Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (5 page)

Ch. 4

Robert the Bruce – Loch Lomond/Dunaverty, 1306

Hope and fear filled my heart in those days. Hope that I would hold Elizabeth in my arms again. Fear that I might never. Both drove me. To wake each day, to take one more weary step, climb one more craggy mountain. To go both toward and away. Toward future’s faint promise. Away from a past plagued with regrets.

Sleepless, we tarried only long enough west of Loch Lomond to beat up quarry and take enough venison to gain strength and set us on our way again. It was yet early morning when we crested the last hill and descended the rugged slopes of Loch Long. There, Neil Campbell was waiting for us, ten galleys arrayed along the shore, their sparse crews roasting white-fronted geese on spits.

I pulled Neil into my embrace and clapped him on the back. “More men – good, good. We’ll take any we can find.”

“The Campbells are fierce warriors, my lord. Worth three men a piece.”

“What news do you have of Nigel?”

He stepped back and motioned me toward the nearest cooking fire. The wind had reddened his nose and cheeks, but he looked hale and certainly better fed than us. “None, I regret. Not a rumor, even.”

I took the goose leg that he offered, plucked out the few stubbles of feather remaining. “If they’d been taken shortly after Dalry, we would have heard something of it. They’ve made it a ways, at least.”

But even as I said it, a worm of doubt crawled inside my gut and burrowed there.

“Aye,” Gil added as he joined us, “they could be to Orkney by now.” He eyed the spit. Globules of fat oozed from beneath the charred skin and dripped, sizzling, into the fire. He reached out and stripped a long shred to stuff into his mouth, barely chewing before he swallowed.

“What of the Earl of Pembroke, or the Prince of Wales? Anything?” I squatted next to the fire and sank my teeth into the meat.

Neil shook his head. “None there, either. I suspect they’ve gone back south. I do know that John of Lorne’s galleys are patrolling the waters.”

Grease clinging to my beard, I dragged a dirty hand over my chin and gazed at Neil. “Aye? And which direction were they going?”

“South, headed for the mouth of the Clyde.
That
, I have on good word.”

“We take the longer route then – and pray we don’t meet them on the other side of Bute.”

Afterward, we departed from the shore, watchful and hurried. I drew my cloak closed and huddled down in between the rowing benches. The first hour, James clung white-knuckled to the gunwale, puking his last meal – his only full meal in three days – into the water until there was nothing left to retch but spittle. The oars of our galleys dipped and pulled as our lean boats slipped into the broadening Firth of Clyde. As Bute rose up out of the water, I thought of James Stewart there at Rothesay where I had first laid eyes on Elizabeth de Burgh. The ice had been so thick that winter that leaving had been near to impossible. Marjorie was still a little girl then, enamored of Elizabeth, who had been caring for her since before Irvine. It was at Irvine that I had first offered my allegiance to Sir William Douglas, Stewart and William Wallace, while the English advanced up the coastline. But my fellow Scots had not been easily convinced of my intentions, for I had been Longshanks’ man for many years. They had argued over whether to fight or accept terms and in the end Wallace left. He had wanted to fight. Douglas convinced the rest of us to accept terms – that we would hand over hostages, my Marjorie being one. I had never fulfilled that worthless oath, knowing Marjorie was safely tucked away on Bute. When I finally went there to see my daughter, Elizabeth made me forget my sorrows over losing Isabella. I knew joy again. I was in love, utterly, helplessly. Her father, however, would not wed his daughter to a rebel.

What a challenge it had been to win Elizabeth’s hand – courting Longshanks, fostering his faith in me with eager duty and all the while weaving the alliances that I was so blindly counting on now. If any of them failed me... if anyone betrayed me again, as Red Comyn had... What little I had so far won could be so easily lost.

“How fares the Stewart, Neil?” I asked my brother-in-law.

“He ails, sire.” Neil grimaced as he picked at a festering scab between his thumb and forefinger.

“Greatly?”

“At times, aye.”

“A pity. I pray his health returns. Will he send aid?”

Neil abandoned his sore to squint at me. “Will he? He has. Gave me these boats. Said he would send men and arms as he could. Longshanks granted his lands to the Earl of Lincoln, so the Stewart has his own battles for now. I would not count on him much... but if not for him, you’d still be standing on the shore waiting.”

