by Robyn Young
Robert’s thoughts turned often to John Balliol in this time. The man Edward had chosen to sit upon Scotland’s throne, instead of Robert’s grandfather, was now wasting away in his own stately cell, himself a victim of the king’s ambition to rule Britain; an ambition reinforced by the words of prophecy and by the will of the loyal young men Edward surrounded himself with. It began to seem to Robert, locked up and forgotten, over a hundred miles from his kingdom and allies, impossible – laughable almost – that he could break such resolve. Many of the king’s men believed they were saving Britain by their actions. It made their struggle for control of Scotland less of a war, more a crusade. How could one man hope to fight that?
There were only two things he cleaved to in these moments of doubt. One was the faith that his brothers would get the staff safely to Scotland, where James Stewart could use it to bargain with the king. The other was the hope that there was truth in the power of Affraig’s craft. But all the while Ulster’s promise that he would be transferred into Edward’s custody, a traitor, dangled above him like a sword on a thread.
The earl had visited Robert several times in the early days of his incarceration, offering freedom if he revealed where his brothers were taking the staff, then warning him of the consequences if he didn’t. These visits had grown fewer and further between as summer bloomed. It soon became clear Ulster had more pressing things to occupy his time, a fact Robert gleaned through the endless hours spent sitting at the window, observing the coming and going of the earl’s men, noting the increase in the armed companies and their movements to and from the castle. Sometimes these companies came back diminished, with some of their number wounded.
Keen for information, Robert cultivated a relationship with one of the servants who brought their meals, a loquacious man named Stephen. It was through Stephen’s loose tongue that he heard rumour of the threat growing along Connacht’s borders from Irish chieftains who, after years of rivalry, were putting aside old animosities to band together against the English settlers. Rumour was later followed by agitated talk of one of Ulster’s frontier castles being overrun, its garrison massacred. Ballymote was on the alert, all its attention focused outwards.
During this turbulent time Stephen let slip that a feast was due to be held at the castle, in honour of the forthcoming marriage of Earl Richard’s youngest daughter and a powerful local lord. Soon after, Ballymote was abuzz with arrangements for the festivities, the earl’s household clearly glad to have something more heartening to occupy their minds. Robert, listening to Stephen’s talk of all the lavish food that was being prepared and the honoured guests who would be coming, began to have the stirrings of a plan.
‘Here’s another.’ Cormac turned from the window, where he was watching the guests enter the castle courtyard. Torchlight shimmered in the panes of leaded glass, setting flame to his red hair. Earlier, they had heard the portcullis being raised over the gatehouse, followed by the hoof-beats of a mounted party, the first of many, some with wagons in tow, who had arrived for the betrothal feast. ‘That’s twenty companies I’ve counted. It looks like the earl will have a full hall tonight.’
Robert nodded from his place against the door, but kept his concentration on the conversation of the guards he could hear, muted, through the wood. Over the last hour their voices had become a little louder and their laughter less restrained. The feast was a chance for the earl’s men to release some of the tension building these past months and the ale seemed to be flowing. Somewhere in the castle, down distant passageways and spiralled stairwells, Robert could hear music.
‘He’s late,’ noted Cormac, frowning into the evening sky, which was a pearlescent blue. He looked back at Robert, his youthful face filling with worry. ‘Perhaps we’ve been forgotten in all the excitement?’
‘He’ll come,’ Robert assured him, though anxiety twisted his stomach at the thought.
Outside the door came a muffled burst of laughter.
The moments slipped by, the strains of music accompanied by the calls of grooms in the courtyard as more guests arrived.
Finally, Robert heard what he had been waiting for: footfalls on the stairs outside. Nodding a warning to Cormac, he crossed the room, feet hushed by the rugs. The two of them sat at the table, listening to the rattle of the bolts. The door opened and two men appeared. One, the older and stockier of the two, bore a large platter of food, the other, a pimple-faced youth, carried a pewter jug and two goblets. Once they had entered, the guards pulled the door shut behind them.
‘Evening to you, Sir Robert,’ said the older man, his face flushed and animated. ‘My apologies for our tardiness. The cooks are in a frenzy.’
‘I understand, Stephen.’
