by Robyn Young
‘Destroy what?’ questioned Comyn, still thinking of the casket with the former Lord of Galloway’s heart trapped inside.
‘This place.’ Balliol was pacing now. ‘Will those sons of whores come for me here?’
Comyn watched Balliol thrust a hand through his hair, chestnut like his sister’s, who Comyn had married eleven years earlier. The similarity ended there. Balliol was possessed of neither his sister’s passion nor her shrewd mind. Comyn had always thought the women of the Balliol family had been endowed with the men’s share of mettle. ‘Do you have word on their position?’
‘Yes, I have word,’ responded Balliol bitterly. ‘The Bruces have taken Buittle.’
Comyn digested the bad news slowly. The Bruces’ attacks on the castles at Wigtown and Dumfries had struck at the roots of Comyn power in south-west Scotland, but although the capture of the two strongholds had wounded the family’s pride, it had done little damage to the Comyns’ long-term plans. Buittle, Balliol’s chief stronghold, was another matter. ‘How do you know the castle has fallen? In your message you said you were leaving for Sweetheart Abbey as a precaution, when the Bruce men entered Galloway.’
‘The son of my steward informed me. I left his father at Buittle to safeguard the possessions I could not carry, along with a garrison. My steward was killed in the attack by that bastard the Earl of Carrick.’ Balliol spat the name. ‘Along with eight of my men. Eight!’
‘When did this happen?’ pressed Comyn.
‘A fortnight ago.’
‘And you have heard nothing of the Bruces’ movements since?’
‘From what we can gather they have paused at Buittle.’
Comyn frowned thoughtfully. ‘Your steward’s son, is he still here?’
‘Yes. I recruited him for the army of Galloway. His hatred of the Bruces will make him an able fighter in the reckoning that will come.’
‘I want to speak to him.’
Balliol followed as Comyn headed down the nave. ‘Of course, but first let us make arrangements for your men. There is a field beyond the abbey precinct where they can make camp. I will have one of the monks show you.’
‘That will not be necessary. I have only my squires with me.’
Balliol halted. ‘Squires? Then where is your army?’
Comyn turned to face him. ‘There is no army. I came alone.’
‘But in my message I told you I needed men and swords to stop the Bruces’ advance. My vassals are scattered, I have had no chance to muster a resistance. How can I fight alone?’ Balliol’s voice rose in pitch and temper. ‘I was relying on you, both as my brother and as Justiciar of Galloway.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Why in God’s name are you even here?’
‘Let me speak to this man and I will tell you.’
Balliol went to argue, but seeing Comyn’s obdurate expression, he motioned to the church doors. ‘Come then,’ he said tightly, ‘Dungal will be at his father’s grave. He has hardly left it.’
Blinking in the light, harsh after the gloom of the church, Balliol led the way through the monastery. The midday sun was unkind on his face, highlighting the shadows around his eyes, accentuating the downward curve of his mouth and the pockmarks of a childhood disease that scarred his cheeks. At thirty-seven he was five years younger than Comyn, but he looked older, wearing the years heavily in his blemished skin and thinning hair. ‘Are the other guardians even aware of what is happening in Galloway?’ Balliol sounded sour. ‘Do they not care?’
‘Reports coming to Edinburgh have been confused, but everyone at court now knows of the Bruces’ assault.’
‘Well, they have made no attempt to hide it,’ responded Balliol. ‘I have heard they have been marching through the countryside, banners flying.’ He balled his hands into fists as he strode through the cloisters. Two of the lay brothers who helped the monks run the monastery were picking herbs in the garden, which was parched by the July sun. ‘Indeed, it seems they want the whole of Scotland to know what they are doing.’
‘They want to discredit you,’ said Comyn, after a pause. ‘I believe that is the motive behind their attacks. I feared the Bruces must have discovered our plan when the first reports came in. Now, with the fall of Buittle, I am certain of it. That meddler James Stewart has eyes and ears everywhere.’
‘You should have been more careful!’
‘Our intention to set you on the throne could not have remained secret for long.’ Comyn scowled. ‘Although admittedly we would have been better prepared to resist those who would compete with us if its discovery had been later.’
