by Robyn Young
Seeing the white-haired guard daring another step towards him, Robert dragged Elizabeth to a cart, one of many that crowded the courtyard. Two muscular horses were harnessed to the front. Climbing on to the back, he pulled her up roughly behind him. She weighed next to nothing. The horses shifted, walking forward expectantly. The cart was full of cushions and blankets, with a whip left lying down the side. The guards were edging closer, ringing the cart in a semicircle. ‘My brother for the lady!’ Robert shouted at the white-haired man, releasing Elizabeth to grasp the whip, but keeping the blade pointed at her as she cowered beneath him.
Cormac was struggling under the weight of the brawny man, trying to fight him off. Before the guard could answer, out of the doors of the great hall raced six more men. In their wake came Richard de Burgh, his face a mask of fury. Behind him was a balding man in his fifties, his expression incredulous as he saw Elizabeth huddled in the cart.
‘Run, brother!’ yelled Cormac.
Spitting a curse, Robert cracked the whip over the backs of the horses as the earl and his men charged towards him. The beasts took off, galvanised by the sting. The white-haired guard leapt desperately at the cart as it lurched past. Managing to grab hold of the side, he clung on as the tunnel loomed up, narrow and dark. Robert, pitched to his knees, lashed out with the whip, catching the man on the side of the face. The guard fell back with a cry, tumbling over in the dust of the courtyard.
‘Drop the portcullis!’ roared Ulster.
Ignoring Elizabeth, knocked off-balance in the heap of cushions, Robert threw himself into the seat at the front. Snatching up the reins, he flogged the beasts for all they were worth as the guards in the gatehouse tower responded to the earl’s shout and the spiked iron bars came slamming down. The portcullis missed the back of the cart by inches, crashing shut behind as the horses careened through the tunnel and out on to the track. Robert heard Ulster’s shouts continue, over the tumult of hooves, before the cart rocked around a bend in the track and plunged into the woods.
Robert maintained the reckless pace for as long as he dared, the cart reeling over rocks and ruts. It was dark beneath the trees, dense with summer growth. Faint in the distance, he heard a bell begin to clang. Judging he had very little time before the earl’s men came for him, far faster on their chargers, he slowed the horses. Spying a natural break in the trees, Robert steered the beasts off the track, twigs and bracken snapping and tearing beneath the cart’s wheels. When he could go no further, he pulled the horses to a stop and jumped down. Behind, through the web of trees, he could still see the road. His only hope was that it was sufficiently shadowy for the cart to remain concealed from his pursuers, at least for a while.
His fingers fumbling in haste, Robert unbuckled the harness straps. The horses were agitated, tossing their heads and snorting. Neither had saddles, but he could ride them well enough without. He glanced at the earl’s daughter as he tugged free the last strap. She was still in the cart, grasping the sides, her eyes wide and her breaths coming fast. The gold circlet she had been wearing had slipped off and her veil was dishevelled. ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ he told her. ‘I had no choice.’ Looping the harness strap around his waist, Robert wedged the sword he had taken from Ulster’s guard through the makeshift belt. ‘Stay by the road. Your father will come for you.’
As he moved to mount one of the horses, Elizabeth pushed herself from the back of the cart. ‘Wait!’
Robert glanced round. Her expression was less one of fear, more of desperation.
‘Take me with you.’
Robert stared at the girl, for a second dumbfounded by the request, then he grasped at the horse’s mane and rump to pull himself up. From the road came a rumble of hooves.
Elizabeth’s face knotted in anguish. ‘Then I shall tell them which way you’re going.’ Her voice trembled with the threat, but she pushed through the undergrowth, making her way towards the track, one hand hitching up her skirts, the other swiping branches out of her way.
Cursing, Robert slipped from the horse and went after her, leaping the tree roots, his shirt ripping open on the thorns of a briar. The hooves were louder, the forest floor trembling with the impact of a score or more riders. Grabbing Elizabeth, Robert forced her down in the undergrowth, just as the earl’s men thundered past, illuminated by the gusting flames of the torches they held. He clamped a hand over her mouth, but he needn’t have worried. She didn’t even struggle. In a cloud of dust, the riders were gone.
