Kingdom: Insurrection Trilogy Book 3

by Robyn Young

  ‘No, my lady. We would be living under King Edward’s rule in a land that was no longer our own, watching our people break their backs to fill his coffers with silver. I’ve heard tell of what life is like for the Irish and the Welsh. We would be little more than slaves.’

  Elizabeth could not respond to this. Born in an English settlement in Connacht to the Earl of Ulster she only knew the Irish as barbarians, with coarse customs and savage natures. In that, she was still her father’s child. ‘The end cannot be justified if the means of getting there is by murder. Our husbands were both involved in committing a deadly sin. That sin now haunts us all.’

  ‘Men kill one another all the time.’ Christian’s voice had hardened.

  ‘You know it is different in war,’ said Elizabeth quietly. ‘The Church does not call it murder.’

  Christian pressed her lips together, seeming to consider her next words. ‘My brother has his faults, certainly, and he has done wrong. I do not deny it.’ She fixed Elizabeth with her blue eyes. ‘Robert has been led most of his life by his ambition – our family’s ambition – for him to be king. All of us have paid a price, for some the highest price, for him to fulfil that desire, but we have done so because we see in him something that lifts him above most other men; something that makes us hope. He has the iron will of our grandfather and, yes, the hot blood of our father, though he’ll not hear the latter said, but he also has the heart of our mother. It is a true heart. A good heart. You must keep faith, my lady.’ She took Elizabeth’s hand. The ruby on the queen’s gold ring was almost black in the half-light, gleaming alongside the bright silver of Christian’s own wedding band. ‘He is your husband and king. He needs you by his side.’

  As her voice broke on these last words, Elizabeth drew Christian into her arms, pity overwhelming her. Was this what family felt like? Anger and love and grief all bound up together?

  There was a low growl.

  The two women pulled back from one another to see Fionn had risen and was standing stock-still, staring at the door. The hound’s hackles were up, his ears pressed flat against his head.

  ‘Sir John?’ murmured Christian.

  Elizabeth felt a chill prickle its way along her arms. She shook her head, eyes on the hound. ‘Fionn knows him.’

  There were sounds of shouting outside. Fionn launched into a torrent of snarling barks, causing Elizabeth and Christian to jump up. All the other women woke, scrabbling to their feet in startled confusion.

  Marjorie threw off her blanket and grabbed the hound’s spiked collar. ‘Fionn!’ The animal took no notice of the girl, still barking ferociously at the door.

  ‘My lady?’ Isabel Comyn crossed to Elizabeth, her long dark hair curling loose around her shoulders. ‘What is it? Who is out there?’

  Elizabeth realised Christian was still grasping her hand. She could feel the sweat slick on both their palms. She came to her senses. ‘Mary! Bolt the door!’

  Mary, the closest, hastened to do as bid. Before she reached it, the door flew open with a bang. Lora, Elizabeth’s maid, screamed shrilly. Marjorie just managed to stop Fionn lunging at the chaplain, who rushed in and slammed the door shut behind him. Donald began to wail, shushed vainly by his wet nurse. Judith, Lora and the other maids and governesses were clustered together, some holding their charges tight to their breasts, others grasping one another.

  The chaplain looked over his shoulder at the terrified women as he snapped the bolt in place. ‘Men have breached the girth!’ he gasped. ‘They wear Earl William’s colours. They have Sir John.’

  The Countess of Atholl put her hands to her mouth. Her daughter, Isabel, went to her side, clutching her mother’s arm.

  ‘They come for you, my lady.’

  Elizabeth flinched as the chaplain’s gaze fell on her. He twisted round. There was a bright red stain on the front of his white robe, blooming like a rose unfurling.

  Marjorie cried out. She ran to Elizabeth, who put an arm around her shoulders, shielding the child from the sight of the chaplain sliding down the door.

  ‘Earl William of Ross was a loyal follower of John Balliol,’ said Christian to Elizabeth, her face white.

  Mary Bruce turned to them. ‘They cannot take us,’ she said fiercely. ‘This is a sanctuary!’

