Insurrection

by Robyn Young

  Despite the king’s success in Wales, he wasn’t free of woe throughout the summer. With the receding snows and the arrival of spring, reports had begun to trickle through from England. Initial news that Edward’s men in Gascony had captured three key towns from the French had been welcome, but when the reports revealed there had been no movement since, the king had become pensive. The two wars along with the enormous costs involved in the building of Beaumaris and the reconstruction of Caernarfon had bled his coffers dangerously dry. Robert had overheard many uneasy conversations during their return to London, the barons wondering when he would start looking to them for more money.

  But today in Westminster those troubled voices were quiet, all the men’s attention on the king and the altar before the shrine of the Confessor.

  On the altar, which was draped with red and gold cloth, were three objects. One was a sword. Curtana, Humphrey had whispered as it was brought into the chapel. Rather than tapering to a point, the blade, once wielded by the saint whose bones lay within the gold tomb, was flat at the tip. It had been carried in every coronation since 1066 when the Conqueror was crowned King of England. Humphrey had murmured a line from the Last Prophecy as he and Robert had watched it carried in by a priest.

  The blade of a saint, borne by kings, broken in mercy.

  Next to the sword was a plain black box, gleaming in the candles’ glow. When asked what it was, Humphrey told Robert it contained the original prophecy King Edward had found in Nefyn after his first conquest of Wales. From that book of Merlin’s visions, so ancient it could not be removed from the box again lest it crumble into nothing, the king had his translation made, the words of which spurred him to seek the four relics, divided between Brutus’s sons, to prevent the foreseen ruin of Britain. To these was now added the Crown of Arthur, restored by the king’s goldsmiths. Taking it from the silk cushion at the foot of the shrine, Edward rose.

  Robert saw some crane their heads to watch as the king placed the crown on the altar. A few bowed in prayer. Humphrey’s eyes were shining, although other men appeared less humbled by the occasion. Robert felt caught somewhere between. Part of him wanted to throw himself headlong into this quest with Humphrey and the others, still believing his loyalty to the king could serve his family. Another part of him hung back, doubting the course he had taken. His brother’s accusations at Nefyn had pushed an uneasy truth to the surface, reminding him that he had made a pledge to his grandfather on the day he was dubbed: a pledge to uphold their claim to the throne. However uncertain that route seemed in comparison to this one that glittered with treasures, he could not deny he had sworn to that, or that he was now following a very different path. With the reminder came words his grandfather had so often said.

  A man who breaks his oath isn’t worth his breath.

  As King Edward turned from the shrine of the saint, the ceremony was concluded. At a signal from Sir John de Warenne, the earls, barons and clergy filed through a doorway in the painted screen that divided the sanctuary from the rest of the church, eager for the feast the king had organised in the palace and the chance to mutter about the conflict in Gascony. The king didn’t join them, but headed slowly to one of the tombs that stood near the Confessor’s shrine. It had a bronze effigy of a woman on top of it. The inscription on the side read:

  Here lies Eleanor, on whose soul God in His pity have mercy.

  As men moved in front of Robert, blocking the view of the king kneeling alone, he followed Humphrey out of the abbey’s heart and into its cavernous belly. The windows that marched down the aisles were of ruby and sapphire glass, decorated with shields, and the walls between the moulded marble pillars were gold and vermilion.

  Robert was halfway down the choir when he glimpsed a man, a royal messenger by his distinctive striped tunic, speaking with Ralph de Monthermer. Ralph turned, his gaze searching. Fixing on Robert, he pointed. As the messenger approached, Robert halted, Humphrey pausing quizzically beside him.

  ‘Sir Robert of Carrick.’ The messenger held out a rolled letter. ‘A message from Scotland, sir. It arrived some time ago, but we were unable to deliver it to you.’

  Robert hefted his shield higher on his arm to take the message, guessing it was from his grandfather. He had sent word to Scotland before he left for Wales, telling the lord that he had been summoned to serve the king. He smiled as he saw his grandfather’s seal, then opened it and began to read, men brushing past him through the choir. His smile faded the further he read.