‘The Lord of Annandale isn’t competing for the throne. He has declared himself to be fighting in the name of the Maid of Norway.’
‘Maid of Norway?’
‘It is what they are calling Alexander’s granddaughter, Margaret.’ Balliol stared fiercely at his brother-in-law. ‘All will soon see him as some kind of saviour and me at best a brigand and at worst a treasonous wretch who has broken his oath and intends to steal the throne from a child! I might have lost everything, John!’
‘This isn’t finished yet, brother, and I wouldn’t worry about your reputation. The Lord of Annandale is doing far greater damage to his own. By their aggressions on Galloway the Bruces threaten to undermine the entire realm. I am making sure the growing resentment towards them is being used to our advantage.’
Balliol didn’t respond, but fell into a tense silence as they passed out of the cloisters beneath a covered walkway that led to a gate in the precinct wall. Beyond, yellow fields rippled away, distorted by heat. The air was thick with insects that swarmed around the two men as they made their way across to the graveyard at the back of the towering church, the red brick walls of which cast a shadow across rows of wooden crosses. As they drew nearer, Comyn saw a young man crouched beside a mound of freshly turned earth.
The youth got to his feet at their approach. ‘My lord,’ he said, bowing to Balliol and glancing apprehensively at Comyn. ‘I have done my chores. I swear my prayers for my father aren’t interfering with my duties.’
‘I’m not here to punish you,’ replied Balliol. ‘This man is my brother-in-law, Sir John Comyn, Justiciar of Galloway and Lord of Badenoch. He wishes to speak to you.’
As the young man glanced at him again, Comyn saw how sunken his eyes were. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Comyn guessed he was in late adolescence. He gestured for the young man to follow him, away from the grave. ‘Dungal, is it?’
‘Yes, sir, Dungal MacDouall.’
‘Tell me about the attack on Buittle, Dungal.’
Comyn listened as the young man spoke. His voice, at first tentative, soon became clearer and stronger, until, as he described the murder of his father at the hands of the Earl of Carrick, it was rough with fury.
‘And you came here to tell Sir John what had befallen Buittle?’ said Comyn, when Dungal had finished.
‘Not at once,’ responded Dungal. ‘The rest of the men who were freed made for Sweetheart Abbey to inform Sir John and Lady Dervorguilla. I put my father’s body in their care and volunteered to keep watch on the castle to see where the Bruces were headed next.’
‘How long did you stay?’
‘Ten days.’
‘And in that time the Bruces made no move to leave?’ Comyn turned to Balliol. ‘When they seized Wigtown and Dumfries the Bruces established a garrison in both and then moved on, staying no more than a few days in either. Clearly, something detained them at Buittle.’
‘A rider came,’ said Dungal slowly, staring at Comyn. ‘I think on the fourth morning after they had taken the castle. I got a good view of him from my hiding place in the woods. He was let in at once.’ Dungal lowered his head to Balliol. ‘I am sorry, I had forgotten this.’ His eyes drifted to his father’s grave.
‘Did the rider wear any devices?’
‘His shield was gold, with a blue and white chequered band.’
‘The arms of the Stewarts,’ said Balliol at once.<
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Comyn forced back his rising ire at the proof the high steward was somehow involved. ‘The time fits,’ he said tightly. ‘My guess is the Bruces learned from this rider what the rest of us in court now know and that is why they paused.’ He pushed from the wall, motioning for Balliol to follow. ‘I believe the battle is over,’ he said quietly, as they walked the uneven ground between the graves. ‘For now.’ Comyn stopped, some distance from Dungal and faced Balliol. ‘It isn’t public knowledge yet, but it soon will be. It is why I came. I wanted to tell you in person.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘The queen is pregnant, John.’
Balliol looked as though he had been struck.
Comyn continued. ‘She must have conceived just weeks before Alexander’s death. The midwife who examined her proclaimed her to be five months into her term. She had apparently shown symptoms before, but it had been presumed she was suffering with grief after the king’s passing.’
