by Robyn Young
Hearing a soft clapping beside him, Edward looked round to see his bride dutifully applauding Ralph de Monthermer’s display. Marguerite was known by her people as the Pearl of France. A jewel she was, dark-haired like her brother, King Philippe, with milk-white skin, her delicate form enfolded in a gown of scarlet damask, girdled with a belt embossed with glossy rubies, her hair bound up in a padded net that framed her heart-shaped face. It was early September and the air was mild, but the queen had draped an ermine stole around her shoulders to ward off the first hint of evening’s cool. Daughter of the warrior kings of the Capetian dynasty of France, Marguerite had sailed into Dover the week before, a tender symbol of peace, nervous, but poised, with a stately array of menservants and handmaidens. Two days after her ship had docked, Edward wed her outside the doors of Canterbury Cathedral. The solemn ceremony, performed by the truculent Archbishop Winchelsea, had been followed by three days of tournaments and feasts.
Edward had spared no expense for the occasion of his wedding. Beyond the jousting ground were scores of striped marquees, decorated with colourful streams of flags. Smoke curled from fires, over which the glistening carcasses of wild boar were being turned on spits. The trestles inside the pavilions were laid with silver and gold plates, and sprays of flowers. There would be trays of warm, spicy gingerbread, crisp-skinned apples roasted in honey, cloud-soft custards, succulent venison that slipped from the bone, sugared almonds, and wine to fill a river. Outside the marquees, servants were stringing lanterns from the branches of trees. As evening fell each would be crowned with a halo of glowing stars.
Sensing the king’s eyes upon her, Marguerite’s lips curved in a tentative smile. Edward returned it courteously, before turning his attention back to the tournament ground. The marriage was an occasion of joy, auguring the ending of the five-year war between England and France, and securing, through the mediation of Pope Boniface, the restoration of Gascony to Edward and his heirs. But the celebrations could not dispel the profound sense of loss that had ballooned inside him this past week, leaving him aching, swollen with memories of Eleanor. He was sixty years old. Marguerite, shyly demure at seventeen, was as sweet as mead and he knew he would get pleasure from her in the years he had left, but she would never be able to touch his soul. That part of him had died with his Spanish queen.
Behind him, Edward caught a peal of laughter from his son, seated a few rows back with his friends. At fifteen, young Edward was the mirror of him in adolescence, with feathery blond hair and a long, angular face. His body had lengthened this past year, suggesting the boy would also inherit his great stature. Beside him, one arm resting languidly on the scaffold edge, was a handsome squire of sixteen called Piers Gaveston. The coal-eyed youth from Gascony was the son of a knight who had served the king well during the war. On the man’s death, Edward had made Piers a ward of the royal household and his son and the squire had formed an immediate bond of friendship. Edward had been mildly concerned by his son’s growing tendency to waste hours outdoors with Piers and his friends when he should be training or in study, but he knew there would be time for the youth to mature soon enough, especially now the betrothal to King Philippe’s daughter, Isabella, had been secured. The marriage wouldn’t take place for some years, the princess a mere infant, but, in the meantime, the king had other plans for his son. He intended to involve him heavily in his next campaign in Scotland, planned for the coming year. It was an auspicious time, for the ending of the year would be greeted by a new century. It was a time of change and, God willing, a time to complete his conquest.
He had agents under his lieutenant Sir Richard de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster, hunting down the fourth relic in Ireland. When found, he would have it paraded before the people, as he had the crown and the stone, tokens of his supreme authority over a unified Britain. Then, when the relic was presented in Westminster Abbey, before the shrine of the Confessor, the Last Prophecy would be realised. Men needed legends – something to aspire to beyond the toil and drudgery of daily life, something golden and glimmering above the grey of worldly existence. It was what set fire in their blood. By saving the kingdom from the doom of Merlin’s vision, his subjects would praise him, but, more importantly, his fulfilment of the prophecy would secure him the faith of these young men, whose taxes bolstered his treasury and whose swords would be drawn for him in war. Arthur’s knights had quarrelled, even disagreed with their king at times, but in the end the circle of the table had bound them with a loyalty that went beyond the temporal. This was what Edward sought, for he was determined never to see another Lewes, the kingdom torn apart by the ambition of its barons and the weakness of its king. No. His circle would be made of gold. Polished. Unbreakable.
