by Robyn Young
‘The men of Antrim? The ships?’
‘Gone, brother. All gone.’
Robert staggered back, his hands lifting as if to block the words. Thoughts rose, whirled and collided. The barking was louder. The forest was echoing with hoof-beats, rough shouts and ringing horns. Their pursuers were almost upon them. With a desperate effort of will, Robert reached down and grasped Cormac by the waist. Grunting, sweat dripping from his nose, he hefted the man up over his shoulder. Ignoring his foster-brother’s groans of pain and protest, he stumbled forward, feet sinking in the boggy ground.
Three deer crashed across their path, fleeing the approaching party. Robert, hunched under Cormac’s weight, skidded down a muddy slope into a wooded hollow, overgrown with blackthorn and brambles. Forcing his way through the thicket, he made his way towards the far side of the dell. There, in the sandy bank, he saw a dark opening. It was partially draped by the snaking roots of a tree that had fallen some time ago, leaving a bowl in the earth. The woods behind them filling with the deep call of the horns, Robert dropped Cormac at the entrance to the hole. Crawling inside, he pulled his foster-brother in after him. Over Cormac’s body, through the trailing curtain of roots, Robert saw a large, grey shape appear on the bank. The hound paused on the edge, then darted forward in a flurry of leaves.
Robert, wedged in behind Cormac, earth trickling down his neck, tried to draw his sword, but the space was too tight. ‘Your knife!’ he hissed at Cormac, as the animal tore through the undergrowth towards them.
It was too late. The hound emerged from the thicket and thrust its muzzle through the roots of the hole, jaws slathered with saliva. Cormac kicked out at it, but the dog whined and tried even harder to scrabble its way in.
‘Fionn!’
At Robert’s exclamation the hound went into a loud volley of barks. Leaning over his brother, Robert pulled aside the roots, allowing the panting, mud-soaked dog to squeeze into the hollow with them. Cormac winced in pain as Fionn pawed at his chest, trying to crawl over him, desperate to reach his long-lost master. Robert snapped a command in Gaelic. Immediately, Fionn dropped down, just as several riders came into view, hauling their horses to a halt at the edge of the dell. One was Aymer de Valence. Feeling Cormac tense beside him, Robert laid a warning hand on Fionn’s head. The animal had been taught to obey commands of silence during hunts, but it was almost a year since he had sent the hound to Kildrummy with Niall and the women, and he had no idea what the animal might have been through in that time.
Aymer turned in his saddle, shouting to someone off through the trees. A few moments later a man appeared on foot. He had a whip in one hand and a cloak slung over his shoulder. Seeing the garment Christiana had given him, Robert realised how they had got Fionn to track him. In the gloom of the hollow he saw whip marks on the hound’s back, glistening pink beneath his fur. There were older scars alongside the wounds. The man, a squire or a huntsman, gave a sharp whistle. Fionn’s ears twitched under Robert’s hand, but the dog made no sound, even when the man continued to whistle more frantically.
Valence turned on him. ‘Quiet, God damn you! Let me listen.’
Robert’s heart thudded as he watched Aymer walk his horse around the lip of the dell, his head turning this way and that, searching.
‘Bruce!’ he yelled, his shout echoing off through the trees. ‘I know you’re here!’
Robert felt Cormac’s chest rising and falling beneath his arm. His nose was filled with the smell of mouldering earth. Something skittered across his face.
‘Bruce, you whoreson! If you don’t give yourself up to me I swear, by Christ, the first thing I’ll do when I cross the border is pay a visit to your wife at Burstwick!’ A few of the riders with Aymer chuckled unpleasantly. The earl urged his horse on around the clearing. ‘After that I’ll take a look in at your daughter!’
Robert fought back the fury that began to boil beneath his skin. Fionn whined softly. Cormac’s breaths came fast and shallow.
‘She screamed for you when they put her in her cage! Cried until her voice was gone, they tell me.’ Aymer wrenched on the reins as his palfrey tossed its head. ‘Show yourself, or I’ll make that little bitch scream so hard you’ll hear it for yourself!’
Robert’s rage boiled over. He jerked forward, but Cormac clutched hold of him.
