The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  “I shall not fail your son,” the other assured quietly.

  “That is what I desired to hear, my friend. I thank you.

  But-there is something else. The Stone. The true Stone of Destiny, at Scone. Baliol knows of it, if the English do not-that their stone is false. His father was crowned on the true Stone. I prophesy that it will be Edward Baliol’s ambition and desire to be likewise!

  And the English are grooming him for some great role, nothing more sure. Pray God Moray can keep him, and them, at bay. But, if he comes, I want that Stone hence. That he, and the like, may never sit thereon. Take it, Angus-take it. After my son’s coronation.

  Take it to your Isles, where none shall be able to follow it.

  And keep it safe, on some fair island. Until one of my line, or whoever is true King of Scots, requires it again for coronation. Will you do this for me, old friend?”

  “It is as good as done.”

  “Praise be! Then-farewell, Islesman! Your isles were my sanctuary once, your stout arm my strength, your Celtic folk my saving.

  You have my thanks. And, Angus-when you sail next by Loch Moidart, carry my last salutation to Christina MacRuarie. I owe her much-not the least of my debt to the Isles. Now, go, my friend-and send me Jamie.”

  For the first and last time in his life, Angus, Lord of the Isles,

  knelt and kissed another man’s hand.

  “Quickly, Jamie-quickly!” the King muttered, to himself.

  That darkly graceful man, still youthful-seeming, did not keep him waiting. He came in almost at a run, went straight to the bedside, and dropped on his knees, reaching for the King’s hand.

  Obviously he had been waiting at the door, in a fever, for this

  moment.

  “My dear liege! My beloved lord!” he cried.

  “Tell me that it is not true! That this is… this is …” His voice

  broke.

  “Jamie, Jamie-this is not you! The Black Douglas! He they frighten bairns with!” Bruce said, seeking a smile.

  “Have I not taught you better than this-you, my especial pupil! This is not the end.”

  ”You mean ..?” “I mean that I but take a new road. The road your

  Queen took.

  And my brothers, my daughter, Lamberton, my friends. Your friends. So many of them. Do you grudge me this? Now that this gross body has failed me?”

  The other shook his head, wordless.

  “Come. You are as bad as Gibbie Hay, Jamie! Thomas and Angus Og knew better, I vow! What mumble you there?”

  “I but pray, Sire, that I may follow you … along that road. And

  soon! As I have always done …”

  “That you will do, most assuredly!” Bruce agreed.

  “How soon-who knows? That is in God’s hands. But, the same God willing, I will be looking back for you. I … I …” The thick voice choked to silence.

  “Sire! Sire!” Douglas started up, eyes wide. Gilbert Hay moved in, at the other side.

  As from far, far away, in a few moments, the King’s voice returned.

  “Are you there, Jamie? You are … still with me? Give me your hand.

  It is not, not this time, I think. Not yet.”

  “Dear God-are you in pain, Sire? Great pain …?”

  “No. Little pain. It is the darkness. The waters. A great darkness of waters. Roaring loud. Little pain.”

  Distracted, helpless, his two friends watched him.

  “Ha-I see you again, now. Both of you. The tide ebbs a little.

  Look not so affrighted, Jamie. And you, Gibbie. Who ever was afraid of dark water, save bairns? We, who have faced together the worst that men can do to men, a thousand times? Here is naught for hurt.

  Onlytime. Time is short. Hear then, Jamie. I have a vow unfulfilled.

  You know of it. I made promise once, in a.

  Galloway cave. That, given my kingdom, given peace, my cause won, I would draw my sword again. And go against the Infidel.

  Who defies God’s holy places. A Crusade. I swore it there …”

  “But how could you do it, Sire? How fulfill it? You have had to fight and battle, always. Until this last year…”

  “Wheesht, man-wheesht! Let me talk-for I have not long. You have time enough! You, Jamie, must be my lieutenant in this, as so often. Warden of my March. You shall ride for me against the Saracen. Fulfil my vow. This I charge you. When I go hence, so soon as I am on my way, take this useless body. Cut out my heart, from within it. Part of it was ever yours. Cut it out, and place it in a casket. And take it with you. Against the Infidel. Wherever he may best be struck. We shall go crusading together … after all.