‘Then it was all for nothing? All the risk. All for nothing?’ Balliol stared at Comyn, his face contorting. ‘I have lost my home, my men. My respect!’
‘It isn’t over,’ said Comyn sharply.
‘Of course it is. This isn’t some babe in a foreign court. This child will be the king’s true heir!’
‘Yes, but this child, boy or girl, will have to be governed by a regency council until they come of age.’ Comyn followed Balliol’s eyes with his own, forcing his brother-in-law to look at him. ‘We still have time.’
7
Tightening his grip on the reins, Robert pulled Ironfoot’s great head back as the horse fought against his hold. He swore at the animal through gritted teeth, using a word one of his foster-brothers in Ireland had taught him, then eased the lance into position.
‘Shorten your reins!’ barked Yothre.
Murmuring the word again for his instructor, but keeping his eyes fixed on the target, Robert jabbed his heels into the charger’s muscular sides. Ironfoot set off across the beach, moving swiftly into a gallop. The boy crouched forward to match the furious rhythm. Ahead, the shield fixed to one side of the quintain’s pivoting beam was coming up rapidly. The sandbag that hung from the beam’s other side bulged expectantly. With a thrust of his arm, Robert lunged. Pain shot through his fingers and, at the last second, his aim went wide. He swept on past the quintain, the lance striking the air above the shield.
Robert jerked on the reins as Ironfoot plunged on, swerving towards the sea, today a serene turquoise. Yothre was shouting instructions. Planting his feet in the stirrups, Robert heaved backwards, bringing the horse to an abrupt and ungainly halt that almost pitched him from the saddle.
‘Poor,’ shouted Yothre. ‘Again.’
Robert held the horse steady, recovering his balance. He was breathing hard and the pain in his fingers was biting. Two of them were bound in a splint, making his grip on the lance that much weaker. During a training session the week before he had struck the quintain at a bad angle and with such force that his fingers had been bent back against the shaft, so hard the bones had snapped. He paused there, ignoring for a moment Yothre’s shouts for him to turn, thankful for the cool, salty wind. It was September, but the heat was as fierce as July. The long summer had been burned into his skin and the day he turned twelve had come and gone without word from his father or grandfather. They had been away for three months. He wished he were with them, serving his family, but he knew he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Easing the lance into position, Robert turned the horse and lined up with the target. Determined.
‘Concentrate!’ called Yothre.
Robert kicked the warhorse’s sides. Turnberry Castle filled his vision, but he saw it only as a hulking shadow crowned by a wedge of sky, all his attention focusing in on that small shield, coming up fast. He lunged with a shout and rammed the point home, every part of him and the horse moving in unison, for one graceful moment fluent with one another. The lance struck the centre of the shield with a thock and the target was knocked aside. The pivoting beam spun round fast. Robert ducked, expecting the sandbag to come swinging into the back of his skull, but he was past. He grinned broadly, exhilaration shooting through him.
‘Good, Master Robert. Again.’
Without letting Ironfoot break canter, Robert steered in a wide circle, itching for another shot, determined to do it just like the last. The warhorse was moving well, obeying every flick of the reins, every nudge of his knees. It was like riding his palfrey again, only faster and more thrilling. The shield had swung round almost to its starting position. Robert spurred the horse into a gallop, rose up. Aimed. Out over the water came a shriek and a mad whirl of wings as two gulls spiralled from the waves, fighting over a fish. Ironfoot’s head tossed up at the piercing sound. Veering away, he bolted up the beach.
Across the sand they went, away from Yothre’s running form, up over the dunes and across the boggy fields that surrounded the castle. Robert, bouncing wildly in the saddle and realising Ironfoot wasn’t going to be halted so easily, threw the lance aside. The horse vaulted a narrow stream without warning. As he was flung forward, both of Robert’s feet came out of the stirrups. He lost his grip on the reins and grabbed hold of the high pommel on the front of the saddle. The horse ploughed on, heading for the woods that led into the hills beyond Turnberry. Robert clung on, trying to match the warhorse’s rhythm, his legs flapping uselessly at the animal’s sides, struggling for purchase in the swinging stirrups. The trees were looming. All at once they were in, under the canopy, branches whipping past.
