by Robyn Young
‘In the Last Prophecy,’ said Ralph de Monthermer, ‘found at Nefyn ten years ago, these relics are named as a throne, a sword, a staff and a crown. They are the regalia of Britain, first carried by the founder of our lands, Brutus of Troy. On his death the four relics and the kingdom were divided between his sons. This division was what began Britain’s long decline into war, famine and poverty. The Last Prophecy tells us our lands will face their final destruction unless these four relics are gathered again under one ruler at the time God decreed.’
Humphrey spoke again. ‘The crown in the prophecy is the diadem worn by Brutus himself and handed down to all British kings thereafter. It is the crown worn by Arthur, who passed it to his cousin at Camblam, whereupon it slipped out of knowledge until Llywelyn ap Gruffudd united Wales beneath him with its power. It is this crown that we must now find. If you are willing to pledge yourself to this quest and to prove yourself worthy to be admitted into the Round Table one day, then pick up the shield.’
When Humphrey fell silent, Robert knew it was his turn. Thoughts of treasures and knightly quests filled his head. Faint in his memory, he heard his foster-father in Antrim speaking of Fionn mac Cumhaill and his band of warriors. He had listened then in awe, wondering if his own knighthood would yield such adventure, but the older he had grown the more he had seen that the coming of age was more about duty and politics than great journeys of discovery, tournaments and glory, and the more those stories had faded from his mind. It didn’t seem real, what these men were saying, but their solemn faces hinted at truth and a gravity that made the skin on Robert’s neck tighten as if cold, and made those distant tales at once vivid with possibility. He hesitated for a moment, aware that this was an oath he was making, as sacred as any vow of homage or fealty; an oath that bound him in loyalty to the king. Humphrey’s words echoed in his mind . . . take up our own places around his table, sharing in the glory of his reign. Bending, Robert lifted the dragon shield.
The atmosphere lightened at once, the men nodding and smiling.
Humphrey moved to him. ‘Welcome,’ he said, embracing him.
Robert faltered, not wanting to diminish the solemnity of the moment, but he had to ask the question. ‘Did everyone accept me?’ He knew enough to know that Aymer de Valence was part of this order.
‘The others will be told later.’ Humphrey seemed to catch his meaning. ‘They cannot refuse you though. The king permitted it.’
‘King Edward knows?’
‘I spoke to Sir John de Warenne, who petitioned the king personally for your admittance.’
Robert nodded, privately pleased at the evidence he had made a good impression on the king, despite the disaster on the march.
Ralph de Monthermer headed over with two goblets of wine that he handed to them.
Robert took one. ‘If the Crown of Arthur is one relic, what are the other three?’
‘It is believed one is Curtana,’ said Ralph, before Humphrey could answer. ‘Also known as the Sword of Mercy. The blade was once wielded by St Edward the Confessor, but its true origins were unknown, until the prophecy. The king keeps it at Westminster.’
‘And the staff? The throne? Does he have these?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Humphrey, raising his goblet. ‘Now, drink, brother!’
Robert lifted his vessel and drank, Humphrey’s intense gaze fixed on him.
30
Where were you last night?’
Robert turned at the question. His brother Edward was crouched against the wall of the armoury that bordered the outer ward of Conwy Castle, hands clasped over his knees. The air was filled with a harsh grating sound as Nes rolled Robert’s mail in a sand-filled barrel back and forth across the ground, to chafe the rust from the metal. Other men were there, mending links in mail and cleaning swords. Gusts of icy wind buffeted through the yard, scattering sand into their eyes. Last week, shortly after the Christ Mass, a breath of snow had arrived in the teeth of that wind, but it hadn’t settled. By the threat in the slate-dark sky there would be more before long.
‘Last night?’ Robert looked away. ‘I was with Humphrey.’
‘I’ve hardly seen you these past ten days. What have you been doing?’
Robert shrugged off the enquiry. ‘Training.’
