Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

The hapless armour-bearer snatched out his dirk, all he had now to face the other two.

“Sire! Sire!” he yelled. To give him his due, that was all warning and no cry for help.

Bruce, flinging himself after the staggering knight, had perceived as he did so that, in the limited space of the poop-deck, one of the men dodging aside to avoid the rush did so with a limp.

Immediately the King changed direction. Lame John, for a wager!

It was at that moment that Irvine’s cry sounded in his ear. Biting off a curse, he whirled round. He recognised the situation in a moment one man driving in with a sword, another reaching for his dagger, and his armour-bearer sword less He leapt for the first, leaving the other to Irvine.

The swordsman had to change his target and tactics hurriedly -and such

slight hesitation was fatal in face of the Bruce with a battle-axe. The

shorter-handled, more adaptable weapon, which was effective as a blunt

instrument almost any way it might strike, greatly outclassed in speed and wieldiness the long, heavy sword which had to use point or cutting edge. A quick feint with the axe to the thigh area brought the sword sweeping down in a defensive stroke-and a still quicker and explosive upward jerk drove under the man’s sword-arm. Though he was armoured in mail, the fierce impact of it cracked the shoulder-blade above with an audible snap. Limply the arm sagged and the sword fell. Bruce, who saw that one of his earlier toppled foes was now on his feet again, dirk in hand, did not waste more time on the shocked swordsman, only using his shield to give the man a violent if contemptuous push that sent him reeling back, while he swung the axe on the dirker. That unfortunate went down for the second time, and stayed down.

The King turned to find Irvine and his original opponent grappling, seeking to invalidate each other’s daggers. He raised his axe once more-men, ever mindful of other men’s amour propre, desisted.

His armour-bearer would not thank him for a rescue in equal combat. Only brief seconds had elapsed, as he swung back on his former objectives.

Four men only remained before him now, clustered around the helmsman the armoured knight, one who was almost certainly the shipmaster, and the limping individual.

“John MacDougall -submit you!” the King panted.

“I, Bruce, demand it.”

The Lord of Lorn did not lack courage, but he had been lame from birth and so inhibited from personal armed prowess. He did not fling himself forward, therefore, to contest that challenge, but jerked a word to the others. The knight moved out, but warily.

Then the shipmaster, quick as a flash, drew a dirk and flung it,

spinning through the air.

It was a wicked, accurate throw, with only two or three yards to cover, and had Bruce not been wearing a chain-mail jerkin he would have been transfixed. As it was, striking him on the chest with considerable force, the weapon’s impact made him catch his breathing, and he knew a burning pain. But, axe swinging, he came on. And now he was angry.

Almost casually he brushed aside the less than enthusiastic knight, keeping his eye on the skipper—for a man who could throw one knife could throw another.

“John MacDougall,” he cried again, “I am waiting.”

There was no reply.

The shipmaster had something else in his hand now. It looked like a spike rather than another dirk. MacDougall also held a sword, but looked not in a posture to use it.

“Lord of Lorn,” the King barked, “do you wish to live? Or die?

Choose quickly.” Seeming to look only at the chief, now but a pace or two in front of him, all his attention was nevertheless concentrated on the shipmaster.

“On my ship, 7 command, Sir King!” the other threw back, in his sibilant West Highland voice, so misleadingly gentle.

Then Irvine was at Bruce’s side, and sword in hand again.

“Let me deal with this dog!” he gasped.

Even as the shipmaster hesitated between targets, Bruce leapt. It was a violent sideways jump, like the release of a coiled spring.

And it was at the captain, not at Lame John, that he leapt. Before the other’s arm could adjust to a jabbing instead of a throwing position, the King’s axe smashed down. The man dropped like a slaughtered stirk.

The helmsman had a dirk, but seemed doubtful about using it-as who would blame him. Bruce gestured his reddened axe round at the chief.

“You are my prisoner, MacDougall. Yield you!”

For answer, the other made use of his sword, at last, in a savage despairing poke.

Bruce eluded it with ease, and slapped down the flat of the axe on the outstretched sword-arm- which broke like a dead stick.

The man squealed with pain.

“Fool!” his monarch told him, breathlessly.

“You are fool… as well as traitor! I could have slain you. Tell me why … I should not even now?”

Nursing his arm, and gritting his teeth, MacDougall found no words.

Walter Stewart came bounding up the poop-steps now, Hay following.

“The ship is ours! The ship is ours!” he cried excitedly.

“We have them. Have you seen MacDougall?”

His father-in-law smiled.

“He is here. I fear that he has hurt himself a little. We must ensure his comfort, now. His close comfort, see you!”

All resistance in this galley was soon over. Bruce took stock of the

wider scene. Pairs of ships seemed to be fighting it out over a wide

area of water, and in the half-light it was almost impossible to decide

which side had the advantage. The only clue was that few vessels

seemed now to be heading westwards. Some of the enemy had undoubtedly

escaped pant Islay. But with the Lord of the Isles’ fleet now fully

engaged, it seemed improbable that many more would do so. There was no

sign of the be flagged galley which had formerly been so close. “It

is enough,” the King decided.

“Leave the rest to Angus. He would have it so, I swear. Gibbie -find means to find him a message that I have this Lord of Lorn. Walterhave our foolish friend back to our own galley. He is almost the last of my rebels.

Will-see that this craft is taken back to Gigha. Find sufficient rowers. And the wounded seen to. I return there, hereafter. Now, Sir Knight-your name? An Englishman, I think …?”

Chapter Seven

The sudden and unexpectedly swift collapse of the MacDougall English naval threat left Bruce, for once in his career, almost at a loose end and in quite the most beautiful part of his kingdom, in high summer and fine weather. All his affairs elsewhere were under control, in the short term, with his disturbing brother away in Ireland, Douglas keeping the English North on the hop, Lamberton and the other churchmen in firm and effective control of the kingdom’s essential governance. There was a certain amount of mopping-up and example-making to be done in the Clan Dougall lands, but there was more than sufficient men to see to that. A unique holiday spirit seemed to develop in Argyll and its adjacent isles. Instead of returning forthwith to Ayr or Stirling, therefore, the King decided to send for Elizabeth and the Court to join him in a Hebridean idyll.

Such an expedition, of course, would take a little while to mount, if he knew anything about women folk, and their ideas and priorities.

While he waited, Bruce thought up an interim and more personal design. It was only some seventy or eighty miles north from Gigha, as the crow flies, to Moidart and Castle Tioram, beyond the Ardnamurchan peninsula. He felt that perhaps he owed a visit to Christina MacRuarie -owed it to himself, as well as her. So, one early July morning of blue skies, high fleecy clouds and sparkling waters, a single galley flying no banners, royal or otherwise, slipped out of Ardminish Bay northwards up the amethyst, green and azure Sound of Jura. It left behind the High Steward of Scotland, the High Constable of Scotland, and the Lord High Admiral of Scotland, to see to affairs in Argyll. Surely that should be sufficient.