by Robyn Young
Chapter 7
Ballymote, Ireland, 1301 AD
Robert stirred as he felt the wagon slow. Outside the thick cloth covering men called to one another, their words obscured by the hollow clopping of the horses’ hooves on what he guessed was a paved road. Somewhere up ahead he heard a heavy clanking.
‘Cormac,’ he murmured.
His foster-brother raised his head groggily. ‘Are we stopping?’
‘I think we’re here.’
Cormac came fully awake, frowning as he strained to hear the voices outside. The two squires hunched opposite them glanced nervously at each other. One was pale with pain and exhaustion, his leg boxed in a crude splint. The wagon’s fifth occupant kept his eyes downcast, cowl low over his head, his bound hands clasped in his lap. The monk had hardly said two words since they began the trek north, the days merging into one another inside their jolting, airless prison. Robert had lost count, but guessed it was more than a fortnight since they had left the shores of the lough. The physical discomfort of the journey had only been part of the ordeal; Robert had been forced to endure hours of silent reflection, in which he was tormented by worry over the fate of his brothers and men, and what he would face at the end of the road. All he knew was what Ulster’s captain, Esgar, had told him.
After he and Cormac had been disarmed, Esgar had ordered the rest of his knights to hunt down the fleeing company. Robert had refused to answer any of the captain’s questions, his eyes on Uathach’s prone, bloodied form. The hound wasn’t the only victim of the skirmish. Several of the knights, searching the immediate vicinity, had found Murtough crushed beneath his wounded horse. Pulling the monk free, they discovered his neck was broken. The injured palfrey they put to the sword, along with Esgar’s horse, badly lamed by Robert. After ordering the dead monk to be buried in a shallow grave, Esgar had waited for his men to return.
The knights and squires came back slowly, the last rejoining the company an hour later. To Robert’s relief they had been able to recover only two squires, both from Donough’s household, who had been unhorsed during the flight, one of whom had a broken leg. Of the others, the knights told their silent captain, there was no sign.
Seeing the triumph in Robert’s face, Esgar had made him a promise. ‘We will find them, Sir Robert, and when we do your brothers will be subject to the Earl of Ulster’s justice. They’ll wish they hadn’t run.’ Ordering twenty of his men to track them down and secure the staff – for as long and as many miles as it took – the captain corralled his five prisoners. ‘I’ll take them to Sir Richard at Ballymote. Half a prize is better than none.’
On the journey north Robert and the other captives had only been allowed out of the wagon whenever the company stopped to rest. From the banks of the lough they ascended into mountains, travelling by drovers’ roads, the peaks around them often invisible, bearded by clouds. For several days up in the heights the air was cold and sharp as if winter had returned, then slowly they descended into glades of ash and budding oak, filled with birdsong and rain. All at once, the mountains were behind them and the land stretched ahead for endless miles.
The mood of the company shifted with the change in landscape, the knights becoming silent and watchful. Fires were kept low and Esgar set four knights on guard through the nights, wary of some unseen threat. They stopped for rest where possible in forts garrisoned by vassals of the Earl of Ulster. Throughout this time, the five prisoners had not been mistreated. They had been given food, drink and blankets, and the injured squire tended to. But, for Robert, the concern over whether his men would make it safely to Scotland and unease as to what lay in store for him and his foster-brother had been torture enough.
The wagon slowed, almost to a stop, the interior darkening. The clanking had ceased and men were calling instructions, the horses jostling as the drivers urged the beasts forward. The wheel spokes scraped against something; a gateway or tunnel, then they were through, sunlight brightening their juddering prison once more.
As the wagon came to a halt, the cloth flaps were hauled back and Esgar’s face appeared. ‘Out.’
Robert’s hands and feet were bound, but with enough slack that he could shuffle to the edge. Sliding from the back of the wagon, blinking at the light, he found himself in an expansive courtyard, enclosed by high stone walls. In places, timber structures had been erected against the fortifications: stables, kennels and outbuildings. All of them looked newly built, the thatch on the slanting roofs still being laid in places. The walls were flanked by six towers, two of which were covered with scaffolding. The towers at the four corners of the castle had open platforms at the top, each surmounted by a siege engine.
