Kingdom: Insurrection Trilogy Book 3

by Robyn Young

  ‘The night isn’t over,’ Ralph reminded them. ‘David of Atholl should be in place by now. We’ll sour the Scots’ victory before daybreak.’

  Humphrey nodded after a pause. ‘What does the king plan to do?’

  ‘We move against them at dawn, in force,’ answered Aymer. ‘Let the whoresons taste our blades.’ He nodded towards the circle of men gathered around the royal standard. ‘Come. He will want to hear your report.’

  Looking round, Humphrey realised Gilbert de Clare had already moved off in the direction of the king. His jaw tightened. He would be damned if he’d let Gloucester use him as a scapegoat. Leaving Hugh to deal with his weary horse, Humphrey headed with Aymer and Ralph over the uneven ground towards Edward. As he approached, an infantryman, marked by the cross of St George, peeled from the outer edges of the assembly, where he was lingering, holding a bucket. In his haste, the man almost knocked into Aymer de Valence.

  ‘Careful, you oaf,’ growled the earl.

  As the man murmured an apology, Humphrey caught a glimpse of a bearded face, lit briefly by the glow of a torch. Feeling a tug of recognition, he paused, staring after the man, who was hurrying away. Humphrey went to move after him, trying to get a better look at his face, certain he knew him.

  ‘Humphrey.’

  Turning at Ralph’s call, seeing the king had risen and was looking in his direction, Gloucester at his side, Humphrey continued on. Before he reached Edward, he glanced back with a frown, but the infantryman had disappeared, swallowed up in the great mass of men and horses that covered the plain beyond the Bannock Burn.

  The New Park, Scotland, 1314 AD

  The Scottish captains gathered in the gloom of a glade. The circle of sky above them was still light despite the lateness of the hour. There was an atmosphere of taut excitement, men talking eagerly among themselves; some leaning in to grasp Thomas Randolph’s shoulder and praise his victory against Clifford’s forces, more shaking in their heads in admiration as they listened to another telling of their king’s heroic duel with an English knight. The weapons of those involved in the fighting had been cleaned and wounds dressed, but the copper odour of the enemy’s blood, soaked into surcoats and mail, was sharp on the mild night air.

  With the war leaders were three high-ranking clergymen. William Lamberton stood alongside the Bishop of Arbroath Abbey and Abbot Maurice of Inchaffray, who years before had aided Robert’s flight through the wilderness, along the old pilgrim road to St Fillan’s shrine.

  Robert stood before them all. He had removed his helm and mail coif. Only his gold crown now encircled his head. As he raised his hand, the hum of voices died away and all eyes turned to him. ‘Your grace, will you say a prayer for the fallen?’

  As Lamberton spoke, commending to God the souls of those who had died, his strident voice softened by the solemnity of the prayer, the men around the glade bowed their heads. When the bishop had finished, a rush of heartfelt amens rose from the company, many of those present caught in the uneasy conflict of guilt and relief that followed survival of a battle.

  ‘And a cheer for our king,’ called Thomas Randolph, ‘for letting the English know fear today!’

  Loud applause followed the earl’s call, lightness spreading through the company in the wake of the prayers.

  ‘Long live King Robert!’

  Robert noticed Angus MacDonald glance over at him. The lord didn’t join in the cheers. After the English vanguard had been repelled across the ford, the older man had quietly cautioned his rashness in charging the English knight. He reminded Robert that he was their head, as well as their heart. Without him, the body of their army would collapse. They needed him now more than ever. He had to protect himself. Robert had brushed off his concern, saying he was more worried what Christiana would say about her father’s broken axe. But, privately, he knew the lord was right. Despite the day’s triumphs, they remained in great peril.

  ‘We have all shown valour here today,’ Robert said, addressing the men. ‘We stung the enemy badly – with wounds they will not soon forget. What is more, we now have a number of noble prisoners.’ This, for Robert, had been the real boon of the day. The capture of English knights would perhaps give him the bargaining power he needed to release more members of his family. Such hope had never been far from his thoughts, even more so since Mary’s liberation. ‘My scouts have told me the main host of the enemy is now camped on the Pows. Tomorrow is midsummer – the last day they have to reach Stirling before Sir Philip Moubray surrenders the castle. My guess is they will attempt to move on it at first light.’

