by Robyn Young
‘Marjorie is still in Scotland, with my wife. She is well.’
Robert let out a breath of gratitude. ‘And my men? My brothers? We were attacked in the south by Ulster’s knights. I haven’t seen them in . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It must be months.’
‘Niall and Edward came to me at Kyle Stewart. They told me what happened. I crossed the race as soon as I could. It didn’t take long to discover my brother-in-law was holding you prisoner at Ballymote. I was in the process of trying to secure your release when it emerged that you had escaped, with his daughter.’
Robert’s gladness at the news of his brothers’ safety was replaced by concern. He sat up, grimacing. ‘Elizabeth, is she . . .?’
‘My niece is unharmed.’ James’s tone roughened. ‘Ulster’s men heard screams and were searching for the source. Elizabeth alerted them to your attacker. Sir Richard’s knights killed the man when he turned his crossbow on them.’
‘He is dead?’ Robert swore and collapsed back against the pillows. ‘I don’t even know who he was. Or why he tried to kill me.’
James didn’t seem to have heard. ‘What in God’s name were you thinking? Dragging Elizabeth across Ireland? She could have been killed!’ The high steward, whose calm in the face of all storms was one of the traits Robert admired most about him and whose poise as a politician had defined his role as one of the first guardians of Scotland after Alexander’s death, stood and began to pace.
‘I didn’t drag her, James, she wanted to run.’
‘You think that excuses it?’
‘Does Sir Richard know I didn’t abduct her?’
‘Elizabeth told her father why she ran,’ said James after a moment, his voice losing some of its force. ‘She said you weren’t to blame. I cannot say my brother-in-law agrees,’ he added grimly.
‘I thought, if Lord Donough delivered her back to Ballymote, I would be able to secure Cormac’s release.’ Robert met James’s gaze. ‘Ulster is here at Dunluce? Has he said anything about my brother?’
‘Through my mediation Lord Donough has agreed to pay Sir Richard a tribute for his son’s pardon. Cormac is on his way back to Glenarm.’
Robert let relief wash through him.
‘Your actions have seriously compromised Sir Richard’s position,’ James continued into his silence. ‘The marriage he arranged for Elizabeth has been called off. Her bridegroom deemed her to be sullied. You are going to have to face the consequences of this, Robert.’ The steward frowned. ‘Do you hear me?’
Robert wasn’t listening. He still had one pressing question. After the unexpected good fortune he had been granted, this one was heavy with hope. ‘I need to speak to you alone,’ he said, his eyes moving to the two guards by the door.
James looked round at them and nodded. The men hesitated, but after a moment turned and left.
When the door closed, Robert’s gaze shifted back to the steward. ‘Did Niall bring a staff to you at Kyle Stewart?’ When James answered, Robert couldn’t help the smile that cracked his dry lips. He closed his eyes in prayer. It was worth it – forsaking his place as a guardian, leaving his daughter and men, the hunt for the relic, his capture and escape – it was all worth it. ‘I did what I set out to do, James. What I told you I would do when I resigned after the council at Peebles. I found what King Edward needs to complete the prophecy. The Staff of Malachy is the key to Scotland’s freedom.’ The steward was shaking his head, but Robert ignored this, taking it for doubt. ‘We can bargain for new terms. Terms that may grant us our liberty.’
‘Cease, Robert,’ murmured James.
‘We might compel him to return the Stone of Destiny for a coronation.’ Robert paused. ‘My coronation.’
‘I said cease!’
At the command, Robert fell silent. He frowned at the steward; at the lines of worry that creased his face, at the defeat in his brown eyes.
‘Things have changed in your absence,’ began James. His voice was quiet now. ‘King Edward launched a campaign in the summer. A campaign that targeted your lands. While he continued work on his new fortifications at Lochmaben in place of your grandfather’s hall, his son led a force into Carrick. Crops, cattle, whole settlements were put to the torch. Turnberry has fallen and Ayr has been razed.’
‘Dear God.’ Robert thought of his earldom, his home in flames.