“Then I owe him.” I recalled my oath to him that long ago winter night at Rothesay. The pact was that if he supported my claims to the crown, I would promise my daughter Marjorie to his son Walter.

Later, I took my own turn on the rowing thwarts so that others could sleep. But rest was not to be had for long for any of us.

“There.” Torquil pointed to a pair of far-off coracles drifting off the western shore of a little island at the end of the Firth.

Macdougall spies? Or perhaps nothing more than fishermen as curious as they were timorous about the spectacle before them? Stealthily, they maneuvered into a small bay to watch us pass. We put our shoulders and backs into the oars and hooked a hard right past the tip of Bute into the sound that circled Arran. It was a longer route than going straight south, but the water was more placid and the change in direction gave us the favor of a slight wind. The sails went up and for a while we were able to rest our arms.

I went back to the stern and took the rudder to relieve Boyd. I knew these waters well and had learned how to sail from my grandfather. In between sucking the blood from my blistered hands I leaned into the rudder. James was by my knee rolled into a tight ball, his face blanched and his mouth slack. Not quite twenty and he’d already outdone his father Sir William’s reputation on the battlefield, but the sea waves made him weak as a newborn kitten.

Our voyage continued around Arran, its sandy beaches dotted by seals sunning their great brown bellies. We skimmed past an otter as it floated on its back, chomping on the headless body of a fish. It seemed to watch us in droll amusement as its sleek body bobbed up and down on the waves. West of us ran Kintyre. The Viking ruler Magnus Barelegs had once had his men lug his boat across the narrow isthmus at the northern end of the peninsula while he sat in it. He claimed the land as his own. The deal he had struck with King Malcolm was that he, Magnus, could have any of the western islands that he could sail his boat around. The claim was a matter of contention and a sore point it was, but a grand prize garnered with a twist of words and ingenuity.

As Arran fell away behind us, the sea opened up to the south. We curved around, following the coastline of Kintyre. A barely fledged eagle, its feathers still spotted with white, soared above us a while, then peeled away as a brooding bank of clouds loomed gray and heavy ahead. A blustering wind picked up. I ordered the sails brought down and once more we took up the oars. Endlessly, it seemed, we were thrust away from our destination.

Stinging cold daggers of rain began to fall, cutting into our flesh. It came down so hard I could barely see the land. More than once I thought I had entirely lost sight of it. The whole world was so gray and smeared with rain that I could scarcely discern sky from land from sea. A tiny island rose suddenly to our left and I knew we were too far out. We veered north again, away from the little rock of land, as wind and sea opposed us. A shiver stabbed between my shoulder blades and soon gripped my whole body. My shoulders cramped until they were frozen in place. Water flooded the hulls of the boats faster than we could scoop it out. One of our galleys slipped further and further behind as the men, wrought with fatigue, battled to keep up. When I thought we could last no longer, a long, jagged shoreline broke the horizon before us. I laid into the rudder and shouted over to the next galley to head for the shore.

Torrents faded to a fine mist and by the time every one of us stood on solid ground, the clouds had rumbled angrily away to the east, leaving nothing behind but a damp wind and a tiny, battered, and soaked army of Scotsmen strewn over the beach like clumps of tempest-tossed seaweed. I sank to the sand. The earth continued to move beneath me, rolling and pitching. I pushed my hair away from my forehead. Sand fell into my eyes, stinging. Nearby, James and Gil were piling wrung-out cloaks on Torquil, who had succumbed to the chill worst of all.

Evening wore on and darkness fell. Seabirds jeered at our wretchedness. We had nothing to eat, no dry clothes, and no flint or firewood. I tucked my fist against my belly and bit at my lip as stony hunger ground at my insides.

“How far to Dunaverty?” I asked Neil.

He wiped his nose, stood and looked about. Waves surged against the gravelly shore, then retreated in a ripple of froth. As though rife with doubt, he shrugged. “Not so far. An hour by boat, but I would not wager my life on that.”

“Then we should go there as soon as we can. This chill will take its toll on us all.”

Neil glared at me – both of us miserable and defeated by the sea. “In the morning?”

“Aye,” I conceded, not wanting to ask more of him or any man than they had to give. “In the morning.”