  ‘The Pows?’ said Gilbert de la Hay. He let out a snort. ‘They couldn’t have chosen a worse place to spend the night, unless they picked the Forth itself.’

  A few men chuckled.

  ‘We should take advantage of their folly,’ said Edward Bruce, turning to Robert. ‘Let us attack them tonight, before they have a chance to move against us.’

  Thomas Randolph, Neil Campbell and others added their agreement.

  Robert cut in across their keenness. ‘We faced only two companies today. Against both, we had the advantage of a good position and the element of surprise. The Pows, at night, would prove as much bad ground for us as for them.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Malcolm of Lennox, ‘I share your caution, but I believe Sir Edward may be right – we have a chance, now, to damage them badly.’

  Robert said nothing for a moment, watching the determined nods among the company. He wanted to believe them – to agree with them; the flame that had sparked in him after the battle still fluttered inside him. But he knew something they didn’t. ‘I kept something from you all today – something I thought would lead to panic if it was known.’ He glanced at James Douglas. ‘Master James, will you tell them the truth of what you saw today.’

  As James spoke, describing the vastness of the army he had seen coming down the road from Falkirk – the cavalry in their thousands, the endless columns of infantry too numerous to guess at – the men in the clearing fell silent.

  Robert saw the accusation in Edward’s eyes, his brother clearly wanting to know why he hadn’t shared this with him. He scanned the rest of them. ‘I share your wish to destroy the enemy, but we have half their number, maybe even less than that. Yes, we won today. But we were tested against only four of their captains. King Edward will have many more with him. Pembroke, Gloucester, Essex and Ulster we know are here. No doubt the earls of Lancaster and Warwick, Surrey and Arundel are also among his retinue.’

  Thomas Randolph’s brow had furrowed at the revelation, but he shook his head, not willing to relinquish his hope for further victory. ‘His grace has brought the Brecbennoch to the field, my lord.’ He gestured to the Bishop of Arbroath, who had carried the sacred relic casket of St Columba with him, to imbue the Scottish army with holy fire for the fight. ‘No matter the strength of their force, my lord, we have God and St Andrew on our side.’

  Edward nodded. ‘If we do not try now, we will face them all again another day.’

  ‘My lord king!’

  At the shout, the men in the clearing looked round.

  Robert saw Nes, striding his way through the undergrowth. Behind him came two Carrick knights. They were bearing up another man between them. As they approached, Robert saw a wash of blood staining the man’s surcoat, ripped open across his chest. The blood gleamed wetly in the twilight, as did the man’s face, which was clenched in pain. It was one of those he’d left on guard over the army’s supplies at Cambuskenneth Abbey.

  ‘What happened?’ he said, crossing to the man, followed by Lamberton, who called for someone to bring water and cloth.

  ‘Forgive me, lord king,’ breathed the scout, grimacing. ‘We tried to fight. They were too many.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Robert. ‘English?’

  The man shook his head weakly. ‘Scots. Wearing the colours of Atholl. They attacked us in strength at the abbey.’

  ‘David,’ murmured Robert, his heart si
nking.

  ‘Our supplies?’ Edward asked the man, coming in beside his brother.

  ‘They took what they could and burned the rest. It’s all gone, my lord.’

  Two servants hastened into the clearing, bearing the water Lamberton had asked for. The scout’s head lolled back on his shoulders. The knights laid him carefully on the ground, while the bishop crouched beside him, placing a gentle hand on the man’s slick forehead.

  Robert turned away, his jaw tightening. He had hoped time might have diminished David’s hatred of him, but clearly, the man still wished him nothing but ill. It was yet another bitter legacy of this war. He looked around at the faces of his men. Where there had been determination, he now saw shock and doubt. He felt the faint flame within him flicker out. It was not so long ago that he had stood in another forest clearing with these men and had let his own urge for victory drive them all into disaster. The ghost of Methven Wood haunted him still. He would not make the same mistake again.

  Edward seemed to see the change in him, for he stepped towards him. ‘My lord, I—’

  ‘No,’ Robert cut across him. ‘This settles it. I cannot keep an army in the field without supplies. We will withdraw north at first light. Sir Malcolm’s lands will provide cover and food for our men.’

