by Robyn Young
Robert was halfway to letting Niall pull him away when the girl stopped at the door. Turning, she raised her hand in their direction and waved. Robert’s eyes widened. As she pushed open the door and disappeared inside, he heard the bark of a dog, then silence. Shrugging from Niall’s grip, he made his way purposefully down the hillside. He was the heir of an earl, second only to a king in the ranks of the nobility. He would one day inherit land in Ireland and England, the rich domains of Annandale and the ancient county of Carrick, and the men who now came at his father’s summons would one day kneel before him. He would go wherever he damn well pleased.
There was a loud splintering sound as he stepped on a rotten branch. Robert looked back, hoping Niall hadn’t seen him start. He grinned boldly, then whipped round hearing a mad barking. From around the side of the house streaked two huge shadows. Robert caught yellow teeth and matted black hair, and then he was sprinting for the trees, Niall ahead of him, crying out in terror.
5
A grey dawn was breaking over the hills of Galloway. Mist gathered in the fields and cattle made strange shapes within the white. It would be a hot day, but without sun, the sky in the east promising only humid blankness. Gulls made slow circles over the brown waters of the River Urr as they searched the mud-banks. The water was low, sinking with the tide on the Solway Firth.
On the west bank, rising from a wide mound of earth, was a castle, protected by the river on one side and on the landward by a deep fosse. The bottom of the trench was layered with sticky, red clay and the only way across was by drawbridge, raised for the night. A double line of timber piers rose from the depths like a row of pallbearers at a funeral waiting to take their burden. At the foot of the piers, shrouded in gloom, invisible to the castle guards that walked the battlements far above, were seven men. The clay caked their hands and the arms and chests of their padded gambesons. It smudged their faces, shadowed by woollen hoods, and daubed their hose and boots. For over an hour they had been there, up to their knees in the sludge, their feet turning to stone with the cold. None spoke. Only the listless cries of the gulls and the muted conversation of the guards drifted down to them. Occasionally they caught one another’s eyes; pools of shifting brightness, but they would look away soon enough, each cocooned in his own silent world, waiting for the morning bell, wondering if it would come before the mist concealing them lifted, or the sky lightened to a whiter shade of ash.
The minutes crawled by until, from the belly of the castle, a clanging arose. The men in the fosse stiffened at the noise. A few cautiously flexed their hands and shifted their weight in the oozing mud. The guards’ murmurs became brusque shouts as they embarked on the daily task of lowering the drawbridge. It shuddered down on thick twists of rope and the men in the trench raised their heads to watch as the darkness bore down on them, the mists disturbed by its approach. The bridge landed on the tops of the piers with a thud. It was followed by the sound of bolts on the castle gates being drawn back and the footfalls of guards on the boards above.
One of the guards strolled to the edge of the drawbridge. Yawning loudly, he parted the front of his gambeson and opened up his drawers.
‘Use the piss chute, Boli.’
The guard looked over his shoulder. ‘His lordship’s gone. No one’s here to see.’
‘Except us,’ said another. ‘And even your wife doesn’t want to see your shrivelled cock.’
Boli grunted something obscene at his sniggering comrades and continued to piss into the fosse.
The yellow stream trickled down one of the piers, pooled briefly in the notched surface of the wood, then continued into the trench to run hotly over the hands of one of the men pressed against the timber. He turned his head.
As Boli was stuffing himself back into his drawers, there came a faint rumbling. Turning in the direction of the dirt track that led off from the drawbridge into woods, the guard saw two figures coming out of the mist. His comrades had seen them too. All had quietened and had their hands near their swords. Boli squinted into the murk as the rumbling grew louder. After a moment, he realised it was two men rolling a barrel. ‘Halt,’ he called, straightening his gambeson and going to meet them. He nodded to the barrel. ‘What are you peddling?’
‘The finest mead this side of the Solway,’ replied one of the men, coming to a stop at the edge of the drawbridge. ‘Our master has come for the market in Buittle, but he sent us with this gift for Lord John Balliol. Perhaps, if his lordship finds it to his liking, our master can provide more, at a reasonable price.’
