by Robyn Young
‘No,’ said Humphrey quickly. ‘As you say, the king is frail. Such a revelation will only weaken him further.’ He paused, trying to think through the throbbing in his head, increased by Thomas’s disclosure. ‘I will speak to the prince and counsel him to take responsibility for his conduct. He has heeded me in the past. On our return, I will advise the king to bring forward the prince’s impending marriage to Isabella of France. Edward wanted to wait until Scotland was fully under his control, but I can suggest the wedding would be better served sooner rather than later, especially as the king is ailing.’
Thomas pressed his lips together. ‘Just remember, Humphrey, we both have a duty to defend the realm against all dangers, without and within.’
Chapter 18
The Inner Hebrides, Scotland, 1307 AD
The galley ploughed through the waves, creaking with every upward surge and downward plunge. A fist of purple cloud, looming over the distant peaks of Argyll, was spreading dark fingers westwards.
‘Start heading in,’ Angus called to his men.
The crew of the birlinn moved into action at their lord’s command, tacking into the wind. Ropes sawed through iron rings on the galley’s sides as they heaved in the slack. The mainsail flapped wildly until the ropes were drawn taut again, then it ballooned once more. The man at the stern shifted the rudder, the vessel pitching to the opposite side. Away to starboard, the monstrous finned back of a whale arched out of the water and disappeared.
Robert stared at the Isle of Muck, now directly ahead. All around, other islands rose from the rolling expanse of water, some near, some far; dark towers of rock that thrust from the sea, or long strips of land barely breaking the surface. Out here in the Western Isles, water ruled all. During the voyage from Rathlin, Robert had come to understand how Somerled and the Norsemen had held sway over this sea kingdom for so long. The ocean was power: lifeblood and life taker, a road for armies, a route of escape and an endless larder. He who controlled it could control the west coast of Scotland. The understanding made him even more determined to get what he had come here for.
A gust of wind snatched his cloak from around his shoulders. It couldn’t be much past nones, but already the day had gone, extinguished like a candle on the chill breath of dusk. The faint warmth he’d felt in the sun had vanished. As he drew his cloak tighter, his eyes caught on the red lion on his surcoat. There was a tear in the cloth that went straight through the beast’s head. It provoked a thought of John Balliol at Montrose, the royal arms ripped from his tabard by Edward’s knights. Toom tabard, they had called him. King nobody.
Robert felt his brother shift beside him, turning to Angus MacDonald who was seated behind them on one of the benches, his shaggy black cloak augmenting his broad form.
‘How long till we make land?’
The Lord of Islay squinted at the island. ‘An hour if this wind keeps up, Sir Edward.’ He looked to the mainland, where the dark clouds over Argyll were stretching towards them. ‘But the same wind will bring that weather our way.’
Robert followed the lord’s gaze to the storm-bruised eastern sky. So far on their journey, skirting the Inner Isles, they had been blessed with clement days. The men who had accompanied him from Rathlin – Edward, Nes, David and Malcolm, along with an escort of knights – had been relieved, well aware of the Northern Ocean’s reputation for violence, but Angus and the crew had been less grateful. Robert, noting their watchfulness as they passed Islay and sailed north through the narrowing channel between Mull, Coll and Tiree, realised the fair weather, while making for a gentle voyage, also made them more visible to John MacDougall’s patrols.
Fortunately, Angus’s crew knew these waters better than they knew their own wives – the hidden coves and sheltering rocks, the shifts of the tides – and although they spotted numerous vessels flying the colours of Argyll near Jura, their enemy had not spied them. Now, sailing out of the channel into open water, they were leaving the bounds of the MacDougalls and entering the vast, remote territory of the lords of Garmoran.
‘We’ll be safe on Muck, Sir Angus?’ Malcolm of Lennox had to raise his voice above the sail, which was snapping in the rising wind.
The vessel lurched as a wave rolled them from the side. The crew, even those standing, moved easily with the motion, but one of Lennox’s knights was only saved from being pitched overboard by grabbing hold of the mast. Nes gripped the bench he was sitting on, eyes wide.