  ‘What is it?’ Humphrey asked, watching his expression change.

  Robert didn’t answer, but reread the letter. When Humphrey repeated the question, he looked up numbly, meeting his friend’s questioning gaze. ‘I am to return home.’ He paused to clear the thickness in his throat. ‘To be married.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘To a daughter of Sir Donald, the Earl of Mar.’ Robert faltered, glancing numbly at the shield on his arm, scarred from battle. ‘I must take my leave of the king as soon as possible.’ He paused, then held the dragon shield out to Humphrey. ‘I should return this to you. I don’t know how long I will be gone.’

  Humphrey didn’t move to take the shield. ‘Once a Knight of the Dragon, always so. It is yours to keep, Robert.’ He let out a whistle through his teeth that ended in a laugh. ‘Well, we will have to make tonight’s feast one to remember if this is to be your last with us as a bachelor. Married?’ He shook his head and laughed again. ‘I suppose it is a burden we will all bear soon enough.’

  Ralph joined them along with Thomas of Lancaster, wanting to know what tidings the messenger had delivered. Humphrey told them. Ralph clapped Robert’s back solemnly and told him he was sorry.

  ‘Have you met her?’ Thomas asked.

  Robert’s mind filled with an image of a midnight lake, the air misting with his breath as he moved towards Eva, her hair silver in the moonlight. He recalled his grandfather and the Earl of Mar’s conversation from that night. He had sensed then that they were planning such an alliance.

  ‘Is she beautiful?’ Ralph pressed.

  ‘As Holy Mary and all her angels,’ said Robert finally, a shaky grin spreading across his face.

  Their laughter echoed up past the marble faces of saints and kings, up into the dark reaches of the abbey’s vault.

  36

  John Balliol stood on the walls of Stirling Castle, the sun setting in his eyes. In the marshy plains below the castle rock, distant pools of water reflected the light. The crimson sky was filled with flocks of birds. Their spiralling formations hinted at meaning, at some language of flight unknown to man. The air was fragrant with the smell of herbs from the garden where servants worked in the dusk collecting plants for the kitchens. The king could see other people moving through the castle grounds and the grassy stockade below the walls, where the rocks formed a plateau, before falling sheer to flower-speckled meadows that sloped down to the banks of the Forth. The great river flowed east from the distant mountains towards Edinburgh, where the royal castle perched like Stirling’s twin on its own spur of rock. There, the waterway that almost carved Scotland in two widened to become the sea. In the twilight, Balliol could just make out the wooden bridge over the inky waters below, the clasp that pinched the two halves of his realm together. For years, Stirling Castle had been called the key to the north, for whosoever controlled the castle that guarded the bridge controlled the only viable route into the Highlands.

  It was a tranquil evening, drowsy with summer, but the approaching darkness seeping from the east behind the bald Ochil Hills seemed to Balliol to herald so much more than falling night. He didn’t want to let this land from his sight, to see it slip into that black. He wanted to reach out and scoop the sun from the horizon, hold it to his chest to blaze in the face of his enemies. But the air was cooling on his pockmarked cheeks and the first stars were pricking the eastern sky.

  ‘My lord.’

  Balliol turned at the voice. On the walkway, heading towards him, was
John Comyn, his face bronze in the last of the light. The Lord of Badenoch had aged little in the three years since Balliol was enthroned at Scone and the king resented his brother-in-law’s hale appearance. He knew those same years weighed heavily on him, he who, since gaining a throne, had lost his wife and almost all of his authority. The sense of time passing made him think of both their fathers fighting at Lewes under King Henry: the moment when the bonds of their families’ alliance had been cemented. Balliol wondered if William Comyn hadn’t offered his father freedom from that priory cell in Lewes would he be standing here today, facing such loss? Would the tides of fortune have run different if the Balliols had gone their own way at that moment rather than allow themselves to fall into the Comyns’ debt? The thought and the memory of his father fired his blood.

  ‘Are you ready, my lord? The men are gathered in the hall.’