He had come close to losing their support over Gascony, the threat of civil war never far from his mind, but the battle at Falkirk, although dour at its end, had drawn his men together in victory. Still, it wasn’t over. Trophies were not enough for him to complete his dominion. Scotland remained split and the rebels had not been idle. Reports of supply trains being attacked and garrisons cut off were coming to him every month. Winchelsea, on behalf of the pope, was protesting against his invasion of a Christian country and Edward had recently discovered that William Wallace had made it through the blockade in the Channel and was now a guest at the court of King Philippe. He had worried what harm the rebel leader might inflict upon the truce, but so far nothing had changed. He would deal with that brigand in time, but for now there was a more pressing enemy to deal with. And deal with him he would.
As the tournament drew to a close, the knights shattering their last lances upon the Saracen’s heart, the judges retired to make their decision on the winner, who would be presented with his prize – a silver helm surmounted by a dragon – at the feast. At the break in the festivities, a messenger slipped along the benches and whispered something to the king. Rising, Edward excused himself from his young queen and climbed down from the scaffold by the steps at the back. The nobles were talking among themselves, settling wagers.
Avoiding the crowds, Edward made for the marquees, followed discreetly by two of his knights. The light was fading fast and the lanterns in the trees were shimmering. A servant was ushering five peacocks into the largest tent and minstrels were tuning their instruments. There, waiting in the wings of the king’s magnificent pavilion, watching the servants dress the tables in cloths of gold, was a man in a navy cloak and a short coat of mail. He looked older, more scarred than he had when Edward had last seen him in Gascony. Ignoring the respectful bows of the bustling servants, the king gestured for the knights to stay behind and headed to the man alone.
Adam turned as Edward approached. He inclined his head. ‘My lord king.’
‘I take it you have settled into your lodgings?’
‘My needs have been well tended, my lord. I thank you.’ Adam paused. ‘I was, I admit, surprised to receive your summons so soon after the ending of the war. But I left my company in Bayonne fortifying the garrison there, with one of my lieutenants in command. They are in good hands.’
Edward’s gaze was on the servants, busy laying the tables, but in his mind he saw a crude painting of a rampant red lion rearing over a dragon. ‘I have a special task for you in Scotland. Not unlike that which I ordered you to undertake thirteen years ago.’ He looked at Adam. ‘There is someone else who needs to meet with an accident.’
68
Robert Bruce and John Comyn stood across from one another, eyes locked, burning with aggression. Around them, the circular hall of Peebles Castle was filled to the timber walls with men, the atmosphere charged and volatile. Rain pounded on the thatched roof and thunder snarled between the snap of lightning, flaring white through gaps in the shuttered windows. The air was saturated with sweat and hot breath, and the reek of damp fur from the men’s sodden cloaks.
‘I warned the Bruce.’ Comyn’s voice rose over the fury of the storm. ‘I cautioned against attacking so close to Roxburgh’s walls, but he would
not listen.’
‘So you sabotaged the attack, just to prove your point?’ demanded Edward.
John Comyn gave a harsh bark of laughter. He turned to the knights of Badenoch and Galloway, arrayed behind him. ‘I never knew the Bruces thought me so powerful as to call down wasps from the trees!’ His mocking humour vanished as he looked back at Robert. ‘You and your brother are well aware of what happened. Why we were delayed.’ His eyes flicked to the steward and Bishops Wishart and Lamberton, who had been attempting to maintain order. ‘I lost ten men and five horses, God damn it! Tell me, what was I supposed to have done?’
‘You could have picked a more competent lookout,’ said Alexander Seton coldly. ‘Perhaps if your man had better assessed his post he might have spied the nest and chosen a safer position.’
‘Fergus paid for his mistake with his life,’ retorted Comyn angrily.
