Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  ‘Interesting,’ said the king, lacing his long fingers beneath his chin. One of the rings he wore caught the lantern light, the ruby at its centre flashing. ‘My nephew gives a different report.’

  Humphrey’s discomfort increased as he saw the trap he’d been caught in. He had no idea the king had already spoken to Thomas of Lancaster. He cursed himself for being so inattentive. A man did not do well to drop his guard under Edward Longshanks.

  ‘Thomas tells me if it wasn’t for you, Turnberry would not have been captured at all. He said my son was more interested in cavorting with his friends than in making war on my enemies.’

  ‘He needed direction, my lord, that is all. Sir Thomas is not fond of Piers Gaveston. I fear his judgement in this matter may be coloured by that dislike.’

  Edward took up his goblet, running a finger around the base. ‘Was I right, Humphrey, to make my son Prince of Wales? My hope was that in rewarding him with such an honour he would grow to befit that mould.’

  Humphrey was struck by how old the king looked, his jaw sagging beneath the frost-white trim of his beard, his skin tinged grey with fatigue. He thought of England under his son and felt a stirring of unease. It was up to men like him to help mould Prince Edward into the man needed to fill his father’s place. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said determinedly. ‘I believe your son is ready for such authority.’

  But the king was staring at the letter again.

  ‘Word from France?’ Humphrey ventured.

  ‘While you were in Carrick I received tidings from my spies there that John Balliol had been released from papal custody on the orders of King Philippe.’ Edward held out the parchment for Humphrey to take. ‘This came last week, delivered from Westminster. My cousin recommends I make a truce with the Scots as a first step towards Balliol’s restoration.’ The king’s ire stripped years from him, adding colour to his cheeks and vigour to his posture. ‘It is clear that, should I refuse, there will be no treaty with France and Philippe will continue to occupy my duchy of Gascony.’

  ‘What will you do, my lord?’ asked Humphrey, glancing up from the parchment, his mind clouding with the prospects of this twist of events. ‘Another war cannot be an option, surely?’

  Edward looked at him sharply. ‘The struggle for Gascony stripped me of my money and the support of my men – even your father and others of the Round Table stood against me.’ His tone was flint. ‘So, no, another war is not an option. Not yet at least. But neither will I allow Balliol to return to the throne. My plan is to offer the Scots a temporary truce, as Philippe requests. I did not intend to campaign through the winter so such agreement will not affect my plans. What it will do is buy me time. There will be a way through this – without war, without the loss of Gascony and without the return of that snake, John Balliol. I have the winter to find the answer.’ The king rose. Even with the slight stoop in his broad shoulders, he towered over Humphrey. ‘We will speak more of this matter in council tomorrow. For tonight, we celebrate. Go, join my daughter, Humphrey. France will wait a day.’

  With a bow, Humphrey left the royal pavilion. Ducking through the flaps, past guards standing sentry, he strode into the chilly evening where scores of campfires illuminated the compound. The king’s newly built fortifications at Lochmaben – which he had retired to after a victory in the north with the fall of Bothwell Castle – were ringed by earthen ramparts topped with a palisade. Lookout platforms had been erected either side of the main gates and the shadows of sentries moved against the sky. The compound was dominated by a timber fort that rose like a tall ship above a sea of tents. The place was alive with music and conversation. Men crowded the spaces between tents, carts and horses, gathering around fires to share wine and ale. Smells of meat rose from cooking pots, summoning in Humphrey an ache of hunger.

  He caught a glimpse of the king’s son, in whose honour the celebrations were being held. The newly titled Prince of Wales was standing with Piers Gaveston, watching two bare-chested men wrestle. One of the combatants had a bloody nose, the other a split lip. Gleaming with sweat, they circled one another, before coming in to lock in a fist-pummelled embrace. Prince Edward, resplendent in a mantle of gold, turned as Piers passed him a wine skin. The Gascon leaned in as he took it and whispered something in his ear. Humphrey saw the prince smile, his face flushed in the torchlight.

  ‘Sir Humphrey!’

  He turned to see Ralph de Monthermer.

  The royal knight lifted a goblet in greeting. His yellow mantle, decorated with a green eagle, shimmered. ‘Come. Join us!’

