Only Marjorie seemed not to suffer at all for their rough journey. She wandered about the camp, rife with curiosity and quite unaware that the men were beginning to cast looks at her. When last I saw her at Kildrummy, I had not noticed her changing shape: the burgeoning curve of her hips, the firm, apple-sized budding breasts. Yet there was still so much of her innocent manner – the idle chatter, the giggling – that betrayed her youth.
Boyd brought up the tail of the retinue, hailing every man who had ever shared a barrel of ale with him. Judging by his string of greetings, that included over half the camp.
The lines of concern were carved deeply into Robert’s forehead. A circle of lords and knights quickly grew around him. They began to talk, low at first. Then their voices rose with vehemence. I went to them, anxious to hear news, although I suspected it was not the favorable kind.
Alexander Lindsay, who had been with Nigel in Kildrummy, spoke and hung his head. Then he shook it hard as they barraged him with questions.
Finally, Robert raised both hands. “From the beginning.”
Lindsay rubbed at his neck and swallowed hard. “By the orders of King Edward of England, all who support the traitor Robert the Bruce are to be regarded as outlaws and denied ransom and trial when taken. Christopher Seton, captured at the Battle of Methven, was hanged, drawn and quartered at Berwick.” Then he bowed his silver-white head and muttered, “God have mercy on his soul.”
Neil’s face went white and he staggered away, down toward the river.
“She knows?” Robert asked.
Nigel nodded, glancing at Christine. “Twice widowed and not yet thirty.”
Then Lindsay rattled off an endless list: those dead on the field, those captured and executed, and those not accounted for, including the Earl of Lennox. Many of those I had come to know since springtime were now gone – their names fading to memory like wisps of smoke carried off by the wind. Survivors from the battle at Methven had trickled in during the month since. Many, too many, had died of their wounds even after escaping the English. For a while, it seemed we laid more bodies in graves every day than living folk came to join us. There was hardly one among us who did not have some scar or limp to remind him of the terror of it.
“Tell him about Randolph,” Boyd urged with a sneer.
Robert looked at Nigel. “What happened to him?”
Nigel plainly did not want to have to say it. “Swore himself Longshanks’ man in return for his life.”
“Bloody traitor,” Boyd mumbled, then spit at the ground. He kicked at the dirt and wandered off to beg for food.
Robert had nothing to say on the matter. He looked at me, knowing I understood, then began to walk away. A few strides later, he turned about and asked Lindsay directly, “What about Aberdeen? Can we take ship from there?”
Boyd broke in as he shuffled back to the group, an oatcake in each grubby hand. “You can’t even get there. It was the first stinking place Pembroke went after Perth. We’re bloody lucky we made it here. He’s not far behind us, I wager.”
“He’s right,” Edward said. “All routes east from here are blocked. The ports are held by the English.”
If I thought Edward Bruce an arrogant bastard before Methven like the rest of the world did, I now had a wholly different appreciation of him. He was vain and impulsive, aye, but indispensable as well. If you wanted a man who would charge head first at the enemy and break their ranks, it was Edward you called upon.
“North then? To the Orkneys,” Robert schemed. “The Bishop of Moray was headed there.”
Ever cautious, Nigel shook his head. “Ross and Sutherland are against you, Robert. You may as well march straight into England as go there. And the west is just as treacherous. John of Lorne there is a kinsman of Comyn’s, don’t forget.”
“That leaves Lennox,” Atholl said, breaking his long silence.
Neil came up from behind me. “If we can get to Kintyre,” he said, a broad smile breaking over his sun burnt face, “I have lands there. It’s not all that far from Ireland, where they hate the English more than anyone. And the MacDonalds of the Isles – they are your best friends, sire.” He pounded his chest with pride.
Robert took reassurance in Neil’s words. He had mentioned the younger MacDonald, Angus Og, before. The route was a narrow one, past wide lakes and over big mountains, with enemies teeming on either side. But if we could get to Lennox... that was not very far from Rothesay where Hugh and Archibald were with my uncle, James Stewart, who was an old man when I was a lad.
