by Robyn Young
He urged his horse on, up over a steep bank to join a track pocked with hoofprints and sheltered on one side by a high, snow-dusted verge. After fifty or so yards, he turned a corner. In the distance, at the track’s end, was the house he had been born in. Part of him had almost wondered if it would still be there, as if, like so many of those who had lived within its walls, it would have faded into memory. It was a surprise to see it in front of him, unchanged, a low wall ringing the main house, several outbuildings and a paddock. Will slowed the horse, its flared nostrils snorting clouds into the air. Limbs rigid with cold, he slid from the saddle and led the horse off the track. The estate had been owned by the Temple since his father had been knighted, his mother and sisters having been delivered to a nunnery near Edinburgh. He doubted news of his desertion would have traveled quicker than he had, but he didn’t want to meet anyone out here if he didn’t have to.
Will clambered down the hillside, heading for the copse his father had used for firewood. Entering the trees, he looped the reins over a branch and crept out of the cover, keeping low as he came up alongside the wall. In the paddock a few goats were grazing, and in the barn beyond he could see the ponderous shapes of cattle. He ducked as a man came out lugging a pail and disappeared behind the house. Will moved along the wall. The herbs in the garden his mother had planted were bushier, but otherwise the place looked the same. He crouched down, assailed by images from his childhood: his mother’s hands filled with sage, the fragrance drifting around her, his younger sister Mary in the paddock spinning around and around, his father lifting him onto his horse, his elder sister, Alycie, singing by firelight. She had followed the others to the grave some years ago.
After a time, his legs began to ache and he went to stand. There was movement behind him. Will turned. He had time to see a young man’s face, fierce with fear, a snatch of blond hair and a raised hand with something lodged in the fist, before the hand came down and the object in it smashed into his forehead.
7
Midlothian, Scotland
FEBRUARY 7, 1296 AD
There were voices nearby, but faint and muffled as if he were hearing them through water. Slowly, his vision came into focus. Ahead, through a doorway, Will could see several pairs of feet. The perspective seemed strange until he realized he was slumped on the floor. Someone had removed his cloak, which was hanging on a hook adjacent to a hearth, in which a fire blazed. His head was thrumming and he could feel something sticky on the side of his face. When he tried to move he found his hands were bound behind his back. The voices stopped and someone strode into the room. Will’s gaze traveled dazedly upward. A beefy man with dark hair was staring down at him. Behind him was a blond youth, thumbs thrust defiantly through a leather belt.
“He’s awake,” the beefy man called over his shoulder. His accent was thick Scots.
Will recognized him as the man he had seen carrying the pail from the barn. The youth was the one who had attacked him. Almost at the same moment, he realized where he was. This was the kitchen of his old home. Even some of the furniture was the same.
“Who are you?”
Bracing himself against the throbbing in his head, Will brought his knees up and pushed himself to his feet. Both men started back.
“Get a knife, David!” Will heard a woman call fearfully.
“Tell me,” he said groggily, taking a few steps toward the men, “do you treat all visitors this way?”
“Only English spies,” replied the older man, as the blond youth scanned the nearby shelves, presumably for a knife.
“Well, as I’m neither perhaps you could untie me and allow me to explain myself?”
“You aren’t gagged, are you?”
Will leaned against the wall to steady himself. “I used to live here. I was on my way to Edinburgh and I decided to pass by. I mean neither you nor your property any harm. I merely wanted to see the place I was born in.”
“He’s lying.”
Another voice, this one older, sounded from the doorway. A woman entered. She looked to be in her late thirties and was tall and lean with sandy-colored hair wound in two plaits that were pinned to either side of her head. Her eyes were dark green, much the same shade as his own, and her face, long and angular, was somehow familiar.
“Stay back, mistress,” said the beefy man.
“The Knights Templar owned this property for thirty years,” said the woman, ignoring the warning. “Before that it was in the possession of only one family, a family I know. You look no older than forty years, so tell me, how could you have been born here?”
“I’m forty-nine,” Will corrected her. “And I know the family you speak of, for I was the eldest son.”
The woman fell silent. Her hands rose to her face, leaving only her green eyes visible, eyes that now grew bright. “Sweet God,” she whispered.
“Who is he, Mama?” said a young woman, stepping in from the hallway to stare at Will. At her back was another girl, barely in her teens, who scowled as she was stopped from entering the kitchen, the older girl’s hand firm on her chest.
“He is my brother.”
Will felt something tighten in his chest as he realized the woman before him, who shared his eyes, was the sister he hadn’t seen since he was eleven and she was four months old, a mewling, wrinkled thing in his mother’s arms. The shocking reality of time passed, of encroaching death, of summers lost was all there, displayed in her. He looked from her to the three figures, drawing protectively around her. Her children? He let out a breath. His nephew and nieces. “Ysenda.”
The woman waved a hand at the beefy man. “Please, Tom, untie him.”
Tom’s brow knotted, but he went to Will warily.
Will winced, flexing his sore shoulder muscles as his hands came free.
“Mama thought you were dead,” said the younger girl to Will, creeping in behind her sister.
