The Path of the Hero King

The climb, on worn and uneven steps, without so much as rope as guard or handrail, was not for the light-headed. There was not a little pressing against the inner rock wall and keeping of eyes steadily averted from the outer drop. In the dark, or in a storm of wind or rain, the thing would have been nothing short of suicidal. Fortunately the King had a good head for heights-and where he led, none could decently refuse to follow.

At the cliff-top these stairs evidently led to a tiny post em-gate in the soaring castle walls, the start of whose masonry was barely distinguishable from the living rock. But since the steps were on the cliff proper, and the castle crowned the almost detached stack, it was necessary to bridge the gap. This was achieved by a lengthy, sloping and removable gangway which reached across the yawning abyss at a somewhat acute angle, some forty feet long by not much more than three feet wide, this again without handrail. A less enticing approach to a house would be hard to imagine.

The landward access appeared to be by drawbridges over three deep water-filled ditches across a narrow neck of ground. But the outer of these bridges was up, and men were clearly waiting for the visitors at the narrow postern across the ghastly gangplank.

Bruce did not hesitate. Without even a backward glance at his companions, he stepped out on to the sloping spidery planking, and strode up. It was at least ribbed with cross-bars for the feet to grip-though equally these could cause the feet to trip. He did not once look down but kept his gaze firmly on the group who watched and waited beyond. Nevertheless he was far from unaware of the appalling drop so close on either side. Was this typical of Dunaverty’s reception of guests?

Certainly the appearance of the men so silently awaiting them was fierce enough, off-putting. Half a dozen of them stood in or beside the narrow doorway in the beetling wall, big men made bigger by the tall pointed helmets they wore, mostly furnished with flanking pinions of sea-eagles, or curling bulls’ horns, in the antique Norse style.

These did not wear the stained and ragged tartans, but saffron tunics,

belted with gold, some with chain-mail jerkins and some with piebald calfskin waistcoats, great swords slung from every shoulder, dirks at hip, and hung about with massive silverware and barbaric jewellery. None were bearded, but all save one had long and heavy down-turning moustaches which hid their mouths and produced a distinctly menacing impression.

The man who lacked the moustache was different from the rest in other ways also. He was younger for one thing, in only his mid twenties, very dark, almost swarthy, and though not short-indeed well-built- the least tall of the group. He wore no helmet or mail, only the plain kilted saffron tunic, and carried no sword but only a ceremonial dagger. It may have been in contrast to those fiercely down-turning moustaches, but his lips, visible where the others were not, seemed almost to smile. He stood in the centre of the party, and there was no doubting the authority with which he held himself, however careless.

“Wait you!” a voice rang out, while Bruce was still only two thirds across that alarming planking. It was not the young man who spoke.

“Who comes unbidden to Dunaverty? Is it Robert Bruce, who calls himself King of Scots?”

Bruce halted-although it demanded all his hardihood on that grievous perch, and he knew that those behind him must be equally preoccupied.

“I am Robert, King of Scots, yes,” he answered, “Come seeking the love, protection and hospitality of Angus, Lord of the Isles. Do I find it at Dunaverty?”

“I am Angus of the Isles,” the young man agreed.

“How can I serve Robert Bruce?” His predecessors had been careful never to admit specifically allegiance to the Crown of Scotland, even when Alexander the Third had bought the alleged suzerainty of the Isles from Hakon of Norway.

“By holding out the hand of friendship, my lord. And … and by letting me off this accursed tree! I vow I grow giddy!”

Angus Og laughed aloud at that frank avowal.

“Well said, Sir King!” he cried.

“Come, then. Myself, I near grow ill but looking at you all!” And he held out his hand.

Bruce’s sigh of relief was drowned in those from behind him. He waited for no further invitation.

Angus Og’s hand-grip was that of an equal and no vassal, but Bruce did not find fault with it. Sufficient that it was strong and frank.

“Well met, my friend,” he said.

“Your fame is known.”

“As is yours. And your misfortunes.”

“Those, yes. But they will pass. Here is good fortune, at least-to find you at Dunaverty.”

Introductions followed, in the crowded narrow court within the postern, the King’s party impressive only in their names and titles-for though Lennox and the Steward both had sought to rig them out in better clothing, the fugitives still were less than well and appropriately clad, the King himself little better than the rest. Their martial-looking opposite numbers turned out to be the chiefs of Jura, Gigha, Ardnamurchan and others of the great Isles confederation.

By and large they were civil, but no more than that.

It seemed that Angus Og MacDonald’s presence here was indeed something in the nature of a coincidence. He had called in Dunaverty some days previously, on his way to a meeting on Rathlin Island with one Malcolm MacQuillan of Antrim, an Irish kinglet who had in fact been occupying Dunaverty when Boyd had taken it for Bruce just before the coronation. MacQuillan was now demanding back the castle, and Angus, who had sent his minions to eject Boyd’s captain, had had a look at it before meeting MacQuillan.

When the Steward’s courier, therefore, had come to Dunaverty two or three days before, he had been sent straight on to Rathlin which, although off the coast of Antrim, was only fourteen miles from Dunaverty. Angus had interrupted his conference with MacQuillan, and come back to receive Robert Bruce-for good or ill.

The implied question was clear. What did Bruce want with the Prince of the Isles?

The King was frank.

“Two things I seek of you, my lord,” he said.

“First, refuge. Shelter for me and mine, who have been hunted men for too long. While we rest. Regain our strength. Plan our course. None may give us this better than yourself. And second, your support. In arms.”

“Against whom, Sir King?”

“Against those who occupy my kingdom. Against Edward of England. And against the Comyns and their friends, who support him. Such as MacDougall of Lorn and Argyll!”

The younger man looked at him from under down-drawn brows.

“You have many enemies. And Comyn, I think, has many friends.

Are these all yours?” And he gestured towards the little group with the King.

Bruce drew a deep breath.

“These represent thousands. Many thousands. My lord of Lennox can field six thousand. My lord of Douglas four thousand. Campbell of Lochawe as many-more, it may be. My lord of Erroll, a thousand. The High Steward two thousand. My own lands of Carrick, Annandale and Galloway …”

“Can field, Sir King! Can. But do not!”

”My lord-all these have fielded their men. And will do so again. For

eight years we have been fighting the might of Edward…”

“And losing!”

“And losing, yes. Though not always. When we fought aright And in unity. Pitched battles we do not win. Against many times our numbers. Edward’s chivalry, and the English bowmen. But a different kind of war we can win. Wallace taught us that. Small actions. Castle by castle. Using the land against him. Burning all before him. Starving him and his hosts. Edward may win the battles. But he grows old. Sick. Tired. God willing, will win the war!”