by Robyn Young
‘My lady,’ warned one of the guards.
She ignored him. ‘Go to him, Sir Robert. I believe you will find in him a friend, as once your grandfather did. The last I knew my brother was in his lands of Kyle Stewart. Perhaps, if enough noble men make a stand, King Edward will be forced to abandon his occupation.’
‘Perhaps,’ echoed Robert doubtfully.
But as he walked away, leaving the castle gates to close behind him, his mind filled with the possibility of hope. If he, an earl, joined the rebellion, perhaps it would make a difference? Maybe his actions would inspire others, men who had supported his grandfather in the past. If enough of them joined the cause, King Edward would find it difficult, if not impossible to retain control in Scotland without resorting to another military campaign. He knew better than most that the king could ill afford to put down a widespread revolt when the war in France continued unabated.
Digging his foot into the stirrup and hauling himself into the saddle, Robert felt his decision settle inside him. Whatever happened, he would not return to Carlisle.
48
Robert Wishart stood in the chaos of the hall. Around him furniture lay overturned, benches toppled, boards knocked from their trestles. Five of the eight silk tapestries showing the life of St Kentigern, the city’s patron saint, that had graced the walls since before he was made Bishop of Glasgow were gone. Wishart took in their absence with a slow nod of anger. All around were signs of recent occupation, bowls crusted with food and wine in goblets covered with a film of dust.
The bishop moved through the mess, while canons from the cathedral worked to right it. Benches scraped loudly on the floor as the silent men turned them over. A goblet slipped off a table, landing on the floor with a noise like a bell and making some of them wince. On his arrival Wishart had sensed the tension coiled in them all. It made him question his decision to leave when Anthony Bek had set himself up in Glasgow’s Episcopal Palace, as agreed by King Edward. Many of the Scottish clergy had remained, but Wishart, his palace invaded and his position challenged, had retired from his diocese to his hall at Stobo, deep in Selkirk Forest. No, the bishop reasoned, his gaze moving over the industrious canons: his decision had been right, whatever indignities his men had suffered in his absence. It was nothing compared to what others had endured and, besides, he never would have been able to accomplish all he had if he’d remained under the militant Bek’s eagle eye.
Crossing to one of the windows, Wishart looked out over the orchards that filled the palace enclosure. The trees were full and green, their leaves incandescent after the morning’s fall of rain. Beyond the palace walls, Glasgow Cathedral towered over the valley above the River Clyde, on the banks of which lay the bustling burgh of Glasgow. Despite the circumstances, he was deeply gratified to be back in his see.
Wishart turned, hearing soft footfalls behind him, to see an acolyte.
‘The visitor you have been expecting has arrived, your grace.’
Wishart smiled grimly. ‘Good.’
After speaking briefly with the dean, he left the hall, following the acolyte. Outside, the yard was busy with members of the bishop’s household unloading his belongings from the wagons that had travelled from Stobo. Beyond the bustle a small group of men and horses were gathered near the gates. Wishart squinted into the daylight, his gaze fixing on one in their centre, a tall, dark-haired man. He moved down the palace steps, his large frame awkward on the rain-slick stones, brushing aside the offer of a steadying arm from the acolyte. ‘Sir James,’ he called, heading for the dark-haired man, who turned to watch him approach.
‘Your grace.’ The high steward bent to kiss the bishop’s outstretched hand. ‘It is a comfort to see a fellow guardian in such black days as these.’
Wishart grunted in agreement. Telling the acolyte to lead the steward’s men to the stables, he motioned for James to follow. ‘Come, my friend, let us walk together. I will have food and drink prepared for your knights.’
The two men set off across the yard. The steward was dressed in a sodden travelling cloak, the bishop in robes trimmed with ermine, his buskins soggy with mud.
James glanced to where the wagons were being offloaded. ‘Have you just arrived?’
