by Robyn Young
‘Where are you, Robert?’ she murmured.
Turnberry, Scotland, 1301 AD
Smoke wreathed Turnberry in a black shroud, billowing from the homes, storehouses and workshops that clustered the shoreline between the wooded hills and the sea. Flames surged up the sides of buildings, the heat cracking open the mud-daubed walls. Over the crackle of fire came the groaning creak and crash of timbers as the roof of a barn collapsed, a shower of sparks erupting from the centre. Squeals echoed from within. As one of the doors buckled inwards, a white horse burst out of the inferno, eyes mad, mane and tail alight, flesh blistered. It galloped away down the street, a monstrous thing cloaked in smoke and flame, past burning houses and the bodies that scattered the ground.
There was a young man lying on his stomach, a knife still gripped in his fist. His head had been cleaved from his body and lay a few feet away, linked by a dark wash of blood. Nearby, two women were sprawled together over the threshold of a flaming house, their mouths and nostrils stained black with smoke, the air around them rippling with heat. Other corpses, most of them men, displayed gaping wounds made by the hack or stab of swords. Some had weapons in their hands and were on their backs, fallen in the place where they had made a stand, but many were unarmed, cut down in the act of fleeing, carrying sacks or armfuls of possessions that were now littered about them. Everywhere, the dusty ground was scuffed by the iron-shod hooves of horses.
Out in the fields, huge swathes of wheat were aflame. It had been a dry summer and the fires spread quickly, devouring the crops. Sheep and cattle in the pastures were fleeing. There was fire too on the beach, coming from a row of fishing boats that had been set alight. Beyond, the white waves continued to rush at the shore, as unheeding of the disaster unfurling before them as the sun in the blue sky or the cormorants that wheeled over the rocky mass of Ailsa Craig, far out in the bay. Above the golden crescent of sand, where cliffs climbed to a grassy headland, the walls of Turnberry Castle rose through veils of smoke. The fortress stood untouched on a precipitous promontory above the foaming sea, gates shut.
Beyond, just out of bowshot range, Humphrey de Bohun eased off his great helm, decorated with a spray of swan feathers. The padded coif he wore beneath was sodden with sweat and tinged black by smoke. He could taste its bitterness. Handing the helm to his squire, Humphrey swung down from the saddle. He accepted the skin of wine one of his pages offered to him and rolled his shoulders, strained by the burden of mail. Around him, spread out across the bluffs in front of the fortress, knights and squires were doing much the same. After the day’s ride and in this sapping summer heat, the sack of the settlement had proven thirsty work. The torches borne by many of the infantry had been thrust into the dry soil, flames swirling in the breeze that rippled through the coarse grass.
‘Sir Humphrey.’
He turned as a band of his men trotted their horses up the shallow slope towards him. He had set them to work burning the crops.
The knight at the head pulled his charger to a halt. ‘It’s done, sir.’ He smiled grimly. ‘The villagers won’t be threshing any grain this harvest.’
Humphrey nodded as he tossed the wine skin back to his page. ‘Good work, Aleyn. Have the men water their horses and stretch their legs. But stay close. We have more work to do today.’ He looked back at the castle, which thrust from the cliff-top: the birthplace of Robert Bruce. How best to crack open its stone shell? he wondered.
As he was pondering the options, Humphrey’s gaze was caught by a tall figure striding towards him. It was Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, nephew of the king and one of the most powerful barons in England. He still carried his sword, the blade of which gleamed with a smear of blood. A fearful opponent on the tournament ground, the young man, heir through marriage to the great earldoms of Leicester and Lincoln, was proving just as dangerous in war.
Thomas’s usually good-humoured expression was tight with anger. ‘Have you spoken to my cousin?’
‘Not since we entered Turnberry.’ Humphrey scanned the men, searching for Edward. ‘Why?’
‘He plans to move on to Ayr this afternoon.’
Humphrey’s brow furrowed. ‘But the castle hasn’t—’
‘He doesn’t intend to take it,’ Thomas cut across him. ‘He believes Ayr will be the better target.’ His gaze fixed on the king’s son, who Humphrey now spotted, standing in a crowd of young men.