  Humphrey caught sight of Aymer de Valence and Henry Percy in the throng. No doubt the other barons would be close by, but he had somewhere more inviting to be than with the men of the Round Table. ‘In a while,’ he called to the knight, who shrugged amiably.

  Humphrey headed on through the crowds towards the timber fort, sidestepping a drunken soldier, who fell into one of the tents which collapsed beneath him, raising a cheer from his companions. Others reeled about, arms slung around one another’s shoulders. The festivities might be for their new prince, but all the men here were celebrating their own triumphs at the end of a campaign that had seen the fall of three mighty castles and the burning of the west; a campaign that had scarcely been challenged by the Scots. The rebels, it seemed, had lost the will to fight. One more summer like this and the English would wrest control of Stirling Castle, fallen to the enemy last year, then the north of Scotland would be open to them. If, that was, King Philippe’s demand didn’t stop them in their tracks.

  They had been at war with Scotland for five years and had suffered terrible losses as well as victories in that time. Humphrey thought of all the coin diverted from England to fund the king’s cause, all the months spent away from their estates and families, all the lives wasted on the blades of swords, his father’s among them. His hunger pangs and eagerness to see Bess faded with the ache of that loss. Three years since Falkirk and he still saw that moment as if it were yesterday: his father’s horse up to its neck in a bog, the earl slipping from the saddle, lanced by a Scottish spear, to be claimed by the mud. Determination rose in Humphrey like a slow, prickling heat. He would do whatever was necessary to help Edward prevent John Balliol returning to the throne and the Scots reclaiming their kingdom. If they allowed that to happen such sacrifices would mean nothing. He couldn’t live with that prospect.

  Nodding to the men who guarded the entrance to the fort, where the prisoners and plunder they had conveyed from Turnberry were being housed, Humphrey climbed the external stairs that led up to the battlements. The fort was the first stage of the king’s fortifications, which he planned to turn into a fortress of stone using material gathered from Lochmaben’s old castle, destroyed in their last campaign. Once on the battlements, Humphrey had an extensive view across the surrounding land. The compound was built on a promontory that jutted into the waters of a loch. A flock of birds flew low across the surface, their reflections gliding beneath them. On the landward side, woods stretched north towards the ruins of the old castle, former home of the Bruce family. Its keep was a broken tooth of stone rising from a motte, visible against the purple, cloud-stippled sky.

  Ahead on the walkway, looking out over the loch, was a young woman dressed in a silvery-blue gown. A padded net scattered with pearls covered her hair. Humphrey smiled as he saw her, his spirits lifting.

  Bess turned. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I was with your father.’ Humphrey halted a few inches from her, wanting to kiss her, but aware of the guards on the battlements behind them. He was Constable of England, she was the king’s daughter. There was decorum to be observed.

  Bess didn’t share his compunction. Bridging the gap between them, she looped her arms around his neck. Like all of Edward’s children she was tall, almost as tall as Humphrey. She only had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. ‘You are forgiven.’

  Bess gave him a breath-soft kiss. The sentries forgotten, Humphrey pulled her to him, o
pening his mouth over hers. She responded and for some moments the two of them were lost in their own dark world of breath and desire. Humphrey drew back and looked into her eyes, which were a pale grey, ringed with violet. Queen Eleanor had left a Castilian legacy in her beautiful, black-haired daughter. He smiled at her, but the release from the kiss had allowed his mind to wander back to the king’s revelation.

  Bess touched his cheek. ‘A cloud just passed across your face. What is it, my love?’

  ‘John Balliol has been freed.’ Humphrey paced the battlements, Bess falling into step beside him. They headed round the fort to the landward side, where the woods spread into a wind-tossed darkness. ‘The King of France is threatening to withhold Gascony unless your father agrees to a truce with Scotland.’

  Bess nodded. ‘I heard my father talking to Bishop Bek.’ As Humphrey halted, she leaned against the battlements beside him. ‘He believes Balliol’s transfer to France, agreed in the treaty, means Philippe was planning this all along. Now the war is over, it appears the French king favours a return to his old alliance with Scotland, flanking my father on two fronts.’

