Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  The door opened and his steward appeared. ‘My lord, riders approach the west gate.’

  Balliol frowned irritably. ‘I told you to deal with the guests, Pierre. I do not need to know of every arrival. I will see them all tonight.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, my lord. These men are not guests. They bear the royal arms.’

  Balliol straightened, his pockmarked face flushing with expectation. As he moved to the door the sleeve of his robe caught one of the letters. It fluttered to the floor in his wake, the red wax seal like a bright drop of blood.

  Once in the courtyard, Balliol crossed quickly to the west gate, ignoring the respectful bows from his staff. Ahead, through the archway, he saw the riders approaching, plumes of dust rising from the track. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he fixed on the blue banner raised above the company, decorated with gold fleurs-de-lis. He stood there waiting, a tense smile on his face, as they rode in through the gates.

  The man at their head was Sir Jean de Reims. The royal knight looked taken aback to see Balliol waiting to greet him. ‘Sir John.’ Jean swung down from his saddle, leaving his comrades mounted behind him. His cloak was stained with horse sweat. ‘I bring tidings from the—’

  ‘At last,’ Balliol cut across him. ‘It has been weeks.’

  ‘Let us speak inside,’ said Jean, looking beyond Balliol to where the servants were stringing flags over the doors to the great hall.

  ‘First, tell me when King Philippe will send his men. I’ve waited long enough.’

  Jean hesitated, then began to speak.

  Balliol remained silent as he spoke of a battle outside Courtrai, which had seen the deaths of a thousand French knights. He heard of the outrage, raw from Jean’s mouth, that had been stirred in the royal court and the retaliation Philippe had been forced to plan in response to the catastrophe. At last, Jean told him that the king was calling every fighting man in France to raise arms and, when this army was gathered, Philippe himself would lead it into Flanders to wreak vengeance upon the rebels.

  ‘You must understand, Sir John, my king can no longer aid your return to Scotland. Not when Flemish peasants pick through the bodies of our noble comrades, stealing spurs and armour, leaving carrion to strip the flesh from their bones. He must bring Flanders under his dominion.’

  ‘Everything is ready.’ Balliol threw a hand towards the hall. ‘My vassals are joining me this very evening. My kinsmen in Scotland have paved the way for my return. Now is the time to make my move!’

  ‘I am afraid any move will have to be made without my lord’s support. He bade me send you his deepest regrets.’ Jean turned to his horse, then looked back. ‘Perhaps in time, when Flanders is subdued . . .?’ He left his words hanging, apologetic. Unconvincing.

  ‘You came to me, damn you!’ When Jean mounted, Balliol’s pitch changed, becoming soft and pleading. ‘I beg you, let us talk. There must be something the king can do. Some men he can spare? Anything!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Balliol, as Jean and his men kicked at their horses and sped through the gate. ‘This will be the end of my kingdom!’

  Behind, in the yard, servants and kitchen boys stared in bewilderment as the former King of Scotland snatched up a handful of grit and flung it at the backs of the fast retreating riders. As dust from the hooves billowed up around him, John Balliol slumped to his knees.

  Chapter 23

  Lochindorb, Scotland, 1302 AD

  John Comyn watched as the walls of Lochindorb Castle drew closer. The fortress, rising dark against the dusk from its rocky island, took its name from the waters that surrounded it, which in the Gaelic tongue meant loch of trouble. As a boy, he had relished that name, believing it added a potent defence to the already indomitable structure; shrouding it in menace as well as stone, warning enemies what would face them if they dared to cross uninvited. Now, the omen seemed to turn against him, the black waters pressing close against the rocks. He thought of his plan and shuddered in the breeze.

  Torches guttered on the battlements, glowing in the red shields that hung between the arrow loops. His father’s banner swirled from one of the towers. As the oarsmen guided the boat around the island beneath the high walls, Comyn caught a whiff of sewage where the latrine chutes opened. Jutting into the water from the east wall was a landing platform, where two men in his father’s livery were waiting. They grabbed the rope an oarsman threw to them and hauled the vessel in alongside the jetty. Comyn stepped on to the boards, leaving his squires to gather his belongings. As he headed for the archway in the east wall, Dungal MacDouall fell into step beside him.