‘Two days ago. I came as soon as I learned Bishop Bek had abandoned the place.’ Wishart grinned ferociously. ‘The canons tell me he hitched up his skirts and fled like a woman when he heard Wallace was on his way. Taking everything he could carry, the brigand went south to England.’ Wishart’s smile vanished. ‘Half my possessions went with him. Wallace passed through days later, heading west.’ By the lack of surprise in James Stewart’s face, the bishop guessed he had already heard most of this. Veering towards the orchard, he pursed his lips and frowned into the white sky. The cloud cover was low, but the sun was struggling to pierce it. With God’s grace they would see it before the day was out. ‘I know you have been supporting Wallace’s uprising,’ he said bluntly, unwilling to dance around the issue.
James glanced at him. For a moment, his poise slipped, then it was back, his face a mask of calm. He didn’t answer.
Wishart stopped under the shade of a gnarled apple tree. The tree had stood here for years, long before he was a bishop, perhaps long before he was born, through storm and flood, drought and war. In autumn it bore the sweetest apples. ‘Bek will have raised the alarm, James. The English will be coming for us soon. My scouts tell me King Edward has already ordered the Bruce at Carlisle to raise men for an attack on Douglas’s lands. Wallace and his army are headed for Irvine. There, they intend to make a stand against our enemies. I want us with them.’
James looked away, still silent.
‘Wallace and Douglas’s army grows daily,’ continued Wishart, undeterred. ‘Many more have joined them since they hounded Ormesby from Scone. In the north, the Moray family have raised the standard of rebellion. In the west, war has broken out between the MacDonalds and MacDougalls. Everywhere, English officials and those who support them are being challenged. My friend, you are Lord Douglas’s brother-in-law and Wallace’s lord. Will you not come out in favour of them?’
Finally, James spoke. ‘Most of those Wallace leads are outlaws. Whatever my personal feelings, I am the steward of this kingdom. I cannot be seen to support the actions of such men.’
Wishart pressed on, hearing the tightness in James’s voice. ‘You know as well as I that these men are outlaws because they have stood up to abuses committed by English soldiers in their towns. You know what the Sheriff of Lanark did to Wallace.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘The time is ripe, James. King Edward is occupied by his war with France and the discontent among his barons, who are fed up with paying for it. If we act now we could win.’
‘A stand? At Irvine?’ James shook his head. ‘Even if I raised all the men of Renfrew and Kyle Stewart and Bute we could not defeat the English on the field. Wallace’s company is armed with spears and sticks. Most of them have no armour and even less experience. The English cavalry would cut through them like scythes through wheat. Our entire host could not defeat them at Dunbar. How could a peasant army hope to win through?’
Wishart smiled, his eyes glittering. ‘Have faith, James. We have a plan.’
49
The company rode into the port of Irvine, their horses casting long shadows across the grass. Robert’s face was darkened by the late June sun, his surcoat and mantle dusty from the cornfields they had ridden through. Above him hovered the standard of Carrick, carried by the Carrick knight, Walter. Uathach loped alongside the slow trot of his palfrey, her tongue lolling in the heat. Riding with Robert were Nes, leading Hunter beside his own horse, the Setons and two knights from Alexander’s lordship in East Lothian. Since leaving Douglasdale, Robert had kept close counsel and quarters with them and in these past weeks on the road had come to know the cousins well. He was glad to have them with him: Christopher to lighten his mood and Alexander to watch his back.
Behind came
seven squires from Carrick, five servants and Robert’s steward, all leading spare horses laden with supplies. A solitary wagon bearing the heavier gear and their tents rolled in their wake. Among the men rode Katherine on the chestnut mare that had belonged to Robert’s wife. The maid was wearing one of Isobel’s gowns, unearthed from his belongings at Lochmaben. Robert couldn’t remember having kept any of his wife’s clothes until, slipping from his bed their second morning together, Katherine had presented the dress to him, asking if she could have the garment as her own clothes were becoming worn. He had stared at her standing there naked, her cheeks flushed with the heat of their lovemaking, before consenting with a wordless nod. The pale blue dress, laced at the back with a silver braided ribbon, had been a little long, for Katherine was shorter than Isobel, and tight on the bust where she was more amply endowed, but the maid had set Judith to work on altering it. The blue gown, which flowed behind her over the mare’s rump, was still slightly snug at her chest. A fact that hadn’t, Robert knew, gone unnoticed among the men.
