Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

The King frowned.

“I said two small boats,” he snapped. Then he waved a hand, assenting.

“So be they keep out of sight. And quiet, I told you, it is not swords I am concerned with, this night.”

With their own fires become mere points of light, in turn, strung along the southern shore, and some of the enemy’s seeming alarmingly near now, the oarsmen, pulling very gently, drew in towards the dark and lofty bulk of Urquhart Castle on its bluff of headland. From this water-level its high walls, battlements, flanking-towers and soaring central keep looked impressive indeed, daunting. It was after midnight now, and few windows showed a light.

About fifty yards from the rocks, Bruce ordered the oarsmen to be still, and raised his voice. He did not shout, but called.

“Ho, the watch! Hear me. Does any keep watch in Urquhart Castle of a night?” Only on an overcast night at this time of year could they have won thus close, unspotted.

Swiftly he had reply.

“Hey-fit’s that? Fa’s there?” a broad Aberdeenshire voice gave back, from one of the flanking-towers’ parapets.

“Guidsakes, is’t a boat?”

“It is your King, man. Fetch you Sir Alexander Comyn, who captains this my castle of Urquhart.”

“Eh …? Guidsakes -the King? Bruce …?”

“Fat’s to do, Tosh?” somebody shouted, from another tower.

“I

can see twa boats. Sma’ yins …”

“Quickly, fool!” Bruce commanded.

“Tell Sir Alexander that King Robert requires speech with him. And no outcry, or you will suffer for it.”

“Ooh, aye. Aye. Wait you …”

It was nerve-racking for them all to sit there, swaying on the water, so close to their toes-for Ross’s patrols assuredly would be on the watch along all that waterfront, save just immediately in the vicinity of the castle’s promontory. Bruce was torn between thankfulness, after all, for the presence of Angus Og’s supporting craft somewhere behind, and the fear that these larger boats would loom visible from the main shore.

It seemed a long time before another voice sounded from the castle-not from any flanking-tower this time but evidently from a window of the great keep, though there was no light.

“Who claims to be the Bruce?” it demanded, in very different tones.

“At this hour?”

“I do, Alexander Comyn. Your liege lord, whose castle you now occupy. You know my voice, as I know yours. In whose name do you hold the castle of Urquhart against me, sir?”

There was a pause, as well there might be. For Comyn to admit that he held it by right of conquest was to put himself in the wrong, since there was no question but that Urquhart was a royal castle.

To say that he held it in the name of King Edward would be something of a humiliation for the proud Comyn, who undoubtedly considered himself an ally of the English King rather than a vassal.

“I hold it in the name of King John,” he replied, at length.

“King John Baliol.”

“Then you are the only man in Christendom, Sir Alexander, who still calls John Baliol monarch!”

The other made no comment.

“I have come for my castle,” Bruce went on.

“Yield it to me, Sir Alexander, as is your duty and right, and you may remain its keeper.”

The gasps of those beside him in the boat drowned any reaction that Comyn might have made.

“You hear me, sir? Do your duty. Yield me Urquhart, and I will forget the past. I will confirm you as keeper.”

Still there was no perceptible reaction from the castle. Bruce cleared his throat. This calling across seventy or so yards of water was trying on the vocal cords.

“I have always considered you a man of some understanding, Comyn. No hotheaded fool, to throw away life and fortune on a lost cause. You have too much to lose, for that. And your Comyn cause is lost, whatever happens here. You know that. You have heard what is done in Buchan?”

“I have heard of savagery and shame. Of destruction. A fair land made a desert. A whole province harried without mercy. Do you boast of that?”

“I am not here to boast, sirrah. I am here to offer you terms.

Or to destroy you. Destroy you as Buchan is destroyed. That Comyn

shall never again threaten Bruce. The choice is yours. Make your

peace with me, your liege lord. Or fall-not to rise again.”

“I am not like to fall, my lord. This castle is strong. And my nephew, the Earl of Ross, has a greater host than yours, encamped around Urquhart. You will not easily win across Loch Ness to come at me.”

“Ross and his host are not here to save you, Comyn! They are here only to prevent me crossing the loch and entering their country. If they are outflanked, as they will be, they will leave you, like a stranded fish! They love you not, a Southron.” Bruce took a chance.

“I warrant the Earl of Ross, nephew though he may be, is not with you in my castle, Sir Alexander! Nephews are not always strong in their duty.” And the King glanced over at Thomas Randolph.

Silence from the castle. Ross’s mother was indeed Sir Alexander’s sister, who had married the second Mac-an-Tagart Earl; but the Rosses remained purely Highland in outlook, with little interest in the Lowland Comyns.

Summoning reluctant lungs to the task, Bruce proceeded.

“My brother, the Earl of Carrick, has finished laying Buchan low. He has done it thoroughly, and on my command. Not a single castle or place of strength, not a single slated house, or town or village remains to Comyn therein. Now he marches to meet me here. He is not far off, Sir Alexander. To the east. It is for him I wait, for he has my main host. But I have sent the word for him to come by the north shore of this loch, not the south! He will cross the river at Inverness. That town will not, cannot, withstand him. I expect him here tomorrow, Comyn. How long, think you, will Ross linger round Urquhart Castle when my brother appears on his flank? And with Lachlan MacRuarie, of whom you will have heard, marching from the NorthWest. He will retire up Glen Urquhart, to seek a stronger line in Strath Glass, where he may not be outflanked. You know it.”

The continuing lack of response from the dark building was very eloquent.

“I offer you better terms than you deserve, sir.” Bruce’s voice growing hoarse and tired, now.

“But I have a realm to win and to govern, and require the services of strong and able men, whether they love me or no. I would have Comyn, if not my friend, at least not my enemy. Your brother, the Earl of Buchan, is a broken man, and ill. Now in disgrace in England, it is said. The Comyn power is broken quite. You are the last to hold out against me. Let there be an end to this folly, Sir Alexander. Why should more men die? My subjects. Yield me this castle, and Tarradale on the Black Isle, also a royal house but held by you. Come into my peace. Then, I say the past is past. You shall remain keeper here, and your lands shall not be forfeit. How say you?”

“I… I must think on it. I require time to consider. To consider well…”

“Then you are a fool as well as a traitor, Comyn!” That was Angus Og, who could restrain himself no longer.

“This King is over-kind, I say. He offers you a deal more than would

I. It a Angus of the Isles who speaks. Most of the men yonder are mine. I have taken and burned many a stouter hold than this. Myself, I would have no parleying. And you would hang on your own duletree tomorrow!”

Bruce smiled to himself, at that.

From the other boat, only a couple of lengths away, someone else spoke up.

“This is Malcolm of Lennox. You know me, Alexander Comyn. Do as His Grace asks, I pray you. We have had enough of killing and hatred. The King is right. And he is a true man.

He keeps his word. What gain to you now by withstanding him?

This our country, our kingdom, needs to be built up’ fore God it does!