That he succeeded was in no small measure thanks to the sheer love his hardened veterans bore him, a love which let them accept from this man what no other, king or none, dared have posed.
They reached Trim on the 19th of April. Here they were only a few miles from Tara, Slane and Navan, a countryside they knew, with the new seasons pasture beginning to sprout for their remaining horses, and a certain amount of food still available for men-at a price. And the Ulster border was only thirty miles away.
Perhaps the Bruce brothers were not so very different in all
respects.
Robert was not entirely free from the same damnable pride that made
Edward so awkward a man to deal with. Here, at Trim of the de Clares,
near the Ulster border, when he ascertained that there was little of
real scarcity, that cattle and fodder were to be had for good Scots
silver, and that no enemy concentrations seemed to be taking any
special interest in them, he ordained a halt. A major halt, not of
hours but of days duration, a full week of resting, eating and
recuperation, followed by some modest raiding and spoliation in the
Boyne valley, wherein men regained a considerable degree of strength,
vitality and self-respect, and the horses became less like walking
skeletons. As a consequence when, on the last day of April, 1317, the
Scots force crossed back into Ulster, with the bells of Dundalk and
Carlingford celebrating the Day of the Blessed St. Ninny, it was as a
dignified, disciplined if depleted body of men, at least half of them
mounted, carrying along with them a number of highly-placed Anglo-Irish
prisoners for hostage and ransom, with sundry enemy banners and
standards displayed beneath their own. Also there was quite a sizeable
herd of cattle driven along behind, as thoughtful contribution, gesture
and parting-gift for his brother, even if these cost Bruce the last of
his money to purchase. He was still less than well, but he would die
rather than turn up at Edwards court looking like anything but a
victor with largesse and to spare. He had brought a starving,
disease-ridden army right across a famine stricken,
pestilence-devastated Ireland, from southwest to northeast, over 200
miles, mainly on foot-but that must not be obvious to any at
Carrickfergus. He was still The Bruce, the First Knight of
Christendom-God help him! Highheaded then, the Scots marched round Belfast Lough, conquerers, and even found breath to blow fanfares of trumpets to announce their coming. But, previously and privily, the King had sent messengers ahead to the Lord of the Isles, to have his galleys ready, if possible, for. an immediate embarkation.
For this, and various other reasons, the final meeting of the royal brothers went off a deal better than it might have done. Edward did not wish to make explanations as to why he had hastened north and left his brothers flank entirely unprotected. Nor what had happened to his great resounding Irish host of foot. And Robert was determined not to reveal that he was sick and weary and indeed, for that man, dejected, at odds with himself, and preoccupied with his failure in this wretched campaign. They fore bore mutual recrimination, for once.
On the 2nd of May, Festival of St. Begha, Bruce and about 4,000 men took to Angus Ogs galleys, and sailed away from Ireland. Of the rest, those that were not filling nameless and hastily-dug graves across the length and breadth of the land, had elected to stay behind, accepting Edwards offers of large lands, titles, even knighthoods, for continuing and experienced armed support. Bruce put no hindrance in their way-but found it strange that any should so wish, after the experiences of these last months. Though such failure to understand, he told himself, was a sure sign of advancing years. Once, might he not have seen the thing differently?
For himself, all Robert Bruce looked for now was the sight of Scotlands hill-girl shores. And then the soft arms of Elizabeth de Burgh.
He still shivered and vomited and itched, however hard he sought to hide all three.
Chapter Fourteen
As they had done three years before on the high ground above Lanercost and the Vale of Irthing, after much longer parting, the two of them spurred urgently ahead of their respective parties, alone, to meet together this time on the heather moorland above Ballantrae where Ayrshire merged with Galloway, the King of Scots and his Queen. Eager-eyed, calling, they rode-but as they drew close, Elizabeths face fell a little if the mans did not. But only momentary was her hesitation. Then they were in each others arms, mounted as they were, the lean, haggard, sweat-smelling man, and the splendid, statuesque yet voluptuous woman, clutching, kissing, gasping broken, incoherent phrases.
Robert! Robert, my love-God be praised that He gives you back to me!
Bless you! But… oh, Robert-you are thin! Wasted.
Drawn, You are sick, I swear! Mary-Mother- what have they done to you?
Tush, my dear, my sweeting-it is nothing! We are none of us fat, see you! Ireland is scarce a fattening land. But, you-you make up for us, by the Rude! He held her away for a moment, the better to see her.