‘The isle is owned by the monks of Iona,’ Angus told the earl. ‘We’ll find sanctuary there for tonight at least. If the wind allows we’ll strike for Barra at first light. The weather is on the turn and with the changing tide . . . Well, if we don’t attempt the crossing we could be stranded here for weeks.’ Angus glanced at Robert to check his agreement.
Robert nodded. The sooner they reached Barra the better.
Before leaving Rathlin, he had sent Thomas, Alexander and Cormac to Antrim as planned, to order the assault on Galloway. Neil Campbell, Gilbert de la Hay and James Douglas had meanwhile sailed to Arran with the rest of his men to establish a staging ground for the invasion of Carrick, James vowing to send a message to the high steward’s lands in the hope his uncle would receive it and raise his vassals for the return of their king. But all Robert’s plans, laid these past months on Rathlin, now hung in the balance with the word of just one man. If Lachlan MacRuarie switched sides and the galleys and men Robert so desperately needed for his attack on the mainland were given over to his enemies, all would be lost. So here he was, out on these treacherous seas, making his way to the Outer Isles to persuade the duplicitous bastard to make good on his pledge.
The thought that a mercenary could decide his fate, after all he and his men had suffered these past six months, had lit a righteous fire inside him. He might be exiled, a hunted man, but he was still king and Lachlan MacRuarie and his freebooting brood would obey his command, or suffer the consequences. Robert was determined, whatever happened, that he would be leaving Barra at the head of a fleet, or else with the head of the man who had dared to defy him. He was going home to wrest his kingdom from the hands of his enemies and God help anyone who stood in his way.
The galley groaned as it crested the white-capped swell. Now they were out of the shelter of the channel the waves rose to meet them like hills, lifting them up and casting them down. Darkness raced to overtake them on a black chariot of cloud. Great curtains of rain had obscured the mainland and lightning whipped the sky over the mountains. A wave broke hard over the prow, lashing Robert with spray.
‘Take my place, my lord,’ called Angus, moving to allow him to sit on his bench.
Robert and Edward staggered from the prow. The wind was moaning.
‘Just like riding a horse,’ Edward shouted as they sat heavily on the bench, but his grin turned into a grimace as they smashed into another wave.
The crew worked in silence, white-knuckled as they fought to keep the boat on course, concentration tightening their faces, just visible in the deepening gloom. Robert’s men had crowded together on the benches, holding on to their packs. Nes was praying. One of Malcolm of Lennox’s knights twisted away to vomit over the side. Rain engulfed them, hammering on the deck and needling the water. The galley climbed steadily up the flank of a wave, then rushed down the other side, slamming into the water as if it were a wall. Robert grabbed hold of the side, feeling his body threaten to leave the bench. Salt water dashed him, splinteringly cold. He wiped his eyes and focused on the island, the outline of which was disappearing in sheets of rain.
‘How much longer?’ he shouted to Angus, who was clutching the stem of the prow.
The lord turned to answer, but halted, his brow furrowing. As Angus pushed his way past them to grip the mast, Robert followed his intent gaze. For a moment he saw nothing but the rolling darkness. Then, as they crested another wave, he caught sight of a huge shape, some distance behind. It was suspended briefly on the side of a wave, before disappearing behind another. Shock jo
lted through him with the thought that it was some enormous creature, then, as the shape reappeared, he realised it was three galleys lashed together in a row to form one great vessel. With black sails billowing, the three-headed ship was coming straight at them.
‘MacDougalls!’ yelled Angus.
‘Christ!’ hissed Edward.
As Angus barked orders, the crew struggled against the pelting rain to let out more of the mainsail.
‘What can we do?’ Robert shouted.
‘We’ll try and outrun them!’ Angus bellowed back. ‘They have more power with three sails, but they’re heavier in the water.’ He lurched down the deck to the prow again, checking their position.
Robert blinked rain from his eyes, his gaze on the pursuing vessels. ‘Why bind them together?’
‘Makes a good fighting platform, my lord,’ one of the crew responded.
There were faint voices on the wind. Robert caught the word halt, repeated several times. The triple-vessel reared up behind them. It was gaining. Their own mainsail was bulging with wind, straining against its ropes. There were several ominous creaks and groans.