At Edward’s side was Piers Gaveston. The Gascon youth was as dark as the king’s son was fair, his black surcoat trimmed with silver. The two were sharing a skin of wine, laughing and talking as though it were a feast day.
‘I believe it to be a poor excuse,’ continued Thomas. ‘My cousin has other targets on his mind. From what I hear, Gaveston has convinced him to hold a tournament before we take the next town. He says it will be good training for him and his friends. It appears they have become bored of burning crops and raiding villages.’
‘I will speak to him.’
As Humphrey crossed the field towards Edward, his jaw clenched. After the fall of Caerlaverock, the king split his army in two, personally leading one half north towards Bothwell Castle near Glasgow, while his son led a campaign in Galloway and Carrick. Under young Edward’s banner, this second force had marched across the south-west, torching settlements, leaving a land blackened and devastated. But, over the course of the past weeks, the king’s son seemed to have become less and less interested in his command, until Humphrey found himself planning much of their strategy and issuing orders. He had endeavoured to guide the king’s son back to the task in hand, but the newfound freedom away from his father’s eye seemed to have gone to his head. This, coupled with the influence the wilful Piers exerted over him, meant Humphrey was finding it increasingly difficult to rein him in.
‘My lord Edward.’ Humphrey’s anger sharpened at the derisive look Piers gave him as he entered the ring of men, some of whom were Knights of the Dragon, as Humphrey had once been, before he was inducted into the king’s Round Table. ‘I hear you plan to lead the men out from Turnberry today.’
‘That is correct, Sir Humphrey,’ answered Edward, sweeping back his blond hair with a gloved hand. ‘We do not have siege equipment. The castle is too well-defended to take.’
‘Look over there,’ said Humphrey, nodding towards the woods, visible through the clouds of smoke rising over the crop fields. ‘What do you see?’
‘Trees,’ said Edward, shrugging in question.
‘Trees that can be cut down to make a battering ram. Turnberry’s gates won’t hold for long with a sustained assault. We need to remove the threat of its garrison attacking us from the rear while we continue north.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Humphrey noticed Piers smile at something one of the other knights murmured. Forcing back the desire to slam his mailed fist into the Gascon’s mocking face, he steered Edward away from his friends. ‘The king said it was imperative we strike hardest at Carrick on this campaign. Now Lochmaben has been destroyed, Turnberry is Bruce’s last major fortress in Scotland. It isn’t enough to raze the lands of his tenants. We must take away all safe havens for him and his allies. We cannot leave such a stronghold for him to return to.’ Humphrey exhaled at the youth’s sullen expression. ‘Besides, its capture will please your father. Imagine his pride when you tell him how you destroyed the birthplace of his greatest enemy.’
At this something flickered into life in Edward’s pale eyes and Humphrey knew his words had at last hit their mark.
‘Very well,’ murmured Edward. ‘I will order the men to make camp. We will lay siege to the castle.’
‘It is a wise decision.’
Edward went to head back to his comrades, then paused. ‘I find it fascinating, Sir Humphrey, to see the depth of your hatred for a man you once called brother.’ His tone had a sardonic ring to it.
As he walked away, Humphrey’s gaze drifted to the castle’s battlements, his mind clouding with the face of Robert Bruce.
West Smithfield, London
/> 1294 AD (7 years earlier)
Long before they reached Smithfield, riding up the road from Newgate, they could see the rows of stalls strung with coloured flags, hear the music and smell the roasting meat coming from the spits. It was the third day of the August fair and the evening’s revelry was well under way. The sun, sinking over the plains that stretched from the banks of the Thames at Westminster to the great darkness of the Middlesex Forest, cast a sultry glow across the fair, which spanned the expanse of ground between the Fleet River and the graveyard of St Bartholomew’s. Cooking fires made constellations in the dusk.
Humphrey felt excitement bubble up. It was a feeling so closely attached to memories of coming here as a boy that, for a moment, he was eleven years old again riding at his father’s side, the people on the road eyeing the earl’s entourage of knights and pages with curiosity. It had been years since the two of them had come here together. Now his father was preoccupied with the war against France, they wouldn’t be doing it again any time soon.
