by Robyn Young
As he watched, a third man moved out of the building to hand his comrades a wine skin. Resting his head against the damp wood of the house, Robert blinked into the arrows of rain. Of course they would be here. How else would he cross the river and make it to his estates other than by the ford? Far faster on their horses than he was on foot, Ulster’s men could have been camped here for days, weeks even, just waiting. Robert cursed. He had no idea how long the river was, but he might have to travel many miles before he found another crossing. He could swim, but Elizabeth couldn’t. He could leave her here; let her father’s men find her. But then Lord Donough would have no leverage with which to secure Cormac’s freedom.
Robert hastened back through the shadows towards the house where he had left Elizabeth. He was almost there when he heard the screams.
Chapter 12
Elizabeth stood listening to Robert’s footsteps on the stairs. When they had faded and all she could hear was the wind moaning through the window and the steady drip of rain through the hole in the roof, she sat heavily on one of the pallet beds. For the last miles, she had ached with every step, but she had tried to keep up with Robert, fearing to anger him lest he abandon her somewhere in the wilderness. She knew he had thought of doing so; had seen it in his eyes. Just as she had seen the lie when he said he would keep his word.
Pushing aside the mouldy blankets, Elizabeth lay down and stared at the broken roof, the ruptured timbers open on to the rain-dark sky. Her skin felt hot and tight, and her head was pounding, but she fought off the weakness that was dragging at her, forced herself to think. What was Robert planning if not to take her with him to Scotland? Would he attempt to exchange her for his brother? Was this why he had kept her at his side all this time? She breathed in deeply, feeling this was right. He had been troubled by his foster-brother’s fate throughout the journey; angry at himself for not saving him and at her for ruining the escape.
Elizabeth closed her eyes as she thought of being delivered back to Ballymote; back to face her father and Lord Henry’s bed. The thought of her father summoned quick tears that threaded coldly down her cheeks. He must be so worried. She imagined his fury when he discovered she hadn’t been abducted, but had run away. She dishonoured him with her actions. But guilt only went so far. Deeper inside Elizabeth was a knot of defiance. She wouldn’t let these past weeks of hardship be in vain. She had prayed to God, the night of her betrothal feast, to save her from her fate and He sent her Robert. This ordeal in the wilderness was a trial of faith.
Elizabeth sat up, fighting a wave of dizziness. She would keep to her plan and go to Scotland. There she would enter a convent and, once she had taken the veil, would write to her father and explain herself. Determination fired her limbs. She stood, snatching up the blanket, and made her way downstairs in the gloom. She had seen the sea from the hills that morning. It wasn’t far. She could make it to the coast and surely there find a fisherman who would row her across the race?
Elizabeth paused in the doorway, clutching the frame. Rain came down in sheets before her. She shuddered at the thought of that expanse of water. She had heard her father’s men speak of the race: the whirlpools that roared and could suck a boat down, the giant creatures that dwelled in the depths, the mountainous waves. She felt sick just to think of it. Maybe she could stay in Ireland – enter a convent here? ‘No,’ she breathed, pushing herself out into the downpour, wincing at the needles of rain. Her father controlled much of these lands. If she stayed, he would find her.
As she was crossing the street, Elizabeth caught sight of movement between two houses ahead. She froze, thinking it was Robert. Seeing three figures approaching through the rain, she turned and fled back to the house, plunging into the darkness. Breathing hard, she stood stock-still, hearing rough voices. Had they seen her? She inched to the doorway and peered cautiously out. The three men had stopped in the street. One seemed to be looking right at her. Recoiling, Elizabeth dropped the sodden blanket and backed away to the stairs. She climbed them quickly, flinching at every creak. Upstairs, she crossed the slimy boards and crouched behind one of the pallets, her heart thumping.
Dear God, don’t let them have seen me.