  Malcolm nodded.

  ‘They can have Stirling. For now,’ Robert added, looking meaningfully at his brother. ‘We need to regain the advantage.’

  Edward didn’t respond. He was staring at a point over Robert’s shoulder, his face registering disbelief. ‘Is that . . .?’

  Robert turned, following his gaze. More figures were approaching through the undergrowth, two of them Malcolm of Lennox’s men. They, too, held a figure between them, but in force rather than support, their faces grim as they marched the man towards the camp. Robert stared at the figure, gripped between them. He was tall, with a thick beard and dark unkempt hair. There was a white band of cloth around his upper arm, decorated with the red cross of St George. As the party came closer, emerging from the shadows of the trees, the man’s face became clear. Although he was greatly changed – new scars on his skin, grey streaks in his hair, his once powerful body gaunt and stooped – Robert knew him. It was Alexander Seton.

  Others were turning to the captive in surprise and anger.

  ‘Traitor!’ shouted someone.

  Neil Campbell crossed to Robert, his eyes on Alexander. ‘I watched him cross the border, my lord. I warned him if he returned it would be on pain of death.’

  ‘My lord king,’ murmured Alexander, bowing his head before Robert.

  Robert’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am not your king,’ he said sharply, gesturing at the band of cloth on his arm. ‘You gave that allegiance to another.’

  ‘In body, yes,’ replied Alexander. ‘Not in heart.’

  Robert’s anger rose, hot. ‘And when you betrayed me? When you told my enemies my plans? When you led the wolves to my door? Was that just in body?’

  Alexander hung his head.

  The man looked like he had been through hell in the years since he had last seen him, but Robert barred the door to pity.

  After a moment, Alexander looked up at him. ‘You are right, my lord. I betrayed you.’ His gaze flicked to Edward, Neil and the others, who had formed a protective ring around their king. ‘I betrayed you all. But I have come to make amends.’ He looked back at Robert. ‘Ask your men. I walked freely into your camp.’

  One of Sir Malcolm’s knights, gripping Alexander’s arm nodded. ‘That is true, my lord. He surrendered his weapon and told us he had vital information about the enemy.’

  ‘What information?’ Edward asked quickly.

  ‘The English are camped down on the Pows.’

  ‘This we know,’ Neil answered roughly.

  Robert motioned for the knight to quiet. ‘Go on,’ he ordered Alexander.

  ‘To reach Stirling by the date agreed for the surrender, the king had to lead us in forced marches from the border. The men are already exhausted and disheartened. They now face a long night with little prospect of sleep. More than that, King Edward seems unwilling to put faith in some of his most experienced commanders – those who fought his father’s war for years. He has made Gilbert de Clare constable alongside Humphrey de Bohun. I have witnessed first-hand the resentment this has caused.’

  Robert thought of the disorder of the English charge that afternoon. Now, it made sense. ‘What of Lancaster and the other veterans?’

  ‘Lancaster isn’t here. He sent men for the campaign, but by no means many. There are others, too, who refused to serve. Warwick, Surrey, Arundel.’

  A few of the men began talking at this, their excitement building.

  Robert ignored them. ‘I’ve seen how large their force is. No matter who serves him, King Edward’s army still outnumbers mine.’

  ‘The greatest army is useless without a strong commander to lead it.’

  ‘William Wallace showed us that not two miles from here,’ agreed Edward, his eyes on Robert, ‘when he destroyed the English under the Earl of Surrey.’

  Robert’s jaw tightened. He kept his gaze fixed on Alexander, trying to read the man’s face. ‘Why are you telling me this? What do you hope to achieve?’

  ‘As I said, I want to make amends.’ Alexander paused. ‘And perhaps there is some small retribution for Christopher – vengeance for his death at their hands.’

  ‘Or it’s a trap,’ said Neil. He glanced at Robert. ‘My lord, we cannot trust anything he says.’

  Alexander didn’t take his eyes off Robert. ‘What I have told you is the truth, on the blood of my cousin and on my own life, which I place freely in your hands.’