  The captain’s face was bruised by the torch flames. ‘Will you speak to your father tonight?’

  Comyn glanced at him. Despite having confided in MacDouall, he was still uncertain as to whether he could rely on his full support, for the man had been a faithful vassal of John Balliol’s for years. The white lion of Galloway, embroidered on the captain’s surcoat, seemed to blaze in the firelight. ‘I cannot delay,’ he admitted, after a pause. ‘The delegation will remain in France only for so long. My best hope of raising the support I need will be in their absence.’

  MacDouall nodded as they passed beneath the portcullis. ‘Your father will need to stand aside. Without his endorsement your plan cannot work.’

  ‘I am well aware of that,’ muttered Comyn, though the captain’s words made his stomach churn. All through the journey home from the assembly in Selkirk Forest, he had thought of little else.

  Entering the castle courtyard, he was greeted at once by his father’s steward. The grave, officious man who had served the Red Comyn for decades was unusually animated, his steps more hurried than seemed comfortable for his stooped frame.

  ‘Sir John!’ He came towards him out of the darkness. ‘Praise God, you’ve returned!’

  ‘What’s wrong, Duncan?’ The steward’s manner halted Comyn in his tracks.

  ‘It’s your father, sir. Please, come.’

  Comyn followed Duncan across the courtyard into the stone and timber building that housed his father’s chambers. Once inside, he overtook the steward, mounting the stairs two at a time, hastening down the passage to the lord’s room. The door at the far end was ajar, candlelight and low voices spilling out.

  The well-appointed chamber was stuffy, the windows covered up with drapes. The air smelled of urine and herbs. As he stepped inside, Comyn’s gaze alighted on two figures standing by the canopied bed. One was a man in clerical vestments, the bald scalp of his tonsured head gleaming in the candlelight. The other was his mother.

  Eleanor Balliol, sister of the exiled king, turned as her son entered. Her lined face, framed by greying chestnut hair, softened with grief. ‘John . . .’

  Comyn moved past her to the bed. Lying there, dwarfed by the expanse of covers and pillows, was his father. The old man’s face was ashen, his eyes sunken holes. A scrawny arm, once corded with muscle, lay outside the sheet. It was bruised where the leeches had suckled.

  When the message came, calling them to the urgent assembly in the Forest, his father, weakened by the malady that had plagued him for the past year, bade him go alone. But though frail he hadn’t been bedridden then, let alone teetering on the very brink of life. As he groaned through desiccated lips, Comyn turned to his mother. ‘The physician?’

  ‘Has done all he can.’ It was the priest who spoke. ‘Your father’s care is in the hands of God now.’

  When the priest picked up his crucifix and a phial of oil from the bed, Comyn realised, with spreading numbness, that his father had been given the last rites. He stared at the once proud lord lying before him. How was it possible that a man who had been the iron will behind two kings could be reduced to a wizened vessel ready to crack open and spill its soul? He barely felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder as she and the priest departed, leaving him alone. Their voices resumed beyond the door, joined by the steward’s. They were murmuring funeral plans.

&nbs
p; Comyn sat on the edge of the bed, staring into his father’s bloodshot eyes.

  The lord licked his lips. ‘What happened at the council?’

  Comyn had to lean in close to hear him. He could smell his breath, stale and familiar. ‘King Philippe reneged on his promise, Father. Instead of sending an army to Scotland, he will lead the French into Flanders. Bishop Lamberton and Ingram de Umfraville intend to leave for Paris at the head of a delegation. Their hope is that even if Philippe cannot be persuaded to aid us militarily, he will continue to occupy Gascony until Edward agrees to Balliol’s return.’

  The old man’s eyes closed. When they opened again, Comyn exhaled, realising he had been holding his breath.

  ‘They leave you sole guardian of Scotland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ The lord’s eyes fluttered, but stayed open.

  ‘I had time to think, Father,’ Comyn began, his heart thudding, ‘on the journey home. The events of the past year have made me question whether our hopes for King John’s return to the throne are realistic. Whether, in fact, to cling to them is to ignore other paths to the reclamation of our liberties.’