“Then south we will go,” Robert announced, his voice tinged with resignation.
I imagined Pembroke and his vast army over the next hill, bearing down us. I envisioned hostile Scotsmen, still virulent with hatred over Red Comyn’s murder, trailing us through the heather like lame and fading deer. And then I thought of Rothesay and my brothers and dreams of Ireland, green and bountiful, overtook me. I would find them and take them there and when it was time, I would come back and fight beside Robert.
I would win back my home. And I would make certain the English could never again take from me what was mine.
Epilogue
Robert the Bruce – Pass of Dalry, 1306
Abbot Maurice of Inchafray leads the way past Tyndrum, bobbing and sweating on his cantankerous, swayback mule. The mist has nearly lifted, revealing the thin trail ahead. Uneasy, I glance at the mountains around us. The closer we come to the sanctuary, the larger the mountains loom and the darker the glen becomes.
At first sight of the little church, clinging to the bare hillside, I send a rider on ahead to call James back, who has been riding in the vanguard with Edward. While I wait for him, I beckon to Nigel and he eases his horse up beside mine.
“Do you recall that castle, sitting out on the little island in Loch Dochart?”
“Aye.” Nigel’s forehead furrows. “Why?”
“If we are set upon, I want you to go there with the women. Take the Earl of Atholl. Lindsay as well. Half a dozen other men, no more. If you are pursued, then you can hold out there for some time. If you...” I cast a glance over my shoulder at Elizabeth, riding beside Marjorie, and smile placidly. They are too far back to hear our hushed conversation, but she returns the smile with haunted eyes. “If you are not, then you will go back to Kildrummy. It’s a strong fortress – and further from England’s border.”
“What if Pembroke has already marked it? We could hold out for months, perhaps even into winter, but he would be back eventually.”
“Go north to the Orkneys. The Bishop of Moray will find a way to Ulster for you. Elizabeth’s family will take the women in, I pray.”
“And you, Robert? What about you?”
I shrug. “I’ll go wherever they’ll have me. For the moment, I am putting my hopes on Angus Og.”
“A divided family, the MacDonalds.”
“I’m betting on that fact, Nigel. When I took Dumfries I emptied it of every sack and barrel in the buttery. Alexander sent those victuals and more on to Dunaverty, at the furthest edge of Kintyre. By the time we get there, if we do at all, Thomas and Alexander will be waiting with Angus Og. I told them to seek him out and swear whatever oaths needed to secure his allegiance. The men of the Western Isles, though they quarrel amongst themselves daily, would cling to their last sea-battered rock for dear life before they would ever prostrate themselves before an English king.”
“But the English king has ships,” Nigel argues. “A lot of them.”
“No English king has ever brought the Isles under his thumb. Longshanks knows his limit.”
Off to the side, James now sits quietly on his pony, waiting for the foot soldiers to pass by. As we come by, he falls in beside us.
“Do you see them, James?”
“See who?” Nigel swings his head from side to side, his brown eyes wide.
“Whoever it is who is watching us,” I say.
“Here and there.” James gazes into the distance, serene, one hand lightly
on the reins and the other pulling the strap of his flask over his head for a swig of water. “They are like fleas. If you see one on your arm, there are a hundred more hiding in your mattress.”
“Take Gil. Go up that crag.” With a tilt of my head, I indicate a peak to our right, ahead of the church. “Come back and tell me what you see.”
“As you wish. But it will be on foot. No horse could make that climb without breaking a leg.”
James snaps his reins and rides off to collect Gil de la Haye. As our long, irregular column limps to a halt in the valley at the foot of the priory, I see James and Gil scramble deftly up the hillside and vanish behind a knife-like ridgeline. Everywhere, cliffs of iron gray fall away from broken precipices patched with green. The mountains thrust up so abruptly, it seems the sky is higher here than anywhere I have ever been. The sound of a rushing waterfall comes from some invisible place. A fast and narrow stream flows from that unseen source between two great horns of earth out into the first stretch of a small, bow-shaped loch. Scattered clouds creep across the sky, throwing the valleys into half shadow, half sunlight.