  Robert stared back at the man who had been his friend for many years, who had been with him when he first joined the rebellion and had fought alongside him. In many ways Alexander reminded him of himself. They had both been led by ambition and pride, and they had both had suffered for that – crushed by Fortune’s Wheel. After a moment, he turned away. Neil and Malcolm began speaking, but he held up his hand. ‘I need to think.’

  Robert walked from their circle. Heading between the trees, he left behind the encampment – all the questions and opinions. The ground rose gently. He climbed with it, lost in thought, until he came to another break in the trees. Here, he paused, lifting his face to the sky. A few stars glittered faintly. He could see the castle, crowning its spur of rock. Here, in this place, Stirling to the north and Falkirk to the south, he stood between Scotland’s greatest victory and its worst defeat.

  Closing his eyes, Robert summoned the dead. They crowded around him in the shadows of his mind: James Stewart and John of Atholl, men who had been like fathers to him; Christopher Seton with his quick laugh; Lord Donough with his wise eyes and stories of ancient heroes; rough-tongued Affraig, weaver of men’s destinies; his mother, the Countess of Carrick, a tall silhouette, fainter than the others, yet still with the power to provoke a deep longing in his soul; the fleeting ghost of his father; his brothers, loyal Niall and grave Alexander, steadfast Thomas; then William Wallace, an omen both of good and ill, casting his great shadow from Smithfield’s gallows; then, at the last, his grandfather, an old lion of a man, with his mane of white hair and his fierce eyes.

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Brother?’

  Robert turned to see Edward emerging from the trees. He hadn’t heard him approach.

  ‘It isn’t safe out here,’ cautioned Edward, coming to stand beside him.

  Robert gave a short laugh.

  Edward grinned and shook his head. ‘I suppose that was stating the obvious.’ His smile faded as he looked towards Stirling Castle. ‘I know you blame me for forcing you to come here.’ His tone was softer now.

  Robert glanced at him. For so many years Edward had been his mirror, both the same and opposite. He was a month from his fortieth birthday, Edward a year. The threads of silver in his brother’s dark hair were in his too. Battle-scarred, hard-bit
ten – they were sons of this war, half their lives expended in its struggle.

  Edward met his gaze. ‘But in truth, Robert, you are the one who brought us to this place. You are the one whose banner rallied our men, whose victories inspired them, whose call to arms summoned them. You have brought them here. What for, if not for victory? Or – at least – the chance to fight for it?’

  ‘You believe Seton?’

  ‘I believe in you. We all do.’

  Robert nodded after a moment. Reaching out, he grasped his brother’s shoulder.

  Edward gripped his hand in answer, then walked away down the hillside.

  When he had gone, Robert felt the dead gather back around him, thickening the shadows. So long as Scotland remained in the grip of his enemy their ghosts would not rest easy – and neither would he. He remembered the words of James Stewart spoken in the cloister of St Andrew’s, on the day of his first parliament. You cannot let fear of loss rule you.

  Now, as he cast his eyes to the sky, he caught the faint glimmer of Mars, smouldering in the heavens.

  Chapter 48

  Near Stirling, Scotland, 1314 AD

  Beyond the scarred ridges of the Ochil Hills, midsummer’s day was breaking, the new dawn pouring molten light across the meadows and marshes, blazing gold along the battlements of the castle and setting fire to the waters of the Forth. To the north reared Ben Lomond. Behind its dome, the mountains of the Highlands marched into blue distance.

  Smoke hung in veils over Stirling, drifting in ribbons from campfires and pluming dark from the ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey, which had burned throughout the night. Beneath its shifting layers, the vast plain around the castle rock seemed to be moving, alive with horses and men. In a slow tide they came, almost twenty thousand strong, advancing on the slope that had sheltered them through the night. Up on that ridge the trees of the New Park were a soft green mantle, gilded by the rising sun.

  At the head of the host was King Edward, mounted on his piebald warhorse, riding in the shadow of his scarlet standard, across which the three gold lions glimmered. With him were three thousand cavalry, made up of barons and knights, squires and men-at-arms. Among them were the English lords on their armoured destriers: Humphrey de Bohun, Aymer de Valence, Gilbert de Clare, Robert Clifford, Henry Beaumont and Ralph de Monthermer, all with crested helms on their heads and shields on their arms, displaying the devices of their mighty houses.