  ‘I am not sure they care, sister,’ murmured Margaret Randolph, stepping backwards to the window along with the other women now clustering around Elizabeth.

  They all started as several loud crashes echoed outside. More shouts rose, this time closer. They were followed by guttural screams. The other chaplains? Or the few men Sir John had left them with? The sound galvanised Elizabeth. ‘The window,’ she urged, turning Marjorie towards it. ‘Go!’

  The girl clambered up on to the window seat and ducked into the narrowing aperture, which opened on to the field outside. ‘It’s too small!’ she said, her voice quavering.

  ‘Try!’ Elizabeth ordered.

  Marjorie put her hands to either side of the thin, arched opening. She was pushing herself forward when she suddenly screamed and staggered back. Her scream was echoed by others as a man’s face appeared in the window. His eyes lit with triumph, seeing Marjorie being pulled back by Elizabeth.

  ‘In here!’ he yelled, turning his head to someone they couldn’t see, before leering at the women, huddled together in the centre of the room. His expression changed as Fionn lunged at the window.

  Marjorie cried a command, but the hound was gone, leaping through the opening. There were now sounds of shrieking and snarling outside.

  A fierce bang shook the door. Some of the women began to cry as it rattled violently in its frame. Donald was howling. Elizabeth drew Marjorie close, feeling the girl quivering against her. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for escape or some means of defence. There was nothing. Screams burst from the group as the bolt snapped and the door crashed open.

  Men appeared, their red surcoats and tunics decorated with three white lions. All had swords drawn. Some were wet with blood. One, a thickset man with a crooked nose, pushed his way to the front. He scanned the group of women and children. Elizabeth found his cold stare far more unsettling than the unpleasant grins of the men with him.

  ‘Which of you is the wife of Robert Bruce?’

  Elizabeth released herself from Marjorie and stepped out of the group. ‘I am.’ It came out as a whisper. Swallowing back the terrible dryness in her throat, she tried again, this time more forcefully. ‘And as your queen I command you to leave this place.’

  ‘You’re not my queen. You’re the bitch wife of a murdering bastard.’

  There were gasps of shock among the women.

  Elizabeth paled. Then, her anger rising, she stepped closer. ‘How dare you come into this place of refuge. You have violated a holy sanctuary with your foul presence.’ She pointed a rigid finger at them‘May the wrath of St Duthac descend upon you!’ She may not have lived among the Irish, but she knew how they cursed. ‘Go now, or may God Almighty strike you down! You and all your sons!’ As she spoke, she realised Christian and Mary Bruce, Isabel Comyn and the Countess of Atholl had moved to join her, facing the men blocking the doorway.

  A couple of Ross’s men’s grins disappeared. They looked nervously at their master, who didn’t quail, but met Elizabeth’s outburst with dispassionate eyes. ‘Seize them.’

  As the men poured in, the women began to scream and protest. Mary Bruce fought like a cat, scratching and biting as one of the men tried to grab her and Matilda. The man reeled back, surprised, then backhanded her across the face with his mailed fist. Matilda swooped over her fallen sister with a strangled cry, but was dragged away. Margaret Randolph and some of the others submitted, calling to their sisters to do the same and avoid being hurt. Lady Isabel Comyn had crumpled against the wall, holding her hands out in front of her face, eyes wild with fear, trapped in some old, familiar place of horror. One of Ross’s men cruelly snatched a handful of her hair and hauled her to her feet. Christian had grab
bed Donald and was clutching her son. Elizabeth tried to keep hold of Marjorie as long as she could, but the men were strong and it was easy for them to rip Robert’s daughter from her arms.

  Chapter 14

  Lanercost Priory, England, 1306 AD

  They were drawn in carts, exposed to the midday sun and evening’s chill, their wrists and ankles bound with rope. The year had begun its languid fall towards winter and over the many miles they travelled they watched the last glory of summer burn in the leaves of trees and the bright blaze of heather on the mountainsides. Its death was both beautiful and heartbreaking.

