by Robyn Young
It was a year since the thirteen men had knelt before King Edward in Norham Castle. A year since the English king had taken control of Scotland. The hearing had opened in the royal burgh of Berwick last summer with written petitions from each claimant lodged, along with rolls detailing their pedigrees. A court had been chosen, composed of one hundred and four men, eighty of whom had been selected by each of the two chief claimants: the Lord of Annandale and Balliol, and the rest by Edward himself. The pedigrees the king had sent to France, to be studied in detail by scholars from the Sorbonne. Now, it was almost over. The king was due to announce his verdict any day and the Lord of Annandale had arranged this evening’s feast at Lochmaben to thank some of the magnates who had endorsed him. The old Bruce, now in his seventieth year, was confident, with good reason. The lord had a blood claim rivalled only by Balliol’s, was a staunch vassal of the English king, serving under Edward in the Holy Land and fighting for Henry against Simon de Montfort. And, most crucially of all, he had garnered the support of seven of the thirteen earls of Scotland, who, by ancient law, could choose a king.
Robert was approaching the dais, his eyes on Eva, when he heard his name called. He turned to see his mother. Lady Marjorie’s raven-black hair, streaked with silver, tumbled from beneath a padded mesh of blue silk that matched her gown. To Robert, she looked like a queen, erect and beautiful. It was only as he went towards her that he saw the shadows around her eyes and the skin stretched taut over her bones. Realising his grandfather wasn’t the only one this hearing had weighed heavy on, he felt ashamed that he hadn’t thought of her in these months. Robert glanced at his father, up on the dais. The earl had a drink in his fist and his face, dark in the plunging shadows thrown by the torchlight, was beetle-browed and glowering. He doubted the man had been easy to live with.
‘My son,’ said the countess, appraising the tall figure Robert cut in black hose and buttoned tunic. ‘You look so handsome.’
Hearing a giggle, Robert saw one of his sisters peering out from behind the countess’s skirts. It was the youngest, Matilda. Still giggling, she ran to where the rest of his sisters were sitting with their nurse. He couldn’t believe how much they had changed since he had seen them last. Mary was an unruly seven-year-old, apparently always in trouble like Edward. At nine, Christian, with her curly fair hair, was serious and sensible, and Isabel was a proud young woman. He wished his other brothers had been able to attend the feast tonight, but Niall and Thomas were in fosterage in Antrim, following in his footsteps, and Alexander was due to enter the priesthood. There was talk of him going to Cambridge to study divinity.
‘I haven’t seen you dancing yet,’ continued the countess, laying a cool hand on his hot cheek.
‘It is still early,’ said Robert, his gaze roving towards the dais.
Lady Marjorie gave him a knowing look. ‘Ask her,’ she murmured, before melting back into the crowd.
Discomforted by his mother’s shrewdness, Robert made his way up on to the dais over the heads of the crowd. He walked down the table, scattered with the remnants of the feast, past his brooding father to his grandfather and the Earl of Mar. The Earl of Atholl, Sir John, was there with his wife, an older daughter of Earl Donald, dressed in red like her sister. Robert approached the men, trying to ignore the blush of scarlet that threatened to fill his view. He opened his mouth, hoping something appropriately courtly might emerge, but his grandfather beat him to it.
‘Ah, Robert, we were just speaking about you.’ The lord’s face was blotchy and tiny purple veins webbed his nostrils.
‘Indeed we were,’ said John of Atholl. ‘Your grandfather was telling us of your exploits on the hunt today.’ The intense young earl leaned towards Robert with a keen smile, his hair curling around his brow. ‘I hear yours was the killing strike. I’m sorry I missed it.’
‘A hart of sixteen tines,’ said the Lord of Annandale, sitting back with a satisfied grunt, grasping his goblet. ‘The best and last of the season.’
Robert couldn’t resist any longer. His eyes flicked to the patch of scarlet crowding his periphery. He locked eyes with Eva. She too was smiling, but it was a cooler, more appraising smile than the men’s, as if she were still judging him and was yet to be impressed. Her eyes were a paler shade of blue than his own. The colour of a spring sky, he decided.
