Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce: Part 2, Chapter 1.2 (iv&v)

                                                                                           (iv)

With treachery afoot, the plans of men can easily come asunder. Just a few days after the events at Turnberry, the Galloway expedition led by Thomas and Alexander met with disaster. When the Irish contingent landed with eighteen galleys on the shores of Loch Ryan, the clash of swords and cries of the enemy enveloped them. In a few short hours, the forces of Sir Dugall Macdowall routed the gallowglasses. An Irish kinglet, Sir Reginald Crawford, had his head hacked from his shoulders by Sir Dugall. Shackled and sorely wounded, Thomas and Alexander Bruce – the latter, an eminent graduate of the University of Cambridge and Dean of Glasgow – staggered to Carlisle. Like so many others, they endured harrowing deaths. Freedom from oppression took its toll in flesh and blood and bone.

Once more the heavy mantle of grief lay upon Scotland's monarch and all those who loved him. He had lost three of his brothers and many friends. His womenfolk were incarcerated in appalling circumstances, far out of his reach, and it was unlikely he would ever see them again. Once, his family had been one of the richest in the country. Now, he had no funds to speak of, no castles or lands to call his own and few resources apart from those harvested from the dead. From the interminable years of war and strife, the people of Scotland were scarred and spent. Only the most foolhardy and desperate rallied to Scotland's king. Robert the Bruce was, indeed, a king without a country.

                                                                                             (v)

As the woman and her entourage passed beneath them on the rock-strewn mountain track, sentinels whistled the cry of the whaup, back and forth. Sensing their eyes upon her, she looked up and reined in her mount. When she called out, they shifted slightly behind clumps of bushes amidst scattered outcrops of boulders. Loosened scree came skidding down to land on the track, raising whorls of white dust.

A small band of wild men, ragged of hair and beard, well-armed with sword, spear and dirk, appeared as if from nowhere. The smell of unwashed bodies gave early substance to their presence. Suspicious of a ruse, the men, on the run from English soldiery after the massacre at Turnberry, questioned the woman's intentions and that of her attendants. Edging around the heavily-laden sumpter ponies, they could see there were fine pickings to be had here. With perhaps more confidence than she felt, Margaret of Carrick identified herself as loyal kin to the Bruce. She came of her own free will to bring him victuals, coinage and weapons. The watchful men motioned for the group to move on. A warm welcome from the king awaited these guests and the much needed provisions. The barrels of ale, especially, would be relished.

Racing back up the mountainside to ensure the small cohort had not been followed, the lookouts melted into the whin-dotted hillside. It was remarkable how their patterned plaids receded into light and shadow. High above them in the pale, milky sky, a raptor wheeled. An eerie call drifted upon the wind as it sought its prey.