Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  Humphrey slowed Storm, looking around for the other man, his vision hampered by the helm. He spotted Aymer de Valence riding in to his left, going after the quarry. Roaring savagely, the king’s cousin leaned far out in the saddle to plunge the point of his sword through the back of the man’s neck. Screams rent the air as the knights found more targets. Humphrey urged Storm on, but the trees, which quickly became more densely packed, soon forced him into a walk. The rest of the enemy archers had fled deep into the woods, where the knights on their cumbersome chargers could not follow.

  A horn blew, summoning the scattered knights back to the king, who had ridden Bayard out on to the fringes of the trees. The night sky was amber with the fires billowing beyond the palisade. The fort was alight, flames racing up the sides of the timber structure. Sparks crackled into the air, like hundreds of glowing insects. Shouts echoed as men struggled to contain and extinguish the blaze. Humphrey wrenched off his helm, praying the guards had taken Bess to safety.

  ‘It was John Comyn’s forces,’ shouted Aymer de Valence, ducking as he rode out under the low-hanging branches of a pine. ‘There were others further back in the trees, on palfreys and coursers. I knew my brother-in-law by his colours, but he fled before I could reach him.’

  ‘Do we follow, sire?’ questioned Ralph de Monthermer, trying to calm his skittish mount. ‘My lord king?’ he called, when Edward gave no response. ‘Shall we pursue them?’

  Humphrey looked over at the king, who had pushed up the visor of his helm. He was staring at his burning fortress, his face thunderous in the hellish glow.

  Chapter 14

  Near Lochmaben, Scotland, 1301 AD

  John Comyn urged his sweat-soaked palfrey up the last few yards of the wooded slope, the trees around him swaying in the rushing dark. As he crested the bald crown of the hill, he saw the sky was dusted with stars. Their phantom light shone coldly on the helms of those men who crowded the hilltop. More were appearing through the trees every minute, some riding, others on foot, panting with the effort of the climb. Several were wounded. One man, his face contorted with pain, was being dragged into the clearing by two comrades, a jagged cut across his forehead streaming blood down his cheeks.

  Hauling his horse to a stamping halt, Comyn pulled off his helm and coif, breathing hard. His dark hair, recently cropped short, was plastered to his head, making his lean face appear even more gaunt. The blazon on his black surcoat – three white sheaves of wheat on a red shield, the arms of the Red Comyns – was mirrored in the trapper of his horse. Sweat prickled on his skin, the salt taste of it mixing with the metal of his ventail, which he unhooked and pulled from his jaw. Seeing his squire, Comyn tossed his helm to him, then slid from the saddle, his muscles aching. ‘Dungal!’ he called sharply, seeing a familiar face in the crowd.

  Dungal MacDouall, former captain of the army of Galloway, forced his way through the press. His hard, humourless face was bone white in the starlight, matching the lion on his surcoat.

  ‘Did they follow?’ Comyn asked, as they met in the milling throng.

  ‘Not for long. Their horses were too large to make it far through the trees. I heard the king’s horn summon them back.’

  Comyn nodded grimly. ‘I imagine they had more pressing things to concern themselves with. The fires spread quicker than I could have hoped.’

  ‘Their new fort will be ashes come dawn,’ agreed Dungal, satisfaction in his eyes.

  Catching sight of the tall figure of his father, Comyn strode over, sprays of pine cones crunching beneath his boots.

  The Lord of Badenoch was talking to his cousin, the Earl of Buchan and head of the Black Comyns. An imposing, well-built man, Buchan had the same long face and dark eyes as Comyn’s father. He carried his great helm under his arm, his surcoat billowing in the wind. Three sheaves of wheat decorated the garment, this time embroidered on a black shield. Between them, the two cousins ruled the dominant branches of the Comyn family, whose power and authority ranged across the kingdom from the glens of the Borders to the mountains and plains of the north-east. Standing with them were Ingram de Umfraville, a kinsman of John Balliol, and Robert Wishart, Bishop of Glasgow.

  ‘We lost twenty men at most, your grace. All in all it was a success.’

