by Robyn Young
King Edward had made John Balliol the King of Scotland. Now, he unmade him. Bruce couldn’t be certain, but in the golden dawn he thought he could see tears glistening on Balliol’s pockmarked face.
As Balliol was led away down the steps of the dais, to be escorted to the Tower in London, along with the rest of the Scottish nobles, King Edward rose. Seeing the king heading from the platform, surrounded by his officials, Bruce forced his way through the crowds determinedly. He still hadn’t been granted an audience with the English king, who had summoned him to witness this moment. Impatience was a spur in his side.
‘My lord king!’
Bruce ignored the complaints his forceful advance drew from those in his path, calling as he went, trying to attract the king’s attention. He had almost caught up to Edward, who was making his way across the camp ground with John de Warenne and his chief officials, when two royal knights stepped into his path, barring his way. Seeing they meant business, Bruce called vainly at the king’s retreating back.
‘My lord, I beg you. I must speak to you!’
Edward turned, his gaze alighting on Bruce, standing between the two knights, red-faced from the struggle through the crowd. Edward’s officials turned with him, looking to see who had dared accost the king.
‘My lord,’ said Bruce, pausing to recover his composure and bow. ‘I wanted to talk to you about a matter of importance.’ When Edward continued to stare at him, as if expecting him to state his business here and now, Bruce added, ‘In private.’
King Edward’s gaze didn’t waver or lose its chill. ‘My time here is limited. I will meet with all my vassals in Berwick next month, after my progress north is completed. There, I will accept the homage of the people of Scotland. You may speak to me then, Sir Robert of Annandale.’ He moved to head off.
Seeing the thing he craved, the thing that was now so tantalisingly near, slipping away, the Lord of Annandale forgot himself. ‘I insist, my lord!’ he shouted at the king’s back, his voice striking the air.
At the command, the royal officials looked stunned and the knights barring Bruce’s way grasped the hilts of their swords, clearly intending to draw them should he make any move forward.
Edward turned slowly, the hard lines of his face sharpened by the sun’s blaze. His grey eyes narrowed, all the strength and purpose behind them focusing in on Bruce, pinning him beneath that steel gaze.
Bruce backtracked hastily. ‘What I mean to say, my lord, is that this matter cannot wait.’ Ignoring the stares of the officials, he continued. ‘Now King John has been removed of his title, the throne of Scotland lies empty. My father held the right to that claim after Balliol, as determined by your judicious hearing, but on his death last year that right passed to me. You yourself acknowledged this when I accepted the governorship of Carlisle.’
For a long moment Edward did not speak. When he did, his voice was acid. ‘Do you think, Sir Robert, that I have nothing better to do than win kingdoms for you?’
As the king moved off with his officials, the knights turned and followed, leaving the Lord of Annandale standing there alone, stock-still, in the midst of the crowds.
44
The knights had ridden hard out of Montrose, only stopping to rest for a few hours at a time, when their horses could go no further. Now, as dusk fell on the third day and they descended a hill, Robert realised he could see the walled town of Perth on the banks of the mighty River Tay in the distance. Nearer, by a mile or so, was the royal burgh of Scone, where he and his grandfather had climbed the Moot Hill and the old man had spoken of the Battle of Lewes and the origin of his hatred of the Comyns.
As they approached the outskirts of the burgh, trotting their horses along a worn road, the wagon trundling behind, Humphrey gestured for them to slow. He veered right, leading them off the track into some sparse woods. The wagon’s wheels bumped over the rough ground, twigs snapping and breaking. All around the trees whispered, their branches forming webs against the purple sky, where the first stars glittered. After a short distance, they came to a clearing. Humphrey looked around and, seemingly satisfied, called the others to halt.
‘Are we making camp, Sir Humphrey?’ questioned Robert Clifford, staring into the shadows of the trees.
‘No,’ said Humphrey, dismounting with a wince, the mail beneath his cloak clinking. ‘Get the shields,’ he said to the two royal knights who had driven the wagon.