The horse continued his crazed path, further and deeper in. A branch snapped across Robert’s face, stinging his cheek. He ducked, closing his eyes to avoid being blinded by another. Lunging forward, he grabbed at the reins. His fingers brushed them, but couldn’t get purchase. Robert rocked sideways with a shout as Ironfoot swung left to avoid a tree. His shout became a yell as his knee clipped the trunk on the way past. All his attention diverted by the bolt of pain, he didn’t see the branch rushing up in front of him. As it struck him, he was thrown back over the saddle. He landed hard, sending up a cloud of dust and leaves. Ironfoot continued on, crashing through the trees, leaving Robert on the forest floor, motionless.
Light danced behind his eyes. He struggled to open them and flinched at the brightness. Turning his head to one side he saw a broken line of bracken, behind which rose trees. Fungus had bubbled up out of the trunks, fleshy and poisonous. Something was on his face. He could feel it creeping down his cheek. As he tried to push himself up his head pounded so hard he thought he would vomit. Collapsing back, Robert lay still, letting his vision settle. Far above him the trees made webs of light. Lifting his hand to his face, he touched his forehead. His fingers came away red. As the hammering in his head dulled to a monotonous thudding he felt other pains erupting. His knee was a flare of agony. Planting his hands in the soil, Robert raised himself up, gasping with the effort. His broken fingers throbbed. The knee of his hose was ripped open, the edges dark with blood. He could see the skin beneath, raw and wet. He looked away, trying to get his bearings. Trees hemmed him in on all sides, stretching into green shadows. It had been late afternoon on the beach, but day had since become coppery dusk. He realised that the woods around him were silent. He could hear the creaking of branches and the wind in the leaves, but there was no birdsong, no sounds of small animals in the undergrowth. Then he heard it – a low growl.
Looking to his left, Robert saw the bracken moving. His head jerked round at a snarl, this time from the right. Propping himself up on his hands, fighting off waves of pain, he tried to stand, then froze as the bracken parted and a large, black head emerged. For a second he thought it was a wolf, but the angular jaw and square head were those of a hound. Its lips curled back, revealing liver-coloured gums ribbed over bared teeth. Its shoulder muscles flexed as it stalked towards him, head thrust forward. Out of the bushes to his right came another, with bloodshot eyes that held a wild look. Robert shouted fiercely at them, but it
only made their growls deeper. His fingers scrabbled through the leaves, searching for a rock, a stick, anything. There was a harsh call somewhere off through the trees. Both dogs flopped down on their bellies at the sound. The wild-eyed one whined.
An old woman appeared, forcing her way through the undergrowth, a gnarled stick in one hand, a leather pouch in the other. She wore a brown cloak, the bottom of which was covered in briers and caked with mud. Her hair fell thick down her back, dark beneath, but streaked white at the roots. Twigs and leaves were tangled in it. Her face was brutal. Sharp cheekbones made ridges over a humourless mouth, before sweeping up to a prominent brow, creased with furrowed lines of sweat and dirt. Robert had seen her before in these woods and once, long ago, in the village. She was the witch from the house in the valley and the hounds, looking lovingly at her, were the dogs that had chased him and Niall.
The woman halted as she saw him, her brow knotting in study. She made a hissed sound through her teeth that made Robert’s stomach spasm, but it wasn’t directed at him. At the noise the dogs rose and loped to her side. As she came towards him, Robert saw something moving inside the pouch, limbs or scales sliding against the leather. Planting her stick against a tree, she bent over him, holding out a withered hand. Robert recoiled, repelled by the smell of her, but, more than that, afraid to let her touch him. The woman’s eyes narrowed to slits.
‘Stay there then,’ she spat, ‘and let the wolves take you.’
Her Gaelic was broad and pure, as if she had never spoken anything else. It was richer than his, whose mouth had been forming itself around French, Scots, Latin and Gaelic since he learned to speak. Snatching up her stick, she headed through the bushes, the dogs following. As Robert tried to push himself up his knee was lanced with pain. ‘Wait!’