  ‘Success or no, the loss of life is to be mourned, Sir John.’ Wishart’s squat, bulky body lent him a bullish stance.

  ‘And your prayers will benefit our dead, as our arrows benefited the living. After a summer of loss our people needed a victory. We have provided them with one.’

  ‘But we must do more,’ said Comyn, approaching. As the men turned, he noticed how drained his father looked, his skin blanched by a malady that had afflicted him for some weeks. The assault on Lochmaben appeared to have sapped the last of his vigour, although his voice seemed unaffected, abrasive as ever.

  ‘Your plan worked better than I could have expected, my son. You are to be commended.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ replied Comyn stiffly. ‘Still, I would have liked to see their camp destroyed completely. King Edward will be able to rebuild what we burned tonight.’

  ‘That rebuilding will hamper his plans for any new campaign. Lochmaben was the main stronghold from which he would have launched more attacks. Now he’ll be forced to concentrate his limited resources on reconstruction.’

  Ingram de Umfraville cut keenly into the conversation. ‘Indeed. It will buy us time in which to gather more men and train them for—’

  ‘We have gathered enough soldiers.’ Comyn saw Umfraville’s face tighten at the interruption, but he didn’t care. The man had recently been elected as a third guardian of Scotland and with himself and William Lamberton now made a triumvirate. For Comyn, it had been galling enough that the nobles felt it necessary to select yet another man for the high position. He was adamant Umfraville would not take away any of the authority he had gained over the past two years. ‘We need to employ our strength.’

  ‘What do you suggest? A raid on England?’

  At the forceful question, Comyn turned to see John of Atholl. The earl’s strong-boned features were sharply contoured in the starlight, his curly hair slick with sweat. With him walked his son, David, a younger reflection of him, and Neil Campbell, a knight from Argyll, one of William Wallace’s staunchest supporters. Comyn felt a needle of dislike at the sight of the earl, who kept his intense gaze on him as he approached. He noticed that some of the men close by had heard Atholl’s question and were looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Comyn replied defensively. ‘We have the men.’

  ‘Men we have,’ agreed Atholl, halting before him. ‘What we lack are generals.’

  Before Comyn could respond his father spoke. ‘Your contempt is unwarranted, Atholl. My son has just led us to our first victory this year. Can you claim such honour?’

  ‘With respect, the victory was small and comes too late. I have been calling for us to take action all summer, but my words fell on deaf ears. We allowed the English to ravage the west and take castles, without contest.’

  Bishop Wishart’s brow puckered. ‘Sir John—’ he began.

  Atholl ignored him, raising his voice as other men around them quietened to listen. ‘Edward and his army were given free rein, leaving our people to his mercy. You can be sure he has shown none. We have all heard of towns and villages being put to the torch, men butchered, women despoiled, their children maimed. The English king has a hide of leather. What we have done tonight has stung him only.’ The earl punched his fist into his palm. ‘We need to pierce him!’

  Comyn heard the mutters of agreement. Atholl’s son, David, was staring at his father, pride naked in his face. Comyn’s dislike swelled to rancour. For months, Atholl had been a thorn in his side, questioning his every decision. What was more, the man’s continued support for Robert Bruce was flagrant, keeping Comyn’s hated rival a palpable presence among their company, despite the fact the whoreson seemed to have vanished off the fa
ce of the earth since resigning the guardianship. Comyn dearly wanted to eject Atholl from their company, hoping that in doing so he would exorcise the last of Bruce’s influence in Scotland, but Atholl commanded the support of a large number of men, whose force of arms the beleaguered rebel host relied upon.

  ‘I say we do not give Longshanks pause,’ Atholl continued. ‘Caution has become our enemy. Aggression should be our ally. Let us mount a raid into England while the king and his men are still licking their wounds!’

  As the mutters became calls of unison, Comyn and his father both tried to speak, but the men, fired by the night’s triumph and by John of Atholl’s belligerent speech, shouted over them.

  ‘We should summon William Wallace home!’ cried one, brandishing his spear. ‘Have him lead us to victory against the English dogs!’