To Katherine’s side rode Judith, staring sullenly out from beneath her dust-smudged coif, her pinched face hectic with sun. The girl was a miserable sow, but all the while her milk flowed she was as invaluable to Robert as the knights and squires with their swords. Behind the wet nurse was Marjorie in a chair fixed to the saddle which Nes had made out of an old stool seat, lined with a blanket. His daughter, almost sixteen months now, was starting to gurgle words, much to his pleasure.
Ahead, beyond Irvine on the banks of a river, the rebel encampment was sprawled across a stretch of fallow fields. Drawn from all corners of Scotland, it was a motley company: barons and lords, clergymen and officials and, swelling their number, a rabble of outlaws and peasants. They filled the area with a panoply of equipment, from finely furnished marquees to blankets on the ground, barded destriers to scrawny pack-horses and mules. There were fire pits tended by servants and flickering bonfires thronged by rough men in woollen hukes. The grass between the mass of tents and people was violet with thistles. Robert squinted into the smoky dusk, hunting for the steward’s banner.
On leaving Douglasdale, he had headed south-west through slow-climbing hills to Kyle Stewart, heeding the words of Lady Douglas. The steward had become something of a beacon, a hope on the horizon. The man was a canny politician and a shrewd speaker, and Robert’s grandfather had counted him among his closest confidants. He felt sure the man would be able to advise him, but his expectance had been crushed when they arrived to find the steward gone, recently departed, so they were told by a wary guard, to meet the Bishop of Glasgow. In Kyle Stewart their company had lingered in a camp in the woods for several days, Robert unsure of what to do.
His decision to defy his father’s orders had cemented itself on the road west and he had become convinced that it had been the right one. The weight of the past year had fallen from his shoulders and, despite concerns of what his decision would mean for him and his lands, he felt light, optimistic even, for the first time in months. In his mind, the possibility of negotiating with the English had been creeping into his thoughts, adding to this fragile sense of hope. His voice, as one of the thirteen earls of Scotland, as well as that of a former member of the king’s elite, would surely be heeded by them, unlike that of Wallace, whose voice was the roar of the mob and whose only ambition seemed to be to kill every Englishman in the land. Whatever his hopes, Robert couldn’t stay waiting indefinitely for the high steward to return, for with every day that passed came rumours of war.
People spoke of violence erupting in the west between the MacDonalds of Islay and the MacDougalls of Argyll. The MacDonalds, friends of the Bruce family, had supported King Edward since the occupation, incurring the retribution of the MacDougalls, who had long been allies of the Comyns. Rumour told of towns burning and families forced to flee as bands of armed men roved through the countryside, bent on murder and pillage. Everywhere rebellion was growing, as households realigned themselves and chose sides, ancient feuds stirred up to spark new conflagrations. English garrisons were retreating inside castle walls, as urgent messages and pleas for aid were hurried to Cressingham in Berwick, the roads becoming perilous. It was through these tidings that Robert’s company learned the Scots were gathering at Irvine. Reports were confused, some saying King Edward himself was coming north to confront the rebels, others that Wallace intended to invade England, but the one thing the stories agreed upon was that two new supporters of the uprising had emerged, in the forms of Bishop Wishart and Sir James Stewart, and that they too were headed for the port.
Now, approaching the rebels’ camp in the dying light, Robert felt his anticipation at the prospect of the steward’s counsel rise again. But before they reached the outskirts his company was met by an armed patrol.
The group confronted them on foot, one man halting them with a raised hand. Hugely muscular with a bald head burned scarlet, he was incongruously dressed in dirty, calf-length braies held in place by a belt at his broad stomach and a fine, fur-trimmed cloak that he wore open to reveal a scarred chest. He was gripping a long-handled axe with a wicked, curved blade. The six men with him wore an odd mix of garments suggestive of a multitude of localities. One was wearing the short tunic of a Highlander and was barefoot with a long spear in his hands. Another was clad in a rather outdated mail haubergeon that was too big for him, suggesting it had been made for someone else, while two others wore stained gambesons and carried short bows, with cloth quivers filled with arrows slung from their belts. They had the bullish stance of confident, aggressive men and all looked as if they had recently seen battle, cuts and bruises decorating their skin, bloodstains soaked into their clothing.