This wasn’t a complete lie. In the ten days since the king’s army arrived at Conwy, there had been little to do but wait, while scouting parties were sent out to gather information on the enemy’s location. So far, since the attack by the rebels in the forest, they had seen no signs of anyone but a few peasants out working in the fields, the lands eerily quiet. Training had kept them occupied. But it wasn’t the sole cause of Robert’s absences.
Edward rose, his face tightening. The scrape of the barrel sounded over his murmured words. ‘I saw your new shield, brother.’
As he realised Edward had guessed at the wrong secret, Robert felt relief. On the back of it came guilt. Humphrey had impressed upon him the need to keep the matter of the prophecy within the order, but had told him he was free to call himself a Knight of the Dragon and bear the shield in tournaments and in war. Still, Robert had kept his induction private, reluctant to confide in Edward. He knew deep down that his brother would not approve of the oath he had taken before these men. He masked it with anger. ‘You went through my belongings? You had no right!’
‘I was in your room. I happened to see it.’
‘It was under my bed. Wrapped in sacking.’ As Nes glanced at them, Robert moved off, nodding for his brother to follow. When they were out of earshot, he turned. ‘Not everything I do is your business.’
Edward’s mouth flattened. ‘I’m one of your men. Do you not have a duty to let me know your plans on this campaign?’
‘As one of my men you should obey me without question,’ said Robert sharply, ‘like any other squire.’ He averted his eyes from the offence in his brother’s face. ‘What I mean—’
‘It’s clear what you meant,’ Edward cut across him. ‘Am I beneath you now? Not worthy because I’m not a knight like your new comrades?’
Robert leaned back against the armoury wall with a rough sigh. He had known this had been coming for a while now.
He had first noticed the change in his brother soon after he was dubbed. On the journey through England, the two of them brought closer by the unfamiliarity of a foreign land, the resentment he had sensed from Edward seemed to diminish. But during the summer in London and his strengthening friendship with Humphrey, it had become apparent again. He had wondered if it was the cause of Edward’s increasingly unruly behaviour: the way he stood up to the knights as if he were their equal, the disparaging manner in which he talked about some of the barons, the way he liked to challenge people, at the feast table in conversation or on the training field with a lance. Whatever the reason, Robert had found himself ever more annoyed by his brother’s conduct and more reluctant to do what it was Edward wanted most.
‘Why won’t you dub me?’
There it was: the question Robert had known was coming. ‘I said we would discuss it when we returned home.’
‘That was before the war. We’ve been gone from Scotland eighteen months already and you don’t know how long this campaign will last.’ Edward stepped in front of Robert, forcing him to look at him. ‘Brother, I’ll be nineteen next year.’
‘That’s still young to be dubbed. Have patience.’ Robert put his hands on Edward’s shoulders. ‘Let us finish what we came here to do and then, I promise, I will see you knighted.’
Edward paused, resistance struggling in his face. Finally, he nodded.
Robert broke his hold as a bell in the town began to clang, ringing the afternoon office. At the sound he felt a grip in his stomach, a tense thrill, like the one he got at that moment before he kicked a horse towards a target. ‘I have to go,’ he told his brother. He called to his squire. ‘Check on Hunter for me, Nes, when you’re done here.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Enj
oy your training,’ Edward called after him, sarcasm crisping his words.
Robert didn’t look back, but headed across the busy outer ward, towards a set of steps that led on to the battlements. By the time he reached the top the bell had ceased its chimes, leaving the echo of its ring to ripple over the estuary. As he hastened along the walkway, intent on the north-eastern tower, a voice inside him challenged his double standards: only moments ago he had been berating his brother’s carelessness and here he was, reckless as a child who swings himself off the high branch of a tree without a care for what lies beneath, or the height of the fall. Robert forced the voice aside as the thrill took hold, carrying him beyond the point where reason or caution could follow.