‘Sir John isn’t here.’ Boli walked around the barrel, inspecting it.
‘What is it?’ called one of the other guards, heading down the drawbridge, his hand around the pommel of his sword.
‘Mead for Sir John.’
‘None for us then?’
Boli grinned at the merchants. ‘Well, I’ll have a taste, just to see if it’s worthy.’ He unhooked a stained clay cup from his belt, where it sat beside a sheathed broadsword. ‘And make it a lord’s measure.’
The merchant took the cup while the other upended the barrel. Bending down, the man fiddled with the stopper. Out along the drawbridge, a red-daubed hand curled over the edge of the boards. All at once, the merchant straightened. With one brutal movement, he thrust his fist, with the cup still in it, into the guard’s face.
The vessel smashed against Boli’s jaw, shattering on impact and driving a shard of clay into his cheek. He was knocked to one side, blood flying from his shredded cheek and lips. As the other guard shouted and broke into a run, the second merchant raised his foot, revealing the glint of mail beneath his tunic. He kicked hard at the barrel. The wood split under his boot and he plunged his hands into the splintered opening, revealing cloud-like tufts of lamb’s wool from which he yanked two short swords. He tossed one to his companion, just as Boli was recovering and drawing his own blade with a howl of anguished rage. As the men went at one another, more shouts sounded. The rest of the guards had seen the figures hauling themselves over the sides of the drawbridge.
The first man over had a knife clenched between his teeth. As a guard came at him, he hit the boards and rolled, grabbing the knife. The guard stabbed down. Throwing himself sideways, the man lunged up to shove the blade into the back of the guard’s leg, between the straps of his greaves. As the guard collapsed with a cry, his attacker withdrew the knife and rammed it into his eye. The guard crumpled, his body convulsing. The attacker looked past the others, heaving themselves on to the bridge, to where the two with the barrel were still battling. He didn’t have time to go for the weapons as another guard was charging at him. He ducked the first swing of the guard’s sword, but the second caught him in the stomach. The padding in his gambeson absorbed some of the thrust, but it drove him backwards, hard. His foot came down into nothing and he plummeted into the trench.
Boli, blood pumping from his cheek where the shard of clay was still embedded, rammed his sword at the man who had wounded him, snarling in pain and fury. The attacker blocked the blow, then slammed his hand into Boli’s cheek, pushing the shard in further. Boli yelled and tried to pull back, but his attacker rocked forward, using his weight against him. Shoving him in the chest with his free hand, the attacker toppled the bleeding guard into the fosse.
While his comrade battled on, the man dropped down beside the broken barrel and pulled more short swords from the lamb’s wool inside. He sprinted along the drawbridge towards the others, unarmed except for their knives, which offered scant defence against the guards’ broadswords. Two had already been killed. But now, as the remaining attackers fell back to take the weapons from him, the odds evened.
As the attackers regrouped and stepped up their assault, a bell began to sound. The commotion had roused the rest of the castle guards. Arrows stabbed down from the battlements. One punched into the ground behind the man who had delivered the weapons to his comrades and was now running fast along the drawbridge. Vaulting a dead guard, he reached the g
ates, just as a defender raced out to meet him. The guard’s momentum drove him on to the point of the attacker’s sword. The blade pierced cloth and padding to puncture him in the soft flesh of his stomach. The attacker wedged his weight into the blade, driving it further in, then withdrew it with a rough twist. Leaving the guard to sink to his knees, clutching at the wound that blossomed red on his surcoat, upon which was stitched a white lion, the attacker ducked past him to the drawbridge winch inside the gates. He hacked at the rope, fronds of it unravelling beneath his blows. As it snapped and slackened, the man pulled a horn from inside his tunic. Setting it to his lips, he blew one single, solid sound.