Looking past the wagon, Robert saw a double gatehouse guarding the narrow passageway through which they had entered. Hanging above the tunnel was a golden banner embroidered with a red cross, in the top left-hand corner of which was a rampant black lion. The clanking noise had come from a portcullis, which was now being lowered, its iron teeth closing over the gateway. Ballymote was a mighty castle, well-defended and heavily garrisoned. A man would find it hard to enter uninvited. He would also find it hard to leave.
A door in the gatehouse opened and three men appeared. Robert dismissed two of them as guards, before fixing on the massive figure at their centre, who came striding towards him. Robert knew, though he had never met him, that this must be Sir Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster and King Edward’s chief magnate in Ireland. Ulster looked to be in his early forties, his face marked by battle and full of the unmitigated arrogance of a man of rank and power. He wore a sumptuous gold mantle, embroidered with a red cross.
Ulster greeted Esgar curtly, his eyes moving to take in the rest of the company. His attention came to rest on Robert. ‘Sir Robert, is it? I see your father and grandfather in you. In body at least. In spirit, I judge you are quite different.’ The contempt in his deep voice was unmistakable.
Standing there, devoid of armour or weapons, wearing only a sweat-stained shirt and hose, his beard and hair unkempt, Robert felt acutely discomforted by the earl’s forceful gaze. Ulster reminded him of his father: the same barrel-like physique and domineering demeanour, the same condemnation in his stare. He fought away the sting the reminder provoked, meeting the earl’s gaze with defiance. ‘It is unfortunate we meet under such circumstances, Sir Richard. Your family and mine have enjoyed a long friendship, from which you have always benefited. It is regrettable you now jeopardise that alliance by taking my men and me prisoner. You may see my grandfather and father in me, but they are illusions. My grandfather is dead and my father in England. In their place, I am lord of our estates and head of the Bruce family. You should respect that.’
Ulster’s eyes glinted. ‘You lost any respect from me when you turned traitor and sided with outlaws and felons. You had everything – rich lands in Scotland, Ireland and England, the illustrious friendship of King Edward, even a claim to the throne of your kingdom. Now what do you have? Your father has disowned you from what I hear, your family’s home at Lochmaben has been destroyed and your earldom is forfeit to the English crown. When King Edward takes control of Scotland, Carrick will be lost to you for good. Even your new allies have deserted you. William Wallace is abroad and the rebels founder in his absence. And here you are: a prisoner with nothing but the shirt on your back, an earl in name alone and scarcely fit to be called so. Tell me, Robert, was it worth it?’
Robert’s mind filled with an image of his childhood home – Turnberry Castle – perched on the cliffs of the Carrick coastline, over the ravening sea. Following in its wake came memories of his grandfather and father, his mother, sisters and brothers. Doubt crested its head, conjured by the harsh truth of Ulster’s words. But then, one image came to him, clearer than the rest: a green circlet in a web of twigs, swinging from the boughs of an oak. He remembered well the night it had been created by Affraig’s withered hands, the same hands that had brought him into this world. There, in her house of herbs and bones, his a
im to be king had been made manifest, his destiny woven into a crown of heather and broom.
He had not given all for nothing. He had given up everything he had for everything he could be: his lands for a kingdom, his family for a people. His riches for a crown. ‘Yes, it was worth it. Those things mean nothing if Scotland isn’t free.’
Ulster laughed grimly. ‘Wallace is not so absent after all. You have become the brigand’s voice!’
‘I am not the only one. James Stewart, your own brother-in-law, now leads the rebellion. There are many more voices than Wallace’s and mine raised in protest over King Edward’s attempts to dominate our realm.’
Ulster’s eyes narrowed at the mention of James Stewart, the High Steward of Scotland and husband to his sister, Egidia de Burgh. He turned to the captain. ‘Esgar, I need something sweet to take away this bitterness. I presume you have the staff?’
