by Robyn Young
Robert wondered if events since – his humiliating defeat at the hands of Valence, the men of Galloway joining forces with the English, the loss of so many friends and followers – were not caused by errors of judgement, but rather by his own sin. He imagined it as a cloud, following him wherever he went, God’s displeasure hanging over him like a thunderhead.
Thou shalt not kill.
Distracted by a burst of laughter, Robert forced his gaze from the derelict shrine. Beyond the graveyard, the men and women of his company were relaxing in the sunlight, children playing among them. Two minstrels were entertaining the crowd, the rhythm of drum and pipes lending speed to the children’s races.
Matilda and Mary, at nineteen and twenty the youngest of Robert’s siblings, were clapping in time to the music. The women, both slim and dark-haired, were almost identical in appearance, but opposites in manner. Mary took after Edward, sharp-tongued and stubborn, while Matilda, cut from the same cloth as Alexander, was studious and quiet. Marjorie raced past them in pursuit of Niall. Her skirts were bunched in one hand, thin legs pounding the grass. Christian’s son, Donald, toddled determinedly in her wake. Marjorie screamed delightedly as her uncle turned and whirled her into his arms, causing Fionn to leap from his patch of sun, barking. John of Atholl reclined with a goblet of wine, threading the fingers of his free hand idly through his wife’s hair, while her head rested on his chest. Their daughter Isabel, a pretty girl of sixteen, was speaking to the daughter of one of her father’s knights, while David sat close by with James Douglas, talking intently.
Robert’s gaze drifted to Elizabeth, who was sitting a little way from the crowd, observing the festivities. The breeze blew a strand of his wife’s hair across her face and she reached up to tug it behind her ear. Beside her sat Isabel Comyn. Robert was struck again by how similar his wife and the countess were – not just in appearance. The two women had the same brittle quality that rendered them cautious and guarded, even in times of joy.
Scanning the rest of the company, he caught glimpses of the true gravity of their situation in the grief-worn face of Margaret Randolph and in the bloodstained clothing of those wounded at Methven Wood, but for all that they appeared more like revellers at a summer fair rather than a war-band on the run. It was as if the sanctuary of St Fillan was isolated by more than just its location; a place of peace that existed outside the world. It helped that his scouts were out in the hills around them, bringing back regular reports. So far, his men had seen no one in the wilderness, allowing the company a welcome moment of respite after the hardships of the last weeks.
At the centre of the sunlit meadow, Christian rested in the arms of her husband, her hair crowned with flowers. She smiled as Christopher murmured something in her ear. Robert remembered witnessing the moment of affection they had stolen beneath the shadow of the Moot Hill the day of his coronation. He had vowed then to return to them the days of peace before the death of King Alexander, a desire that still shimmered in his vision, only now it was more of a mirage, leaving him uncertain as to how he would reach it.
Catching Robert’s gaze, Christopher kissed his bride and hastened over, a wide smile splitting his face. Dropping to one knee he clasped the king’s hand in both of his, his expression at once solemn. ‘My lord, I swore after you saved my life at Carlisle that I was in your debt. Now, that debt is doubled.’
Robert drew the knight to his feet. ‘To see my sister happy is all the payment I need.’ He embraced the beaming Yorkshireman, laughing at his infectious joy. ‘Congratulations, brother.’
When Christopher pulled back he was still smiling, but it was as if a cloud had passed across his face, weakening the brightness. ‘I only wish Alexander was here.’ He paused. ‘I should have said something to him sooner.’ He lifted his shoulders helplessly. ‘Done something.’
Robert felt his joy fade at the mention of Alexander Seton, who had disappeared with three of his men shortly after their arrival in Aberdeen. ‘He is his own man, Christopher. You aren’t responsible for him.’
‘I want you to know, Robert, that I am with you.’ Christopher’s tone was intent. ‘Alexander may be my kin, but he’s a fool to have left your company.’
