by Robyn Young
‘That thing was a brute,’ Edward continued with relish. ‘If I’d killed it I’d have it stuffed and hung in my hall, although the reek would drive out my guests.’ His face wrinkled. ‘It smelled like Father’s boots!’
Robert chewed his lip, but couldn’t stop the smile.
Edward was laughing, shaking his head. ‘You must have got the fire of Mars in you, tackling it when it was cornered like that.’
Robert’s smile vanished. He snatched up his sword, grabbed a handful of leaves and swiped at the blood on the blade. ‘We’ve been after him for months. We took the rest of the pack, but he always evaded us.’ He rose and faced his brother. He wanted to shout that Edward hadn’t seen the bloody fields after the wolves had come, hadn’t been out in midwinter with the men of Annan and Lochmaben, setting snares, working long into the raw dark, fingers needled with cold, breath steaming as they passed around the wine skins. The day of Robert’s first hunt, when he helped run a wolf into the nets, his grandfather daubed a red line of the animal’s blood across his brow, telling him he had become a man now. He turned away, the words stopping in his throat. They weren’t meant for his brother. They were meant for his father.
After the crushing disappointment on his return from Ireland – his continued tutelage under the earl a gruelling, thankless experience – Robert had at last begun to thrive in his grandfather’s household. At the old lord’s side, he had taken his first steps on the path to manhood, moving with certainty and rising confidence towards the noble lord he was destined to become. He remembered well his first night in Lochmaben Castle, his grandfather sitting him down in the hall, his voice solemn with gravity as he impressed upon him the importance of the heritage into which he had been born.
‘Think of our line as a mighty tree,’ the old lord had said, ‘with roots stretching back through the ages to the time of the Conqueror and the reign of Malcolm Canmore, then back further still, on your mother’s side, to the ancient kings of Ireland. The roots go deep, nourishing the branches that spring from them, entwined by marriage, through the royal house of Scotland and the noble houses of England down to my father and to me. You, Robert, are a new shoot, sprung from the great boughs beneath you.’
Now, those same words rang hollow in his memory. The earl had arrived at Lochmaben only two days ago and already Robert felt as though he were twelve again, rather than fifteen – as if these past years and all his achievements had been erased. He could hunt and kill a vicious beast, but he was still powerless in the face of his father’s cold disapproval.
‘We thought there might be wolves in the woods outside Turnberry last winter,’ said Edward, watching as Robert crouched and continued cleaning his blade. ‘Some lambs were taken. Father reckoned it was the old woman’s dogs.’
‘Affraig?’ said Robert, sitting back on his heels. He hadn’t thought about the old woman with her tree of webs in a long while.
‘I still can’t believe what you told me before you left.’ Edward paused. ‘Did you ever ask Grandfather about it?’
Robert nodded, scraping the fistful of leaves along the flat of the sword.
‘Well?’ Edward urged.
‘He wouldn’t speak of it, or her.’
‘He didn’t deny it?’
‘No. But he didn’t admit it.’ Robert stood, sheathing the sword in the scabbard that hung from his belt. He would clean it properly later. ‘I take it you never spoke to Father?’
‘I wouldn’t have wanted the whipping. Father has been quick to anger lately. He took to Niall with his belt the other week. He had a fever a few months back and Mother blames his temper on that.’ Edward gave a snort. ‘But I heard him shouting about Salisbury enough times to know the physician could use a hundred leeches on him and it wouldn’t put his humour right.’
‘What was he saying?’ asked Robert, his interest snared.
‘That it wasn’t right he wasn’t involved in the negotiations with King Edward. That he should have been at Salisbury with Grandfather.’
Robert felt a stab of satisfaction. True, he hadn’t been present at the council during which the Treaty of Salisbury had been sealed, but he had travelled to the town in his grandfather’s retinue and had seen the stately party from Westminster arriving for the negotiations.
