by Robyn Young
Robert had remained in the saddle and was staring around the settlement. If it wasn’t for the well-stoked fire he would have said no one had been here for some time. ‘It doesn’t look like much of a camp.’
Humphrey glanced round as he spoke, but one of his knights caught his attention.
‘Sir, we could follow them into the woods? Try to track them?’
Some of Henry’s men had dismounted and were kicking over shelters to check for anything valuable.
Humphrey shook his head, studying the trees that hemmed them in. ‘We could search for days and never find them.’
Robert urged Hunter over to the spears thrust into the mud beyond the shelters. The shafts were notched with use, the wood worn smooth and shiny in places where men had gripped them. He grasped one and tugged it from the ground, wondering why its owner had left it. There were holes where other spears had been ripped out and footprints indented the mud, but the ground, for the most part, was hidden by the heaps of bracken. As Robert’s gaze moved over the dead foliage he noticed that the fronds were gleaming. He peered closer and saw some sort of substance covering the brittle leaves. There were smears of it clinging to the undergrowth, grey and viscous. Robert dug the spear tip into some, then swung the shaft over in his hand to get a closer look. He took some in his thumb and forefinger. It was sticky and smelled like animal fat. He turned away, guessing the bracken had been used to scrape grease from a cooking pot, then realised that other men, still rifling through the camp, were muttering in disgust. Robert saw one knight sniffing at his fingers. Another was wiping his hands on his gambeson. A squire was holding up a cloak, on which more of the grease glistened in the sunlight. Robert felt a chill. Memories of the hunts he had gone on with his grandfather flashed in his mind: setting snares and traps, leaving trails of blood and stringing carcasses of sheep from trees to lure the wolves.
Still grasping the grease-tipped spear, Robert wheeled Hunter around. ‘Humphrey!’
The knight jerked round at the shout, but even as it left Robert’s mouth the sky filled with glowing stars that shot up from the woods around them. They continued their upward trajectory for a moment, curled almost lazily over then came rushing towards the camp. The men had time to realise they were flaming arrows before the missiles were thumping down all around them. Knights and squires raised shields over their heads or threw themselves behind shelters, but the arrows weren’t aimed at them. As the barbed tips stuck in the piles of papery bracken the burning tows fixed behind the arrowheads flickered for a few seconds, then flared. Wherever they struck the grease-smeared ground they caught quickly, fire bursting up in brilliant trails that swept along the ground. Horses reared as smoke fanned and heat pulsed, thick and sudden. Several animals turned and bolted.
More arrows shot down, the knights yelling in alarm, those who had dismounted running to their panicked mounts. Edward Bruce hoisted his shield as an arrow hurtled towards him. It stuck fast in the wood, the fire licking around the painted centre. Humphrey’s destrier cried in terror as smoke billowed up and, vaulting a low line of fire, it galloped away towards the woods. Humphrey yelled after it, but was forced to duck as another hail came in. One of Henry’s squires leapt back out of the path of the missiles, only to stagger into the fire pit. The flames caught his cloak, which went up quickly. He reeled away, tearing at the clasp, but the fire enfolded him in a blistering embrace.
One of Humphrey’s knights was struggling to mount his horse when an arrow caught him in the back. The tip didn’t pierce his gambeson, but stuck fast in the cloth. His hands scrabbled behind him as the flaming brand seared his neck. As his hair caught and went up like a torch, his horse fled, with his foot still in the saddle. The knight fell, the impact as he struck the ground thrusting the arrowhead through the material and into his lung. He convulsed, blood retching from his mouth, as the horse dragged him away.
Robert struggled to keep Hunter under control, scanning the sky for arrows. He shouted at his brother and men, trying to keep them near. Edward and his squires were close by. There was a splintered hole in Edward’s shield, blackened around the edges, where he had pulled out an arrow. The men from Essex had been scattered around the camp when the attack began, but they were riding towards him now, urging their horses around the flames, seeking a path through. Hearing a roar, Robert saw hundreds of figures rushing up the hillside towards them, spears in their hands. Henry shouted as he saw them, calling his knights to him, but few were able to heed his command, their horses too panicked to obey.