  In the front cart the women sat in two lines facing one another, their spines knocking painfully against the timber sides with every rut in the road. Dust kicked up by the harnessed horses had turned their dresses grey. During the first few days of the journey south they had whispered to one another, passing words of consolation or reassurance back and forth. Now, as they wound down out of the hills to see the great edifice of Lanercost Priory dominating the landscape beyond the broken line of Hadrian’s Wall, they were silent.

  Elizabeth looked at Christian, sitting opposite. Her sister-in-law’s eyes were fixed on the second cart which followed in the procession of mounted men, where her son Donald was swaddled against his wet nurse. The maids had their ankles bound, but their hands had been kept free to allow them to suckle and care for their charges. Christian’s blonde hair hung bedraggled, blanched by the sun, and her face was freckled after months spent living in the wild. Her dress was torn and had slipped off one brown shoulder. She looked, thought Elizabeth, more like a shepherdess than a countess. They all did.

  When Earl William of Ross had delivered them into the custody of Aymer de Valence and Prince Edward, Elizabeth had told the English that her sister-in-law was with child. They granted Christian the concession of a cushion to sit on, but showed no sympathy for her sickness, instructing her to vomit over the side of the cart or else sit in her own mess. On seeing Humphrey de Bohun, Elizabeth had thought the earl, whom she had once counted a friend, might be persuaded to offer more lenient treatment, but her hope had been dashed when Humphrey parted their company almost immediately, no doubt riding on to tell the king of their coming.

  The cart jolted over a stone, causing the women to lurch into one another. Christian glanced at the Countess of Atholl, who bumped shoulders with her. The older woman communicated an apology with her eyes, before returning her gaze to the front, squinting into the early evening sun. Her daughter, Isabel, hunched beside her, joined her mother’s vigil, watching the back of her father. John of Atholl was some distance ahead, his black and yellow surcoat glimpsed occasionally between the swaying backs and switching tails of the knights’ horses. Stripped of mail and weapons, the earl was seated on a horse, hands tied to the pommel. Behind him, Niall Bruce was similarly trussed. The brief joy of the Bruce sisters on seeing their younger brother in the prince’s company had quickly faded with the realisation Kildrummy had fallen. Elizabeth, catching snatches of conversation among the knights, heard talk of the castle’s garrison being executed, only those of high rank kept alive, reserved for the pleasure of the king.

  As they trundled across tree-fringed fields, approaching the priory’s precinct, Elizabeth caught clear voices rising over the din of the hooves and the creaking cartwheels. A group of children were running along the flower-speckled verge. They called to the knights, who ignored them, before stopping in a curious huddle to watch the carts roll past. The eldest, a skinny boy with lank hair, pointed at the women and said something to his companions that made them cackle. Elizabeth felt heat rise in her cheeks. The children’s faces were mocking. The little group jogged alongside the carts for a while, still laughing, until they got bored and ran off into the fields, chasing one another. Their screams faded slowly. Feeling the sun vanish and a cold gloom move across her, Elizabeth realised they had passed through the gateway of the priory wall.

  Now they were level with the buildings, the height of the church at the centre was even more imposing. It towered before them, its stone façade ruddy in the sunlight. Clustered in its shadow was a colourful multitude of tents, the larger ones displaying heraldic banners beside them. The largest of all was a scarlet pavilion made up of several sections, hemmed with fluttering gold flags. Elizabeth’s heart began to hammer in her chest at the sight of it. Behind the pavilion, a timber building was under construction, men working on scaffolds. Many other figures moved about the camp and the priory’s lawns, which were crowded with wagons, horses and mules. The royal court had come to Lanercost.

  As the vanguard came to a stop, Elizabeth saw Humphrey de Bohun heading across to greet the prince and his men. Aymer de Valence and Henry Percy dismounted and joined them. Her attention was distracted as the cart lurched to a halt. Men came to the back with knives in their hands. Matilda Bruce flinched as one leaned towards her, but he merely grabbed the rope that bound her ankles and began sawing through it. One by one, the women were helped from the carts. Elizabeth saw Margaret Randolph jump down unaided and crane her head to the camp. Of all of them she had something to hope for here – knowledge of her son, Thomas, missing since the battle at Methven Wood.