‘No, brother,’ he breathed. ‘Not now. Not today.’
Robert clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to block out Valence’s words.
After a few more moments, the earl wheeled his horse around and spurred it on, commanding his men to follow. ‘Spread out! Keep looking!’
Chapter 24
Lanercost Priory, England, 1307 AD
At the anguished cry, Humphrey turned to see Thomas Bruce being hauled down from the wagon. The man’s blond hair was stuck to his scalp with sweat and his broad face had a sallow hue. His leg, carved across the thigh by a sword strike during the fight with MacDouall’s men, had been crudely splinted and bandaged, but the wrappings were soaked with blood.
‘Careful,’ Humphrey called.
As his knights glanced over he saw the question in their eyes, but they did as ordered, letting Thomas lean on them for support. Alexander Bruce was helped from the cart, his hands and feet bound. The dean’s robes were bloodstained and one of his eyes was bruised shut, but his injuries were minor in comparison to his brother’s.
Alexander met Humphrey’s gaze. ‘My brother needs help.’ His tone was calm, but there was a pleading look in his eyes.
‘I’ll have a physician sent.’ Humphrey turned to his squire. ‘Hugh, ask the steward where they are to be kept. See they’re made comfortable.’
Passing the reins of his horse to one of the grooms, Humphrey made his way across the priory’s grounds, his breath fogging the air. He guessed his men would wonder at his compassion for the brothers of his enemy. In truth, he wondered at it himself. All he knew was that he took no pleasure in their suffering. The brutal executions of Niall Bruce and Christopher Seton had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth that lingered still.
It was almost March, but winter still held the north in its frozen grip. The wagons had struggled on the road down from the border, two horses falling on the ice. Here in Lanercost, which had housed the two hundred members of the royal court since autumn, the constant comings and goings had turned the snow to a dirty slush. Humphrey’s boots crunched through the frozen muck as he headed for the two-storey building, which stood in the shadow of the priory’s church.
The doorward greeted him outside the king’s bedchamber. ‘Sir Humphrey.’
‘How is he today, Simon?’
The man pursed his lips and shook his head.
As Simon pushed open the door for him, Humphrey took a deep breath of the corridor’s musty air, knowing it would be blessedly sweet in comparison to the chamber beyond. He realised he had come to loathe this place; the smell of sickness that saturated it and the volatility of the man trapped within it.
Despite the fact it was still daylight thick drapes were pulled over the windows. The chamber was lit by a fire and several candles, slumped in pools of their own wax. The chair by the hearth was empty. Humphrey’s gaze went to the large bed that dominated the room. The curtains were partially drawn and he could see a shape under the covers. ‘My lord?’
Drawing the curtains aside, Humphrey looked down on his father-in-law. He was shocked by the change in the king. He had seen him only two days ago, but the man seemed to have aged another year in that time. In the candles’ jaundiced glow, his skin was ashen, his face sunken in on itself. His head, webbed with white strands of hair, looked too small for the pillow it lay on. The shadow of death itself seemed cast upon him. Indeed, if not for the whistling breaths emitting from the king’s puckered mouth, Humphrey would have said it had already claimed him. One of Edward’s hands was outside the covers, which were stained with sweat and other fluids. Humphrey noted the dark marks across his knuckles. It was over a week since
the confrontation with his son, who had been sent to London, but the bruises had been slow to fade.
Thinking the king’s rapid decline was most likely due to the fight and the revelation that preceded it, Humphrey felt a stirring of anger towards Thomas of Lancaster, who had ignored his counsel at Lochmaben. As he had feared, rifts had now opened in the royal court; bitter lines drawn between father and son, cousin and cousin. It was the last thing they needed.
The king’s eyes flickered open. Seeing Humphrey standing over him he at once looked alert, all the life left in him concentrated in those steel-bright eyes. He licked his desiccated lips and tried to sit. ‘Do you have them? Bruce’s brothers?’
Humphrey leaned in to help, banking the pillows up behind the king. ‘Dungal MacDouall was as good as his word, my lord. He delivered Thomas and Alexander into my custody at Lochmaben.’
‘What were his demands?’ asked Edward, grunting as he sat back.