Humphrey glanced over at Robert Bruce, riding beside him on a dappled palfrey, several hands smaller than Storm, Humphrey’s charger. The young earl’s gaze was fixed on the crowded fields, a broad grin splitting his face. Humphrey smiled, pleased by his evident eagerness. ‘I thought this would impress you,’ he called, over the growing din of the crowds.
Henry Percy, riding ahead on a richly caparisoned courser, twisted in his saddle before Robert could answer. ‘Do you not have fairs like this in Scotland, Sir Robert?’ The Lord of Alnwick’s fleshy face was mottled with heat, his blond hair curling around his forehead. His blue eyes glinted coolly as he spoke.
Robert met his gaze easily. ‘We do, Sir Henry. Very similar. Only much, much bigger.’
Humphrey chuckled as Henry arched an eyebrow and turned back to the road. At his side, Aymer de Valence, heir to the earldom of Pembroke and a cousin of the king, glanced round. His was a more hostile look, but Robert didn’t seem to have noticed, his attention caught by three girls walking along the verge towards the fair, arms linked as they laughed and talked.
‘Don’t get snared by the first bait you see, my friend,’ Humphrey warned him with a grin. ‘There are women in those fields whose beauty would knock a monk from his habit.’
‘Is that so?’ said Robert, shortening the reins. ‘Well, I will be sure to mention you to them in passing.’
‘Make way, fair maidens,’ yelled Humphrey, as Robert pricked his spurs into the sides of his palfrey and set off at a canter. ‘Make way for the Earl of Carrick! A man from the frozen, barbarous land of the Scots, where women grow beards to shield them from the cold!’ Laughing at Robert’s roar of protest, Humphrey kicked his charger after him.
The young men with them followed one by one: the royal knights, Ralph de Monthermer and Robert Clifford, then Henry Percy and Guy de Beauchamp, heir of the Earl of Warwick. Aymer de Valence brought up the rear, not bothering to steer his horse closer to the verge, forcing the commoners thronging the road to hasten out of his way to avoid being trampled.
Once in the fair grounds, the seven noblemen left their horses with their squires and moved about on foot in the milling crowds, sampling the wares from various stalls. There was dark rye bread and roasted pork, crimson cherries, moist honey cakes and sugared almonds. There was also cloudy yellow cider and sweet ale.
Humphrey paid for two tankards and gave one to Robert. ‘Drink it slowly,’ he shouted in the earl’s ear, as they passed a ring of men bellowing at two squealing cocks that were pecking one another bloody. ‘It’s stronger than it tastes.’
Robert grinned. ‘No stronger than my grandfather’s apple wine.’ He set the tankard to his lips and tipped the foamy liquid down his throat.
After a pause, Humphrey followed suit, wiping the scum from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Another two then?’
‘My turn,’ said Robert, opening the pouch that swung from his belt alongside his dirk. The loop of leather where his scabbard usually hung was empty.
Swords were forbidden in West Smithfield on fair days and at tournaments, after one too many altercations had turned into full-blown riots. There was little love lost between Londoners and their noble neighbours at Westminster.
‘Keep your hand on that,’ warned Humphrey, nodding to the purse as Robert passed him another drink. ‘You’ll find few gentlemen here.’
Sipping at the ale, they headed deeper into the fair, keeping their five comrades in sight. Here were scores of stalls displaying all manner and colour of cloth: linens from Flanders, wool from Berwick, silks from Venice and damask from the Holy Land. Local mercers and those from neighbouring towns haggled with the traders. Beyond the stalls, the fields opened out, filled with pens of animals and men selling saddles and farm implements.
Humphrey explained to Robert that it wasn’t just cloth that brought people flocking to the August fair. ‘My father bought most of his stable here over the years,’ he added, eyes moving appreciatively over pens of Arabian stallions and glossy Castilian broodmares.
As well as the expensive breeds there were cumbersome plough horses and ponies from Exmoor, spirited colts, rouncies and hobbies. The stink of dung and the noise of the traders were overwhelming, but for Humphrey, warm and dizzy from the ale, it was sweet with memory. It felt good, too, to be away from the oppressive atmosphere at court, where tensions had been running high all summer, since war was declared with France. King Edward had left for Portsmouth two days ago to oversee the assembly of his fleet, due to leave for Gascony in a few weeks’ time, filled with an army to win back the duchy duplicitously seized by his cousin, Philippe. They would all soon be called to serve abroad and this might be the only opportunity they would get to enjoy themselves for a while.