After the queen gave birth to a stillborn son tensions had threatened to rise, but, soon after, missives arrived from France in the name of King Edward, requesting that the men of the realm abide by their council of guardians until the infant Margaret could be enthroned. Robert’s grandfather, pleased by the decision, had withdrawn the rest of his men from Galloway and, for the good of the kingdom, returned the captured castles to Balliol and the Comyns. After this, the air calmed, many agreeing with Edward’s orders and those who didn’t nonetheless unwilling to risk their estates in England by refusing the king. By the time Robert had been taken into his grandfather’s household, the kingdom was again at peace.
Last autumn, King Edward returned after three years in Gascony and contacted the guardians to discuss the conveyance of young Margaret, now almost seven years old, from Norway to Scotland. Lord John Comyn contrived to head the Scottish delegation that would travel to England for the talks, but with the help of James Stewart, the Lord of Annandale had been elected into this party. Robert had journeyed south with his grandfather to one of the most important councils in decades, at which it had been agreed Margaret would come to Scotland by the end of the year. Now there were just the details to finalise, which would be done soon at the assembly to be held in the town of Birgham.
Robert wished his father hadn’t been summoned to attend the final talks, but as one of the thirteen earls he couldn’t have been omitted. He was determined, however, not to let him disregard the status he’d attained in his grandfather’s household. The hunt had not been the success he’d hoped for. In his attempt to prove himself he had become reckless, but now he knew of his father’s own frustrations he didn’t feel quite so impotent. ‘Come on,’ he said to his brother, ‘let’s watch the unmaking.’
The two brothers walked through the trees to the rest of the party where the huntsmen had already set about disembowelling the wolf. Its stomach removed, the cavity would be washed out and filled with a mixture of mutton and oats. The hounds would then be released and allowed to have their fill, this sweet curée their reward for a successful hunt. The men were passing around skins of wine, their mood now jovial.
Robert headed to his grandfather, keeping his head high as he passed his father. ‘Will Scáthach be all right?’ he asked, looking at the bitch, who was licking her wounds.
‘She’s a tough girl,’ responded his grandfather, after a pause.
Robert looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry, Grandfather,’ he said quietly. ‘I should have waited for you.’
The old lord grunted.
Chastised, Robert nodded and moved off to tend to his horse, which was cropping the bushes close by. His grandfather’s voice sounded behind him.
‘But I’ll wager the shepherds of Annandale will sleep easier tonight.’
As he took up the reins of his courser, a grin spread across Robert’s face.
12
Robert rose up in his stirrups as they plodded along the track towards the small Borders town of Birgham, trying to catch a glimpse of the gathering crowds. His grandfather was riding at the head of their company, along with Earl Patrick of Dunbar, the powerful magnate who had been at the talks in Turnberry four years ago and at whose manor they had been staying for the past three nights. Robert’s father rode behind with six knights from Carrick, and he and his brother brought up the rear with the squires and the other retainers. Ahead, in a field by a church, hundreds of tents had been erected. Smoke fanned from cooking pots and men stood talking, while squires tended to their horses. The whole place exuded an atmosphere of festivity. There was even a group of minstrels playing.
‘Can you see the English?’ asked Edward, following Robert’s gaze and craning his neck.
‘Are they here yet?’
‘We’re too far away,’ replied Robert impatiently, as their grandfather continued the slow, steady pace, the horses’ hooves squelching in the churned earth.
Gradually, the sounds of voices and music became louder and the odours of horse dung and wood-smoke stronger, until finally they were moving through into the field, behind another group of travellers. Robert looked around at the men they passed, quite a few of whom seemed to give his family a lot of attention. Not all their stares were friendly.
‘Robert.’
At his grandfather’s call, Robert slipped down from his saddle and led his horse over to the lord, who had halted near the row of tents. He took the reins of his grandfather’s piebald courser, while the old man dismounted with a wince. Hearing orders being shouted, Robert turned to see men lugging benches over the church wall.