Esgar glanced at Robert, his face tightening. ‘No, my lord.’
As the knight explained what had happened on the banks of the lough, Ulster’s face clouded with displeasure.
‘I wanted to escort the prisoners to you myself,’ Esgar finished. ‘But I sent twenty of my men after Bruce’s company. They will find them. We have garrisons all the way from here to Antrim, which is almost certainly where they will head. My men have been instructed to send word as soon as they have the relic, or any information that will lead to its seizure.’
‘Where will your men take the staff?’ Ulster demanded of Robert. ‘Lord Donough’s hall?’ When Robert didn’t answer the earl added, ‘I can burn it again. And worse.’
‘And my father will build it again,’ spat Cormac, his voice blistering with hatred.
Ulster ignored the Irishman’s outburst, having eyes only for Robert. ‘You will have plenty of time to reconsider your stance before I send you to King Edward.’ As Robert continued to meet his stare, Ulster’s brow creased. A flicker of something almost fatherly – a cross between consternation and concern – appeared in his face. ‘Tell me where your men are taking the Staff of Malachy and in recognition of my longstanding friendship with your family, I will contemplate not delivering you to Edward. The staff is a prize I cannot give up. You, I could perhaps make an allowance for.’ When there was no response, the hint of concern vanished, Ulster’s grim façade closing firmly over it. ‘Esgar, you and your company will leave for Antrim at first light. I imagine his men will either attempt to hide the staff, or else get it to Scotland. If the latter, they will have to procure a vessel. Track them. Question every member of Donough’s family and every monk in Bangor Abbey until you discover its location.’
Esgar bowed. ‘I will not fail you again, my lord.’
‘Get this traitor out of my sight.’
Robert felt hands grip his arms. ‘I have seen how Ireland suffers under Edward’s yoke,’ he shouted, as Ulster walked away. ‘He is bleeding your lands dry!’
Ulster faltered in his stride, but didn’t look back.
As the knights marched Robert and Cormac across the courtyard towards one of the corner towers, they passed an adolescent girl dressed in a white gown. There was an older woman with her – perhaps a governess. She tightened her hold on the girl’s shoulders as the men came past. The girl followed Robert and the other prisoners with worried eyes, until they were ushered through the tower door and into the darkness beyond.
The Lateran Palace, Rome, 1301 AD
‘Read it again.’
The command was strident. Pope Boniface didn’t turn as he spoke, but continued to stare out of the window, hands clasped behind his back. Spread before him, Rome was a red jewel in the dusk. The glass in the windows of palazzos reflected the sunset, the crumbling walls of the ancient amphitheatres stained bloody by its light.
The papal messenger, wearied from weeks of travel, cleared his throat and read again the message from King Edward, discomforted by the defiant words issuing from his own mouth, directed at God’s representative on earth.
‘Therefore,’ he finished, ‘since I am rightful overlord of Scotland as confirmed and witnessed by the Scots eight years ago at Norham, I shall exercise fully my right to defend the realm from all disturbers of my peace. With respect to your holiness, I cannot abide by your request to cease hostilities against Scotland when rebels continue to make war upon my garrisons and strongholds in defiance of my sovereign right.’
‘Does he think himself above the word of the Church?’ Boniface turned from the window, his great frame, robed in exquisite Venetian silk, silhouetted by the sinking sun. The white hair around his tonsure was tinged by its hue. ‘For two years I have worked to reconcile him with his cousin. The ink is barely dry on England’s treaty with France and I am repaid for my efforts with this brazen insolence?’
The messenger lowered his gaze at the pope’s wrath. ‘Archbishop Winchelsea endeavoured to make the king see reason, your holiness, but to no avail. King Edward was determined Scotland be vanquished and the rebels crushed. When we left his camp at Caerlaverock, he and his army were already preparing to advance west.’