The others swung down from their horses, frowning questioningly at one another and at Humphrey, who had looped the reins of his destrier over a branch and was waiting in the centre of the clearing. After a few moments they joined him, the only sounds the scrape of wood as the knights dragged the shields from the wagon.
Leaving Hunter to crop the bushes, Robert crossed to Humphrey. All through the long ride, Humphrey remaining tight-lipped and reserved, tension had been building inside Robert. The initial relief he felt upon leaving Montrose had faded in the face of his rising questions, which Humphrey had so far refused to answer. ‘Enough secrecy,’ he said, before anyone else could speak. ‘What are we doing, Humphrey? We’ve been riding for three days with no idea of where we are headed, or to what end.’
‘I am sorry for that,’ said Humphrey, meeting Robert’s gaze, ‘but King Edward gave me that order. I was oath-bound to follow it.’ He looked at the rest. ‘You may have noticed that we have been retracing our steps. Beyond these trees lies the royal town of Scone, which we passed by on our way to Montrose. This is our destination.’
The two knights began handing out the dragon shields.
As the men took them, Robert felt his tension break in a shock of revelation. It flooded through him like ice water. ‘The stone,’ he said, staring into Humphrey’s face. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve come for the Stone of Destiny?’
Some of the others began speaking, their voices taut with excitement.
‘The throne,’ murmured Guy de Beauchamp. ‘The third relic.’
Robert hardly heard.
Humphrey had nodded in answer. ‘The stone is one of the four relics set down in Merlin’s Last Prophecy.’
‘Why didn’t I know this?’ Robert demanded, feeling betrayed and furious. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Humphrey’s voice sharpened. ‘I didn’t tell you because you went back to Scotland barely months after you were inducted into the order. There was no time to tell you, to explain.’
‘Explain what? That you were planning to take my throne?’
‘Your family lost the throne when Balliol took it,’ responded Humphrey quietly. ‘King Edward doesn’t plan to promote anyone else, not now. It is over, Robert. Scotland will become part of England, as Wales and Ireland are. The stone is no longer needed here. No new king will be enthroned upon it.’
‘Wales, Ireland – they are different.’ Robert’s voice rose in the clearing. ‘Scotland is a sovereign kingdom with its own liberties. That cannot just be swept aside!’
Ralph de Monthermer stepped in, his tone reasoning. ‘Our invasion has proven just how weak Scotland is alone. United with England it will be that much stronger. Both kingdoms will benefit from such a union. Together, now the treaty has been renounced, we can fight France and win back our king’s lands. You must see the sense in this, Sir Robert. If you didn’t believe in Edward’s cause, you wouldn’t have fought against your own countrymen for him.’
Before Robert could answer, Humphrey interjected. ‘The prophecy states that unless the four relics of Brutus are brought together under one ruler, Britain will face ruin. That means Scotland would suffer as much as England. We have to take the stone to ensure that doesn’t happen.’
‘How do you know the prophecy is real?’ Robert challenged, staring at them. ‘Have any of you seen the book the king’s translation came from? No. It is locked away, isn’t it? Supposedly too fragile to be exposed.’
‘I would be careful, Sir Robert,’ cautioned Ralph, ‘of making such suggestions.’
‘Even if it is r
eal,’ Robert continued, turning to Humphrey, ‘it doesn’t mean it was written about this time. What if the danger the Last Prophecy foresaw was hundreds of years ago? Or what if it meant Britain would face ruin hundreds of years in the future? I read Monmouth’s History when I was a boy and I read it again on my return to Scotland. Yes, he speaks of an appointed moment when certain relics should be gathered, but he doesn’t say when that appointed moment is.’
‘The Last Prophecy doesn’t just clarify the relics Geoffrey of Monmouth mentions,’ answered Humphrey. ‘It also speaks of specific events that will herald Britain’s descent into disaster. Signs to watch for.’ He hesitated, as if considering, then went on. ‘One of these signs was the death of King Alexander.’