Robert didn’t answer. He might resent Alexander for his desertion, but he could not call the man a fool. His had been the voice of warning at Methven Wood and the one he hadn’t heeded. His desire to prove himself worthy as Scotland’s king – to wash clean his tarnished reputation with the blood of the English and show his detractors his mettle – had blinded him to the danger posed by Valence. If he hadn’t been so reckless: if he had waited to confront the English when he was at full strength, with the support of the men of Antrim and others who may have joined his army, he might not now be reduced to five hundred men, fleeing through the wilderness.
His mind filled with an image of the Wheel of Fortune spinning him towards the ground, threatening to crush him in its unrelenting course. He hadn’t been able to get that image out of his mind since Aberdeen. From his coronation at Scone Abbey to this, in just four months.
‘Husband!’
Christopher turned to see Christian beckoning to him. She did a twirl in time to the minstrels’ spirited tune. Grinning again, the knight took his leave and ran to his bride. Catching her, he spun her into the air, causing her to shriek and spill her wine.
‘It reminds me of Turnberry,’ said Edward, appearing at Robert’s side. He handed him one of the two goblets he was holding. The wine had been a gift from Abbot Maurice. Taking a sip, Edward smiled slightly at their sister’s laughter. ‘Do you remember the feasts? Our father was never happier than when he and our mother were dancing.’
‘He was only happy then,’ corrected Robert.
Edward turned his full attention on Robert. ‘How long do you plan to stay here?’
Robert noted the impatience in his tone. Often on the journey through the mountains, he caught his brother looking behind them, back the way they had come. At first he thought Edward was checking for signs of pursuit, until he realised it wasn’t fear, but hunger in his eyes: hunger for the victory they had been denied.
‘A few more days at least. They should rest while they are able.’ Robert’s gaze moved over the scores of women and children he’d led, exhausted and scared, through the heights of Drumalban. ‘The way ahead will be harder still.’
Edward nodded in grim agreement. ‘The route will take us deep into the territory of the lords of Argyll. I agree it is better than attempting the pass, but it is still not without risk.’
‘No route is without risk for us,’ Robert told him, not wanting to be drawn into another debate about their chosen path, the subject of most of his conversations these past days. The obvious choice was to make for the Pass of Brander, but Dunstaffnage Castle, the chief seat of the lords of Argyll, stood sentry over the coast beyond and the pass itself, a narrow ridge overshadowed by the slopes of Ben Cruachan, was a dangerous place to be caught. Robert had opted for the proposal put forward by Neil Campbell: to keep east of Loch Awe and make their way through the hills until they reached the sea. There, they would have to commandeer a boat to Islay. Robert would go first with a small force of men and as many of the women and children as possible. If Angus MacDonald agreed to aid him, galleys could then be sent to ferry across the remainder. ‘I trust Neil to lead us. He knows these lands better than anyone here.’
‘At your coronation, Lady Isabel told us the Black Comyn was raising his kinsmen against you. We have no idea of the force John MacDougall and his father may have gathered in that time.’
‘Whatever force the MacDougalls have gathered will most likely be based at Dunstaffnage, within easy reach of the sea and the pass. As Neil said, our route will take us many miles east of the castle. The hills around Loch Awe are densely wooded, affording us good cover, and our scouts will keep watch ahead and behind.’ Robert held his brother’s gaze. ‘No one knows which way we’re headed. By the time they do we’ll be safe on Islay.’<
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‘God willing.’ Edward took another drink, his eyes on the company spread out across the meadow. ‘We have a lot of mouths to feed. I just hope MacDonald agrees to shelter us all.’
‘I’m his king. I’ll give him no damn choice.’ Robert drew a breath, pushing down his frustration at his brother’s questions. ‘Angus was at Turnberry with his father and brother when Grandfather called on their support against John Balliol. The MacDonalds pledged themselves willingly to our cause that night. I have no reason to think Angus will not continue his family’s allegiance, especially if I can make it worth his while. The MacDonalds have warred with the MacDougalls for years over territory. I can exploit their animosity to my advantage.’ Robert drained his wine. ‘The enemy of my enemy . . .’
‘And the MacRuaries? You’ve heard the same stories I have and not just from Neil.’
‘One mountain at a time, brother.’
