Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

Bruce was far from blind to these alternatives. He himself would

probably have chosen as did MacDougall, in similar circumstances

* especially as the loom of the great island of Islay would provide a dark background against which shipping would not be readily visible.

The King was ready, therefore, for the first signs of a sustained westerly movement amongst the ships ahead. Swiftly he sent orders to his fast galleys to swing out of line to starboard at fullest speed, west by south, torches doused.

It became a race, a race which the King could not really win, clearly, since many of MacDougall’s ships were already to the west of his own. Some inevitably would escape; but he might trap much of the centre and east of the enemy line.

The breeze was south-westerly, and of no use to either side. It was now a case of sheer muscle and determination, the oars lashing the water in a disciplined frenzy of urgent rhythm, the panting refrain abandoned now for the clanging beat of broadsword on metal-studded targe, faster and faster. Each galley surged ahead in a cloud of spray raised by its scores of oars.

Soon it was evident that at least some of Angus Og’s ships were on the same mission, on an intercepting course. The three groups, or rather lines, of galleys, approximated to an arrowhead formation with an extra long point.

Inevitably, it was a short race, of only three or four miles, and for the last of them the leading ships were within hailing distance of each other-near enough for Bruce to try to pick out flags and banners, the sail devices being meantime hidden. There seemed to be two or three of the fleeing line wearing flags of various shapes and sizes.

“Which will be MacDougal’s own?” the King demanded of his

shipmaster.

“Who knows? Angus Og flies always a long whip-pennant at his masthead.

But Ian Bacach …?”.

“He will be proud to be the English king’s Admiral of the West,”

Gilbert Hay suggested.

“He will likely fly a large flag of that traitorous office, as well as

his own banner of Lorn.”

“Aye, you are right. Two large flags…”

The trouble was that there seemed to be two vessels wearing two large flags each, sailing close together. Perhaps King Edward appointed a deputy admiral to keep an eye on MacDougall? It would be typical English practice.

There was not much time for any decision. Ardmore Point of Islay looked very close, half-right, and the profusion of skerries and reefs would be closer still. Details were hard to distinguish in the half-light. Any action would have to be taken quickly now.

“Gut in between those two,” the King jerked.

“Can we do it? A last spurring of speed. Are they able? The

rowers?”

“Clan Donald are always able! Most of all against MacDougall.

Murtach -the pipes!”

So, with the bagpipes screaming and sobbing their high challenge and the oarsmen miraculously redoubling their huge efforts-aided undoubtedly by the High Steward of Scotland who went along the benches with a great flagon of the islanders’ whisky, proffering each open, gasping mouth a swallow-the King’s galley swung to port and hurled itself across the intervening quarter-mile of sea, at a steepening angle, to head in between the two fleeing be flagged craft in a burst of speed that had to be experienced to be believed.

Now it was possible to distinguish banners. Both ships ahead flew the Leopards of England; but, while that in front also flew a blue and white device of three boars’ heads, two and one, the second flew also the emblem of a galley, not unlike Angus Og’s own. Only this galley was on gold, not silver, and with dragon heads at stern and prow, and a cross at the masthead. It was the Galley of Lorn.

The similarity was not so strange; for Clan Donald and Clan Dougall were descended from brothers, Ranald and Dougall, sons of the mighty Somerled. The fact made their descendants only the more bitter rivals, especially as Dougall had been the elder brother.

There was no need for Bruce’s command to turn in. The MacDonald

skipper was already steering a collision course, and every man not at

the oars, save those who had grabbed grapnels and ropes had swords,

dirks, or axes in hand. The piper, Murtach, blew his lustiest.

The oarsmen on both vessels were equally expert. They kept up their deep driving strokes until the very last moment, when another second’s delay would have meant rending chaos, the snapping of long shafts, men broken as well as oars. Up in the air the inner teams of each raised the sweeps, in a rippling progress. Then the two galleys crashed together.

Instants before that even, the grapnels were flying, with their snaking cables to warp the craft securely. Men were leaping, from the moment of impact.

Walter Stewart was one of the first over the side, sword held high.

Bruce touched Hay’s arm.

“After him, Gibbie. See that he comes to no harm. He is keen-but I do not want to lose a good-son so soon!”

The King himself waited, however contrary to inclination.

Indeed, when at length he leapt, battle-axe in hand, he was one of the last to leave the galley. But he was able to jump straight on to the other vessel’s high poop, from his own. And it was on that poop that John MacDougall was likely to be found.

This manoeuvre, although logical, had its own danger. For it ensured that the King stepped almost alone into the thick of the enemy leadership. Sir William Irvine, Bruce’s armour-bearer, who never left his master’s shoulder during active service, was close behind; but nearly all the others had already gone.

In consequence, Bruce found himself hotly engaged from the moment of jumping. Many of the poop’s former occupants had already leapt down into the well of the ship to help repel the mass of the boarders; but half a dozen or so, of chiefly or knightly rank, extra to the shipmaster and helmsman, still remained. These, with one accord, hurled themselves on the royal intruder with eager swords.

Robert Bruce had fought on a galley poop before, and knew its hazards and limitations. Indeed it was on such a constricted, crowded, lofty and slippery platform that he had first made the acquaintance of Christina MacRuarie, amidst flashing steel. He had chosen the battle-axe now, deliberately-and he was a renowned master of that difficult weapon. Irvine, behind him, and lacking the experience, bore the conventional sword-and quickly learned his error.

In the confused melee which immediately followed, three swordsmen vied with each other to strike down the King-and thereby got not a little into each other’s way. Two others circled, to get behind Bruce, and these Irvine made shift to deal with.

Bruce’s shield jerked up to take the first clanging sword stroke.

The second, a sideways swipe, he drove down and away with a blow of the axe. The third, impeded by the other two, was off true and slightly short, merely scraping the King’s chain-mail and achieving nothing. Seeing his opportunity, with the three men bunched together and for the moment off guard, Bruce hurled himself bodily at them, using shield as battering-ram. He sent them spinning like ninepins, their long swords a handicap. One crashed all his length, the battle-axe smashed down to fell another, and the third, a knight in full armour, went staggering backwards, retaining his feet on the heaving deck only with difficulty. After him Bruce plunged.

Behind, Will Irvine was discovering the disadvantages of a full length sword in a confined space. Admittedly his two opponents were similarly handicapped; but even so he had not space to wield the weapon effectively. Bruce’s lunge forward had left his back unprotected. Irvine had to keep close. After a couple of abortive thrusts in the general direction of the assailants, he foreshortened his weapon by grasping it one-third of the way down the blade, and flung himself after his master, turning so that they were approximately back to back. Only just in time. As one sword came jabbing viciously, he beat down on it blindly with all his strength, using his weapon purely as a weight. Both swords clattered to the deck.