‘How much for him?’ Robert was asking a trader, standing with a handsome roan charger that was being groomed by a boy.
‘For you, sir, eighty marcs.’
The sum raised Robert’s brow. ‘Eighty?’
‘Too much,’ said Humphrey, coming to his side. ‘Fifty.’
The trader laughed and shook his head. ‘He’s called Hunter,’ he said, looking at Robert. ‘Sired by a Persian stallion. There’s fire in him, but it’s tempered. He’ll see you right. In the joust, or on the field of war.’
While they were bartering, Aymer pushed past, knocking Robert’s ale from his grip. ‘Isn’t that more your style, Bruce?’ he said, nodding to an old man standing nearby with two bow-legged mules on a rope.
Humphrey caught Robert’s arm as he went after him. ‘Leave it be.’
Robert shook ale from his hand, riled. ‘I don’t understand why you’re friends with that whoreson.’
‘He’s one of us.’
‘One of you?’ Robert studied him intently, ignoring the crowds that jostled around them, people shouting to clear the way as a small black bear was led through the throng on an iron chain towards a staked pen where two mastiffs waited, drool dripping through their teeth. ‘You mean one of you with the dragon on your shields?’
Before Humphrey could answer a group of rough-looking men forced their way through in the wake of the bear. One pushed aside a beggar boy who was proffering his bowl at the crowd. He didn’t look back as the boy hit the dust, the few coins he’d collected scattering about the feet of the people who walked on over him.
Grateful for the interruption, Humphrey pointed to a group of riders, visible above the heads of the masses. ‘Look! The races are about to start.’ He nodded to the trader. ‘We’ll return and you’ll accept sixty.’
‘If he’s still here,’ called the trader, as Humphrey led Robert over to where a starting line had been set up under a string of flags.
A score of horses were gathering, most of them ridden by boys bearing whips. Before them the field stretched empty to a gibbet which rose from a patch of bald earth in the distance. As well as a ground for royal tournaments and fairs, West Smithfield was a place of execution. The cheers of the expectant mob swelled as
one of the riders punched his fist into the air, his horse rearing beneath him.
Humphrey caught sight of his comrades, their silk mantles and feathered caps making them stand out like jewels amid the drab Londoners. ‘Over there. Come on.’ Behind him, Robert shouted something. Humphrey looked back. ‘What?’
‘I need to piss.’
As he moved off through the crowd, Humphrey followed. ‘Wait. You’ll never find us again.’
Walking in silence, Humphrey led the way towards a row of elms near the Fleet where the latrines were usually set up. He thought about offering Robert an explanation as to why he wouldn’t speak about the dragon shields they carried, or rather the meaning that lay behind them, but with the ale fogging his brain and the mayhem around them he couldn’t think how.
The latrines were a ditch dug behind a length of canvas strung between two poles. Men filed in on one side, before heading out the other, tightening the cords on their drawers and smoothing down tunics. Humphrey and Robert went in together. The ditch was murky with sewage and reeked in the humid evening.
Robert whistled as he relieved himself, staring into the deepening blue of the sky between the elms. ‘The women grow beards?’ he said suddenly, looking at Humphrey.
The two of them began to laugh. Humphrey was still chuckling as he laced up his braies.
‘What’s tickled you, my lord?’ came a harsh voice.
They turned to see four men entering behind the screen. Humphrey recognised the barrel-necked one who had spoken. He and his rough comrades had passed them moments ago, back by the bear-baiting pen. All wore coarse clothes and looked like they were used to hard labour.
‘Perhaps his beau, John?’ volunteered one, grinning unpleasantly at Robert. ‘They look like a couple of bawdstrotes in them silks.’
‘Aye. That they do.’ John, clearly their leader, nodded to the purse on Robert’s belt, his smile vanishing. ‘Give us it. And yours, little lordling,’ he added to Humphrey.