The voices came again. She strained to listen, but the words were low. There was a splash of feet through a puddle, then nothing for a few moments. Hearing a creak below her, Elizabeth gasped and ducked down, pressing her cheek to the floor. There was a gap beneath the pallet, looking across to the stairs. More creaking sounds followed, coming closer. Suddenly, a man’s head appeared in the hole. Elizabeth felt the tight shock of terror grip her as she saw the thick, matted fringe of his cúlán. He was a young man, clad in a woollen tunic and carrying a wicked-looking dagger. When he was all the way up the stairs, she could only see his feet. He was followed by his two companions. The three of them stood there in the cobwebbed gloom.
She began to tremble as the first man walked slowly around the pallets. His shoes were caked with mud. She wanted to slide under the bed, but there was no room. Nowhere to hide. As he appeared behind her, Elizabeth scrabbled to the wall, pressing herself up against it. The young man dropped into a wary half-crouch at the sight of her, the dagger poised in his fist. He had scars on his forearms, his bare skin slick with rain in the half-light. His expression changed from caution to curiosity as he stared at the girl, huddled against the wall. He glanced over at his two companions and spoke.
Elizabeth recognised the language as Gaelic, but understood little. Despite having been born and raised in Ireland, she had never learned to speak the native tongue, hearing only snatches of it outside her father’s fortresses and the towns she had lived in, filled with English. Four years ago, the parliament at Dublin passed a law forbidding the English of Ireland to wear Irish clothes, grow their hair in the cúlán, or speak the native language. All her life it had seemed as if the Irish were another race entirely; a barbarous race at that, given to immoral excesses and animal appetites, who lingered always on the borders of her world, a dark and threatening force.
The scarred man spoke again, this time addressing her, his voice rough with question. Elizabeth didn’t answer. Her eyes were on his companions, who now joined him at the foot of the pallet. One was a lanky, auburn-haired youth. A smile twisted his mouth as he saw her. The other was an ogre of a man with hunched shoulders and a slack jaw, who had to duck beneath the roof beams. He stared at her with unblinking eyes. He carried a club spiked with rusty nails and was somehow far more disturbing than his smirking comrade.
The scarred young man moved towards her, the dagger in his grip. He made soft, shushing noises as though she were an animal he was trying not to scare. Slowly, he crouched before her and reached out his free hand. She could smell his breath, sour and strong. Elizabeth wanted to fight, but her body wouldn’t obey. Instead, she remained frozen against the wall. As he gently took hold of her wrist and coaxed her up, her eyes lingered on the blade in his hand, transfixed by it. Her legs felt like liquid. Her eyes darted, seeking escape, finding none. What would they do with her? The answer came as a sensation way down in the pit of her stomach: a deep, curdling fear.
The man was speaking to her in hushed Gaelic, but she didn’t trust the look in his eyes as he led her by the wrist towards the stairs, past his two comrades. The ogre was still staring at her, the club dangling from his fist. He said something, his voice thick and slurred, either from drink or a defect of the tongue. The young man replied, his tone full of scorn. They were almost at the stairs when Elizabeth caught a sudden motion beside her.
The huge man moved quickly, the club rising in his fist. It whistled through the air to strike the scarred man in the side of his face. There was a crunch on impact and the young man flew sideways. Elizabeth landed on top of him, her face inches from his. Through the bloody pulp of his cheek, raked open by the nails, she could see the bone of his jaw. Rolling away, she screamed as the ogre turned on his auburn-haired comrade, who tried to tackle him. The club slammed into the man�
�s head, sending him reeling across one of the pallets. Elizabeth lunged for the stairs. Before she could reach them, a hand grabbed a fistful of her hair.
As Robert raced into the house he could hear crashing and banging on the wooden floor above him. There was a grunt of pain followed by a girl’s terrified cry. When he’d first heard the screams his instinct had been to flee, fearing Ulster’s men would be alerted. That impulse had vanished as he’d recognised the terror in those cries.
He took the rickety stairs two at a time, sword in hand. The first thing he saw as he came level with the floor was the face of a man, staring at him out of dead, bloodshot eyes, a splintered mass of bone for his right cheek. The second was the great brute pinning Elizabeth on her stomach, one massive hand planted on her back, the other grasping a spiked club. Her face was turned away, but Robert could hear her gasps as the man bore down on her, pressing the breath from her lungs. He wielded the club high, as if about to bring it crashing down on the back of her skull. There were red scratches on his cheeks and his eyes bulged, full of madness. Robert launched himself at him.