‘As did a dozen of my men,’ countered Robert, not taking his eyes off his fellow guardian.
‘I think we should agree that the failed attack was no one’s fault,’ said James firmly. The high steward looked wearied by the debate, going on for almost an hour without resolution.
‘I disagree, Lord Steward,’ said Dungal MacDouall, beside Comyn. ‘If we had done what Sir John and I suggested and attacked the English supply wagons further down the road then even if the same misfortune had befallen us we would have been able to give chase. As it was, we were too close to Roxburgh’s walls to risk pursuit.’ His gaze went to Robert. ‘This was explained to the Bruce, but he refused to fight unless it was according to his plan. We had no choice but to go along with it.’
‘You lying son of a whore!’ growled Edward, stepping towards MacDouall. As he did so, he went for his sword, but his hand curled around air.
The high steward, having seen the turbulent aftermath of the failed attack, had ordered that no weapons be brought into the council.
Robert moved in front of Edward, giving him such a fierce look that he backed down, but his brother’s jaw remained clenched as he eyed MacDouall, who looked eager for a fight. Other men were entering the argument, slinging insults across the packed hall. Outside, lightning pulsed.
‘I move to have Robert Bruce struck from his position!’ MacDouall shouted over the din. ‘He isn’t fit to be guardian!’
Many of the men around him expressed fervent agreement.
The loudest voice, however, came from Gilbert de la Hay. The lord’s broad face, framed by his thatch of blond hair, was stern. ‘It seems clear to me that neither Sir Robert nor Sir John can continue to work together, not without detriment to the realm. I believe we should contact Sir William Wallace and request his return. We know the truce between England and France excluded Scotland,’ he said, glancing at Lamberton, who was silent. ‘What use is Sir William to us now in a foreign court? Let us call him home, where he is needed. The English will be coming for us in the new year. We must stand united against them.’
‘That truce is exactly why Sir William should remain where he is,’ James answered. ‘If we are to secure foreign support for our cause we need to maintain a strong presence abroad. Alliances can change. We have all seen that. Our hope is not lost. Not yet.’
John Comyn didn’t seem even to have heard the exchange. He was still fixed on Robert, his eyes glittering with hate. ‘I agree with MacDouall. Bruce should be replaced. Not only did his reckless plan lose us valuable men, it allowed the English to deliver half their supplies to the garrison at Roxburgh. They will survive the siege far longer now, maybe even until King Edward comes north to relieve them. Who knows,’ he went on, raising his voice over scornful calls from Robert’s company, ‘perhaps he meant for our assault to fail? Perhaps he intended to aid the garrison so that his old ally, King Edward, had a base from which to launch his next invasion of our kingdom?’
In the midst of the uproar that met these words, Robert’s voice rang out. ‘Your feeble allegations are a poor mask for your own ambition, John. You want me gone so you can take control.’ His tone, although forceful, was composed, but inside he wanted nothing more than to launch himself at the man in front of him, who with the damning accusation ignored the deaths of the good men who died in the attack, including Walter. ‘It sickens me that you would say something so absurd to claw your way to power, at the cost to our kingdom.’
‘Absurd?’ said John, seizing the word keenly. ‘Is it really so absurd to accuse you of such a thing, when you were one of the king’s elite, bound to his cause by an unbreakable oath? An oath sworn on pain of death?’
Robert was shaking his head contemptuously, but the protests died down at these words. A few men looked over at him, frowning in question.
Before Robert could answer, John Comyn continued, gesturing to his rival as he looked around him. ‘He is one of those men King Edward calls his Knights of the Dragon. I know this because my brother-in-law, Sir Aymer de Valence, is one. He told me some time ago that Bruce had been accepted into the king’s order. How can we trust such a man? How can we risk our kingdom’s future on the hope that he has broken all ties with his old allies?’