‘Eva.’
She turned as one of her younger sisters, a thin girl, whose hair was more mouse-brown than honey-gold, came tentatively up the steps.
‘Yes, Isobel?’
‘Will you dance with me?’
With a squeeze of her father’s shoulders, Eva stepped lightly down from the dais, taking her sister by the hand. She threw a brief, backward glance at Robert, before disappearing in the throng, leaving a wisp of scarlet to trail in his vision.
The Earl of Atholl rose, taking his pretty wife’s arm. ‘I think we will join them.’ John grinned broadly. ‘Beware, Robert. All the best daughters will soon be taken.’
The young man winked at the Earl of Mar and the Lord of Annandale, who both chuckled in a way that made Robert suspect they had been talking about more than his hunting skills. He was eighteen; no doubt the question of marriage wasn’t far from any of their minds these days, especially given the circumstances. A suitable bride, of high standing and dowry to match, would soon be chosen. If indeed, he thought, taking in the men’s knowing smiles, she hadn’t been already. Keen to change the subject, he fixed on the dried palm leaf pinned to his grandfather’s mantle. ‘Do you think King Edward will answer the pope’s call to crusade?’
As the men’s expressions sobered Robert wished he had thought of a less bleak conversation. It was six months now since tidings had reached them of the fall of Acre, the crusaders’ last stronghold in the Holy Land. Rumour spoke of men and women jumping into the sea to escape the Saracens’ blades, chaos and fire, streets running with blood and ships filled to the gunwales with tattered refugees limping into harbours across Christendom. The pope had since been calling for a new crusade, but nothing had been set.
‘Perhaps, when our throne is filled, we might all answer that call,’ replied his grandfather in a low voice. He drained his goblet.
Earl Donald was nodding. ‘What we need is new blood for the holy war.’ He inclined his head to Robert. ‘If a young and powerful lord were to take the Cross, others would follow.’
There was a hiss from along the table. They turned to see the Earl of Carrick glaring at them, his eyes hooded and bloodshot. ‘Powerful lord!’ He staggered to his feet, his chair screeching back behind him. He flung an arm towards Robert, his goblet still gripped in his fist. Wine splattered the table. ‘If that is your hope for the Holy Land then God help us!’
His words were slurred, but clear enough to ring like a bell in Robert’s ears.
‘Enough,’ growled the Lord of Annandale.
‘I speak the truth. He hasn’t fought in a war. He knows only how to kill beasts, not men. New blood?’ The earl grimaced. ‘The blood runs thin in all our sons. Thin as watered wine. How will we make crusaders out of such diluted stock?’ The earl continued his poisoned stream, but Robert didn’t wait to hear any more.
Turning, he strode down the steps into the crowd. Ignoring the protests of people he pushed roughly past, he made it to the doors and out into the night, leaving the music and voices to fade behind him, swallowed by darkness. Out across the bailey he went, past chapel and kitchens, stables and kennels, the buildings silhouetted in the pallid light of a half-moon. Before him, over the rooftops, rose the humped blackness of the motte, its steep sides carapaced in clay. Atop the reinforced mound a round tower pointed a blunt finger towards the distant stars. Instead of climbing the motte to the keep, where he shared lodgings with his grandfather, Robert headed to the palisade that encircled the castle compound. He was almost at the gate, when he heard his name. He turned to see Eva hastening towards him, her scarlet veil black in the moonlight.
‘You’re leaving the feast?’
‘I needed air.’ Not wanting to remain inside the castle another moment, even for her, Robert continued towards the palisade.
Eva fell into step beside him, the skirts of her dress rustling over the icy ground. It was late autumn and the trees were splayed naked against the sky. The guards at the palisade greeted Robert as he approached. One opened the gate with a lingering look at Eva.
‘Careful how you go, Master Robert,’ he called, a smirk lacing his voice. ‘It’s wet down by the loch tonight.’