The brute was fast, surprisingly so. He veered away, dodging the blow aimed at his neck. With the weight gone from her back, Elizabeth scrabbled to her feet and stumbled to the stairs. She ran down the first few, then turned as Robert lashed out at her attacker. The man tossed his matted fringe out of his eyes and countered, forcing Robert to duck as he swung the club at his head, skimming his scalp by a hair’s breadth. While Robert was hunched over, the Irishman kicked him in the stomach. The force propelled him into one of the slanting roof beams, the impact causing him to drop to his knees, his sword striking the floor beside him. Slurring something incoherent, the man lumbered towards him.
Robert was curled over. His stomach felt as though it had been turned into a band of iron, stopping up his breath. As Elizabeth screamed at him to get up, the Irishman turned, distracted. He didn’t look where he put his foot down and stepped heavily on the slimy patch where water had been leaking through the hole in the roof. There was a crack as the wood, rotten with months of rain, gave way beneath his weight. He went down suddenly, grunting in surprise as his foot disappeared. It gave Robert the chance he needed. Heaving air through gritted teeth, he pushed himself up. While the man bellowed in rage, struggling to free his foot, Robert swept in.
He shouted as he ran the man through, powering his sword through the thick muscle of the man’s throat. The brute dropped his club and gripped the blade with both hands, spewing a gout of blood. His bulging eyes rolled back to the whites as he convulsed, tongue protruding as he gargled around the length of steel that had severed his windpipe. Robert withdrew the sword with a fierce twist and the man collapsed, his huge body twitching as the blood pooled.
Robert crossed to Elizabeth, who was staring at him half in horror, half in relief. ‘Go,’ he commanded, ushering her down the stairs.
Leaving the three dead men in the room above, they made their way around the broken furniture towards the door, him gripping his sword, her silent and shaking.
Robert stepped out into the street, the rain washing the blood from the blade and cooling his scalp. He turned to face her as she reached the threshold. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘W . . . what?’
‘Did they hurt you?’ he demanded, gripping Elizabeth’s shoulder, forcing the dazed girl to look at him.
‘No,’ she breathed. ‘No.’
‘We need to go. Your father’s men are here.’
‘My father?’ Elizabeth looked hopeful and anguished at once. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, her eyes on something behind him.
Robert watched her expression change, saw her face flood with fresh alarm. She shouted his name. As he was turning to see what had startled her, something slammed into his shoulder. He reeled into the doorframe where he hung, breathless, staring at the bloody iron tip of a bolt, which had gone clean through his left shoulder, tearing a red hole through his shirt. A second later he felt the pain; a wrenching, driving agony, the like of which he’d never experienced. He could scarcely get a breath into his lungs so crushing was the force of it. Half turning, the doorframe the only thing holding him up, he saw a figure striding towards him. Through the sickening waves of pain, Robert recognised the man from the barn with the crossbow.
The man paused in the wet. Unhurriedly, he lowered the great bow and drew another quarrel from the slim basket at his hip. As he put his foot in the crossbow’s stirrup and pulled back to reload it, Elizabeth screamed another warning.
‘Run!’ Robert shouted at her. He tried to push her with his free hand, but the pain of moving his arm almost brought him to his knees. ‘Run!’
Elizabeth fled down the street, the man letting her go.
Robert staggered into the house, just as the assailant raised the bow and aimed. There was a mighty thump as the bolt punctured the doorframe where he’d been standing a second before. Robert leaned against the wall inside, sweat and rain streaming down his cheeks. The front of his shirt was dark with blood. Outside, he heard the creak and snap of the crossbow being loaded again. The man would have to come inside to use it. His only chance would be to disarm or kill him as he entered. Robert summoned the last of his strength. Moments later, a shadow darkened the doorway. As the man stepped through, Robert struck, crying out with the agony as the bolt moved deep inside his flesh.