  A frown puckered the lord’s brow.

  Comyn continued, quickly now, impatient to get it done. ‘King Philippe has gone back on his word before. There is scant reason to believe, whatever promises the delegation receives in Paris, that he will fulfil any pledge. With Balliol isolated and Philippe occupied, I have no doubt Edward will attack us the moment the current truce has expired. To face him with any hope of victory we need a leader who can unite the strength of the barons, a leader whose authority cannot be disputed, or undermined by others.’ He steeled himself. ‘Our family has a claim by marriage to the throne. It was a claim recognised by King Edward himself, during his trial to choose Alexander’s successor.’

  The bedcovers shifted as his father tried to move. ‘No,’ he croaked.

  ‘I am Balliol’s nephew. With him helpless in France and Robert Bruce turned traitor in England I am the next viable candidate.’

  His father’s voice strengthened. ‘Balliol’s son is the heir!’

  ‘Edward Balliol hasn’t led the men of the realm, hasn’t worked to gain their trust as I have. I took us to victory at Lochmaben.’

  ‘You speak of overthrowing the king!’

  Comyn flinched as his father grabbed his wrist.

  ‘I forbid you to pursue this,’ rasped the lord. ‘Swear to me you will not!’

  Comyn tried to free his arm. ‘This is the best hope for our kingdom. Surely you see that?’

  The lord jerked his head away. ‘I gave all I had to see my brother-in-law take the throne. I will not have that effort wasted by the actions of my own son!’ He wrenched back to face Comyn, gripping his arm, white-knuckled. ‘My sins will not be in vain! Do you hear me?’

  ‘Sins?’

  The old lord’s eyes clenched shut. His words came in gasps. ‘I sent my man across the sea – to Norway with gingerbread – for the girl. Her sacrifice for the kingdom – for Balliol’s sake. All our sakes!’

  ‘I don’t understand, Father. Princess Margaret died on the voyage from Norway after eating rotten food. Father . . .?’

  The Lord of Badenoch’s hand slipped from around his son’s wrist. A last breath rattled in his throat, then faded into silence. Comyn rose, feeling a storm of emotions as he looked down on the slack face of his father. The strongest, surging up through him, was defiance.

  He headed across the room and pulled open the door. In the passage his mother, speaking quietly with the steward, turned. At the look on his face, her hand went to her mouth. She moved past him into the chamber. Her muffled cries faded behind him as he ran down the stairs, out into the evening. Dungal MacDouall was there, waiting.

  Comyn pushed his hands through his hair and leaned against the wall. ‘He has passed.’ His voice cracked on the word.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ The captain left a respectful pause, then said, ‘Did you have the chance to talk?’

  Comyn stared into the sky beyond the haloes of torches on the battlements. The wind rippled his father’s banner. He focused on it with the numb realisation he had inherited the lordship of Badenoch and was now head of the most powerful family in Scotland.

  ‘Sir John?’

  Comyn looked back at MacDouall. ‘Before he died my father gave me his blessing.’ He stood up straight, his voice strengthening with the lie. ‘He believed, as I, that this is the best chance for Scotland’s future. But I need to prove myself. I need another victory.’

  When MacDouall nodded, Comyn felt his question over the man’s commitment to the cause answered. When Balliol was deposed, MacDouall and his men lost everything. It seemed his ambition to see his fortune restored was stronger than that old allegiance. Comyn had banked on this fact. ‘I want you to summon your comrades-in-arms, all the Disinherited of Galloway. Raise me an army, Dungal. When I have proven myself in strength as sole guardian, there will be few able to challenge me.’

  ‘You have my sword.’

  Comyn’s gaze went to the white lion of Galloway on MacDouall’s surcoat. ‘From now on, you will wear my arms. That symbol no longer has relevance in my realm.’

  Perth, Scotland, 1302 AD

  Russet leaves swirled in the water, autumn’s first fall carried on the currents of the Tay. As the men hauled on the oars, some distance upriver the walls of Perth came gradually into view, darkening through the layers of fog. Smells of human settlement hung on the air: the astringency of a tannery, smoke from pottery kilns and bakers’ ovens, the sweetness of overripe fruit in an orchard. Somewhere in the haze, a bell tolled from the tower of St John’s kirk.

