Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

Men murmured acknowledgement “The Islesmen will go down first. Quietly. Take up positions around the camp. Their leaders will prospect the closer approach, for our cavalry. The lie of the ground. To inform us, when we get down. The horse will move down slowly, as silent as may be. To near the camp. Only when I give the word will you charge. If there is an alarm, we will attack only when I blow my horn.”

These orders were transmitted to the men. In a few minutes the Islesmen melted away into the darkness.

They gave them perhaps seven minutes’ start, and then the horsed men-at-arms, dismounted, with the two Bruces and the four knights, led their beasts slowly downhill, quietly picking their way, seeking to avoid the chink of hoof on stone, the rattle of harness and the clank of arms. They were by no means entirely successful in this-but they hoped that the fitful night wind and the rush of the headlong river would blanket the noise.

No alarm rang out, at any rate. Indeed it was hard to believe that a large encampment of soldiers lay so close ahead.

Bruce was becoming anxious that they were drawing altogether too close, in view of those fires, one or two of which were to be seen as more than just embers, when two figures rose up out of the shadows in front. They were Islesmen, and reported, in whispers, that all was well. There were about a dozen sentries, but they were clustered around two fires at either end of the camp, one at the bottom, near the horse-lines; the other, that looked brightest from here, up near this top end. While the Highlanders had been waiting, two of the guard had strolled round the perimeter of the cantonment, and then back to their companions. They had not made any probes into the darkness beyond the faint firelight.

Bruce nodded.

“Half of your men to the horse-lines,” he directed.

“Cut the tethers. As quiet as you can. As many cut before the beasts stir, as may be. Their stir will bring the guard to see what troubles them. We will hear when that happens. I will sound my horn. You will drive all the horses you can in amongst the sleeping men. The rest of the Moidartach to attack from the left. We, here will charge mounted. How is the ground, for a charge?”

Fair,” he was told.

”A burn-channel to the left, with broken banks Avoid that Some wet, in

front-but nothing that will hold you back.”

“It is well. Off with you.” Bruce passed the word for his own people to mount.

They waited for what seemed too long a time, thankful only for the noise of the river to drown the chinking bits and bridles and the stamping, scuffling hooves. They heard in fact no stirring from the enemy horse-lines. But presently men could be seen to rise from the dark huddle round the farthest-away fire, and start to move away, towards where the tethered beasts must be. But they did not hurry or sound any alarm.

Then there was a sudden shout, quickly bitten off. Then more cries. Bruce’s horn was at his lips at the first yell, and the wailing hooting ululation of it rang out, even as he kicked in his spun.

In two lines, on a broad front, the 200 horsemen drove on, downhill, straight into a canter, men a gallop-though they had scarcely time for that before they were into the enemy lines. The beat of their hooves shook the slope, and the thunder of it was pierced by the cries of “A Bruce! A Bruce!” and the high yelling of Gaelic slogans from left and right, as the Islesmen raced in, swords and dirks raised.

In the event, it was all over in a ridiculously brief period. Most of the sleepers had little opportunity to do more than stagger to their feet before the fierce tide of slashing horsemen crashed down on them, and through, their confusion increased by the stampede of their own mounts careering in panic through their lines transversely, driven by yelling Highlanders. Bruce found himself beyond the last line of sleeping men and stacked arms, reining up his rearing mount at the very riverside, with only one effective sword thrust delivered.

He had intended to turn his squadron directly round and plunge straight back for a second charge; but he perceived that in the chaos of frantic riderless horses, reeling sleep-dazed men and bounding cut-throat Highlanders, any such move would be folly, as likely to ride down their own people as the bewildered enemy.

Instead, he shouted for some of his horsemen to divide and make sweeps round on either side, encircling the encampment, to spread terror and prevent escapes. He and his knights, with the rest, sat their restive mounts, waiting.

They were not required. It was entirely evident, before long, that the English were wholly demoralised and overcome, that there was no organised resistance and could not be. The Islesmen were in their savage element, and presently the King was blowing loudly on his horn again, to end the carnage, and leading his colleagues in, to enforce his will.

Fresh wood heaped on the fires revealed a ghastly blood drenched scene of ruin and confusion. It seemed scarcely credible that such havoc could have been created in so few minutes.

Creating order out of the bedlam took a-deal longer. A slightly wounded but wholly unnerved youngish man, in rich but bedraggled clothing, was brought before the King by Fleming.

“Here is their commander, Sire. He calls himself Sir Alan de Scrope.

Do we burden ourselves with prisoners?”

“What say you to that, Englishman?” Bruce asked, sternly.

“You, who sleep so sound on Scots soil! Your King only takes prisoners to hang and disembowel them, does he not?”

The other answered nothing.

With a semblance of order restored, Bruce called his leaden apart. They had almost 100. prisoners, in fact, and undoubtedly others had escaped in the turmoil and darkness. But this was as planned.

“Now,” he said, “we set our lure. This English knight, with most of his people, we are going to send up Glen Trool. On foot. We shall cry this aloud. Say that we shall give them trial there, tomorrow, and hang them on trees at the loch-head. Make much talk of that sort. Naming Loch Trool. But a smaller number of the prisoners, perhaps a’ score, we will hold here, after the others are sent off. For a time. Then allow them to escape, with their news!”

Though Edward frowned, Hay chuckled.

“To Pembroke! You think it will bring him?”

“De Valence is cunning as a fox,” Boyd reminded.

“Will he rise to our lure?”

“He cannot do nothing. And de Scrope, see you, is a notable name. You may not know it, but Sir Geoffrey de Scrope is Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, in London. This puppy will be a son or nephew. I think Pembroke must attempt a rescue. When he hears that we intend to hang him. He must so hear, therefore. We have captured good supplies and wine and ale with these English-they do not stint themselves. We shall seem to make merry on it-and grow careless of our prisoners. And our talk. Insecurely guarded, and near some of their own horses. We will allow an escape. I swear they will not be backward! They will scurry down Minnoch, to Pembroke at Minnigaff. They will have him out of his bed before daybreak, I warrant.”

“And we wait for him, here?” Edward showed more interest.

”Not here. We must coax him up the glen. Round the head of the loch.There is a place there, I have seen, most apt for ambush. Of a large force. Pembroke may not come himself, but surely a large force he must send. He must think he has the King of Scott bottled up, penned in Glen Trool. His people careless, drunken-or near so. We must coax…”

Smiling now, they put their heads together.

So, by dawn, Low Minniwick was deserted-save for a ravaged farm-steading and a few Englishmen tied to trees, naked, heads shaven, and with scurrilous things daubed in blood on their white skins, including the names-Valence, Clifford, Botetourt, Percy.