As he passed alongside the tower that loomed over the main gate, he saw a company, several hundred strong, heading towards the castle. Most were mounted, their banners garish in the stormy light. Men had been filtering in for the past fortnight from the divisions that had been sent south to relieve the castles besieged by the rebels. This was the largest company so far. Robert wondered if they brought with them tidings of the enemy’s whereabouts. In many senses it would be a relief to leave the increasingly cramped confines of the castle. But there was one thing he would miss.
Robert came to a tower overlooking the wide estuary. There was a smell of sewage rising from where the latrine chutes opened on to the rocks. Gulls hopped across the gleaming boulders, squabbling over the pickings. Opening the tower door, Robert entered the darkness of a stairwell that spiralled down within the wall. On the floor below, he headed cautiously into a large round chamber, where the only light came through arrow loops cut into the walls. He paused in the gloom, seeing the vague outlines of footprints in the dusty floor leading to a stacked row of grain sacks. There were far fewer sacks now than there had been at the beginning of the week, when he’d first found this place. The floor around them was powdery with grain, in which more footprints could be seen. The shrieks of gulls echoed outside. Between their cries, he caught a whisper that held his name.
Robert went forward and squeezed himself through a gap in the bulging sacks, tighter since they had been disturbed. Pressing against the coarse material, he pushed his way in, the grain shifting beneath his touch, like muscles under skin. The musty smell reminded him of harvest time in Carrick. All at once he was through, a window seat with two stone benches opposite one another before him. The seats ended at a narrowing shaft cut by an arrow loop. Standing between them, silhouetted in the slit of light, was Helena de Beauchamp, her hair, piled on her head, a fire-tinged halo.
The girls back in Lochmaben had been sweet and willing, but ultimately unsatisfying, like tilting at a quintain from a standstill, with none of the fury of the ride. Eva, whom he’d kissed by the loch the night his family lost the throne, had been different and had lingered in his memory to tantalise him, the chase cut short by the events that followed. Helena, an English earl’s daughter, sixteen and promised to another man, was an even more reckless target, but that had only made Robert desire her more. She had presented herself to him. What could he do but tilt?
Helena wore a navy gown that was pulled in tight at her waist by a plaited belt, before falling in abundant folds to the ground. In that dark robe, with her lean figure, she looked almost boyish, but Robert knew the malleable softness beneath those clothes was anything but masculine. She smiled, but didn’t speak. Their meetings so far hadn’t been about words. Robert was comfortable with that. Here in this musty bolt-hole, behind the grain sacks, there was only one goal. A goal he had so far been thwarted in, which he aimed for more ardently each afternoon.
As they came together, Robert clasped Helena’s face, his palms tingling against the marble of her cheeks as he moved his mouth over hers. He smelled the now familiar scent of olive oil, she had told him from the soap she used, shipped from Spain. Her lips were warm, her breath hot, mingling with his as they exhaled into one another with every changing circle of their lips. Her hands pushed tentatively up to his neck, fingers coiling in his dark hair, while his left her face and slid over her shoulders, down her spine. As his hands travelled lower, edging over that supple curve where her taut body became so surprisingly soft and full, Helena pulled back with an intake of breath. Robert tensed, frustration struggling within him, threatening to overpower his sense of decorum. This was it. The point when the challenge began. They would be here for a while now, him moving his hands back to the base of her spine, her yielding again, the passion building, his hands shifting once more, perhaps trailing a little further before she pulled away and the whole contest began again.
Robert had just found his place, some time later, his hands confidently positioned, when the door of the chamber opened. At the sound of voices and footsteps, Robert and Helena jerked from one another. Catching glimpses of movement through the gap in the sacks, Robert drew her back. She stared past him large-eyed, her cheeks aflame. His heart was thudding and he fancied he could feel hers, echoed in that rapid pulse of blood. Beyond the sacks, two men were speaking.
‘This should do for your men, sir. You can take the chamber above. I’m afraid we’re a little unprepared. The king wasn’t expecting you for a while. We’ll have the rest of those sacks moved immediately.’
‘See that you do. My knights are weary.’