‘Would he remain so defiant, I wonder, if threatened with excommunication?’ Boniface exhaled. ‘Unfortunately, that is not something I can consider. The kings of England and France are the only men in Christendom in whom my hopes for a new crusade to wrest the Holy Land from the Saracens remain alive.’ He turned to the chamber’s third occupant, who stood half in shadow, beyond the sun’s dimming light. ‘It is regrettable my endeavour to intervene on behalf of your realm has not had the outcome either of us was hoping for. I know you have made many sacrifices to come here and King Philippe has spoken highly of you and your cause, but I am not certain what course of action can now be taken.’
William Wallace remained silent at the pope’s verdict. A giant of a man at almost seven feet, his hands, clenched in fists at his sides, were as big as spades. His neck was thick, his torso and shoulders slabbed with muscle. He wore a well-fitted surcoat and blue mantle trimmed with silver thread, but the stately garments couldn’t disguise his barbarous look, enhanced by his colossal size and by the scars that sketched their violence across his pale skin; the story of a war in one man’s flesh. He looked utterly out of place in the opulent chamber of the Lateran Palace, every surface of which was glimmering gold or glossy marble, yet he maintained a stoic dignity, his sharp blue eyes revealing a fierce intensity of thought.
‘There is still one course left to us, your holiness.’ Wallace’s voice was rough, but measured.
Boniface’s eyes narrowed knowingly. ‘A dangerous course, Sir William.’ He shook his head. ‘So soon after I have brought England and France to a truce? I cannot risk shattering that peace. If Edward abandons the treaty and he and Philippe return to war they will not be persuaded to take the Cross and turn their swords eastwards. Jerusalem will never be reclaimed while Christendom’s rulers fight among themselves.’
‘Does Edward’s war against the Scots not prevent him from crusading? Christians are dying in Scotland, your holiness, while the infidel build mosques in the Holy City.’
A pained expression crossed the pope’s face. ‘I secured King John’s release from the Tower through the treaty as King Philippe requested. Is it not enough that he is free of Edward’s authority? I can assure you he is comfortable in my custody.’
‘Not when my kingdom remains fettered by Edward’s bonds and ravaged by his army.’ Wallace stepped closer to the pope, his eyes reflecting the last of the sun’s light, which painted his scarred face red. ‘I believe this is the only way he will stop hostilities against my country. With King Philippe’s aid, Edward’s hand can be forced without a war. He has too much to lose by abandoning the treaty at this late stage – his son’s marriage, Gascony – and too little to gain by a fight. He lost the support of his barons over his war in France. His treasury was all but emptied by it. He cannot afford another such conflict.’ The strength in Wallace’s voice didn’t falter. ‘Release John Balliol from papal custody, your holine
ss, and we will all get what we want. You will have peace in Christendom and my kingdom will have its rightful king upon the throne.’
PART 2
1301 AD
Therefore shall the revenge of the Thunderer show itself, for every field shall disappoint the husbandman. Mortality shall snatch away the people, and make a desolation over all countries.
The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth
Chapter 8
Ballymote, Ireland, 1301 AD
The first few days in the prison tower slipped quickly by for Robert, the danger of his situation quickening the moments, every footfall on the stairs or snap of the door bolt a potential threat. But, by the end of the first week, during which he and Cormac had mostly been left alone by their captors, the space between sunrise and sunset began to stretch and lengthen. As the days merged into weeks and the walls of the locked chamber closed in, time slowed to a maddening crawl and if it were not for the fact he could see the buds unfurling on the oak trees that surrounded Ballymote Castle and the barley growing taller in the distant fields, Robert would have said it had stopped altogether.
In these static moments, where each day seemed a week and each week a lifetime, his frustration at the incarceration and lack of information on the fate of his brothers swelled, tumour-like, until it overshadowed all else. The fact that his cell was more of a palace than a prison was cold comfort. Richly appointed with two feather beds, silk rugs on the floor and hangings on the walls, a table and stools where he and Cormac ate their meals, a basin to wash in, even a few books, the chamber was no less than Robert was accustomed to. But for all its luxury it was as confining as any dungeon and while spring ripened into summer and all his plans stagnated in his mind, the opulence only served to remind him of where he should be. And where he was not.
