Insurrection

by Robyn Young

  The men fixed quarrels and arrows to their weapons. At the call of a horn, arms drew back, bows arcing. As they loosed, the sky in front of the Scots darkened and rushed towards them. Duncan closed his eyes and pulled his body in tight, his spear thrust uselessly before him. He felt the force of the missiles all around, the air filling with screams. At a violent jolt in his side he was thrown to the ground. For a second, he thought he’d been hit and clenched his teeth against the shock of pain he knew must come. When it didn’t, he opened his eyes and realised it was Kerald who had struck him. The old Scot had a crossbow bolt in his face. It had entered his cheek, just below his eye. Duncan cried out as Kerald convulsed, the man’s weight pushing him further into the soft mud. More arrows were shooting in around them, men falling. The shield ring across from theirs was breaking apart under the onslaught. Duncan struggled beneath Kerald’s body, but someone else was on his leg, pinning him. He couldn’t move. His face was sinking into the soil, the mud rising cold and thick to his lips. Through panicked eyes, he saw the English cavalry lining up, saw them begin to ride, felt a tremor in the ground.

  62

  Astride his smoke-grey courser in the centre of the Scottish cavalry line, James Stewart watched with mounting dread as the Welsh archers took aim. The first volley of arrows tore through the outer rows of the schiltroms, men struck with such force they were catapulted into those behind. Gaps appeared instantly, some dead, others wounded, many more dropping spears and throwing themselves to the ground to avoid the deadly hail.

  ‘Christ, save us,’ breathed someone.

  James hardly heard. He stood in his stirrups, seeing the Scottish bowmen under the command of his brother answering the lethal volleys with shots from their own bows. But it was clear from the first barrage that they would have little effect on the enemy, whose powerful bows allowed them to stay out of range. A horn was being blown, lifting over the distant screams. James recognised the deep and hollow sound. It was Wallace’s horn – his signal for the cavalry to enter the fray. The others around him heard it too, men snapping down visors and shortening reins in their fists.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted John Comyn, pointing his sword down the hillside to where the English knights were forming up beneath the banners of the earls of Lincoln, Hereford, Norfolk and Surrey. One standard was larger than the rest. Faded red, it had a tarnished golden dragon in the centre. The longbowmen had stopped shooting. Now, the knights, under the command of the earls, began to charge the schiltroms, no longer impenetrable rings of spears, but disorderly, undisciplined chaos.

  ‘We must ride to their aid!’ James yelled.

  ‘We cannot win here,’ growled the Lord of Badenoch, his gaze on a company of English knights spurring up the hill towards them. Two schiltroms had broken apart with the first charge of the English horses, the Scots scattering. Wallace’s horn was blowing, urgently. Raising his voice, Comyn addressed the men around him. ‘The battle is lost. We have no hope except to flee.’

  ‘We cannot leave them to die!’ James protested. Other voices joined his in agreement, but some were already urging their horses towards the woods, away from the approaching English.

  ‘You cowardly sons of whores!’ roared one of Wallace’s men.

  Riding out of the line, he charged his horse recklessly down the hillside, followed by a handful of Wallace’s commanders. They loosed a desperate battle cry as they went. A few English knights broke away to counter this band as they galloped towards the schiltroms, now surging apart across the hillside, many Scots running for the woods. The Welsh infantry were spilling out across the boggy ground around the burn in pursuit.

  As the English knights kicked their horses determinedly up the hillside towards the Scottish cavalry, John Comyn wheeled his horse around, followed by his son. His departure signalled a massive exodus from the cavalry line, many of whom were kinsmen or supporters of the Lord of Badenoch.

  Malcolm, the handsome young Earl of Lennox, locked gazes with James. ‘What use will you be to your king, Sir James,’ he called, ‘if you are sharing the cell next to his?’

  As Lennox and his knights spurred their horses hard towards Callendar Wood, James lingered, his eyes searching frantically for his brother, somewhere in the turmoil.

  ‘Sir?’ questioned one of his men, his gaze moving between the steward and the English knights, getting closer every second.

  With a cry of frustration, James turned his grey courser brutally around and kicked the beast towards the woods.