  At the hollow sound, a flock of crows flew up from the trees on the far bank, wings clapping. The boat’s five passengers looked in their direction, two of them resting hands on the pommels of their swords as they scanned the banks, where herons stood sentry on the mud-flats.

  They were an odd group all told, their skin browned by a warmer sun than this northern land knew, fine cloaks swaddling their muscular forms, concealing the mail and the battle scars beneath. All were watchful. From what they knew Perth was still in Scottish hands, but theirs had been a long journey through hostile waters.

  One of the five, seated at the prow, head and shoulders above his comrades, dragged a large hand through the river, catching a faded oak leaf. As he held it up, his blue eyes studied it with regret. ‘All these seasons gone and nothing to show for it.’

  ‘You did what you could, sir,’ responded one of the others. ‘You came closer than anyone to seeing the return of our king. Who would have foreseen such a disaster could happen – a band of Flemish peasants defeating French cavalry?’

  The blue-eyed man smiled wryly. ‘We would, my friend. Stirling was our Courtrai.’ His hard smile vanished. ‘I have been away too long. In the courts of kings war is only words. Sooner or later a man must return to the arena of swords if battle is to be decided.’ He drew in a breath and flicked the oak leaf back into the water for the current to claim it. ‘Head in there,’ he called to the oarsmen, pointing to a sandbank. ‘We’ll slip around the town and make for Selkirk.’

  As the crew strained against the flow of the river, William Wallace watched the banks draw closer.

  Westminster, England, 1302 AD

  Robert headed purposefully through the press of men filing out of the Painted Chamber, all discussing the matters raised in the parliament. The most dominant topic of conversation was Edward’s proposal for a new campaign in Scotland, planned for the coming year. A campaign made possible by the news from France.

  Word had come of a bloody battle in Courtrai that had seen a horde of Flemish peasants destroy an army of knights. In order to avenge this humiliating defeat, King Philippe had declared war on Flanders, turning his back on John Balliol and his hopes for restoration. Edward, forced into a truce with the Scots by his scheming cousin, had clearly been gratified by the turn of events.

>   Robert had listened to the news with anticipation, for with Balliol cut off in France Scotland’s throne remained empty. But, despite his satisfaction at his enemy’s plight and the removal of the immediate danger of Balliol’s return, his own path to claiming it was still far from clear. It was known a Scottish delegation had arrived at the French court to try to persuade Philippe to keep his word and, so long as they were there, there was a chance Balliol might yet return. Patience, Robert knew, would have to be his bedfellow for a while yet. In the meantime, he had more pressing preoccupations.

  Passing Ralph de Monthermer and Robert Clifford, who glanced at him but gave no greeting, Robert pushed out into the palace yard. It was a bright afternoon in late October, clouds scudding fast across the sky, a brisk breeze rustling the carpet of gold leaves that covered the ground. Ahead, beyond the royal gardens, rose the white walls of Westminster Abbey. Pulling his mantle around his shoulders as the wind snatched at it, Robert strode towards the soaring structure. This was the first time he’d been to Westminster in months and the first opportunity he’d had to seek answers to the questions that continued to burn inside him.

  In the royal gardens, a group of young men had gathered with their horses and hounds. Robert looked over, drawn by their loud voices. It looked like a hunting party about to set off. Some of the men wore riding cloaks and feathered caps, horns slung over their backs on baldrics. In the centre of the group was Piers Gaveston, resplendent in a black cloak embroidered with silver birds. Standing beside him, no less tall or well-built, yet somehow overshadowed, was Prince Edward, his blond hair tousled by the breeze. As Piers drank from a wine skin and passed it to the prince, Robert saw Edward’s hand clasp over the Gascon’s. He kept it there for what seemed a long moment, their eyes locked, before Piers let go with a sly smile and watched him drink.

  Robert was distracted by his name being called. He cursed beneath his breath, seeing Humphrey de Bohun approaching, his mantle billowing in the wind. Robert nodded stiffly in greeting. ‘Good day to you, Sir Humphrey.’