  Comyn’s anger boiled over. ‘Wallace?’ he spat contemptuously. ‘He resigned as guardian precisely because of his inept leadership. Falkirk cost the lives of ten thousand Scots!’

  As the clearing erupted in a storm of protest, Comyn realised his mistake. William Wallace may have been gone from their midst for three years, but the rebel leader still cast a long shadow. That his had been the first blade raised against the English, his savage triumph at Stirling, his ferocity on the battlefield, even his exploits as an outlaw in the early days of the insurrection: all lived on in the minds of the insurgents, in spite of his defeat at Falkirk. It riled Comyn that a man like Wallace, a second son from a modest family, managed to command more respect in his absence than he himself had won in two years as their guardian. In the tumult of voices that rose to harangue him, he saw John of Atholl staring at him, satisfaction plain in his face.

  ‘The failure of Falkirk was not Wallace’s,’ Neil Campbell injected fiercely. ‘But that of the nobles who left the field without striking a blow, led by the Lord of Badenoch!’

  Comyn’s father and the Earl of Buchan stepped forward at the Argyll knight’s insult to their family’s honour. Spitting an oath, Comyn gripped the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Peace!’

  The strident voice blasted across them. The crowd silenced, shifting to allow a short, wiry man dressed in black robes through. William Lamberton, Bishop of St Andrews, had blood on his hands, a result of administering prayers to the wounded and last rites to the dying. His face was implacable, his strange eyes – one ice-blue, the other as white as a pearl – burning coldly. He came to stand between Neil Campbell and Comyn, who had drawn his sword part way from its scabbard. ‘How swiftly we go from fighting the English to fighting each other. When will we learn that strength comes from unity, not division?’ His voice held all the passion of one of his fiery sermons. ‘We had a victory tonight, Sir John,’ he said, turning to Atholl. ‘Do not forget that in your haste for the next. Come.’ He motioned to the earl. ‘Shake the hand of the man who gave us that victory. Your countryman.’

  Atholl’s jaw pulsed with reluctance, but under Lamberton’s unyielding gaze he stepped forward, extending a stiff hand.

  Comyn stared at the earl for a long moment, before shoving his sword forcefully into its scabbard. The two men grasped hands briefly, eyes locked, before stepping back.

  Lamberton looked around at the others, all of them tense and uncertain. ‘The destruction of Lochmaben has bought us some time, in which we can plan our next move. Wisely,’ he added to Atholl. ‘John Balliol’s restoration is far from set. Bishop Wishart and I have sent word to Paris to ascertain what our king will need in order to return to the throne. Let us wait for his response before making rash decisions. The outcome may well change the direction of this war.’

  Wishart and others were nodding, but Comyn noticed that Atholl looked pensive, as if the news wasn’t at all welcome to him. It was strange to see they might have something in common.

  As the gathering began to disperse – John of Atholl moving off with Neil Campbell, Wishart turning to talk to the Lord of Badenoch – Comyn headed to where he had left his horse and gear, ignoring the calls of some of his men. There were still a few stragglers making their way up the hill, but most had reached the clearing now and had fanned out to rest and tend their horses before the Scottish host prepared to move deeper into the Forest, making for the safety of their base. Comyn passed a company of archers huddled in a group, counting arrows. Hardy men from Selkirk Forest, they had been trained by William Wallace when he was sole guardian of the kingdom.

  Wallace. Balliol.

  Since word of the king’s impending return had spread like wildfire through the ranks, those two names had begun to haunt him. In the absence of the former rebel leader and dispossessed king, he, John Comyn, had become virtual ruler of Scotland, a position he had cultivated with the support of his family. Now, even his ambitious father was talking with eagerness of the restoration of his brother-in-law, the king. The Comyns, he had always said, worked best behind the throne. The king is an instrument, we are the musicians. But Comyn liked the light that had bathed him in this position and did not want to step back into another man’s shadow.