  All semblance of command William Wallace had over his forces was gone, swept away in the terror of the disintegrating troops. Spent arrows and spears littered the hillside, where many Scots lay dead. The cries of the wounded rose to merge in a mangled howl. Those who had survived the volleys of arrows that had torn through the schiltroms crawled through the bodies of comrades to escape the charging knights. Some ran for the woods, others headlong down the hillside towards the banks of the burn. Here, the mud was as thick and sticky as glue, in places treacherously deep. The battleground, chosen by Wallace for the natural protection afforded by the burn, now turned on the Scots. Those who reached the waters leapt in and splashed desperately for the other side, but most never made it that far, becoming stuck in the surrounding bogs. Trapped in the stinking filth, they were easy targets for Welsh archers.

  Into this chaos rode the Knights of the Dragon, the flame-wreathed monster on their shields glimmering in the ashen morning. They rode with their fathers, the men of the Round Table. Rode for their king.

  Aymer de Valence led the men of Pembroke, most of whom had served his father for decades. His blue and white striped banner flying high above him, he led a brutal assault on Wallace’s archers, punching straight through their lines. It was Aymer’s lance that slammed into the chest of John Stewart, picking the man off his feet then hurling him to the ground to be rolled over and over, until one of the hooves of Aymer’s destrier crushed the Scot’s head into the mud. Leaving the limp body of the steward’s brother behind, Aymer swept on, drawing his sword to strike at the backs and necks of the fleeing archers. As he rode, he roared savagely.

  Henry Percy, fired by the chance to avenge the humiliation suffered by his grandfather at Stirling, rode into the fray with knights from his Yorkshire estates. A few Scots turned to stand their ground against them. One man managed to jab his spear into the side of a horse, causing the animal to crash to the ground, tossing its knight. The Scot was lanced through the throat a second later, by one of Percy’s men, the rest cut down viciously in great sprays of blood. The Scottish nobility had fled the field, leaving the peasant host to be destroyed. The only hope these men had lay in escape, or swift death. King Edward had wanted William Wallace and the ringleaders of the rebellion taken alive, but in such disorder it was impossible to guarantee the fate of one man.

  Humphrey de Bohun, his face drenched with sweat inside his helm, charged in the midst of his father’s retinue, along the lower slopes where the Scots were running towards the burn. The battle, he knew, was won. Now, their task was to destroy every man on this field. Humphrey had spent his lance and his broadsword was in his fist. He swung it viciously into the neck of a man fleeing in front of him, felt the shock of impact, then release. The Scot, decapitated, crumpled behind him. Humphrey’s father was some distance ahead, pursuing a group of spearmen stumbling towards the stream. The earl pursued them doggedly, his lance swinging down. All at once, his horse collapsed beneath him.

  Humphrey shouted as he saw his father go down. The destrier, whose massive weight was further augmented by its mail trapper, saddle and Hereford himself in all his armour, had plunged into a bog. Yelling for his men to follow, Humphrey kicked his horse towards his father, who had dropped his lance and was trying to urge the animal out of the thick mud. The beast was squealing and thrashing its head, the movement making it sink deeper. Three of the Scottish spearmen the earl had been chasing now turned on him. Lighter and more agile, without armour to weigh them down, they w
ere only knee-deep in the mire. Humphrey cried a warning, the sound echoing madly in his helm, as two of the spearmen lunged at his father.

  The earl managed to crack one of their spears away with his shield, but the other caught him in the side, under his ribs. The force of it snapped the links of mail, driving them and the cloth beneath into his flesh. It wasn’t a fatal wound, the mail stopping much of the force, so only the tip penetrated, but at the moment of impact the horse sank deeper, almost to its neck, throwing the earl off balance. As Hereford toppled, the momentum pushed him on to the spear, plunging it deep into the muscle between his ribs to enter his lung.

