The Price of the King's Peace

The similarity was not so strange; for Clan Donald and Clan Dougall were descended from brothers, Ranald and Dougall, sons of the mighty Somerled. The fact made their descendants only the more bitter rivals, especially as Dougall had been the elder brother.

There was no need for Bruce’s command to turn in. The MacDonald

skipper was already steering a collision course, and every man not at

the oars, save those who had grabbed grapnels and ropes had swords,

dirks, or axes in hand. The piper, Murtach, blew his lustiest.

The oarsmen on both vessels were equally expert. They kept up their deep driving strokes until the very last moment, when another second’s delay would have meant rending chaos, the snapping of long shafts, men broken as well as oars. Up in the air the inner teams of each raised the sweeps, in a rippling progress. Then the two galleys crashed together.

Instants before that even, the grapnels were flying, with their snaking cables to warp the craft securely. Men were leaping, from the moment of impact.

Walter Stewart was one of the first over the side, sword held high.

Bruce touched Hay’s arm.

“After him, Gibbie. See that he comes to no harm. He is keen-but I do not want to lose a good-son so soon!”

The King himself waited, however contrary to inclination.

Indeed, when at length he leapt, battle-axe in hand, he was one of the last to leave the galley. But he was able to jump straight on to the other vessel’s high poop, from his own. And it was on that poop that John MacDougall was likely to be found.

This manoeuvre, although logical, had its own danger. For it ensured that the King stepped almost alone into the thick of the enemy leadership. Sir William Irvine, Bruce’s armour-bearer, who never left his master’s shoulder during active service, was close behind; but nearly all the others had already gone.

In consequence, Bruce found himself hotly engaged from the moment of jumping. Many of the poop’s former occupants had already leapt down into the well of the ship to help repel the mass of the boarders; but half a dozen or so, of chiefly or knightly rank, extra to the shipmaster and helmsman, still remained. These, with one accord, hurled themselves on the royal intruder with eager swords.

Robert Bruce had fought on a galley poop before, and knew its hazards and limitations. Indeed it was on such a constricted, crowded, lofty and slippery platform that he had first made the acquaintance of Christina MacRuarie, amidst flashing steel. He had chosen the battle-axe now, deliberately-and he was a renowned master of that difficult weapon. Irvine, behind him, and lacking the experience, bore the conventional sword-and quickly learned his error.

In the confused melee which immediately followed, three swordsmen vied with each other to strike down the King-and thereby got not a little into each other’s way. Two others circled, to get behind Bruce, and these Irvine made shift to deal with.

Bruce’s shield jerked up to take the first clanging sword stroke.

The second, a sideways swipe, he drove down and away with a blow of the axe. The third, impeded by the other two, was off true and slightly short, merely scraping the King’s chain-mail and achieving nothing. Seeing his opportunity, with the three men bunched together and for the moment off guard, Bruce hurled himself bodily at them, using shield as battering-ram. He sent them spinning like ninepins, their long swords a handicap. One crashed all his length, the battle-axe smashed down to fell another, and the third, a knight in full armour, went staggering backwards, retaining his feet on the heaving deck only with difficulty. After him Bruce plunged.

Behind, Will Irvine was discovering the disadvantages of a full length sword in a confined space. Admittedly his two opponents were similarly handicapped; but even so he had not space to wield the weapon effectively. Bruce’s lunge forward had left his back unprotected. Irvine had to keep close. After a couple of abortive thrusts in the general direction of the assailants, he foreshortened his weapon by grasping it one-third of the way down the blade, and flung himself after his master, turning so that they were approximately back to back. Only just in time. As one sword came jabbing viciously, he beat down on it blindly with all his strength, using his weapon purely as a weight. Both swords clattered to the deck.

The hapless armour-bearer snatched out his dirk, all he had now to face the other two.

“Sire! Sire!” he yelled. To give him his due, that was all warning and no cry for help.

Bruce, flinging himself after the staggering knight, had perceived as he did so that, in the limited space of the poop-deck, one of the men dodging aside to avoid the rush did so with a limp.

Immediately the King changed direction. Lame John, for a wager!

It was at that moment that Irvine’s cry sounded in his ear. Biting off a curse, he whirled round. He recognised the situation in a moment one man driving in with a sword, another reaching for his dagger, and his armour-bearer sword less He leapt for the first, leaving the other to Irvine.

The swordsman had to change his target and tactics hurriedly -and such

slight hesitation was fatal in face of the Bruce with a battle-axe. The

shorter-handled, more adaptable weapon, which was effective as a blunt

instrument almost any way it might strike, greatly outclassed in speed and wieldiness the long, heavy sword which had to use point or cutting edge. A quick feint with the axe to the thigh area brought the sword sweeping down in a defensive stroke-and a still quicker and explosive upward jerk drove under the man’s sword-arm. Though he was armoured in mail, the fierce impact of it cracked the shoulder-blade above with an audible snap. Limply the arm sagged and the sword fell. Bruce, who saw that one of his earlier toppled foes was now on his feet again, dirk in hand, did not waste more time on the shocked swordsman, only using his shield to give the man a violent if contemptuous push that sent him reeling back, while he swung the axe on the dirker. That unfortunate went down for the second time, and stayed down.

The King turned to find Irvine and his original opponent grappling, seeking to invalidate each other’s daggers. He raised his axe once more-men, ever mindful of other men’s amour propre, desisted.

His armour-bearer would not thank him for a rescue in equal combat. Only brief seconds had elapsed, as he swung back on his former objectives.

Four men only remained before him now, clustered around the helmsman the armoured knight, one who was almost certainly the shipmaster, and the limping individual.

“John MacDougall -submit you!” the King panted.

“I, Bruce, demand it.”

The Lord of Lorn did not lack courage, but he had been lame from birth and so inhibited from personal armed prowess. He did not fling himself forward, therefore, to contest that challenge, but jerked a word to the others. The knight moved out, but warily.

Then the shipmaster, quick as a flash, drew a dirk and flung it,

spinning through the air.

It was a wicked, accurate throw, with only two or three yards to cover, and had Bruce not been wearing a chain-mail jerkin he would have been transfixed. As it was, striking him on the chest with considerable force, the weapon’s impact made him catch his breathing, and he knew a burning pain. But, axe swinging, he came on. And now he was angry.

Almost casually he brushed aside the less than enthusiastic knight, keeping his eye on the skipper—for a man who could throw one knife could throw another.

“John MacDougall,” he cried again, “I am waiting.”

There was no reply.

The shipmaster had something else in his hand now. It looked like a spike rather than another dirk. MacDougall also held a sword, but looked not in a posture to use it.