Robert waited a few seconds, insects skittering over his skin in the darkness, Elizabeth’s breaths hot against his palm, before he got to his feet, pulling her up roughly.
The veil had slipped from her head and her braided black hair had snagged free of its pins. ‘You’ll go to Scotland, won’t you?’
‘You can walk to the castle from here,’ he told her, striding back towards the cart. Ulster’s men must know they would catch up to him quickly. When they didn’t they would surely double back and start searching the woods. Robert halted. The cart was where he had left it, but the horses had bolted. Fury flooded him. ‘Damn it to hell!’ he hissed, rounding on Elizabeth as she came up behind him.
She shrank back from his anger, but her face remained set. ‘Take me with you and I’ll send a message to my father, asking him to let the other man go unharmed. He’s your brother, isn’t he?’
Robert looked towards the road, hearing another company riding hard along it. He glanced back at Elizabeth, taking in her determined expression and desperate eyes. She was clutching a small ivory cross she wore around her neck, twisting it between her fingers. If he left her here there would be nothing to stop her shouting to alert his pursuers. Swearing, he grasped her by the wrist and slipped into the shadows of the trees. Behind them, the forest filled with the drumming of hooves.
Picardy, France, 1301 AD
Storm clouds clotted the sky, changing the gold of the evening light to bruised copper and throwing huge shadows across the meadows of the Somme valley. From the high vantage point of Bailleul Castle, raised on its massive earthworks above the pastures and villages that surrounded it, John Balliol watched the first pulse of lightning illuminate the landscape of his birth. Behind him, servants hastened about the shadowy room, throwing fresh linen across the bed, coaxing a fire to life in the hearth, pouring water into a basin so he could wash the road dirt from his face. The rest of the castle was occupied by the family and garrison of his vassal, but this room had been kept free for its long-absent lord. It had a dusty, forgotten air.
The evening was heavy with heat and, for a moment, Balliol thought about telling the servants to leave the fire, but the cheery light blooming in the dark chamber gave him a sense of homecoming that he didn’t want to extinguish.
Home.
It was a foreign word. Not since the years of his lordship in Galloway following the death of his mother had the word had true meaning to him; a careless meaning at that, one he had taken for granted. After three years in the Tower of London and two years in the papal custody of Malmaison Castle, he now understood it. Home was freedom. Freedom for a man to come and go as he pleased, to summon his vassals as he saw fit. Freedom to eat and sleep, and go hunting with his son when he wanted. He felt the word like a shudder, whether of excitement or unease he wasn’t sure.
There was a rap at the door. Balliol turned as his steward entered.
‘Sire, the men you have been expecting have arrived. Do you wish to eat first?’
‘No, Pierre, show them up. I will see them now.’
As the steward left, Balliol looked back to the window, the apprehension building inside him, crackling like the storm. He still didn’t understand why, three days ago, he had been let out of his chamber at Malmaison, without a guard for the first time in years, and led to where papal officials had been waiting to escort him to his castle in Picardy. He had been told very little except that messengers from Paris would meet him here. Maybe now he would get some answers. Freedom was his. But he
wanted to know at what price.
A short time later the door opened and Pierre appeared again, leading two men dressed in blue surcoats, adorned with gold fleurs-de-lis: the royal arms of France. Ignoring the servants still bustling about the chamber, Balliol waited for the men to greet him, feeling stiffly suspicious.
‘Sir John,’ said one, inclining his head. He had a neatly forked beard and pointed features. ‘I am Sir Jean de Reims, a knight of the royal household. I bring greetings from King Philippe in Paris. He trusts you find your new lodgings more agreeable?’