Abbot Maurice is halfway to the priory when I begin my climb alone. Several times he stops to gain breath and so I catch up with him before he reaches the little, dilapidated church on the naked hillside. Its roof is caved in from a hundred years of snow. Doors and windows stand gaping like the mouths of decomposing corpses. Beside it, in the tiny, rocky churchyard, is a grave-marker – a simple stone cross, half leaning over like it might topple at any moment, its carvings pitted and chipped. The shrine of St. Fillan.
As if some invisible hand has reached out and pushed me down, I kneel before the abbot next to the shrine. On the slopes below, my army waits, both tired and impatient. Abbot Maurice flourishes his hands above my head over and over and drones on in Latin. I assume this will be a brief matter – I had sinned, terribly, in God’s own house and was asking Him, through Father Maurice, to forgive me – but on and on the abbot mumbles, touching me on the head, dabbing me with water, waving a cross before me. My legs go numb below the knee. My neck begins to ache. I look up at the sky and see the sun dipping from its heights and heading toward the western edge of the world. My men, at first welcoming the brief respite after the morning’s challenging trek, are growing restless and wary. I glance often at the place where I had last seen James and Gil, but when they finally reappear and begin to return, it is at quite a distance from there.
Father Maurice, fat as a pregnant sow, grunts as he reaches behind him. He turns back toward me. In his hands, a small, plain box rattles slightly. “These are the Holy Relics of St. Fillan’s.”
I place my hands upon the little wooden box and repeat a long chain of Latin at the broken prompting of the abbot. While we are so engaged, I hear the tramping of feet from further on up the hill. Finally, James Douglas drops to his knees beside me. Next to him, Gil sinks down, panting.
“This is not the time, James,” I say as the abbot pauses to take a breath.
“Agreed, my lord,” James utters apologetically. “It would have been better of me to tell you this a day ago.”
I look at him sideways. James’ countenance is ever the same. I cannot discern joy from anger there, concern from indifference. Always, the reticent lips are thin and firmly set in a straight line. Coal black, tightly curled hair contrasts against the clear pallor of his skin. The eyes, small and piercing, give the impression of watchfulness and constant thought, but never emotion, not a flicker of it. Except for early that morning, when he had knelt before Elizabeth – but that is neither here nor there right now.
He bows his head, as if to receive the abbot’s blessing. “We are being watched this very moment. Further along, they line both sides of the pass – hiding, but not well enough.”
I cast my eyes back down. My hands slip from the casket of relics. “Father Maurice... the short version? Half a blessing is better than none at this moment.”
“Ah, but there is no such thing as half a sin, my king,” the abbot protests in insult.
“Nor such a thing as half dead,” I reply tersely. I feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and arms. I fold my hands in prayer.
The abbot grumbles and continues on, his words coming out faster, but no fewer.
I lean over toward James and whisper, “By whom?”
Gil snorts. “Macdougalls.”
“John of Lorne,” I say to myself. Red Comyn’s son-in-law. But at the name, the abbot freezes in his ritual. I look up at him. “A problem, Father?”
“Kyrie eleison.” He gathers up his things: the little cross, the relics, his palm-sized bottle of holy water. Tucking them under the fleshy pocket of his arm, he wrings his hands. Perspiration trickles over his temples.
As he makes to leave, I grab the hem of his dusty frock. “Father?”
“We’re done, my son. The Lord forgives us all. Even Macdougalls.”
I let him go. At once, he slides down the hill with a great deal more energy than he had come up it and calls for his mule. I turn to James and Gil as I stand, dull pinpricks of pain shooting through my legs.
“An ill sign. I take it he has had his own troubles with John of Lorne.” I pick my way down the incline, James and Gil close on my heels. I look at the high, broken summits to the south and the shadowy valley that dives between them.
Merciful God, if we are trapped in there, the only way out will be to fight our way through. I told her I would fight if I had to and it will too soon come to that.
