Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

The fight, although it continued with unabated fury, was subtly changing its character. It was, in fact, becoming more coherent and meaningful, as lack of leadership was replaced by a more positive urge at least amongst the Rossman. As though by some sort of telepathy, these began to accept that they had probably bitten off more than they could conveniently chew, and that a return to their own galleys would be the reaction of reasonable men. As yet there was no breaking off, no acknowledgement of defeat-for undoubtedly the attackers still outnumbered the others; but the climate of battle had altered. Possibly it was the advent of the Lowlanders, with their strange weapons and unexpected tactics, that disconcerted the raiders.

At any rate, the birl inn poop quite quickly became a deal less crowded-even though there was not so very much more room to stand because of all the sprawling bodies on the deck. For the first time since jumping aboard, Bruce, gasping for breath, had opportunity to glance around him. The scene was confused, but only moments were required to establish the basic situation. Robert Boyd waved to him from the prow platform, giving the thumbsup sign. Nodding, the King turned back.

The woman, four men with reddened swords and dirks close guarding her, stood watching him, braced against some of the mast cordage. She was fairly young, he saw now, and darkly striking, with great eyes, long raven hair that blew in the breeze, and skin of an alabaster whiteness that gave the impression of transparency.

But not for a moment did Bruce imagine that her whiteness had anything to do with fear or alarm. Every line of her bearing proclaimed a proud unconcern for danger or indeed bloodshed. There was blood on one forearm, raised to shield her eyes against the blaze of the sinking sun-but it was almost certainly not her own.

She appeared to be concerned only with an inspection of himself.

In the circumstances, Bruce could do no other than adopt a similar attitude, leaving the final stages of the battle to others Secure in his reliance upon the two stalwart knights immediately behind, he bowed, panting. Axe-wielding is breathtaking work.

“Who are you, sir?” the lady called, clearly above the din.

“I am Christina MacRuarie of Garmoran. Whom do I have to thank for this deliverance?”

So it was Christina herself. A notable character, and in a sort of way, a kinswoman of his own.

“You have to thank … our fallen friend, there. MacDonald of Kiloran,” he told her, pointing down at the deck.

“Myself, I am Robert of Scotland. The Bruce. I greet you warmly. And rejoice to name you cousin.” He flattered himself that was not bad for a man who had been laying about him with a battle-axe moments before, shortage of breath notwithstanding.

She was not really his cousin-no blood relation whatever, Christina of

the Isles, as she still signed herself, was the only child and heiress

of the late Alan MacRuarie, Lord of Garmoran. This Garmoran, which

included the great mainland tracts of Knoydart’Moidart, Morar and

Arisaig, and the islands of Rhum, Eigg and Gigha of the Inner Hebrides, and Uist and Barra of the Outer, was one of the principal divisions of the Isles confederacy. Christina therefore was the great-great-granddaughter of the mighty Somerled, just as Angus Og was the great-great-grandson, their grandfathers brothers. The link with Bruce was only by marriage, for she had wed Duncan, younger son of Donald, Earl of Mar. Duncan had been Bruce’s first wife’s brother. He was now dead, and here was his young widow, married at fifteen and now ten years older.

“Bruce! The King! Himself!” she cried.

“Dial -here is a wonder! Can it be true?”

“True, yes. Think you any but himself would covet Bruce’s name and style, this day?” the King said wryly.

She pushed forward, between her wary guards.

“Your Grace!” she exclaimed.

“How come you here I know not. But you are welcome to my territories.

And for more than this service you do me.”

She took his hand, dripping blood as it was. But she did not curtsy, nor raise it to her lips. Instead she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She was a tall, lissome creature, only an inch or so shorter than Bruce himself.

“You are kind,” he jerked, a little taken aback, both at this gesture and her ability apparently to divorce herself entirely from the battle and carnage which still raged elsewhere than on this poop-deck. He himself was less detached, gazing round him and catching the eyes of Douglas and Hay.

“The day-it goes well, I think. They have had enough. They go back. These Rosses. If that is what they are. Back to their own galleys…”

“To be sure. They know what is good for them. Let them go. But “.

Your Grace’s arm? You are wounded.”

“A nothing. The merest scratch.”

“Let me see …”

“Better that you look to Kiloran.”

But she insisted on herself examining and ministering to his hurt, gesturing to others to look to the fallen MacDonald-who indeed proved to be dead.

Edward Bruce, Neil Campbell and Robert Boyd had taken charge elsewhere, and the situation was rapidly coming under control.

Already one of the attacking galleys was sheering off, and the remaining Rossmen were fighting their way back to the other. The issue obviously settled, few contestants were now anxious any more to risk their lives on either side, and the final exchanges were more or less formalities. Some badly placed boarders jumped or were pushed into the sea, but by and large the retiral was effected with minimal opposition, the grapnel-ropes cut, and the second vessel pulled away. Cheers and jeers from the birlinn and the MacDonald galley proclaimed the end of the engagement.

None of the King’s party had been killed, and of the few wounds none were serious. Undoubtedly the bloodiest part of the fray had been before they arrived. Nevertheless, Bruce and his colleagues found themselves deriving the greatest credit from the affair and, by Christina downwards, were acclaimed as the victors and rescues _ which was a little embarrassing, being scarcely true. Nothing would do but that they should all accompany the chieftainess to her house of Castle Tioram in Moidart -to which she had been making, from South Uist, when attacked. With Kiloran dead and his second-in-command wounded, it seemed a reasonable programme.

Moidart, on the mainland just north of the great Ardnamurchan peninsula, was apparently little more than an hour’s sail away. And Christina MacRuarie was obviously a determined and autocratic young woman.

Castle Tioram, which they came to in the blue October dusk, sat impressively on an abrupt rocky half-tide island almost stopping up the narrow mouth of the sea-loch of Moidart, whose heavily wooded shores rose high and dark on either side, shadowy in the twilight. The castle, though less spectacularly sited than Dunaverty, was larger, and clearly of considerable strength, built on the antique plan of a lofty perimeter wall of enceinte, some thirty feet high, that followed the irregular outline of the rock, topped by a parapet and wall-walk, with embryo flanking towers at sundry corners and no central keep. Within this embattled perimeter indeed, when their hostess had led her visitors in at the narrow and portcullised sea-gate above the galley-pier, it was not like a castle at all; but rather a village, consisting of a long low hall-house with thatched roof, a chapel, cot-houses, storehouses, stables, byres and the like, all scattered within the curtain-wall- more like a walled town in miniature. Resinous pine torches, lit by the score for their welcome, bathed all in a ruddy flickering glow broken by inky shadows, and the smell of wood-smoke, animals and roasting meats was highly acceptable to hungry voyagers.