Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

Perhaps a score of men rode behind it, and another score in front With cheerful shouts of “Way for the Bruce! Way for the Bruce!” the laughing young men bore down on this dignified procession—and very quickly its dignity was dispersed in chaos as the tight-knit, hard-riding group drove in on it without slackening of pace. Like a spearhead the Bruces bored on and through the ruck of swearing, shouting men and rearing, plunging, stumbling horses. Low over their own beasts’ necks the Bruces crouched, hands flailing at heaving flanks. Everywhere riders were forced off the track, mainly down the steep bank towards the river, in a bedlam of protest, malediction, neighings and mocking laughter.

The jennets with the litter were led on a golden cord by an elderly liveried horse-master on a substantial cob. He, like the escort, wore the red cross on gold on breast and back. At the uproar behind he turned and hurriedly raised a protesting hand. Quickly perceiving that nothing or the sort would halt or even slow down the oncoming group, he agitatedly sought to drag off some little way to the right, the riverside, the two litter horses. But there was nothing effective that he could do, without the near-side beast going right over the lip of the bank, which would eventually have tipped up the litter and probably thrown out its occupant. Such conveyances, though an enormous aid to comfortable travel, were awkward indeed to handle in an emergency.

The Bruces came pounding on. There was obviously no space for them to pass the litter two abreast without headlong collision, and at the last moment Nigel, to the left, wrenched round his mount to force it up on the climbing bank a little way. Even so his brother’s powerful stallion jostled and all but overthrew the gentle left-side jennet, causing it to stagger over, white legs sprawling wide. In its turn this pushed the other jennet over the edge, and the litter, slung between them, canted up at an alarming angle, leaning over to the right precariously, front high.

As he swept past, Robert Bruce’s grin went from his face like sun behind a scudding storm-cloud. It was no proud priest who clutched the lurching sides of the curtained bran card but a young woman. And even in the hectic moment of passing, he recognised that she was a beauty.

Bruce-seldom, by his very nature, did anything by half measures. No sooner had the perception of error penetrated his consciousness than he was reining up in savage and utterly abrupt decision, with no least heed for the immediate consequences, his stallion neighing in shocked protest, rearing high on its hindquarters, hooves slithering and scoring the dirt surface of the roadway in a cloud of dust and sparks, forelegs pawing the air.

Almost it toppled over backwards, and only superb horsemanship kept its rider in the saddle.

Complete chaos ensued, as the following men-at-arms piled up in a pandemonium of agonised horseflesh, lashing hooves and flailing limbs.

Fortunately all these moss troopers were practically born to the

saddle, and their mounts, unlike their masters’ thoroughbreds, shaggy nimble-footed garrons bred to the hills and the hazards of the chase in roughest territory; otherwise there would have been disaster. As it was, two men were unhorsed, one gar ron went down—but struggled to its feet again—and the left hand jennet was cannoned into again and knocked down on its knees.

Oddly enough, this last casualty had the effect of momentarily levelling the litter considerably, both sideways and fore and aft.

Even as the cause of all this upheaval dragged his mount’s head round to face the rear, with the brute still high on its hind legs, the young woman leapt nimbly out of her tossing equipage in a flurry of skirts and long silk-clad legs—no easy task from a reclining position and an unsteady base—to land directly in front of the rearing stallion and its appalled rider. She stood, apparently unconcerned at the danger from those wicked waving hooves, glaring up at the young man in proud and pale anger.

Mortified, Bruce sought to quieten his horse, bring its feet down clear of the girl and the other milling brutes, doff his velvet bonnet and stammer apologies, all at the same time. His code of chivalry, which could accept as no more than a mere understandable prank the riding down of an elderly churchman or a fat merchant, was outraged by any such insult to a young and attractive female—so long as she was a lady. Careless of all the commotion around him, save for this aspect of it, he shook his auburn head and sought for words of excuse, of explanation.

Words came rather more swiftly to the young woman.

“Fool!”

she cried.

“Witless, manner less dolt I How dare you, sirrah? How dare you?” Despite her choler and fright, her blazing blue eyes and quivering lips, she had a notably musical and softly accented voice, with cadences in it such as the Islesmen used.

Some part of Bruce’s mind recognised and placed those cadences. But

that was at the back of a mind at present fully occupied front ally

“Pardon, lady!” he gasped.

“I beseech you—pardon! My profound regrets. Of a mercy, forgive. I had no notion … a woman a mistake, I promise you. We thought… we thought…”

“You thought to play the ape! The masterful ape, sirrah! By riding down peaceable folk. Driving them off your king’s highway, in your arrogant folly. Using the weight of your prancing horseflesh in lieu of wits and manners! You need not ask pardon of me, sir.” She raised her head the higher.

The girl had a high head anyway, on a notably long and graceful column of neck, a proud fair head held proudly on a tall and slender fair body. She was young for so much hauteur and authoritative vehemence, no more than eighteen probably, of a delicate yet vigorously-moulded beauty of feature. She had a wealth of heavy corn-coloured hair piled up high above lofty brows, from beneath which flashed those alive blue eyes. Despite her long slenderness she had handsome breasts, high and proud as the rest of her. She wore a travelling-gown of dark blue velvet, the swelling bodice patterned with silver and edged at neck and sleeves with fur.

“All day we have been held back by slow-moving folk, cumbering the road, lady.” That was Nigel, rallying to his brother’s aid.

“Quiet!” Robert’s barked command was less than appreciative.

“You have my regrets, madam. I will make any amends suitable.”

He said that stiffly. He would not grovel to any man, or woman either.

“Others have ridden all day. Without becoming boors!” she returned.

“Your regrets are over-late. And your best amends, sir, will be to remove yourselves as quickly as you may.”

“You are scarcely generous …” Bruce was protesting, when another voice broke in.

“What a fiend’s name goes on? Elizabeth—what’s to do?” A stern-looking thick-set man in early middle age, splendidly attired and clothed with most evident authority, had ridden back from the front of the ambling column. He would have been handsome had it not been for the great scar which disfigured his features from brow to chin.

“It is nothing, Father,” the girl said.

“You need not concern yourself. Travellers with more haste than manners—that is all.

There is no hurt done.”

“There had better not be, by God!” The newcomer glared around at all and sundry, as men and horses sorted themselves.

“You were not upset? Outed? From your litter?”

“No. I … stepped down.” The young woman raised an eyebrow at Bruce.

“There is no profit in further talk. Nor in further delay of these so hasty young men.”

“No? Yet you are in a rage, girl! I know that face on you!”

the man declared.

“If these have occasioned my daughter offence .!”

“Scarce that, my lord,” she returned, with a flash of scorn.