Robert fought with Hunter as the horse reared. For a moment, he was suspended in the chaos, torn between the decision to fight or flee. The spear he had tugged from the ground was still in his hands and he felt a drive to kick the horse down the hillside at the incoming hordes. But even as the urge came upon him, he knew the futility of it. They were in no state to regroup and charge, the fires dividing them. Several of their number had fled to the woods, either of their own volition, or their horses’ will. Casting the spear aside, Robert spurred Hunter away, leaping a smouldering heap of bracken that scattered burning embers in his wake. ‘Back!’ he yelled, flinging a hand towards the trees.
Henry, his face red with heat and fury, caught the shout. His lips peeled back in a snarl of frustration, but he turned his horse and led his men after Robert. One by one they sped away as behind them the rebels poured into the fringes of the camp, flinging their spears through the flames. One squire was thrown to the ground, a spear embedded in his side. Another shaft pierced the rump of a horse, causing the animal to buck violently and toss its rider from the saddle. The knight landed on the roof of a burning shelter in a burst of fire.
Robert was almost at the tree line, his brother and his men ahead, when he heard a shout, louder than the indistinct cries of the rebels. He twisted round to see Humphrey sprinting across the grass, flames lighting the hillside behind him. The knight was running for his life, a mob of men following, whooping in murderous jubilation. Robert pulled Hunter around. He heard his brother cry a warning, but didn’t heed it. Kicking fiercely at the horse’s sides, he galloped towards the knight, bringing Hunter to a brutal stop. As Humphrey grabbed for the back of the saddle, the horse stumbled under the extra weight. Robert grasped the back of Humphrey’s gambeson, straining to help him. Clutching at his waist, Humphrey kicked himself up until he was sideways in the saddle behind him. Robert went to spur Hunter on, then saw another figure racing towards them. It was one of the squires from the Essex estate. Behind him came the rebels. The young man cried out in desperation, his face stricken.
‘Go!’ Humphrey shouted.
For a moment, Robert paused. The squire’s face filled with hope and he put on a burst of speed. Several of the rebels halted and drew back their arms. Robert yelled a warning as their spears shot through the air. The squire arched in mid-stride as one plunged into his back. His chest thrust out and his hands flung up as the barbed tip punched through his gambeson.
‘Robert!’ Humphrey yelled in his ear.
Robert struck at Hunter’s sides as the squire collapsed behind him. More of the rebels paused to take aim, but their spears hit grass as the horse carried the two men towards the trees, leaving the settlement to burn.
29
Robert stood on the battlements, staring out over the moon-washed estuary. Across the channel a hump of headland rose above the distant sea like some hunched beast, silver-backed in the ghostly light. The waters of the estuary, riddled with long stretches of mud, glittered like cracked glass.
It was late, but the town of Conwy that bordered the castle was flushed with torchlight, the brands of fire moving through the streets as soldiers were shown to barracks and the camp followers settled into new homes. On the other side of the river that bordered the castle’s north-eastern walls more pools of firelight, some close, others distant, showed where the companies who hadn’t been able to make it to the boats before dark had bedded down. No doubt people would be filtering in for days.
Warenne’s company had arrived on those banks several hours earlier as the sun was sinking. Silhouetted against the wine-dark sky on a high outcrop of rock, Conwy Castle had appeared to the weary soldiers like something in a dream, its lime-rendered walls, white as frost, sweeping down to the rocks over the river where it was mirrored in the inky depths, the columns of torchlight on the battlements shimmering on the surface like jewels. The king had arrived already and from four slender turrets on the north-eastern towers flew his red standard, emblazoned with three lions. Shields with the same device decorated the battlements and others, bearing different arms and colours, hung from some of the towers, showing where various earls and barons had been lodged. Beyond the castle and the walled town, ranked with twenty-one towers, the hills rose steeply, one behind the other, into the black heights of Snowdon, cloaked by clouds and the falling dark.