The first answer to his many questions surprised Balliol. So the King of France was responsible for his freedom? The revelation brought more questions on its heels. He knew his liberation from the Tower and transfer to Malmaison had come at the pope’s behest and had been part of the negotiations between England and France, but he had not been able to fathom why his fate had been bound up in a treaty between the two countries. The French king’s intervention seemed even less understandable. ‘I thought the order for my release came from the papal curia?’
‘In part. A supporter of yours, Sir William Wallace, arrived in Paris two years ago to present the case for your release. Philippe, your friend and ally, felt moved to intervene. He recommended Sir William and his cause to the pope. His holiness made the final decision, but your release was determined by my lord, the king.’
Balliol moved to the window, where the setting sun had vanished in the face of the coming storm. Lightning tore the sky. He had turned to the French king six years ago for help against Edward; their alliance had caused the English king’s invasion of Scotland. But where was Philippe when the war had begun? Where were the soldiers the king had promised when Edward marched his army across the Tweed and slaughtered Balliol’s subjects, overran his cities and seized his castles? Where were the French when Edward led him to the Tower?
‘I am surprised King Philippe is taking such an interest in my affairs after all this time. I thought he and Edward were now friends?’ Balliol turned back to the royal knight. ‘The pope’s treaty, I’m told, specifically excluded Scotland.’
‘I understand your frustration,’ answered Jean, his tone mollifying. ‘King Philippe wishes your release could have been secured long before, but the war with England forced him to turn his attention to his own borders. Now a truce has been agreed, he can extend his hand to you once more. He intends to return you to your rightful place. On the throne of Scotland.’
Balliol’s chest tightened at these words, but he exhaled that clenching hope quickly, his mind refusing to believe such a bold statement. It sounded ridiculous. ‘How could he do such a thing?’ His voice was quiet, weary now, revealing something of the broken man behind the stiff façade.
‘A permanent peace between England and France has yet to be agreed. Gascony is still in my master’s possession. He could continue to withhold the duchy, unless Edward agrees to end his war against your kingdom and allows you to return to your throne.’
‘Why would Philippe do this? I do not understand.’
‘In honour of your former alliance and so that he may once again have an ally on the throne of Scotland. An ally who could help him keep the ambitions of his English cousin in check.’
Trust for Balliol had become a hard-won thing: a pearl, only moulded by time and grit. He had trusted Philippe once before. Just as he had trusted King Edward, godfather to his nineteen-year-old son, who was named after him. Edward had chosen him to be king over the Bruce and all other claimants; had watched him sit upon the Stone of Destiny, the crown set upon his head. Four years later, Edward had forced him to stand upon that platform at Montrose erected for his humiliation. Balliol could still hear the sound of cloth ripping as two of Edward’s knights tore the royal arms of Scotland from his surcoat, followed by the cheer of the mob. Toom tabard, they had called him. King Nobody.
He looked out of the window as lightning lit the landscape. Long before the Balliol family acquired rich estates in England and Scotland, they had lived here, amid the soft green of Picardy’s meadows and vineyards. It was from this northern edge of land, which looked ever towards England, that the Conqueror had first set out, Balliol’s ancestors with him. This was the birthing place of conquest. Perhaps it could be again.
Slowly, John Balliol dared to hope.
Chapter 10
Near Turnberry, Scotland, 1301 AD
In the cramped, fire-lit room the rasping words whispered over the grinding of stone on stone.
‘In the name of Lady Moon and Brigid of the flame I adjure thee, cleave to my will.’
The stifling air was choked with smoke from the fire, its bitter tang in contrast to the sickly odour of mould that rose from the straw covering the earth floor. Pots and pans crusted black from years of use hung down from the rafters, along with sprigs of liverwort, cloudberry, mandrake root and heather. Over by a pallet bed heaped with furs, things scurried in the shadows. A small pile of books teetered nearby, the boards and bindings loose. The words scored in the covers were faded, the edges of the pages mouse-eaten and green with damp, the names of the authors all but vanished. Pliny. Aristotle. Ptolemy. Galen.
‘By the power of the sacred horn and the midsummer sun I adjure thee, cleave to my will.’