  Humphrey was sometimes surprised by the ease with which she discussed political matters, given her youth. At nineteen Bess was six years younger than he was, the same age as her father’s new wife. He had wondered if she’d become accustomed to such talk in the hall of her first husband, the Count of Holland, but they had been married only a short time before he left her a widow. ‘Philippe cannot be allowed to hold your father to ransom.’

  ‘But if my father refuses, he stands to lose permanently a duchy he spent years fighting to secure – a duchy that comprises some of his richest lands.’

  ‘And if Balliol returns all will have been for nothing.’ Humphrey’s face tightened, the memory of his father lingering at the edges of his mind. ‘Our sacrifices have been many, but we pay the high price for victory. We must. For only united, one kingdom under one king, will Britain be saved. We will make them see that. All of them.’

  Bess studied his taut expression. ‘Do you not want an end to the war, Humphrey? An end to the campaigns and the bloodshed?’ When he didn’t answer, she sighed and looked out over the crowds of men drinking and revelling below. ‘Perhaps a truce will be the best course.’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  Her grey eyes flashed, something of her father’s steel within them. ‘I am the king’s daughter, Humphrey. I know as well as most of those drunken sots down there the price of war. My childhood was spent with my father always on campaign. I was moved with my sisters from one castle to the next, never knowing if he would come home again, seeing the pain it caused my mother when she wasn’t with him and feeling the same pain whenever she was. She rarely left his side. I grew to girlhood with her absences, knowing that his desire for victory and her desire for him were greater than their love for me. Don’t tell me I do not know.’

  He touched her shoulder. ‘Bess, I’m tired and these tidings weigh heavy on me. Things will be clearer tomorrow, after the—’ Humphrey stopped, his gaze caught by scores of tiny points of fire winking into life on the edges of the trees beyond the palisade.

  As he watched, they flew into the air as one, arcing silently, gracefully up and over like comets. They came to earth quickly, stabbing down around the compound. Several struck tents, others stuck fast in the ground, or skidded along it trailing traces of fire. Some found human targets, plunging into chests and backs. Screams of pain rose above the music.

  Grabbing Bess’s hand, Humphrey hauled her along the walkway towards the steps that led down the outside of the fort. The guards up here were running, shouting instructions to one another and those below, as beyond the palisade another crescent of lights winked into being. One man began pulling the cord of the bell mounted on the fort’s battlements. A loud clanging smote the air above the chaos breaking out across the compound as the flaming arrows rained down. Several struck horses, one of which reared with a squeal, breaking its tethers. The fiery barb protruding from its side, the beast galloped madly through the crowd, knocking down men as they ran for cover. As more missiles caught in the sides of tents fires began to bloom, fanned by the wind.

  Humphrey was halfway down the steps when the third wave of arrows came. He shielded Bess with his body as they thumped into the timber fort around them. When the thuds ceased, they raced down the last few stairs, Bess holding up her skirts. Once on the ground, he steered her into the entrance of the fort, where two guards were watching the turmoil unfolding before them, swords drawn against an invisible enemy.

  ‘Stay here,’ he told Bess, who nodded, her face pale. ‘Guard her with your lives,’ he ordered the men.

  ‘Keep safe!’ she urged, grabbing his arm briefly.

  Humphrey hastened towards the royal pavilion, past grooms racing to put out fires springing up in sheaves of hay. For every little patch of flame they extinguished another sprang up somewhere else. The air was full of smoke and the bell’s mad clanging. Humphrey saw one of the bare-chested wrestlers lying on his back in the dust, an arrow in his face. The sky filled with lights as another hail came in. ‘Wait!’ Humphrey roared at the men racing around him. ‘Watch the sky!’

  Only a few listened, following his lead as he dived behind a cart loaded with barrels. An infantryman, tankard still in hand, was forced to his knees, his back arching as an arrow punched into his shoulder. The man yelled, grasping at the shaft.

  ‘Help him,’ Humphrey instructed a squire, before pushing himself to his feet.

  The king was outside his pavilion, barking orders to the men around him, whose number swelled as more converged on his position. Humphrey saw Ralph, Henry and Aymer among them. He approached to hear one of the guards from the gate’s lookout platform yelling down to the king. He and his comrades were crouched behind the palisade.

