by Robyn Young
She hadn’t responded to his words.
Robert’s eyes moved back to the fire. ‘When I took my vows as a knight, my grandfather made me swear to defend our family’s claim to the throne. I couldn’t see then how I would fulfil that oath. I took it as some statement of defiance, him showing the men of Scotland that he would not bow down to Balliol. But I believe he meant it. He meant for our family to claim the throne, however long it took. That ambition had burned in him for almost sixty years, ever since he was named heir by King Alexander II. In England, in King Edward’s court, I became . . .’ Robert paused, looking down at his hands. ‘I became distracted from this pledge, drawn by promises of wealth and power, things I thought my family would want me to secure. This led me to do things. Things I cannot change.’ He stared into the flames. ‘I broke the vows I took as a knight. I failed to defend my kingdom, protect my people or fulfil my obligations as an earl and I betrayed the oath I made to my grandfather. When my father began talks with King Edward, making a bid for the throne over my right, I let him. How could I take the throne of a kingdom I had helped to destroy?’
Affraig had set the bowl on the floor. Her eyes were bright in the flames. She didn’t speak.
‘At the negotiations in Irvine, it became clear to me that there was no side I could stand on. The English despise me and my countrymen don’t trust me. Wallace and the others are rebelling in the name of Balliol. I cannot fight with them. It would be as much a betrayal of my oath as when I was fighting for England. I know what I must do. What I should have done months ago.’ Robert felt embarrassed, about to say the words. Inside, his father’s voice berated him, but he silenced it. ‘I want you to weave my destiny,’ he finished. ‘As you did for my grandfather.’
When she spoke, her voice was low. ‘And what is your destiny?’
He met her eyes now, all hesitation and embarrassment gone. ‘To be King of Scotland.’
A smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t a soft smile. It was hard and dangerous. ‘I will need something of yours,’ she said, rising.
Robert cursed inwardly. He had brought coins to pay her with, but nothing else. He should have remembered those objects inside the webs. He checked himself, but he had on only the clothes he was wearing: a blue tunic, a pair of hose and boots, and a dirk he had slipped into his belt, just in case. A dagger didn’t seem an appropriate symbol of kingship. ‘I have nothing.’
Affraig frowned in consideration, then crossed the chamber to a shelf littered with herbs and leaves. A stained pestle lay beside a mortar. Reaching up, she pulled a handful of dried flowers from the beam above the counter. Squinting into the gloom, she snatched down two more bundles. As she returned to the pool of firelight, Robert realised the first she had plucked was a bunch of heather. The second was broom and the third he didn’t recognise.
She seated herself on her stool, spreading the herbs on her knees. Robert shifted to sit cross-legged before the fire, watching her work. As Affraig pulled apart the tangled roots, the room filled with the sweet smell of heather. When each bushy stalk had been separated she chose three and began to plait them together. As she worked, dried flower heads crumbled from her skirts on to the floor around her. When one braid was done she picked up another three stalks and began again, her fingers deft. After a time she had nine stiff braids and now she began to join them in a circle, binding them. Into each loop, she threaded wisps of broom and strands of the third herb.
‘Wormwood,’ she murmured. ‘Crown for a king, it was called in ancient days.’
Her darting fingers were hypnotic and the smell of herbs and wood-smoke intoxicating. Robert felt his eyes grow heavy. He hadn’t slept properly since they left Irvine a week ago. His limbs were leaden.
He came to with a jolt to see her looming over him, holding a crown of green, his destiny made manifest in a circle of heather and broom. In his mind, he saw himself standing on the Moot Hill with his grandfather, the shadows gathering around them, the plinth beside them empty, expectant of a new king. He had felt the ghosts of his ancestors thronging the hillside that evening. He sensed them now in this fire-lit chamber, crowding in, hushed and eager, as Affraig bent to place the crown upon his head. As she did so, she murmured words he did not understand, an odd mix of Latin and Gaelic.