As she ground the stone pestle into the mortar, Affraig felt the twinges in her wrist and arm that afflicted her often these days, the joints seeming to knot and fuse beneath her paper-thin skin until it felt as though her limbs were on fire. Inside the bowl the desiccated liver, heart and genitals of the male coney she had snared a month earlier were slowly pulverised into a pinkish grey dust with each painful movement.
‘You have the wine?’
‘Yes,’ came the breathy female voice behind her.
Affraig turned as Bethoc, the young wife of a fisherman from Turnberry, stepped keenly towards her, holding out a glazed jug, stopped up by a yellow wedge of wax. Affraig took it impatiently, intent on finishing the concoction as quickly as possible. She was glad of the business, but Bethoc’s frequent appearances had begun to grate on her nerves; last month a cure for her son’s toothache, the month before a charm for her baby daughter’s rash, which she said had been caused by a hex from a jealous neighbour who was barren. Setting the jug on the worm-rotten table by the mortar, Affraig tapped the ground organs into the wine, frowning with concentration as her hands trembled. ‘Have your husband drink this two days before the moon is full. No later. You will find his potency returned soon after. Make sure he drinks it all.’
Bethoc, usually so attentive to her every word, hadn’t responded.
Affraig looked round irritably. ‘Do you hear me, Bethoc?’
The young woman was standing at the door, which had swung open in the breeze. She was looking out, her arms hanging limp at her sides, her body stiff and unmoving. ‘What is that?’
Putting down the mortar, Affraig shuffled across, the hems of her shabby brown dress trailing threads of straw in her wake. Standing beside Bethoc, the summer wind breathing warmth on her face, she saw a pall of smoke rising in the distance. It gusted high above the woods that surrounded her house, painting the blue sky black. It was coming from Turnberry.
‘Is a house burning?’ Bethoc asked, looking at her for answer.
‘No,’ murmured Affraig, her skin tight and cold. The fire was far too large for that, the plumes coming from too many places at once, forming a dense cloud. It wasn’t one house. It was many. ‘The English have come.’ The impact of the words hit her a few moments after she uttered them.
For months, rumours of invasion had been spreading wild about Carrick, sowing seeds of fear and panic in the people. Affraig had heard them all from the men and women who came to her for their cures and charms. Caerlaverock Castle had fallen, they told her first, in hushed voices. Some said the English were heading north to Glasgow, others were convinced they were advancing west towards them. The people of Turnberry and other settlements along the Carrick coast seemed braced with fea
r, but rooted, like coneys frozen under the shadow of a hawk. Unwilling to leave homes and livestock, or let wheat wither in the fields, most had stayed put, saying the Scots under the guardians, John Comyn and William Lamberton, would turn back the English before they could get far. Now, it seemed, their faith had been misplaced.
Bethoc, who had paled at Affraig’s words, stepped outside, her eyes fixed on the dark, drifting clouds. ‘I must get to my children,’ she said, wrapping her arms about her. Sweat beaded her brow and lip, but she was shivering. ‘My babies.’
‘It is too late. You should stay here. I doubt the soldiers will come this far.’ Affraig could smell the smoke now, a faint reek of burning timber, thatch and straw.
Bethoc didn’t seem to have heard. She hastened away towards the woods, the jug of wine containing the cure for her husband’s impotence forgotten.
Affraig watched her disappear into the trees, above which a flock of seabirds came flying, their escape from the flames enviably easy. Moving back inside the house, she wished her dogs were still with her, but the last had died, old and blind, two winters ago. She paused in the doorway, her watery eyes fixing on the broad oak that towered over her dwelling, adorned with its webs of twigs. There were scores of them, the branches clouded with destinies, hopes and prayers. Most were for love, or money or health, each lattice of bound twigs containing a symbol of the person’s desire held there by a thread: a red ribbon around a lock of hair, a frayed silk purse, a sprig of vervain. Affraig’s gaze sought out one, hanging high amid the green, a crown of heather, wormwood and broom spiralling slowly in the centre.