‘The assembly was planned to take place inside the church,’ explained his grandfather, watching as the benches were conveyed to the centre of the field, where a platform had been erected beneath the shading arms of an oak. ‘But the roof was struck by lightning.’
Squinting into the sunlight, Robert saw a blackened hole in the side of the roof, where part of it had caved in.
‘Maybe it’s an omen,’ murmured Edward, moving up behind, holding the reins of their father’s white mare.
Their grandfather didn’t seem to have heard. He had turned away, hailed by a frail, red-haired man with a ruddy complexion, limping across with two younger men.
Robert recognised them. ‘That’s Sir Walter, the Earl of Menteith and his sons,’ he told his brother. ‘They were at Turnberry when Grandfather planned the assault on Galloway.’ As he said this his gaze was caught by a group heading across the field in front of them. Robert stared at the long, lean face of John Comyn, whom he had first seen in Salisbury. The lord’s cloak, trimmed with wolf pelt, was emblazoned with three wheat sheaves on red. His hair hung loose around his shoulders. ‘Look. It’s the devil himself.’
Edward frowned. ‘Who?’
Robert lowered his voice as the men crossed their path. ‘That’s the Lord of Badenoch, head of the Red Comyns.’ There was a pale youth of about his own age with lank dark hair walking behind the lord. He looked too like Comyn not to be related. A son, Robert guessed.
‘I thought he’d be taller,’ said Edward. ‘Who’s that with him?’
Robert followed his brother’s nod to the man with thin chestnut hair, pockmarked skin and a tense expression, walking at Comyn’s side. ‘I think that’s the Lord of Galloway, John Balliol.’
Balliol looked round and, for a second, Robert thought he’d heard him, but he was well out of earshot and, besides, the lord’s attention had fixed first on his father and grandfather. Balliol’s faltering stride made the others with him look round. For a moment, both companies paused, the Bruce men halting their conversation with the earls of Menteith and Dunbar. Robert noticed a young man in Balliol’s party wearing a leather aketon and carrying a pike. But it wasn’t the armour or the weapon that had attracted his attention, rather the depth of hatred in the man’s face. He was looking straight at his father.
‘My lords. Welcome.’
The voice of James Stewart broke the moment. The high steward was striding across the grass towards the Lord of Annandale and the Earl of Carrick. With him was a broad man with a tonsured head and a flushed, sweaty face. It was Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow. Robert had met him once, briefly, and had been a little in awe of the forceful clergyman.
As Balliol and Comyn continued towards the platform, Robert saw the young man with the pike spit in the grass, before drawing his hate-filled gaze from the Earl of Carrick and falling into step behind the Lord of Galloway.
James Stewart and the Lord of Annandale greeted one another with an embrace. The high steward, Robert noted, acknowledged his father more cordially.
‘Your grace,’ said the old Bruce, bending to kiss the hand of the Bishop of Glasgow. ‘It is good to see you.’
‘And on such a welcome occasion,’ agreed the bishop. ‘At last, after the great tragedy that befell our realm, the throne of our kingdom will once again be occupied. It augurs well that our new queen shares her name with one of our dearest saints. God speed young Margaret to our shores.’
Robert saw his father’s face tighten at this. It dawned on him what this day meant. The destiny his father had dreamed of was about to be ended. Soon, Margaret would take the throne of Scotland and from her would spring a new line, a line that would branch away from the Bruce family and their claim. He realised, in the same moment, that this was a loss for him also. An image of Affraig tearing the web she had woven for his father into pieces flashed in his mind and he wondered if the witch had somehow made this come to pass. But then he heard the sound of trumpets ringing and he was turning with the others to see a stately procession making its way across the field, banners flying in swirls of colour above their mounted ranks. The English had come.