When she was done, Affraig took it to the herb-strewn shelf. Reaching into a sack bag at her feet she pulled out a bundle of weathered twigs, stripped of bark. They were supple in her hands as she curved and twisted them, binding them with twine to create a hollow, misshapen web, just big enough to contain the crown, which she inserted before the end and fixed to the lattice of twigs with a length of twine.
Finally, she turned to him. ‘It is done.’
Robert rose to look at the web of his destiny with interest and doubt. Could this circle of herbs and sticks bring him to the throne? He thought of his grandfather’s spell, to end the curse of Malachy, still hanging in the oak after all these years, as yet unrealised. ‘When will you put it in the tree?’
‘It must spend one night by fire, another by water, the third in the air and the last night on the earth. Only then will it be ready for the hanging.’
Robert reached for the money pouch that hung from his belt, but Affraig stopped him.
‘I did not do this for coin,’ she said, her tone angry.
Robert took his hand away. There seemed little else to say and so he walked to the door. She came with him, clearly expecting nothing more. As he stepped outside, Robert saw the sun had set and the valley lay in shadow. The woods beyond were dark. He turned suddenly, a question springing into his mind. ‘How will you get it in the oak?’
Affraig smiled and this time her face softened. She nodded to a long wooden pole leaning up against the side of the house, slit at the end to form two prongs.
Robert grinned, remembering he had once thought she must fly up there. His mirth faded. ‘I don’t know how to begin.’
‘You will.’
56
Making his way out of the woods, Robert headed back to his comrades, who were waiting where he had left them, sharing a skin of wine. They looked relieved as they saw him approach. A half-moon had risen, bold and bright.
‘Did you find what you wanted?’ Alexander asked.
‘I did.’ Robert readied himself to rebuff any further questions: he hadn’t told them why he was going into the woods. It wasn’t something he wanted to admit. But Alexander merely nodded and mounted up beside him.
As the four rode back across the marshy fields, Turnberry Castle loomed against the turquoise sky on the edge of the crumbling cliffs. Beyond, the sea glimmered, silvery gold in the moonlight. They had been at the castle for almost a week, but the sight of it still induced sadness in Robert, reminding him of the family he had lost. The old building, left in the care of Andrew Boyd, was in a good state of repair and he had set about arranging councils, summoning his other vassals here, but despite all the comings and goings, it still seemed empty and forlorn, just a handful of unfamiliar servants and knights to grace the passageways that echoed with the sea.
Robert, deep in thought, only realised something was wrong when the others began to slow. Drawing in his reins, he fell back with them. ‘What is it?’
‘The castle gates,’ said Alexander, his eyes on the stronghold in the distance, ‘they were closed when we left.’
Sure enough, Robert saw that the gates had been thrown wide. They weren’t expecting anyone and there was no reason why anyone inside would need to leave, certainly not by both gates which it was only necessary to open for more than a few riders.
‘You should stay here, Sir Robert,’ said Christopher, drawing his sword.
Robert drew his blade, the steel rasping on the leather. ‘It’s my home,’ he said roughly. Kicking his palfrey on, he made his way across the fields, on to the track that led to the castle, closely followed by his men. Ever since he left Irvine, he’d felt a growing sense of protection towards his lands. He
felt it surge in him now, not least because his daughter was behind those walls.
Ahead, through the gates, he saw a large crowd of people in the castle yard, many of them mounted or else standing with their horses. There were three carts there also. He heard raised voices on the air over the drumming of the hooves. Twisting round, he saw the Setons and Nes close behind. As he turned back to the gates, Robert realised there was a banner raised above the crowd, the colours rich in the bronze shimmer of torches. He recognised it at once, for it was decorated with the arms of the Earl of Mar, his father-in-law. Almost at the same time, he picked out a figure talking with Andrew Boyd. It was a tall young man with dark hair and a face so resembling his own it was like looking in a mirror. The sight of his brother standing there in the courtyard of their childhood home made Robert shout with joy. Some of the men in the courtyard, hearing the hoof-beats, had turned to see him approaching. Edward turned with them. He pushed through the people to meet Robert, who rode in through the gates.