I faith, you bloom, woman! You burgeon! You you fill my arms most adequately! And he reverted to their embrace.
He squeezed a strangled laugh out of her.
Lacking this riding cloak, you would see me burgeoning indeed!
Swelling. Fruiting, no less! I am quite gross …
You mean …? Fruiting? You mean …?
Aye, Robert-that is what I mean! Once more. I am six months gone.
Now I have started, my dear, I swear there will be no stopping me!
Dear God-heres joy! Heres wonder! Another child. And you did not send me word …
Time enough for that. As you did not tell me that
you had been sick!
But you have. I can see it, trace it on you…
Smell it, be like! he jerked.
But that is by with, now. Nothing.
What of Matilda? The child? Is she well? Come, lass-here come the
others. Greet them. But briefly. And then let us ride on together, alone. There is so much to say … He looked past her shoulder.
Is that Walter?
Walter, yes. He has been acting the son to me. And I mother to both his child and my own. That is, between distinguishing himself, with Jamie Douglas. They, have been doing great things on the Border.
Aye. I will speak with him …
When, presently, they were riding on northwards together, to Turnberry, and Bruce had treated his wife to a very foreshortened and carefully expurgated account of the Irish adventure, at length she interrupted him.
Robertwhat you are telling me scarce makes sense, unless there is a deal more to it than you say. You have starved and suffered grievously, have you not? The campaign little less than a disaster?
He grimaced.
You could say so.
That fault was not yours, I swear!
Whose, then? Who do I blame? Mine was the decision to go. I commanded. I it was who urged the move south from Carrickfergus, out of Ulster. I believe Edward would have been feasting there still, had I let him! It was I who changed, and refused to assail Dublin. I who elected to make for the West. If none of it was successful, who should I blame? I misjudged. And when a king misjudges, lesser men suffer.
But the famine ..
I knew of the famine. And thought that I had its measure! In that I misjudged also.
And Edward? You have scarce mentioned Edward. What of the King of
Edward… is Edward!
He failed you, did he not? Is that not the truth of it? The gallant, dashing Edward failed you?
He would tell you, belike, that I failed him.
She shook her fair head.
Robert, my heart-I am a woman.
But not, I hope, a fool! And I know you, know that it is not in you to fail anyone. Know also that you blame yourself too much. A strange thing for so potent a man. But I shall learn the truth of all this.
From Thomas. From Sir Gilbert. They will not deceive me …
Bruce changed the subject.
What is this of James Douglas? And Walter? On the Border. He is still besieging Berwick?
Yes. After a fashion, The siege of Berwick continues. But Jamie is seldom there. King Edward, English Edward, hearing that you were gone, called a great muster of his armies, at Newcastle, to come and raise the siege and to punish Scotland. Save us-we were all prepared to send for you to come home, Robert. William Lamberton had the letter written. Then we heard that Edward himself had failed to come. To Newcastle and his host. All awaited him there, but he stayed in London. This second Edward is a strange man.
He blows hot and cold. Unlike his sire, who blew only hot!
Perhaps. At any rate, when still he came not, the Earl of Lancaster, whom he had made lieutenant of the venture, would have no more of it. He dispersed the great army, saying that those who wished to relieve Berwick and punish the Scots could do so, and merrily. For himself, he was going home to his lady! And so we breathed again.
This is none so different from Ireland! Bruce observed.
I would not have thought it. But, in the English array were some hardier spirits. Notably the young Earl of Arundel. And some Gascon knights the Plantagenet had brought over to fight for him.
These were not be put off from winning booty. So fragments of the great host came north-though most, they say, followed Lancasters lead. It was not a great invasion, but savage and scattered raiding across the Border.
And Jamie dealt with it to his satisfaction?
Ask Walter. Walter was there with him, much of the time. Let him tell you himself.
Bruce turned in his saddle to call his son-in-law forward.
That young man, modestly disclaiming any major prowess, attributed all to the lord of Douglas-whom he obviously hero worshipped. He described how the Earl of Arundel had come first, with Sir Thomas de Richemont and many thousands, crossing the Cheviots at the Carter Bar.
And how Douglas and he had ambushed them, by Jed Water, at Lintalee,
making a narrow passage even narrower by plaiting and lacing together
the scrub birch-trees so that scarcely even a rabbit could have got
through, much less a cavalry force, ill-led. The slaughter had been
enormous. Douglas killing de Richemont with his own dagger-though
Arundel had escaped. Later a strong party of Edwards Gascon knights
forded the Tweed at Coldstream, and were raiding and burning in the
Merse and Teviotdale, when Douglas slipped down out of Ettrick Forest
and waylaid them as they returned towards England, sated with booty,
wine and women. Most of the invaders died there, at Skaithmuir,
including Raymond de Calhau, Piers Gavestonsnephew, whom King Edward
had made Governor of Berwick.
