Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Some of his ranked listeners cheered. Some murmured. More stood silent.

Bruce shook his head.

“A man must choose his own course, he said slowly, as though to himself.

“Aye, a man must choose.

Choose you, then. You are free to do so. My father’s men, not mine.

Those who would may turn now. Ride back to Annandale.

To their homes. Those who would come with me to Carrick, I welcome. Let each man choose freely.” He turned abruptly, and walked away from them.

It was almost an hour later, and quite dark, before the castle drawbridge clanked down again, and, lit by pitch-pine torches, a small party came riding out. Bruce rode to meet them, Lady Douglas, wrapped in a voluminous travelling-cloak, had another child with her now,” riding pillion behind young James, a little boy of four or five—Hugh Douglas, her own son. There were also a couple of tiring-women and a few armed servitors.

The Annandale host was now drawn up in two companies-and one was many times larger than the other. Of something under six hundred, only about seventy had elected to go with Bruce into this doubtful adventure-and these were mainly young men, unattached, lacking responsibilities. The rest were for home, discretion and the daily round. Their lord’s son was the last to blame them.

There was no further discussion or farewells. Without ceremony, the two groups parted company, the smaller trotting off south by west up the Douglas Water, the larger turning away eastwards towards the Castleton and the unseen welter of hills beyond.

Behind them, other folk were slipping out of Douglas Castle also now, quietly, singly and in little groups, and disappearing into the night.

Picking their careful way by bridle-paths and cattle-tracks, Brute’s party followed the Douglas Water hour after hour through the spring night, slowly making height as the river shrank and lifted towards its genesis on the lofty flank of mighty Cairntable, where ran the Ayrshire border amongst the long heather hills.

Long before Douglas Water could lead them to its remote birthplace, they had struck off almost due westwards by a drove road over the high, bleak watershed moorlands where the head streams of the River Ayr were mothered, and the wastes of Airds Moss stretched in peat-hag and scrub. By dawn they were slanting down out of the wild uplands between Sorn and Ochiltree, almost twenty weary miles behind them and only a dozen to go to the town of Ayr, and the sea.

Not that it was Ayr, in fact, for which Bruce was making. He was on the edge, now, of his own ancient earldom of Carrick, comprising the nine parishes of South Ayrshire, with Turnberry Castle, sixteen miles south of Ayr town, its principal seat-and his own birthplace. Turnberry was not for him meantime, however, for its castle had been garrisoned by the English, like Lochmaben, since Comyn had been driven out of it. But Maybole, the largest burgh of Carrick, lay somewhat nearer, and might well supply him with sufficient men to serve his purpose.

The English force from Lanark were unlikely to have gone as far south as Maybole.

Tired and travel-worn, they came to the little town in its enclosed green valley, in the early forenoon—to find it in a bustle and stir of excitement. The High Steward’s host had passed through it, going north, two days before, and had demanded the adherence of a contingent of the town’s menfolk, for the revolt.

These had been assembling, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and were now almost ready to march. The Steward and the Bishop were not at Ayr, but a few miles further north of it, at Irvine. They had passed Ayr by, for there the English contingent from Lanark, said to number about five hundred, had installed themselves; with the place’s own garrison, they were considered too strong to assault meantime.

Bruce was well enough pleased with this situation. He had intended to

raise a token force, since these were his own vassals, to accompany him

to the rebel base. Now they were already assembled for him. As Earl

of Carrick, he ordered more to be mustered and to come on later. After

rest and refreshment, with an augmented company of about three hundred,

he and the Douglases set out once more, northwards, towards Irvine.The Lady Eleanor was bearing up notably well, even if she remained less than friendly.

They made a wide half-circuit round Ayr, fording Doon and Ayr’s own river about three miles inland from the sea. Thereafter, with only occasional glimpses of the town, on their left, they rode through the rolling and populous territory of Kyle until, in late afternoon, they saw the huddle of roofs that was Irvine’s royal burgh, dominated by its monastery and Seagate Castle, at the blue sea’s edge, with the smoke of an army’s cooking-fires rising like a screen around it. Bruce sent forward three emissaries, one of them a magistrate of Maybole brought along for this purpose, to make known his approach and identity.

Presently, while still perhaps half a mile from the town, a fairly large mounted party could be seen coming out towards them.

Well out of bowshot-range this company halted, and sent forward two horsemen, one of knightly appearance.

These came cantering up, and Bruce saw that the knight was the same Sir Richard Lundin who had stood before him in the sorry queue to sign the Ragman’s Roll at Berwick those months ago. He raised hand in salutation.

“My lord—here is a strange meeting,” Lundin called.

“I greet you. But my Lord James, the Steward, commands that you leave your company here and come on alone to speak with him.”

“As Earl of Carrick, I obey no commands, here in Ayrshire, from the Steward or other, Sir Richard,” Bruce returned, but not harshly.

“I will, however, come with you of my own goodwill.

And gladly. Go you and tell the Lord James so.”

Nodding, the knight turned and cantered back whence he had come.

Bruce told his people to wait where they were. But the Lady of Douglas declared that she would come with him.

“Not so, madam,” he returned.

“You remain here with the others, if you please. Until we see what my reception is.”

“So! It is as I thought I You use me as a hostage, sir. You bargain with me. To your shame!”

“Say that I look well to your safety, lady. Until I learn what is to befall. But I will take the lad James. To greet his uncle.”

So the young man and the dark boy rode on alone towards the waiting party.

They were within a hundred yards or so when, with a cry, a big burly man, in rusted but once handsome armour, burst out from the Irvine group and came spurring towards them.

“Jamie!”

be shouted, a; he came, “Jamie!”

“Father!” The boy went plunging to meet him.

Bruce watched their reunion, a touching scene, the more unexpected in that Sir William, Lord of Douglas, was known to be a fierce, temperamental and wayward character, as unpredictable as he was ungovernable. Bruce had not met the man but his reputation was known to all. Now he was embracing his son like any more gentle father.

Others rode forward now, foremost amongst them a tall, elderly, cadaverous man, armoured all in black without the usual colourful heraldic surcoat. Tightlipped, rattrap-jawed, thoughtful of when, his sour and gloomy features were redeemed by great soulful brown eyes, wildly improbable in such a face-James Stewart, fifth High Steward of Scotland. Bruce knew him, of course; he had been one of the Bruce supporters in his grandfather’s claim to the throne.

“My lord of Carrick,” this apparition announced in a lisping voice-for his tongue was loose and on the large side for his tight mouth, and he dribbled somewhat, “I had not looked to see you here. Do we greet you as friend, or foe? What is your purpose here?”

“The same as is yours, my lord Steward, I would say,” Bruce replied.