  ‘I cannot believe this is our only option,’ said Balliol, turning back to the dimming view, knowing his brother-in-law would be furious at the suggestion.

  When he spoke, Comyn sounded rigid. ‘You agreed, Sire. We all agreed.’

  ‘No, you agreed. This was your plan, not mine.’

  ‘Did I have any choice?’ demanded Comyn, anger roughening his voice. ‘When you let King Edward bully and manipulate you? When you allowed him to remain as overlord of Scotland, despite the agreements sealed? He judged you to forfeit three towns in that mockery of a trial he conducted last year. When did we give such liberties to a foreign king?’

  ‘Perhaps you should have asked him that yourself when you were in London marrying your son to the daughter of one of his allies.’

  Comyn didn’t back down at the cutting accusation. ‘I have a duty to choose a worthy bride for my heir. Just as you have duties as our king. You were supposed to preserve our rights. Instead, you surrendered them to Edward.’

  ‘There has to be another way. Twelve men to rule in place of one?’

  ‘They are not to replace you, merely to advise you.’ Comyn’s face tightened. ‘The men of the realm have come here tonight for this purpose. Four earls, four bishops, four barons. You cannot refuse us.’

  ‘And if I do? What then, brother?’ In the fading red light, Balliol’s face was tortured. ‘Will you have me killed as you did my predecessor’s granddaughter?’

  Comyn looked around as Balliol’s words echoed in the evening. ‘Beware, my lord,’ he murmured. ‘I was not the only man in that conspiracy.’ His voice changed, becoming softer. ‘In the days that must come you cannot be our sole voice.’ As the king looked away, Comyn stepped in front of him. ‘You will still be king, John, but you must be guided by the council. Let them deal with King Edward. When Scotland’s safety is assured, it may be that such guidance is no longer necessary.’

  ‘When will that be?’ Balliol knew he had lost; his own voice, tired and feeble, told him so.

  Comyn planted his hands on the stone wall and looked out over the marshy plains that stretched from the castle rock, around which the royal burgh of Stirling clustered. ‘It will depend on Edward’s move, when he finds out we have made an alliance of swords with his enemy. He may back down then and return our liberties to us. The wars in Wales and Gascony will have cost him dearly. Another campaign would be the last thing he would want.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t back down?’

  Comyn was silent for a while, but his tone when he spoke was resolute. ‘Then it will be longer.’

  ‘Will King Philippe support us militarily?’

  ‘I believe so, based on our initial discussions.’

  The king watched the rays of sun disappear behind the mountains. When the light had gone, Balliol turned to his brother-in-law. ‘Come then, and let this be done with.’

  The day was drawing to a close as Robert and Edward, accompanied by their retinue, made their way across the border. Having been granted the king’s permission to leave Westminster it had taken Robert longer than anticipated to set his affairs in order and after almost a fortnight on the road this, the last stretch of their journey, had felt the longest. For some hours now, after skirting the walled city of Carlisle, England’s last town, he had ridden in restless silence, fixed on his destination, tauntingly close beyond the lonely marshes of the Solway Firth.

  To Robert it felt strange returning to his homeland after so many months away, not least because it didn’t seem to have changed at all, yet he felt as though he were coming home a different person, in body and mind. He had left a youth of nineteen, but returned a man of twenty-one, blooded in war. He was in the king’s favour and had made influential friends in England. Mingled with this sense of homecoming was a desire to speak to his grandfather about all that had happened in the two years he had been away. He had already decided to confide in the old man about his induction into the Knights of the Dragon and his allegiance to King Edward, certain his grandfather would tell him whether the decisions made had been the right ones. Through these thoughts, Robert felt his nerves rising at the prospect of the marriage that had summoned him home. This would constitute another change, one he hoped he was ready for. Eva was beautiful, certainly, but would she be a good wife? A suitable mother for his children? The thought made him feel more discomforted and he pushed it out of his mind as they followed the familiar road that circled the gentle hills of Annandale, towards Lochmaben.