‘Father!’ Marjorie ran over, her cheeks flushed. ‘Come, dance with me.’
Robert handed his empty goblet to Edward. ‘With the most beautiful girl at the wedding? It would be my honour.’
As he allowed his daughter to lead him into the crowd, out of the shadow of the ruined chapel and away from his brother’s doubts, Robert thought of Abbot Maurice speaking of St Fillan and the beasts of the valley.
Just how many wolves would he have to tame if he was to rebuild his kingdom?
Chapter 8
County Durham, England, 1306 AD
The flaps of the royal pavilion were splayed apart, affording Edward a wide view across the fields to where the road curved north towards the line of hills that barricaded the horizon. His gaze didn’t stray from the vista as the last of the sun’s radiance faded across the western sky. When he finally turned his attention back to the meal in front of him his eyes remained branded with the silhouettes of those hills.
Servants moved around the king in their usual unobserved dance, feet hushed on the silk rug that covered the ground inside the pavilion. Edward drank from his goblet after it had been refilled. The wine was laced with herbs and honey as directed by his physician. It didn’t taste as it ought to. Neither did the dry bread or thin strips of salted meat, but he could keep nothing else inside him. He remembered banquets at the palace in Westminster, sugared almonds piled high in silver bowls like pale gems; feasts in Bordeaux, his wife’s lips stained with wine, dark juices bleeding from slabs of venison; sticky dates and the perfume of a thousand spices in the markets of Acre. He wished he had savoured them more.
As he picked up a crust of bread, Edward caught movement on the road – a dozen or more riders heading south, followed by a wagon. Tearing a morsel from the crust, he watched the company draw closer. The sides of the pavilion snapped in a gust of wind that made him shudder, even through his ermine-trimmed mantle. It was mid-July, but the evenings seemed colder of late. Across the encampment fires were winking into life, his men settling in for another night on Durham’s plain. Edward wanted to have moved on by now, leading his army north in the wake of his son and Aymer de Valence, but his physician had told him plainly that the march could kill him. His bowel movements were watery and bloody and he spent most of his days crouched over a pot while whatever was left in him spattered out.
Frustration burned, fever-hot, inside him. Through endless, pain-riddled nights and the dull fog of his waking hours he thought of nothing else except the events taking place beyond those hills. So far, reports were good – Bruce was on the run with Aymer de Valence in pursuit and his son was ravaging the traitor’s lands in Carrick – but it was all happening without him. He had been the commander of countless campaigns in Scotland, Wales and Gascony, and was accustomed to the control his presence on the field gave him. Now, he felt like a puppet master whose creations had upped and learned to dance without him.
He knew this war would be his last act on earth. Only victory here would complete his legacy. By the power of prophecy he had drawn men to his cause and with the swords of the faithful he had conquered Britain. To the men of his Round Table he was Arthur, the Dragon King. He had executed the bloody conquest of Wales and had survived the struggle against his cousin in France, securing the duchy of Gascony for his son and heir. But it was Scotland that had eluded him, time and time again; Scotland he had spent the last ten years fighting and failing to control.
In this pursuit he had bled his lands dry of taxes, grain and men. England had suffered, poverty and lawlessness growing, while all his attention remained fixed on the north. The nobility had protested over the protracted conflict in Gascony and if victory was not soon won here he might risk again the diminishing of their support. He could not endure another civil war; the memory of his father humbled and humiliated before Simon de Montfort at Lewes forty-two years ago as clear now as if it were yesterday. But neither could he rest until Scotland was conquered and all those who had defied him were crushed. Only then would he let them lay his wasted bones in a tomb.
As a servant appeared to pour more of the bitter wine, Edward realised the company of riders had veered off the road and were heading towards the encampment, the wagon trundling behind them. He set down the bread, hungrier to know who these new arrivals might be. He squinted into the dusk, but they were too far for him to discern any coats of arms. Royal guards rode out to meet them as they neared the fringes of the encampment. There was a brief exchange. Edward wiped his mouth with a cloth as a lone rider cantered through the midst of the army. Passing the campfires of the infantry and the domed tents of the barons, the rider urged his horse up the shallow hill towards the royal pavilion. It was Henry Percy.
