Nigel Tranter - The Path of the Hero King

“I want a score of good men,” he said.

“Only men who can swim a little. And who are not afraid of cold water!

No small men;

see you. Who offers? “Out of all the murmuring, questioning and

humorous comment, little more than a dozen stepped forward. There were no Islesmen or Highlanders in Keith’s force, and the ability or need to swim was not a Lowland priority.

“I hope none may have to swim, in the end. But your lives may depend on it, nevertheless,” the King went on. He counted.

“Fourteen.

It will serve. Now-off with your clothes. Then, ashes from the fires, to rub on your faces and shoulders. Bodies will show white, even on a dark night.” As he spoke, he was unbuckling his own sword-belt and beginning to draw off his chain-mail tunic.

“Sire-not you!” Hay exclaimed, shocked.

“Not the King… in the water! Naked …”

“Tush, man-am I the King because of my clothes? It must be I who lead, since only I know what I would effect. Moreover, I do not ask others to do what I will not myself do. You know that.” All men indeed did know that. It was one of the secrets of Bruce’s success, in his kind of warfare, with his kind of people. The Scots character was always such as responded best not to clear orders and discipline but to personal leadership and close contact, where there was affection and involvement with the men. As soldiers they had never excelled at siege-warfare, any more than in great impersonal battles, for this very reason.

So, presently, a very odd-looking and inadequate-seeming party of warriors made their awkward barefooted way along the pebble and sand beach northwards for about 200 yards, to where a fair sized burn flowed in from the steeply-rising flank of the hugely looming hill behind them. Completely naked save for belts and cords to tie weapons to their persons, they were daubed with wood ash which made them so much less visible in the mirk. As well as their weapons they carried ropeladders fitted with grappling irons, and single knotted ropes with hooks attached.

Immediately below the shallows at the mouth of the burn, Bruce halted and formed up his people in single file.

“Keep close behind me, and follow exactly as I go,” he directed.

“As I mind it, we should not have to swim. I was a laddie when last I did this. But I do not think aught will have changed. The burn will still bring down much silt and stones, and the flow of the loch is still northwards.

There is a spit of this silt reaching out and bending down loch, towards the castle. Perhaps that is how the island was made.

The water gets much deeper than the causeway. But not over our heads, I think. It has been a dry summer. I used to be able to walk it as a lad …”

He paused, as a fifteenth naked and besmeared volunteer came hobbling up, and had to peer close to discover any identification, “Ha, my lord High Constable!” he whispered.

“You also? Man, your costume fair becomes you! Would that the Lady Annabel could see you now! Come, then-and slowly, silently. Pray that we do not have to swim-for that might give us away. And pray that the sentries watch best the front and the causeway.”

Carrying a coiled rope with hook over his shoulder, and a cut hazel-stick in his hand, the King waded in-and gasped a little despite himself at the chill of the water. Even though it was only early September, the loch lay nearly a thousand feet above the sea, and was fed from giants 3,000 feet high.

Gingerly, carefully feeling his way at each step with both stick and toes, he edged out into the loch, Gilbert Hay immediately behind and the party following close. Bruce had toyed with the idea of having Keith stage some sort of demonstration at the causeway-head, or at the camp itself, to distract the watch’s attention;

but had decided against it as likely perhaps to rouse more of the castle’s defenders. Better that all should seem quietly normal, and the beseigers’ camp asleep.

Quite quickly the water deepened to waist height-where its chill made maximum impact. Thereafter the depth increased only imperceptibly until it was halfway up the men’s chests. This gradual ness did not imply a smooth and easy advance, however; continually Bruce came across uneven stretches, holes, or stumbled over boulders, waterlogged tree-trunks or other hazards. Fortunately the shoal or spit was fairly broad, and keeping to its crown was the least of the problem.

Bruce could not recollect just where the thing tended to bend northwards, with the main current of the loch-which was more like a widening of a river, with the Gala Lane entering at the head, near by, and the River Doon emptying at the foot. But some 200 yards out, slantwise from the shore, it became obvious that they were curving round. The castle loomed about another 150 yards ahead.

This second leg was the most testing-for from the direction of progress it looked as though the spit might have changed course during the years and be going to miss the islet by quite a margin, to the west. Also, at every step, Bruce feared a shouted challenge from the castle battlements. The men behind him seemed to be making an unconscionable splashing, and moreover puffing like stranded whales. It was now raining heavily. He had never been so thankful for cold, driving rain.

But at length he was under the lee of the island. He was brought to a

stop, almost within stick-reaching distance of the bank, by deeper

water. There seemed to be some sort of channel circling the isle

itself. Taking a long breath he gently but strongly launched himself forward with a swimming motion. But almost at once his feet touched bottom again-sorely indeed-with the water only up to his chin. From there he could clamber carefully out on to dry land, with the dark masonry of the castle’s outer bailey rising directly above him.

He whispered to Hay to stand aside and warn each man of the ditch-like channel, as he came up. And he held out his stick for each to grasp as he came over.

It took only a few moments-although with some alarming splashing-for the entire party to join him below the walls, unchallenged.

There was no need for any instructions now. Each man knew his task. They spread out along the few feet between water and masonry. At the signal of a pebble thrown into the water at each end, they went to work.

Their task was in essence entirely simple but not necessarily easy to perform, and quietly, nevertheless. It was to throw those ropeladders and single climbing ropes upwards sufficiently high for them to go over the walling and their hooks and grapnels to catch in the crevices and fissures of the masonry beyond, and so to hold. This was elementary siege-procedure, and all had practised it many times, even if they had not actually taken part in previous such assaults. For all that, hooks and prongs could not be guaranteed to catch and hold fast. And the noise of all that metal clattering on the stonework sounded like a carillon of cracked bells ringing to rouse even the dead.

Bruce’s own hook caught at the second throw. Dirk between his teeth, jutting his bare feet against the walling, he walked up hand over hand, foot over foot, counterpoised between knotted rope and stone. Getting over the wall head was the difficulty, where rope and stone came together. He barked his knuckles, but managed to hoist himself bodily, bare stomach on the coping, and uncaring of the scraping on tender flesh, vaulted legs over and on to the parapet-walk.

One or two figures were there-but they were naked, and therefore his own men whose ropes had held first throw. Bruce sighed with relief. The most dangerous moment was past, when defenders might have unhooked the ropes and sent the attackers crashing down. There was as yet no sign of any defenders.

“Gibbie!” he said, in a whisper-for though the ash had been washed off their bodies, faces were still daubed and it was almost impossible to identify individuals. Hay, in fact, was almost at his side.