by Robyn Young
Ulster paused, his attention snared by a tall, well-built man in a sky-blue cloak, who had moved into the chamber past two servants carrying out a chest. ‘But I will do whatever I can for my lord. You have my word on that.’ Ulster strode from the window. ‘Show the Lord Chancellor and his men to lodgings,’ he ordered one of his servants, before confronting the man in the doorway, who looked as though he had ridden through several nights. The captain’s cloak was stained with horse sweat, his hair unkempt, eyes shadowed.
‘Sir Esgar? What brings you?’
Esgar inclined his head, his cloak parting to reveal the glimmer of mail. ‘I bear tidings, my lord, from the north.’
‘Walk with me.’ Ulster headed from the chamber, leaving the chancellor and clerks to gather up their rolls.
The captain fell into step beside the earl as he led the way along the passage. All around, people hurried about their duties, making ready to move the earl’s considerable household to his new castle, eighty miles north. ‘I believe I may have a new trail to follow in our hunt for the staff.’
Ulster felt his anticipation stirred, but didn’t allow it to consume him. There had been leads before, without success. He had several companies in the south searching for islands that fitted the description in the abbey’s records, but so far they had found nothing. He made his way down the stairs, a servant who had been heading up backing hastily down before him. ‘What trail?’
‘My men and I kept watch on the abbey, but at a distance as you instructed. Our strategy worked and we began to notice the monks coming and going more freely. Shortly after the Christ Mass we observed the abbot’s trusted man, Murtough, and two brethren leaving the abbey, equipped for a journey.’ Esgar moved back into step with the earl as they descended to the ground floor. ‘At a settlement they joined fifteen men and headed south. When I discovered who was leading this company, I left my men trailing them and rode straight here.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.’
‘Bruce?’ Ulster’s voice sharpened with surprise. He halted, facing the captain.
‘We already knew Bruce was in Antrim from reports by our men. Travelling with him were two of his brothers, who reside with Lord Donough at Glenarm, and one of the lord’s sons. The rest I did not know.’
‘You believe they are going after the staff?’
‘From what our informant in the abbey told us we know Murtough was involved in the relic’s disappearance. The monks would have no doubt discovered their missing documents by now and would assume we are closer to finding Ibracense. I think they will try to move it.’
Ulster’s anticipation now took him over. Robert Bruce – King Edward’s enemy – and the Staff of Malachy in one fell swoop? How much would such a prize be worth to the king? Much more, he guessed, than those additional taxes. ‘Will you be able to track them?’
‘My men will leave messages at our garrisons en route. It shouldn’t be hard.’
‘Let them take the relic before you make a move, understand? Seize the staff, capture Bruce and bring him to me at Ballymote.’ Ulster levelled the captain with a challenging stare. ‘I will be waiting, Esgar.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
As Esgar headed to the stables, Ulster strode out into the castle courtyard, enlivened by the prospect. Servants were piling chests into the backs of wagons, while knights and squires checked gear and weapons. It was a small army that would accompany him and his family through what had become known as the land of war. The men’s surcoats were decorated with the blazons of their respective commanders, but all bore a red band of cloth around their upper arms, decorated with the black lion from Ulster’s coat of arms. In these troubled times it was becoming more necessary to be able to identify friend from foe quickly.
As Ulster spoke with his men, checking preparations for the journey, he saw a young woman moving through the crowd. In her white gown she was a pearl, glimmering among the grey shells of armour. He smiled as she approached, his hard face softening. ‘Are you ready to leave?’ he asked, kissing the top of her head, which was covered by a stiff white coif. Her sisters wore their black locks piled in braids, decorated with silver and jewels, but Elizabeth, at sixteen the youngest of his daughters, had worn hers covered since the age of ten.
‘I have been praying for our safe passage to Ballymote, Father.’
As she turned up her face to his, her pale skin reddened by the wind, Ulster saw the worry in her eyes. ‘I am certain the Lord will have heard your prayers.’ When she didn’t respond, he moved her gently to face the crowded courtyard. ‘Look at the men He has provided me with.’ Beneath his hands he felt the tension in her slim shoulders. She was always so anxious. When she was a child Elizabeth had been as carefree and wild as a sprite, but the accident had changed that.
On a June day six years before, Elizabeth had been playing on the banks of Lough Rea when she had slipped and fallen in. Her governess had not been watching her. The lough was deep and the child couldn’t swim. By chance two squires had been passing and leapt in and saved her. At first, Ulster blessed his good fortune, then, after the shock of almost losing his daughter wore off, he thanked God in prayers more heartfelt than ever before. By that evening everyone in the castle, himself included, was calling it a miracle.
But when God had saved her He seemed to have claimed her for Himself, so that now Elizabeth was wed to Him, her prayers and piety demanding all her time, leaving little room for merriment, or indeed a suitor. It was why she remained the only unmarried one of all his children. Still, Ulster refused to send her to a convent, despite her pleas. Elizabeth’s youth and beauty made her one of his greatest assets and the earl was determined that while God might have her soul, a husband would have her heart.
