Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

The one exception to this un warlike company was a splendidly built, laughing-eyed young female who stood alone on the raised poop of the galley, holding a golden arrow. She wore a handsome white-painted helmet above her cascade of corn-coloured hair, the wings on either side golden. A steel breastplate, also white, only partly hid her otherwise unclothed upper parts, and the very obvious fact that it had been designed to fit other than a particularly pronounced and rounded feminine form only enhanced effect. The back, save for the armour’s straps, was wholly bare. A sort of brief skirt of chain mail and tall riding-boots, both whitened, completed the costume-though leaving notable stretches of delectable thigh uncovered.

Needless to say this boatload aroused a masculine enthusiasm far outdoing even that for the stoutly-battling but sadly outclassed royal craft, the King himself cheering heartily.

“Hussies!” the Lady Isobel observed succinctly, at his side, to choke him off. After all, it was a monastery.

The galley of the nymphs, or whatever they were, bore down on the other embattled three-and now the wild storm music sank and dwindled to a gentle melody. Out from the canvas craft the maidens rose, to step over into the other vessels, lightly waving their wands before the receptive faces of the sword-whacking warriors, or at least those opposing the four heroes in the royal barge, now in dire danger of becoming a casualty indeed. The breast plated lady remained in the stern of her own galley, directing all with her arrow-like weapon. With remarkable speed and unanimity the Englishmen and the Rosses alike collapsed before this potent assault-not so remarkable perhaps in view of the closing in of all this unusually underclad femininity. In a disappointingly short time, in the circumstances, Scotia’s rescue was accomplished and the heroic monarch was safe-though he still was landed with the task of keeping upright the swaying mid-mast and sail, to his evident embarrassment. At this stage the nymphs’ leader vacated her poop and, stepping over into the Ross galley, poked her dart approximately into the stomach of the stout chieftain, in formally dramatic fashion, whereupon he sank away out of sight below the gunwale, clutching his middle and howling horribly. The music rose to a triumphant crescendo. Evidently this belated coup de grace had some especial significance.

The resounding applause was cut short by Christina MacRuarie, who stepped out into mid-floor beside the victorious galley, hand raised.

“Hear me,” she called, in her softly lilting Hebridean voice, into the eventual hush.

“Hear me, all you most noble of Scotland’s race, Highland and Lowland.

And others!” Her pause was eloquent.

“Here is the Princess Aoife, of Skye, mighty heroine, and mother of Cuchullin’s son, come to the rescue of the King of Scots, with her train of pure maidens and her mystic gaebolg, the dart of justice and truth, from which there is no known protection so be that it is hurled over water. Thus the King’s saving and sure support came from across the water, the Western Sea, as the seannachies of old have foretold. So long as King Robert remembers the true Celtic origin and honour of his kingdom, so long shall he triumph and his throne be glorious.”

There was more applause, but some murmuring too from the non-Highland part of the assembly, which saw this all as rather too blatant a piece of propaganda for the barbarous Erse and Islesmen.

As undoubtedly it was, of course, a flourish, but a warning too.

Bruce recollected something of the saga of Aoife of Skye, the semi mythological heroine of many a Highland camp-fire, Lady of the Sea, Princess of the North, mistress of the legendary Cuchullin after whom the Skye mountains were named, and mother of the beautiful but ill-fated Conlaoch, whose invincible belly-dart was only effective over water. Bruce glanced round to seek for the Lord of the Isles. Angus Og would have had a hand in this, to be sure.

Christina, helping down the voluptuous dart-wielder from the Ross

galley, and beckoning young Irvine from the royal wreck-so that he had

to dispose of his wretched mast to one of his colleagues -led the two

principals across to present them to the King.

“Here is Marsala MacGregor of Glenkinglass, niece to the MacGregor,” she introduced.

As the bold-eyed, high-coloured and excitingly-made girl sank in deepest curtsy before him, she might have been naked to the waist, as far as Bruce was concerned, her breastplate, by its very nature, weight and shape, being no protection to her in the least. Nor did the curtsy increase the efficacy of the chain-mail skirt. Clearing his throat, he leaned over to raise her up.

“Lady … Mistress … my dear,” he said huskily, “I thank you.

Indeed I do. We all do. You are most… superb! My felicitations.

You are a credit to Clan Alpine, on my soul! A … joy to us all. I shall tell your uncle so.” When she would have backed away, he held her arm and turned her, so that she stood by his side, flushed, radiant. The King was relieved to see that the Lady Isa had somehow removed herself.

He nodded to the young armour-bearer: “You wrought nobly, Willie,” he acknowledged.

“As who would not, knowing how you were to be delivered! You must act my tutor in some matters hereafter, I see!” He turned to Christina.

“As for you, my Lady of Garmoran—I am beyond words! Your talents are such that we all are left speechless. Which, it may be, is as well! It is my hope that my lord Prior will so remain. Equally my lord of Ross! But… you have delighted our eyes and our … sensibilities. You and all those who have so ably entertained us. I thank you all.” He found that he was clutching the MacGregor girl’s arm, made to loose her, and then forbore.

“All shall be rewarded, as is meet, I assure you!” And Tina MacRuarie could make what she would of that.

Sir John Ross, with his wife, turned and stalked from the hall, without any of the required bowing towards the monarch. It was difficult to say who led who.

Save for the King’s captive, the galley-maidens fled for their lives and virtue, not only their late victims in hot pursuit.

The hour was late, and this obviously had been the highlight of the evening. There followed more music and dancing, and there was still cheer of more solid sort for all who desired it. But all was now by way of anticlimax. When the King decently could detain his fair prisoner no longer, and yielded her to Christina, he moved over for a word with Hugh Ross, to soothe susceptibilities and to ensure that the old Earl was got discreetly off to bed. He advised his young sister, in the by-going, that it was time that she too retired from the scene. He looked for Edward, but was too late for that active operator, who had already disappeared, and Isabella Ross with him.

Thereafter, commanding Gibbie Hay to see that all remaining guests obtained hospitality to their repletion, Bruce quietly slipped from the Guest Hall to make his way alone through the now deserted, night-bound streets to the Bishop’s Castle and his own tower bedchamber. He was glad enough of the fresh North Sea air to clear a throbbing head.

It was William Irvine’s duty, as page rather than armour-bearer, to attend at the King’s chamber-but this night Willie would be otherwise preoccupied. After a word or two with the guard on duty, mounting the narrow corkscrew stair to his room at the tower-top, Bruce, at the door, paused, his nostrils catching the faintest whiff of woman’s perfume. He smiled a little. He had a feeling that possibly Christina might seek him out, this night, for more than explanations. And, of a truth, he could do with a woman!

Entering the apartment, where a lamp was already lit and a fire burned brightly, the King was therefore not surprised to see the shadowy shape of a cloaked woman, back turned, over by the turret window. Small wonder the sentry downstairs had been rather more familiarly paw ky than usual.