The sight of the castle had caused relief to sweep through Warenne’s company, men smiling and talking for the first time in days. The hillside assault had proven that the sprawling forest shielded an enemy who not only knew the terrain well, but had the cunning to use it and the men had grown tense and wary. As the boats rowed them across the river to a wooden pier that led up to a stone ramp that curved between the rocks to a gateway, a few had even struck up a song.
Robert hadn’t smiled, nor had he joined in the uplifted conversations. On the journey across the river he had found himself sitting opposite one of the knights from Essex – the father of the squire who died in the ambush. The knight had said nothing to him about the death of his son, going about his orders in grim silence. An image of the young squire running desperately across the grass, while behind him the rebels took aim, played in Robert’s thoughts as he’d stared at the hard-faced older man on the voyage, wanting to say something but unable to find the words.
After fleeing the burning settlement, they had crashed down the overgrown track to the path, Humphrey clinging on behind Robert. For a time they heard sounds of pursuit, but the whoops of the rebels faded long before they joined the cleared path and met up with the rest of their company. There Humphrey, Henry and Robert were forced to explain the trap they had blundered into to a furious Earl Warenne. The next morning, Warenne and Lincoln led their veterans into the hills, while the three young men, rebuked and reprimanded, were made to stay behind. The day after, the men returned, blooded and satisfied, having tracked the rebels from the burned-out settlement the knights had been lured to, to their real base in the woods several miles north. Here, the Welsh were made to pay for their audacity with wholesale butchery. Warenne denied his men any victory, however, denouncing the three young commanders whose rashness lost them two knights, four squires and six horses. Humphrey had admitted that Robert had cautioned against entering the camp, but the earl showed little sympathy.
Pushing himself from the wall, Robert headed along the walkway that spanned the heights over the castle’s inner ward, above lead roofs and chimneys that belched smoke. The cramped courtyard, lined with stone and timber-clad buildings, was chaotic. In the torchlight squires hefted packs on their shoulders as they followed their knight-masters to lodgings and servants hurried by, carrying armfuls of blankets. Making his way down a set of steps on the walkway, Robert was approaching the tower where he and his men had been billeted when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Humphrey.
‘I called you three times,’ said the knight.
‘I didn’t hear.’ Robert met the knight’s gaze, then looked away across the busy courtyard. He hadn’t spoken with Humphrey much since the attack, except to listen to the knight’s quiet gratitude for saving his life. He had avoided Henry altogether. It hadn’t been hard. All three had kept to themselves, the sense of accusation from others in their company palpable. ‘Did you want something?’
‘I need you to come with me.’
Robert frowned. There was something different about Humphrey tonight. His face was tense, not with apprehension, but a keen impatience. ‘I should see to my men.’
Humphrey caught his arm. ‘Please, Robert.’
‘Go with you where?’ Robert’s voice was harder than he meant it to be.
Humphrey faltered, then fixed him with a dogged stare. ‘Do you trust me?’
Robert didn’t answer at once. He had trusted Humphrey, but the way the knight had entered the deserted settlement: his face closing in, obstinate determination forcing aside reason, had given him pause. He hadn’t seen this side of his comrade before and it had surprised him. But he still liked the young man, that hadn’t changed and, if truth be told, he had missed his company these past days. ‘I trust you.’
‘Then come.’
The knight led him along the walkway, past the north-eastern towers that loomed over walled gardens and orchards, below which the stone ramp coiled down to the wooden pier, where supplies were being offloaded from the last boats. Guards, hunkered down along the walkway against the wind, watched them pass. At length they came to a tower that looked out over the rooftops of the town to the moon-bathed hills. As Humphrey opened the door, Robert noticed the knight’s blue banner hanging from a window above.
The round room beyond was like his own lodgings, mostly bare except for a grand hearth and a few faded cushions on the window seat that was framed by stone mullions. The window was of leaded glass, the small squares mirroring the fire in the hearth. Sacks and chests lined the walls, as yet unpacked. The one difference between Robert’s chamber and Humphrey’s was the large group of men that filled it.