‘Sir!’ cried one of the crew. ‘The wind is too strong! We’ll lose the mast!’
Angus cursed. ‘Pull her in, Patrick!’ he hollered. ‘Just a little!’
As Patrick was fighting his way to the ropes he suddenly pitched overboard. Robert pushed himself from the bench, slamming into the side as they careened down another wave. A second later, David of Atholl was there with him. Steadying themselves, they leaned over and fished for the man. After a few attempts, Robert snatched a fistful of cloak. Angus was roaring at the other crewmen to pull in the sail. With David’s help and the aid of a timely wave that lifted the man almost level with the side, Robert heaved Patrick back into the boat. As the man slid on to the deck with a wash of icy water and lay unmoving, Robert saw an arrow protruding from his back.
‘Down! Get down!’
Even as the shout left his mouth and he was shoving David of Atholl to the deck, more barbs shot out of the darkness. Most stabbed into the waves, but one struck the shoulder of one of Malcolm’s men, who collapsed with a cry. The others, realising the danger, were throwing themselves down. Robert, hunkered on the deck, risked a glance over the side to see the enemy vessels were nearly on them. Angus lunged for the ropes as a fierce gust of wind stretched the sail. They were listing dangerously, the vessel threatening to capsize with the strength of the squall. It was taking two men just to hold the rudder.
Robert, seeing Angus alone, fighting to pull in the sail, struggled to his feet. He swayed sickeningly, skidding on the slippery deck as he tried to reach him. There was a mighty crack as the mast broke in two. The top half came crashing towards Robert in a tangle of ropes and cloth. He raised his arms to protect his head. As he did so, the galley lurched violently and he was lifted free from the rolling deck. For a moment, he was flying, weightless. Then, he struck the water.
The shock slammed him like a fist. His head went under the rushing darkness, the cold carving through him like knives. For a moment, he wasn’t sure which way was up and which was down and he began to panic, twisting and flailing. A wave turned him, then spat him to the surface. He came up choking salt water. He glimpsed the galley – a mess of ropes and sail – his brother and Nes shouting, arms outstretched towards him, before they all disappeared down the side of a wave.
Robert felt himself carried under, caught up in his cloak. He tore desperately at the brooch, ripping the garment away. He was still too heavy, his body wanting to sink beneath the rain-peppered surface. His sword. He still had his broadsword attached to his belt. Thrusting his head above the water, gulping air, he took hold of the hilt. Something stopped him pulling it free. As he kicked and thrashed, the weight of the forty-two-inch blade around his waist, all he could think of was James Stewart handing him the weapon on the night of his enthronement. It was the last goddamned thing he had of his kingship.
He went under again, the cold freezing his brain. When he broke the surface, he heard more shouts. Fear stabbed in through the numbness as he realised he had been carried some distance from the boat. He glimpsed it again on the ridge of a wave. The MacDougalls’ vessels were almost upon it. It looked as though they were going to ram it. Robert yelled in the darkness, overcome by helpless rage. It couldn’t end here, like this, the pitiless ocean stripping away the last of his authority, his possessions, his life. The weight of the sword was dragging him down. He had to let go. His legs and arms weren’t working any more. It was as if his body were turning to ice, solidifying.
Just let go.
Buoyed up for one last moment on the crest of a wave, he saw six dark shapes with glowing yellow eyes bearing down on him. At his cry, water flooded his mouth and poured down his throat. As the sea closed over his head, he had the faint thought that they weren’t monsters, but galleys with lanterns on their sides, then the thought slipped away and he was sinking into the black.
Chapter 19
Lanercost Priory, England, 1307 AD
Prince Edward stared out of the window, across the priory’s snow-clad grounds towards his father’s lodgings. The timber house, construction of which had begun last autumn, was complete and a separate two-storey building was now being erected behind it for the queen, who had joined her husband on the northern frontier. As Edward’s gaze lingered on the structure, which squatted by Lanercost’s magnificent church like an ugly child beside a tall, graceful parent, he felt its windows stare back at him, filled with darkness. He thought of the man inside, pent up all these months with his leeches and his fury.