‘You’ll be rewarded for your patience, sir,’ continued Stephen, setting the platter on the table. ‘We have salmon and boar. And Ned has a pitcher of Gascony wine that’s fit for a king.’
As Stephen leaned in, Robert could smell the tang of ale on his breath. ‘Have Earl Richard’s guests all arrived?’ he asked, picking up one of the silver knives that had been set beside the plate of boar meat. Next to the knives were linen cloths for them to wipe the grease from their hands.
Ned had moved around the table, close to Cormac, and was pouring the wine.
‘Oh, indeed, the revelry is well under way in the great hall.’ Stephen chuckled. ‘I think it will be a late night.’ He inclined his head. ‘Enjoy your meal, Sir Robert.’
‘Bank the fire before you go, Stephen,’ Robert said, digging out a sliver of meat with the knife and sliding it on to his plate.
‘Of course.’
As Stephen crossed to the hearth and crouched over the basket of logs, Robert met Cormac’s gaze.
His foster-brother moved quickly, while Ned still had hold of the jug and goblet. Snaking an arm around the spotty youth’s throat, Cormac brought the knife he had grabbed from the table up to his face. ‘Cry out and I’ll stick this in your eye,’ he breathed in the man’s ear.
In two strides, Robert was across the chamber, knife in one hand, linen cloth in the other. Stephen, thrusting logs into the embers of the hearth, was still talking jovially, as Robert ducked down beside him, poking the tip into his fleshy side. ‘Do as I say.’
Stephen froze, a log gripped in his hand. His eyes moved from Robert’s face to the knife that was pushing into him.
‘Tie this around your mouth,’ Robert ordered, handing him the linen cloth. ‘Tightly.’
Lowering the log, Stephen took the folded cloth with shaking hands. Drawing the material over his mouth, he secured it in a knot at the back. Over at the table, Cormac was instructing Ned to do the same.
‘Now move.’ Robert didn’t allow the knife to falter as he ushered the gagged servant to the table. ‘Sit. Both of you.’ When they had done as bid, Robert motioned to Cormac, who hastened to his bed and snatched back the cover, revealing a twisted length of material. It was his sheet, torn and knotted for the purpose that afternoon. Robert crouched in front of the servants. He kept his knife poised over them, but it was clear neither man was going to struggle. They were terrified. A thin line of snot trickled from Ned’s nose.
Cormac looped the knotted length of material around both men’s wrists, securing them to each other and then to the table leg. It wouldn’t hold them for long, but it wasn’t designed to. Robert just wanted to make certain he and his foster-brother wouldn’t be overpowered as they left the chamber. He took a log from the basket and made for the door. Cormac followed, the knife in his hand.
Robert rapped on the wood three times: Stephen’s customary signal. The door opened and one of the guards appeared, grinning at something the other had just said. His expression sobered instantly when he saw them. Robert didn’t give him a chance to react, ramming the rough end of the log into the guard’s face. As the man staggered backwards, Cormac ducked under Robert’s arm and out through the door, swiping at the second guard. The dinner knife was a feeble weapon, but it served to shock and
disorient the man as it scratched across his face, causing him to throw his arms up to defend himself. As he did so, Cormac grasped the man’s sword and pulled it from its scabbard. The guard Robert had struck with the log had reeled with the impact into the wall, cracking his head on the stone. With blood pouring from his mouth and nose, he tried to fend Robert off. He was no match. Robert disarmed him swiftly, tossing the log aside as he dragged the man’s sword free. ‘Get in,’ he growled, grabbing a fistful of the wounded guard’s surcoat and hauling him into the chamber.
‘Sir Richard will have your balls for this,’ spat the other.
Cormac snarled in answer and slammed the pommel of the man’s sword into his face, breaking his nose. While the guard was grasping at his face, Cormac booted him viciously into the chamber and swung the door shut. Snapping the bolts across, he followed Robert. Down through the tower they raced, out into the pale dusk.
‘Please keep still, my lady, or I’ll never get this gown laced. Your father will be wondering where you are as it is. As will your bridegroom.’