Robert met this with silence. Until now, a large part of him had held back from believing in the prophecy. He knew other men, Aymer and Henry Percy among them, didn’t truly believe, but rather saw, as he had, their adherence to the order as a way to curry favour with King Edward. Robert saw surprise in the faces around him. Humphrey, it appeared, knew more of the prophecy than the rest of them. ‘It mentions the king by name?’
‘When the last King of Albany dies without issue,’ Humphrey intoned, ‘the kingdom will be thrown into disarray. And the sons of Brutus will mourn that day the one of the great name.’
‘Alexander?’ said Robert. ‘Alexander the Great?’
‘How could anyone but a seer have known that would happen?’ responded Humphrey.
‘Why weren’t we told of this?’ Aymer’s voice cut the silence.
‘It is something the men of the Round Table are aware of,’ responded Humphrey. ‘You would have all been told in time, if chosen to join.’
‘Since when were you enlisted to the table?’
Humphrey ignored Aymer’s caustic question. ‘Robert, I need you to trust me and King Edward needs you to trust him, as you have this past year. What we are doing is for the good of these islands.’ His tone strengthened when Robert didn’t respond. ‘You swore an oath to the Knights of the Dragon, to become one in the circle that binds us in loyalty to our king and his cause. This, Robert, is his cause. One relic from each corner of the old kingdom, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, must be gathered under him to prevent the ruin of all. Unless you will now break your oath, this is your cause too. The king has told me where the stone is kept. I can find it myself, but it will be quicker if you lead the way. I had hoped to do this without bloodshed,’ he added. ‘But if we are waylaid in our goal the death of innocents may prove inevitable.’
Robert stared at Humphrey, whose face was resolute. He could break his oath, refuse to aid him, and make an enemy of every man here and the king, or he could do as Humphrey asked and help fulfil the prophecy. He felt more torn than ever, his loyalty to his kingdom pulling at his loyalty to these men. Rising through his confusion, one stream of thought came clear. He couldn’t refute what Ralph had said about how easily the English had invaded Scotland. He himself had been left stunned by it. Things had not been well in the kingdom, not since Alexander’s death. What if it is true? What if the prophecy is real? He needed time to think this through, to make sense of it all. But they were looking at him, waiting for his answer. There was no time.
Robert didn’t speak, but he held out his hand to one of the knights who had been giving out the shields.
As the knight crossed to Robert and passed him the last dragon shield, Humphrey turned to the others. ‘We must do this quickly. Sir Robert Clifford and Sir Henry Percy will help me take the stone from the abbey church. Once we have secured it in the wagon, we leave. Do not raise your sword against anyone unless attacked,’ he added. His eyes moved to Aymer de Valence, who scowled and gripped the hilt of his blade.
Together, the knights mounted their horses. Making their way out of the trees, they formed up on the road, heading for Scone Abbey. Robert rode at the front with Humphrey, the shield heavy on his arm, his heart fierce in his chest.
After turning on to a narrower road that crossed the river by a bridge, they came upon the abbey, the buildings rising before them in the twilight. Beyond the trees that surrounded the abbey grounds, smoke drifted from roof vents over the royal burgh of Scone. The monks’ precinct wasn’t walled and the knights rode straight in, through the grounds. The place was quiet. Torchlight burned in the windows of a low hall, most likely the monks’ refectory. In the distance, Robert made out the circle of trees atop the ancient Moot Hill. He remembered his grandfather standing beside him in the dying evening light. He remembered the plinth where the stone would be placed and the gravity he felt.
Humphrey reined in his horse, the others slowing behind him. At the sound of his name, Robert realised the knight was calling him to direct them to the abbey church. It was years since he had been here, following his grandfather’s stride through this courtyard, but he knew the way. Kicking at Hunter’s sides, he led them past living quarters and gardens to where the church rose in the purple gloom. They passed a few figures, who started as they rode out of the dusk. One, dressed in a habit, shouted in alarm, wanting to know who they were, but the knights thundered past without answer. Humphrey overtook Robert, galloping towards the church. Behind him, Robert heard shouts and doors banging, as the monks heard the hoof-beats. Somewhere, dogs began to bark. They didn’t have long.
