Nigel Tranter: The Path of the Hero King

“This at least we can do.”

“To what purpose? We are our own best guides. And if MacGregor is indeed loyal, what need…?”

“”I have said what we shall do, my lord,” the King observed evenly.

“Saint Fillan’s blessing I will honour.”

“As you will, Sire.” That was the first sire, or my lord either, to have been heard in that company for days.

Emptying the waterlogged boat, and hiding it amongst the loch side alders, they climbed to the cave.

All day they lay hidden up there on the stony face of Creag an Fhithich, the Raven’s Crag, and though they slept, two were always awake, on watch. And, intermittently, there was much to watch. A mere mile away, on the far shore of the loch and on the hillsides beyond, frequently activity was evident, by groups large and small. In the afternoon, boats appeared on the loch, searching shore and islets. And later, a strong company actually came down their own side of the water, only a few hundred feet below them.

That they were not MacGregors seemed evident by their wary and heedful attitude; they were watching as much as searching. Fortunately they were not concerned with the steep stony brae face directly above.

All the King’s party were awakened for this-and few felt disposed to sleep again thereafter.

By dusk all were fretting to be off, but Bruce insisted that they wait. Besides, to move before it was fully dark would be folly. But it was long past dark, and tempers strained, before a watcher reported movement up the burn-channel. The fugitives crept out of the cave, to crouch and hide amongst the rocks around. They were not going to be caught in any trap.

Two men materialised out of the shadows, panting heavily. One was recognisable as the stocky person of the Dewar of the Main;

the other was much larger in every way, a tall and massive figure, gasping the more in consequence.

“Sir King,” the younger man said hoarsely, “is it yourself?”

“I am here, yes. We were fearing that you were not coming. It is late, man.”

“Late, yes. We dare not come sooner. To be seen …”

“Dare not? Watch your words, man!” That was his large companion.

“Lest we be seen. To come here…”

“You have brought us a guide?” Bruce said.

“To lead us south to Lennox.”

“In a way of speaking.” The younger man gestured.

“MacGregor.”

The big man inclined his head.

“MacGregor,” he repeated.

“Yes. That is well. Think you there will be enemies-MacDougalls and Macfarlanes -on this side of the loch? Still? Some passed below us early!”

“It may be so,” the Dewar nodded.

“They may well now fear that you have crossed. Your boat, therefore,

should hold well to mid-loch, see you. Boat No more boats, by God!”

That was Edward.

“We had enough of your boats, last night.”

“By boat, yes,” the MacGregor guide said shortly.

“It is my decision.

“Your decision, by the saints! We make our own decisions, fellow!”

“Quiet, Edward …!”

“On MacGregor land, I make the decision, whatever. Mind it, Southron!

I am Malcolm, son of Gregor, son of Hugh.”

“I care not whose son you are! I am the King’s brother, now Earl of Carrick …”

“Fool! Think you such new kingship is of any moment to a son of Alpin?”

“Alpin!” Bruce exclaimed.

“Malcolm, you said? Son of Gregor, was it? Son of Hugh. You are not MacGregor himself? Of Glenorchy? The chief..,?”

“I am MacGregor, yes. Himself. And my race is royal. None so royal.”

“MacGregor is come to take you to the great Earl, Sir King,” the Dewar explained.

“The Earl of Lennox. His friend …”

Bruce scarcely heeded. That this, one of the proudest men in all the Highlands, in all Scotland indeed, should have come in person to act their guide, was significant, whatever way it might be considered.

The MacGregors were not one of the greater clans, as far as numbers went, but they had an importance far beyond their size.

They claimed to be descended from Gregor, brother of King Kenneth Mac Alpine and if so, were the most direct representatives of the original Scots royal line, a dynasty lost in the mists of antiquity. Their main territories were Glen Orchy and Glen Strae, at the head of Loch Awe, but there the Campbells had been encroaching and there was bad blood between the two clans. This area on the east side of Loch Lomond comprising Glen Gyle and Inversnaid was of minor importance, and the chief’s presence here was a surprise.

Was it for good or ill? This could mean a welcome accession of support-or, equally, it could mean more treachery.

Bruce glanced quickly at the Campbell chief. In these Highlands, clan feuds mattered a deal more than national wars. Sir Neil, never a diplomatic or forthcoming individual, could precipitate immediate trouble. But would he do it on MacGregor territory?

Apparently not.

“I am Neil, son of Colin Mor, of Lochawe, of the line of O’Duin,” he said briefly.

“I had heard that you were of this King’s company,” the MacGregor returned, equally cryptic.

“We are honoured, much honoured, MacGregor, to have your company’” Bruce said hurriedly.

“We had not looked for so notable escort.

“You are on my lands,” the other returned simply.

Bruce was afraid that his brother might blurt out that, in theory at least, all the land in this realm was the King’s; it was the sort of thing that Edward would do, in his present frame of mind. Fortunately, he forbore.

“The Earl of Carrick has made himself known to you. Here now is Sir James, Lord of Douglas. Sir Gilbert, Lord of Enroll. Sir William Bellenden. And other friends …”

“Let us be done with this talk,” Edward jerked.

“This of the boat? Do we hazard this?”

All knew what he meant. MacGregor could be leading them into a trap.

“I have the blessing of Saint Fillan,” Bruce said slowly, carefully.

There was silence, while men considered that.

“None could be more potent, at all,” the Dewar observed.

‘”MacGregor will agree.”

“That is truth,” the chief nodded.

“That saint is patron to my name and line. At his call I am here. For this, and because you are the friend of my friend.”

If the King thought that MacGregor should rather have come out of loyalty to his liege lord, he did not say so, content that these other loyalties should ensure his good faith.

“That is well,” he acceded.

“My friend, and yours? Do you mean the Earl of Lennox?”

“The same. Malcolm, son of Malcolm, son of Maldwyn, son of Aluin, son of Aluin, of the Levenach. To him I can take you. And only I.”

“Only …? Why so?”

“Because he is in hiding.”

“Hiding? The Earl? In his own Lennox?”

“Even so. His castles are all occupied by your enemies. He pays dear for supporting King Robert Bruce!”

“Aye. Nor Lennox only.” Sombrely Bruce nodded.

“We are in your hands, then, MacGregor. Take us to Lennox. If you will.”

They left the cave, not to clamber down to the waterside again, but to

climb upwards by a steep and difficult ascent amongst the rocks and

slippery screes -this apparently because just a little farther to the

south, almost sheer cliff overhung the loch shore which would have

forced anybody travelling down it to traverse a very narrow strip

between water and cliff, providing a perfect site for an ambush If

their enemies suspected that the fugitives were on this side of the loch, that corridor would be closely watched.

At length they reached a long ridge, about 600 feet above the water. It seemed much lighter up here, and the sense of constriction which had oppressed them for days lifted somewhat Along this bare ridge they moved, for about two miles, before they began to slant down half-left over smoother grassy slopes into a parallel valley formed by the Snaid Burn. Here cattle grazed, and it was a strange sensation for the fugitives to pass close to cot houses without skulking and creeping. Presently they came down to Inversnaid, where a sizeable township clustered round the seat of one of the MacGregor chieftains. Men were astir here, and quiet salutes greeted the chief; but no attention was paid to the others, King or no King.