Over by the window, his yellow surcoat decorated with a green eagle, was Ralph de Monthermer, a knight of the king’s household. Seated on the cushions beside Ralph was young Thomas of Lancaster, who had joined the campaign as squire to Earl Edmund. By the fire was Henry Percy, his stocky frame lit by the red glow, his cold gaze on Robert. Next to him was the rangy figure of Guy de Beauchamp, brother of Helena. There was another royal knight, a quiet, courteous man named Robert Clifford, and three others. All were silent as Humphrey closed the door. Robert realised each had a shield on the floor by his feet. The scarlet was almost black in the shadows, but the liquid gold dragons blazed in the firelight, their shapes on the wood seeming to curl, alive. He noticed that one shield had been placed in the centre of the room on its own. At the sight of it a spear of excitement lanced through him.
‘We want you to join us.’
Robert turned to Humphrey, whose broad face was sharpened by shadows. The knight gestured to the others, who picked up their shields and moved into a circle around the solitary one. At first, after the joust at Smithfield in the spring, Robert had assumed these shields were part of a tournament guise, something won through feats of daring in the lists. In the months that followed, seeing this tight group operating within the court, with Humphrey as some sort of fulcrum, he had begun to suspect that this band had a wider purpose. This suspicion had become certainty during the march into Wales, hearing the veiled talk of the Crown of Arthur and a prophecy. Robert had wanted in, not just out of curiosity, but because he had seen the esteem these young men were held in, by the court and by the king. For years the Bruces had stood among the highest stratums of power, favoured by kings and respected by their peers. No longer. It was King Edward who had caused their fall from grace with his choice of Balliol and Robert had resented him for that, but his resentment faded as he realised what was being offered in this fire-rouged chamber.
Without a word, he stepped into the centre of the knights and Humphrey closed the gap behind him.
‘Pick up the shield,’ Humphrey began. He held up a cautioning hand as Robert bent towards it. ‘Only if you are willing to become one within the whole, one part of the circle that binds us in loyalty to our king and his cause.’
Robert straightened as Humphrey continued, sensing he must listen first.
‘Ten years ago after defeating Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, King Edward created an order of knights to whom he entrusted the greatest knowledge of our time. S
ome months after Llywelyn’s fall our king was at Nefyn, a village not far from where we now stand, where the prophecies of Merlin were discovered and translated by Geoffrey of Monmouth. There, in a former stronghold of Llywelyn’s, King Edward found the last of those prophecies. One that had not been translated by Monmouth. One that had remained hidden for centuries, kept secret by the Welsh princes of Gwynedd.’
Robert knew of Monmouth and his writings. His brother, Alexander, had owned a copy of The History of the Kings of Britain that he had skimmed through once. He hadn’t read the Prophecies though and had no idea that another had been discovered so recently.
‘King Edward had the Last Prophecy translated by a Welshman who was loyal to him and presented it to his knights, who vowed to help him fulfil its instructions. As a symbol of their unified purpose the king had a Round Table fashioned in likeness of the one in Arthur’s court. Those knights were our fathers, our grandfathers and brothers,’ Humphrey continued, his eyes moving over the silent men around Robert. ‘Now, we follow in their footsteps. Our aim is to prove ourselves worthy to serve our king as they have and one day take up our own places around his table, sharing in the glory of his reign.’
‘We are the Knights of the Dragon,’ said Henry Percy, his forceful voice sounding at Robert’s back, ‘named after the sign that appeared in Utherpendragon’s dream, the sign by which Merlin prophesied that Uther would be king and his son, Arthur, would rule all of Britain.’
As Henry fell silent, Thomas of Lancaster took up the thread, his young voice clear. ‘Geoffrey of Monmouth tells us of the ruin of Britain that followed Arthur’s death, during the invasions of the Saxons. He says that in this time God sent an angelic voice to tell the Britons that they would no longer be the rulers of their kingdom. But one day in the future, at a time foreseen by Merlin, if the relics of Britain were gathered together it could once again be united, a kingdom in peace, overflowing with riches.’