‘As you thought, he wants his lands in Galloway returned to him and to those of his men who were disinherited after John Balliol’s exile. He was reluctant to hand over the prisoners without formal agreement of this, but I assured him you would give it serious consideration.’
‘I am preparing to send a company to join MacDouall’s force in Galloway, in case Bruce tries to retaliate. I’ll have my men take the message that when the rebel king is captured, MacDouall and the Disinherited will be granted their estates, subject to me.’
Humphrey was surprised by the king’s curt response. Edward seemed less gratified by the arrest of Bruce’s brothers than he’d expected.
The king coughed dryly and motioned to the table, on which stood a jug and goblet. As Humphrey crossed the room, the king continued. ‘While you were gone word came from the captain of one of the ships I sent out from Skinburness to hunt for Bruce.’
Humphrey listened as he poured out the spiced wine. He watched it swirl into the goblet, ignoring the desire to have some himself. As he returned to the king’s side he caught sight of a large wooden chest that stood at the end of the bed. He had seen it before and knew it stored Edward’s personal belongings. Looking at it now, he recalled Aymer de Valence speaking of the recovered prophecy box. He wondered if it might be inside.
‘The captain encountered a large fleet off Kintyre. He managed to sail to safety, but the three vessels with his were captured. The ships were Highland galleys, flying the colours of the MacDonalds and the MacRuaries.’
Humphrey paused, the wine forgotten in his hand. ‘Robert?’
Edward beckoned impatiently. As Humphrey passed him the goblet, the king seized it with shaking hands. He slurped at the lip, wine dribbling from the corners of his mouth. When he was done, he closed his eyes and rested his head back against the pillows. The effort of drinking seemed to have leached even more life from him. ‘It would seem the bastard has emerged from whatever hole he’s been hiding in.’
‘So the landing at Galloway by Bruce’s Irish kin was perhaps part of a larger invasion? Or a distraction?’ Humphrey pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Did the captain have any idea where the fleet was headed?’
‘North.’ Edward handed back the goblet. ‘I’ve sent messengers to Henry at Turnberry and Aymer in Ayr.’ Pain animated his face. He gritted his teeth and continued. ‘I expected the MacDonalds to aid Bruce. They have always blown in the same direction as his family, but the MacRuaries are a force I had not reckoned on. I haven’t the power, Humphrey, to challenge such a fleet. Not out on the water. Not even with the support of John MacDougall of Argyll.’
‘What about Richard de Burgh, my lord?’
Edward nodded. ‘A summons has already been drafted. It is time to test Ulster’s loyalty, with his daughter in my custody.’
Humphrey thought of Elizabeth, locked up in Burstwick Manor. Now and then, he would catch Bess’s voice in his mind, asking why he hadn’t petitioned the king for a more lenient sentence for the young woman, who had been her good friend. He eased that nub of guilt with the knowledge that Elizabeth, of all Bruce’s women, was the one suffering the least. ‘What do you need me to do?’
‘I want you to go to Carrick. Meet with Aymer at Ayr and find out what is happening. I need to know, Humphrey.’
‘Of course. I will leave whenever you command it.’ Humphrey paused. ‘My lord, Thomas Bruce is gravely wounded. His brother, the dean, requested aid. We may benefit from granting the request. I have questioned them on the whereabouts of the Staff of Malachy. Thomas refused to answer, but I got the impression Alexander may be willing to speak if we help his brother.’
‘I’ll not have any here waste time on a condemned man. They are both to be hanged in Carlisle.’
Humphrey fought to conceal his shock. Alexander – a man of the cloth? ‘But, my lord, if they know where the staff is we can—’
‘God damn it, Humphrey, the staff is not important!’
Humphrey stared at him, astonished.
Edward drew in a long breath. ‘What I mean to say is that it isn’t important at this moment, not while the Scots are massing in the west. I’ll not have you, or any of my men, following more false leads and lies from that family. The retrieval of the relic can wait until Bruce is destroyed.’
