The Path of the Hero King

Sir Marmaduke Tweng was, in fact, one of the very few notable Englishmen who had come out of Wallace’s campaigns, especially the Battle of Stirling Bridge, seventeen years before, with name unsullied even though he had held Stirling Castle against the Scots for long years thereafter. Wallace had said that if there were but a few more Twengs in England, Scotland would never win her freedom.

“Aye-this foul corner of Scots mire has been the curse on me! I say, the curse of me.” He had to shout, above the clamour of the bells.

“King Robert-will you accept my sword?”

“That I will not, Sir Marmaduke! Keep your sword. No man wears one more worthily. You are no prisoner. So you pay no ransom.” Bruce turned to the Chancellor.

“Give these MacDonalds something for their trouble. A gold spur perhaps. And let them go.

You, Sir Marmaduke, may not have lost your honour or your sword-but you have lost much, I see. Blood, it seems-and armour, helmet, mount, shield, seal? See you-take what you will from here.” He waved a hand at all the stacked booty.

“And choose you a horse. Moreover, show yourself to my physicians. You are my honoured guest until you leave this Scotland.”

The older man’s voice quavered now, and was barely to be heard above the bells.

“You are kind. Noble. There speaks a king indeed!” He coughed, to hide his emotion.

“Would … would we had such a king, in England. May I… kiss your Majesty’s hand?”

He raised his white head.

“One matter more, Sire-of your patience. I have a friend. Sir Edmund de Mauley. Lord Seneschal of England. Do you know …?”

“I fear he lies in the chapel crypt, here, sir. With … others. He at least did not flee.”

“And … and my cousin? Sir William, Lord of Higham? The Lord Maisbal of Ireland?”

“He also, Sir Marmaduke. Their honour is safe.”

“For that I thank God …”

A disturbance turned all eyes. A gorgeously-clad figure in splendid surcoat and gold-inlaid armour was being carried in on a cot house door, a great eight-pointed cross picked out in rubies on his breast, one who had escaped the mud-but not the blood. Gilbert Hay escorted the body in. “Sire-I know not who this is. None know. They found him beneath a heap of slain. But the cross, of St. John. Of Rhodes. A stranger knight. But important, I think …”

“Important, yes.” That was Tweng, strongly.

“I know who that is. He was with the King. But turned back when the King fled.

Saying it was not his custom to flee. He would not run. Not he who is named the third greatest knight in Christendom!”

“Dear God!” Bruce exclaimed.

“You mean …?”

“Aye, you should know-since you yourself are called the second such, Sir Robert! The first is the Emperor Henry of Luxemburg.

And this, Sir Giles d’Argentin, was the third. God rest his noble soul!”

“Amen!” the King said.

“D’Argentin! The Crusader. Name me not in the same breath with this man, sir. A man whose harness I am scarcely worthy to unloose! One day, I had hoped-do hope-myself to carry my sword against the Infidel. He, d’Argentin, would have been my choice as leader. Sweet Christ-what a loss is here! Had I but known his presence …”

“What could you have done, Sire …?”

Hay’s words were drowned in the clatter of hooves and clank of armour outside. A new and larger party came stamping into the refectory, to bow, the Earl of Moray leading.

Bruce sighed, and shook his head.

“Well, nephew?” he said, but scarcely welcomingly.

“Stirling Castle has surrendered, Sire,” Randolph declared.

“Your standard now flies over it, at last. Here is Sir Philip Moubray, the governor.”

“Ha-Moubray!” Bruce stared at the narrow-faced, prematurely grey, youngish man, one of his principal enemies.

“Moubray, who has cost me dear indeed. He gives me back my principal fortress?

And himself! What shall I do with him, nephew?”

“Hang him, Sire!” Hay asserted, briefly.

“I asked my lord of Moray, Gibbie. Let him answer, for he is his prisoner, it seems.”

“Your Grace,” Randolph said slowly.

“I would urge you to do with him as you did with me.”

“You would? He is a traitor, my lord.”

“As was I.”

“You were my own kin.”

“You seek my mercy on him, then?”

“I do. Two nights ago you praised my stand. At the Pelstream.

Offered me reward. Now I ask it. This man’s life. He was my friend

once. He is a valiant knight. He would not have cost you so dear were

he not. You have need of such still, I think.””M’mmm. Sir Philiphow

say you? It was on Methven field last we met, was it not?”

“Yes, Sire.” The prisoner came forward, and fell on his knees.

“I struck you from your horse. Sought to capture you. I have never failed to be your foe.”

“Why?”

“I believed your cause wrong. And Comyn’s right.”

“And now?”

“I do not beg for my life, Sire. But if you choose to grant it, I will serve you faithfully until its end.”

Bruce took a turn away, and looked down at the dead face of Sir Giles d’Argentin.

“So be it, Sir Philip,” he said.

“Too many brave men have died, to no advantage. Live, then-and serve me as well as you served my enemies.” And he gave him his hand to kiss.

When the King sat down again, the Abbot Bernard spoke as low voiced as was practical, in the bells’ clamour.

“You are overgenerous, Sire,” he complained.

“Needlessly so. Mercy is good. But..” Sir Marmaduke Tweng is a rich man. He could well have paid a great ransom. And this Sir Philip Moubray has great lands. In Lothian. They should be forfeit. Your Treasury needs all such, with a whole realm to build anew.”

“It will take more than siller to build it anew, Master Bernard! All this accounting and inventory is turning you huckster. Let us not become merchants, in this our deliverance. Forbye, we have plenty. Plenty for ransom, have we not? What did you say? Thirty five lords and barons? 200 knights …?”

“No, no, Sire-that was the numbers slain. Captured, and for ransom, there are but twenty-two lords. Though some 500 of knightly rank.”

“Mercy on us-and you grudge me Sir Marmaduke!”

“Yesterday Your Grace freed the Earl Ralph. He would have brought a mighty ransom. I but remind you not to be too kind in your triumph, too gentle …”

“Gentle! Save us-do you really esteem me so gentle, man? My brother Edward once named me that, I mind. But you are a wiser man, I thought! I am nothing gentle. I but choose my victims!

Some, I swear, will not find me kind, nor gentle, hereafter.”

The next visitors to Cambuskenneth Abbey proved the King’s words, despite all their nobility. For this was a noble band indeed, brought in by Edward Bruce and Robert Boyd, weary with long riding, all of them, but proud still.

“These I have brought from Bothwell Castle, in Lanarkshire,” Edward announced, without ceremony.

“Fleeing, they took refuge there. But that place’s governor, one Gilbertson, decided to turn his coat He delivered them all into my hands, in return for his own life.” He paused, grinning.

“Henry de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, Lord High Constable of England. Robert de Umfraville, Earl of Angus. Sir Ingram de Umfraville, former Guardian of this realm.

Maurice, Lord Berkeley. John, Lord Segrave. Hugh, Lord Despenser.

John, Lord Ferrers. John, Lord Rich. Edmund, Lord Abergavenny.

Sir Anthony de Lucy. Aye-and a troop of lesser men outside.”

“So-o-o! Here is the cream in the pitcher!” This time Bruce did not rise to his feet.

“Save for the illustrious dead, here is England’s pride and glory! With some leavening of my own! I thank you, my lord of Carrick. And Sir Robert Boyd. You have done notably well. You have not heard how James Douglas fares? Chasing the Plantagenet? And Pembroke? And my good-sire?”