‘I cannot breathe, Lora,’ gasped Elizabeth de Burgh, looking over her shoulder as her maid tugged in the cords of the jewel-green gown at her back. With every pull, the stiff silk bodice tightened around her ribs and chest, threatening to suffocate her. It was a mild evening and the heavy material prickled against her clammy skin. She wanted nothing more than to strip off its weight and slip into the cool gloom of the castle’s chapel, where she could be alone with her thoughts and prayers. The gown’s buttoned sleeves bound her arms like manacles from elbow to wrist.
‘Almost done,’ muttered the maid, giving one final tug to the laces. ‘There we are.’
Elizabeth stared at herself in the mirror, while Lora gathered a satin surcoat and veil from the clothes perch. The gold trim on the gown glimmered in the candlelight, filling the looking-glass with its burnished glow. Her skin was pale against its radiance. Her black hair, normally hidden beneath a coif, was sleek with perfumed oil and piled up on her head, the twisted locks held in place by gem-tipped pins. Her reflection was a stranger to her. She thought of the many guests filling her father’s hall, all the faces that would turn as she entered, her father and husband-to-be among them. Suddenly, the gown seemed even tighter, her breath harder to catch.
‘Arms up,’ said Lora, holding out the fitted gold surcoat that went over the gown. There was a black lion embroidered on the chest, from the de Burgh coat of arms.
‘I can’t, Lora.’ Elizabeth turned to her. ‘I can’t.’
The maid’s brow knotted as she glanced at the garment. ‘Sir Richard had this made specially, my lady.’ Her tone was low, worried. ‘He will expect you to wear it.’
‘Not the gown. The feast.’ Elizabeth brought her hand to her mouth. Her voice cracked. ‘This marriage.’
Lora’s face filled with sympathy. As tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes, the maid placed the surcoat on the bed and clutched her mistress’s arms. ‘My lady, I know you are afraid, but you must have courage. You know how important this marriage is to your father, how much he needs Lord Henry’s support with the troubles growing on our borders.’
‘I begged him to let me enter a convent. I want to take the veil for Christ, not a man three times my age.’
‘Lord Henry isn’t so old,’ chided the maid.
Elizabeth took her hand from her mouth, her face tightening. ‘He is older than my father, Lora. His first wife bore him twelve children. She died giving birth to the last.’ She twisted back to the mirror, her eyes narrowing on her reflection, feeling a hot urge to tear off the gown and rip the pins from her hair, to scratch her face until she was ugly. She had seen the way Lord Henry looked at her during that first meeting two months ago, when the marriage had been arranged. It had reminded her of the foxes that prowled around the henhouse at dusk, their black eyes intent. She remembered the liver-spots on his hands, his fingers as fat as tubers, remembered the freckled bald patch on his head and the yellowness of his teeth.
Lora sighed gently. ‘This is your duty, as it was your sisters’ before you. Besides, you will not be going to Lord Henry alone. I will be with you. Come, my lady,’ she said staunchly, picking up the surcoat. ‘Your father and his guests are waiting.’
Numbly, Elizabeth lifted her arms, allowing the maid to lower the surcoat over her head and smooth it over the gown. She thought of her sisters – of how they had loved feasts. Crowding the window of their bedchamber at Lough Rea to watch the guests arriving with their retinues of squires and servants, they had sniggered at pompous lords and blushed and cooed over strapping young knights. Elizabeth had never understood their excitement for all the heat and the noise, the fuss and upheaval, and drunken, leering eyes. She had always tried to excuse herself from such evenings, feigning fever or some other malady. Sometimes her father had permitted her absence. Tonight, there was no such escape.
Lora laid the veil over her hair and set it in place with a gold circlet. ‘You look like a queen,’ she murmured.
Elizabeth didn’t respond. As she moved towards the door she passed the chest at the foot of her bed on which lay a small ivory cross on a silver chain. Her father had presented it to her on her tenth birthday, just weeks after she had almost drowned.
‘God will always be with you, child,’ he had told her, draping it around her neck.
She had worn it ever since, the bottom of the cross made smooth by her fingers after years spent toying with it. She paused to loop it around her neck, then headed down through the tower and out into the dusk. Horses and wagons crowded the courtyard, the stink of dung clouding the air. Feeling as though she were encased in armour in the heavy gown, Elizabeth made her way slowly towards the great hall. Clutching the ivory cross, she prayed for God to intervene in her fate.