  Humphrey roared as his father curled over, slipping out of the saddle of the drowning horse. The Scot dropped the spear and scrabbled away after his comrades, heading for the waters of the burn. Pulling his destrier up sharp, Humphrey swung awkwardly down from the saddle and waded into the mud, not heeding the shouts of his men. The mud claimed him quickly, the grey porridge sloshing up his mail hose to his thighs. His father was some distance ahead, half submerged, the spear protruding from his side, his face turned towards the mud. Humphrey gasped with effort as he fought his way through the bog. The ground gave way suddenly beneath him, plunging him in up to his chest. His father was yards ahead, the earl’s face now fully submerged, only the humps of his head and back visible. The mud was sucking and eager; Humphrey felt himself sinking, panic making him struggle. As hands grabbed him from behind, he roared and fought, seeing his father slip under. A swirl of blue silk slashed with white drifted on the surface for a moment longer, before it too was claimed by the earth.

  63

  The cart wheels splashed through the sodden ground, the oxen bowing their horned heads into the downpour, hooves sinking in the red clay. Robert watched them come, the warm rain trickling down his face, his eyes on the backs of the carts, piled high with timber for Ayr’s new palisade.

  ‘There are four more to come today, sir. The rest will be here before the week is out.’

  Robert glanced at the man hunched in the wet beside him, a local carpenter whom he’d made master of works. ‘I want work to begin tomorrow on the barracks,’ he said, turning to the wooden buildings that rose behind him on the banks of the river that flowed sluggishly through the north side of the town into the sea. They had been built for Henry Percy’s men, but on the liberation of the town Robert had taken them for himself. ‘When that is done you will start on the town’s defences.’

  The master of works nodded in agreement. Raising his hand to hail the cart drivers, he went to direct them through the churned mud of the courtyard.

  Robert’s gaze drifted across the rain-dappled river to the banks beyond, where cattle were grazing. On the damp air he caught an acrid whiff of dung and urine from a nearby tannery, over the more pervasive smells of brine and burning wood. Smoke plumed from many of the town’s wattle houses, the roofs, thatched with rushes and broom, visible beyond the barracks. Ayr had been coming slowly back to life since the ousting of Percy’s men, the atmosphere tentatively hopeful. The new palisade would be welcomed by all, however, for the future of the realm remained uncertain and there had been no word of how William Wallace and his army fared against the English.

  Robert was increasingly impatient, having heard nothing since leaving Selkirk Forest. In the weeks that followed his return to Ayr, he had questioned whether he should have stayed with Scotland’s new guardian, for it seemed futile to have made the powerful gesture of knighting Wallace, only to retreat once again into anonymity. He had intended to be involved in the Scots’ campaign – to prove his worth as a leader of men and prove, once and for all, his devotion to his kingdom’s cause. James Stewart had been the one to persuade him otherwise. The steward had warned him against becoming too deeply entangled in the affairs of Wallace and the Comyns, instead advising him to continue building his own base and supporters, until the time was right to reveal his intentions to the men of the realm. Robert had been frustrated, but couldn’t deny the sense in the steward’s words. For his plan to have a hope of coming to pass he needed to maintain his integrity and that meant keeping himself aloof from those who still sought the return of John Balliol.

  As the carts trundled to a stop, the cattle lowing in the wet, Robert heard his name being called. He turned to see Christopher Seton hastening towards him.

  The squire’s fair hair was plastered darkly to his scalp and beads of rainwater dripped from his long nose. He looked grave. ‘My cousin needs to see you, Robert. At your lodgings.’

  Robert frowned. ‘What for?’

  Christopher was staring at the ground, unable to meet his gaze. ‘He said it’s important. Sir, he wants you to go to him. Quickly.’

  Christopher had stopped calling him sir some time ago. The formal sound of the word made Robert uneasy. ‘Very well.’ Pausing to speak with the master of works, he left the riverbank with Christopher, their boots splashing through the mud.

  The barracks were busy, for the whole of Robert’s company, including wives and children of the knights, had come here after leaving the Forest. Grooms were working in the crowded stables, sweeping out soiled hay, filling water troughs. A group of John of Atholl’s knights were sheltering under the dripping eaves of one building, playing a game of dice. They nodded to Robert as he walked by, heading for the long timber hall, his lodgings.

  Alexander was standing outside the hall’s door, his cloak sodden.