‘That is not the worst of it. Shortly before I came here, I heard that John Balliol has been released from papal custody. The King of France is set to help him return to the throne.’
Robert pushed himself upright, pain needling him. ‘He cannot. Edward wouldn’t allow Balliol to set foot in Scotland!’
‘He may have no choice. Philippe is still in possession of Gascony, which Edward desperately wants back. There is great confidence in Scotland, Robert, that Balliol will soon be coming home. If he does, you and your family will no longer have a place there. Neither will your estates here in Ireland, or England offer safe haven. Not with your current allegiance to the Scottish cause.’
As the words sank in, Robert thought fleetingly of Norway, where his older sister, Isabel, was queen, but he dismissed the prospect immediately. He would not run and hide under her skirts.
James got slowly to his feet. ‘The only thing you can do is ally yourself with the one man who will do everything in his power to prevent Balliol from recovering his throne. The one man who can offer you sanctuary until such time as, God willing, this storm has passed.’
The reality of what James was saying seeped through Robert as an icy tide. ‘You cannot mean what I think.’
‘You must submit to King Edward. Ally yourself with the enemy of your enemy. It is the only way to safeguard your lands and family.’
‘This is madness! Even if I agreed to such lunacy, Edward would throw me in the Tower the moment I crossed the border!’
‘He may not,’ replied James, ‘if you take him what you tell me he desires most.’
Robert stared at him in stunned silence.
The steward continued, his tone adamant. ‘You must surrender yourself to the king’s mercy, beg his forgiveness for your trespass and give him the Staff of Malachy.’
Rage towered like a storm in Robert, billowing and ugly. Helpless with pain, he could only lie there, impotent, as it coursed through him. He wanted to strike out, but he couldn’t even sit. Instead, he jerked his head towards the steward. ‘Give up the only leverage I have with which to free my country? What I risked all for? By God, I will not!’
‘If Balliol is restored it will no longer be your country, Robert. He and his supporters know you have designs on the throne. They will not allow you to threaten them again. You will be a hunted man, landless and powerless. What use will the staff be then?’
Robert closed his eyes, breath shuddering from him. The truth of James’s words could not be denied. Even as he railed against them, they settled coldly within him. His family had put themselves in direct conflict with John Balliol when his father and grandfather had attacked his chief stronghold in Galloway fifteen years ago and with that assault revealed Balliol’s weakness to the men of the realm, crushing his early ambitions to take the crown. Years later, when, as king, Balliol commanded the Bruce family to raise arms for him against England, Robert’s father declared he would rather die than fight for the pretender on the throne. But strong though the rivalry with Balliol was, worse still was his family’s enmity with the Comyns; a deep-seated hatred that spanned decades.
Forged in blood and betrayal between his grandfather and the Lord of Badenoch, it was a hatred that flowed through both families, passing from Robert’s grandfather to him and from Badenoch to his son, culminating in that stormy day during the council of Peebles when John Comyn had held a dagger to his throat; the day Robert resigned as guardian. If Balliol was restored to the throne of Scotland and the Comyns regained their power in the realm, he and his family would never be safe.
‘I broke my oaths, James. Oaths stronger than fealty and homage. Unbre
akable oaths. Edward will never trust me again.’
‘He might, if you were vouched for by one of his chief vassals. Dire times called me to take dire measures. I told Ulster of our intention to set you on the throne.’ The steward raised a hand as Robert cursed bitterly. ‘It was a risk, yes. But Richard de Burgh has been an ally of your family for a long time, almost as long as he has been an enemy of Balliol, whose people sailed often from Galloway to terrorise and raid his strongholds. My brother-in-law may be Edward’s man, but he is ruled by his own ambitions. If you were to become king, he would stand to gain a great deal.’
‘And in the meantime – while I’m languishing in Edward’s court waiting for that fantasy to come true – what will Ulster gain? What in Christ’s name will prevent him from telling Edward of our plan and gaining much greater favour from a king who already wears a crown?’
‘My brother-in-law has a condition for his help getting you back into Edward’s trust.’ James shook his head when Robert went to question him. ‘We will talk through such things when you are healed. For now, both Sir Richard and I simply need to know that you are willing to make this sacrifice.’
