Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Not only Lindsay stared at the giant now, speechless.

“So, my lords, let us to Ayr,” Wallace said smiling.

Men eyed each other, ill at ease.

“This … this was a notable feat, Wallace,” the Steward got out, sucking his spittle.” And Tower Lindsay is a fine house. But Ayr is quite other. A town. With a great garrison. Five hundred men.”

“Nor do we go skulking and creeping in darkness. Like broken men and outlaws,” somebody said significantly.

The Bishop coughed.

“Besides, my son, it is against our policy.

To waste our precious strength on reducing fortresses and castles.

These can wait. When the land itself is ours, they will drop off like over-ripe fruit.”

“You think so? Then you will give me no men, my lords? For this attempt, I have but fifty of my own band,” Wallace said, quietly now.

“Fifty or five hundred—it would make no difference,” Douglas snorted.

Bruce was moved to speak.

“My lords, I think that we should consider this more. I believe that Ayr should not be left behind us, untouched. It could endanger us. Moreover, its fall, after Lanark, would be great cheer, encouragement, for all Scotland. I do not know about attacking it by night. Here I have no experience. But assault there should be.”

The big man was looking at him keenly.

“Who speaks so, my friends?” he asked.

“I do not know this lord, I think.”

“It is the Earl of Carrick, man,” the Steward said shortly.

“Carrick! Bruce? The young Lord Robert? Edward’s lordling -here?”

There were gasps, murmurs, a snigger or two. Bruce set his but did not answer.

“My lord of Carrick has joined us,” Wishart explained.

“With three hundred men.”

Wallace had not taken his eyes off the younger man.

“Scotland’s case must be better than I had known, then!” he commented carefully.

“But …” He shrugged great shoulders.

“King Edward, it seems, is a good teacher. In war. He would not leave Ayr unassailed. The Lord of Carrick is right in this …”

“No!” Douglas roared.

“Failure at Ayr would not only tie us down. It would spell the end of this rising. Until we have mustered a great force, we must keep moving…”

“Is not what I urge on you, my lords? To move! Now!”

Wallace demanded.

“I shall move, at least. Here and now. For that I came. Alone if need be. I go to Ayr. Who comes with me?”

Only Graham, who was already standing, nodded his head.

There was some shuffling of feet under the table, but no man rose.

“Very well. A good night to you, my lords. God be with you -and God help this poor Scotland!” Wallace threw down the gnawed leg of lamb and strode for the door, his two companions almost running at his heels. Sir John the Graham looked round the company, shrugged, and went after the trio.

After a moment or two, Robert Bruce pushed back his chair.

“You will bear with me if I take my leave,” he said, to them all.

“I think that there may be something to see, tonight. Fifty men against five hundred should show some sport, at the least! I go watch it.”

In silence he left the hall. At the door, he found Andrew Moray of Bothwell at his side.

Out in the Seagate of Irvine, by a slender sliver of horned moon they found Wallace’s men already mounting their shaggy garrons—and a ruffianly crew they seemed, though heavily armed. At sight of the two noblemen, Wallace, not yet mounted, paused.

“Who is this?” he demanded, peering.

“Ha—my lord of Bothwell.

And, yes—it is the Bruce! What would you, sirs?”

“I would come with you. To see what fifty men may do,”

Bruce jerked stiffly.

“If you will so much trust Edward’s lord “Trust? I trust my eye, my arm and sword, and God’s good mercy my lord. Little else. But come if you will.”

Bruce and Moray went for their mounts. The horse-lines of the host were down at the main encampment, between the comparatively small Seagate Castle and the river. By the time they got back, Wallace and his band had gone, but left Sir John the Graham behind to bring them on. Wallace was making for Ayr by the coast, he told them. They would have to hurry to catch up -for that one never daundered, however indifferent the quality of his horseflesh.

The three young noblemen-for Moray, the eldest, was no more than twenty-five-skirted the town to the south-west and rode fast, southwards, by the rolling sandy links of Fullarton and Gailes, with the long Atlantic tide sighing along the glimmering strand of Irvine Bay, on their right. It made easy, unobstructed riding, for night-time, with the moon giving just sufficient light to warn them of the few obstacles of the open bents. Nevertheless, better mounted as they were, it was long before, almost at the squat salmon-fishers’ huts of Barassie, they perceived the dark mass of the main body ahead of them. They were one-third of the way to Ayr.

Riding hard, talk was difficult. But Bruce did ask of the Graham if he knew why the man Wallace was so set on an attack on Ayr?

“He has debts to pay. At Ayr,” the other threw back, in snatches.

“His mother’s brother, Sir Ronald Crawfurd of Crosbie, was Sheriff of Ayr. Edward made Percy—Henry Percy of Northumberland—Sheriff.

In his place. Percy appointed as deputy one Arnulf. Of Southampton. This Arnulf, an evil man. Called a justice-ayres there. Called Sir Ronald. And others. Sir Bryce Blair.

Sir Hugh Montgomerie. Others. To advise him, he said. He slew them, when they came. Out of hand. A trap. Hanged them. From the beams of the new barracks. Wallace has sworn vengeance.”

“And that we do tonight?”

“We shall see.”

With the narrow curving headland of Troon reaching out into the bay, on their right, they at last caught up with Wallace.

After crossing the further links of Monkton and Prestwick, Wallace turned inland, to skirt Ayr town to the east. They forded the river at The Holm, and then circled round through a terrain of knolls and broken pastureland, back towards the sea, south of the town. They climbed a long low ridge of whins and outcrops, startling sleeping cattle, and drew up on its grassy summit.

Sir William Douglas had been right about English precautions at the Castle of Ayr. Down there, flanking the estuary of the river, the town lay spread before them, dark, sleeping. But, a little way apart, nearer, on a mound to this south-east side, the new castle was not dark and gave no aspect of slumber. No fewer than eight bright beacons blazed from its high walls, making the place almost seem to be afire, and casting a red and flickering glow over all the surrounding area. From this ridge it was too far to See men, but there could be little doubt that watchers patrolled those battlements.

“English Arnulf does not sleep without watch-dogs!” Graham commented.

“Even watch-dogs may blink. Or be chained,” Wallace returned easily.

Leaving the three nobles, he gathered his band around him, and splitting them up, gave them instructions, pointing this way and that. Bruce could not make much of the snatches he heard, save that somebody called Scrymgeour was to take charge of the castle. It seemed a large order.

In two groups the men rode off downhill, westwards, and were lost in the shadows. Wallace returned with only half a dozen, including the slim youth, whose name was Boyd, and the priest, Master John Blair.

“Come with us, my lords,” he called.

“If creeping and skulking is not too much for your stomachs!” In the field, he sounded rather less respectful of noble blood than he had done in Seagate Castle.

After a bare half-mile further, nearer the sea, they were directed to dismount and leave their horses, tied up, in a leafy hollow.

Then they went forward quietly. Bruce perceived, from the beacons, that they were heading away from the castle vicinity, half-left, towards the coast. A halt was called presently, and Wallace went on alone. When Bruce and Moray exchanged a few wondering words, the priest curtly ordered them to be silent.