  ‘What is it, my friend?’ called Robert as he approached. From inside the hall he caught the faint cries of his daughter. The man looked so grim that Robert’s first thought as he heard Marjorie crying was that this had something to do with her. ‘In Christ’s name, Alexander, answer me! Is it Marjorie?’ He pressed past the lord, who caught his arm.

  ‘This isn’t about your daughter, Robert.’ Alexander’s voice was little more than a murmur. ‘There is something you need to see.’

  More and more confused, Robert allowed the man to push open the door for him. He entered, his eyes moving quickly around the interior. The first chamber was a small reception area. There were a few stools, but otherwise the place was sparse. He’d had neither the time nor the inclination to appoint it any better, for he didn’t plan to stay in this remote coastal town for ever. He was rarely ever here except to sleep, the business of running the town and his earldom taking up every hour of the day.

  The first thing Robert saw as he entered was Judith. The wet nurse had risen abruptly at the opening of the door. She was clutching his daughter, her thin face scarlet. Marjorie cried harder as she saw her father, stretching her hands towards him. Judith stammered something, but before Robert could decipher what the girl had said he heard another cry, this one coming through the door that led to his bedchamber. Pushing past Judith, Robert entered.

  The chamber beyond was the largest of the three rooms that made up the hall. It stretched before him, hazy with candlelight. There was a table and bench where he ate his meals, beside a fire that hissed in a clay-pit hearth. Meadowsweet rustled beneath his mud-caked boots, the herb covering the earth floor in a fragrant carpet. Clothes hung from a perch, his and Katherine’s. There were a few chests containing his armour and his broadsword hung between two posts buried in the wall. A glazed blue jug stood on the table beside two goblets and the remains of a meal, which hadn’t been there when he had left that morning. Candle flames fluttered atop melted stubs. Robert took in these familiar sights, then he heard the soft cry again and his eyes went to the bed against the far wall. It was draped with thick curtains that hung down in a swoop from a beam above, hiding the bed from view. The meadowsweet concealed his footfalls as he crossed the floor. Reaching the bed, Robert took hold of the curtains and pulled them apart.

  He saw Katherine first. She was naked, her flushed face tilted towards the beams, eyes closed. Lying beneath her was a man, his hands gripping her splayed thighs. At the drawing of the curtains, Katherine’s eyes flew open. Her mouth, parted in pleasure, widened in horror
and she struggled off the man, who twisted round, swearing as he saw Robert standing there. Katherine scrabbled back, snatching at the crumpled linen sheet to cover her nakedness. The man, whom Robert recognised as a local lad he’d hired to work on the town’s defences, stumbled off the bed and picked up his braies, discarded on the floor. He was no more than eighteen, a fresh-faced youth. His manhood, proudly erect and glistening, was already drooping between his legs. He pulled on the drawers, tugging the cord tight around his narrow waist as Robert looked on in silence. Katherine was breathing rapidly. Her eyes flicked past Robert to where Alexander was standing.

  Seeing the venom in her stare, Robert turned. He had forgotten the lord was behind him. Christopher was with him. ‘You knew.’ His voice was flat, oddly calm.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend.’ Alexander’s hard gaze moved to Katherine, whose face contorted in hatred. ‘But you had to be shown for yourself.’

  ‘You snake!’ she spat. ‘You’ve been spying on me?’

  Seeing a rumpled heap of material trailing on the edge of the bed, Robert bent and picked it up. It was one of Katherine’s gowns. The dress was low-cut and tight like all the others. He tossed the garment at her. ‘Cover yourself.’

  ‘Robert, please,’ she murmured, her tone changing.

  He turned away as she pulled on the gown, her voice pleading behind him.

  ‘I beg you.’ Dragging the skirts of the dress down, she came around the bed to him. ‘I was lonely. You are never here. Not for me. Only for your men.’ She touched his arm, tentatively.

  ‘Get out.’

  Her grip on his arm tightened. ‘Robert, please, I—’

  ‘I said leave.’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she sobbed suddenly.

  ‘Pregnant?’ His voice was as cold as marble. ‘Whose bastard is it?’