Nigel Tranter: The Path of the Hero King

“Important, yes.” That was Tweng, strongly.

“I know who that is. He was with the King. But turned back when the King fled.

Saying it was not his custom to flee. He would not run. Not he who is named the third greatest knight in Christendom!”

“Dear God!” Bruce exclaimed.

“You mean …?”

“Aye, you should know-since you yourself are called the second such, Sir Robert! The first is the Emperor Henry of Luxemburg.

And this, Sir Giles d’Argentin, was the third. God rest his noble soul!”

“Amen!” the King said.

“D’Argentin! The Crusader. Name me not in the same breath with this man, sir. A man whose harness I am scarcely worthy to unloose! One day, I had hoped-do hope-myself to carry my sword against the Infidel. He, d’Argentin, would have been my choice as leader. Sweet Christ-what a loss is here! Had I but known his presence …”

“What could you have done, Sire …?”

Hay’s words were drowned in the clatter of hooves and clank of armour outside. A new and larger party came stamping into the refectory, to bow, the Earl of Moray leading.

Bruce sighed, and shook his head.

“Well, nephew?” he said, but scarcely welcomingly.

“Stirling Castle has surrendered, Sire,” Randolph declared.

“Your standard now flies over it, at last. Here is Sir Philip Moubray, the governor.”

“Ha-Moubray!” Bruce stared at the narrow-faced, prematurely grey, youngish man, one of his principal enemies.

“Moubray, who has cost me dear indeed. He gives me back my principal fortress?

And himself! What shall I do with him, nephew?”

“Hang him, Sire!” Hay asserted, briefly.

“I asked my lord of Moray, Gibbie. Let him answer, for he is his prisoner, it seems.”

“Your Grace,” Randolph said slowly.

“I would urge you to do with him as you did with me.”

“You would? He is a traitor, my lord.”

“As was I.”

“You were my own kin.”

“You seek my mercy on him, then?”

“I do. Two nights ago you praised my stand. At the Pelstream.

Offered me reward. Now I ask it. This man’s life. He was my friend

once. He is a valiant knight. He would not have cost you so dear were

he not. You have need of such still, I think.””M’mmm. Sir Philiphow

say you? It was on Methven field last we met, was it not?”

“Yes, Sire.” The prisoner came forward, and fell on his knees.

“I struck you from your horse. Sought to capture you. I have never failed to be your foe.”

“Why?”

“I believed your cause wrong. And Comyn’s right.”

“And now?”

“I do not beg for my life, Sire. But if you choose to grant it, I will serve you faithfully until its end.”

Bruce took a turn away, and looked down at the dead face of Sir Giles d’Argentin.

“So be it, Sir Philip,” he said.

“Too many brave men have died, to no advantage. Live, then-and serve me as well as you served my enemies.” And he gave him his hand to kiss.

When the King sat down again, the Abbot Bernard spoke as low voiced as was practical, in the bells’ clamour.

“You are overgenerous, Sire,” he complained.

“Needlessly so. Mercy is good. But..” Sir Marmaduke Tweng is a rich man. He could well have paid a great ransom. And this Sir Philip Moubray has great lands. In Lothian. They should be forfeit. Your Treasury needs all such, with a whole realm to build anew.”

“It will take more than siller to build it anew, Master Bernard! All this accounting and inventory is turning you huckster. Let us not become merchants, in this our deliverance. Forbye, we have plenty. Plenty for ransom, have we not? What did you say? Thirty five lords and barons? 200 knights …?”

“No, no, Sire-that was the numbers slain. Captured, and for ransom, there are but twenty-two lords. Though some 500 of knightly rank.”

“Mercy on us-and you grudge me Sir Marmaduke!”

“Yesterday Your Grace freed the Earl Ralph. He would have brought a mighty ransom. I but remind you not to be too kind in your triumph, too gentle …”

“Gentle! Save us-do you really esteem me so gentle, man? My brother Edward once named me that, I mind. But you are a wiser man, I thought! I am nothing gentle. I but choose my victims!

Some, I swear, will not find me kind, nor gentle, hereafter.”

The next visitors to Cambuskenneth Abbey proved the King’s words, despite all their nobility. For this was a noble band indeed, brought in by Edward Bruce and Robert Boyd, weary with long riding, all of them, but proud still.

“These I have brought from Bothwell Castle, in Lanarkshire,” Edward announced, without ceremony.

“Fleeing, they took refuge there. But that place’s governor, one Gilbertson, decided to turn his coat He delivered them all into my hands, in return for his own life.” He paused, grinning.

“Henry de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, Lord High Constable of England. Robert de Umfraville, Earl of Angus. Sir Ingram de Umfraville, former Guardian of this realm.

Maurice, Lord Berkeley. John, Lord Segrave. Hugh, Lord Despenser.

John, Lord Ferrers. John, Lord Rich. Edmund, Lord Abergavenny.

Sir Anthony de Lucy. Aye-and a troop of lesser men outside.”

“So-o-o! Here is the cream in the pitcher!” This time Bruce did not rise to his feet.

“Save for the illustrious dead, here is England’s pride and glory! With some leavening of my own! I thank you, my lord of Carrick. And Sir Robert Boyd. You have done notably well. You have not heard how James Douglas fares? Chasing the Plantagenet? And Pembroke? And my good-sire?”

“Pembroke left them behind Stirling,” Edward reported.

“There he halted, they say, to rally his own fleeing Welsh march men and archers. He has over 1,000 of them. He is marching them to Carlisle.

In good order. Too many for me to hunt, with my sixty horse.

Besides, I had another game!”

“Aye. Aymer de Valence plays the man, at last! But-the King?

Ulster?”

“Douglas will never catch them. They have better horses and near an hour’s start. We heard that they had not drawn rein by Linlithgow! And they were still passing their own baggagetrain heading north! They will be in Berwick, by this.”

“A pity. I would have welcomed a word with my good sire.

About his daughter!” Bruce looked for the first time directly at the galaxy of stiff-necked if wary-eyed English lords-for the Umfraville brothers, though they held the Scots earldom of Angus, through marriage, were English in all else.

“My lords,” he said, “I have been accused this day of being over-kind, over-gentle.

Insufficiently a huckster, a merchant! You are all King Edward’s menthe old Edward. He trained you, as he sought to train me.

You know how he would have acted, had he sat here today!”

There was absolute silence. All knew only too well what their master, Edward the Hammer of the Scots, would have done.

“He slew my brothers, as prisoners-three of them. Hanged, drawn and quartered. And my good-brother, Seton. And innumerable of my friends. Wallace he butchered unspeakably. Your King hanged his prisoners, my lords-and the earls he hanged highest of all! Tell me why should not I do the same with you?”

“We are not rebels, sir,” Hereford said, coldly.

“Ha! Not rebels, no. You still say we were?” And when none answered that, Bruce went on tensely.

”I would you had been rebels I would have honoured you more. One

rebel I have freely pardoned. Moubray! You are not rebels-you are cowards! Dastards!

Your late liege lord Edward Longshanks would not have lifted a single finger to save you, this day. You know it. He would have forsworn you all. He, from being a noble knight, grew to become a savage, a brute-beast! But he was never a coward. Never would he have fled a field leaving scores of thousands who still could fight. As did his son. And as did you, my lords!”