Robert led the way through the trees along the dark path to Kirk Loch. Neither of them spoke. Robert’s mind was oddly still now, frozen between rage and rising anticipation. After a moment, the trees fell away and the small body of water opened before them, glittering in the moonlight, edged all around with reeds. His grandfather’s castle, seat of the family for over a century, had been built strategically close to water, but unlike the stronghold of his ancestors at nearby Annan the motte and bailey were a safe distance from the loch-side, the Bruce family having learned the price of Malachy’s curse.
Robert came to a stop, staring out across the water.
Beside him, Eva shivered in the glacial air and moved closer, wrapping her arms about her.
Robert knew what he should do, knew even what she wanted him to do, but his father’s twisted face was breaking through into his thoughts, those words dripping like venom from his mouth. After a moment, he felt something brush against his hand and realised it was her fingers. They threaded through his. Somewhere in the woods an owl screeched. Robert’s heart quickened, his breath coming in clouds. The image of his father was fading, pushed aside by the solidity of her hand in his. He could feel her pulse, rapid as his own. He turned to her, keen to banish the rest of his thoughts, and sought her mouth with his. She tensed, seemingly surprised by his eagerness, then softened against him. She tasted of wine.
Hearing a distant drumming, Robert assumed it was the blood pounding in his head, until the sound grew louder and he realised it was hoof-beats. Three, maybe four sets. He drew back from Eva.
‘More guests?’ she murmured. Her lips were glistening wetly in the moonlight.
The look of them made him spasm uncomfortably and when he spoke his voice came out strained. ‘No.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Everyone’s here.’ Robert hesitated. He wanted to stay out here with her, but those hoof-beats had distracted him. It was late for travel. ‘Come.’ He took her hand and led the way back into the woods, leaving the loch hushed and unruffled behind them.
As they approached the palisade, Robert realised he could no longer hear the bagpipes. Passing through the gate, he caught raised voices coming from the hall. He quickened his pace, Eva almost running beside him, her skirts gathered in her free hand. There were horses in the bailey and the smell of fresh dung. Robert made for the hall, the doors of which had been flung wide open. He could see people milling, a mass of faces. Edward emerged from the crowd. As his gaze alighted on Robert, he came forward. Robert had never seen his younger brother look so grim. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s been announced. John Balliol will be king.’
20
Robert walked the gloomy track through the woods, head down, thumbs stuffed into his belt. The wind rattled the bare boughs of the trees and sent the dead leaves scattering about his feet. His pup, Uathach, one of Scáthach’s last brood, chased them in mad circles, her jaws snapping at the swirling carpet. Usually, the young bitch’s antics amused him, but he hardly noticed today. Robert’s mind, clouded with thoughts, was turned inward, his mood as dark as the November afternoon.
It was a week since the feast and the atmosphere in Lochmaben couldn’t have been more different than before the announcement had come. Many who had supported his grandfather during the hearing had since made their excuses and left, distancing themselves, as if the family had contracted some malady that might be contagious. Robert knew such thoughts were perhaps unjust, for the earls of Mar, Atholl and Dunbar had clearly been stunned and angered by the English king’s decision. But the castle had been unusually quiet for the past seven days and there was no denying that, as enemies of Scotland’s new king, the Bruces’ standing in the realm was now very much in question.
Robert’s father and mother had remained at Lochmaben, although the earl’s wrathful presence had done little to ease the tension. The old lord spent much of the week in his chambers alone, only leaving to pray in the chapel. Two nights ago, Robert had found his grandfather slumped on his knees before a blaze of candles on the altar, saying a fervent prayer over and over, wine sour on his breath. The curse, he had groaned, as Robert helped him to his feet. We must make amends.
