by Robyn Young
Their child, the first to come to term, perhaps the product of that savage lovemaking, was swelling in her stomach, distended in the mirror, beneath the voluminous shift.
Eleanor moved in behind him, passing the cup into his hand. Edward took a draught, the wine stinging his dry throat. As he put down the cup, his eyes alighted on a book placed on the edge of the table, just outside the sphere of candlelight, where he had left it that morning.
‘I’ll have the servants bring you some food.’
At her murmur and the squeeze of her hand on his shoulder, Edward caught sight of his face in the mirror, all at once furrowed and pensive. He touched her fingers, grateful she knew him well enough to understand he wanted to be left alone. As she turned away, draping a mantle around her, Edward watched her recede in the mirror, her black hair fading into shadows. When the door closed, he looked at the book, drawing it to him across the pitted wood. It was old now, for he’d had it since boyhood, the boards coming apart, the pages stained. The words on the cover, scored into the leather, were mostly worn away, but he could still see their outline.
The Prophecies of Merlin
By Geoffrey of Monmouth
It was one of the few personal possessions he had brought with him from England. He had read it many times over the years, along with Monmouth’s other works: The Life of Merlin and The History of the Kings of Britain, of which it was rumoured there were now more copies than of the Bible. Edward knew by heart the deeds of Brutus, the warrior from Troy, who after the Trojan War had sailed north and founded Britain, knew the story of King Lear and the coming of Caesar. But it was the tales of King Arthur that had appealed to him most, from the first prophecy Merlin told to Utherpendragon that he would be king and that his son, in turn, would rule all of Britain, to Arthur’s terrible defeat at Camblam, whereupon he had passed his crown to his cousin, Constantine, before sailing to Avalon to be healed. When Edward watched his first tournament at Smithfield in London, he had been in awe of the knights dressed as men from Arthur’s court, with one of them the legendary king himself.
As Edward picked up the book, its ancient pages flapped open at a page where a piece of parchment had been inserted. He stared at the scribe’s writing, hearing in his mind the words being dictated in the king’s pompous tones. He had read this letter many times since he received it, the first contact he’d had with his father since leaving London. The anger he had felt initially was gone. What remained was burning anticipation.
The letter spoke of castles razed and towns looted, crops and pastures laid waste, the earth left scorched, corpses littering streets and fields, the stink clouding the air. Men under the command of the warlord, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, had raided down from their mountain strongholds in the ancient Welsh kingdom of Gwynedd. On his marriage to Eleanor, Edward had been given a great deal of land by his father, including a swathe of territory along the north coast of Wales, from the border at Chester to the shores of the River Conwy. It was these lands that were now burning, according to the letter. But it wasn’t the first time.
Six years ago, when Edward was seventeen, Llywelyn led the men of Gwynedd in an uprising against English occupation of this territory. The raid proved brutally effective and within days the region was in Llywelyn’s control, English castles left burning, garrisons forced to flee. Edward, short of funds, had gone to his father as soon as the first reports had filtered through. The king denied him aid, saying this was his chance to prove himself as a warrior and a commander of men. The reality, Edward knew, was that Henry was too preoccupied trying to get his youngest son, Edmund, crowned King of Sicily, to spare the funds or support. In the end, obtaining a loan from one of his uncles, he had gone alone with his men to save his lands in Wales. Llywelyn had annihilated him. Forced to retreat after just one battle, his army and his reputation in tatters, Edward still remembered the taunting songs he had heard sung of him, the jubilant Welshmen revelling in his defeat.
Henry, meanwhile, had made himself increasingly unpopular in court with the absurd Sicilian endeavour and by his favouritism towards his half-brothers, the notorious Valences, who had recently arrived in England. The leader of the protests against the king was Edward’s godfather, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester. Montfort had drawn many supporters to his challenge of Henry, which culminated in a parliament at Oxford, at which the king lost most of his authority to the barons. Angered by Henry’s foolish actions and by his own defeat at the hands of Llywelyn, Edward had taken the side of his godfather, who persuaded him to enter into a pact against his father. The king, upon learning of the treachery, had revoked his inheritance and sent him into exile.