“Hoped,” corrected the older girl harshly.
“Out,” said Ysenda suddenly. “All of you.”
“Mother!”
“Out. And you, Tom.”
Ysenda closed the door as Tom disappeared through it. As she walked toward him, Will thought she was going to embrace him, but she stopped at the table and pulled a stool from under it. She sat, hands clasped rigidly on the table. “Are you going to stand?”
He bent and took a stool on the opposite side, facing her. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “How is it that you’re living here?”
“The Templars at Balantrodoch leased the estate to a tenant, a sheep farmer. He died a year ago and they decided to sell the place rather than rent it again.” Ysenda seemed to relax a little, unclasping her hands. “I still have contact with a priest at the preceptory who befriended Mother. When I found out the estate was going to be sold, I asked my husband to buy it.”
“You must have a wealthy husband.”
“Duncan thought it was a good investment and with him spending so much time in Edinburgh of late, it has proved more convenient than we could have hoped.” She rose and went to a trestle stacked with bowls. A row of candles dripped molten tallow from a shelf above. Outside, the sky was the color of slate. Taking a rag, Ysenda dunked it in a pail of water by the door. She squeezed it out and handed it to Will. “Here,” she said briskly, nodding to his head.
“Your son has a mighty swing in his arm,” said Will, pressing at the wound and rubbing away the sticky blood. “He would make a fine knight.”
“I expect he’ll be dubbed next year, when he turns eighteen.”
“As a Templar?” asked Will, lowering the rag.
“No,” she said abruptly.
“I still have your letter. The one about our mother.” Will faltered. “Was her passing peaceful?”
“Her passing, yes. It is a pity the same cannot be said for her life. Why did you not return?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
Will felt a stab
of guilt, although for a more recent abandonment. “I was eleven years old when I left, Ysenda. I did not have much say in the matter.”
“Mother would never tell me why you and Father left us, but when I was older Alycie and Ede did. They told me you killed their sister, Mary.”
“It was an accident. And she was my sister too.” He thrust a hand through his hair. “God, if I could take that day back I would. But I cannot. It is something I’ve had to live with.”
Ysenda was quiet for a time. “Mother used to tell me I looked like Mary.”
“You do, a little.”
“It was a hard face to wear.”
They both fell silent.
“Is Ede still . . . ?” Will paused, unsure how to ask. He felt like a stranger, not wanting to intrude on someone else’s life, someone else’s family.
“Alive?” Ysenda nodded. “She moved with her husband to Elgin a few years ago. Since the troubles began it’s been hard for us to get word to one another. But I believe she is well. She has three boys, all grown now.” Ysenda drew a breath. “What was he like?”
“Who?”
“Our father.”
“That would take longer than I have at this moment to tell you and do any justice to the telling.”
She frowned, staring behind him at the cloak hanging by the fire. “Where is your mantle? David found your horse in the thicket, but there were no Templar garments in your pack.”
“I’ve left the Temple.” Will stood as she opened her mouth. “I was on my way to Edinburgh. I have information for King John I must deliver. King Edward’s army is less than a month behind me.”
“Then it is happening? They’re coming for us?” Her hand drifted absently to her throat, where a delicate silver cross hung.
“King John needs to hear my information. It may help him.”
“John Balliol isn’t the power in this realm anymore. A council of magnates took control when he refused to oppose Edward’s demands. He says he will now, but at present he defers to them.”
“They will be at Edinburgh?”
“They are inspecting the border defenses. The king is with them. They are gathering our men for war. The fiery cross has been sent through the kingdom.” She paused. “But my husband is at Edinburgh. You can give the information to him.”
“With respect, Ysenda, I must give it to someone who can use it.”
“Duncan is a knight of Sir Patrick Graham of Kincardine, a powerful man. He will see that his lord hears what you have to say. I’ll send David with you tomorrow at first light. It is too late to leave now,” she said firmly, as he began to protest. “And I would hear more about you . . . brother.”
THE ROYAL CASTLE, EDINBURGH, MARCH 3, 1296 AD
The sun glimmered on the wet rooftops of the tightly packed buildings that tumbled down the spine of the hill toward Holyrood Abbey, a faint silhouette against the backdrop of the craggy mountain that rose behind it to glower over the city. Will shaded his eyes against the glare as he stood on the ramparts, buffeted by the wind coming off the Firth of Forth that whistled through the arrow slits, chasing straw and dust into the air.
“Sir William!”
Will turned, holding the hood of his cloak as the wind tried to flick it over his head. Two men were walking toward him down the steep path that led under an arched gate, beyond which the main buildings were clustered on the highest point of the castle rock. David smiled as he approached, but the expression of the man beside him remained cool. “It is just William now,” Will reminded his nephew. “I’m not a knight.”
“You were a commander, a Templar commander. Whether you wear the uniform or not, you should still call yourself a knight.” David shrugged. “I would.”
“You wanted to see me,” said the man, placing a hand on David’s shoulder.