Chapter 3
Caerlaverock, Scotland, 1301 AD
The siege engines towered out of the mist – monstrous forms dedicated to destruction. Each had been christened by the Englishmen who manned them. The Vanquisher. The Hammer. The Boar. Each was primed, ready for the day’s ruin.
With a roared order from the engineers the winches were released, the beams arcing up to slingshot their loads at the sandstone walls and towers of the castle. The great stones struck with ear-splitting cracks, dust and mortar exploding on impact and a gaping hole appearing in one of the twin towers of the gatehouse. As rubble splashed into the moat, the shouts of the engineers echoed and, immediately, men began to heave on the ropes, drawing down the arm of each machine and hoisting up the massive weighted basket that hung at its opposite end. When the arm was down, a large stone ball, hewn for the purpose, was rolled into the leather sling. It was David and Goliath. Only now it was the monster who had the stone in his fist and sixty Scottish soldiers cowered within the walls, like a David with no hope whatsoever.
Beyond the industry of the siege lines, crowded among the castle’s earthwork defences and outbuildings, which had fallen to the English yesterday, was a seething encampment of three thousand men. Smoke curled from fires, adding a grey pall to the morning mists. The smell of boiled meat from the cooking pots blended with the reek of horse dung and the stink from the dug-out latrines. The place blazed with colour, from the knights’ surcoats and mantles to the pennons on their lance shafts and the banners that were hoisted above the great retinues of England’s earls.
At the heart of the camp, King Edward watched as the siege engines were primed again. At over six feet he was an erect tower of a man, standing head and shoulder above most of those around him. His crimson surcoat was emblazoned with three golden lions, beneath which a mail hauberk and coat-of-plates broadened his muscular frame. His beard, the same swan-feather white as his hair, was clipped brutally close to his jaw and did little to soften his grim countenance. The only trace of frailty to be found in that face was the droop in one of his eyelids, a defect inherited from his father, which had become more prominent since he had turned sixty. With the gold crown upon his head and the scarred broadsw
ord strapped to his side he was the embodiment of majesty and might, inviting comparison with legendary warriors of old – Brutus, Roland, Charlemagne. Arthur.
As the engines let loose another barrage, Edward followed the missiles with his eyes. It was only the second day of the siege and already the walls were pitted with damage. It would, however, take much more to bring the structure to ruin. Caerlaverock Castle, shaped like a shield with towers at each point of its triangle, stood isolated in the waters of its surrounding moat, drawbridge raised. Built only thirty years earlier, it was said to be one of the most redoubtable fortresses in Scotland. Stretching behind it were the salt marshes and mud-flats of the Solway Firth, beyond which lay England. With the fall of the Bruce family’s stronghold at Lochmaben, Caerlaverock had become the new gateway to the west of Scotland. It was the first obstacle he faced on this campaign.
‘My lord king.’
Humphrey de Bohun moved up beside him. He was clad in a blue surcoat, banded with a broad white stripe and decorated with six gold lions. His brown hair was covered by a coif of mail that framed his broad face and he carried his great helm under his arm. ‘Work is progressing well on the belfry, my lord. The engineers believe it will be ready before the week is out. Once it’s lowered into the moat the fighting top should come high enough up the walls to allow our men to scale them. Unless, of course, it falls to us before that.’
As Humphrey’s attention shifted to the castle, the king noted the hunger in his gaze. The young man had succeeded his father as Constable of England and Earl of Hereford and Essex three years earlier, and along with those distinguished titles he seemed to have inherited the same intensity of expression, as if some thought or passion was constantly burning behind his green eyes. Edward had seen a similar fire of late in the other men of his Round Table, bound to him – as King Arthur’s knights had been – by oaths stronger than fealty or homage. The war had become something personal to all of them. Some, like Humphrey, had lost family to a Scottish blade. Others were fighting for the promise of reward, or glory. But all were here for retribution against the man whose betrayal had cut like a poisoned dagger through their ranks – a man they had once called brother.
Robert Bruce.
That name was a splinter under Edward’s skin. The last reports revealed that Bruce had resigned his position as guardian of Scotland and disappeared, leaving a maddening and disturbing silence. The king’s best hope lay in the belief that if anyone could find Bruce it was Adam, but he had heard no word from the Gascon in months. ‘The divisions,’ he asked Humphrey, ‘they are prepared?’
‘If we storm the castle with the belfry and our men are able to lower the drawbridge, your son will command the main assault. As you instructed.’
The king seized on the trace of doubt in the younger man’s voice. ‘You do not think him ready?’
Humphrey paused before answering. ‘I think it is a challenging assault for a first command, my lord.’
The king surveyed the crowd of men around the royal pavilion, his keen eyes picking out his son. Edward, only weeks away from his seventeenth birthday, was a mirror of himself in adolescence; the same blond hair and long, angular features. In the past year the boy’s body had lengthened and begun to thicken, suggesting he would also inherit his stature. He was standing with his companions, all sons of lords or earls, apart from Piers Gaveston, who owed his position to the king’s own indulgence. The son of a loyal Gascon knight, Piers had seemed an ideal companion for the young Edward. The two had since grown inseparable, but while his son seemed content to spend his days fishing and lazing outdoors it was Piers who had developed an impressive martial reputation in that time. Handsome, charismatic, arrogant, his prowess on the tournament field was already being commented on in court, while the heir to the throne languished contentedly in his shadow. That, the king was determined, would change on this campaign, which was why he had given the command of half the English army to his son.