The noise that followed the call of the horn began as a muffled pounding from within the woods bordering the castle. It increased to a drumming din as, from out of the fringes of the trees, came sixty or so men, twenty on horseback, the rest on foot, running hard along the track in the wake of the riders. As they neared the drawbridge, one rider broke from the pack and hurtled across, the iron-shod hooves of his white mare crashing against the wood. He had a broadsword in one hand and a shield strapped to his other arm, which bore a red chevron on white. Under his white cloak, emblazoned with the same device, he wore a mail coat and hose which tapered to points at his feet, and a great helm covered his face. The rider spurred his horse towards the gates. Scattering the remaining guards, who had been struggling to close them, he plunged into the courtyard.
Ignoring the fleeing guards, the rider pulled his mare to a stop outside a large hall. Hearing shouts and cries erupt behind him as more mounted men galloped in, he thrust his free hand against the doors and pushed. They creaked open enough for him to manoeuvre his horse inside, ducking his head under the lintel. Only a few torches were burning in the hall beyond, but there was enough light for him to see that the place was deserted. By the bowls scattered on a table, an overturned basket of laundry on the floor and the lighter patch on one wall where a tapestry had clearly hung, the place looked as though it had been abandoned in haste. The rider compelled the horse further in, her hooves on the flagstones echoing, hollow. Behind a table on a dais, an enormous blue banner decorated with a rearing white lion hung on the wall. Its one visible eye glared. Sheathing his sword, the rider pulled off his helm to reveal a hard-boned face and steel-blue eyes. Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, met the lion’s gaze. ‘Balliol,’ he murmured.
The earl could hear fighting outside, but the castle was only defended by a small garrison. It was clear its chief occupant was no longer here, despite rumours to the contrary. Leaning over, he placed his helm on one of the trestles and boards, and removed his shield from his arm. His mare was champing at the bit, her mouth frothy. Kicking his feet from the stirrups, Bruce dismounted, his mail settling with a shiver of metal. Moving to one of the low-burning torches, he swiped it from its bracket and strode to the dais. Jaw set, he climbed the steps, the flames excited by the air. He paused, his eyes on the white lion, then thrust the torch to the bottom of the banner. The frail silk caught instantly and the earl stepped back, a small smile, malicious and childlike, playing about his mouth.
He was standing there, watching the flames spread greedily across the banner, when he felt something punch into his back. The earl jolted, dropping the torch, which went rolling across the dais, the flames gusting. He staggered round to see a man, eyes wide, holding a kitchen knife. Realising his armour had done its job and turned the blade, Bruce moved in with a snarl, swinging a mailed fist into the man’s face. The man reeled back off the dais and crashed into a table, which shattered beneath him, sending silver bowls ringing across the floor. The earl stamped down the dais steps, drawing his broadsword. Kicking aside a stool, he loomed over the man, who lay on his back among the wreckage of wood.
‘Please!’ groaned the man, holding up his hands. ‘Please, I—’
The earl stabbed down, forcing the tip of his broadsword into the man’s throat. The man uttered a strangled gurgling sound that ended in a dark eruption of blood. It spewed from his stretched mouth and the wound as the earl ground the blade in until it struck stone and would go no further. The man’s body thrashed for a few moments, then shuddered to still. As the earl bent to wipe his blade on the man’s tunic, the doors opened and a company of men entered.
At the head was Bruce’s father. The old Lord of Annandale had his helm clasped under one arm, his silver hair almost translucent in the light seeping through the doors. His surcoat bore a blue lion, the ancient arms of the Bruce family from the time of King David I, who granted them the lordship of Annandale. Pinned over his heart was a dried brown leaf: a piece of palm frond from the Holy Land, a pious reminder of their time on crusade. For the earl it sparked a memory of an ochre vista stretching beyond the walls of the crusaders’ capital at Acre beneath a vermilion sky, calls to prayer echoing from minarets to be drowned by church bells. They had fought against the Saracens under Lord Edward’s banner and he had rewarded them for their loyal service, elevating their already considerable status in England. The earl felt suddenly determined that those glorious days would not be confined to a dried and brittle keepsake, pinned to his father’s chest.
The lord took in Balliol’s banner, curling into flames behind his bloodstained son. ‘The garrison has surrendered. Buittle is ours.’