Robert jumped down from the saddle and embraced his brother fiercely. It had been only a few months since they had seen one another, but with all that had happened it felt far longer. Alexander and the others rode in, slowing. Over Edward’s shoulder, Robert was stunned to see another familiar figure moving out of the crowd. Robert had last seen his sister Christian three years earlier, before her marriage to the son and heir of Donald of Mar. She had been barely out of girlhood then, solemn and shy. Now, almost fifteen, she was virtually a woman, her poise erect as she clasped his hands and rose on to her toes to kiss his cheeks. Her hair, fair like their brother Thomas’s, was plaited down her back entwined with gold thread and her mantle was fastened at her throat by a pretty brooch.
Behind came her husband, Gartnait, Earl Donald’s eldest son. He was Robert’s brother-in-law both through the marriage to Christian and through Robert’s marriage to Isobel. Robert saw something reminiscent of his dead wife in Gartnait’s thin, serious face. He was more than twice Christian’s age, his hair receding from his brow, his eyes creased at the corners, but as Christian turned to him Robert saw a genuine affection between them that gladdened him.
Gartnait embraced him rather stiffly. ‘Brother,’ he greeted, moving back to stand beside his young wife.
Robert went to speak, to ask them what had brought them here, but in the crowd there was one last surprise, in the form of his other brother-in-law, Sir John, the fiery Earl of Atholl, husband of another of Earl Donald’s daughters. John strode forward, his face, framed by dark curly hair, intense in the torchlight. Robert felt wary at the sight of him, for although he had always liked the outspoken earl, the man had been one of the commanders in the Black Comyn’s force that had attacked Carlisle at the start of the war. John held out his hand. After a pause, Robert took it.
‘It is good to see you back in your homeland, Sir Robert,’ was all the earl said.
It was enough.
Robert nodded to John, grateful for the evident truce. ‘I had heard you were imprisoned.’
‘Fortune favoured me. There wasn’t room in London’s Tower for all of those captured by Warenne’s forces at Dunbar and I was sent under guard to a monastery near Chester with Sir Andrew Moray. His men came one night and broke us out. Moray and I made it across the border together.’
Robert turned to Edward. ‘How did you know I would be here?’
‘When we learned you had disobeyed our father’s orders in Douglasdale, I wrote to Christian in secret. I thought Sir Gartnait might be able to aid you, or shelter you at least.’
‘My father passed away two months ago,’ Gartnait told Robert. ‘I succeeded him.’
Robert stared at his brother, overwhelmed by gratitude. He hadn’t imagined anyone would have been thinking of his protection after he had left Castle Douglas, especially not Edward who had blamed him for the exile in England. The feeling was replaced by deep loss at the news of the death of the elderly Donald, the man who had knighted him. Robert offered his condolences to Gartnait, who accepted in silence.
‘Sir John and his wife were with them,’ Edward continued. ‘We arranged to meet in Lochmaben. That was where we heard you had gone to Irvine with the leaders of the rebellion. By the time we arrived the talks were over. Apparently the English got word that Wallace was laying siege to Dundee and began arresting the leaders. They took Lord Douglas and Bishop Wishart prisoner.’
‘And James Stewart?’ asked Robert, with a sinking feeling.
‘We think the steward escaped.’ Edward shook his head. ‘In truth, no one seemed to know much, except that you had vanished days before the arrests began. I guessed you would come here.’
‘Did our father send you to find me?’ Robert’s joy at their unexpected appearance faded into suspicion with the question. ‘Is that why you’ve come?’
‘No.’ Edward looked behind him at the crowd of knights and squires, many of whom wore the colours of Mar and Atholl. He lowered his voice. ‘Our father has been deprived of the governorship of Carlisle, brother. King Edward ordered it when it was known you had deserted. He retired to his estates in Essex with a small retinue. He wasn’t well when he left.’
Robert looked away. ‘I expect he hates me.’