‘A victory here will be a worthy beginning to his career. I fought my first campaign at his age. It is past time he was tested. This war and his forthcoming marriage will see to it.’ The king turned, fixing Humphrey with his full attention. ‘On the subject of which, I am aware you have been spending time with my daughter.’
A faint wash of colour bloomed on the earl’s cheeks.
Edward laughed, the sound brief and brittle. ‘Do not fear, Humphrey. I am glad. Since the death of Count John, I have been pondering the question of a new suitor for my daughter. When this campaign is won, we will discuss the matter.’
‘My lord, I would be honoured . . .’
Edward, however, wasn’t listening. His gaze had been caught by a company of mounted men making their way through the camp, led by four royal knights. He recognised, with swift-rising hostility, the corpulent man at the head, astride a stocky black horse. It was Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury. With the archbishop was a retinue of black-clad clerics and two foreign-looking men in sumptuous scarlet robes and jewelled hats. Appraising their distinctive appearance, at once pious and wealthy, Edward felt certain he knew where they had come from. They had the look of men from the papal curia in Rome. The king’s hostility shifted to unease.
Chapter 4
Lough Luioch, Ireland, 1301 AD
Robert sat at the prow, watching the island draw near. Mountains were mirrored in the depths of the lough. Beyond their scarred heights, the sky was stained with a bloody tinge. The air was crisp, but not as cold as it had been when the company set out from Antrim, the February winds dying the further south they travelled. In the still dawn the only sound was the splash of oars. The boat, taken from the beach, was old and smelled of fish. Behind Robert, eyes gleaming in the half-light, were Edward and Niall, along with Murtough and two of his brethren. Christopher and Cormac were at the oars. Robert had left his brother Thomas and Alexander Seton with the squires on the northern shore, guarding their horses and gear. He wasn’t taking any chances.
On their journey south, hampered by harsh terrain and winter weather, they had encountered bands of lawless men roaming the countryside for plunder. Most had been cautious of their well-armed company, but on two occasions they had been accosted and were only saved from a skirmish by Cormac – whose cúlán marked him as an Irishman – and by the presence of the monks in their habits. At settlements along the way they had heard rumours of pillage and murder, as the Irish grew increasingly confident in attacking areas settled long ago by English colonists.
‘I see no one.’
Robert looked round at the rough voice to see Murtough peering into the gloom. The closer they had come to their destination the more subdued the monk had grown. Robert knew he was wary of what they might find when they reached the island; fearful the staff might already have been taken. But they had seen no sign of Ulster’s men on the road and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could find this place, even with guidance from the abbey’s records. The remote wilderness, hidden by its mountain barrier, seemed as though it stood at the end of the earth. Added to the solitude was the issue of identification, for Ireland’s landscape was crowded with ruins: hill forts and standing stones, cairns and barrow mounds. The crumbling remains on the island ahead were just one of countless monuments to the once living and long dead.
As they reached land, the boat grazing the shallows, Edward and Niall leapt over the sides to haul in the vessel. Robert jumped down, his mail coat shifting around him as he splashed through pools between the rocks. ‘Keep watch,’ he ordered Christopher and Cormac.
‘We’ve not seen a soul in days,’ Cormac responded. When Robert fixed him with a stare, the young Irishman exhaled. ‘Whatever you say, brother.’ He and Christopher shared a look as they stowed the oars.
Robert ignored them, unable to dispel his rising apprehension. The path to the throne he had set out upon three years ago had followed a frustratingly twisting course and these past months in Ireland he had felt further from that purpose than ever. Often h
e had doubted his decision to pursue the relic, fearing it would lead him nowhere. Now was the moment when his choice would be proven right or wrong.
Murtough led the way through a fringe of reeds towards the largest of the island’s ruins, a church formed of the same ghost-grey stones that littered the shoreline. Birds startled from the undergrowth as the men moved towards the building, which was encircled by a low, tumbled-down wall, tufted with grass. Beyond were remains of other buildings, most of them timber, which had all but rotted away over the long years since the place was inhabited. Bushes and weeds had worked their way into the remnants, nature reclaiming its territory. On the western end of the island, Robert caught sight of a domed structure that looked like a giant stone beehive.
‘St Finan’s cell,’ came Murtough’s voice in the hush. He had stopped at the church wall and was following Robert’s gaze. ‘He lived here centuries before Malachy built the monastery. This island may be small, but it has a long and hallowed history.’
Robert imagined Malachy and his brethren living here; the wild solitude of their existence. It was a good place for men who wanted to escape the world.
Edward moved up beside him, leaving Niall and the other two monks to bring up the rear. ‘If it is here, brother, what next?’
Murtough had moved ahead through a gap in the wall, picking his way through the undergrowth towards several slabs of stone that protruded from the grass. He was out of earshot, but Robert kept his reply low. ‘We take it to Scotland, as planned.’