The knights pulled up their horses outside the church doors, the wagon wheels skidding in the dust. They jumped down, some drawing swords as they hastened towards the church. A few stayed by the doors at Humphrey’s command while he handed his shield to Ralph, then entered with Percy and Clifford. The church was filled with a smell of incense and molten wax. The glass in the windows shone dully in the candlelight. Robert followed, pulling up the hood of his cloak to hide his face. He was glad of the plain garment. Here, tonight, the red chevron of Carrick would have been like a brand.
Humphrey strode down the aisle, beneath the stern gazes of the angels that bowed from the pillars, heading for the altar, before which was placed a pale block of stone on a cloth of gold. Robert was struck by the memory of his father striding down this very aisle, the voices of the magnates of Scotland raised in protest behind him. He thought of his father’s eagerness for this prize; this ancient stone upon which the man had set his life’s ambitions. What dire fate had brought him, a Bruce, here at last, not to sit upon the throne, but to seize it for an invader?
Henry Percy and Robert Clifford had followed Humphrey. Together, the three of them hefted up the stone, Percy and Clifford grasping the iron rings to either side, Humphrey taking the weight from underneath. They stumbled down the aisle. Outside, Robert could hear shouts coming closer. The knights guarding the doors yelled for Humphrey to hurry. Robert drew his sword as Percy and Clifford approached. His gaze was on the sacred stone between them, the pale surface of which glittered in the candlelight. Beyond the doors a crowd was coming towards the abbey church, some holding torches. Most wore the habits of monks, but a few looked like labourers or servants. These men held knives and sticks. One had an axe.
The knights moved forward in a guarding ring, Humphrey and the others coming out behind them. Aymer de Valence was at the front. Robert joined them as Percy and Clifford staggered towards the wagon. Humphrey had let go of the stone and had grabbed his shield from Ralph. He moved to confront the approaching men.
The monks of Scone were led by a stooped, elderly man, no doubt the abbot by his fur-trimmed robes. His face had filled with shock at the sight of Percy and Clifford hauling the stone between them.
‘In the name of God, what is the meaning of this?’ he called hoarsely, coming to a halt before the ring of knights. ‘Who are you?’
‘We are the Knights of the Dragon,’ answered Humphrey. ‘We have come to take the Stone of Destiny on the orders of King Edward of England, Duke of Gascony, Lord of Ireland, conqueror of Wales and overlord of Scotland. Stand aside and you will not be harmed.’
‘By God, I will not,’ murmured the abbot, stepping forwa
rd, closely followed by the man with the axe. His voice trembled, but his wizened face was adamant in the torchlight. ‘I will not stand aside!’
Percy and Clifford were struggling to lift the stone into the wagon. Ralph moved to aid them.
‘None of us will,’ the abbot went on, raising his voice. In answer, the monks clustered forward. Most of them looked terrified.
‘Then you will die,’ growled Aymer de Valence.
Humphrey called out, but Aymer ignored him and thrust towards the abbot, who staggered back in terror. Before Aymer could strike, Robert brought his own sword slicing round to Aymer’s throat. He checked the blade at the last second, but it made contact with Aymer’s skin, just above the collar of his mail. The knight stopped dead, head tilted back from the edge of steel pushed up against him.
‘Lower your weapon,’ Robert said through his teeth. ‘Or I’ll slit you.’
Aymer’s black eyes flicked to Guy, standing behind Robert. ‘Do it then!’ he hissed, ‘and I shall die watching as you’re run through.’
Robert felt Guy’s sword point as a pressure against his back.
The man with the axe had moved closer, his gaze darting between Aymer and Robert, his shoulders hunching, as if to strike. Some of the monks were closing in, clutching their sticks and knives. A bell began to ring somewhere and distant shouts echoed in the dusk, from the town. More help was coming.