At their head was John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey and grandson of the legendary William Marshal, one of the greatest knights England had ever raised. Warenne was himself no stranger to battle and, at sixty years old, was a veteran of numerous campaigns under Henry III and his son, Edward. The earl had fought during the rebellion of Simon de Montfort and in Edward’s bloody wars in Wales, and had risen to become one of the king’s foremost commanders. His eminence preceded him and Robert felt no small amount of respect, staring at the thickset, flint-haired earl, riding in imperiously on a massive, sable-coloured destrier. He was clad in a sumptuously brocaded blue and gold mantle, drawn back over one shoulder to reveal the glitter of mail beneath his surcoat and a broadsword with a pommel of gold.
Behind the earl came a burly man in a violet robe who, despite being two decades younger, had almost as formidable a reputation. Anthony Bek, the Bishop of Durham, had begun his illustrious career in the clergy after graduating from the University of Oxford. Returning with King Edward from the Holy Land he was made Constable of the Tower of London and then Bishop of Durham, the diocese of which formed the northernmost defence of England. The power granted to him in this office made him virtual king in his bishopric. Indeed, Bishop Bek looked to Robert less like a man of the cloth and more like a warrior prince as he rode in on his warhorse, with thirty knights in his train.
Robert had seen both of these men at the talks in Salisbury, but here in this sunlit field with the fanfare of trumpets they seemed even more impressive. Perhaps it was just the grandeur of the occasion, or maybe it was the contrast with the men in the field waiting for them. Many of the Scottish magnates had jewelled brooches or silver chains holding their fur-trimmed cloaks in place, feathers in their caps and well-made swords and dirks in decorated scabbards. But their clothes, of dyed wools and linens, were plainer than those worn by the English, and few of them wore mail. They hadn’t come here to fight. No one, it seemed, had told the English that. All of them, from the earl and the bishop down through the knights and squires, wore armour of some kind, if only padded gambesons, and many were on barded horses. Their clothes were fine and gaudy: embroidered silks and patterned velvets in vivid hues that made Robert think of a flight of oversized butterflies sweeping in across the grass.
Dismounting, John de Warenne went first to Balliol and Comyn, who had crossed to meet him. This was no surprise, for Balliol was married to Warenne’s daughter, but it was clearly a source of tension for Robert’s father, who observed their greeting with a scowl. As the other magnates began making their way towards the dais and settling into the benches in front of the platform, James Stewart motioned for the Lord of Annandale and the rest of the party to follow. Robert went forward, but his grandfather turned to him.
‘Stay here.’
Robert went to protest, but the lord was already walking away.
‘I thought we were going to the assembly?’ objected Edward, at his side.
The brothers watched as the men crossed to the growing
crowd of earls and barons, bishops and abbots who spoke for the realm, leaving a horde of knights and squires, pages and grooms on the fringes of the field, holding horses, or tending campfires. The minstrels had stopped playing and were lounging in the grass, lutes and lyres replaced by cups of beer.
The excitement Robert had felt on the journey had evaporated in a simmering anger. His gaze lingered on the earl’s back as he wondered if he would have been so excluded if his father wasn’t here. He shaded his eyes from the sun as the men seated themselves. Bishop Bek was ascending the dais and the Earl of Surrey was greeting their grandfather, who had manoeuvred himself in beside John Balliol. ‘Perhaps we’ll hear them from here?’ he murmured, but he could see that the men were speaking and, apart from the odd raised voice, their conversation was inaudible at this distance.
Edward shifted from one foot to the other, then headed to one of the younger knights from Carrick, leading his horse and their father’s white mare. ‘Sir Duncan, will you hold the horses?’
‘That’s your task, Master Edward,’ chided the knight.
John de Warenne had ascended the platform beside Bishop Bek and was addressing the assembly. There were more men than benches and those who hadn’t found a place had crowded in behind. Robert could no longer see his father and grandfather. He glanced round as Edward spoke again.
‘Please, Duncan.’
‘Why?’
Edward paused. ‘If you do, I won’t tell my father you once tried to kiss Isabel.’
The knight laughed. ‘Your sister? I’ve never even spoken to her.’
‘My father doesn’t know that.’
‘You’re jesting,’ said the knight, but his smile had disappeared.