  You understand?”

  Douglas’s lips moved, but no words came.

  “It is my … my royal command, Jamie-my last, here. My body you shall place beside Elizabeth. Under the fair tomb I had made for her in Paris. In Dunfermline Abbey. Side by side lay us, in that place. But… my heart goes on to war! In God’s cause, this time. And in your company. Close company, Jamie. You have it?”

  The other could only nod.

  “It is well, then. God be thanked-all now is done. I want for nothing. The tide may come again, when it will. I am ready. Bide with me, Jamie. Gibbie -fetch the children. My son, my daughters, young Robert. For but a moment-then away with them.

  Here is no place for bairns. I would but bid them … good day.

  Jamie and you … will bide … thereafter. To see me on my way my good way …”

  Postscript

  Sir James Douglas raised steel-gauntleted hand to shade his narrowed eyes against the glaring Mediterranean sun, under the upraised visor of his great war-helm.

  “I fear that I have led you but ill, my friends,” he said.

  “These Moors have outwitted us. They think, and fight, differently from the English, I perceive! Too late I perceive it. It seems that I have led you into a trap. Were the wits here which belonged with this royal heart, it would have been different Forgive me.”

  His companions, at the head of the small Scots host, protested as with one voice.

  “Who could tell that they had these numbers hidden in this hellish valley?” Sir Alexander Fraser, the Chamberlain said.

  “The Castilians are at fault, not you,” Hugh Ross averred—Earl of Ross these last two years, since his father’s death.

  “They declared these valleys clear.”

  “Your strategy is still right, my lord,” young Sir Andrew Moray of Bothwell, the third of Bruce’s sisters’ husbands, declared stoutly.

  “Were there fewer, as we believed, we still needs must cut our way through them.”

  “Aye-there you have it, friends. We cannot turn back, with these on our flanks, and the great canyon to cross. This cliff-girl valley will not let us climb out. We can only go forward, southwards -and cut our way through. Despite odds. King Alfonso will not come to our aid that is sure!” Douglas shrugged, under his armour.

  “Arrowhead formation, then, my lords-the formation he loved well! Bruce’s wedge! We will drive his wedge through them, and teach the Saracen how the Bruce fought! Pass the word-Bruce’s wedge!”

  He raised his hand again, and drew over head and helm the silver chain and casket that hung before him and never left his person, day or night The trumpets shrilled their commands, and the 500 mounted Scots of the Northern Division of the army of Alfonso the Eleventh of Castile and Leon, hemmed in in the bare, baking, hostile Spanish valley of Tebas de Ardales, reined and sidled and prepared to marshal themselves into the driving spearhead formation which their late monarch had perfected, and which, given sufficient impetus, was the hardest man-made force on earth to halt. Far ahead, half a mile at least, the vast host of the main Moorish cavalry completely blocked the widening mouth of the dry valley, southwards towards the open plain; while to east and west the rocky heights of the sierra were lined by the serried ranks of the Infidel foot, stretched as far as eye could see on either side.

  Douglas, at the apex of the wedge, rose in his stirrups.

  “God, Saint
Andrew and Saint Bride be with us, now, my friends.” He raised the chained casket high.

  “And the Bruce!” With a snap he shut his helm’s visor.

  “Come!”

  Out of seeming chaos the great arrowhead developed and took shape. Heedfully Douglas gave it time, restraining his own and the other leaders’ impatience to attain swiftly the necessary momentum.

  Fortunately they had that half-mile- and as fortunately, the Moors did not ride to meet them, content to wait in solid phalanx for the impact of this suicidal charge of 500 against 5,000.

  Halfway, peering behind him in the saddle, and cursing the helmet which so restricted his view, Douglas was approximately satisfied. He dug in his spurs, and gestured to his personal trumpeter.

  Jerkily but unmistakable, the Full Charge call rang out.

  They had just the time and space to achieve the outright gallop.