Bringing his horse to a halt outside the tent, the Lord of Alnwick dismounted heavily. Henry had grown fat over the last few years and his horses had likewise become larger to compensate. His fair hair appeared almost white against the red of his face, mottled with wine and sun. ‘Captain Dungal MacDouall has come, my lord. He requests to speak to you in person. He says he has a gift from Scotland.’
Edward leaned forward. ‘Gift?’ His mind sharpened with anticipation. His first thought was whether it could be Bruce himself, but he couldn’t imagine Aymer trusting a Scot to deliver such a prize.
‘He wouldn’t say what it was, my lord, just that it would please you to receive it. I can compel him to tell me, if you wish.’
Edward waved his hand impatiently. ‘Bring him to me.’
Henry heaved himself into the saddle and retreated with the order.
Edward set down his wine, suddenly aware of the meagre meal in front of him. It was why he now ate alone – the extent of his weakness revealed in the paltry offerings. There were beggars in his realm who would eat better. ‘Clear this,’ he ordered his servants, pushing the plate roughly away from him.
Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, and Constable of England, lay drunk in his tent. He had vowed that morning at prayer that he would not end another day like this, but as the afternoon stretched on and the empty hours opened up the dark places in his mind where his dead wife, Bess, still lingered, he had ordered his servant to pour one goblet. The wine was potent, softening the jagged edges of his thoughts as he watched the sun slip beyond the hills. One goblet became five, before he retreated to the warm womb of his tent, nursing the sixth.
The dome of the tent seemed to spiral above him in the ethereal glow of a lantern Humphrey couldn’t recall his servant lighting. Meadowsweet, spread on the ground, clogged the air with its sickly perfume. His thoughts were jumbled, floating in a soup of mixed emotions. On the one hand he felt comfortably drowsy, lying here waiting for sleep to claim him. On the other he wanted to rise up and do something; as if by his own action he could galvanise the king’s army and move it forward from this godforsaken plain.
Voices filtered into his consciousness. Hearing the word prisoners, Humphrey turned his head to the sound. Through the flaps he could see a figure. The bright yellow of the man’s surcoat told him it was Sir Ralph de Monthermer. Humphrey sat up, hi
s head spinning. Feeling like an old man, he struggled on to his hands and knees.
As he stumbled out of the tent, Ralph looked round, as did the other speaker. It was Robert Clifford. The two men paused in their conversation.
‘Prisoners?’ Humphrey asked thickly. He frowned when neither man answered. ‘Well? Am I to guess?’
‘Dungal MacDouall has come,’ Ralph told him. ‘He has two of Bruce’s men.’
Humphrey made for the royal pavilion.
Ralph caught his arm. ‘Perhaps you should wait, my friend. Speak to the king in the morning?’
Humphrey focused on Ralph’s face. He hated the look he saw there – part consternation, part pity. They had come up together at the royal court, both of them Knights of the Dragon, along with Robert Clifford, Henry Percy, Aymer de Valence and other young noblemen: England’s elite, who had sworn to uphold their king’s cause. Ralph had recently become Humphrey’s brother-in-law by his marriage to the king’s daughter, Joan, a marriage that had landed him the earldom of Gloucester. Still, Humphrey would be damned if he’d let the man tell him what to do.
Pushing past Ralph, he made his way towards the pavilion, staggering as he negotiated the guy ropes of tents, ignoring the greetings from his knights, who were sharing a meal around a campfire. The smell of food made Humphrey’s stomach knot with hunger. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He pushed a hand through his hair, aware of the state he was in, his face rough with stubble and his shirt stained with wine, but he had to see who these men of Bruce’s were. It was an urge driven by a powerful need for answers. The memory of Robert holding him while his grief for Bess poured out of him as though his soul had turned to water haunted him still. The man had been betraying him even as he comforted him. Judas with a kiss for Jesus. If he looked Robert in the eye now would he see an enemy staring back at him, or would he see his old friend? He had to know.