Robert’s hopelessness closed over him like black water. He had been hated once by his countrymen for fighting under Edward’s banner. It had taken years of effort and war to prove his cause was theirs. This would destroy all of that. And what of England, home of the father who despised him and the men who had once trusted him: Humphrey de Bohun, Ralph de Monthermer and the rest? To be back in their company – a hated pariah? His eyes closed in despair.
‘There is no other way, Robert,’ James said quietly, watching the emotions shift across his face. ‘If Balliol returns you lose everything. At least, this way, you have a chance to make sure you and your family are protected. Our best hope is that Edward will be able to keep Balliol from the throne. If he succeeds, God willing, you may one day still claim it.’
PART 3
1302 AD
One shall come in armour, and shall ride upon a flying serpent . . . With his cry shall the seas be moved, and he shall strike terror into the second. The second therefore shall enter into confederacy with the lion . . .
The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth
Chapter 16
Westminster, England, 1302 AD
The procession filed in a slow-moving column along the King’s Road, which cut a path through waterlogged fields. Mist hung in ribbons above the marshes and the shallow banks of the Thames, where birds piped in the reeds. It was early morning, mid-February, and the land seemed hushed, still waiting under the held breath of winter. The hooves of the horses crunched through films of ice into pockets of mud, the wagon wheels churning up a black slush. The rising sun was a copper disc, suspended in a sky the colour of parchment.
Ahead, Westminster rose abruptly from the plain, dominated by the towering edifices of the abbey and the hall, which, with all their attendant buildings, stood facing one another on the Island of Thorney, formed between two veins of the Tyburn that flowed into the Thames. This was the beating heart of Edward’s realm, all its weight of Kentish stone and Purbeck marble, Sussex oak and elm thrusting from the frozen marshes and streams that surrounded it. The sight filled Robert with a foreboding that grew with every stride of his horse. Once such a familiar, exhilarating prospect, those sheer white walls and towers now seemed to stand before him in judgement. Trapped within the column of Ulster’s knights, he found scant comfort in the presence of his brother, Edward, who rode tight-lipped at his side.
Five months ago in Dunluce Castle, after he agreed to James Stewart’s plan, Robert had demanded two things. The first, that James would continue to take care of his daughter and the second that his brother would accompany him to London. He had told the steward he would need someone to watch his back, but in reality the demand was born more from a desire to have one man with him who knew the truth. Without that, Robert thought he might lose all trace of his fragile hope that this bleak act was not the end of his ambition, but merely a pause in its attainment. Now, as the first of Ulster’s men crossed the wooden bridge over the Tyburn, the hooves of their horses hollow on the boards, he wished to God he hadn’t brought Edward with him. For the sake of his own solace he had endangered both their lives.
‘No going back now.’
His brother had caught his stare. ‘No,’ Robert agreed soberly, the clop of hooves masking his words from Ulster’s knights. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I involved you in this. I should have come alone.’
‘And let me miss all the fun? I hear the Tower’s lovely this time of year.’ Edward’s mirth faded quickly. ‘I know we didn’t always see eye to eye when we were last here, but I believe you’re doing the right thing now. You have to, for the sake of our family. There will be no future for you, for any Bruce, in a Scotland ruled by Balliol and the Comyns.’
‘There may be an even shorter future here,’ responded Robert tightly.
Edward shrugged, grimly pragmatic. ‘Imprisonment is the worst we’ll face and half the men we know have suffered the discomfort of an English cell. Sooner or later, the king released most of them. Except John of Atholl, who released himself.’ Edward grinned. ‘I can’t imagine anyone managing to keep that firebrand locked up for long.’ He frowned when Robert’s expression didn’t change. ‘Come, brother, the English king is many things and I’ll be the first to name them all, but even in his cruellest moments he’s still bound by chivalry. Who ever heard of the execution of an earl?’
