Nigel Tranter: The Path of the Hero King

Now they were on the dark edge of long Loch Lomond, near the north end. It was a mid-August night, and for two days they had been in hiding in Glen Falloch to the north, resting up by day and prospecting the possibilities of escape by night. For they were still in Macfarlane country, enemy territory, and their presence in the area known. They were being sorely hunted. Just across the loch was MacGregor land, where they would expect to be comparatively safe-for though MacGregor was not necessarily a King’s man, at least he was at permanent feud with Macfarlane, Macnab, and to a lesser degree with the MacDougalls. The Campbells also, as it happened-but that probably would not seriously affect the issue. Moreover, south of the MacGregor lands lay the great country of Lennox, the first of the West Lowlands. Somehow the fugitives must get across the mile-wide and twenty-five-mile long loch-for the valley-floor to the north, in Glen Falloch, was watched for every yard of the way by the Lord of Lorn’s minions, as they knew to their cost. Search parties were scouring the area for them, and Falloch had become too hot to hold them.

Unhappily, Macfarlane had obviously decreed that all the many boats of

the small loch side communities should be put beyond the

SO

reach of the refugees. Bruce and six of his companions now sat silent, in a cranny amongst the rocks above the black lapping waters, having each pair covered their allotted search-area, at great risk, even as far as half a mile inland, but without the least success. All boats on the west side of Loch Lomond, that night, were evidently securely hidden or under lock and key.

The silence was grim rather than dispirited or despairing. These men were long past that. They were now fined down to surviving from hour to hour. Disappointments, failures, losses, reverses, were but incidental, to be accepted and absorbed into the pattern of survival. Any who indeed survived this prolonged ordeal would emerge very different men, men of steel, tried, tested, tempered.

And ruthless.

James Douglas and Dod Pringle, one of the men-at-arms, emerged like silent shadows out of the gloom, and squatted down beside the others.

“Nothing,” the young lord said briefly, flatly.

“No,” the King acknowledged.

“A raft. Of driftwood. Tied with ropes of twisted bracken,” Campbell suggested.

“For ten? To sail a mile?”

“Two can swim. They can draw it.”

“It will be dawn in two hours. No time. We would be seen.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

“If we live.”

“Some will. You must.”

The use of titles and honorifics had long since been given up.

Edward Bruce, always highly strung, a man like a coiled spring had become almost half-crazed these last weeks, in glittering-eyed tension, his hand seldom far from his dirk-hilt. One of their number he had already slain, in a sudden fit of rage. He was a killer now, and even in that fierce company men eyed him warily and kept their distance. He spoke now.

“Back there. A mile. There are two cot-houses. At the loch side

Women in them. I heard them. A boat they will have. Somewhere.

I will make them talk.”

“No,” his brother said.

“Not women.”

“I say yes. Cross this loch we must. Squeamish folly will serve nothing.”

I do not make war on women. I have enough on my mind.”

That was final.

There were mutterings for and against-for no man’s word was kwin this company now.

They were interrupted. Another little group emerged from the shadows

of the alder thickets on the left, the remaining pair, Sir William Bellenden and the Annandale moss trooper Jardine. But there was a third figure, whom Jardine had gripped in a savage.

arm-twisted hold, and bent forward almost double. At first Bruce thought the prisoner was an old woman, hung about with rags.

Then he perceived the long grey beard.

“Found him by the loch side the moss trooper jerked.

“Spying on us, for a wager! Jabbers nothing but his heathenish Irish.”

The King, leaning closer to peer, distinguished even in the darkness the dull sheen of gold at approximately the waist, the entwining serpents of a magnificent belt.

“Fools!” he cried.

“This is the Dewar! The Dewar of the Coigreach. Unhand him. He is a friend.”

“Then why does he lurk here? At this hour?” Bellenden asked.

The old man launched into a flood of Gaelic, furious, vituperative, outraged, however unintelligible. Jardine would have silenced him with a buffet, but the King caught his arm.

“Say on, Master Dewar,” he directed.

“But in the tongue we may understand, of a mercy!”

The other obliged, and eloquently.

“Spawn of the devil!

Offspring of Beelzebub!” he declared, with a sibilant vehemence that lacked nothing in venom for all the Highland softness of intonation.

“To lay their foul hands on the Dewar! To defile Saint Fillan! May they roast on the hottest hob of hell everlastingly! May the cries of their torture ascend eternally!”

“To be sure. To be sure,” Bruce agreed.

“Their offence will receive due punishment, undoubtedly. But-what brings you here, my friend? To Loch Lomondside?”

“You do. Who else? You, Sir King. I came seeking you.” Evidently Bruce’s totally unkinglike appearance did not confuse the Dewar.

“Here? In the dark? How knew you to look for me here?”

“Much is known to the Dewar.”

“It is? Then, not only you will know we are here?”

“To be sure. All the Highlands know that you are on the wrong side of Loch Lomond. But only I know how you may win away from here.”

“Ha! You do?”

“I have brought you a boat, see you.”

They all stared at him, and then at each other.

“How can you have brought a boat?” Edward Bruce demanded.

The other did not trouble to reply.

The King rubbed his unshaven chin.

“My friend-I am grateful” he said.

“But the loch shore is watched. All Glen Falloch is watched. We fear that all boats will be denied us. Even yours.”

“You know not what you say,” the Dewar replied scornfully.

“Come-I will take you up to it. But quietly.”

“This could be a trap,” Bruce’s brother jerked.

“Leading us into our enemies’ arms.”

“Aye. Belike they sent the old man to cozen us,” Bellenden agreed.

“To betray us. Once more.”

“I think not,” the King said.

“This Dewar of the Coigreach gave me Saint Fillan’s blessing. He would not betray me now.”

“I would not trust him. I would not trust any of these Highland savages,” Edward asserted, hand feeling for dirk.

“You would not?” Sir Neil Campbell, Highlander himself, asked thinly.

“Enough!” the King snapped.

“The decision is mine-and I trust the Dewar. Sir-we will follow you, and gladly. But-where is your boat?”

“You shall see. So be these fools go quietly! Come.”

The old man, despite his stooping shuffle, could move surprisingly quickly. Turning, he led them away from the loch side through the shadowy junipers and scattered birches, up and down amongst the knolls and hummocks, muttering to himself in seemingly disgusted fashion, but nimble-and not so much as glancing behind to ensure that they all followed. He twisted and turned, and sometimes actually doubled back on his tracks, so that his mutterings were echoed by some of those behind. And once or twice he stopped still, and waited, almost as though sniffing the air, before moving on at a tangent. In the dark, and without landmarks, it was difficult to say what general direction they were taking; but Bruce had the impression that they were going southwards and roughly parallel with the loch.

For perhaps twenty minutes he led them on this roundabout progress, without word or indeed glance at his companions; but however irritating and mystifying a process this was, at least he led them to avoid contact with others, their enemies or the cot-houses of local clans folk -though once they heard voices at no great distance.