  ‘There are men in the woods, sire! A hundred or more!’

  ‘Saddle Bayard,’ snapped Edward, turning to his squire. His grim face was lit by the glow of the fires. ‘Where is my son?’

  ‘Here, Father!’ Prince Edward came sprinting towards the king, Piers at his side. The Gascon had a shield strapped to his arm. An arrow was embedded in it, the flames flickering around the painted wood.

  ‘We ride out and take these churls!’ the king shouted to the knights gathered around him. ‘Mount your horses!’

  Humphrey pushed through the jostle of men, spotting Hugh, his squire, and several of his knights.

  Hugh had already saddled Storm and was holding his sword. The squire’s face filled with relief as he saw him coming. ‘Sir.’ He held out the weapon. ‘Shall I fetch your mail?’

  ‘No time,’ said Humphrey, taking the naked blade and sliding it through the loop attached to his belt. ‘Just my gambeson and helm. Mount up,’ he said in the same breath to the rest of his knights, as Hugh ducked inside the tent.

  His squire reappeared, holding his gambeson. Shrugging off his cloak, Humphrey pulled on the quilted tunic, which was padded with felt. It was still damp with sweat from the day’s ride. Donning the padded coif Hugh handed to him, Humphrey pulled on his great helm, decorated with the plume of swan feathers. Storm was stamping, agitated by the flames and commotion, but he calmed as Humphrey mounted and took up the reins. Around him, the knights of his household hauled themselves into their saddles.

  King Edward was already astride his charger, Bayard, as Humphrey led his company to join him. Together, the king, his son and several hundred knights and sergeants rode towards the gates. More arrows poured down, most landing some distance behind them, where flames were spreading among the tightly packed tents. Part of the fort was burning, smoke billowing into the sky. Through the slits of his helm, Humphrey’s vision was channelled into a narrow world of smoke and fire. He glimpsed the bright crests and mantles that marked his companions, all in faceless helms. He feared for Bess, but he could only hope the guards would protect her. The guards were hauling ope
n the massive timber gates.

  Beyond, between the backs and rumps of comrades and horses, Humphrey saw a fringe of trees stretching into darkness. More fires sprang to life in the shadows, illuminating the outlines of men among the trunks.

  ‘Ride! Ride!’

  At the king’s roar, Humphrey drew his sword and jabbed his heels into Storm’s sides. The destrier lurched forward at the same time as the others around him, all of them moving swiftly from trot into ground-shuddering canter. He let out a furious war cry, the sound echoing around the steel chamber of his helm. Others took up the shout, urging their steeds into a gallop. As the king and his men poured out of the gates flaming arrows lanced towards them from the trees.

  Humphrey saw one horse wheel madly, struck in the head. Pitching its rider from the saddle, it crashed into another, sending charger and knight sprawling. Flailing limbs and hooves disappeared as those behind rode on over them. Humphrey saw a flash of fire, coming straight at him and jerked out of the way. The arrow shot past, but the sudden movement caused him to wrench on the reins, jamming the bit painfully in Storm’s mouth. The horse stumbled, knocking against Henry Percy’s charger. Humphrey recovered quickly as Percy veered sharply away. Ahead, the trees loomed up quickly.

  Men were moving beneath the boughs. Some turned and ran as the knights charged them. Others stood their ground, reloading their bows and aiming at the horses. Humphrey saw the king kick Bayard up and over a clump of briars, his broadsword flashing in his hand as he came crashing down on the other side to smash the blade into the neck of an archer who had shot at him a second earlier. A spray of blood splattered the trees behind as the archer, head sagging back on his shoulders, crumpled to the ground.

  Humphrey fixed on two men sprinting away ahead of him. They carried bows and were wearing green tunics and hose, the sort of clothing a man would don for a hunt. Blood hot in his veins, he pursued, ducking low branches, hearing the cracks as twigs lashed across his helm, dimly feeling the impacts against his shoulders and knees. Raising his sword as he rode up behind one man, Humphrey brought it swinging down in a brutal diagonal cut as he passed. The man fell with a gurgling scream, a wide red gash opening across his chest.