For the mere promise of one small fire and a scrap of bread, I would have suffered the sea another whole day. I crawled onto a dune and rolled up inside my wet cloak amidst the rocks with the other men. Although I was certain I would never sleep, so utterly cold and hungry I was that somehow I did.

At daybreak, I pushed away my still sodden cloak and stood at water’s edge, while the tide lapped at the toes of my boots and dawn’s bold light shone upon my sea-weathered, sand-encrusted face.

Dunaverty. There it was. A jumbled pile of stones tossed on top of a cliff. No beauty in its lines or welcome in its form, but oh, it was the eagle’s eyrie on the crag. On a cloudless day you could see all the way to Ireland and beyond from its tower. While we should have been shouting joyfully at its appearance, instead we merely kept rowing toward it, pull after pull in a mindless rhythm, just as we had done all the way from Loch Long – an event that now seemed decades past. Dully, the men dropped over the sides of the boats and lugged them ashore.

“Ho there, fine fellows! Chins high!”

Perched jauntily atop a rock that butted out into the crescent bay stood a man in flamboyant checkered trousers. The top of his hair was lopped short while the back of it flared out full behind him like a stallion’s mane. His twining golden-brown moustache cascaded from the corners of his mouth all the way down to his chest. Below him, a long line of MacDonalds were arrayed, swords sheathed and shields resting at their feet.

He opened his arms up in a broad flourish and announced in Gaelic, “I am Angus MacDonald, Lord of Islay! Welcome to humble Dunaverty, brave Robert, King of Scots!”

“Ah, but hardly humble yourself, Angus Og,” I returned.

He leapt from the rock onto the beach before me, swept a sleeve-bare arm, clanking with bronze and silver bracelets, across his body and bowed to me.

I clasped his hand and said to him in English, “And not the babe I remember you as.”

“Not so young yourself, if I may say respectfully,” he returned in his whimsical accent.

“Your honesty is reflected in your wanton arrogance, MacDonald,” Edward gibed, approaching us.

“Hah, Edward,” Angus hailed. “You’ve finally outstripped your older brother in muscle. Thomas and Alexander are waiting in the castle.”

 Edward eyed him in annoyance. “Food and drink? It was a tedious long way from Perth. Or did your heathens lick the storerooms clean upon arrival?”

“Plenty to spare, my lords. Plenty to spare. This way.”

We climbed beside Angus Og along the footpath up to the fortress. My men trudged behind, dragging their feet, all of us fighting the urge to let our knees buckle beneath us and fall to the earth.

Thomas and Alexander glowed with health. Our own deplorable condition, however, was obvious in their reaction to our feeble embraces. Angus Og saw to it that we were all properly dried out, warmed and fed. Although my bones cried for a bed beneath them, I joined the revelry in the hall that afternoon. The ale had begun to flow early. Thomas was topped to his eyeballs by the time I took my seat.

My mouth watered as the smell of cooked pork, dripping with fat, curled inside my nostrils. The servants raced in and out of the kitchen door, dodging the wobbling, drunken soldiers that careened through the hall. A platter crashed to the floor. No one took any notice except me. It was the pork. A disappointment. I settled for some mutton that came my way.

“Thomas, you’ve let your beard grow long,” I observed. “Hand me your knife and I’ll take care of it.”

At his seat, Thomas shrugged and mumbled, then hoisted his cup and called for another fill. When a pair of young maidens glanced at him from behind a column and giggled, he flocked to them, sloshing cup in hand.

Alexander, who had been sharing tales with Angus, came to sit beside me in the seat Edward was noticeably absent from. “Not to fear,” Alexander said aside. “Thomas will never be mistaken for a monk. I have kept him from falling into the bed of every woman we came across – the married ones, at least – but the drink... it seems to find him. On any given night he would put dear Edward to shame. Edward is, at least, more discreet about his women and knows how to ration his ale. Thomas will destroy himself, if left on his own. He used to be lazy. Now he is reckless and lazy.”

“Reckless, how so?”

“I would not give him command of any army, Robert. Not today, not ten years from now. He doesn’t know whether to flail his sword at the first rustle he hears or run the other way. Thank the Almighty there are three of us between him and your throne. If he were next in line I’d say this kingdom was in dangerous straits.” He tore a small chunk from the loaf of bread before him to nibble at it.