Robert could feel the stares of many men on him. How long had Comyn sat on this knowledge, like some eager bird perched on an egg, keeping it warm, just waiting until the time was right to reveal it? Other than those closest to him – his brother, the Setons, Atholl and Mar – Robert hadn’t confided in anyone of his induction into the order. James, he saw, was looking at him, furrows creasing his brow. He went to defend himself, but Dungal MacDouall beat him to it.
‘The Bruce is a traitor!’ the Galloway captain exclaimed harshly into the hush. ‘As deceitful as his cur of a father and as treacherous as his grandfather! A curse on them all!’
The storm swelling inside the hall broke. Edward launched himself at Dungal MacDouall. Seizing him by the throat, he slammed the young captain back into the timber wall. Men surged forward on both sides. Wishart forced his way into the centre, bellowing for order.
As Robert fought through the crush to get to his brother, someone grabbed him from behind, an arm squeezing tight around his chest. Hearing the hissed voice in his ear, he realised it was John Comyn. A second later, the glint of metal rose in his vision as Comyn brought a dirk to his throat. Robert felt the steel press against his skin. Across the crowded chamber he saw James Stewart. The steward’s face drained of colour, his hands rising in a gesture of protest, his mouth opening in horror. For a split second, Robert understood the intensity of the steward’s devotion to him, then the blade pressed harder and the realisation vanished in a hot haze of outrage and fear. Comyn was going to kill him. The bastard was going to kill him right here and now in front of everyone.
‘By God, you will stop this!’
It was the powerful voice of William Lamberton that halted them all. The Bishop of St Andrews stood in their midst, furious as a thunderbolt. His eyes, one blue, one white, were blazing. ‘Put down your blade, John Comyn, or I swear by Lord Jesus Christ I will see your family condemned to the very pits of hell!’
Comyn didn’t move. Robert could feel the man’s chest heaving against his back with every breath. After a pause, he withdrew the blade from Robert’s neck and relinquished his hold. Across the hall, Edward let Dungal MacDouall go as Neil Campbell grasped his shoulder. MacDouall slid down the timber wall, fighting for breath. Robert wrenched away from Comyn.
‘This council is ended,’ said James Stewart. ‘Retire to your lodgings, all of you. We will return when cooler heads prevail.’ The steward’s voice was hoarse.
Robert pushed his way through the crowd, out into the driving rain. His men surged behind him, their voices raised against the downpour. Above the castle’s timber buildings, which crowned an expansive motte, the sky was bruised, the swollen clouds lit from within by glimmers of lightning. The late summer storms had swept in from the east two days ago and the ground was waterlogged from the deluge, hollows and potholes filled with deep puddles. Robert splashed through them, pulling u
p the hood of his cloak as he headed for the steep track that led down from the motte.
Below him huddled the buildings that made up the burgh, augmented by the tents and horses of the men who had descended upon Peebles for the council. The town was situated some thirty miles from Roxburgh, in a steep valley within the Forest, the pressing darkness of which drew in close on all sides. The trees were a green sea, rolling and wild, tossed by the tempest. Dimly, Robert heard his men arguing around him as he descended the castle mound, but their words were as incoherent and insubstantial as the wind to him, for his mind was swarming with images, the substance of which blocked out all else. He saw John Comyn’s face, livid with the determination to see him destroyed. The vision was followed by the uncertainty he had seen in the eyes of James Stewart as Comyn revealed his oath to King Edward. As he strode through the storm, down towards the town, he left the castle behind him, but couldn’t leave Comyn’s accusations. They followed him doggedly, ringing in his mind.
Bound to his cause by an unbreakable oath. How can we trust such a man?
How could they indeed? No one, not even his brother, knew he had helped the Knights of the Dragon take the Stone of Destiny from Scone Abbey. That was a weight he bore alone. Robert had told himself that if he’d refused that day to help Humphrey and the others steal the stone, they would have seized it without him – that he could not have prevented them – but this had done little to ease the burden. No matter what he did to aid his kingdom’s liberation, no matter how many English supply lines he attacked, no matter how many Scots he drew beneath his banner, and no matter the steps he took on his path to the throne, he could never forget that the greatest challenge to his own destiny was the very crime he had committed.
