Nigel Tranter: The Path of the Hero King

Bruce’s trumpeter had disappeared, and his master had to shout, as he spurred downhill, lashing out at those who tried to stop him, with that wicked red-gleaming axe.

“A Bruce! A Bruce!” he yelled.

“To me! To me A Bruce!”

That was a slogan for charge and victory, not for retreat and defeat. But something had to be done to break off this dire and fatal struggle, and to try to save the women.

Gathering blessed momentum the King plunged downhill, his brute sliding and almost sitting on its haunches. Momentum-that was what was required against these cater ans mounted momentum.

Sadly few of his company were in any position to perceive their sovereign’s manoeuvre, or successfully to break away to join him.

Close pressed and confined, most could by no means win free. By the time that Bruce was through the melee and could glance back and about him, no more than fifty or sixty out of the original three hundred appeared to be even mounted.

He did not slacken the speed of his descent, but plunged on down to the shelf above the gorge, where Elizabeth had the women clustered in an anxious, great-eyed knot, ten or eleven of them. Fortunately all were fairly young and good horsewomen-or they would not have been in this fugitive company in the first place.

The King had no pride in what he did. To be leading the flight from a stricken field was gall and wormwood for the Bruce. But it was necessary, if any were to survive-and no one else was doing it Down to them he came, his mount’s slithering hooves scoring great red weals in the brae side He pointed.

“Westwards!” he shouted.

“On. Only way.” Most of the women were in fact facing in the other direction.

“Robert! You are hurt?” the Queen cried.

“Your shoulder?”

“Nothing,” the King threw back.

“Wrenched, that is all.” He looked back. Atholl and Lindsay were close behind, Bishop Moray and Fleming and a few others followed after, two horses bearing double burdens.

They dared not wait. Putting himself at the head of the little group

of women, Bruce led on along the track above the river, westwards, at a

canter. The foremost survivors caught up with them to form a sort of

cordon, while others trailed along at varying distances. It made a sorry scene.

After only a few moments, rounding the bend in the glen-floor, they met Nigel Bruce, Douglas and Campbell with the residue of the advance guard, fleeing in the opposite direction. It was a pathetic remnant of not more than a score out of the eighty, with again some horses carrying two men.

Bruce only reined in, did not halt, and wasted no words on inessentials.

“How many? In front?” he demanded, waving to the newcomers to turn round again.

“Two hundred. Three,” Campbell panted.

“Took us by surprise.

Rocks rolled down. Arrows. Houghed the horses …”

The King cut him short with a chopping motion.

“They follow?

Pursue you?”

“Yes. If you continue thus you will run into them …”

“Better that than back. Thousands behind! More in rear. A trap.

Come-form a wedge. Quickly. We must cut through…”

He did not have to explain. The wedge, or arrowhead cavalry attack, was a classic formation, given bold or desperate men and trained horses. Plus fierce momentum. Pressed close in a tight inverted V behind a purposeful and unflinching leader, each man keeping exactly his position, there was practically nothing, in flesh and blood at least, that could stop or withstand such a charge-even when, as often happened, the said leader, the tip of the arrowhead, and his immediate flanking men, who bore the brunt of the impact, were carried along dead or dying by the necessary momentum, borne up by the close press of the rest. All knew it. But not with a core of women and a bairn for the arrowhead!

They worked themselves into formation, nevertheless, a company of about forty now, hedging the women in, with stragglen adding themselves all the time. It was not so well-shaped and tight a wedge as many would have wished, but at least it made a solid and determined body, driving on at a fast canter once more.

Round a further bend of the trough, they suddenly were face to face with the enemy. Running along the shelf and some way up the bank to the north came a horde of Highlanders, in wild spirits and no sort of order or discipline, a bloodthirsty crowd elated with victory, chasing a defeated foe. Undoubtedly their shock was great at abruptly being confronted, instead, by a charge of cavalry however modest in numbers. The check in their racing advance was obvious and eloquent. But still they came on, though with less confidence.

The King, at the apex of his formation, did not hesitate. Instead he shouted, “Faster! Faster!” and raising his battle-axe on high, yelled, “A Bruce! A Bruce and Scotland!”

His companions took up the cry bravely, even some of the women skirling their shrill contribution.

Somewhere at the rear of the Highland party one of their war horns began to wind, leadership tardily asserting itself. But it was too late, whatever the signal represented; indeed, probably it only increased the confusion, as some held back or faltered while the majority pressed on.

The horsemen crashed into the flood of wild-eyed, shouting men with enormous impact. No amount of valour or fighting skill could withstand it. Bowled over like ninepins, the Highlanders went down in swathes, more felled by the impetus and the lashing hooves than by the flailing weapons of the riders. As he was swept on through the throng of bodies, in fact, Bruce’s own battle-axe never once made contact with a foe. His useless shoulder greatly hampered him, of course; but even so he was borne up and carried forward so closely by the press of his companions that there was little that he could do to affect the issue, other than to retain his position and shout his Bruce slogan.

It was not a matter of piercing a front, for the Highlanders were merely a mob streaming along a terrace of the hillside. It was like cleaving the current of a rushing torrent, rather, with loss of momentum the direst danger. So the riders spurred their foaming, frightened mounts even more than they wielded their swords; and spectacular as was the downfall of the foe, probably no great numbers failed to rise again thereafter. Not one of the horsemen was brought low, at any rate, and the women within the shield of steel and horseflesh scarcely saw their enemies.

At last they were through the main crowd. But the King spurred on as hard as ever, well aware that the clansmen would rally behind them and that all could yet be lost. On up the glen he led the hard-riding company, on to where Campbell’s advance party had been ambushed, marked all too clearly by the litter of dead and dying men and horses. Here some dismounted and slightly wounded survivors emerged from hiding-places to join them-but the King had to steel his heart against any waiting for these, meantime.

Some few got pulled up, pillion, behind riders, but to most Bruce gestured upwards, shouting that they should climb out of that fatal gut of the valley, north by west into the empty hills. He drove on.

He was making for a levelling of the trough which they could see some

way to the west, where it looked as though horses would be able to get

out without the dangers of steep, slow climbing. Beyond,half-right,

there appeared to be a jumble of small, low hillocki with open woodland-the sort of cover they required.

They saw no more of the enemy and were able, presently, to set their beasts’ heads to the lessened slope on the right and at last to win out of that grim valley. Half a mile more and they were amongst the knowes and scattered birches that spread over a wide area to the north of Tyndrum, the outskirts of the Forest of Mamlom.