Robert frowned, hearing that rasping voice with its sharp accent. The recognition struck him. It was the old Earl of Pembroke, William de Valence.
‘Certainly, sir.’
The footsteps receded and the door banged shut. Robert waited for a moment, listening to the fading voices, then turned to Helena. ‘We’ll leave separately. I’ll go first and make sure it’s clear.’
As he went to move, Helena gripped his arm. ‘Where will we meet now, Sir Robert?’ she whispered.
‘I’ll find us somewhere.’ Robert bent to kiss her, tenderly now, before pushing through the sacks, Helena following behind. He listened at the door, shoulder pressed against the wood. Hearing nothing, he opened it a crack. The stairwell beyond was empty. Turning to smile reassuringly at Helena, he headed out, leaving the door ajar for her. He was making his way up the stairs, thanking God for those sheltering sacks, when he heard two sets of footsteps coming down. He went to turn back, but there was no time and he had to give Helena a chance to leave. If she heard voices, she would know to head down rather than up.
The first figure’s boots appeared, grey with dust. A blue and white striped surcoat, stained with mud and decorated with tiny red birds, flapped over them as they descended. For a moment, as he caught sight of the arms, Robert thought it was Pembroke himself, then, as the hard, angular face appeared, he realised it was his son.
Aymer de Valence halted at the sight of him. His jaw was dark with stubble and there was a jagged wound on his cheek that had been recently stitched. Behind him was a squire, a sack bag slung over his shoulder and a bundle of clothes in his arms, stained with blood. There was more of it on Aymer’s surcoat, great smears of it obscuring the red birds. ‘I was told these were our lodgings,’ Aymer said harshly, looking back at his squire.
‘That is right, sir,’ answered the man, staring uncertainly at Robert.
There was a recess a few steps up, where an arrow slit looked out over the estuary. Robert made his way to it and stood aside. ‘Go ahead,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the knight.
Aymer paused a moment longer, then carried on down the steps, the sour smell of blood following him, along with the squire. Robert continued, not looking back, until he was pushing through the door and out into the wind that stung his hot face.
31
Back in his room, Robert washed his hands in the basin by the window. He bent to splash his face, then planted his palms on the wooden stand, staring out across the battlements.
It was almost dark, low clouds skimming the castle turrets. The chamber, with its straw-filled mattress, was in shadow apart from the single stub of a candle. Below, Robert could hear the voices of his broth
er and the rest of his men as they shared a meal. Firelight glowed in the gaps in the floorboards. Edward was telling some story, his voice lifting above the others’ laughter. Robert usually joined them, but he didn’t feel like company now.
There was a knock at the door. Crossing the chamber, Robert opened it to see Humphrey before him, his face half lit by the pallid glow of the candle. He was unsmiling.
‘What is it?’ Robert asked, thinking by his comrade’s grave face that word had come from the scouts on the enemy’s location.
‘Get your sword.’
The instruction seemed to confirm Robert’s guess, but there was something about Humphrey’s grim manner that gave him pause for doubt. Still, he went for his broadsword. ‘Has the enemy been sighted?’ he asked, looping the belt the scabbard was attached to around his waist. ‘Are we under attack?’
As Robert reached for his gambeson, Humphrey motioned to him. ‘Not that,’ he said flatly, ‘just your sword.’ He moved into the passage as if expecting Robert to follow.
Robert did after a moment. ‘What’s wrong, Humphrey?’
Humphrey didn’t respond, but led the way up several steps to a door that opened on to the battlements.
Robert grimaced as he headed into the perishing air. He was only wearing his black hose and a white linen shirt, open at the neck. A mist of rain in the frozen wind dampened his face. As Humphrey led the way towards the north-eastern towers, Robert searched for signs of imminent attack, but the castle was quiet, torches flickering down in the courtyards, illuminating groups of guards. Beyond the walls, the streets of Conwy were in darkness. After a few moments, Humphrey marching ahead in silence, he’d had enough.