  He paused on the edges of the trees where the land fell away into darkness. Several miles to the south, he made out the amber glow of fire over Lochmaben. As the face of John Balliol filled his mind, Comyn felt a surge of anger. His uncle had been a weak king who refused to stand up to Edward’s demands, leaving nobles like his father to take control of the kingdom and rise against the English. Balliol had fled the battlefield during Edward’s first invasion and had spent weeks on the run, before surrendering. He had stood there, as meek as a lamb, allowing the great seal of Scotland to be broken and the royal arms to be ripped from his tabard. Had these men, all so hopeful for his return, forgotten this? His father saw the limits of Comyn ambition as being the control of the throne and had never once mentioned the fact that he himself had a claim to it.

  It was a fact his son had not forgotten.

  Chapter 15

  Dunluce, Ireland, 1301 AD

  His dreams were strange worlds of fire and ice. In them, he was pursued by a shadowy figure whose face he could never quite see. Often he was trapped, sometimes in the halls and passages of a castle he did not recognise, or else out in the open, but on his back, soaked to the skin, held down by invisible hands. Always, the figure found him. The crossbow would rise and pain would follow; the agonising violation of flesh as the iron tip punctured skin and the bolt was driven through tissue and sinew, vein and muscle. Tearing. Searing.

  Sometimes he cried out, but his voice never sounded like his own. He tried to wake, to break the dream, but every time he surfaced pain would be waiting for him, a malignant beast that sank its teeth in deep, sending him fleeing back into the darkness.

  Robert.

  His name was a new sound in the black, familiar but unexpected, like a friend he hadn’t seen for years. He stirred and glided towards it.

  ‘Robert.’

  Behind his eyes, he sensed a soft glow. Pain bared its teeth, but he pushed on, struggling towards the source of his name. That voice; he knew it belonged to someone he desperately wanted to see. The glow transformed itself from nebulous amber into the definite outlines of a bedpost, the edge of a table and a distant door, all bathed in candlelight. Someone moved into view. Panic seized him at the sight of the hand rising towards him. He tried to sit up, but the beast in his shoulder woke and howled, almost sending him reeling back into oblivion.

  ‘Don’t try to move.’

  That familiarity again. Gritting his teeth against the waves of pain, he opened his eyes. The face of a man swam before him, then slowly came into focus. It was James Stewart, the High Steward of Scotland.

  Robert tried to speak, but all that came out was a surprised croak.

  ‘Here,’ said James, taking a cloth and goblet from the table. When he dipped the material into the vessel it came out red. ‘Wine and honey,’ explained the older man, squeezing the sodden end over Robert’s mouth.

  The taste was a sweet shock. He swallowed,
feeling the sting in his parched throat. ‘James?’ he murmured. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Dunluce Castle.’

  Robert went to sit up again at the name. Dunluce was one of the Earl of Ulster’s strongholds, an imposing cliff-top fortress that dominated the northern coastline of Ireland. Sweat broke out coldly on his skin. ‘How did I get here?’

  James moved in to help, pushing pillows behind his back to support him. ‘What do you remember?’

  The steward was frowning as he sat back in the chair Robert now saw was placed by the bed. From his slightly elevated position, he could also see two men standing just beyond the sphere of candlelight, to either side of the door. The red bands of cloth around their upper arms and the cross-guards of their swords were the brightest things about them.

  ‘I . . .’ Robert trailed off. ‘I’m not sure.’ He glanced down, seeing a square of material placed over his left shoulder, held in place by bands of cloth that felt tight across his back. It was brown with dried blood. He could smell something bitter. Herbs perhaps? The bare skin of his arm and chest was livid. He remembered the rain and the blood on his blade. He remembered the man and the crossbow rising. ‘I was attacked. But I cannot tell you by whom. Or when, or how I came to be here.’

  ‘Some of those answers I can give you. Earl Richard’s men brought you here four days ago. They tell me you almost died on the journey.’ James’s tone was grave. ‘Sir Richard’s physician saved your life. When I arrived the day before yesterday, he told me your wound was starting to heal. He believes he was able to remove the bolt without causing further damage and is confident you will be able to use the muscles again, given time.’

  Robert felt his throat tighten; constricted by relief. The steward was studying him. His face, usually so composed, appeared grim. A host of questions rose in Robert, welling through his exhaustion and confusion. ‘My daughter?’ he said suddenly.