A boy’s shout caught his attention. Looking past the porters, still busy unloading gear from the wagons, the snows churned black by the arrival of his company that afternoon, the prince saw his half-brothers, Thomas and Edmund, racing one another towards the drifts banked up along the priory’s wall. Following the snaking lines of their footprints, Edward saw two women walking in their wake. One was his stepmother, Queen Marguerite, her scarlet robe trailing like a sweep of blood through the snow. Sister of King Philippe and known as the Pearl of France by her people, Marguerite had been seventeen when she was married to his father in Canterbury. She had since blessed the sixty-seven-year-old king with three children. The third, born last year, was a girl named Eleanor. The prince had wondered what Marguerite thought of her child being named after the king’s first wife, his mother, whose beloved ghost she could never live up to.
Edward’s gaze lingered on the queen. Despite the fact Marguerite was the same age as himself he had always found her motherly and protective. Gentle in manner, she had often acted as a balm to the king’s temper. He pondered speaking to her first to gauge his father’s mood, perhaps even asking her to petition the king on his behalf? The moment he thought it he felt like a coward and berated himself bitterly.
The door opened, making him start. Piers entered. The knight had already changed out of his travelling clothes and had somehow found time to sit with his barber, for his handsome face was clean-shaven, his black hair swept back with scented oil. Edward caught a waft of the sweet fragrance as Piers closed the door. At once he felt terribly shabby, his cloak soiled with horse sweat, boots mud-caked and his chin coarse with stubble.
Piers threw a disparaging glance around the chamber, which was located in part of the monks’ quarters. Chests and bags brought up by the porters were stacked against the walls. There was a narrow bed in one corner. ‘These are your lodgings? My prince, you should have asked your father for his pavilion, since he is not using it.’ When Edward didn’t answer, Piers’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t seen him yet, have you?’
Edward turned back to the window. He felt Piers move up behind him.
‘You’re having second thoughts?’
‘No,’ Edward said sharply. ‘I’m . . .’ He trailed off, not wanting to tell Piers the real reason for his reluctance. ‘Sir Humphrey has been to see him already.’
‘All
the more reason you should go to him now. You must give him your version of events.’ Piers put a hand on Edward’s shoulder, turning the prince to face him. ‘Don’t let Humphrey and the others take the credit for the fall of Dunaverty, then blame you for Bruce’s disappearance. You know that is their way.’
Edward said nothing, but inwardly he disagreed. Whatever else he might say about Humphrey, the constable had always been a fair and honest man. Indeed, it was his honesty that was the issue for he was worried the earl would have told his father about his behaviour on campaign. Humphrey had spoken to him, gravely and at length, after the hunt at Lochmaben, which delayed their arrival at Lanercost. The earl told him it was time to stop acting like an errant youth and start behaving as the king he was destined to become. Frivolous pursuits, Humphrey advised, must wait until he had reported to his father on the state of the war. The earl had no idea he had organised the hunt to avoid doing just that. Not only did Edward want to delay the admission to his father that he had failed to capture Robert Bruce, he also wanted to avoid, as long as possible, the promise he had made to Piers.
That evening, their last in Lochmaben, smarting from Humphrey’s chastisement, Edward had drunk too much wine and neglected to rein in Piers, who told the silent barons only those who had joined the hunt could eat the flesh of the boar he had caught. Thomas of Lancaster had risen, tossing aside his plate and telling the men present he would rather eat air than linger any longer in the company of degenerates. The following morning the barons and the prince’s household rode down to the border in separate companies, the atmosphere between them as frigid as the weather.
‘In Lochmaben you promised you would petition your father.’ Piers held Edward with his gaze. ‘You gave me your word.’
Edward shrugged from his touch, his gaze fixing on the timber building across the priory’s grounds. His mind filled with a memory of the grand feast after his knighting at Westminster, at which his father made him and all the young bloods present swear an oath over two golden swans, never to sleep in the same place twice, like Perceval on his Grail quest, until Robert Bruce and the Scots were defeated. ‘God damn it, why do you all want so much of me! Will you never be satisfied?’