  In the rosy evening, they reached the outskirts of the town. At the sight of the blunt stone keep rising from the motte, Robert felt his heart leap. He turned to grin at his brother and saw the same excitement reflected there. Pressing their weary horses into a trot, they and their squires headed through the town, towards the gates in the castle’s palisade. Smoke was rising from chimneys beyond. Robert wondered if any of his brothers or sisters would be here. The closer he had come to Scotland he had found himself thinking of Niall’s joyous laughter and Thomas’s sturdy silence, Christian’s shy sweetness, Mary’s wildness, even Alexander’s bookishness. He had missed them all, but none more so than his grandfather.

  Robert didn’t recognise the dour-faced men on the gates, but the guards let them in at once when he gave his name. The bailey beyond was quiet, a few torches flickering in the balmy air. Robert dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to Nes, wondering why no one had come out come to greet them.

  ‘Perhaps Grandfather isn’t here?’ said Edward, staring around the deserted yard.

  Robert’s gaze moved to the motte that rose above the bailey. The keep stood solid against the sky. ‘No banner,’ he murmured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Grandfather’s banner isn’t raised on the keep. You’re right. He can’t be here.’ Robert felt disappointment slump through him. On receiving his grandfather’s letter in Westminster he had sent one of his squires on ahead to inform the old man that they would be returning home within the month. He now wondered if something had delayed the squire and his message, for surely his grandfather wouldn’t have left knowing they were due to arrive? Robert turned, hearing a door open in one of the buildings. As a young woman came out carrying a bucket, he hailed her. ‘Where is the Lord of Annandale?’

  The maid halted, looking at the group of weary men. ‘Is he expecting you, sir?’

  ‘No, but he’ll see me.’

  The maid clutched the bucket nervously. ‘He told us no more visitors, sir.’

  Robert felt his irritation rise. He was exhausted from the long journey and impatient to see his grandfather. The hush of the courtyard and the unfamiliarity of the staff were disconcerting. Had something happened in his absence? ‘I am Sir Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick. His grandson,’ he told the woman. ‘As I said, he will see me.’

  Her eyes widened, but if anything she looked even more hesitant. ‘Sir . . .’ she began.

  ‘Just tell me where the lord is.’

  ‘He is dead.’

  At the cold voice, which slid like a knife through him, Robert jerked round.

  Standing in the doorway of the main lodging was his f
ather. His broad frame, swathed in a black, fur-trimmed cloak, filled the opening. His hard face was older, marked with deep lines of age and resentment. His hair was coarse and streaked with grey. As the shock of him wore off the words his father had uttered filled Robert’s mind. ‘Dead?’ he murmured, the word slipping between his lips.

  ‘Your grandfather died in March. I returned from Norway to take over the estates.’ The Bruce’s glacial blue eyes flicked from Robert to Edward, then to their attendants and horses. His gaze lingered on Hunter, his brow knotting.

  Robert felt the pain of his father’s indifference only dimly, a mere pin-prick in the midst of the agony he felt for his grandfather’s death. His mind conjured that creased, leonine face, that silver mane of hair, those hawk-like eyes. Beside him, he faintly heard Edward greeting their father, his voice hoarse. Robert couldn’t speak. The words dammed in his throat. Clogged with sorrow, they turned into swollen, incoherent sounds. He could feel them struggling to break free. With effort, he managed to mumble, ‘I need to wash.’ Then turned to leave, determined not to show his grief in front of his father. He would not bear the salt of his disdain rubbed into this opening wound.

  ‘There will be time for that later,’ said his father sharply. ‘First, there is someone for you to meet. When I received word of your return I sent a message to Earl Donald. He arrived last week to finalise the arrangements that were made with your grandfather. The marriage will go ahead as soon as possible now you are here.’

  The Bruce turned to the main building and Robert saw another figure lingering in the doorway. As his father beckoned, she stepped out into the torchlight, which bruised her thin features. She was gangly in a plain green gown, her arms wrapping nervously around her as she approached. Her mouse-brown hair had been plaited and fixed tightly to her head with pins, making her face look even more pinched and hungry. It wasn’t Eva. It was her younger sister. Robert couldn’t remember her name. He stared numbly at her.