Will’s gaze moved to his brother-in-law, a stocky, dour version of his nephew. “I want to know what the delay is, Duncan. I have been waiting three weeks. You know what I gave up to bring this information here. I would hate to think my sacrifice was in vain.”
Duncan wasn’t moved. “As I told you, until my lord returns there is nothing I can do.”
“What about the sheriff? The constable? The English host will have arrived at Newcastle. Edward planned to be at Berwick by Easter. That’s less than a month away.”
“The castle is jammed to the rafters with soldiers, the stores are being filled, the defenses bolstered, and there’re weapons’ inspection reports coming in from all over the shire. They don’t have time for audiences.”
“Even when the audience could save their kingdom?”
When Duncan remained silent, Will pressed him. “You do believe me?”
“The truth or accuracy of your information isn’t for me to decide. You’ll get your audience as soon as Sir Patrick returns. I am a man of my word,” Duncan added stiffly.
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“You can wait. The rest of us have work to do.”
Will bit back his anger as Duncan headed away up the path, leading a reluctant David. He understood the man’s hostility and suspicion; he was a stranger here, who had connections to the enemy and who had abandoned the woman Duncan loved, failing even to contact her until now. He understood, but it frustrated him beyond belief. For years he had been respected, feared even, able to command armies and negotiate with kings. Now, all because he had removed that mantle, he was reduced to nothing. He had no uniform, no money. No power. The only thing he could claim to be was a Campbell, but the family his grandfather had left years ago was based far away in the West and he’d never had any contact with them.
Feeling stung and irritated, Will rested his arms on the ramparts. Out in the estuary, four ships were gliding toward the port of Leith. The stretch of water was black, reflecting the towering cloud banks, but glittered gold wherever the sun burst through in great, sweeping rays. Everything about this place was vast and wild. It had a strange energy, a brooding, primitive power, visible in the dark volcanic stone that had splintered its way up out of the earth, upon which the Scots had built their indomitable fastness. There was something defiant about the castle and the town below; a bold gesture in the face of the inhospitable terrain that hemmed them in on all sides.
His father had brought him to the castle once when he was a boy. They had come with a company of Templars from Balantrodoch to see King Alexander, something to do with rents from what he could remember. Back then, the royal apartments and administrative buildings, in which the king’s constable and the sheriff of Edinburgh resided with their staff, had mostly been built of timber. Now many of the buildings had been replaced by larger, stone structures. Work was going on around some of them, the wooden scaffolds shuddering in the wind.
Sensing someone move up alongside him, Will looked round to see David. “I ought to watch my back. You’re as stealthy as a fox.” He tapped his forehead, where he had a faint scar.
David grinned ruefully and leaned against the damp stone. “You have to be if you want your supper out on the estate.”
“A knight and a hunter.”
“Well, a knight soon,” said David, unselfconsciously. “Don’t mind my father,” he added, looking out over the estuary. “He is just trying to protect Mother.”
“I suppose she was upset with me for a long time?”
David gave a shrug. “She didn’t speak about you much, but after Grandmamma died she cried a lot and I sometimes heard her and Father talking of you and Grandfather. She used to say Grandmamma died of a broken heart.”
Will looked away.
David fiddled with his belt, then glanced at him. “Did you really save a grand master’s life?”
“A long time ago.”
“Tell me more about Acre.”
Will smiled. It had become a pact of sorts. He told David about the Holy Land and in return David told him of Scotland and the struggle with Edward, filling in the gaps in his knowledge.
His nephew h
ad spoken at length of the day a decade ago when King Alexander died, breaking his neck in a fall from his horse. In grave tones, that sounded to Will like echoes of Duncan, David told him how the king’s granddaughter, the Maid of Norway, passed away shortly after, and Scotland’s woes had begun. More than fourteen competitors came forward following her death, each citing a claim to the throne. With civil war threatening, Edward, Alexander’s brother-in-law, was requested to intervene. He arranged to conduct a trial to determine the rightful candidate, but Edward had ulterior motives, motives that soon became apparent when he demanded the Scots recognize him as superior overlord, surrendering to him the royal towns and castles. With little option but to comply, the Scottish magnates agreed on the promise that once a king was crowned, Edward would relinquish any hold on the realm.
After a year-long trial, Edward chose John Balliol to be Alexander’s successor and, for a time, Scotland’s peace was regained. But then slyly, skillfully, Edward began to undermine Balliol’s power. As king, it was Balliol’s sovereign right to administer justice in his realm, but Edward insisted legal claims that should have been settled in Scotland be heard in England. This continued for several years, Balliol increasingly humiliated, on one occasion even being called to defend himself at Westminster. By this action, Edward was showing that the king was merely a vassal, subject to the English crown and bound by English authority. Things, David told Will, finally came to a head last year when the Scottish magnates, angered by Edward’s actions and Balliol’s weakness, formed a council to govern in his stead and sent envoys to Philippe to ask for his aid.
David’s retelling of these events had only served to increase Will’s hatred of Edward. Deserting the Temple to warn the Scots of his plans had felt like a direct and satisfying action against the man who had destroyed his life, but with no one willing to listen to his information, he had begun to feel ever more impotent.