Humphrey fought back the clamour in his mind as all the questions seething in him these past months now rushed to the surface at the king’s outburst. He tried to keep his focus. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but do we not run the risk of making martyrs? If Bruce has managed to elicit the support of the lords of the Isles, he may win more sympathy as word of these sentences spreads. Even some of our own men have been . . . discomforted by the treatment of his family.’
‘Then those men should remember that not only did Bruce betray them and break faith with me, but that he is a murderer and an excommunicate. With the killing of John Comyn he set himself beyond the bounds of all laws, temporal and spiritual. He and all who support him are subject to punishments as befit that heinous crime.’
Humphrey felt a prickle of anger. He knew full well that John Comyn’s murder was the lesser of the reasons the king wanted Bruce to pay. The burning issue was that not only had the man personally betrayed Edward, but – by claiming the throne of Scotland – he had effectively disinherited him. Humphrey understood, well enough, the king’s wrath. He just wished Edward wouldn’t try to make him swallow the same propaganda he had his clerics promoting far and wide.
The king held Humphrey in his gaze. ‘You need not fear the will of those Scots who have pledged their loyalty to me, Humphrey. The Comyns, the MacDougalls and many other barons want swift, harsh justice for the slayers of their kinsman. They will not mourn the deaths of two more bad seeds from Bruce’s clan. By God, even a member of his own family has expressed deep disgust for that act.’ The king’s mouth twitched. ‘And a willingness to enter my service against him.’
Humphrey didn’t speak. He felt queasy, the heat from the fire and the rancid stink of the bedcovers overpowering. Edward should have been in the ground months ago. He had never before seen anyone so near death cling so fiercely to life. The king’s desire to see Robert Bruce crushed seemed to be the only thing keeping him on the mortal plain, as if his hatred of the man were something alive; a heartbeat that pulsed within him, even as his skin sank on to his bones and all the sweat and bile poured out of him. But what if his hatred wasn’t just due to Robert’s treason? What if there was something else behind it? Something more potent? More personal?
Edward’s brow knotted as the silence lengthened. ‘You may go, Humphrey. Get some rest. You leave for Carrick at first light tomorrow.’
Humphrey inclined his head. He made to leave, but as his eyes caught on the chest again he switched back. ‘My lord, can I ask why you didn’t tell me Aymer de Valence found the box that contained the Last Prophecy when he took Kildrummy?’ Humphrey saw a tic jump in Edward’s cheek. Some emotion flashed in the king’s eyes, too quick for him to discern what it was.
When Edward spoke his voice was
low. ‘I didn’t want it made public that the box was empty – that Bruce had taken the prophecy from me.’
Humphrey hesitated, knowing he was walking out on to a frozen lake that could crack beneath his feet at any moment, yet unable to stop himself. There were things out in these depths that he didn’t understand. ‘The attack on Robert in Ireland – you never explained why you wanted me to uncover the details of it. I sensed there was more to it than you were . . .’ He searched for the right words: ‘. . . willing to say at the time. Perhaps, my lord, such knowledge would help me better predict our enemy’s next move?’
Edward’s voice was flint cold. ‘I will tell you our enemy’s next move. He will attempt to raise sword and fire against us. He will seek to break up the kingdom I have spent my reign uniting for the good of us all and destroy everything we have laboured so long and bled so hard to achieve. He will make a mockery of those he once called brothers, the men of my Round Table, and a travesty of those who sacrificed their lives for our cause. Men like your father. Do not forget it was soldiers of Bruce’s friend, William Wallace, who took his life at Falkirk.’ Edward nodded when Humphrey looked away. ‘Bruce betrayed you as much as he betrayed me. Worse, perhaps, for he used you to get close to me, concealing his true nature in the false cloak of friendship. The man is a liar, a murderer and a traitor, Humphrey. He must be brought down at all costs. The survival of our kingdom depends on it.’
Dover, England, 1307 AD
Prince Edward stood on the dockside, grasping Piers Gaveston’s hands in his. ‘This will not be for ever.’
Piers said nothing. His coal-black eyes flashed with sunlight as he glanced at the ship moored in Dover’s harbour that was to bear him to France, banished by the king’s order.
Edward clutched his friend’s hands tighter, forcing the man to look at him. ‘I swear it, Piers. When my father is dead I will send for you.’