  Thundering on the dry, sun-baked ground, they bore down on the waiting palisade of mounted spearmen and curved-sword warriors, some of the fiercest cavalry in the world, and crashed headlong into them like a battering-ram. But crashed at only one point in the long front, a point where only two or three dark fighters would not have been human had they not wilted somewhat, reined aside, drawn back.

  With a resounding crash, the screaming of men and horses, and a lance-tip glancing harmlessly off shield and armoured shoulder, Douglas was through the first and second lines, thrust and driven on by the hurtling weight behind. Ignoring the waving swords of the enemy, attempting no swordery of his own, he swung the chained heart round and round in windmill fashion, right and left, and beat and beat with his other clenched fist at his mount’s flank, through the splendid heraldic trappings, to keep up the impetus.

  Impetus, momentum, thrust-that was all, that was everything.

  “A Bruce! A Bruce!” he shouted, as he rode, and all behind him cried the same.

  Their tight-packed formation in the bottleneck of the valley was both the Mohammedans’ weakness and strength. They presented an almost solid barrier to the Scots drive, however much individuals in the way sought to draw clear-but could not. On the other hand, they were so close ranked, drawn up to oppose the conventional cavalry attack on a wide front, line behind line, that they had no room for manoeuvre, to bring their weapons to bear; and, of course, because of the narrow-fronted penetration by the wedge, not one in a score of the enemy could be in contact with their swift-moving assailants.

  So long as it remained swift-moving. There was the difficulty, the danger. Strive as Douglas and the Scots leaders would, their speed fell, the press too thick. And as their pace slackened, so increased their vulnerability. Sundry blows of lance and scimitar set Douglas reeling in his saddle-yet he scarcely noticed them. All his attention was concentrated on the way ahead, forcing the wedge through.

  And there was a way ahead, space, a thinning of the tight-packed host. That was ever more apparent. If they could win through to it… Their fine gallop reduced now to a mere lumbering, stumbling trot, Douglas broke through into the open, Fraser and Ross close at his flanks, still the head of the arrow, however misshapen it was behind. But now the impetus was gone. And immediately in front, not seventy yards off, was not another rear guard line but a single large group of white-robed Saracen notables, emirs, imams, the enemy high command, under a great Crescent banner. Beyond was practically empty plain.

  The dark chiefs did not hesitate. With a mighty shout they spurred forward to the assault.

  Douglas knew a strange, fierce exultation. This, then, was the end. The way was open for escape-but not for Douglas. With the enemy leaders before him, not for Douglas to waver or dodge or bolt He stood in his stirrups, dizzy from the blows he had received, and drew his great sword at last. But with his left hand. His right still swung the chained heart. Higher he raised it, and plunged forward, at a canter now, to meet the foe.

  “Lead on, brave heart!” he cried.

  “As ever-was your wont. Douglas follows! Or else dies! A Douglas! A

  Douglas!” And with all his strength, he hurled the glistening silver

  casket and its chain before him into the midst of the Saracens, just

  before they closed

  CO “WW

  He went down, horse beneath him, under a hail of lance and sword thrusts. The arrowhead was disintegrated. But the mass of the Scots were through. In their hundreds they swept out of the great melee, and down upon the Moslem leadership. In the chaos of those final moments, with their own people milling and streaming past, Ross, Fraser and Sir William Keith of Galston reined round and back, smiting, to where Douglas lay. Keith, an enormous man, leapt down, while his companions, now joined by others, circled and caracoled and slashed protectively. Keith grasped the slighter and limp body in the black armour, and with a mighty effort hoisted it right on to the front of his own saddle.

  Beneath the body lay the gleaming casket-heart. Grabbing this also, he clambered up behind the Douglas.

  “A Bruce! A Bruce!” they all cried, as they spurred after the others, out into the open plain.

  The good Sir James left his last battlefield, following in his liege lord’s road.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: e11e3fbd-2c6f-4a56-8446-d5329604c0b3

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 7.4.2013

  Created using: calibre 0.9.25, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Nigel Tranter

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