Edward read the letter once last time, lingering over the final passages. What made this uprising different was that Llywelyn ap Gruffudd had done the unthinkable and united all of Wales beneath him. Until now, north and south had been divided by more than just the mountain barrier of Snowdonia. For centuries the warlord rulers of the three ancient kingdoms of Wales had vied for supremacy, constantly fighting with one another and with the English lords who bordered them to the south and east. It was ever a country in turmoil. Now, Llywelyn had drawn these dissident, warring people together and, turning their spears and bows from one another, had fixed them east towards England. Henry had written that Llywelyn had donned a golden crown and was styling himself Prince of Wales. The crown wasn’t just any crown. It was the Crown of Arthur.
Edward stared at the parchment for a moment longer, then held it over the candle. The skin smouldered, the flame flickering madly around his father’s promise that if he returned and defeated Llywelyn all his lands would be restored to him. He was ready. Ready to go home with the men who had flocked to his banner, take his place in England again and accept his parents’ apology, ready to deal with Llywelyn. The Welsh might stand united for the first time, but therein lay their vulnerability, exposed to Edward in the lines of that letter. He had seen first-hand the power in taking on the mantle of a legend. Llywelyn clearly understood that himself, for he could not have chosen a more effective symbol with which to unify the people of Wales. Arthur was more than just a champion to them, he was the last great British king, before the Saxons, before the Normans. But if something so potent could unite a people in common identity, did it not follow that it could also destroy them?
As the parchment shrivelled into black cinders there came a rap at the door. It opened to reveal the hulking form of William de Valence.
‘The commanders have arrived to discuss the ransom of their men.’
Edward rose, leaving the remains of the letter to turn to ash on the table. He left the book lying open, the words on the pages dark in the shifting candle flame.
PART 1
1286 AD
It was night and the horns of the bright moon were shining . . . From the top of a lofty mountain the prophet was regarding the courses of the stars, speaking to himself out in the open air. ‘What does this ray of Mars mean? Does its fresh redness mean that one king is dead and that there shall be another?’
The Life of Merlin, Geoffrey of Monmouth
1
It was the voice of God. And God was furious.
The king’s butler, weaving between the trestles and benches, winced as the sky cracked open in another ugly roar that bellowed into the distance. Across the crowded hall one of the younger servants bowed his head in what the old butler took to be prayer. The storm was on top of them, bearing down on the towers and battlements, smothering the bruised afternoon light and plunging the castle into early midnight. The sense of dread, stirred several months earlier with the rumours, had now reached such a height that even Guthred – having scoffed at all the talk – couldn’t fail to feel it.
At the next lightning strike he glanced up into the riddle of beams far above the feverish torchlight, wondering what would happen if it struck the roof. He saw a biblical scene: white fire raining down, charred bodies strewn across the floor, knives and goblets still gripped in their fists. Wo
uld they rise the way they fell? He looked at the jug in his liver-spotted hands. Would he? Half closing his eyes, Guthred formed the beginnings of a supplication, then stopped short. It was nonsense. It was these terrible March storms that had caused the old wives to fret and the clerics to proclaim. But, as he continued his journey between the tables, it was hard to ignore the voice that murmured a reminder that the rumours had begun long before the north had opened its maw and howled down snow and gale and thunder upon Scotland.
Gripping the jug firmly lest he spill a drop of the precious liquid inside, the butler climbed the wooden stairs of the dais that straddled one end of the great hall. With each step he rose above the heads of the lords, royal officials, servants, dogs and hangers-on that jostled for space and attention below. Guthred had already seen the ushers, on the steward’s command, remove several youths who had managed to steal uninvited into the hall. Feast days were always chaotic: the stables became overcrowded, a lord’s lodgings weren’t readied, messages went awry, servants became clumsy in their haste and their masters hot-tempered. Still, despite these difficulties and the afternoon’s turbulent weather, the king seemed in good humour. He was laughing at something the Bishop of Glasgow had just said as Guthred approached. The king’s face was flushed with drink and the fierce heat that buffeted from the hall’s hearths, and he had spilled something on his robe. Around the table that spanned the dais, the straw, fresh that morning, was sticky underfoot with crumbs of honey cake, drops of wine and globs of bloody gravy. Guthred eyed the panoply of silver platters and vessels, able to tell, with a discreet incline of his head, whose goblet needed filling. The voices of the eight men who sat to either side of the king were loud, in competition with the storm and each other, and the old butler had to lean in close to make himself heard.