Robert didn’t respond as he was forced to walk his horse on ahead of his brother, following the knights across the bridge, under a grand stone archway. Could he himself say that imprisonment would be the worst that awaited them after what he had discovered the night he came round from unconsciousness to find the steward beside him? He fingered the piece of iron that hung around his neck on a strip of leather, hidden beneath his mantle. His brother could be doughty about their fate because he didn’t know the whole truth. He didn’t know what Robert had seen that night in the bowels of Dunluce Castle.
To the right, the white façade of Westminster Abbey stood stark against the sky. A shudder of anticipation went through Robert at the proximity to the Stone of Destiny that lay within those walls, encased in Edward’s coronation chair. He stared over his shoulder, eyes lingering on the abbey’s colossal doors, as the English knights who had accompanied them from the border escorted them towards the palace. Ahead, over the lead rooftops, loomed Westminster Hall. Passing the Queen’s Chapel, the Painted Chamber and the White Hall, they came to a windswept courtyard where robed clerks and courtiers stared at their company. The hall housed the Courts of the Exchequer, King’s Bench, Chancery and Common Pleas.
Dismounting, Robert gave the reins of his palfrey to Nes, who had led his destrier, Hunter, on the road from Scotland. The roan charger, conserved for tournaments and war, was a symbol of Robert’s intention to make England his temporary home, as were the men of his household who had accompanied him and the wagon filled with his worldly belongings – mostly clothes, coins, armour and equipment brought over from Antrim, the rest a few personal effects handed to him by James Stewart: a jewelled dirk and a tapestry from his grandfather’s hall at Lochmaben, a silver necklace he had given to his first wife, Isobel, a ring that had belonged to his mother and a motley collection of goblets, plates and furniture. It was perverse how the fortune of his family, acquired over centuries to encompass rich estates across the span of three nations, had been reduced down to a cartload.
Seeing the Earl of Ulster talking to a man in a regal blue robe who had come out to greet them – a steward perhaps – Robert headed over. His porters were unloading the cage that housed his hound from the back of the wagon. The pup, the only one of Uathach’s litter he had brought from Glenarm, was just eighteen months old, but already showed signs of being a keen hunter like his mother. Robert had named him Fionn after the legendary Irish warrior whose deeds he had learned by h
eart as a boy in Lord Donough’s hall. Fionn barked in expectation as he caught his master’s scent. Beyond the cage, rolled up against the side of the wagon, Robert could see his banner. He had resigned himself to wear the white surcoat and mantle decorated with the red chevron of Carrick, but couldn’t bear to have that standard raised above him as he prepared to yield to the man who had destroyed his earldom.
‘The king will grant us an audience?’ Robert asked, coming to stand beside Ulster, his eyes following the man in the blue robe, who was walking purposefully back towards the hall.
Richard de Burgh turned to him. His face, uncompromising in the wintry light, offered no comfort. ‘They received my messengers, so King Edward is expecting us. For now, we wait.’ The earl held Robert in his stare. ‘You will remember our terms.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I’ll keep my word,’ Robert told him tersely, meeting the challenge in the older man’s eyes. He wanted to ask him the same question – well aware of the danger in Ulster’s knowledge, but he didn’t have to. The devious earl had made certain his keeping of Robert’s secret would be worth his while.
The tension between them was broken by a clatter and a curse. They looked round to see one of Ulster’s men bending over a long wooden box that had slipped from his grasp.
‘Careful with that, damn you!’ snapped the earl, heading over.
Robert stayed where he was, his eyes on the box. Inside that unadorned casket was the Staff of Jesus, wielded by St Patrick, restored by St Malachy. Stolen by him. Less than a month ago, James Stewart had given the relic to him on a deserted beach on the Carrick coast.
Shortly after Ulster had written to King Edward to inform him that Robert wished to surrender and he would personally escort him to London, the high steward had left for Rothesay, his castle on the Isle of Bute. When Robert’s shoulder had begun to heal, he boarded Ulster’s galley and crossed the race to join him. He had wanted to meet the steward at Rothesay where his daughter and brothers were lodged, but James had refused, fearing the temptation for him to explain himself to his family would be too great.
