Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

It was chillier, draughtier, less comfortable, in that tower-room than

even was normal of a February night however; for the shutters of the

lower unglazed half of one window were wide open, so that the night

came in in blasts and buffets setting the lamps flickering wildly and gouts of choking wood-smoke billowing out from fireplace and chimney. The glass of the upper part was too thick to give any prospect, letting in only light and no view even by day.

Despite the chill, the King himself sat near the open window, a plaid round his shoulders; he and his colleagues had taken to the Highland custom of wearing plaids at most times, finding them the most effective protection by day and night, on shipboard, in the heather, as surcoat or as blanket. Indeed Bruce, now weather beaten, curly-bearded and long of hair, looked entirely the Highlander, and a tough and fierce one-so much so that the captured English captain of this hold, whom Douglas had seized, still refused to believe that this was indeed the King of Scots.

Bruce’s glance, though he listened to the talk of his friends, kept turning to that open window, as it had been doing since darkness fell. The others, James Douglas in especial, had offered many times to relieve his self-imposed, chill vigil and exchange a seat nearer the fire; but the King had shaken his head. So much of his hopes and plans could depend on what he saw from that window.

For, due southeast of this southernmost tip of the Isle of Arran, where Kildonan perched on a cliff above a tiny harbour, lay the Ayrshire coast of mainland Scotland. More than that, it was the King’s own coast of Carrick. Only fifteen miles away from where he sat, his great castle of Tumberry, principal seat of the earldom, stood above these same heaving waters, his birthplace, now occupied by Englishmen. What was Scots in his blood, as distinct from Norman-French, stemmed from just over there, where his Celtic ancestors had ruled the SouthWest. These days, Robert Bruce was turning to the Gelt in him, in more than his clothing. The ancient blood stirred.

But it was not just Celtic blood and wishful thinking that stirred the King tonight. He was looking for a sign, a signal. Sir Robert Boyd and Sir Robert Fleming were, if God was kind, over there now, spying out the land, secretly visiting key vassals, carrying the royal message. They had been gone for five days now. If conditions were not impossible for a landing, they were to light a bale fire of driftwood in a place he had told them of, a corner of beach under small screening cliffs about a mile north of Tumberry, known as Maidens. Here the fire, facing into the northwest, would not be apt to be seen from land wards but should gleam clear across the firth to Arran. To be lit either this night, or the next-the timing was important.

So Bruce peered into the stormy dark till his eyes ached, scarcely aware of the cold, and listened to his friends’ idle talk with one ear. There were not many of them to chat, in that upper room-apart from Edward, only the Earl of Lennox, James Douglas, Gilbert Hay and Neil Campbell. The others of his company were far scattered-though he hoped, and would have prayed if he had dared, that his younger brothers were not so very far away at that moment.

Edward Bruce had been successful in his mission in November, duly finding their two brothers, Thomas and Alex, in Galloway;

and thereafter managing to collect a sizeable sum in rents. Most rental was paid in kind, of course-in grain, beasts, labour and armed service; but many of the larger vassals elected to pay at least some proportion in money, and the Bruce brothers had brought back to Moidart gold and silver, little enough for a great earldom’s rent-roll, but a large sum indeed in the Hebridean economy, where a gold piece was a rare sight. After their reunion at Yule, then, the three brothers had been despatched to Ireland with most of the money, to seek out Angus Og -who with his mercenaries was wintering in comparative comfort in Antrim, as seemed to be his preferred custom-there to hire as many gallowglasscs, Highland or Irish, as the money would buy. Thereafter they were to bring their new host to Rathlin Island, where Sir Reginald Crawford, a kinsman of the late Wallace, from Galloway, would meet them and guide them to a planned invasion of the mainland, in Galloway itself, where insurgent support was awaiting a lead. This to coincide with Bruce’s own projected landing at Carrick.

All this had gone more or less as planned, and ten days ago Edward Bruce had brought word from Rathlin that Thomas and Alex were there, with 800 men, had met Crawford, and intended to descend on the Galloway coast on the night of the 9th of February, in the neighbourhood of Loch Ryan-tomorrow night. The final member of the King’s former close company, Sir William Bellenden, had been left at Orkney with Bishop David, to aid in an invasion of the North, to coincide with these two attempts.

Bruce waited there at the window until after midnight, reluctant to concede that there would be no signal that night. At length, with Edward and Lennox already retired, and the other three dozing by the dying fire, he sighed, and stood up, stretching stiffly.

“There is still another night,” he said.

“And Robert Boyd will not fail me. If the thing is possible. And if he is safe. If he has not been taken …”

“Sir Robert is cautious and wise, Sire. He will be safe,” Douglas said, rising hurriedly.

“And if there is no sign, we can still go to gallo way Join the others.”

Aye. But much would be lost. All would be the more difficult. The

English, once warned, could seal off Galloway. The Carrick landing could prevent this. By linking up with those who fight from the mountains, from Ettrick and Merrick. Pray you for Boyd’s signal, then. A good night to you…”

Bruce had barely seemed to lay his head on his pillow in the small mural chamber that was all this stark hold offered him, when he was awakened by Douglas shaking his shoulder.

“The signal, Sire! It burns! It burns!” the younger man cried, The watch saw it, from the parapet-walk. It still burns clear.”

“Eh …? What hour is it, Jamie?”

‘”Near to four. Four of the clock.”

“It is late. Late. To be sending the word …” But Bruce rose, and wrapped his plaid around him again.

Up at the tower-room window, there was no need for Douglas to point. In the windy dark, apart from the line of phosphorescence from the breaking waves on the beach far below, the only thing to be seen was the bright point of light, reddish-yellow, that grew and contracted, waxed and waned in brilliance, away to the southeast, as they watched. Obviously a fire.

“It is the right airt?” Douglas asked.

“Yes. That is just north of Tumberry Head. So be it. Boyd’s signal, yes. But… so late. Why has he delayed?”

“He could have been prevented, Sire. From reaching the place.

Forced to a long detour. Hunted by the English. In enemy-held territory, anything may constrain …”

“Think you I do not know it, man! Have I not spent weeks, months, in enemy-held territory?” That flash of irritation was unusual in the King, who kept a close watch on his tongue.

“Boyd is an experienced soldier. He knows that it is too late, now, for us to embark our men, win across the firth, and land in Carrick in darkness.

Four o’clock. It is but four hours to dawn. It will take two hours to cross, in this wind and sea. If not more. Not the galleys, but the small craft.”

Hay and Campbell had joined them at the open window.

“And we must have time, over there, for our dispositions,” the latter pointed out.

“Further darkness.”

“May not Sir Robert have thought of that, Your Grace, Douglas suggested.

“And thus be giving us plenty of warning for tomorrow night. Giving us all day to prepare. If he had waited until a safe time after dark tomorrow, it would have cut into that night. And if he had lit his fire earlier, we would have made the crossing tonight. This way he gives us time.”