Edward didn’t answer. He looked past Robert to where Alexander and Christopher were waiting with Nes. ‘I see you have made new allies.’ He nodded guardedly to the young men, who inclined their heads in turn.
‘Good ones,’ said Robert firmly. He drew a breath. ‘I’ve also made a decision, about where to go from here.’
‘We should head east to Dundee and join up with Wallace and Moray’s forces,’ said John of Atholl, before Robert could continue. ‘At Irvine we heard rumour that the English led by the Treacherer and the Earl of Surrey intend to engage them. We should stand united against them.’
Some of the others nodded in agreement.
Gartnait, however, was cautious. ‘Wallace’s force is mostly made up of foot soldiers. They cannot win on the field. We should look to negotiate, rather than fight.’
‘Like Wishart and Douglas?’ demanded John.
As his brothers-in-law began to argue, Robert raised his voice over them. ‘I will not stand with William Wallace.’ They quietened and he continued. ‘You all know my family’s history with Balliol and the Comyns. Our hatred is no secret, neither is the fact my grandfather went to his grave believing his claim was greater than Balliol’s. Five years ago I made a pledge, a pledge I now intend to fulfil.’ His voice rose in the hush. ‘From here I will raise the men of Carrick and lead them north to Ayr and Irvine. While Wallace and Moray confront the English in the east, I will concentrate on the west. I intend to liberate our neighbouring lands from Lord Henry Percy. And then . . .’ He paused, for there had been no time to prepare this speech. ‘John Balliol was King Edward’s man,’ he said, looking at the silent men around him. ‘Our country needs a new king – a king who will defend its rights and liberties, who will bring hope to our people and deliver them from those who seek to destroy their freedom. A king whose veins flow with the blood and the might of Malcolm Canmore.’
As he finished speaking, Robert realised that he hadn’t actually said it, his intent, but as he caught sight of Edward he saw he hadn’t needed to. His brother’s face was shining with pride. It was plain too in the expressions of all the men present what he had meant. Some of them nodded, others frowned in thought. But no one berated him, no one laughed in derision or disbelief. In the midst of the crowd, Robert saw Katherine had appeared. Clearly, the maid had heard what he had said, for her head was high and her face full of approval. She disappeared from view as the men closed in around him, evidently filled with questions, to which he most likely had no answers.
Robert held up his hands before any of them could speak. ‘Let us talk more of these matters with wine and food before us.’ He addressed his vassal. ‘Sir Andrew, we’ll use the hall for barracks and double up in the stables.’ As the courtyard descended into noisy chaos, ser
vants ushering men towards the stables, Alexander introducing himself self-assuredly to John and Gartnait, Robert turned to Edward. ‘See that our guests are made comfortable,’ he told his brother quietly. ‘We’ll talk shortly, but there is something I must do first.’ He paused, grasping Edward’s shoulder. ‘I owe you an apology, brother, for not listening to your counsel. I know you never wanted to fight for England against our countrymen.’
‘You are here now.’ Edward smiled. ‘That is all that matters to me.’
Leaving his brother to help guide the fifty or so men and women inside the main buildings, Robert moved through the passages up to his chambers.
The room where he was staying was the chamber that had belonged to his parents. Their old bed dominated the room, the red drapes moth-eaten and faded. It had felt strange, his first night here, making love to Katherine in the bed he had been born in, pulled into the world by Affraig’s withered hands.
The fire set that morning had burned to ash in the hearth, but the moonlight shining through the windows gave him enough light to see by as he crossed the chamber to the pile of his belongings. A solid shape, covered with a piece of sacking, was propped against the saddlebag containing his blanket and spare clothes. He’d had Nes bear the covered shield for him since they left Lochmaben in the spring. Robert had thought, after leaving Douglasdale, of abandoning it, but for some reason had been reluctant to do so. Tugging back the sacking, his eyes filled with blood-scarlet. Taking up the shield, Robert left the chamber and made his way down the passage outside, past the room he once shared with his brothers, to the door that led to the ramparts.