Douglas said it was the hottest encounter he had ever known. On another occasion, near to Berwick itself, Sir Robert Neville of Raby, the Peacock of the North, with a strong squadron of English North Country knights, was routed. Douglas himself slaying Neville.
These were only a few of the victories.
Bless him-Jamie was ever my best pupil! the King said.
But-what of defeats, Walter? Even Douglas cannot have all
victories!
None, Sire. Save that we have not yet taken Berwick.
Aye, Berwick is a hard fist to unclench. One of the hardest in the two kingdoms. It can be supplied by sea, and is protected also by the town and its walls. If a besieger is prepared to sack the town first, and slay its people-as was Edward Longshanks -then perchance he may win Berwick Castle. That I am not.
There was another victory-but not of Jamies winning, the Queen put in.
Despairing of getting past the Douglas, an expedition from Yorkshire,
from the Humber, came by sea. They sailed up Forth, and landed at
Inverkeithing, in life. The Sheriff of life made but feeble
resistance, it is said, and the Englishmen drove them towards
Dunfermline. But the good Master William Sinclair, Bishop of Dunkeld
* he that is brother to my lord of Roslin -was at his manor of
Auchtertool. Perceiving disaster, he grasped the Sheriffs spear from him, shouting shame, and with sixty of his own servants rode back to charge the enemy. It was more than the Fifers could stomach, and with or without their master, they followed on. The Yorkshiremen were driven back to the sea, with 500 dead it is said, and more were drowned in their boats. And the good Bishop none the worse!
They do say the Bishop told the Mac Duff that Your Grace would do well to hack the spurs from off his heels! the Steward added.
And cried that all who loved their lord and country should follow him.
Ha! We must cherish my lord of Dunkelda cleric after my own heart. And, I think, find a new sheriff for life. A case of poor master, poor man-for though the Earl of life has been returned to my peace for two years now, with all his lands returned to him despite his former treachery, he still loves me not. Alas for Mac Duff We must consult William Lamberton on this …
I sent a messenger to him so soon as I heard of your coming, the Queen said.
If I know my lord, it will not be long before he is at Turnberry.
Bruce gazed around him as he rode, sniffing the scents of heather dust, pine resin, opening bracken and raw red earth, laced with the overall tang of the sea-which was for him the smell of springtime in Scotland. He would not have disclosed how glad he was to be back in his own land, how inexpressibly dear and sweet that land was fo
r him. He had scarcely realised, until now, just how much it meant to him, the very growing, enduring land itself, not only the idea that was Scotland and its people-a land which, God knew, he had paid enough for, to call his own. If Ireland had taught him how much his own land, the actual soil of Scotland, meant to him, then perhaps Ireland was not all loss.
As ever, thereafter, Robert Bruce found the waiting until he could be
alone with Elizabeth frustrating, almost intolerable. But he was the
King, not his own man; not even, in this his wifes. At Turnberry
Castle innumerable men waited to see him, officers of state,
secretaries, ambassadors, churchmen, courtiers, kinsmen, deputations. A banquet had been hastily conjured up for the returned, tired and hungry warriors, and entertainment thereafter.
Through it all the man forced himself to patient endurance, even apparent appreciation. At his side, Elizabeth watched him and understood. Occasionally she touched his wrist, his forearm, with gentle pressure-and grieved to feel him so thin.
At last, up in their own tower-chamber, at parapet-level, with the door closed behind them and the half-light of the May night about them, he held her in his arms for long, just held her, not speaking, not even kissing, gripping her splendid rounded body to him, face buried in her plenteous flaxen hair. Quiescent she waited.
Weary, strained, jangled as to nerves and emotions as he was, the desire rose in him. Smiling, she responded, aiding his suddenly eager fingers to unfasten and drop her gown, her shift; then, feverishly now, to throw off his own attire.
The great bed received them. Their urgency had become mutual.
When the fierce first passion was spent, and the man at least lay back, exhausted, Elizabeth raised herself on one elbow, to consider him, running light searching fingers over his hot, but not sweating person. And as he jerked and shivered uncontrollably, involuntarily pushing her hand away, she sat up.
The Price of the King's Peace bt-3 Page 25