Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

The other’s face lightened, and he leapt down, his magnificent mail clanking, and strode to grasp the outstretched hand, wordless.

“You are mighty fine, Edward. Whose spoil is that you wear?”

Bruce demanded, thumping the other’s armoured shoulder.

“My lord of Buchan’s. The spoil of Dundarg. And I have brought better for you. A whole train of it! The spoil of a province.

And of the proudest, richest house in all Scotland.”

“Aye. You will tell me of all your campaign presently. I have heard something of it, even in the West. All the land talks of the Harrying of Buchan. But meantime we make more play with these boats. Marshal them differently, farther down the loch a little, opposite Urquhart. With much show. As though we had changed that it has declared for us. Instead of assailing the beaches. Ross could not halt our ingress to the castle, from the loch. So he will hasten his withdrawal, I think…”

Some time later, the cry went up that a small boat was coming sailing across the loch towards this position. Presently it was seen that what had looked like a sail was in fact a large white flag.

“So Sir Alexander Comyn comes to make his peace with me,” the King commented.

“Bringing the keys of his castle. We must receive him suitably. In some style.”

“I hanged my Comyns,” Edward mentioned briefly.

But in a little, the sharp-eyed Hay was calling that it was not Comyn in the boat. There were four occupants, two rowers and two others, both young and in Highland dress. Interested, the party round Bruce watched and waited.

As the craft beached on the shingle, and the two young men jumped out, one holding aloft the white flag, Angus Og drew a quick breath.

“Hugh!” he exclaimed.

“Hugh Ross, himself. Son of the chief.

Eldest son. He of the red hair.”

“Ha-a-a! You say so? Ross would talk, then!”

The redheaded newcomer was an open-faced, freckled, pleasant-looking man in his early twenties, well-built and richly clothed. He and his companion came pacing self-consciously up the beach towards the silently watchful and impressive group.

“I am Sir Hugh de Ross, son of the Earl,” the redhead declared, in a rush. It was of passing interest to Bruce that this Highlander chose to Normanise his name thus.

“This is a cousin, Ross of Cad boll. We have a mission from my father. To Sir Robert the Bruce, formerly Earl of Carrick.” He was addressing himself to Edward, not Robert, perhaps not unnaturally in view of the difference in their appearance.

“I am King Robert. I greet the son of the Earl of Ross. And his kinsman. But how is it that you style yourself knight, sir?”

“King Edward of England knighted me. The old king.”

“Ah. So we have at least that in common, sir. For he knighted me also! You would seem to have served him better than I did!”

The young man looked a little disconcerted.

“I obey my father’s commands, my lord.”

“To be sure. A dutiful son-if less dutiful subject! Were you at Saint Duthac’s chapel, at Tain? When your father violated that sanctuary, and tore my wife and daughter from before its altar, to hand over to your English Edward?”

”No, sir. I was crossing swords with Angus of the Isles—whom Isee

now at your shoulder. In the Western Sea. I do not make war on women and children. My father must answer for himself. He was seven years Edward’s prisoner in the Tower of London. After capture at Dunbar fight. And released only on terms, four years ago. I think that he did not relish another spell in an English prison!”

“So he sent my women there instead!”

The other did not answer, and Bruce beat down the hot anger within him which was always so liable to rise and choke him when he most needed to be calm and clearheaded.

“So the Earl of Ross sends you as his messenger, sir?”

“Yes. He sends you offer of truce.”

The gasps with which this bald statement was received came not only from the King. Nearly everyone who heard gasped. A truce!

Offered, not sought, even. The gesture of a monarch to an equal.

Even Angus Og, who might have adopted the same line himself, was outraged that the Earl of Ross should do so.

“Here’s an insolent dog!” Edward exclaimed.

“A truce, says he!

That, from an accursed rebel! And a Highlandman, at that!”

“What mean you by that, sir?” Angus snapped.

“I mean here’s a treacherous rogue acting the prince. Expecting us to treat with him. A truce, he says. He offers it, by the Mass!”

“Sir-I do not know your name. But none speaks of my father in my presence, and thinks to escape my steel! White flag or none.” The redhead took a pace forward, hand on sword-hilt.

“Peace, peace!” the King intervened.

“In my presence, none quarrel and bandy words! This is the Earl of Carrick, Sir Hugh-my brother. He should not have spoken of your father as he did. I declare it as unsaid. But-this of a truce. Subjects do not make truces with their monarch, sir.”

“My father does not accept you as his monarch.”

With a hand raised, Bruce quelled the snarl of wrath that rose around him.

“Whom does my lord of Ross accept as his liege lord, then? Edward of England? Son of he who imprisoned him?”

“No, sir. John Baliol. Who abdicated only under duress, and still lives.”

“How could he be King of Scots, when he lives the life of a recluse, in France? Has not set foot in Scotland for a dozen years?”

Bruce caught himself up.

“But I am not here to debate my kingship with you, sirrah. I was duly and properly crowned king two years ago. And am so accepted by all save a few stiff-necked rebels, as your father. And the Comyns. The Comyns I have dealt with. Now it is your turn.”

“No parliament has yet accepted you as King, sir,” the young an persisted.

“Until it does, no man can be proclaimed rebel who holds to King John.”

“Dear God-this is too much!” Edward cried.

“You will stand and listen to such impudence; Sire? For if you will, I will not!”

“Patience, brother-as I seek patience. Here is a young man of courage, at least. Who takes his stand on forms and ordinances. We must humour him with the forms he respects. You would have a parliament approve my kingship, sir? So would I. But it must be a true and free parliament. And while the English invaders remain in Scotland, none such is possible. You would not deny that?”

“A parliament can and should confirm the power of a new monarch.”

That was the Earl of Lennox, speaking with authority.

“But it does not make the monarch. Nor can unmake him. Once duly crowned.”

“And I was duly crowned. At Scone. By its abbot. On the true Stone. The Bishop of St. Andrews anointing. The crown placed on my brow by one of the line of Mac Duff Your father was summoned thereto, sir. He did not come. He could have come, and made objection. He, one of the seven great earls of Scotland.

Indeed it was his duty, if he believed me usurper.”

“Did the Lord of the Isles, here, attend your coronation? Or any other from the Highlands-save only the Campbell?”

“Have done with this folly of words!” Angus Og broke in.

“Words and more words! The sword speaks truer.” And he gripped his own.

“Sir King-send this puppy whence he came, I say.”

“Aye-so say I!” It was not often that Edward Bruce and the Islesman agreed. Indeed, now, led by Neil Campbell, most of the notables there raised their voices to like effect.

“Wait, my friends,” the King insisted.

“If we accept the sword as the truest speaker, then the strongest rules all, and the weaker must fall. Like right and justice. This Sir Hugh Ross has invoked forms and allegiances. So be it. We will show him that in these we are stronger also. For this is a realm I seek to rule, not a tournament, nor a bear-pit! You, sir-you say that your father denies recognition of my kingship, and accepts John Baliol’s. You deny John Baliol’s abdication. Who forced that abdication? The King of England.