‘More wine, my lord?’
Without interrupting his conversation, King Alexander offered up his goblet, larger than the others and encrusted with gems. ‘I thought we had laid this matter to rest already,’ he said, addressing the man to his left. After the butler finished pouring the crimson wine, the king took a draught.
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ replied the man, placing a hand over his own goblet when the butler went to fill it, ‘but the request for—’
‘Thank you, Guthred,’ said the king, as the butler moved on to the Bishop of Glasgow, who had his cup out ready.
The man’s jaw tightened. ‘My lord, the request for the release of the prisoner comes directly from my brother-in-law and as both his kinsman and Justiciar of Galloway it would be remiss of me not to afford his plea the attention it deserves.’
King Alexander frowned as John Comyn’s dark eyes continued to scrutinise him. The Lord of Badenoch’s long face was waxy in the torchlight, his expression as sober as his clothes: a black woollen cloak, trimmed all around the shoulders with the grizzled pelt of a wolf that matched his hair so exactly it was hard to tell where he ended and wolf began. The device on the surcoat he wore beneath was just visible: a red shield embroidered with three white sheaves of wheat. The king was struck by how like his father the Red Comyn was – the same cold demeanour and joyless expression. Were all Comyn men like this? Was it something in their blood? Alexander’s gaze roved along the table to the Earl of Buchan, head of the Black Comyns, named, as the Red Comyn was, by the colour of his arms: a black shield decorated with the three wheat sheaves. Alexander was rewarded with long, pinched features and a guarded stare. If they weren’t such able officials, he might have excluded all of them from his court years ago. Truth be told, the Comyns made him uneasy. ‘As I said, I will think on it. Thomas of Galloway was imprisoned over fifty years ago. No doubt he will be able to bear another few weeks in his cell.’
‘Even a day must seem an eternity to an innocent man.’ John Comyn spoke lightly, but the challenge was unmistakable.
‘Innocent?’ Alexander’s blue eyes narrowed. He set down his goblet, his humour spent. ‘The man rebelled against my father.’
‘The man was but a boy, my lord. It was the people of Galloway who chose him as their leader.’
‘And my father saw that they paid for it in blood.’ Alexander’s tone was vehement, the drink running hot in him, mottling his face. ‘Thomas of Galloway was a bastard. He had no right to be lord and the people knew it.’
‘They were faced with an unpalatable choice – to be ruled by a bastard, or else see their land divided between three daughters. Surely you can understand their plight, Lord King?’
Alexander caught something sly in Comyn’s tone. Was the Lord of Badenoch trying to insinuate that his own situation was in any way comparable to what had happened in Galloway over half a century ago? Before he could decide, a cool voice sounded from further along the table.
‘You are keeping our gracious host from his meal with your talk, Sir John. The council is over.’
John Comyn’s eyes flicked to the speaker. As he met the calm gaze of James Stewart, the high steward, his poised veneer slipped momentarily, unmasking a glint of hostility, but before he could respond, the forceful voice of Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow, rang out.
‘Well spoken, Sir James. Our mouths now are for the eating and for praising the Good Lord for His bounteous gifts.’ Wishart raised his goblet. ‘This wine is remarkable, my lord. From Gascony, is it?’
The king’s response was lost in an almighty clap of thunder that set the dogs off and caused the Bishop of St Andrews to spill his drink.
Wishart grinned fiercely. ‘If this is indeed the Day of Judgement then we shall arise with our bellies full!’ He took a deep drink that stained the corners of his mouth. The Bishop of St Andrews, as thin and grave as Wishart was stout and animated, began to protest at these words, but Wishart spoke over him. ‘You know as well as I, your grace, if every day proclaimed to be the Day of Judgement had been we would have risen a dozen times over by now!’
