Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

“It may be so. But I did not come here to wait, to sit idly in these hills,” the Lord of the Isles pointed out.

“My broadswords like nothing less than rusting in their sheaths! My galleys are not for gathering barnacles in creeks of Bute. I came to fight. And I have debts to pay.”

“You shall have your fighting, my lord, never fear! Your bellyful!

But not yet. I do not wish to force the new Edward’s hand. He is no warrior-but he commands many of the finest warriors in Christendom.

We shall await to see what he does with them. He is concerned now

with homage-taking, not fighting, it seems. Let him have it, then. That will do us no hurt. And we shall see how many Scots lords hurry to kiss his hand at Dumfries. That will interest me, see you!”

“If few do, Sire-then he must needs march north,” Campbell declared.

“He cannot sit idle, after summoning them on pain of treason and forfeiture.”

Bruce nodded.

“That is as I see it. We will wait till then. Meantime gathering our strength …”

“In my country, one does not gather strength by waiting but by smiting!” the Islesman asserted strongly.

“I do not wait patiently, to pay my debts.”

“These debts, my lord …?”

“In Galloway. The MacDoualls. Five hundred of my men died shamefully at their hands. Time they were avenged.”

This was obviously a large part of Angus Og’s reason for aligning himself with them.

“Aye. But I too have debts to pay in Galloway.

Two brothers sent to Edward, to die! Think you I have forgotten, man? But I choose my time when to pay my debts. See you, Angus my friend, if we go raiding into Galloway now, not only do we provoke the English into action, but we cut ourselves off from the rest of Scotland. They could box us up in Galloway.”

“My galleys could lift us out, by sea.”

“Not 4,000 and more. When I punish Galloway, I shall do it in force.

So that the MacDoualls will not forget. It will be no hurried raid. But… I will make you a promise. Hold your band until the English show what they will do. And then, if we can be free of them for a space, I will come with you to Galloway. I want your thousand men close to my hand.”

Angus Og shrugged.

PART TWO

Chapter Eleven

Robert Bruce lay on his back and gazed up at the cobweb-hung rafters of the roof. It was a poor way to pass Yuletide, and a poor place-even though, in a fashion, the house was his own. Did that make it easier? He was long past caring greatly where he laid his head, or how lowly his couch-but this Mill of Uric was cold, draughty and moreover bug-infested. He was all too well aware of all three imperfections.

He lay still, however, motionless-apart from the frequent uncontrollable shivering, that is-not even allowing himself to scratch at the bug-bites. Though these were a minor irritation, compared with the other sores and grievous itching. He forced himself to forbear, not so much because the friar had advised it-he was not the man to set store by the instructions of any mumbling physician, however holy-but partly as a discipline for himself, and partly because he found that the least movement, the rubbing of the plaids that covered him, on his sores set them itching beyond all bearing. There were so many of them, his entire skin a red and angry patchwork, dry and flaking.

It required no little effort to hold himself still, not only on account of the itch and the cold, but because of the febrile restlessness that possessed every muscle of his body, urging him to toss and twist and jerk; but he did not cease to tell himself that if he could master his unruly spirit and errant emotions, and hoped to master a kingdom, then he could surely hold his body still. So he lay, as he had lain for seemingly endless days and nights.

No doubt he had been foolish. The sickness had first struck him some

weeks before, when he had first reached Aberdeenshire. All of course,

including the plaguey old monk, with the undoubtedly wholly unjustified

local reputation for healing powers and piety both, that Gibbie had

found for him, had urged him to take to his bed there and then. But he

had not come all this way into the North to lie in bed and shiver. He

had come to show the Comyns, and their allies, who was King in

Scotland, up here in their own territory. So he had refused to halt in

his Comyn-devastated lordship of the Garioch, to become an invalid,

insisting on pressing on, up towards Buchan, to get to grips with John

Comyn, Earl thereof, who still called himself High Constable of

Scotland, and still was prepared to accept Edward of Carnarvon as Lord Paramount of Scotland rather than recognise Bruce as King-even with his own young wife hanging in a cage on the walls of Berwick Castle.

Fevers and foolish weaknesses of the body could and must give place to the imperatives of rule and war. For over two weeks, then, in winter Aberdeenshire, in the great rolling lands of Mar, Cromar, Midmar and Formartin, he had hunted and harried the Comyns, in their enormous outlying domains, latterly carried in a litter. He had done great damage, burned many houses, hanged many men, but fought no battles-for Buchan himself lay infuriatingly low, allegedly in his great and remote castle of Dundarg on the far North Buchan coast, assembling his strength. At length, with no decision achieved, and his own weakness ever growing, shamefully, inexorably, until he was too limp to make more than feeble protest, his brother Edward ever taking more the command, they had brought him back here in his litter to this wretched Mill of Uric beside the burned-out ravaged shell of his castle of Inverurie, messuage-place of the once-great lordship of Garioch, how many days ago he could not tell.

A knock at the rough plank door brought a frown to the man’s already set features, but only that. A second knock, and a third, went equally unanswered. He wanted no company, no chattering, fussing, pitying attentions, no gawping witnesses of his helplessness, however sympathetic. But the door opened nevertheless, and Gilbert Hay came in. And for as long as it was possible for that loyal uncomplicated young man to look apologetic, he did.

“Your Grace-the monk is here. Brother Mark,” he said.

“To attend you. Anoint you and salve your sores …”

“No!” the King said.

“But it is time, Sire. Past time, he says. Four times each day, the friar says, it is necessary …”

“No!” That was a bark, the voice strong if nothing else was.

“Begone!”

Hay retired.

Bruce lay, muttering. It was hard enough to lie still, to master every itching, agonising, shuddering inch of him, without having to put up with fools and hypocrites.

He tried, for the thousandth time, to concentrate his mind on the military situation and its threats. He was direly short of men again, having had to leave James Douglas and fully two-thirds of his total force, to hold the SouthWest and watch the Border. It had been taking an enormous risk to dare this northern expedition at all, of course but the Comyn threat had to be met before any progress could be made in Scotland. After spending weeks at Carlisle and Dumfries, holding fealty ceremonies and a parliament, the new King Edward had, in September, made a purely token advance into Scotland, with most of his vast host, perhaps 150,000 men. It had been a triumphant procession rather than any campaign for, since opposition would have been pointless, Bruce had made none, remaining deep in the Loch Doon mountains and restraining his brother Edward and Angus Og both, with difficulty. Moving only a few miles a day, the English had taken weeks even to reach Cumnock in Ayrshire. And there King Edward had halted, held court, made sundry proclamations to the effect that he was satisfied that his realm of Scotland was securely in his peace, knew its master and would hereafter be more kindly governed; and then turned his army round to face the south again, and deserting it, with most of his high nobles, hurried off ahead to far-away London for his coronation, leaving John of Brittany to rule Scotland. In these circumstances, after a brief punitive expedition into Galloway, to fulfill his promise to Angus Og -though it had scarcely satisfied that warrior-Bruce had turned to the North, to show his face and flag to more of his waiting, watching kingdom.