Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

Next day they rode so fast and so far that there was little time for

adventures on the way, and no real opposition showed itself.

They were still near Ulster, of course, County Louth. Leaving unmolested the Knights Templar castle of Dundrum, they went by Castlewellan and Rathfryland, with the mountains of Mourne on their left, through Newry and Faughart until, at dusk, they came to Dundalk itself, the farthest south of Edward’s penetrations hitherto, where he had been crowned. Ahead lay the English-dominated territories. They were exactly halfway to Dublin in two days.

The clash of will between the two brothers, which was bound to take place sooner or later, occurred soon after they left Dundalk, on a chill morning of wind and threatening rain. Beyond the ford of the Fane River, the road forked. Edward wanted to drive southeast, straight for Drogheda, the English seaport-base, twenty miles away, while still they held the initiative and at least partial surprise.

Robert, ever against siegery and time-consuming attacks on fortresses,

said no. They should make for Dublin itself, fifty miles on. That

would be totally unexpected, whereas Drogheda might well already be

expecting attack. Dublin was far too large to be defended in total,

having long outgrown its walls. It was the capital, and ostensible

seat of government. Capture of Dublin would rally the whole of

It was not like Edward to reject anything so bold and vigorous as this. But having declared for Drogheda, his authority was at stake, and he evidently felt bound to insist “Drogheda first,” he. declared.

“What good Dublin if Drogheda remains a threat at our backs?”

“Dublin is worth a dozen Droghedas, man. We will cut the line between

the two. Then your Irish army of foot can move down to seal off

Drogheda. That is not our task. Let them do it” “No! It is fifty

miles to Dublin. All the country will be roused before we get there.

Surprise lost” “Edward-you have the pig by the tail, not the snout! Do

you not see? Drogheda is the English base-but Dublin is the

government centre for all Ireland. None will expect us to make

straight for it At the speed we rode yesterday, we can be there before tomorrow’s dusk. Think of it! Before Bishop Hotham and Mortimer can decide who commands what! Or my good-father Ulster can succour either!”

“That is why you will not attack Drogheda, I swear!” his brother

cried.

“You are afraid to meet Richard de Burgh! Or too nice!

Your Elizabeth’s sire. Well-I am not! We ride for Drogheda, I

say.”

“We do not, Edward,” Bruce said, softly now.

“Or if you do, we part company.”

“You … you challenge my word? Mine? Here in Ireland, I’d remind you, I am king, not you!”

“King you may be, Edward-but I command all Scots forces.

Not you. On these terms alone I brought them to Ireland. They follow me, in Ireland as in Scotland.”

“So-o-o! This is your vaunted aid!”

“This is my aid, yes. Though I never vaunted it. Far from it. I would have preferred to stay in Scotland, where there is much to be done. But … I warned you. I came as a captain, and will continue to act as such.”

Edward twisted in his saddle, a magnificent figure in his dazzling,

gold-inlaid black armour and purple cloak, against his brother’s

somewhat rusty chain-mail, and stared at the group of senior commanders

who rode just behind, and who could not fail to have heard this

exchange-Moray, Gilbert Hay, Keith and Marischal, Fraser the

Chamberlain, Angus of the Isles, de Soulis and MacCarthy of Desmond.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Who, in Ireland, obeys the King of Ireland?”

De Soulis moistened his lips.

“I do, Sire.”

No one else spoke.

“And you, MacCarthy?”

“I must obey my liege lord,” the King of Desmond said, all but

growled.

“Since I am vowed to it. But I agree with the Lord Robert. Go for Dublin, I say.”

With a glare at the level-eyed, silent Scots, Edward faced the front again, and dug in his spurs savagely, to race ahead.

Bruce and the others made no attempt to catch up with him too soon. At least he took the road that forked towards Dublin, southwest.

Whatever else, Bruce had thereafter no cause for complaint about the speed at which they made for the capital. A horsed host of thousands travels at the pace of its slowest riders, not its fastest and there was no keeping up with Edward. But even so the main body had reached Slane, on the Boyne, halfway to Dublin, with dark falling, when Bruce called a halt. He had half expected the river-crossing to be held against them. Here was good grass, and meadow-land for camping, and nearby to the south was the fabled Hill of Tara, site of the ancient capital of Ireland and seat of the pagan kings. That day they had engaged in no fighting, assaulted no castles, by-passed all major towns. They were only twenty-five miles from Dublin, and on the edge of the Pale, level with Drogheda nine miles to the east. To have gone farther that night would have been folly. But of Edward there was no sign. Young O’Donnell, son of the King of Tyrconnel, was leading the advance party, with Sir Colin Campbell. Presumably his liege lord had taken over.

Bruce sent a fast rider after him, to inform that he had halted at

Slane, in a good defensive position, holding the river’s ford. A

couple of hours later the courier was back, alone. He announced that His Grace of Ireland was at the small monastery of Skreen, on the side of the Hill of Tara, eight miles on, and entirely comfortable.

He would stay where he was.

This would not do. Bruce recognised only too well the dangers of this sort of situation-especially with Richard de Burgh not so far away. Gulping down the last of his meal, dark as it was and raining thinly, he wrapped himself in his cloak, called Gilbert Hay to accompany him, left the army in the care of Moray and told the courier to turn again and lead him to Tara.

It was an unpleasant ride, over benighted, uneven country, with the streams funning full. Of Tara’s renowned hill they saw only the dark loom as they circled its broken skirts, to come at length to the modest ecclesiastical establishment of Skreen, alleged to have risen on the site of the hermitage of St. Erck, in one of its southern folds.

Here, the advance guard of 150 men lay at ease-and no sentry saw fit to challenge Bruce’s little party. In the Prior’s room-with no sign of the Prior-Edward lounged before a glowing peat fire, with the young Prince of Tyrconnel.

“So you have seen fit to honour us with your royal presence!”

he greeted his brother.

“Have you eaten? We do very well here.”

“No doubt. But I did not come here to eat, Edward. I looked for you, and this forward squadron, at Slane. Not eight miles beyond!”

“Then you should have used your wits, Robert. Where else would the King of Ireland rest, in this corner of his dominions than on Tara’s Hill?”

“It matters not where the King of Ireland rests the night! Nor the King of Scots, either,” Bruce answered harshly.

“What matters is where their army rests. And this small monastery on an open hillside, however notable, is not it.”

“The army, you assure me, is your concern! So be it. Rest it where you will. For myself, I am very well here.”

Robert bit his lip. He looked from O’Donnel to Hay, and then to whom

he brought in to aid him. And that his own brother.”

“Two men may not command a host. Nor a kingdom. Once before, I gave you that answer, you will mind! When I was sick, years back, and you proposed that you should share the Crown of Scotland with me! Both kings. I did not love you for that, I do admit! But it would not have served then. And it will not serve now. Committed to this campaign, I command.”