Neatly dodging the blow, the man smacked his sword away with the crossbow. As the blade fell from Robert’s grasp, he stumbled into the centre of the room, clutching his shoulder. The man raised the crossbow.
‘Who are you?’ Robert hissed through his teeth.
The man said nothing. His bearded face, olive-skinned, was hard in the gloom.
As Robert sank to his knees he thought the man must have shot him, but he realised the crossbow bolt was still there, aimed at his chest. His vision darkened. Pain was a raging current, carrying him into oblivion. Slipping back, hardly feeling it as he struck the floor, he heard a distant thrumming of hooves. Death, he thought, riding in to claim him. In the wake of the hooves came shouts. Robert saw the man turn, point his crossbow through the open door and shoot the bolt. He heard a girl’s cry, more shouts, then a crashing sound as something heavy hit the ground beside him.
Robert’s last thoughts were of his daughter. Marjorie’s sweet, smiling face overwhelmed him as the world dimmed.
Chapter 13
Lochmaben, Scotland, 1301 AD
‘Turnberry surrendered after two days, my lord. We took all those inside prisoner.’
Humphrey paused in his report, noting that the king hadn’t looked up from the table he was seated behind. Edward’s brow was creased, his pale eyes glinting in the buttery glow of the lanterns as he scanned the letter he held. The canvas sides of the pavilion undulated in the breeze streaming in through the flaps, carrying sounds of music and laughter.
The king raised his head at Humphrey’s silence. ‘Go on.’
‘Having razed the castle we moved on to Ayr. After he burned the town three years ago to prevent us from securing it as a base, Bruce ordered its reconstruction. Under your son’s command we sacked the settlement and destroyed the new fortifications. I can assure you, my lord, that these raids, combined with the slaughter of livestock and burning of crops, mean the people of Carrick will find it hard to sustain themselves through the coming winter.’
‘Good,’ murmured the king. He was looking at the letter again.
A gust of wind billowed the silk curtains that partitioned the royal pavilion, offering Humphrey a glimpse of the four-poster bed that accompanied Edward wherever he went. It was heaped with pillows and covered with linen coloured red with insect dye. On a cushioned chair close by was Queen Marguerite, her delicately beautiful face profiled above the cloud-soft ermine cloak draped around her shoulders. The garment couldn’t quite conceal the swell of her second pregnancy. As Humphrey watched, the queen leaned forward and moved a rook made of crystal across the chessboard in
front of her. One of her maids, seated opposite, countered the move with a jasper pawn. Through another set of curtains came a wailing cry as Edward’s infant son, Thomas, woke for a feed from his wet nurse.
Humphrey’s gaze switched back to the king. ‘Have you had any word on Robert Bruce’s whereabouts, my lord?’
At the question, the king looked up abruptly, his eyes at once focused. He set down the letter. As he did so, Humphrey saw the seal of the King of France attached to the bottom.
‘I was hoping you might be able to shed more light on his location, having spent the past month in his earldom.’
Humphrey was accustomed to hearing the steely displeasure in the king’s tone, but was still unused to the acute discomfort a man could feel when it was levelled at him. ‘I questioned the Constable of Turnberry at length, my lord, but he swore he had no idea where Robert had gone, only that he left Carrick over a year ago.’
‘You believe him?’
‘We have no real way of knowing.’ As the king’s gaze bored into him, Humphrey added, ‘But I cannot imagine he will remain hidden for ever. Sooner or later, Bruce will surface, of that I am certain.’
Something thoughtful, almost knowing passed across the king’s face. ‘Perhaps.’ He waved away a page who came to refill his goblet. ‘And what of my son’s performance? How did he fare with his first command?’
At once, Humphrey understood why he was giving the account rather than young Edward himself. They had arrived at Lochmaben earlier that afternoon, but except to glean the bare facts of the campaign, the king hadn’t requested a full report until now. ‘He maintained good order, my lord,’ Humphrey began carefully. ‘The siege of Turnberry and the sack of Ayr were efficiently conducted. Our men sustained few injuries and there were no fatalities. We lost only five horses on the entire campaign.’