  Elizabeth looked over her shoulder as she was led towards the pavilion, seeking Marjorie in the crowd of men and horses. Despite her protestations, Robert’s daughter had been separated from her in the third cart, which had travelled some distance behind the others. She was gratified to see the girl had now been freed and was following, the hand of one of Valence’s men on her shoulder. Ahead, Humphrey de Bohun was making his way back towards the pavilion, accompanied by the prince and the barons who had led the raid into Scotland. Another of Valence’s knights drew Fionn after his new master. The hound, scarred from several brutal whippings, whined unhappily, twisting his head towards Marjorie, but was pulled forward by a jerk of the leash.

  As the women were escorted, struggling, with hands still bound, to hitch their skirts over the fresh piles of horse dung littering the priory’s lawns, they were brought alongside the men who had been taken prisoner at Kildrummy and Tain. Seeing the countess lock eyes with her husband, Elizabeth found it unsettling that a face could communicate so much relief and despair at once. John of Atholl gave his wife and daughter a fortifying smile, which didn’t reach his brown eyes. Niall Bruce was leaning heavily against his captors, his surcoat ripped and covered in blood, but he managed a brief nod to his sisters.

  ‘My God.’

  Hearing the breathless exclamation, Elizabeth saw Lady Isabel Comyn staring at the royal pavilion. Outside was a host of men, watching their approach. Near the front was an imposing, well-built man, dressed all in black. Seeing the arms decorating his surcoat, Elizabeth realised he must be the Black Comyn. Isabel had frozen at the sight of her husband, the knights escorting her having to compel her forward.

  Elizabeth found her own eyes transfixed by a figure seated on a throne in the pavilion, the sides of which were stretched out to either side of him like red wings. She had last seen King Edward two years ago at Dunfermline Abbey. The man before her was scarcely recognisable. Edward’s face was haggard and wan, as if all the blood had been leached out of it. He sat hunched in a flowing, scarlet mantle, which failed to conceal the shocking gauntness of his once powerful physique. A gold crown perched on his head, where patches of scalp were clearly visible through the thin white hair. Elizabeth was reminded of pictures of Death she had seen on murals and in religious books – an emaciated, claw-fingered figure, leering from behind tombstones. A shudder ran through her as the skeleton in the throne fixed his bloodshot eyes on her.

  Prince Edward bowed before his father, then swept a hand to the prisoners being lined up before the king. ‘My lord, I present to you Bruce’s family and followers,’ he announced grandly.

  The king’s gaze shifted to his son, but remained glacial. ‘But not the man himself.’

  The prince glanced at Humphrey de Bohun, standing at the king’s right. �
��My lord, I believe Sir Humphrey has informed you that Bruce fled into the wilderness before we could confront him.’

  Piers Gaveston stepped in. ‘We have had reports that place Bruce in Kintyre. The Scots are in pursuit.’

  Prince Edward shot the Gascon knight a warning look, before turning back to his father. ‘My men and I are ready to join the hunt whenever you command it.’

  The king didn’t respond. Instead, he addressed one of his knights. ‘Bring the prisoner. I am ready to pass judgement.’

  Despite her fear, Elizabeth stepped forward. As queen it was her duty to stand up for her countrywomen and, as the daughter of Richard de Burgh, she was perhaps the only one who could. ‘My lord king, I beg you, have pity. These women and their children have endured great hardship and I implore you to—’

  Her entreaty was cut off by a sharp cry from Christian Bruce. Following her sister-in-law’s gaze, Elizabeth saw a man being dragged through the crowd. It was Christopher Seton. The knight from Yorkshire had been badly beaten, but his bloodied face lit up like a candle at the sight of his wife. The men holding Christian had to tighten their grip as she tried to run to him.