A sharp cry rose over his words. It came from a young man, one of several being held by the knights with the lord. He wrenched from his captors, taking them by surprise, and ran to the man sprawled in the ruins of the table. Dropping down, he thrust the cracked boards aside and cradled the man’s head in his hands. The pool of blood seeped into his clothes. His eyes moved to Bruce, whose sword still had a wide smear of red on it. ‘Bastard,’ he breathed, rising. ‘Bastard!’
The earl’s eyes narrowed. ‘Kill this whelp,’ he said, gesturing to two of his vassals, both knights from Carrick.
The knights started forward, but the Lord of Annandale’s voice cut across them. ‘I said it is over. The garrison are free to leave.’
The knights looked from the earl to the lord, their weapons lowering.
‘You can go,’ said the Lord of Annandale to the youth, oblivious to the fury in his son’s face. ‘No harm will come to you.’
‘Not without my father,’ said the young man, forcing the words through his teeth. ‘He was Sir John Balliol’s steward. He deserves proper burial.’
After a pause, the lord nodded to two of his men. ‘Help him.’
Bearing his father’s bloody body, aided by two knights from Annandale, the young man passed the Earl of Carrick. ‘The curse of St Malachy for ever upon you!’ he hissed.
Bruce gave a bark of scornful laughter. ‘Malachy? Save your threats for someone who believes in such things,’ he rasped, stepping forward.
The lord stopped him. ‘Leave him.’ It was spoken forcefully.
But as he watched the young man carry the corpse into the ashen morning, the Lord of Annandale’s face was full of fear.
6
Please, his lordship is in prayer. If you will wait in the parlour I can—’
Ignoring the monk’s protestations, John Comyn pushed open the doors of the Church of St Mary. The nave stretched before him into dusky shadows perfumed with incense. Letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom, he noticed a figure halfway down, kneeling in front of an altar alight with candles. As Comyn started forward, the monk moved in front of him.
‘Sir, I beg you. He asked not to be disturbed.’
‘He’ll make an exception,’ said Comyn, heading purposefully towards the kneeling figure.
The figure raised his head abruptly as Comyn approached. The anger in his face vanished, replaced by relief. ‘Brother,’ he called, rising and holding out his hands in greeting. ‘Thank the Lord, you received my message.’ He waved away the monk who was lingering uncertainly, then turned his gaze back to Comyn, appraising the bulk of armour beneath the man’s cloak, which was emblazoned with the arms of the Red Comyns: three white sheaves of wheat on
red. ‘You are a tonic for a troubled mind.’
As he met John Balliol’s eager eyes, Comyn felt a stab of resentment. It was hard to suppress, even as he accepted his brother-in-law’s embrace. Comyn’s attention moved over Balliol’s shoulder, caught by the altar. Surrounded by a ring of candlelight, beneath a slender statue of the Virgin, was an ivory casket. As Comyn saw it his resentment flared into anger. Galloway – which Balliol would assume full lordship over when his mother died – was being invaded by enemies and here the man was on his knees in this isolated monastery, praying before his dead father’s heart. If Comyn set his finger upon his own family’s pedigree and followed the creeping lines of Latin back, he too could claim descent from the royal house of Canmore, just not as directly as Balliol could. How slippery a thing blood was; how arbitrarily it chose who would rise to power. He quashed the thought. The Red Comyns had always done well behind the throne. The king was but an instrument, as his father used to say. They were the musicians.
Balliol followed his brother-in-law’s gaze to the ivory casket. He nodded soberly, mistaking Comyn’s preoccupied expression for compassion. ‘It was the first thing my mother took from Buittle when we left. She still sets a place for it at dinner every night.’ Raising his hands to encompass the thickset pillars that formed arches down both sides of the nave, Balliol turned in a half-circle. ‘It is incredible, isn’t it, what love can inspire? My mother built this abbey in my father’s memory. I told her to bury his heart here when the high altar was finished, but she refuses to be parted from that casket, not until her own passing when she has ordered that it be buried with her. I wonder at her strength, a woman widowed in the winter of her life, to complete such a creation as this.’ Balliol’s faraway stare fixed on Comyn, coming back into sharp focus. ‘Do you think they could destroy it?’