“James, do you know how many?” We thread our way amongst the men, most sitting on the ground passing the last crumbs of bread between them, some napping, others playing dice to pass the time.
“Impossible to say, but I doubt they outnumber us. We dared not go too close. I don’t think they saw either of us.”
Nigel and a group of knights are grazing the remaining horses just off the path our little army has beaten down. As we near them, I turn to James and Gil. “I can’t take the chance of going into the pass with the women.”
“We turn back, then?” Gil squints. The top of his cheekbones and nose are raw and peeling from too many days in the sun. A thin man to begin with, he looks gaunt enough now to be blown into dust by a strong wind.
“No, we go forward.”
“My lord?” James touches my arm and points toward a gap between two crowding mountains. “They’re coming.”
His eyes are those of a hawk’s, for it is several heartbeats that I stare at the very place he has pointed to before I can see even the slightest hint of movement.
“Nigel!” I call. “Take the horses. Go now!”
Nigel starts toward me, gripping his sword hilt. He looks at me, then at Marjorie. She is clutching a soiled blanket to her chest as she leans forward in her saddle to lay her head upon the arch of her pony’s neck. Her tangled yellow hair hangs across her cheeks.
He pulls his sword from its scabbard and shakes his head wildly. “We’ll never make it free.”
“You will.” My fists become boulders, dangling at the ends of my arms, weighing me down. I unclench my fingers and slide my own sword from its sheath. “Take the horses. Godspeed, good brother.”
With the burdens of a hundred lifetimes hovering over him, Nigel turns to go. Marjorie looks toward James, but he is already seeking out his men. With not enough time to string his bow, he pulls free his blade and casts out orders to some of the soldiers. Her forehead bunched in confusion, she cuts loose her gaze on him and tugs at the reins to join her Uncle Nigel. Nigel calls for Elizabeth, Christina and Mary. The men assigned to them quickly cover the rear. Frantic, Mary clutches young Colin up in her arms for a moment. Then, Nigel tosses him up on the back of a horse and helps Mary up.
I watch them leaving and share a glance... only a glance, no more, with Elizabeth before too many men scurry between us with a rising clamor. They gallop off, northward and away from the loch, back from where we had come. So many miles, so very long a way.
&n
bsp; With every ring of their horse’s hooves, I feel my heart drift further and further from me until there is nothing inside my chest but a hollow ache.
A cry of warning rips from Edward in the front. Argyll warriors, three hundred or more, armed with their axes and swords, race as agilely over the rock-littered ground as hill sheep. They swoop out from the hidden glen and howl their battle cries from haunting faces of blue, lime-white hair streaming behind them in fine plaits... their plaids streaking from their waists in a fury of color. Sparks of sun glint off the metal studs of their small, round shields. Spears flash above their heads, then fall toward earth as they eye their first marks.
Perched arrogantly on an outcrop, John Macdougall, Lord of Lorne, slams the tip of his long sword down before him and bears his weight upon it as he roars out his murderous orders.
Scots will die this day – brave Scots. God-fearing as I am, I wish it were not so, for I, too, will kill or die in the fighting. There is no gain in massacring our own, but today is not the day, nor here the place, to embrace in peace. The pitiless John of Lorne, who leads these Highlanders of Argyll, has but one end in mind – and that is to cut my beating heart from my chest and avenge the death of Comyn.
I raise my sword high above my head and with it my voice. “You’ll not go from here today, Lorne, and say you left Robert the Bruce drowning in his own blood! Try if you’re that big a fool. But I tell you this is not my day to rise to heaven. It’ll be yours to go to hell! Red Comyn awaits you!”
My other hand moves down to find my axe, snug against my waist. With that as my courage, I take to my horse and go to the rear just as the first whooping wave of Highlanders crashes against our outer lines. I call out to my men. They hold valiantly, neither winning ground nor gaining it, their line unbroken. As time goes brutally by, the blood of Scotsmen soaking the ground, I know that Elizabeth and Marjorie are further from danger.
The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy) Page 25