The king went to speak, but stopped, seeing a familiar face moving through the crowd below. It was one of the squires from the queen’s household, a capable Frenchman named Adam. His travelling cloak glistened in the torchlight and his hair was plastered dark against his head with rain. As Adam passed one of the hearths, the king could see the cold curling off him as mist. The squire hastened up the dais steps.
‘My lord.’ Adam paused before the king to bow and catch his breath. ‘I bring a message from Kinghorn.’
‘In this tempest?’ questioned Wishart, as the squire leaned in and began to speak quietly to the king.
As Adam finished, a smile played at the corners of Alexander’s mouth and the flush of wine on his cheeks spread down his throat. ‘Adam, go and fetch Tom from his lodgings. Tell him to bring my cloak and have my horse saddled. We leave for Kinghorn at once.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’
‘Has something happened?’ enquired the Bishop of St Andrews, as the squire hastened across the dais. ‘The queen, she is . . .?’
‘The queen is well,’ said Alexander, smiling fully now. ‘She requests my company.’ He got to his feet. There was a loud scraping of benches and shuffling of feet as all the occupants of the hall rose with him, some nudging drink-addled neighbours to follow suit. The king raised his hands and voice to address them. ‘Please, be seated. I must take my leave. But stay, all of you, enjoy the festivities.’ He gestured to his harper, who at once began to play, the metallic notes climbing over the roar of the wind.
As the king stepped from the table, James Stewart moved in front of him. ‘My lord, wait until morning,’ he murmured. ‘It is a foul day for travel, especially on that road.’
The king paused at the concern in the steward’s face. Glancing back, he saw the same worry in the eyes of the other men at his table, with the exception of John Comyn who had leaned over to talk quietly with his kinsman, the Earl of Buchan. For a moment the king hesitated, on the brink of returning to his seat and calling Guthred back with more wine. But something stronger compelled him. That last thing Comyn had said remaine
d with him like a bitter aftertaste. Surely you can understand their plight? Alexander could, all too well, for the matter of succession had plagued him for two long years, ever since the day when the heir in whom all his hopes had been placed had followed his wife, his daughter and his youngest son to the grave with devastating finality. With the death of his eldest boy, Alexander’s line had been cut short, like a song halted before the chorus. It continued now only as a faint echo across the North Sea, in the form of his three-year-old granddaughter, Margaret, child of his dead daughter and the King of Norway. Yes, Alexander understood very clearly the unpalatable choice that had faced the people of Galloway fifty years ago, when their lord had died without male issue.
‘I must go, James.’ The king’s voice was quiet, but firm. ‘It is almost six months since my wedding night and still Yolande is without child, not for want of trying. If she takes my seed tonight, God willing, I could have an heir by this time next year. I can chance a storm for that.’ Removing the gold circlet he had been wearing through the council and the feast, Alexander handed it to the steward. He pushed a hand through his hair, flattened where the band had lain. ‘I will return soon.’ He paused, his eyes on John Comyn. ‘In the meantime, you can tell the Lord of Badenoch I will grant his brother-in-law’s request.’ Alexander’s eyes glinted. ‘But wait until tomorrow.’
James’s mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile. ‘My lord.’
Alexander strode across the dais, following in the squire’s muddy footsteps, the gold on his scarlet robe glittering. As the doorward bowed and pushed open the hall’s double doors, the king swept through, the notes of the harp fading behind him.
Once outside, the force of the storm struck the king like a fist. Icy rain stung his face, half blinding him as he made his way down the steps to the courtyard. He flinched as lightning ripped through the sullen sky. The clouds were so low they seemed to skim the rooftops of the buildings that stretched before him to the inner walls, below which the ground fell sharply away to the outer defences. From his high vantage point, the king could look right over the line of the outer walls to the royal town of Edinburgh that tumbled eastwards down the spine of the great rock on which the castle perched.
