Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

“There is how Bruce women are apt to behave! Mary, God be thanked, has

made a good recovery.” It was certainly scarcely believable that the

haggard, gaunt wreck of a woman of three months before could have been restored to this laughing, lively creature. Thin she still was, and was likely to remain; but vigour and the joy of life had returned.

“Mary would compound these last years, I think,” Elizabeth said.

“Will you let her wed Sir Neil, Robert?”

“To be sure. He is my very good friend. I have given him all Argyll, on the forfeiture of Lame John MacDougall of Lorn.

Which makes him a very great lord. And a sound support of the crown in the Highland West Such match pleases me well.”

“I am glad. For they like each other assuredly, and will make a good couple. As, I hope, will Matilda and Sir Hugh. When he is at home!”

The King smiled a little.

“Aye-Matilda is a born flirt. Young Hugh will have his hands full with that one. But she is not truly wanton, I think. At the test, she will be true.”

“To be sure. And meanwhile, young Menteith makes haste to test!” Hugh Ross was still away with his father and the Lord of the Isles, raiding in their galley fleets the English southern coasts. The Earl of Menteith, not yet of age but the more eager to play the man, was not letting the grass grow.

“No harm in that. My sisters can well look after themselves, the saints be praised!” And he jerked his head towards where Christian, Lady Seton, erstwhile Countess of Mar, held her own court of slightly older men. Christian had always been a woman who needed men about her, and her years of confinement in the nunnery must have taxed her hard. Now she was making up for lost time.

The Queen smiled.

“I think, perhaps, it is some of your young men who need the taking care of! Sir Andrew Moray of Bothwell, for instance. How old would you say he was?”

“M’mm. His father, my friend, was slain at Stirling Bridge. That was in 1297seventeen years ago. That one was a boy of eight, the Court of Norway by the ears! He sighed. I wish that Isabel Mac Duff could so find an interest in men. To take her mind off her hurt. She used to be spirited enough.”

“Your Christina MacRuarie seems to have taken her under her raven wing!

I wonder why?”

The Countess of Buchan, sour-looking, stern, did not so much avoid men

as repel them. She had insisted on coming on this expedition, in her

search for vengeance, that was all; Bruce would have left her behind,

if he decently could, sympathetic as he was towards all that she had

suffered in his cause. She was now sitting a little way apart,

set-faced, eyes part-hooded, while Christina of Garmoran chatted to

“Christina is kind in more ways than one! I thought that you would have learned that, my dear. Clearly she feels for Isabel.”

“Do not we all. But she will not be comforted …”

Shouts interrupted her, and turned all heads southwards. From the direction of Otterburn, banners, many banners, were showing above a low grassy ridge. More than rivers were joining in Redesdale that day.

As the heads of men and horses appeared, nodding plumes, gleaming lance-points and tossing manes, it could be seen that three great banners dominated all-those of Bruce, Douglas and Moray. The impression was of a triumphant host.

The King, with Lennox and Hay and a few other lords, strode out a little way to meet the newcomers. Cheering arose from both hosts.

James Douglas flung himself down from his horse, armour notwithstanding, and ran to fall on his knees before the monarch.

“Sire,” he cried, “Greetings! I rejoice to see you. Well met. Your message reached us at Simonburhn. Last night. To our great good cheer.”

“Aye, Jamie-it is good to have you back. And you, Thomas.”

His nephew, Moray, was not far behind Douglas. Edward Bruce remained in his saddle, grinning his mocking smile.

“What is this? Another tourney?” he exclaimed.

”Have you brought all Scotland to meet us, Robert? “ “Call it a

progress, brother. With a purpose. Has all gone well?”

Edward shrugged.

“Well enough. It would have gone better had our nephew here not interfered.”

“That is scarce fair, my lord!” Douglas protested.

“The decision had to be Moray’s.”

“He was welcome to decide for his own force. Not mine.”

“My decision could not but effect both forces, my lord,” Moray

conceded.

“Yet it fell to me to make it. Mine was the responsibility.”

“The command was mine…”

“My friends-I asked if all had gone well,” the King cut in, only a

little sharply.

“I expected an answer not a dogfight!”

“Your Grace’s pardon,” Douglas hastened to apologise.

“It is a foolish bicker, no more. We won as far south as the Humber. Beverley and Holdemess, on the east. Richmond on the west. Then my lord of Moray, keeping our rear, sent word that the Yorkshire lords were gathering men in great numbers, that he could not much longer promise to hold. our rear secure. He said we must retire.”

‘”Fleeing from shadows!” Edward scoffed.

“I would have driven on. Chit my own way back and through, when I was ready. If Moray was so fearful, and must retire. But Douglas, on the east, played his game and turned back. I could not go on …”

“And by the Rude-why should you, man? At Beverley you were near 200 miles deep into England. More than halfway to London! Eighty miles further than ever before. That is magnificent, I say. Not a cause for quarrel! That you got so far was a wonder. And I thank you all.”

“I would have reached the other Richmond. On the Thames!”

Edward declared.

“Even without this fine nephew of ours! Scared the Plantagenet out of his catamite’s bed! But when Douglas deserted me…”

“My lord-you will take that word back!” Sir James cried.

“On my oath, you will! I desert none. His Grace told me, before we started-told you that we were to be guided by Randolph, in our rear.”

“I was given the authority in this …” Moray asserted.

“Not over me, Carrick, by God! You were not…”

“Silence!” the King cried, suddenly furious.

“All of you. Not another word of this. It is unseemly. In my royal presence, and before all these. My lord Constable. And Sir Robert the Marischal.

See that all are marshalled. Ready to move. The two hosts as one.

Sir Neil Campbell to command the rearward. See you to it.”

“Where go we now, Sire?” Edward demanded, unabashed, “Down Redesdale to the North Tyne. And we burn Redesdale as we going the hope that we need not burn Tynedale.”

“You make for Tynedale? With all this company? And intend to spare it? We spared nothing that we had time to burn!”

“Perhaps. But Tynedale is an ancient fief of the Scots crown. I go to resume suzerainty over it.” He shrugged.

“You were not pursued?

No? Then, since you are good at burning, brother, will you aid with this business? Redesdale to be a bale fire to warn Northumbria that the King of Scots approaches!”

“As you will…”

So, as the royal cavalcade slowly made its colourful way southwards towards the great valley of the North Tyne, it did so down a corridor of fire and billowing smoke, a new and unwelcome experience for the ladies present-save perhaps for the Countess of Buchan who would fain have used a torch herself-however used to it were most of the men. In a belt some two miles wide, every manor and farm, every cot-house and barn and mill, went up in flames; all stacked grain and hay likewise, all cattle, horses and sheep driven off and sent herded back on the road to Scotland, with such booty as was readily transportable. All less mobile stock pigs, poultry and the like, was slaughtered and added to the flames.