The bald man in the fur-trimmed cloak had his eyes on Robert’s banner. ‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice like a bear’s growl.
When Robert stated his name, he noticed an immediate shift in the group’s demeanour. The bald man glanced meaningfully at the Highlander in the short tunic, who nodded wordlessly and headed across the grass into the bustle of the encampment.
The bald man turned back with a dour expression. ‘Wait here.’
‘I’ve come to see Sir James Stewart,’ Robert went on, biting back his affront. He couldn’t really have expected anything but a cold welcome considering, but still, to be treated so discourteously by such men was an insult to his nobility.
The bald man said nothing, but continued to stare at Robert, his axe grasped in his fists.
Robert sat back in his saddle, showing him indifference, while inside he wondered uneasily if he had made a mistake coming here, perhaps a dangerous one. He caught the eye of Alexander Seton, whose face displayed a similar concern, his hand on his sword pommel.
After a tense wait, several men appeared, moving through the crowded camp, following the bare-legged Highlander. Robert sat up as he recognised the blue and white chequered band on gold that decorated their shields: the arms of the steward. Pleased by the evidence that a friendly face might yet be found, he was nonetheless troubled to see that the steward’s knights greeted him with the same terseness as the bald man, their hands never straying far from their weapons as they bade him and his men dismount. Leaving his horse with Nes, Robert walked up the hillside behind the escort. Glancing back, he saw the bald man and his crew had closed in behind.
Moving past tents aglow with lanterns, through the swirling smoke of fires, Robert saw people looking round at his banner. Many of their faces hardened as they fixed on the red chevron. He knew he couldn’t blame them. He had spent two years at King Edward’s court and during the war his family had sided with the English. Even so, determined to challenge their view of him, Robert set his sights on a row of tents looming ahead. Outside, horses were tethered to stakes thrust in the ground, a mixture of sturdy coursers and rouncies. Smells of dung and food mingled with the odour of wood from a fire that was burning high into the flushed evening. There were many men around it, sharing bowls of drink and food, some laughing, others talki
ng quietly. A few just stared into the flames, their sun-browned skin livid with wounds. Between the fire and the tents, Robert saw James Stewart. He was talking to a stocky man with a mottled face and tonsured head, dressed in robes trimmed with ermine. It was Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow. The two looked round at his approach. Robert smiled, but neither the steward nor the fierce-eyed bishop returned the greeting.
His retinue, along with Katherine and Judith, who held a struggling Marjorie, were corralled into a group by the escort of knights.
‘Sir Robert,’ said the steward, his tone cool. ‘It has been a while.’
‘I’m glad to see you, Sir James. My men and I have travelled from Kyle Stewart, where I had hoped to take counsel with you.’
‘I wondered if we might see you before long.’ The steward appraised Robert’s company. ‘We heard what happened at the castle of Lord Douglas.’
‘You heard?’ Robert was surprised. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the bald man had moved over to the fire and was speaking to someone, a tall figure, whose back was turned.
‘My sister came here a week ago on her way to safety.’ The steward paused. ‘I owe you my gratitude for letting her and my nephew go free. Had they been delivered into King Edward’s custody I am not certain I would have seen them again.’ The words, though seemingly heartfelt, were stiff.
Robert noticed that some of the men at the fire were looking over. He resisted the urge to move closer to his daughter at the threat from so many unfriendly gazes. One man was heading over purposefully. He was thickset with windblown black hair, dressed better than most of the others in well-fitted mail and a blue cloak. There was something faintly familiar about his face. Robert, seeing three white stars on the breast of his cloak, realised where the familiarity came from. His suspicion that this must be the father of James Douglas was confirmed when the man spoke.