Chapter 9
Robert and Cormac were halfway across the courtyard when they saw the young woman. She was heading towards the great hall, between the rows of horses and carts. Beyond her, the tunnel led through the twin-towered gatehouse to the outside world. The portcullis was still raised to allow any last guests to enter. The two guards on watch had their backs to the courtyard and were leaning against the wall in conversation. Sprinting faster, breathless after so many weeks idle in the tower, Robert raised his hand as the woman turned; a desperate gesture of silence. Even as he did so, he realised it must look as though he were going to attack her, the blade rising in his grip.
Her scream pierced the evening. The grooms by the stables looked up, startled from their tasks, and the two guards whipped round. Robert charged, meaning to give them no time to defend themselves, but three more emerged from the gatehouse, alerted by the scream. Robert brought himself up short, taking in the line of men. As the guards drew their broadswords between him and his escape, he switched direction and lunged for the young woman, who was rooted to the spot.
She moved suddenly, coming alive with the danger, but her gown was long and awkward, and she only managed to stumble a few paces before Robert caught her, pinning her roughly to him, one arm around her chest. Her hands came up and grabbed at his forearm in fear.
‘Stay back!’ Robert roared at the guards, levelling his stolen sword at them.
The five men halted, looking from Robert to Cormac, who had taken up position close at his back, ready to defend him. One stepped forward, as though to test Robert’s resolve, but an older man with cropped white hair and a weathered face stopped him with a barked order.
As his comrade fell back into line, the white-haired guard’s gaze fixed on Robert. ‘You must know you cannot go anywhere, Sir Robert.’ His voice was self-assured. ‘Let Lady Elizabeth go and you will not be harmed.’
At the name, Robert realised the girl, whose heart he could feel beating fiercely against his arm, must be Richard de Burgh’s youngest daughter. Stephen had spoken of her often; the feast this evening was in honour of her betrothal. His fleeting triumph at the value of his hostage was quickly dampened by the reality of his actions.
He had seized a lady, bodily, against her will. He made himself no better than a brigand. But he couldn’t let go. Not if he wanted to see his kingdom again. ‘You wouldn’t harm me.’
‘I wouldn’t, sir,’ agreed the guard. ‘But if you hurt one hair on the lady’s head, Earl Richard will rip your guts out through your mouth.’
Robert turned on Cormac. ‘Get two horses.’
Cormac backed towards the stables, his eyes on the guards.
Robert remained where he was, the girl’s shoulder blades digging into his chest, the two of them poised in a pool of shifting light from the torches that burned around the walls. Music and laughter echoed from the hall, the merry sounds strange in contrast to the scene in the courtyard. Robert guessed the noise would have masked the girl’s scream from the revellers, but it wouldn’t be long before someone happened upon their frozen tableau.
He glanced over his shoulder to see Cormac gesturing roughly at the grooms by the stables. They were young lads, clearly terrified by the armed, wild-looking Irishman. Sensing movement in his periphery, Robert looked back to see the white-haired guard advancing slowly. ‘Don’t,’ he warned, bringing the edge of his blade round to Elizabeth’s neck.
‘Please.’
The faint whisper came from her.
A voice in Robert’s mind – it might have been his mother’s – harangued him, but he silenced it, steeling himself to the fear in the girl’s voice, refusing to allow the barbarity of his actions to weaken his resolve. These men in his way, this terrified girl: they meant nothing when set against Scotland’s throne.
The white-haired guard had paused twenty yards away, his four comrades ranged behind him, blocking the gatehouse tunnel. Robert saw the older man’s eyes flick past him. The guard’s expression changed, something expectant rising in his face. Robert jerked round to see a brawny man in a dusty tunic moving up behind his foster brother.
All Cormac’s attention was on the lad leading out the horses. Robert yelled a warning, but before his foster-brother could turn, the man was on him, punching up under his ribs. Cormac curled over the blow. He managed to keep hold of his sword, but his attacker gave him no chance to swing it at him, bringing his knee crashing up into his down-turned face. Robert shouted fiercely as his foster-brother hit the ground and the man dropped down on top of him, wresting the sword from his grip.
