Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce: Pt 2, Chapter 1.2(ii &iii)

                                                                                   (ii)

On the Isle of Arran in a sandy cove, which obliquely faced the Ayrshire coast, Robert watched and waited. A week before, his galleys sailed down the west coast of Scotland firstly to the Isle of Rathlin, just north of Ireland. There, he finalised his plans for attack with Thomas and Alexander. Hundreds of gallowglasses had been hired through their own efforts and those of their ally, Angus og Macdonald. The lads were to take this contingent of veteran mercenaries to Galloway, landing at Loch Ryan, to create a diversion and wreak havoc upon hostile forces. Meanwhile, Robert and his men would reclaim Turnberry Castle, ancestral home of the Bruces, but only with extreme care and great stealth as the mighty Percy, an experienced commander, was quartered there with his army. Douglas and Boyd were sent across the water to check out the lay of the land. When it was deemed safe for the Scottish forces to venture forth, they would light a signal fire under the cover of the low cliffs and hillocks at Maidens Bay. It was for this signal Robert peered into the gloom, hour upon hour. Waves boomed and crashed upon the rocks, not far around the tip of Kintyre. In a sandy bay, protected by Holy Isle, the king's galleys lay moored.

Around a small fire protected from view by a series of low boulders, the men leant against logs, bleached pale and smooth by the sea. With shadows rippling across his broad face and tender fingers of breeze teasing his hair, Robert read aloud from a book, originally from Isa in Norway and a most precious gift from Mathilda on Orkney. It was a tale set in far away France. Before the younger girls made well their escape from Kildrummy, Kirsty hastily packed the book into their saddle-bags, praying it might serve as a reminder of happier times. In turn, Mathilda hoped it would offer her brother some respite during the challenges ahead. Robert cherished this remarkable gift, for he loved to read and the book, with its worn leather cover and well-thumbed vellum pages, was a tangible reminder of his sisters. As well as being entertained, he hoped his men might learn from the chivalric principles. Though he had heard it several times, Sir Neil Campbell, a former clerk, listened well, his brow knotted with concentration as if committing the tale to memory. As usual, Edward showed faint interest and continued sharpening and cleaning his sword, his thoughts fixed on the forthcoming adventure.

The hours passed and the wind grew in strength, blowing gusty and strong. Robert retired to a makeshift cot in his tent while a few of his men maintained a vigil. He was well blessed, he thought before sleep claimed him, to have such a stalwart band of friends around him. If necessity demanded it, he knew they would lay down their lives for him. He prayed it would not come to that.

"Sire! The fire is lit!" It was Gilbert Hay who shook the king awake. Displeasure at being so rudely awakened from sleep's dark abyss was soon replaced by elation. To ward off the brisk chill, Robert rearranged his thick plaid about him. As he followed Hay to their vantage point, his feet crunched upon the rocks and sand. The comforting sound of waves drawing in and out accompanied them. There it was; a fire in the far off distance! Golden flames flickered in sharp contrast to the black horizon. Soon, it would be light. On the morrow's eve, they would attack using the cover of darkness. 'Til then, they would rest and garner their resources for the trials ahead.

                                                                                 (iii)

It was a slow crossing. Some of the small craft, obtained on Arran to ferry the men across, were hardly sea-worthy enough for the journey. To avoid being swamped by the swell, hands and shields bailed out the freezing brine. Stars shone overhead as the multitude rowed into the small bay of Maidens, only just avoiding the jagged skerries, marked, as they were, by spume-crested rollers.

It had been a long time since the Bruce had set foot upon his homeland. Splashing ashore in laced brogans, he reached down. Roughly grabbing a handful of small shells, sand and smooth pebbles, he brought it up to his cheek, relishing the cold, damp grainy mix. The sour tang of sea wrack burned his nostrils and scorched the back of his throat. At long last, he was home. Thankful for the dark, lest his men see the quick, bright tears and think him the weaker for it, Robert cleared his throat and waved in the direction of a hut nestled amongst grassy tussocks beneath a hillock.

Without explanation, Neil Campbell dragged a grizzled old man from his warm cot to stand, shivering with fear and dread before the king. It transpired he knew nothing of any fires or the men Robert had sent there, but told of a Turnberry barn set on fire the previous night by drunken soldiers billeted within. The area was swarming with English, much like a nest heavy with wasps. Sworn to dire secrecy, the local man returned to his cottage. This time, he drew the bolt, hoping to prevent any further intrusions.

For a short while, confusion reigned. Most were braced, ready for adventure. Precious momentum would be lost with a retreat to Arran. There was nothing for it but to proceed. Robert and Edward would have no trouble finding their way. For the Bruce children, the vales and small burns of Turnberry had been an adventurous haven and, even now, the placement of outbuildings, mills and granaries remained etched forever upon memory.

Robert Boyd and young James Douglas returned from their wider surveillance and gave a comprehensive report of the dangers in the area. To reduce the risks, the king formulated a new plan. Instructions were given. Groups departed in haste, each with a deadly task. Dirks in hand, the soft-footed highlanders were well skilled at quiet, unholy slaughter. Somehow Robert's own men, perhaps even his impetuous brother, let a man escape. Disturbed by the intruders, hounds bayed to the heavens alerting the castle in the process. One by one in the narrow castle windows, faint lights appeared. Over the deep landward ditch, the drawbridge stopped with a shudder, hovering midway as if indecision had stayed the hand of the wary gatekeeper. By night's end, hundreds of soldiers, billeted in the clusters of surrounding buildings, lay dead, sprawled askew in their beds, dark blood pooling beneath rough heather mattresses.

Gratified with the slick carnage of the night's work, Robert called his men to order. Before heading to the relative safety of the hills, they gathered much-needed spoil from the corpses: weapons, armour, flints and food, as well as horses. It was to the bare-topped mountain country surrounding Loch Doon, ancestral Bruce lands, now lit by the pallid grey of approaching dawn they escaped. The rebellion, if one could call it that, had begun.