Robert had kept apart, spending his days walking in the woods, avoiding even his brother. The country around Lochmaben was quiet now the hunting season was over. The autumn rains had erased the tracks made by horses and men, the forest reclaiming its territory. In the past twelve months, his life had taken on a thrilling momentum. His apprenticeship in Antrim, the training at Turnberry, the path to knighthood he had set out upon in his grandfather’s household, all had finally converged, leading to a grand destination – far grander than he could have imagined. The throne of Scotland. Now he knew what lay ahead was nothing more than a mirage, something glittering and deceptive; the road before him had ended in darkness and uncertainty. He might still be heir to his family’s fortunes, but what would become of those fortunes with an enemy on the throne and the Comyns promoted to even higher offices? Would Annandale and Carrick be safe, or would Balliol enact his revenge on the men who had invaded his lands six years ago? They had heard the lord had recently made Dungal MacDouall captain of the army of Galloway. MacDouall’s father, Robert knew, had been killed by his father during the attack on Buittle and no doubt a desire for vengeance was something these Galloway men had been sitting with for a long time. True, his family owned rich estates in England if it came to it, but that was cold comfort given King Edward’s decision. Perhaps they could retire to their lands in Ireland? That felt too much like defeat, however, and Robert dismissed it from his thoughts as he emerged from the trees.
Lochmaben Castle dominated the landscape before him, the keep rising from the motte over the bailey and the town. Standing strategically between two lochs, it formed the gateway to the west of Scotland. Smoke hung in tattered banners, snatched from rooftops by the grasping wind. It was late in the day and the smells of food coming from the town made Robert’s stomach cramp. With a whistle at Uathach, who was chasing a flock of cawing crows, he made for the south gate, set in the town’s earthen ramparts. It was quicker to go through the settlement than around it. The guards greeted him, but with none of their usual jokes or conversation. Robert felt their stares, worried and full of questions, on his back as he walked away.
He was approaching the square, busy with traders after the market, when he caught sight of a familiar figure by the church steps. It was his grandfather. His mane of silver hair was trapped beneath a felt cap and he looked painfully stooped, his shoulders seeming too heavy for his frame. The lord was talking to someone and it was this second figure that gripped Robert’s attention. It was an old woman in a soiled brown cloak, leaning on a gnarled staff. She was some distance from him, but he could clearly see her face.
Affraig.
It was a shock to see her, as if part of his childhood had manifested itself in a corner of his adult life, filling him with memories and feelings long forgotten. Robert was too far away to hear what they were saying, but their expressions were tense. It looked as though they were arguing. The wind snatched back Affraig’s hood, revealing her hair, now more white than black. Robert moved through the groups of traders packing away their wares, past horses and carts. He saw his grandfather tip back his head and stare at the sky. Then, the old man nodded. Affraig raised her hand to his face and touched his cheek in a familiar and affectionate gesture that surprised and disturbed Robert, then she moved off, leaning on the staff. After a moment, she d
isappeared behind the church. Robert set off towards his grandfather. The old man was heading for the gate that led to the castle. Before Robert could reach him someone stepped into his path. It was one of his grandfather’s vassals, a knight of a nearby estate.
‘Master Robert,’ greeted the man. ‘I have been meaning to seek an audience with the lord for several days now. I wish to offer my condolences that he wasn’t chosen as our king. I pray Sir Robert doesn’t reproach my tardiness, but with the recent storms I have had my hands full dealing with a flood and all manner of—’
‘I’ll pass on your condolences,’ Robert cut across him, moving past. On the other side of the square he paused, realising his grandfather had disappeared, then he sprinted to the church. Ducking down the side of the building, he entered the little warren of streets, looking for Affraig. But after a few minutes’ fruitless searching, he turned and headed back the way he had come, towards the castle.
Robert was crossing the bailey when he heard raised voices coming from the upper floor of the guest lodgings. Recognising his grandfather’s growl, then the rough-barked response of his father, he went to the door. It opened as he reached it and two serving girls came out, carrying baskets of laundry. They stepped aside, heads bobbing politely. Robert smelled something sour and saw what looked to be a watery bloodstain on one of the sheets, then he was inside and making his way up the stairs to the second storey. He paused in the passage outside the room his parents had been lodged in. The voices of his father and grandfather came clearly through the door.
‘I cannot believe you listened to that crone! You’re a damned fool!’ The earl’s voice was contorted with rage. ‘A relic of the past, still believing in curses and magic like some old wife who knows no better! It is no wonder King Edward picked that whoreson John Balliol over you!’
